Lemniscate

• An Epilogue •

A knock at the door, or three to be precise, in even increments of intensity. Soft and gentle even on the third and loudest of the sounds, considerately more so than timidly, it might have been the only type of knocking which had not once in her life startled the former Head of House Gryffindor.

"Do come in, Miss Granger," the seasoned teacher with some amusement called out.

The very much expected head came jutting through the widening gap of the heavy oak door. "That obvious?" the young witch asked with a warm smile gently curving her lips.

"Pleasantly so," McGonagall assured her as she watched the pretty brunette enter. "It's good to see you."

"Likewise, Prof—" Hermione shook her head as she seated herself on one of the two leather-padded chairs in front of the mahogany desk. "Old habits do die hard, don't they? Headmistress McGonagall, pardon me."

"Minerva would still be fine when it's just the two of us," Professor Headmistress answered, dismissing the formalities with a sideways sweep of her hand. "Regardless of whatever official title they have slapped on me now." She put her rather flamboyant phoenix feather quill aside. "Entre nous, I've yet to grow accustomed to all this Headmistress business, even three years into my tenure. To me, Albus is the only true master of Hogwarts there ever will be, and I consider myself but a stewardess of his domain."

With glistening sympathy welling up inside of them, Hermione's eyes darted up to the large portrait high on the far wall, but the famed Headmaster's immortalized likeness was presently elsewhere about. "I hope you know that I could not imagine a worthier successor to Albus Dumbledore than you," she told her with utmost sincerity, "but much in the same vein you just spoke of him, let me say that in my heart of hearts you shall forever remain my Head of House."

Minerva McGonagall had never been a woman to be easily moved, let alone embarrassed. Well, this happened to assert itself as one of those rare moments where the exception confirms the rule. "I appreciate that, Hermione," she said with an almost imperceptible semblance of sentimentality in her voice. She ever so delicately cleared her throat to rid herself of any such untoward semblances. "And I do hold out hope that one day my most distinguished and secretly favorite of students shall bear that title which once was mine."

"I'm not sure this line of work is really up Harry's alley," Hermione answered with a playful smirk, at which the older of the two witches threw her rather wry a look over the rims of her oval spectacles.

"While I would certainly always welcome Mister Potter back at Hogwarts as well," said McGonagall in response, "and gladly so, as I might add, I do rather enjoy seeing the Brits develop into a serious world title contender for the first time since my frightfully distant childhood days. Twenty years from now, however... the prospect of having both of you back at our venerable institution? Now wouldn't that make for a splendid new chapter in Hogwarts: A History?"

Hermione threw back her head with laughter clear and honest. This was not the first time the Headmistress had articulated such considerations. Ever en passant, of course. "I won't rule it out," she politely replied also not for the first time, "but I won't make any promises, either."

"I suppose that'll have to do for the time being," McGonagall concluded with pointed lips as she absently leafed through a sheaf of parchments in front of her. "So what immediate plans do you have?"

The younger woman canted her head from side to side. "Frankly, and perhaps somewhat surprisingly so, I still haven't settled on anything concrete yet. Who would've thought, I know. The one thing the insufferable know-it-all evidently doesn't know is what to do with herself." She shrugged her shoulders with an indifference which just a few years prior would've struck the esteemed Transfiguration master as wildly uncharacteristic given the subject matter.

"A while ago the Ministry actually approached me for a second time, if you can believe it. They appear to be rather desperate for a female Muggle-born poster child with which to adorn that post-war public image of unprecedented moral enlightenment they're going for these days. Applause, applause. How good we all are!" She rolled her eyes to the acrid peak of derision. "I dare say it was an offer nobody at my age and in their right mind would ever refuse, financially speaking."

McGonagall scrutinized her former model pupil quite intently for a moment. "So, naturally you—"

"Refused, yes," Hermione answered with a white-toothed grin. "The first time, right after the war, I felt it was way too soon to make any decision of such import. And I dearly wished to finish my education at Hogwarts properly first, as you know. This time around, without the comforting assurance of knowing where exactly I'm headed and despite my latent reservations, I admit I wasn't quite as sure as I was back then.

"One does not too easily resist the tempting vision of change and progress writ in one's own name, after all. Oh, that ever alluring susurration of power! The power to topple the Ancien Régime. The power to stand against injustice, at least whenever the cameras are rolling. The power to get away scot-free with using taxpayer's money for personal trips. I thought back to the time when a certain Dolores Umbridge was our greatest worry, and try as I might to rekindle that righteous ire and proselytizing zeal I had felt so fervidly back then, it just wouldn't come back to me. If only the revolutionary of today weren't bound to become the establishment of tomorrow! Can you reasonably hope to fight the Umbridges of this world by letting yourself be devoured by the very Moloch that lures them and that breeds them? By becoming a cog in that Machiavellian machinery? Well, naturally I asked Harry."

A single high-pitched hiccup of a chuckle came from McGonagall. "Oh, he's always had such an admiration for politics, and almost as fond a relationship with the Ministry as he's had with the Prophet."

"Indeed," Hermione replied with a snort. "You can imagine his view on the matter, then. He was reluctant to say anything, of course. Didn't want to meddle. I insisted; he relented. At first he half-jokingly remarked what a tragedy it would be for someone with such wide-spanning qualifications to opt for a career which requires none. And in the end…" She looked down at her hands, twiddling with a fold of her pleated skirt. "What he ended up saying was that he knew my brilliant mind would be wasted and feared my beautiful heart would be lost. How's a girl supposed to argue with that?"

The Headmistress assumed the almost convincing appearance of being fully engaged with her extensive paperwork, fidgeting with this end or that without either managing or intending to achieve anything of consequence. Watching her closely, a cheekward curl tugged at one corner of young Miss Granger's lips. "I take it you are in agreement with him, then."

"Entirely."

Hermione nodded her head with a humorous moue. "Expected as much. Oh, well. What goes around comes around, I suppose."

McGonagall gave her a quizzical look.

"When the war ended," Hermione set out to explain on a strengthening intake of air, "Harry was hell-bent on becoming an Auror. Surely I must've mentioned this before? You know him well enough, at any rate. What else could he possibly see for himself, right? The fight wasn't over, the job never done. There's always another bad guy to catch, after all. Another sinister plot to thwart. And Harry, bound by duty and by legacy, and on some irrational level even fate itself, was determined to consign himself to what he perceived as his invariable lot in life: to carry that burden until his last breath. He just couldn't let it go. That cursed scar still marks him more deeply than the eye alone can fathom." She aired a sigh from the very depth of her heart. "Suffice it to say, I wasn't quite as restrained when it came to sharing my opinion about his potential career choice as he recently was when it came to mine."

The Headmistress folded her hands in her lap as she leaned back in her chair and listened attentively, a knowing smile momentarily banishing the concern on her features.

"I implored him to reconsider," Hermione continued her reminiscence. "To stop chasing demons. I told him that it wasn't his sole responsibility to keep saving the world at the cost of his own life. He had done enough, sacrificed almost everything. To give yet more of himself would be to lose his self entirely. He needs to heal, not to hunt. In the very core of my being I felt imperatively I had to prevent that dark obsession from consuming him. I couldn't, wouldn't let it happen. Even after his demise Voldemort still had such a malefic hold on him, pulling him under with the weight of his name. I said to him, in essence, that he needs to learn to allow himself to be happy without feeling guilty about it. And that's more or less when he dropped his wand and picked up his broom, so to speak."

Minerva McGonagall gave a slow nod, her expression deeply thoughtful. A silence of mutual reflection lingered for a short while before making way for conclusions carefully drawn. "So in summary, you single-handedly saved the United Kingdom's Quidditch team from another half a century of disappointments."

"Ever my primary concern, yes," Hermione answered with laughter in her voice, but as laughter waned contemplation returned. Her teeth chewing on her bottom lip betrayed as much. "D'you think I did the right thing, though? By steering him away from that path? Or shall the world forever judge Hermione Granger for denying Harry Potter his one true destiny, out of some selfish fear of losing him? Or worse, will Harry himself end up resenting me? Is this the Firebolt episode all over again, just awfully exponentiated?"

McGonagall regarded the young woman before her with profoundest understanding as she considered her response with great care, steepling her fingers as she did so. "I have," she spoke eventually, "for as long as I've had the pleasure of getting to witness you and Mister Potter grow into the individuals—and indeed the inextricable unit—that you are today, harbored a most genuine admiration for the way the two of you have always looked out for one another, even from such a young age. Long before questions of meaning and purpose entered your conscious minds. It was instant, it was instinctive, and so utterly unstoppable a force. A matter of course beyond all scrutiny, and as such something quite unlike anything I have seen either before or since.

"From time to time, as you alluded to," she continued with a twitch of amusement at her lips, "that protective instinct may to some extent get the better of either one of you, and despite the best of intentions clash with the other's need for a certain autonomy and self-determination. Yet in the end you are simply navigating the ever-winding labyrinth of life hand in hand, never to let go. Sometimes you pull a little, while at other times you must be willing and able to let yourself be pulled. Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow. Occasionally you just pootle along without a care in the world for a short while as the road falls into place underneath your feet. One would be well-advised to treasure such times, for they will not last. But for as long as you fundamentally agree on who you are and where you wish to get to, you will always move in step, regardless of which one of you has, at any given moment, a slightly better bearing on the general geography of it all."

She paused for a thorough breath of air. "And then, of course," she added, her expression kind, "whenever that which of all the world's contents you most truly need is right there with you on the journey, destinations and other such minor details tend to lose a fair smidge of their relevance, don't they?"

Hermione averted her eyes with a bashful smile. "That they do," she all but whispered. "And I used to be so obsessed with them, no? The destinations, I mean. Everything I did always had to be a purposive step towards a clearly defined goal. I still appreciate a certain order of things, of course, and I do prefer to have plans and… and contingency plans laid out before me. Something to fall back on. I get as nervous without them as I did years ago. And I'm relieved to say that I am still fully capable of annoying the hell out of people with my rules and systems and altogether lovable quirks. But it's all shifted somehow, from the gravitational center of my life to its orbit. It just doesn't seem quite as important as it used to. It doesn't define me anymore. There are quite a lot of things which I could potentially see myself doing in my life, but there's only one person with whom I want to share it all. I guess my priorities sort themselves out accordingly."

She slapped her thighs with her hands, running them down to her knees. "Long story short, I'll finish my Muggle education first and then see where it all takes me. As long as books are in some capacity involved, I reckon I'll be on right enough of a track. Maybe I even have a book of my own waiting to be written somewhere inside me. I do hope so. Both of my parents are published writers, as you know, so the ever-welcoming embrace of nepotism is already waiting for me on that front as well. Now, teaching at Hogwarts is an intriguing prospect too, I won't deny it. Far more so than the idea of constantly putting myself in the public spotlight. But I'm so young I doubt any student third year and above would take me seriously."

"Your competence has always exceeded your experience," Minerva McGonagall remarked at that. "Which is indubitably preferable to the converse."

With a soft chuckle Hermione absently raked a hand through her long chestnut hair, letting it fall where it may. Thanks to Harry's late grandfather it did so rather presentably. "I worry sometimes that my experience is slowly but surely catching up while my competence isn't increasing nearly at the rate I'd like it to."

"Our doubts are traitors," the Headmistress set about reciting, "and make us lose the good we oft might win—"

"By fearing to attempt," Hermione forthwith finished the quotation, and the witch four times her age mirrored her smile. The younger of the two exhaled a flimsy sigh. "I've missed our little get-togethers. They've become too much of a rarity since I left Hogwarts."

"Well," McGonagall pointedly replied, and for a moment it remained a pregnant statement unto itself. "The offer, as they say, is on the table. Always."

Hermione bowed her head. "Thank you. I mean it."

"As do I."

The two women regarded each other with an appreciation most heartfelt. "Aren't we being two mawkish lassies here," Hermione quipped, then cleared her throat. "Not that I would ever need one," she said as she reached into her tan leather handbag, "but on this occasion I actually came here with a specific reason in mind." She leaned forward in her chair with her arm reaching halfway across the stately desk to hand McGonagall the off-white envelope she had procured. "I know you don't technically need one in written form anymore, seeing how you're basically the designated host, and your presence, I hope you'll agree, is a matter of course, but it wouldn't seem right to me not to give you one."

A spark was lit in the recipient's unclouded eyes as she examined the envelope in her hands. "Oh, doesn't this just fill my old heart with joy? What a splendid thing, indeed." Her attention fully captured, she couldn't even bring herself to open it just yet. A twinge of bemusement suddenly flickered across her features lined with many a year's wisdom. "I do get the symbolism of the lemniscate, of course," she slowly stated, "but why is it in the negative space of what to me... perplexingly enough… looks very much like a stylized curlicue of Friedrich Nietzsche's mustache?"

Hermione giggled against her curled fingers. "I knew you wouldn't miss that. It's not too obvious though, is it? It could be just a fancy little squiggle, right? Originally I conceived of only the lemniscate with our initials in it—simple, neat, elegant—but Harry wanted the mustache. I really didn't see much of a middle ground there, until the sneaky scoundrel got Luna to help him with the design. So now there's a mustache on my wedding invitation, thank you very much."

A quiet laughter's trickle of delight came from McGonagall at that. "And may I ask why? Surely the motto of your matrimony isn't supposed to be 'That which does not kill us makes us stronger', is it?"

"Goodness, no," Hermione humorously replied. "You'll discover the answer on the inside, where you'll find yourself cordially invited to join us in becoming who we are."

"I see," said McGonagall, rather satisfied in earnest with the explanation. "Was it not also Nietzsche who observed that it is most often a lack of friendship, rather than a lack of love, that makes for an unhappy marriage?"

The young woman's gaze drifted upward in rumination. "Mmmight've been..."

"A compelling thought," the Headmistress opined. "Well, according to Herr Nietzsche you and your fiancé certainly appear to have this covered from all angles."

Hermione's mouth spread into a beaming smile, setting her entire face aglow. "Well, I certainly hope so," she replied, laughing happily. "And I do believe it, truly."

McGonagall by now had at last broken the envelope's crimson wax seal and unfolded the parchment retrieved from within. "H and H on the 8th of August," she mused aloud as her eyes saccaded from line to line. "The last time I checked, H was the eighth letter in the English alphabet. Am I seeing patterns where mere coincidence is at work, or—"

"My general lunacy may have something to do with it," Hermione admitted, her cheeks soon sprinkled pink. "You told us the first half of August would be ideal, and the date merely turned out to be the most promising candidate for everything we had in mind, but my brain at once jumped at the opportunity with vim and vigor. Can't get enough of patterns, the silly thing. It also just so happens to be the date on which years ago, in a boutique in Marseilles, I purchased a swimsuit that… that, ah… well, never mind all that."

The Headmistress threw her a dubious look over the rims of her glasses, one eyebrow angled sharply. "Uh-huh."

"There's also this, of course," the blushing witch hastened to wriggle herself out of the captious moment and raised a delicate necklace from between her collarbones, which fastened at the chain's two ends held in place a golden lemniscate. Set in its center there was a small octagonal gemstone that from one angle looked like an emerald, from another like amber—but truthfully, somehow, when looked at closely, like both of them at once, continuously melting into each other and always flowing on as one. Whenever Hermione was asked by uninitiated Muggle acquaintances how such a thing was possible, she simply smiled and with an upward flick of her eyebrows answered, "Magic." It never failed to elicit a good chuckle.

"Ah, yes," McGonagall voiced recognition. "Your seventeenth birthday, wasn't it?"

Hermione gave an affirmative nod.

"It's all quite auspicious," the Headmistress remarked, shaking her head with her eyes once again perusing the written invitation in her hand. She heaved a sigh, carried on some nascent melancholy. "I cannot tell you how glad I am, getting to see all of this come into being. Just a few years ago, with everything on the brink… oh—oh, in those darkest of hours I could not even bring myself to hope, could not compel my eyes to see the faintest source of light. For quite a while darkness seemed to be winning as it closed in around us all, did it not? Even in that moment of most costly victory, having lost so much… so many. And him… we had lost him too, hadn't we? For hours unending it appeared so."

Hermione had lowered her head, and upon noticing it McGonagall immediately looked rueful, shaking herself out of her somber reverie. "My apologies," she said, unusually flustered. "I don't know where this roving mind of mine takes me sometimes. To remind you of that terrible time on an occasion such as this! Quite egregious of me, I must say."

"It's okay," Hermione assured her, though she herself had to collect her faculties for a moment upon seeing the ever indomitable Minerva McGonagall so openly distressed. "After all, darkness didn't win. And it's very much in defiance of that darkness that we are here today, isn't it? Carrying the light of those we lost within ourselves as we try to move forward and build a world they would've deserved to see. Wounded, scarred, but as yet unbroken. Like Hogwarts itself."

"Wounds take longer to heal the older you get, I'm afraid," McGonagall spoke quietly, then dropped into a pensive pause. "I still talk to Albus more than I care to admit. Seeking his wisdom, his advice, his companionship. But ghosts, be they spectral or caught on canvas, are no more than echoes, and like echoes they never have anything new to say."

"Prof—" Hermione bit her lip. "Minerva, are you… are you quite all right?"

"Oh, but of course," the Headmistress answered, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief pulled straight from the tip of her wand. "Or I will be, I'm sure. It's probably just that annual memorial service coming up once again. Isn't it ironic? We tell the dead to rest in peace yet constantly call on them." She took a deep breath, straightening herself in her seat. "This," she said, holding up the letter in her hand, "has made me very happy. It's turned a dreary day around and made me see the sun again. I thank you for this official invitation, and assure you of my attendance. I am so very much looking forward to a wedding in Hogwarts. We haven't had one of those since the eighties."

"Me too, me too," Hermione answered, still eyeing her trusted mentor solicitously. "In part though, I must admit, because it's mine."

"But of course," said McGonagall, laughing again. "And I can promise you this: Hogwarts will enchant that unforgettable day like no other place in the world possibly could. Young Mister Weasley may lose the ring just in time for the ceremony; our dearest Winky may accidentally drop the floating cake, and neither weather fair nor your groom's hair I can vouch for, but Hogwarts… Hogwarts will not let you down. On that you have my word."

"Some delightful prospects right there," Hermione amusedly observed with some semi-genuine horror in her eyes. "I shall hold you to that promise, though, of Hogwarts making up for the veritable disaster that everything else is apparently going to be. Speaking of grooms with ungroomable hair," she said with a quick glimpse at her wristwatch, "I'm afraid I have a clandestine date to attend with a soon-to-be-married man."

"Oh my," Minerva exhaled with a hand flat on her chest. "What a perfect scandal!"

Grinning, Hermione rose to her feet and more out of habit than necessity flattened her long skirt with swatting hands a bit. "Hey," she then expressed a thought that truthfully had begun sprouting in her mind minutes before, "why don't we get together again the weekend after memorial day? We could spend a nice afternoon in Hogsmeade, or something like that."

"Oh, I'd like that very much, Hermione."

"We'll have Teddy that weekend, I think. I could bring him along if that's all right with you."

"I would be delighted if you did."

"Very well, then. It's a da—oh!" Hermione suddenly interrupted herself as she whirled around on her heels halfway to the door. "I almost forgot! There's something I've been meaning to ask you for a while now."

The Headmistress looked expectantly at her most inquisitive student of all time. Nobody had ever asked her more questions during her five decades at Hogwarts, nor supplied more answers to them on their own.

"Professor Flitwick conducted some extensive research on the Room of Requirement last year, didn't he?"

McGonagall smiled. "Dear old Filius is conducting research on some thing or another at any given time," she said, "but yes, the Room of Requirement finally made it to the top of the list at some point."

Hermione nodded. "I, ahm… had a bit of a chat with him about this once, you see. Theorized a bit, as it were. About the mysterious nature of the Room, its inner workings and the potential source of its peculiar power and all that. I'm particularly keen to know whether any sort of... consciousness can be ascribed to the Room. You know, whether it acts with volition and intent or not. That sort of thing. Would Professor Flitwick happen to ever have shared any of his findings with you?"

"He hasn't finished his thesis yet, I believe," answered McGonagall, who looked somewhat perplexed at Miss Granger's query, "but the topic has come up over a cup of tea twice or thrice. Assuming I understood Filius correctly, which is not exactly an easy task once his mind starts to run away from him, bless him, I believe no such thing as a consciousness could be educed by any of his numerous experiments. In a very real sense, I distinctly remember him delineating once, the Room cannot even reasonably be said to exist unless it's called into being, and it only ever exists contingent on the minds of those that require it to. Meaning, it would appear, that there is no Room of Requirement. Until there is, that is."

Hermione Granger, surprisingly or not, didn't have too much trouble wrapping her head around the general concept, whatever exactly it was or wasn't. "Sounds to me like Erwin Schrödinger's favorite room," is how she commented on the apparent pseudo-imbroglio. "So the Room would not be capable of… of playing any devious games, so to speak? Of deliberately messing around with its occupants, pulling various tricks on them, and thereby manipulating them into doing... things they would otherwise perhaps not have been inclined to do? Or at least not right away. Ahem! Wuh-would it?"

The Headmistress trained her penetrating gaze fully on her former student, who promptly started shifting about a bit with her eyes evasively bouncing about, and for a brief moment their student-teacher-relationship seemed just like in the good old days again. "No," she answered slowly, "I don't believe it would. Not according to my understanding of Filius's elaborations, at least. The Room does not seem to act with any kind of awareness or autonomy. Whichever form and function it assumes is fundamentally a product of the mind from which it springs, and whatever it does comes from a place deeper than the surface of our conscious thinking. So if it ever were to—as you put it—play games, it would only do so when its occupants are very much inclined to… play. Whether they're fully aware of it or not. The Room can't ever give what isn't brought, but makes tangible what's barely thought."

The Headmistress looked rather satisfied with herself at that impromptu rhyme. A vague hum of acknowledgment coming from an oddly abashed Hermione was muffled behind lips tightly pressed together. "I see," she said, her eyes fixed on her highly intriguing leather sandals. "Well, that—that's certainly good to know. Very interesting, for sure. Scientifically. I suspected as much, of course, based on my own, ah… cursory experiences with the Room, but it's always a dainty little snack of satisfaction to be proven right by the facts."

"Indeed," McGonagall expressed agreement, her voice level where her sparkling eyes and twitching lips were subtly not. "Would it have changed anything at all if the facts had now manifested themselves contrary to your expectations?"

Young Miss Granger's lips split into a delighted smile. "Not substantially, no," she said, doorward bound. "I suppose I'd merely owe that conniving Room my sincerest thanks, for once upon a time helping me sort out the most confounding puzzle of all: my own heart. This way I can rightfully claim to have done it all by myself… with a little help from my best friend." Standing at the opened door she turned once again and held thumb and index finger up in the air, a fraction of an inch apart. "Just a tiny bit."

And with a wink at her quietly laughing Forever Head of House, Hermione went her way.

~•~

He did not, that much was quite quickly becoming quite clear, know a whole lot about art. His rather knowledgeable girlfriend had disclosed various fragments of its manifold intricacies to him over the years—just the summer before she had dragged him through the Louvre itself on a special information overload tour designed exclusively for his pleasure—yet somehow he seemed to have managed to forget roughly twice as much as he had ever memorized about it all.

Now, the scene displayed in front of him had an undeniably surreal quality about it, all things considered, yet its style in contradiction struck him as rather realistic. Although the perspective seemed a bit off. And the proportions. And the faces, too. So maybe not too realistic after all. Was it romantic, maybe? Wait, was that a particular style or more of a sentiment? He never really got his head around that one. And either way, could anyone of sound mind possibly call this romantic in any shape or form with a straight face, even if it should stylistically meet the criteria? Well… maybe they could.

No, no, no. Definitely not romantic. Perhaps rather an impressionistic work, then? That was one of those terms, no? Or was that the one with the brush strokes, which obviously wouldn't apply to a woven tapestry… right? Also, it was so very ex-pressive, was it not? And didn't all art express something? Also, not all pieces of impressionism left much of an impression, did they? Well, this one definitely did, whatever exactly it was, but Monet was nonetheless facepalming in his grave somewhere. France, presumably.

So, after this comprehensive examination of the exhibited article, he at last arrived at the conclusion that he was most definitely dealing with a neo-classical semi-naturalistic effort of the Düsseldorf school branch of the Hurufiyya movement, with a sprinkling of an Indo-Mexican luminist's interpretation of proto-futurist retro-cubism. Obviously. He felt a sudden urge to readjust his monocle and throw a glance at his pocket watch while he was at it.

What even was art, really? Oh, well. All he knew for sure was that trolls in leotards, male or female, truly were the stuff of nightmares, irrespective of the style in which they were portrayed.

Just then, right amidst his highly sophisticated musings, he felt something pushing against him lightly from behind as a pair of slender arms wound their way around his torso. Sudden though this savagely affectionate assault was, he did not flinch. He had heard her approaching, after all, her light footfalls so unmistakably hers.

"Still trying to figure it all out, are we?" her soft voice came to his ear from lips close by and audibly spread into a smile.

"You can't convince me this isn't the Mona Lisa of the wizarding world," Harry replied. "Both an immortal masterpiece as well as an impenetrable mystery. Why is she smiling like that; just how barmy was he, truly? Why doesn't she have any eyebrows; where did he get those troll-sized tutus?" He shook his head with rumination even as the woman wrapped around him kept giggling into his shoulder. "There's a connection there, I'm telling you. Those trolls don't have any eyebrows either, you see? Maybe… maybe DaVinci was a closet wizard and made this one too, in some lifelong crusade against facial hair. Isn't there some of that sfumato of his going on in here as well?"

"Not really," said Hermione after a brief pause.

"Well, I guess I really have to clean my glasses then." He turned around within her embrace as she laughed, smiling at her brightly. "Hi there, future wife."

She regarded him in like manner, an enamored sparkle in her eyes equal to the one in his. "Hi there, future husband." He lowered his head just as she raised hers; they met in the middle and kissed. "I'm sorry if I kept you waiting. I got carried away a wee bit with Minerva. Too much catching up to do. Tell me, how was your first gig as a celebrity guest lecturer?"

"Oh, nothing short of spiffing," he quipped as he wrapped his arms around her gracile waist. "Of course, not having the faintest clue what I was doing I opted for handing out free-of-charge autographs instead."

With a chortle Hermione said, "Ah, the infamous Lockhart school of teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Harry grinned toothily. Rather charmingly so, it must be said—unlike good old sleazy Gilderoy. "The first and second years made for a great audience," he continued more seriously, "laughing, gasping, watching and listening with rapt attention. I had them at the tip of my wand, if I do say so myself. But just now I had fifth and sixth year Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Tough crowd. Most of the Ravenclaws were blatantly skeptical of my wandless shenanigans, 'cause that's not textbook, not reliably replicable, and therefore scholastically altogether pointless." He squinted ceilingward. "Does that remind you of anyone…"

A glowering Hermione pinched his arm, making him laugh and pull her more tightly against him, briefly lifting her off her feet. His subsequent exhalation, however, turned into a despondent sigh, prompting Hermione to abort her faux indignation and peruse his features with concern burgeoning on her own. "Some of the Slytherins," he said, his voice subdued, "not all of them, but some… they looked at me like…" Another sigh, and with it a dejected shake of the head. "There was hatred in their eyes, Hermione. Genuine hatred. I could feel it as much as I saw it. And I don't even know if I can blame them.

"They were already at Hogwarts when the war broke out in earnest. And there's a decent chance that I actually fought their parents or older siblings back then. Maybe… maybe maimed or even killed them myself. I don't know. Many of them are growing up without their parents, that much I do know, and either directly or indirectly I suppose it's my fault. Some of them are dead, others wasting away at Azkaban. And perhaps they… perhaps they deserved it, as people are so eager to put it. But surely those kids don't, right?"

He kept shaking his head, his eyes distant and averted. Hermione's gaze not once left his face. "It's funny, isn't it? Even when you're fighting for what you feel is right, there's always so much wrong that comes along with it. Collateral damage, I believe is the established term. War is war, no matter what it's for. And war is never fair, nor ever just. And the problem with a civil war like ours is that once it's all said and done, and the corpses are piled high enough to ruin the view from the stateman's mansion, you don't get the comfort of never having to lay eyes on your former enemy again. There's no faraway, undamaged home to go back to. Because your home was the battlefield, and your enemy was your neighbor."

His restless gaze kept roaming along that most familiar hallway around them as he spoke. "Slytherins are more despised than they ever were before, regardless of their individual convictions and affiliations. All that matters is the group you're branded to belong to. If you're green, you're a snake and you're part of the problem. To some I'm still the enemy, others see me as an ally. And here I'm thinking, 'Hey, we aren't at war anymore. There are no allies and enemies. Just fellow human beings trying to get by.' But I guess when it comes to declaring to the world who you are, nothing's more convenient than an enemy to point your finger at."

He took a deep breath, finding it not as steady as he would have liked. "There's still a rift in our little community, Mione. Like a crevice in the earth. Like an open wound that's slow to heal and prone to festering. And today I cannot help but feel like I can't do anything to make it better. That my presence alone actually makes it worse. Because one way or the other, they're still all pointing at me."

When silence fell, so did one of the tears that had been gathering in Hermione's eyes as she listened to him with all her loving heart. A few more were yet to follow. "No, Harry," Hermione spoke to him with a quiver running through her lips, her hand coming up to cup the side of his face. "Mh-mh! Don't even go there. Goodness, my love! You're like a vacuum cleaner of responsibility." He gave a sudden chortle, awkward as it was, and she echoed it through half a sob, her thumb running back and forth along the hollow of his cheek.

"It's not all yours to take, you know? Leave some for the rest of us, where it belongs. You are not responsible for the deeds and choices of others, okay? I admire your empathy and your compassion so, so much. How it extends to every last, lost soul in the world. Even to those that oppose you, that wrong you, that hurt you. Even to that forsaken vestige of one Tom Riddle within the lightless void that was Voldemort. But I admire it no more than your ability to do what is necessary, and to stand your ground for what you believe in, ever unwavering.

"Because what you believe in, as opposed to him and his followers, is not some flimsy, fleeting and conveniently self-serving ideology, but the people around you. The people you love and cherish and that you cannot bear to see get hurt. You go to war on behalf of those that wish only for peace. And we did not choose war; it was brought upon us. With malice and with madness it was brought upon us. We all made our choices as the lines were drawn, and each of us must either live or die with the consequences. That's not on you, you… you silly man..."

She sniffled, and miffed at her own sniffling wiped the moisture off her cheeks with the back of her hand. "And I'm afraid… I'm afraid I'm gonna have to do some of that pesky pointing of my own," she said, and she placed a fingertip on his chest, right above his heart. "Because when the question is, what defines who I am in the endless love I bear for it; what is the most beautiful miracle in this entire messed up world; what is the one thing I cannot do without? The answer is you, you, you," and she tapped her finger against his chest with every repetition, and tears went streaming down her cheeks again despite her most determined efforts to the contrary.

She looked up and found his wetly glistening eyes were already expecting hers. "I'll always be with you, Harry, no matter what. And if the world should insist on continuously annoying the hell out of us, then it's just gonna have to be us versus the world. You and me against the rest of them. I hope they know what they're getting themselves into, those six billion fools. Because I've got a wooden stick and I'm not afraid to use it."

A whiff of amusement escaped his nose, his lips curling upward first at one and then the other corner. As he breathed in deeply he thought he could feel his entire being filling with some ethereal fume that bore her scent, her warmth, her love. He just looked at her then, that smile still lingering faintly on his lips. When Hermione's eyes once again came up from her hands resting against his chest and got caught in his, as so often they did, she felt her heart tumble over itself inside of her breast, and a radial rush of warmth spreading throughout her body, and the flutter of wings in her stomach: all of it as novel and intense as if they were sixteen again, and lost to the world and found in each other for the very first time.

Harry clasped both her hands with one of his, tenderly above his beating heart, while his other arm remained a steadying hold on her back. He leaned forward, inclining his head until the bridge of his nose came to rest lightly against her forehead, and they both closed their eyes in unconscious simultaneity.

"Love you," he whispered.

"Yeah, well," sheepishly she mumbled, "you'd better, you muppet."

For but a brief moment she opened her eyes, saw him smile and felt her own lips irresistibly mirror his as if they were linked somehow even without touching, and with her eyelids falling gently shut again a mellow swell of bliss rose to suffuse and engulf them both, like a force from within shielding them against everything without.

"So," Hermione eventually spoke into the cherished quietude, "long story short, your foray into the pedagogical profession was a resounding success." Her lips spread into a contented smile as she felt Harry's mostly inaudible laughter shaking her entire body, still completely entwined with his.

"Totally, yeah," he confirmed the obvious. "An all around great day for everyone."

There was a transient silence again as shared amusement blissfully lingered and gently subsided. "Say," Hermione then began, leaning back in his arms to look him in the eyes, "could you see me teaching at Hogwarts one day?"

Brow furrowed and lips puckered sideways, Harry looked accordingly confused. "How could I not? You could literally teach every single class there is." A pause of reconsideration, then a crooked grin. "Well, except for flying lessons, of course."

"And Divination," Hermione complemented in good humor.

He cocked his head to the side. "Actually, I imagine you could teach it competently enough, having no issue understanding the basic theory behind all the vapid tosh and silly showmanship. What with being you and all that. It's just that you'd hate every single minute of it, naturally."

She giggled delightfully. "I shall inspire entire generations of witches and wizards to make the widest berth possible around anything Divination-related and do something useful with their precious time instead."

"An ingenious plan," Harry voiced his full support. "Fighting the enemy from within." He could all too easily tell by the way contemplation returned to her eyes even as her smile yet persisted that she still had a question to get back to.

"But you could genuinely see me here," she asked him soon enough, as expected. The question mark was merely implied. "As a teacher. Teaching away."

"Yeah, sure," he answered sincerely. "I mean, on the long, long list of all the things you're unquestionably equipped to do, that… well, that's definitely one entry, don't you think? Solving problems, gaining insight, expanding knowledge. Some of your favorite things. It's all there, just with you at the rostrum this time around. And you could still pursue those countless ideas you have pertaining to arcane theory, like Flitwick does. Keep working on that Quantum Theory of Magic of yours. Being both a teacher and a researcher, that could suit you. And I can see a bit of a Minerva McGonagall in you as well. Strict but always fair; ever respected but never feared. You'd keep a class room quiet with ease, but also intrigued and engaged. You could convey all the facts from every last dusty tome in your sleep, but more importantly foster curiosity and fascination, and the drive to learn and understand in those young minds. You could basically build your own little army of nerds with which to take over the world."

With a soft little chuckle Hermione looked up at him, pure affection abounding in her eyes. She gave him a little full-body squeeze of gratitude to go along with it, too. "What about you, though?"

"Me?"

"Minerva appears to be rather taken with the idea of having both of us back at Hogwarts one day."

"Me?! A teacher?" Disbelief was the conductor of his vocal cords. "Now that's a bit of a stretch…"

"How so?" she asked with crinkled brow. "You'd make for one hell of a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Transfiguration and Potions, too. And flying lessons, of course."

"Potions?!" That conductor of his voice went completely nuts.

"You've always had a knack for it!"

"I wouldn't describe the act of randomly coming across the old school book of some former alchemy swot, who then grew up to become my favorite teacher of all time, as 'having a knack'."

Disapprovingly Hermione screwed up her face. "Well, you'd certainly be the best there ever was at teaching kids the high art of selling oneself short." He gave a snort. "Even Snape had to acknowledge it eventually, because despite his yearslong efforts to the contrary you actually ended up exceeding expectations on your O.W.L.s! And not because he didn't have any!"

"Exceeded Expectations," Harry gleefully jumped on the derisive tone she could not help but strike, "as I remember one Hermione Jane Granger once inveighing, is the most illogical grade of all, because expectations are subjective and the value of exceeding them is contingent on their quality. When you expect Seamus to blow up the entire class room and he instead only blows up himself, he by definition deserves the second best grade the school has to offer. 'Totally agree,' is what Seamus had to say to that vivid and scarily plausible example."

"Well, I stand by what I said," answered Hermione somewhat haughtily. "In fact, I shall add the following point of contention: it sounds more like a condescending insult than genuine praise. I don't care what they expected of me! Just tell me if I passed the damned exam or not! And what if I was expected to be Outstanding but then end up exceeding those expectations? Urgh, stupid grading systems..."

His increasing laughter was disrupting her little rant. Which was regrettable, seeing how she had so much more to say on the matter. "You really should consider a career in teaching. You'd turn the entire educational system on its head and then some."

She inhaled deeply, turning her eyes upward with a faraway gaze as she tried to tangibly envision that one particular set among a well-nigh infinite number of possible futures. "Professor Potter, professing professionally..."

Harry grinned from ear to ear, but then seemed thoroughly confused all of a sudden. "Wait, Professor Potter? Could I at least get through my long and historically successful Quidditch career first before I make an utter fool out of myself?"

"Well, it's not like I'd be starting here tomorrow," Hermione replied in an absent-minded tone, still actively envisioning. "So by that time I'd obviously be..."

"Right," Harry finally apprehended her meaning with a nod, then seemed to internally be weighing something himself. "Say, do you have to take my name?"

It was officially Hermione's turn to crease her brow in confusion, her mind at once fully present again. "Don't you want me to take your name?"

Harry squirmed a bit, inwardly as well as outwardly. "Iiiiiii don't know…"

Creases increased in severity; not seldom an omen as ill as the Grimm. "Excuse your pardon? What are my ears perceiving here, mister?"

The mister laughed despite the dire straits into which he was so carelessly stumbling. "It's just that—you're Hermione Granger, right?"

She perked an eyebrow. "Existentially speaking, ooor—"

"No, I mean… it just sounds right, doesn't it? Partly, I assume, because that's been your name for over twenty years now, but also because… well, it just sounds right. Right? I've always liked the sound of it, honestly."

"Well, and I honestly like the sound of Hermione Potter."

He cringed. The git actually, verifiably cringed!

"Wha'?!" Hermione exclaimed, her eyes going wide with disbelief. The lady was getting proper huffed with these altogether disagreeable goings-on. "Are you kidding me right now, Harry Ja—"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Harry Jay hastily expressed, laughing yet again and thus not exactly helping his case. "I like what Hermione Potter implies, of course. A lot! But… it's just… I mean, purely the sound of it—well… that'll take some getting used to, is all."

Hermione with some determination—and a chuckling Harry observing the proceedings—managed to squeeze both her arms in between their chests horizontally for the sole purpose of crossing them; a statement of such importance that it currently took precedence over all matters of comfort. Inadvertently though her breasts were thereby pushed upward in her not entirely pious blouse, and rather saliently so. She remained unaware of it until on a double-take she detected the conspicuous switch of attention on his face, at which her eyes followed his unblinking gaze.

"Psh!" she sibilated upon realization, turning her head away from him with her chin raised to the lofty heights of indignation. "You know, if you do not want these breasts to bear your name, maybe I had better keep them to myself."

"Wait," said Harry, jerking out of his mammillary mesmerization, "now you've got me all at sea. Are we still discussing the issue of whether you're going to take my name or not, or do you want the guh-reat Hurry Perter to sign your bosom?"

"Pah!" Hermione ejected with half a scandalized laugh in there as her head came swiveling back his way. "That supposed to be my fantasy, or yours? And more importantly: there is no issue to discuss, mister. I'm gonna get me that name of yours and the gods themselves cannot stop me, you hear me? We are going to have identical initials, you and me—including our middle names! How neat is that? I mean, that'll just put our Christmas card game on a whole different level."

With a hearty chuckle Harry saw all the pieces falling into place at last. "Oh, so that's been your endgame all this time."

"From the day I met you on our first train ride to Hogwarts..." Hermione nodded gravely as she narrowed her ever-scheming eyes. "The Christmas cards." His chuckle rose back to proper laughter. "Also, if I should ever manage to publish a book, with your surname on the front cover it's a guaranteed best seller at least in our wizarding circles. Small as they are."

"Wow, you have thought this through!"

She gave a blasé shrug. "It's what I do, you know? Not that I ever really needed your money. Actually, if we consider for a moment that you are still the majority shareholder of Sleekeazy's and profit quite comfortably from their annual revenue, and furthermore acknowledge that nobody in the world buys more of that life-saving miracle stuff than I do, it can be safely concluded that I am, in fact, your primary source of income—and not the other way around."

Harry shook his head at her with joy on his lips and affection in his eyes. Something else suddenly caught the attention of the latter, though, which at first sight Hermione deemed exceedingly inappropriate. "Ah," he said, and with a jerk of his head added, "There we are."

"Our door?" she asked with a knowing smile.

He gave a curt nod. "Our door."

Hermione turned her head over her shoulder. "When did it appear, did you see?"

A little youthful roguery flitted across his features. "Prolly 'round the time when I was ogling your chest with a solid ninety-nine percent of my brain shut down..."

She let out a guffaw as she swirled back to him. "You think that's when the Room finally registered an urgent... requirement?"

Harry's hands slipped down the ever-seductive curve of her back. Of all the countless things about her which alone were enough to switch him on, that unquestionably was one. "Well, I most certainly did."

Roguery was demonstrably infectious as a cheeky little smirk slanted Hermione's rosy lips. "Did you now?" she purred, fiddling with a button of his shirt. A sudden gust of reminiscence whisked her ever so slightly off her libidinous course. Not completely, but slightly. "D'you think it's still there, our little refuge? Just the way we remember it?"

"Been a while, hasn't it?"

Hermione nodded, her eyes wistful.

"Come," he said after a moment's reflective pause, taking her by the hand in an ebullient surge of enthusiasm. "Let's find out."

The door upon closer inspection proved to be its usual unassuming self, but as they knew all too well from experience, that said nothing about the amenities lying hidden yet on its other side. In spite of its utter lack of any remarkable features or unique qualities, Harry and Hermione spent more than a few seconds staring at it. Then they turned to each other and laughed at naught but their own, hilariously timid selves.

"What are we so afraid of, honestly?" Harry aptly gave voice to both their thoughts. "We've done this dozens of times. We know there isn't gonna be some traumatizing troll orgy in there."

"Do we?" asked Hermione with one eyebrow dubiously arched. "Just a moment ago you were gawping at my breasts like one such troll, so…"

"That's so unfair," Harry claimed, grievously offended. "I only did so because your arse wasn't in my view."

"Good gracious!" Hermione laughed as she reached for the handle. "With a filthy mind like yours it really is going to be a seedy sex dungeon this time around, isn't it? Let's hope," and she whipped her chestnut locks over her shoulder with the back of her hand, "my angelic innocence is enough to mitigate your fiendish lechery."

She chose to gracefully ignore that utterly malapropos snort suspiciously coming out of his direction and opened the door without any further ceremony. With apprehension making one last dramatic reappearance, they hesitated with eyes locked and lips pursed before reluctantly turning their heads to peek inside together.

"Huh," was her first impression's exhaled result.

"Will you look at that," Harry offered a more celebratory tone. "It's home, sweet home after all."

While it was not, as they would soon discover, down to every last detail exactly the same as it once had been, for Hogwarts itself was not, it was nevertheless as close to their memories as it could possibly be, and as dear as ever to their hearts. Their save game was, some minor alterations notwithstanding, very much intact. And without having to blow into the cartridge, too.

Hermione looked satisfied. "It would appear my innocence has once again saved our idyllic hideaway from your irremediably concupiscent tendencies."

"Ah, yes," Harry readily agreed. "I vividly recall that innocence of yours doing just that on the kitchen table, the couch, the carpet in front of the fireplace, the desk in the study, on every square inch of the bedroom, in the bathtub and the shower, and once even up against the library windows."

Hermione softly cleared her throat with an air of dignity most sacrosanct about her. "Yes, well, mine is a very incognito sort of innocence. Well-nigh indistinguishable from its diametrical opposite at times. Should I fail to appear convincingly virginal on our wedding day, though, we'll only have yourself to blame. So anyway, are you coming with me or do I have to do it on my own?"

"Oh, I'm coming all right," said he with mischief in his eyes. "But first, you come right here, missy."

Hermione had precious little time to question his meaning as already she found herself being swept off her feet and up into his arms. "Now what's this all about?" she inquired merrily once she was done squealing.

"Rehearsal," he casually replied.

"For… ?"

"Our wedding day, silly. And more extensively, as you are about to find out, the night that's set to follow after." Her lips spread right along with his. With their gazes all immersed in one another, he abruptly froze and heaved a sigh that momentarily puzzled her in its somberness. "I don't know if it makes any sense or not," he said quite seriously, "but I'm gonna miss Hermione Granger. Even—"

"Harry, it's not—"

"—even though… at the same time I can't wait to meet Mrs Hermione Potter."

She demeaned herself to show leniency. "Nice save."

"Oh, I almost forgot!" he suddenly exclaimed just as he proceeded to carry her over the threshold, and his face very much looked the part. "I promised McGonagall I'd drop in on the Gryffindor practice session this afternoon, which I very much fear I'm about to regret. You got the time there?"

Hermione glanced at her wristwatch. "Couple of minutes past three."

"Damn," Harry cursed, his mood souring as anticipated. "I've got less than an hour."

She licked her lips slowly, leaving them all glossy, and she looked up at him through her dark lashes. "That not enough for what you had in mind?"

"Not nearly," he huskily gave answer. "Not ever."

"How about thirty, then?" she asked him while twirling his tie around her finger. "Give or take."

A visible lack of comprehension manifested itself in symmetrical wrinkles above the bridge of his nose, contorting his scar. She just kept smiling at him, a bit like Mona Lisa. Only prettier, it must respectfully be said. With some fierce, sexy undercurrents going on there. So not really all that much like Mona Lisa. But much like in the case of DaVinci's famous painting, Harry regrettably didn't have the faintest approximation of a clue's third cousin what she was getting at. Until…

Understanding dawned on him, and he grinned like the devil on a field trip to paradise.

"That I can work with," he said. "That just about meets my requirements."

And he kicked the door shut behind them.

~ The End ~

(in an endless sort of way)

The Trivial Trivia Section

• Traitorous doubts: The quotation started by McGonagall and finished by Hermione is from Shakespeare's Measure for Measure.

• Erwin Schrödinger: Nobel Prize-winning Austrian physicist who was ultimately surpassed in fame by his own cat, despite the feline's existence remaining a matter of uncertainty to this day. (I referenced this at least once before. In Thresholds, if I'm not mistaken. Who knows? Could go either way, honestly.)

• A few musical acknowledgments: While at times I do prefer complete and utter silence when writing, I doubt I'd be able to get through the entire process, from start to finish, without music. Without music, after all, life would be a mistake. So this time around I was often swept along and inspired by the compositions of Abel Korzeniowski, Michael Nyman, Rachel Portman and Brian Crain.

Parting words

If, despite my two protagonists being neither representative of the average adolescent Homo sapiens, nor reverentially faithful continuations of their canonical counterparts, and despite my inveterate penchant for sesquipedalian intemperance, which at times will have you encountering a word or two you were either heretofore unfamiliar with or merely not too keen to meet again, you stuck with me through unnecessarily polysyllabic verbiage and most aggravating multi-clause sentences, and, still alive and stronger even for your suffering, as Friedrich Nietzsche knew you should be, reached this very point right here, I thank you.

If furthermore, in addition to that astounding display of perseverance, you, masochist that you are, even derived some measure of enjoyment from the ordeal, and find it in yourself to forgive me my altogether outrageous sense of humor so brazenly on display above, I thank you even more.

And if, above and beyond all that, you gleaned as much as an iota of meaning, truth or value from somewhere between the lines, over there right within yourself, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you.

So here's to... another decade... of this exorbitantly unprofitable nonsense… ?! Maybe?! I guess?! Did anybody bring any champagne, perchance? Could you hit me over the head with the bottle real quick? Just end this already, for both our sakes. Do it. It is your destiny.