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Chapter Text

“And take your FUCKING COCK PUMP with you!” Hermione grunts. She whips her wand, and Ron’s giant, smelly, dick-and-balls-looking bong crashes through the cupboard and through the open front door. It hits a disheveled Ron Weasley in the chest, knocking his limp wand from his smoke-stained grip.

“Oy, don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Ron squeaks, climbing to his feet. 

“Overreacting?” Hermione hisses. “Overreacting would have been lighting you on fire the FIRST time you FUCKED HER!”

“I didn’t have the scratch, babe! Which is technically your fault.”

“You mean cutting you off from the money that I worked for? From the employment I maintain?? So that your broke, stoned, WORTHLESS ASS can do half the laundry before you crawl onto the couch and light up again???”

“This isn’t about laundry,” says Ron, squinting into the dawn light. “No, no. This is because a muggle actually puts out, and my WIFE is a FRIGID ICE QUEEN!”

“My parents are muggles you TWAT! And just because your DEALER lets you stick it in her ASS without a warm-up doesn’t mean I’M frigid.”

“You’ve never liked anal,” Ron grumbles.

Hermione stomps out the door and down the walkway. “I love anal, you selfish piece of shit, but you charge in like a goddamn ogre and I can’t walk for a week.”

“I thought you liked it rough.”

“I also like CUMMING! But I haven’t done that in THREE FUCKING YEARS!”

“Hey, Natalie says that’s a self-talk problem. It’s your inner dialogue telling you…”

“FUCK our therapist, Ron! Oh, wait. I forgot. YOU DID!” Hermione flicks her wand sharply. “FLIPENDO!” Ron flips backward off his feet and lands on his ass. “FLAGRANTE!” And with her final curse, Ron’s socks erupt into fire. She walks back into the house while Ron screeches and flails behind her trying to extinguish his feet. The door slams shut.

“Where are you going, baby?” 

Luna freezes and curses. Well, not literally. That would scare the pixins away, and they were essential to keeping Luna’s leg hair from growing too fast. 

She looks over her shoulder at the mermaid leaning over the edge of the hot tub, trying very hard not to stare at the breasts hanging over the edge that Luna had against her tongue a few hours ago. “I have to get to work,” she says. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

The mermaid tilts her head. “But I don’t sleep.”

“Shoot,” says Luna. “I thought that was a myth.”

“I thought you were your own boss,” says the mermaid, her large, golden eyes batting.

"Co-owner."

“Come back in the water, and I’ll show you how long I can hold my breath… Hint, it’s for as long as it takes…”

The thing is, though. Mermaids aren’t actually very good at eating pussy.

The mermaid’s jaw drops. “You bitch,” she says.

“Now, don’t tell me you’re telepathic,” says Luna, blinking. “I certainly couldn’t be that wrong about you.”

The mermaid’s eyes narrow. “You said it out loud.”

“Oh good,” says Luna. “For a second I thought I was going crazy.”

“I should leave,” says the mermaid.

Luna slips her pruny foot into her loose boot and flicks her wand, the laces tightening. “I’m glad you understand.” She stands and heads toward the door, then pauses and turns. “Can I still count on your vote for book club treasurer?”

“Fuck off, Luna.” The portal light beams from the bottom of the hot tub, and the mermaid’s tail splashes water all over the living room of Luna’s flat as the former returns to the Mediterranean. Or Caribbean. Luna isn’t entirely certain.

She looks at the water soaking quickly into the carpet. She could clean it, but the dust nocks will love the moisture. They don’t keep the carpet nearly so fluffy when they dry out. With another wand wave and a RETOURNEO, the hot tub disappears, replaced by a worn recliner with a seaside print on the seat back.

Luna exits the front door, skipping down the corridor, and takes winding staircase down two at a time. Exiting into the alleyway and closing the door behind her, she flicks her wand at the lock COLLOPORTUS with a satisfying click. She skips down the alleyway, her lemon sundress flaring at her thighs, her white-blonde plait bouncing off her ass, and out to the high street. At which she turns and enters the first door on the right, the entrance to the Quibble and Snog Pub and Grill.

“Hey, boss!” shouts the goblin drying glasses behind the bar. “You’re early!”

“Good morning, Crankenshnaft,” says Luna, bounding across the nearly-empty establishment. A few tables were already home to the regular characters, but most of them were on coffee and bacon at the time a day. Except for Greasy Pete, who was on the centaur moonshine already. That was going to be a problem. “Working hard?”

“Ain’t work when you love your job!” says the goblin, grin wide with sharp teeth. 

“Did you never once feel joy giving people cash advances?” says Luna, snagging an apron.

“Fuck financing,” says Crankenshnaft, his brows creasing. “Capitalists can burn.”

“I always felt a co-op restaurant was a fair idea,” says Luna. “I’m glad to see you with a smile on. And that you’ve started brushing your teeth. Good for you!”

A pop sounds, and Luna looks across the bar to see a face she hasn’t in a very long time. Hermione Granger looks quite in need of a friendly voice and a stiff drink as she shuffles to the bar and slips onto a stool. 

Hermione says, “I’ll have one of everything. Doubles. Neat.” Then she looks up to see Luna’s beaming face, and Hermione rolls her eyes. “Aw, fuck.”

Chapter Text

“You look like you’ve seen a bugbear eating lunch,” says Luna, sidling toward Hermione, who would rather see a Malfoy right about now. At least that would be congruent with her mood. The sun shine coming out of Luna’s ass has always begged sunglasses, but today, Hermione would take a welding mask.

She’s hard to look at, Luna. She’s hard not to look at. As a teen, Lovegood was about as awkward as she was goofy, in presence and aesthetic. As a grown woman… Hermione tears her eyes away from the cleavage cresting Luna’s apron. The proprietor of the Quibble and Snog pulls her long braid of spun sugar and gold over her shoulder.

“Hard morning?” Luna asks.

Hermione narrows her eyes as she looks up from the lacquered bar top. “Would you believe wildly satisfying?”

“One of everything doesn’t usually follow satisfaction, no,” says Luna, beaming. “Kind of look like you haven’t been satisfied for a long time.”

Hermione feels her face soften. 

“It’s okay,” says Luna with a sunny smirk. “That’s why we sell lots and lots of alcohol.”

“It’s just…” Hermione shakes her head. “Never mind.”

Luna whispers, “You’re not used to people seeing you.”

The heat flooding Hermione’s cheeks is not unlike feeling one’s clothes suddenly falling off in a crowd. 

“Oh! The traffic this morning!” sounds an overly feminine voice from the doorway. “Luna! Darling!”

The woman in the doorway strides into the establishment, a confident breeze as usual. Her dark hair is pulled into an elaborate updo, the lightning scar prominent on her brow.

“Welcome in, Ms. Harriet,” says the goblin. “Usual?”

“Mimosas, if you please, Crankenshnaft,” says Harriet, who shares a pair of cheek kisses with Luna before sliding onto the stool next to Hermione. “Two if you will, three if you’re joining us.”

“You’re saucy, Ms. Harriet,” grunts the goblin, but his eyes are bright with amusement.

Hermione’s brow furrows as she takes in her best friend. “Come here often?”

“Of course,” grins Harriet. “My, you have eaten some fried shit this morning, haven’t you?”

“And you knew Luna Lovegood worked here?”

“That’s why I picked the place,” says Harriet, pushing her purple-rimmed glasses up her nose. “When you’re having a bad day, Luna makes the hurt go away.”

Luna quirks her head. “Can I use that on my business card?”

Harriet flicks her wand, and a small card pops into her other hand. “Already done.”

Grinning, Luna says, “I’ll just go put this on my desk.” Upon which she pivots and skips toward the darkness at the back of the pub.

“We’ve known each other too long,” says Hermione, her voice low, “for you to think I would want to drown my sorrows in the company of Luna Lovegood?”

“She’s not the same girl you knew,” says Harriet. “All of us have changed, and most for the better.”

“There is the exception,” says Hermione, studying her thumbs.

“I’m so sorry,” says Harriett. “For what it’s worth, you did the right thing.”

“I set his feet on fire.”

Harriet works her mouth silently, and she is rarely at a loss for words since finding her authentic self, who apparently a non-stop talker in addition to haver of boobs. “That’s… a bold choice. I assume his wand is still inoperable.”

“Not inoperable enough for booty calls.”

An arm goes around Hermione’s shoulders. “Ron never recovered, hon. You hoped and you tried and you saw the good that none of us could. But sometimes, love is not enough.”

“Shouldn’t it be?” 

“You’re not usually known for such a poetic notion.”

“Well… why shouldn’t I be? Everyone else is changing. What about me? Why do I have to be the responsible one? Why must I go to the Ministry day after day and solve everyone else’s problems? It’s… it’s…”

“Bullshit,” Luna finishes, approaching with two mimosas.

“Yes, bullshit, thank you,” says Hermione, taking the crystal flute by the stem. “Why can’t I just eat-pray-love my way into 35?”

“Eat-pray…?” says Luna.

“Muggle thing,” says Harriet. “You’ve needed a holiday for a long time. Ginny has been hinting about Hawaii, if you’d like to plan a little thing with friends? Dudley would even take the kids for a week. He owes me after I watched his disgusting hounds at Christmas.”

“Don’t you miss them, though?” says Hermione.

“They smelled rutty awful,” says Harriet with a grimace. “And I’m still getting fur out of Hagrid’s comforter.”

“Could that be because it’s Hagrid’s comforter?” says Luna.

“You’d think so,” says Harriet, “but it was surprisingly clean.”

“A bit of pickle juice and peanut butter, and the hairs will slide right out.”

“Does that really work?”

“Yes, if you like the smell of pickle juice and peanut butter.”

“Not the dogs!” growls Hermione. “The adventures. Our adventures. Nothing has felt right, since. Nothing… Not work, or education, or romance, or… anything!”

Harriet blinks. “You mean when we were running for our lives from a psychopathic, genocidal megalomaniac and all of our loved ones were in peril or dying?”

“Exactly,” says Hermione with a sigh. “At least that was a challenge.”

With her index finger, Harriet pushes the bottom of the flute upward to Hermione’s lips. “If you haven’t started drinking, maybe you should.”

“Are you saying Ron wasn’t a challenge?” says Luna, leaning on the bar.

“I’ve been blaming Ron this whole time. Like he was the only one with the problem.” Hermione downs the entire volume of juice and champagne in one go. “Maybe I’m the problem.”

“Now you stop that this instant,” says Harriet.

“Don’t shame her, Harriet,” says Luna, softly. “She has her feelings. Let her feel them.”

Hermione glances up a Luna’s tranquil, pristine face and large, luminous eyes that see everything. “Thank you.”

“There are many kinds of adventure,” says Luna. “It’s noticing the opportunity to begin one that most people miss, and then there they are, on an adventure that they hadn’t even realized they begun, wondering why their lives are so ordinary. Take me for instance. I’m running for book club treasurer, and I slept with a mermaid last night. I’m sleeping with as many members of the book club as I can to secure my votes. Now, that’s an adventure you can take to bed.” She giggles musically. 

“Luna, that’s a terrible idea,” says Harriet. “You know that’s a terrible idea, right?”

“But it’s terribly interesting and what a challenge.”

Just when Hermione thought Luna Lovegood might have grown into poise and wisdom, she is reminded Luna Lovegood is still Luna Lovegood. 

“Yeah, I don’t think sex is the adventure I’m talking about,” says Hermione.

Luna grins and places her chin into her palm. “Said like a girl that’s never eaten pussy before.”

Hermione’s stomach somersaults. When moisture returns to her mouth, she says, “I’m not talking about normal things, Luna.”

Luna mutters, “Nothing normal about mermaid pussy.” 

“I don’t think I’m meant for normal things. Don’t you get it? Even this thing with Ron. What if I brought it on myself? Do I need stress and anxiety to feel alive? Because I’m incapable of having nice, calm things?”

Harriet squints. “Since when is the wizarding world is a nice, calm place?”

Luna pats Harriet’s hand. “Hush, this is getting exciting.”

Hermione smacks the bar with her palm. “That’s it! That’s my fucking problem! I’m fucked up! I’m completely and utterly fucked up! And obviously I’m addicted to extreme trauma, and nothing extreme has happened in fifteen years! Obviously I pushed Ron into sleeping around, because I’m a frigid, angry cunt. I’m fucked up, and I’m bored! Okay?!”

“Babe, we’re all fucked up,” says Harriet, “but…”

“Why do I have to make the trauma for myself? And why’s it all gotta be shit? And why can anything ever just fucking happen where I get to be the good guy?”

Then with a phenomenal crash, wood and plaster shrapnel careen through the air as patrons dive to the ground. When the dust settles, Hermione is looking through the passenger window of a late 90s Buick LeSabre sputtering in the middle of the pub. 

“Ms. Granger!” shouts the man behind the wheel. “Come quickly! The Ministry… it’s gone!” Then Hermione’s eyes widen as she recognizes the driver: Severus Snape. The very dead but looking very much the opposite of dead, Severus Snape.

Luna leans toward Hermione. “You were saying?”

Chapter Text

Luna recognizes that it would not be unusual for a proprietor to elect to stay with their storefront, however, since the storefront in question had just been demolished by her dead potions master in a perfectly serviceable American sedan, she might be forgiven for hopping in the back with her friends to determine what the fuck was going on.

“I’ll just tidy this up, shall I?” says Crankenshnaft, tossing a towel over his dusty shoulder. 

“That would be a dream, Cranky, byeeeeeeee!” says Luna as Snape throws the car in reverse. 

“What’s all this about the Ministry?” says Hermione, once they’re breaking land speed records and running traffic lights through the streets of London. “And why do you need Harriet? And why aren’t you dead?”

“I don’t need… did you say Harriet?” Snape’s eyes dart to the rearview, and Harriet gives a little wave. “Huh. You know that explains a lot.”

“No salty remarks?” says Harriet.

“Lily did always want a daughter,” he says. “Anyway, this situation doesn’t require Potter. It requires a genius. You can’t fight a necromancer with gumption.”

“So, you’re undead?” says Hermione.

Snape’s dry tone bites. “As I said, genius.” He swerves around a lorry, yanking wheel with no sign of fear from is very American location on the left side of the car.

“He’ll be a ghoul,” says Luna. “You look fit for a ghoul, professor.”

“Well then, the next time I escape his mind control, I’ll be sure to thank the necromancer for his artisanal effort.”

“I don’t know what I can do in a pinch,” says Hermione. “I know very little about necromancers.”

“Oh, I can fill you in,” says Luna. “Fascinating creatures. Not entirely human, but one does give up quite a bit of one’s own animus to animate the dead.”

“Is that you, Lovegood?”

“Aye, professor.”

“But what about the Ministry!” says Harriet.

“That’s what I don’t fully understand,” says Snape. “It’s just… Well, you’ll see in a moment. Here we are. Out out out!”

As the car screeches to a halt, Snape flicks his wand and the doors open, Hermione, Luna, and Harriet launching from the vehicle.

The pressure on Luna’s ears abate, as does the sudden darkness, when she lifts her head which was a split second earlier buried against the gusset of Hermione’s damp cotton panties. Looking into Hermione’s eyes, Luna mouths her apology as Harriet shouts, “You aren’t staying?”

“And risk coming under control again?” says Snape. “If I’d been your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Potter, you’d know better.” And with a squeal of tires, the undead Professor Snape is off down the street once more.

Luna rights herself and offers Hermione a hand up which the latter declines. 

Looking about… yes, Professor Snape assessed the situation quite rightly. The Ministry was gone. That’s not to say there is nothing to see. The muggle building above the Ministry is quite intact, but Luna can see tendrils of necrotic energy veining down into the concrete. Her awareness rides the darkness downward, and the ground beneath the building is like any other in subterranean London. The Tube, pipes, utility tunnels. Certainly no unground city to see. There’s also another magic flickering against the necrotic residue that Luna can’t quite place.

“Don’t!” Hermione snatches Luna by the outstretched wrist. “Time scars. You don’t want to touch those, trust me.”

“But won’t muggles…”

“They’ll be unaffected. Time scars can’t hurt you unless you can sense them. It’s part of the rule of quantum decoherence.”

“Observation causality collapses probabilities waves,” says Luna.

Hermione physically steps back. “Y-es… How do you know that?”

“I do read.”

“I didn’t assume…”

“There are many things to know about me if you want to know them, Miss Granger. And my price is very low.”

“Would you stop flirting?” says Harriet. “What the actual fuck is going on here? Where’s the Ministry?”

Hermione sighs. “I don’t want to be this cliche but it really does need to be said. I’m not sure the question is where but when.”

“If the location is even in our timeline,” says Luna.

“That’s…,” Hermione clears her throat, “…actually correct. I also don’t think we can assume that the presence of necrotic residue and time scarring confirm the correlation. They are distinctly separate energy signatures, and there’s no way of knowing at what time they manifest.”

“I suppose we could look for survivors,” says Harriet. “Or at least see if anyone was hurt.”

“You’re welcome to,” says Hermione, pinching her chin. “I need to see an expert, though. I’m out of my depth here, and far as I know, McGonagall’s expertise with time turning is limited to charms and enchantments. This takes a much bigger magic. As for necromancy…”

“I think I can help with both,” says Luna. “Shall I make introductions?”

“Who exactly do you plan to visit, Luna?” asks Harriet.

“Never you mind,” she says. “You won’t agree to come if I tell you, but once you’re there, you’ll know you made the right decision.”

Hermione pinches her nose. “Now that the Ministry library is fuck knows where, the only other choice is the library at Hogwarts, and who knows how long it will take to find anything in there. Alright, Luna. Lead the way.”

“Harriet,” says Luna. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll recruit Ginny,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “And she’ll recruit some others. We can continue searching here. Normally I’d come with but…”

“Lives first,” says Hermione. “Thank you.”

“Be careful,” says Harriet.

Luna’s warm hand grasps Hermione’s, soft and slender and lovely. Quite the time to feel an old crush looming, Luna. With a pop, the two women disapparate. 

Chapter Text

Hermione blinks as the incense and weed smoke assaults her eyes. She had a feeling… she hoped not… but she was pretty sure. And here they fucking are. Because if anyone would choose to live in a tower that looks like a hippy’s squat pad, it’s…

“Professor Trelawney!” gasps Hermione. “Where are your clothes?!”

“Ms. Granger,” says Trelawney, shuffling nearer through the purple haze. “It’s good to see you.”

Hermione shields her eyes, looking at the floor. “I wish I could say the same.”

“She doesn’t mean to be rude,” says Luna. “But… you understand.”

“I do, I do.” says the ex professor. “However, I might note. I don’t come to your place of business and shame you for your choice of footwear. Do I?”

Is this really happening? Hermoine takes a deep breath and immediately begins coughing hard enough to fall over. Luna pats her back pretty hard, but within a few seconds, Hermoine feels… like… the stress of the day is, like… what was she even upset about? She got to set her douchebag husband on fire, see Snape crash a car into a pub, hang out of loopy Luna Lovegood. Blonde, gorgeous Luna. Luna Balloona. Ballooooooooon.

“Sorry about this,” says Luna, wincing. 

“Ballooooooona… ooooooooo…”

Trelawney smiles. “The human body is a beautiful mystery we can never hope to understand.”

Hermione’s eyelids lift for a moment. “Science disagrees. With bees… Beeeeezzzz… Buuuuzzzzzzz….”

Luna clears her throat. “She doesn’t usually partake, I think.”

“Ministry flunkies usually don’t,” says Trelawney using air quotes. “But I happen to know that is utter titfoddle.”

Tit what? Damn, Luna has an incredible rack! “Woah,” says Hermione. Her mouth feels funny. “When did you grow those sweater ballooooooooooonas? Luuuuuuna sweater balllooooooooona.”

“Would it be possible, Professor…” Luna swats Hermione’s hand away from her boob. “…to adjust the intensity of the aura enhancers?”

Trelawney blinks beneath her soda bottle glasses and grins. “When the uncompromised truth, Ms. Lovegood, is liberated from those who keep themselves tightly wound, the release can be intense. Perhaps we let her have this a moment longer.”

Hermione pets Luna’s face. “God, you’re pretty. Is this your real hair?”

Clearing her throat, Luna takes Hermione by the wrist and moves her hand away from her face. “We’ve come about…”

“The Necromancer,” says Trelawney. “And the time collapse.”

“I’d like to collapse with someone…” says Hermione, blinking. “For a long time.”

“Oh my.” Luna covers her smile poorly.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” says Trelawney with a smirk.

Luna purses her lips for a moment as she presses Hermione firmly away. “A time collapse, you say?”

“Well, it is imminent,” says the ex professor, scratching at a rigid nipple. “I did try to warn everyone, but I was banished to this tower.”

“I thought you worked here,” says Hermione. Her mouth begins to open and close and flex into an ‘O’. “Can anyone feel my face? I think it’s missing.” 

“This is the first we’ve heard of a time collapse stop it.” Luna flinches. “How much stop it. How much time do will you please get a hold of yourself?” She swats Hermione’s finger off her ear lobe. “I’m sorry, Professor. We’re in an awful hurry. Would you mind, terribly?”

“I suppose you are correct.” Producing a wand from what might have been her ass, Trelawney says, “FUMIUM NIX.” With a wave and figure eight swish, the haze in the room rushes into the tip of her wand, and Hermione’s head clears.

“That was….” Hermione’s eyes widen. “I was drugged. I was drugged you drugged me! I’m not responsible for…”

“Relax, love,” says Luna, touching Hermione’s shoulder. The latter flinches and sidesteps away. “We can discuss psychotropic tolerance another time. I am, as I expect you are, frightfully interested in a Necromancer’s time collapse…”

“You can’t just go around drugging people! It’s a violation of my right to - !”

Luna claps in Hermione’s face. “Bitch, focus!”

Hermione’s mouth falls open. “Really, Luna. I’m surprised at you.”

“What. I swear sometimes.”

“Yes, perhaps we shall revisit drugs and the rules of consent another time.” Hermione tugs her button-down straight and crosses her arms. “Do go on, Professor Roofie. We will hear everything you know, please.”

Trelawney shrugs. “You’ve heard it.”

Hermione’s nostrils flare. “I’m sorry, was I that high?”

Brows drooping, Luna says, “You’ve said… nothing, Professor. Unless my own tolerance has quite diminished.”

“Nonsense,” says the ex professor. “I’ve told you there’s a correlation and that time will collapse. It came to me in a dream. Possibly two dreams. On second thought, they might have occurred with a midnight snack in between. Don’t you just love a tiny, nutty biscuit to settle your mind back to sleep?”

Luna nods, “I do, actually!”

Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose. “Oh my fucking God there are two of them. Is there going to be a time collapse or not?”

“Oh, there will be.” Trelawney swishes and flicks her wand, and a cup of tea flies into her hand, tea sloshing into the saucer. She takes a sip with an obnoxious slurp. “When it will occur, I can’t say. Time is a funny thing, and not nearly so linear as the learned would have you believe. And a collapse isn’t necessarily the end. It is an end, but… oh, well I’ve said it already, haven’t I. Is there anything else?”

“Let’s go,” says Hermione. “This is pointless.”

Biting her lip, Luna says, “We did also come about your experience with… uh… necromancy.”

Trelawney’s gaze shifts into the middle-distance and a grin slowly seeps into her lips. “Ah yes… those were some wild, naughty days.”

Turning to Luna, Hermione says, “She doesn’t mean…”

Luna’s face becomes solemn, her nod minuscule and curt. 

Hermione’s nose wrinkles.

“Yes, well, I’m afraid that’s private,” says Trelawney.

“We don’t need your personal accounts, Professor,” says Luna. “We merely need to understand the capabilities and workings of necromancy.”

The moment stretches into contemplative seconds. “I suppose you won’t tell anyone,” says Trelawney looking at Hermione. “Can’t have the professional wizarding world know an agent of the Ministry consulted Straight-jacket Sybil.” The ex professor scratches her ass with her wand and then waves her tea away. “Very well. Come along. I may have one or two things of interest.”

Leading the witches through the tower, Trelawney approaches a downward spiraling staircase. With a mutter, the stairs corkscrew upward some considerable distance, and the boards of the ceiling retract above. Up the witches go and into a loft, the room below having the appearance of a loft vaulted upward certainly to make one assume one was on topmost floor. But with a segment of tile missing from the sweeping peak above, the sight of blue sky assures Hermione this is indeed the true tower loft. Though why it should be important, who knows.

Looking up, Trelawney places her hands on her hips. “Dammit all. I thought I replaced that tile. I will ever be a student of artisanal repairs, it would seem. Ah, yes. Over here.”

The edges of the tower loft are filled with so much detritus and junk, Hermione hardly knows where to look. The sheer quantity of earthy tapestries is troubling, in that it’s hard not to see anything but tapestries heaped on piles of whatnots. If there is something to find here, Hermione would have little hope of finding it without a spell, and that’s always tricky in another witch or wizard’s sanctum. But Trelawney walks sure as an arrow, though not in a terribly straight line. So much of the loft’s inventory bulges and spilles, a somewhat circuitous route through the valleys is really the only choice. 

Trelawney comes to a stop at an amorphous heap. Yes, she is still completely nude. With a wand wave, a tapestry lifts and floats away to reveal artifacts and apparatus that Hermione would only describe as troubling. As if the odd skull, human or dragon, would bother her. Of a different sort, of course, is the wood table marked with sigils Hermione has never seen in what is almost certainly dried blood, leather straps bolted to the corners and thrice across the length of the table. Glistening steel spines rise through small holes in the center of the table, and she can work out the crank that drives them upward into whomever is so unfortunate to lay upon the surface. And this isn’t even the most disturbing item. The cauldron full of shining black liquid seems to whisper, and she realizes the liquid is not black but crimson. From this discovery onward, perhaps a subconscious insistence on her own protection, she permits into her awareness only a weak feeling of dread and an ache deep in her bones… The rest, her eyes refuse to settle upon, save one small item upon a stool. Her head tilts. Something in her ears feels like it's twisting.

Trelawney, her grin… off kilter…, says, “Ah. I thought you two might find each other.” She crosses through the sinister minefield as casually as she might a front garden, and she lifts what appears to be a black locket on a thin silver chain. Not silver… tiny interlocking bones. The locket itself looks almost wet. The ex professor stares longingly, stroking the edges. “Yes, we had some good times this locket and I. Very good.” Her smile fades, her eyes moist. “Alas, she has chosen a new mistress, Ms. Granger.” And the ex professor extends her hand, the heart-shaped locket at the fore.

And by heart-shaped, that is to say the locket is in the shape of a human heart, chambers, veins, and arteries all. As Hermione reaches for it… it beats.

Her hand snaps back.

“You get used to it,” says the ex professor, holding it out further.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “She’s something different for everyone. But she always chooses those with the aptitude to be a powerful necromancer. She is known only as The Heart.”

Hermione regards Sybil Trelawney, studies her anew. 

“No, I did not choose that path. My life would have gone very differently.” Trelawney’s warble and uncalibrated air is not to be observed. In fact, she’s cool as stone and just as hard. “Perhaps it would have ended long ago. Perhaps I would wander the highlands of Dunland Fell, hunting flesh to replenish my animus. Perhaps I would slouch in deep, forgotten catacombs upon a throne of bone and suffering, a lich of power to rival He Who Shall Not Be Named. I have seen all of these futures and more staring into The Heart, and none of them suited me.” She looks down at her hands. 

Luna whispers, “If she demands such a price, why would you offer such a thing to Hermione?”

Lifting a brow, Trelawney says, “She did leave me with some rather useful predilections. I daresay, you know of a prophecy that was rather instrumental in saving us all.” She grips the chain of bone and holds The Heart out to Hermione.

“Hm.” Hermione rolls her shoulders back and stands taller. “I’ve held worse.”

“The Heart is not a horcrux, Ms. Granger. She is the most powerful ally I can offer against what is to come. But if you don’t respect her, if you don’t fear her, you’ll wish she was merely a horcrux.”

Hermione takes the chain in hand, and she cradles The Heart in her palm.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

The raven rocks along the beam until it’s even with the tile it ripped off when the witches arrived. Maggots fall from its open belly as it hops up through the opening and takes wing with all she has seen and heard. Her master will be so pleased.

Chapter Text

Luna clutches Trelawney’s second gift against her chest, longing to put it down. This tome of unforgivable knowledge is too large to hold any other way, but where it touches Luna’s hands and forearms and breasts, her skin feels layered with spiderwebs one cannot fully wipe clean. She continues unbidden to look down, checking for spiders, but her stomach turns and she immediately looks away again.

Hermione descends the rickety staircase beside Luna, looking no less uncomfortable, yet The Heart is still gripped in her palm as it has been since Trelawney passed it to her. In her other hand, a black hat box tied in black ribbon. If only it held a hat.

The apothecary’s cackle still claws at Luna’s ears, dry and serrated, when an agent of the Ministry showed up in his shop asking for… well… best not to think about it until necessary. 

“Are we not far enough?” asks Luna, stepping onto the grey cobblestone.

Hermione looks over her shoulder. “It’s Thursday.”

“So it is,” says Luna, eyes narrowing.

“Nocturne Alley is no aparate district during the weekday. You’ll be forgiven not knowing that on the account of the vast number of times you’ve been to Nocturne Alley.”

“I’ve been more than you think.”

“Yes, so very certain.”

“Has the locket coerced you into communicating mainly through sarcasm?”

Hermione dead-stares Luna for a moment and then continues on.

“You’re an official. Can we not make an exception this once?”

“The spell on this district is the same as the one at Hogwarts, save it hibernates on the weekends. Once we’re back in Diagon Alley, we’ll go to mine. I’ve locked Ron out, and I have wards in place to keep prying eyes from our studies.”

“Prying eyes, indeed.” Luna looks around at the cracked, muted plaster, crooked doorways, and smokey windows, not a soul to be seen. As if this is a place for souls. The hair standing on her neck assures her she is being watched. 

“You see.” Hermione points to the golden light spilling into the alley up ahead, an elderly witch hunkered against the wall just beyond the spill. “It’s only right there.”

“Let’s not take our time, shall we?” With that, Luna steps a bit more lively.

But when they reach the spill, Hermione halts. “Wait!”

Purple current arcs through the air as Luna steps into the light and knocks her on her ass. Hermione is at once on her knee checking Luna for burns, and the witch in the shadows chuckles with merriment. 

“Been up for a quarter hour,” says the witch. Luna can smell her breath from here… or maybe that’s Luna’s scorched flesh. “Watched three others take a wallop already.” She laughs again.

“Terribly rude,” Hermione chides, helping Luna to her feet.

“Entertainment at my age is in short supply.”

“How do we get around it?” asks Luna.

The witch lifts a small sundial, a miniature crescent moon floats glowing above. “Quarter past 17. You’ll have to try your luck in the morning.”

“Morning…” sighs Luna.

Shrugging, the witch says, “Lockdowns usually last all night, but I’ve not seen one begin before sunset, so who can say?”

“Ministry protocol,” hisses Hermione. “I should have known. The goings on would trigger containment. We won’t be going anywhere until available agents arrive to investigate and clear the area.”

“How long with that take? Can we not get a message out?”

“Lockdowns are for containment. One of Fudge’s last orders, and it was never repealed. Swift and judicious isolation, he called it.”

“If you need to rest your heads tonight,” says the witch, “my baby brother runs the hostile about half way down the alley. I daresay you shall not be comfortable.” She laughs wildly again. “But you’ll be warmer than out here. Tell him Millie sent you.”

“Thank you,” says Hermione, her words seeming genuine to Luna despite the stern delivery. “Will you stay there as well?”

“I’m perfectly content as I am,” says the witch. “That is to say I’m miserable, but sleeping pallets no longer agree with me, I’m afraid. And why would I leave when the entertainment is free.” She nods toward the invisible barrier and laughs anew.

There is no sign for the hostile, but the building’s five stories couples with gamey, stewy odors wafting from the door signal Luna and Hermione to enter. Luna winces with every step, the inside-back of her thigh burning. That part of the barrier arc must have caught her full on. Terribly dangerous, that.

Even the gas lamps on the charred, blackened walls seem to throw less light than they should as Luna and Hermione pass them. Through tables on either side, largely empty or with slouched characters minding every moment of their own business, the witches approach the counters. A barman that Luna is confident is not entire human, smacks his giant hand on the counter. Sharp, brown teeth sneer from beneath a grey, scraggly mustache and massive yellowing beard.

“Out,” he booms from his barreled chest. 

“Excuse me?” says Hermione.

“I didn’t stutter.”

Luna says, “Ah, perhaps I could…”

“I got this,” says Hermione. “See here, sir. We are paying customers, and can pay well.”

“Ain’t shite until I take your money.” He leans forward, his shadow falling over the witches. “Which I might just do anyway.”

“If I may,” says Luna, and Hermione bars her with an arm.

Hermione rises onto her tiptoes. “If you think you can intimidate us, let’s just say I don’t have a reason to fear you or anyone.”

“Shall we find out?” he says with a sneer.

“Oh, I love this!” Luna sings pointing to a tattoo on the man’s bicep. Could have been any one of the dozens, but which one hardly mattered. “I tried a poke tattoo once, but it was rubbish. Red for weeks, and you couldn’t even tell it was a flower. You must be a brilliant artist!”

He rises a bit and looks down at his arm. “Mum did that one.”

“My goodness! Do you think she would do one for me? I promise it would be terribly simple.”

His eyes slide to Hermione, his glare hateful. “Would but she was done by an auror when I was a lad. Sissy and me ain’t had nuffin’ for years.”

“Well, I am sorry about that,” says Hermione.

“Your sister Millie!” says Luna. The man’s face softens as much as a face like his ever could, which isn’t much. “Met her earlier, had a terribly entertaining conversation. In fact, twas her suggested we might find space here for the night.”

“Ain’t your kinda place, princess,” he says.

“We aren’t selective,” says Hermione.

“That would be a first,” the man grunts.

“Your smallest rooms will do, two if you have them.”

The man’s laughter fills the room, and the meager peppering of patrons is disturbed enough to look up from their sorrow drowning libations to glare at the newcomers. “Ain’t got room. Got floors. ”

“Floors… with pallets?” says Hermione.

“Got beds. We do ‘ave a bit of pride, see. Rooms are communal. Lav and shower stall are on floor one, if the shower still works.”

“Two beds for the night, sir,” Luna beams. “If you please.”

Hermione fishes through the pockets of her jacket and subsequently presses two gold coins upon the counter. “You keep the change.”

“Don’t need your charity,” the man says, brows creasing. But he pockets the coins just the same.

“Any floor in particular?” asks Luna.

“Take your pick. Been slow since the Ministry disappeared.”

“The Ministry?” says Hermione. “What do you know of…”

Luna yanks her arm, nearly dropping the tome in her arms, and drags Hermione away from the counter. “Thank you, so very much! We shall see our way upstairs.”

“Got soup down ‘here ‘tween 1800 and 2100,” says the man.

“Thank you, again.”

As Luna’s foot hits the steps in the corner, the man calls out, “I did these others. You want, I can do for you ‘round breakfast.”

“So kind!” Luna calls. “I shall consider what I might want. Goodnight!”

The man turns away, and Luna drags Hermione up the splintering, crooked stairs.

“That was… quick thinking,” says Hermione. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m not usually so forward in confrontations.”

Luna hums. “Kindness does open doors.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” says Hermione. “Oh dear.”

As this segment of the staircase terminates at the second floor, the open length of the room offers two rows of beds, one against either wall, with a bench locker at the foot of each. It’s more than Luna expected, but the beds were… well… that is…

“Disgusting,” says Hermione stepping toward the nearest bed. The mattress is yellow and brown, tattered at the corners where the innards reveal black flecks which could only be bedbugs. There are no sheets of any kind, and perhaps that’s for the best.

“You might have waited on the gold before you saw the accommodations,” says Luna. “Certainly you have a spell or two in that giant brain to deal with this?”

“And announce our presence to half the alley? Were you planning to be murdered in your sleep? Let’s check the top floor. We’ll not to do well to have patrons stomping past our floor all night.”

“Yes, the many, many patrons,” says Luna, looking around the vacant dormitory.

“Oh, so now sarcasm is okay?”

“I’ve claimed nothing to the contrary.”

The fifth floor is just as dilapidated, but there is one bed beneath the arched window that seems somewhat less so. Hermione places her hands on her hips. “Alright. Shall we flip for it?”

Lifting her shoulder, Luna says, “I do get cold at night. Your proximity wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

Hermione bites her lip. 

Unng, that mouth. Luna! Stop it. Neither the time nor the place. 

Probably. 

The flutter in Luna’s chest when Hermione nods should perhaps present concern, but it doesn’t. 

With the tome stowed in the locker, Luna convinces Hermione a bit of spell casting on the bed bugs is appropriate, and Hermione concedes. From her shoulder bag, Luna extracts soft sheets, a goose down comforter, and a smooth, silver vibrator. Oops! Luna glances up at Hermione and notes the latter’s flushed cheeks. Ah, here they are, two small pillows. 

Luna parks hands on her hips to study her work. “That should do.” 

“You just happen to have those handy?” says Hermione. 

“Preparedness is not merely for the adventurer.”

Then Luna she hisses.

“What?” says Hermione, quickly placing her hand on the small of Luna’s back.

If only Luna could appreciate the intimacy of the gesture. Alas, the burning upon her thigh demands the whole of her attention. “The barrier, I think. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll have a look,” says Hermione. Luna’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Somehow, Hermione’s raised brow and sternly set mouth seem almost clinical. “Lay down.”

Settling on the bed, not even Luna’s lush bedding could disguise the mushy quality of the mattress. Hermione shows no patience for Luna’s squeamish expression, and lifts Luna’s ankles to place her feet upon Hermione’s knees. Luna notes The Heart nestled in Hermione’s cleavage as her shoes are removed one at a time. 

“Show me,” says Hermione.

“Um. This feels personal.” Personal, Luna? Are you kidding? On what planet are you shy about your body?

“If you don’t want help…”

Pursing her lips, Luna scoots a bit and drags her dress up her thighs. Further… further… Hermione’s expression remains flat, but Luna feels the blood flowing through her body, her breasts suddenly sensitive to the slightest movement, her pulse thrumming between her legs. Hermione no doubt has seen Luna’s lacy, sky-blue panties. Lifting a leg, Luna gestures to an area on the under-inner segment of her thigh, close to her groin.

Thing is, Luna is well aware of Hermione’s exclusive history with romantic interests of the masculine flavor. But Luna also has quite a history appealing to women of exactly this sexual preference. Some of them lean femme after, some merely treat the experience as discovery. But most of the women that get this close to Luna’s pussy have their mouths on it soon enough. Many stick around for a few days, some even try dating, but they all leave eventually. And Luna prefers it so.

Why does this feel so different?

“Fuck, Luna, this looks bad,” says Hermione. She shifts off the bed and settles to her knees upon the floor. In a moment, Luna can only see Hermione’s pristine and serious face between her legs… and feel the touch of warm fingers sliding up her inner thigh. “I don’t know if I can handle this. I can improve it maybe… but you need a professional.”

“Do what you can?” says Luna. “It’s terribly uncomfortable.”

“Yes, I can believe that.” Hermione lifts her wand and then pauses, blinks, tilts her head. “There might be something.”

“Yes?”

“Okay, stick with me. It’s called Mother’s Kiss. Are you familiar?”

Luna feels her cheeks and neck warm. She says nothing.

“Well,” Hermione continues. “It can get a bit… as you said, personal.”

“I believe we’ve passed that milestone,” says Luna.

Hermione hums. “Very well. Try not to move. Um, I should note, this is a rather unconventional location for such a technique. Just so we’re clear.” Luna nods.

When Hermione’s face disappeared below the horizon of Luna’s tummy, Luna’s head swims and tilts backward. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck... Upon her thigh, Luna feels warm breath amidst muttering, and the air heats, almost sizzles with energy. 

As Hermione’s moist, soft lips press against Luna’s inner thigh, the moan that escapes her throat is entirely unbidden, as is the fresh gush of arousal leaking from her vagina, for gush is the only word she has to describe the sensation. If Hermione notices, she says nothing, and another kiss follows. Closer to Luna’s moistening mound. And another kiss closer. And another.

Luna’s breathing is shallow as she quiets herself, straining to hear the breath leaving Hermione’s mouth and nose. Meanwhile, she is aware of a warm tingle crossing her burned skin, the searing pain replaced with mere heat, and then something akin to delicate touches, and then all that remains is Hermione’s lips.

But Hermione’s lips… are not satisfied… 

And Luna feels precise, delicate fingers lift the fabric from her wet, intimate crease.

Chapter Text

“Hermione…,” says Luna. “Maybe we ooooooohh…” She clutches the sheets as Hermione’s tongue glides upward along her pressed outer lips. As heat flows into her groin, Luna’s pussy begins to salivate, Hermione’s kisses sugaring the silky, lush mound. With each kiss, Luna’s hips oscillate unbidden.

The hand stroking the inside of Luna’s thigh slides over to gently tug at her ridge, the opposite thumb doing the same, opening her petals. Hermione pressed her nose into Luna’s hooded clit and inhales.

Hermione whispers, “Fuuuuuuuuuck.”

Luna’s cheeks bloom with fire. “Wait…,” says Luna. She touches the top of Hermione’s head. “You don’t… you can’t just… Woah girl, slow it down.”

The face that appears between Luna’s knees has Hermione’s features, but they feel all wrong. It starts with the smirking twist of her mouth, ends with the narrowed eyes.

“I may not be a mermaid, but I know how to finger a cunt,” oozes Hermione as two fingertips touch the threshold of Luna’s opening.

Rolling to the side and off the bed, Luna tugs her panties back into place. “I see the problem. We’ve learned these phrases differently. As I was raised, ‘slow it down’ also means ‘get off me, please.’”

The smirk drifts, eyes open, and Hermione’s expression flattens. 

“Have you ever even been with a woman?” says Luna. “Because here’s the thing. Simply having a car doesn’t make one a competent driver.” She places hands on her hips and waits, but Hermione looks toward the ground. “I’m sorry, that was a metaphor. You do understand metaphors, yes?”

“I…” Hermione presses a hand to her forehead. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Perhaps I should venture that you’re horny, and I’m delicious. It stands to reason…”

“That’s not it,” says Hermione.

“Oh, very well, and dump the tea on your way out.”

“No, I didn’t mean….” Hermione shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t intentionally… Not that you aren’t lovely.” Then she looks down at her fingers, the bone chain intertwined and The Heart hanging against the back of her hand. She studies them for a moment.

“Ooooh,” says Luna. “I suppose I should be relieved then.”

“Well, I’m not!” says Hermione, pulling the chain free and tossing the locket onto the bed. “Luna, I swear. I would never! It’s the locket!”

Luna lifts a brow and mutters, “Well, never is an awfully long time.”

“The locket made me crave… you. And I don’t think of you like that. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t!”

“Okay, settle down.”

“I don’t even like girls. I’m not a… a…”

“Lesbian.”

“Yes, thank you. One of those.”

“Neither am I,” says Luna, considering the ceiling. “I’ve always considered myself neptunian.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means.”

“You were excited. You wanted me.”

“No. No it… it was The Heart!”

“I’m sure you’re right, that it was influencing you,” says Luna. “But certainly The Heart let something out that was already there.”

“I’m going to assume, on account of being in my own brain, that you are incorrect. I’ll decide what was there and what was not, thank you,” Hermione crosses her arms. “I think the bigger problem is how we stop it, whatever it was, from happening again.”

“For starters, proper training will help,” says Luna. “I can show you some videos on eating pussy, or better I should probably show you. If you’ll just lie down…”

“You aren’t listening.”

“But there’s a lot of warm up involved. I mean, can you just masturbate from a dead start?”

“Luna! I’m not interested in your vagina!”

Smiling, Luna points and says, “The juice on your chin says otherwise.”

Wiping heartily and heavily, Hermione scowls.

“All I’m saying,” Luna says with a coy push to her lip, “is it doesn’t matter to what degree I’m attracted to you, I still need a warm up, okay?”

Hermione shakes her head and turns away. “I don’t think sharing the same bed is a good idea.”

“Ah, I see. So, who is going to find a new bed, because my sheets are on this one.” 

Groaning, Hermione wipes a hand down her face.

“Tell you what,” says Luna. “Leave the locket in the footlocker, and I promise to keep my hands to myself.” Hermione glances over her shoulder, and Luna grins wiggling her fingers in the air.

With a sigh, Hermione says, “I need to find a sink,” and walks toward the stairs.

“What for?”

“To wipe the pussy off my face!”

Luna’s chortle is brief and she mutters, “Yes, good luck finding a clean one. A sink that is, to be clear.” She stares down at the locket lying discarded upon the bed. “Let’s see what you’re all about, shall we?”

From the footlocker, Luna retrieve the book of necromancy and sits upon her ankles upon the bed. She reaches for the locket… and something… nauseating floods her senses. She closes her eyes, snapping her hand away, until the feeling diminishes. Right, the book then.

Deathcasting for Beginners. No author.

Part One

Do you wear a lot of black? Do your friends call you morbid? Is your music collection dominated by thrash and metalcore albums? Congratulations, you have trauma. But if you think that makes you ready for the gruesome, often perilous, always painful field of deathcasting… you might be right.

“I wonder if I’m to take this book seriously,” says Luna, tilting her head thoughtfully.

I should hope so.

Luna looks around. “Hello?”

Hello.

Eyes widening, Luna says, “Who’s there?”

I’m sure you already know.

“You’re the book?”

That’a girl.

“Why do you have an American accent?”

Why do you have blonde hair? How the hell should I know?

Luna smiles with delight. “I’ve seen and done many strange things, but I’ve never talked to a book before.”

Who are you calling strange?

“I meant no offense.”

Oh, I’m not offended. I am strange. I’m just feeling cheeky.

“I like you,” says Luna with a musical chuckle.

I could give a shit, to be honest. But you’re the seeker of knowledge, and I’m here to give it to you. Just ask me a question, and if it’s in the book, I’ll tell you. Bit faster than reading the whole damn thing, wouldn’t you say? Not that I’d stop you from reading. It’s just… ugh, how boring. I couldn’t imagine reading an entire book.

“But you are a book.”

Necromancer’s are known for their ironic sense of humor, don’t you know. Comes with changing the natural order of things. You understand.

“So I can ask anything?”

We have covered this, haven’t we?

“Yes, I suppose…”

You see what I did there? Covered this?

“I do have some questions.”

Today’s youth is so busy. Yes, yes. Ask.

Luna taps her lip. “Where to begin…”

Do you hear that?

“Hear what?”

If I had eyes, I’d be rolling them.

To be concise, Luna simply isn’t the type to get irritated. Even Snape driving a car into her shopfront was merely a speed bump. But this book is a bit of a dick. She says, “Now, who is impatient?”

Touché.

“Can you tell me how a necromancer would be involved in time magic?”

They wouldn’t.

Luna blinks.

The book makes a sound not unlike a grunt. That is to say there is nothing in a necromancer’s aggregation of spells, charms, enchantments, rites, hexes, etc. related to chronomancy. Even effects such as age reversal is a biological operation, and the cost is significant. The youth and vigor, um, reappropriated by the necromancer to perform the reversal is substantial. Thirteen lives are all but forfeit, but as I stated, this is biological.

“Thirteen lives! But why so many?”

Magical energy comes from somewhere, surely you know this.

“Yes, the ether.”

The ether! What a truly ridiculous fantasy. Necromancy leverages the energy differential of decay and growth, chaos and order, death and rebirth, pain and pleasure, hate and love, horror and serenity. These differentials are the natural limitation of the school, but differentials in these domains rely very much on moments occurring sequentially and typical in a forward direction. A putrid hand cannot remain animate forever and must be fed. The benefit of a putrid hand is the horror it instills thus compelling its own energy source, and you quickly see why necromancy favors effects that are…

“Icky.”

The rustling of paper is a sound Luna takes for a disappointed sigh.

Yes. Icky.

“But there is nothing to prevent a necromancer from using time magic?”

Other than the aforementioned requirement that time moves in a very much forward direction, no. But necromancy and chronomancy don’t exactly make for good dance partners.

“I don’t see why not,” says Luna. “If a sequence of moments runs backward at the same rate it runs forward, the differential should be preserved.”

But time does  not run backward. Not to say that it couldn’t, but chronomancy relies upon adjusting probabilities at specific points in a timeline and then splintering into a new timeline which makes differentials very jumpy and unpredictable, and you understand I’m a book on necromancy, yes? Why are we still talking about time magic?

“Well, to be fair to me, you are providing quite a bit of information on the subject.”

A well that I assure you has nearly run dry, so if you have no further questions about necromancy…

“What is The Heart?”

There is a pause. The Heart is not to be trifled with.

“Suppose she has been trifled with and is presently in the locality of this dormitory.”

That would be unfortunate.

“What is she? Where does she come from? How does she work? What are the risks?”

The Heart is an artifact so ancient my authors and contributors dare not speculate on her origin, other than to say she’s really fucking old. She seems to choose her mistress based on necrotic aptitude and otherwise unfathomable criteria, and she can be quite fickle about her loyalty if her mistress fails to heed her call. The mechanism of her action and sentience are a mystery, though it is the mistress that seems to define outcomes. These are typically related to a core darkness, an innermost festering emotion. The effects have been healing, they have been damning, and in the case of Gerry Blithewinter of Oxfordshire Circle quite amusing. But the effects are always extremely influential if not outright catastrophic to those around her and, until the mistress understands her darkness, effects are thoroughly unpredictable. If I were capable of regret, I would regret to tell you the fate of The Heart’s mistress is usually an unfortunate one.

“That is unfortunate,” says Luna.

I know, that’s what I said. Anything else?

“You have some cheek for a book.”

My authors were all necromancers. Necromancers tend to be assholes. If you want a polite book, try charms. Also good for a snore.

“I suppose I should… thank you?” she says.

Deathcasting slams itself shut and falls from Luna’s lap onto the bed.

Footfalls signal Hermione’s return, and Luna adjusts her posture to face the stairs. Her new adventure companion returns wearing just the most kissable pout. No, no Luna. Don’t be like that. Hermione’s mouth inches from Luna’s clit… not a good reason to lose focus. The Heart is dangerous. Very.

But then, Trelawney never said otherwise. The ex professor either saw something in Hermione or The Heart told her it was time to take on a new mistress. Maybe both. In any event, what if it’s listening… judging…

“All clean, love?” says Luna.

Hermione scowls. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Sorry again, I mean. It wasn’t me.”

Luna bites her lip and selects her words with care. “I’ve learned a little something,” she says, tapping the book. “About The Heart.”

“I thought Trelawney said they don’t know what it is.”

“They don’t,” says Luna. “But they have enough reports from other keepers that The Heart brings out feelings that are already within.” That’s not exactly what the book said, but if a little interpretation will get Hermione to confront her identity…

“What are you saying,” says Hermione. “I’m gay? So closeted I don’t even know it myself?”

“That’s not such an abnormal proposition. Do you know how many women realize they’re into women after years of trying with men? If you don’t, it’s a lot. I suspect that has to do with a predilection for conformity.”

“A social imperative you seem to lack.”

“To my benefit,” says Luna. “Do you think for a moment that I wonder who I truly am? Or have any trouble with self worth?”

Hermione frowns. “I don’t have any problems with self-worth.”

“It was not my intent to contrast,” says Luna. “But. You have been married to an addict and an adulterer for, well, longer than we might label healthy. Of course, I’m not really into labels…”

“Can I just… Can I fucking lay down?” Hermione wipes her hand down her face. “And maybe no touching?”

Luna shrugs. “Yes, you probably need rest. You lit your husband on fire, lost your employer, and almost nearly ate your first pussy all in one day.”

Red-faced, Hermione says, “I’ll just sleep in the pub.”

“Oh, get over here,” says Luna, drawing her wand. “I have just the thing. Extensio Noctis Tempore.” Where Luna was once on a twin bed, she now sits upon a queen. “I would make it larger, but a king-sized tends to demand tax payments on the hour.”

Hermione’s jaw drops. “You could have done this the whole time?”

“But it’s less cozy.”

“I’ve never even heard of that spell. What school is it?”

“The Lovegood school of mind your own business.” Luna grins, and Hermione’s lips purse. “I’ll share later if you wish.” She pats the bed next to her, and Hermione sheepishly crawls into it. There will be plenty of time tomorrow to share what she learned from her conversations with the book as well.

A wand wave extinguishes the lamps around the dormitory, and in minutes, Hermione’s breathing sounds soft against the pillow.

Luna’s eyes open to a shadowy face leaning over her. She didn’t even remember falling asleep… Or the moment she little-spooned backward into Hermione… or when Hermione’s hand moved to cup Luna’s hip… and who the hell is this now?

“Granger!” grunts the man. “Get up, you cow! We’ve got work to do!”

Hermione sits up. “Malfoy?”

Draco’s blonde hair is shaved on one side, and perfectly apropos on his weather face, a scar travels from his upper lip and across his stitched-shut eye to disappear behind his chin-length fringe. “Did you miss me, my darling?”

At that, Draco leans forward and presses his lips to Hermione’s.

Draco is still kissing Hermione when Luna says, “I have a feeling today is going to be weirder than yesterday.” 

Chapter Text

It takes wedging her knee between them for Draco Malfoy to finally peel away from Hermione. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “What. The. Fuck!”

“You’re right,” says Draco, grinning and doing the same. “Time for that later.” He looks at Luna and tosses a thumb toward Hermione. “Always a task master, this one.”

“Never kiss me again!” Hermione growls and soon begins to notice Draco’s disheveled, scarred state.

“The drama’s new,” says Draco. His brows furrow. “You and I… We aren’t married. Are we?”

“Who are you?” asks Luna, her voice soft but firm.

“Lovegood,” Draco scoffs. “Don’t be daft.”

“I know your name Draco Malfoy,” says Luna, cocking a white-blonde brow. “Who are you?”

Hermione could clarify, but she glares instead. 

With a rough hand, Draco pushes oily hair back onto his head. “Yes, well this is disappointing. I didn’t expect it would happen so fast.”

The gas lamps poof to life as Hermione draws her wand with an imperceptible spell stroke. “You are going to explain yourself.”

“Look,” says Draco, standing straighter. “I’m not completely certain what or why, but this morning everything was shit as usual, and you - that is, my wife - headed to Nocturne Alley on a hunch she was rather tight-lipped about…”

“Your wife?” says Hermione. “You think you’re married to me?”

Eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring, Draco pauses. Then after a moment, “Shall I continue? By lunchtime, I could see blue sky. I haven’t seen blue sky in six years. No one has. Left the row house after supper, and the arsenal across the street was a grocer. I’ve been looking for you ever since. Not you. Hermione, my wife.”

“It’s the wife part I’m still hung up on,” says Luna, but Hermione shushes her with a squeeze of the hand. 

It almost throws her, the naturalness of touching Luna with just enough awareness to derail her mental train but no, this development is too interesting… 

“Quite right. I’m not the Hermione you’re looking for,” says Hermione.

“Now that you mention it,” says Draco. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen her.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve seen the Ministry.”

“What Ministry?” Draco practically laughs, but he doesn’t quite. “You’re serious.”

“Of Magic?” says Luna. “It disappeared this morning. Yesterday morning? Is it midnight yet?”

“You have a Ministry of Magic,” says Draco, almost chuckling.

“Had,” says Luna.

Draco does chuckle this time. 

“Draco Malfoy,” says Hermione, “we suddenly have quite a bit to talk about.”

FFFFFWOMP!! The building rattles, dust raining down from the rafters, and Hermione and Luna cover their ears entirely too late. Draco stands still, gritting his teeth and shaking his head.

“What in the fizzy Christmas was that!” shouts Luna.

“That is why I’m looking for my wife. They planned an Alley raid tonight, and if she got caught here before lockdown, I need to get her out.”

“They, who is they?” says Hermione.

Draco points upward. “Incoming.”

The whistle that precedes another explosion gives the women just enough notice to cover their ears. Draco stands once more largely unaffected as another shower of dust and debris fills the dormitory. He says, “The wards will be down now. You should get out before it gets bad.”

“This isn’t bad?” says Luna.

“I may not know where this is,” says Draco. “But if a little bombing is too much for you, I’m certainly not in the London I know. I need to find my wife, if you’ll excuse me.” Draco turns on his heel, wand at the ready as he makes good time to the staircase.

“Let’s go, Luna,” says Hermione. “Clear the footlocker, if you would. I’ll test aparate.”

“Shouldn’t we go with him?” says Luna.

Hermione’s wand zips through the air leaving sparks in its wake. “I have a feeling he’s not the last person we’ll see that doesn’t belong here.”

“But he’s married TO YOU.”

“He’s married to some other version of me, and that demands immediate investigation.”

“Yes,” says Luna, opening the footlocker. “Which is why we should go with him.”

“I have a better idea. That is… I think I have a better idea. I need to talk it over with someone. Hm. Therein lies the flaw.”

The whistle in the air is one that Hermione realizes precedes a blast. Thankfully, Luna has the book and pendant. She pulls Luna close and POP!

The living room is a mess. Hermione looks around with a sigh noting small items Ron has cleared out. It’s not much. Little things mostly, one of the larger being his brother Fred’s quidditch jersey which used to hang on the wall about the minibar. Mostly, things are just jostled and out of order. Hermione can’t help but breathe through the sudden sense of emptiness. And where the hell would Ron go with his stuff anyway? Ah yes, his mother’s.

Luna takes a few steps into the room and looks around. “Your decor is darker than I thought.”

“Ron used to say similar,” says Hermione.

“I like it,” says Luna.

“He didn’t.”

“He’s a twat.”

Hermione snorts a laugh and immediately covers her nose. “He is rather, isn’t he.”

“Your home is a mirror,” says Luna. “Dark and brooding and serious. It suits you.”

“I’m not always serious.”

“What’s wrong with being serious? Could be important.”

Hermione bites her lip. “Ron thought it wasn’t sexy to be so serious.”

“We’ve established Ron’s cognitive limitations,” says Luna with a sly grin. “Though I certainly could be rightly accused of thinking with my pussy often enough and find no fault in this. Speaking of…” Luna holds out her hand, and The Heart dangles from her fingers. 

With a grand sigh and a visceral response to the word pussy, Hermione accepts the artifact. She’s moments from placing it into her pocket, though she grips it, the slick, black face warming suddenly. Thump-thump. Instead, she places the bone chain around her need and tucks The Heart into her shirt. Why? What is this compulsion? But her thoughts meander away from the warmth against her breast and back to the issue at hand.

“I don’t entirely understand the mechanisms at play,” says Hermione, “but I think Malfoy, the one we just encountered, is from a different timeline.”

Luna cocks her head. “I like a good leap as much as the next person, but would you mind retracing your steps there?”

Hermione touches her fingertips to The Heart through her shirt and begins to pace the short length of the living room. “I cannot quite disclose the details of my expertise, but let’s just say chronomancy is not a foreign subject for me. As such, and knowing the rather massive disappearance of the Ministry of Magic was laced with time scars, coupled with the things Draco said - that he didn’t immediately register the only Ministry I was likely to have been talking about, that he described an environment we are wholly unfamiliar with - ”

“That he had his tongue against your tonsils.”

“I’ll thank you not to deepen that trauma, if you don’t mind. Yes, all. This all feels like someone manipulating time.”

“Can that really be done?” says Luna. “I thought all but rudimentary chronomancy requires too much energy to be practical.”

“Practical? Hardly. Very few things about chronomancy are practical making its study extremely challenging, largely theoretical, and access to experts spare. To your point, you can’t really change something in the past to rewrite the future. You can, however, travel to the past and contribute to events that have already occurred with your multiplicity accounted for.”

“Meaning if you travel to the past, you’re not changing anything because you were always part of it.”

Eyes narrowing, Hermione says, “You know, you are far more clever than I gave you credit for. Most people glaze over when I talk about this material.”

“When you’re weird, people only see weird.”

“Well, I apologize. I mean that.”

“Appreciated but unnecessary. I accept the stereotypes lumped into non-conformity. Also, I’m not that clever, and I don’t like the responsibility that comes with such labels. Please continue.”

“The challenge of course is things are changing, things we bloody well notice. Things aren’t what they always were. Which isn’t, as we just discussed, how time magic works. However, Quantum Splinter Theory postulates that every possibility exists somewhere, with each quantized moment spawning uncountable splinter timelines. There is a suggestion, however, that because possibilities are probabilities, these splinter timelines will generally average out to the most probable, with splinter timelines merging back into the original timeline. Some bold thinkers believe this fuzzy reality is why magic is possible in the first place. But, there will also be splinters for which the standard deviation exceeds the threshold of averages and never converge, shooting off into entirely new timelines that grow and matriculate as ours has. Of course, there’s nothing to stop those timelines from collapsing back into the original, but it would be a gradual thing. No one would notice as probable outcomes that converge would necessitate fine adjacency. But… but, but… what happens when a splinter timeline comes in sideways and even the adjacency threshold is broken? That, we would notice.”

Luna nods. “Such as Draco Malfoy married to Hermione Granger. Or a missing Ministry. Perhaps routine bombing in London. Not sure which is worse, honestly.”

“Yes, yes,” says Hermione, talking faster and faster. “No outcome is impossible, and this allows for a rapid convergence of two dissimilar timelines, but the mechanism… that’s the key. Only intentional manipulation is going to divert the flow of a timeline back toward an original once the threshold of averages is exceeded. This is, I believe, the most probable manner in which two thoroughly disparate timelines would collapse into one.”

“Look,” says Luna. “I am enjoying this thought exercise, but you did perhaps begin speaking a bit fast there at the end.”

“How would it be done?” Hermione practically whispers, pinching her lower lip. “How would the manipulator pick the timeline? Unless the chronomancer intentionally set up entanglements that informed them of alternative realities within their own…”

“You’re reaching the edge of my reasoning,” says Luna. “If you could slow down just a bit…”

“Could also be random,” mutters Hermione, her mind rotating variables and swapping one pattern for another and then another. “Where a timeline is so bad, the risk is worth it. But to trigger such a collapse would almost certainly require prior intentional entanglement.”

“Hermione.”

“Would the chronomancer seed timelines from a branching point? Would there be a mechanism to go back further?”

“Hermione.”

“Then once the timeline is identified, exactly how many probabilities would require alignment to trigger the collapse? I suppose that would depend on the degrees of separation, the further in the future from the branch, the more effort required to align the probabilities. Or is the collapse entirely brute force?”

“HERMIONE!” Luna’s eyes are wide when Hermione finally meets them. “Could it also be that this is not the result of time magic? That is to say, it might be thoroughly more convenient if it wasn’t.”

Hermione drops a fist into her palm. “Quite right! I need to talk this over with someone.”

Luna exhales and drops onto the couch. “Someone not me, I hope. I’m knackered.”

“Naturally.” 

“Forgive me for ever imaging I could keep up.”

“I know exactly who to talk to,” says Hermione. “Unfortunately, he and I have had our disagreements in the past. I don’t believe he’ll see me willingly.”

“Even with a missing Ministry and signs of a timeline convergence?”

“Mmhm, even so.” Hermione winces. “Have you ever met anyone completely cantankerous and self-important yet exceedingly zen about the future?”

Luna’s eyes narrow. “You have a name of course.”

“Professor Frederickson Tate, College of Theoretical Magics at Thames University.”

“Oh, yes. He’s a bit a of bastard.”

The room almost crackles with Hermione’s shock. “You know Professor Tate?”

“I should think so. He’s in my book club. We have a meeting at lunch today.”

“Luna! Are you joking?”

“Can’t imagine it would be a funny sort of joke under the circumstances.”

“I could kiss you! Wait… did you sleep with him?”

Luna clears her throat. “I do rather fancy the role of treasurer.”

“Aaaand… that went well?”

Luna sits up straighter. “Define well.”

Hermione presses her palm to her face.

Chapter Text

Eleanor Bushboon is hosting the book club today. Though the club typically meets at night, to accommodate Nishal, a penchapenchi who really only functions at night, Eleanor really wanted to show off her mimosa bar which she insisted could not be authentically enjoyed a moment after the stroke of noon. The club agreed to her proposed time to the horror of Nishal, but he deferred his vote on a promise there would be unlimited mango juice. So, he didn’t agree. And he didn’t not agree. 

This is the explanation Luna whispers to Hermione as the latter’s eyes widen at the presence of a six foot tall owl creature sleeping in one corner of the salon, mimosa glass sideways on the oriental rug but otherwise empty. The talons on a penachapenchi are nothing to sneeze at, and Hermione has never felt less like sneezing.

The hostess shuffles into the salon, her legs spry, her wide bottom swinging like a woman half her age - perhaps a quarter her age - her jowls somewhat firmer than one might expect as she smiles at the newcomers.

“Luna, darling! You’ve brought a guest! And so pretty. Girl friend?”

“Oh. Oh! Oh,” says Hermione, “oh no. No, no. It was just the one time and nothing really happened. I’m not really into that, but there was a necklace, it was a…” Fire fills Hermione’s face as the staunches her thought vomit. “...thing…” Hermione’s eyes snap to Luna.

Luna turns her head slowly to Hermione, eyes wide, smile forced. “Madam Bushboon, this is my very enthusiastic and sometimes spastic friend, Hermione. We don’t hold it against her, and the sex was lovely.”

Hermione nearly chokes on her own tongue.

Luna says with graceful calm, “Madam Bushboon has recently come out, and she’s very curious about how it all works.”

“I said to myself, Eleanor I said,” as the woman looks smartly upward, “life is too short to know the taste of only one vagina. Mine of course. I haven’t been around you see, but I am so very ready to - to - to get out there and - get some strange. Well, you’re young, you understand, why am I telling you? Unless you are, perhaps…”

“My girlfriend,” says Luna, yanking Hermione’s arm, pulling her close. “Very recent of course. Official last night. We’re very happy.”

“How charming!” says the hostess in a manner that might cause one to challenge her sincerity. “This might appear to put a dent in your campaign strategy.”

“Not if I already have the votes.”

“Of course, of course. If you’ll excuse me, that damn bird is ruining my carpet.” At which she resumes her saunter.

“Interesting group,” says Hermione, voice lowered. “And she knows about your… bid for treasurer.”

“Yes, and according to limited authorities on the issue, she’s even worse at sex than you, so I was saving her for last on the chance I would win without letting her eat me.”

Hermione’s expression flattens. “K, ouch. I’m not bad at sex, I’ll have you know.”

“Naturally, I’m sure you’re tops at bottoming. Never fret! We’ll try again later, darling, shall we?”

“The fuck we will.”

“That’s the spirit! Come let me introduce you to everyone else.”

Dampening Luna’s tug up on her arm, Hermione coughs. “Hang on, did you fuck that bird?” 

Quickly, Luna says, “I’d rather not discuss that, if you don’t mind. Look here! Hello, Sybian! You’re looking well!”

A mermaid lounging in the clawed bathtub beside the bay windows glares daggers. “Eat shit, Luna.”

Luna’s nod is graceful. “You know, that’s on me. I should have been very clear about my intentions.” 

“Let me be clear about MY intentions,” says the mermaid. “I’m putting my name in for treasurer. And I’m going to win WITHOUT fucking anyone.”

“Technically you did fuck me,” says Luna. “But yay! It will be so fun to have an opponent! Maybe we should set up a debate.”

The mermaid rolls her eyes and lifts a sopping wet book out of the water. Whether she’s reading it or not hang on one damn minute. “Luna,” says Hermione, her voice temperate, “were you running unopposed?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” says Luna. “There’s only six members of the club.”

Hermione can’t seem to form words. She blinks several times, her mouth open to say… something? Anything? Finally she manages, “But then… why did you have to sleep with people to get votes?”

With a slight lift of her chin, Luna says, “I’m sensing a lot of judgment over here. And I want you to know, I accept this about you, and I’m not mad. But also, allow me to introduce you to Cameron Sloan. Cameron, this is Hermione Granger.”

A young wizard who can’t be more than a few years out of Hogwarts rises from his seat on the chez. His eyes are practically dewy as he stutters out Hermione’s name. “THE Hermione Granger? Oh wow. I’m a huge fan. A HUGE fan! Your treatise on the Franco-Arcane Politco changed my life. Well, it would have. That is, I’m trying to get a job at the Ministry, lower level of course. Your meteoric rise has be a template for my career map. But of course, you’ve heard about the Ministry. Ugh, STUPID Cameron! Of course, she knows. She’s a Ministry staple and she’s here at our book club instead of disappeared with the Ministry, actually why are you here at our book club?”

“Cameron is also very enthusiastic,” says Luna, crossing her arms with a grin. “Also very generous. If you follow.”

“Yeah,” says Hermione, deadpan. “I follow.”

“I’ve brought Hermione to speak with He Who Shall Not Be Bothered.”

“Oooh, chronomancy, is it?” says Cameron, pulling his book to his chest with the kind of glee a toddler might exhibit looking at a table covered with crystal stemware and ladders. “I do love chronomancy, but of course the acerbateous Master Tate doesn’t care to talk about his expertise outside the lecture hall, the paid lecture hall. You see, he believes his knowledge should be paid for, of course that’s why I joined this book club though I didn’t know his economic philosophy at the time well not the only reason I joined, we do in fact read some marvelous selections in this group. I quite enjoyed the history of… who was that American wizard with the drawings?”

“Walt Disney,” says Luna.

“Yes, splendid memoire, and how he had to dramatize death to escape all the muggle expectations, well of course, that’s why we don’t do business with muggles after all.”

“When does he stop talking?” says Hermione.

“I can think of only one time, really,” says Luna with a giant grin.

Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose. “Do you ever think above the waist?”

“Not when I’m properly enjoying myself,” says Luna. “Thank you so much, Cameron. I’m counting on your vote.”

“… the darker side of theme parks what was that? Oh yes, yes. I still haven’t washed this finger. A little keepsake.”

“Jesus fucking Christmas Tree,” says Hermione rolling her eyes as Luna drags her off. “If someone asked me, ‘what kind of company do you think Luna Lovegood keeps,’ my answer would not have been remotely close to the truth.”

PPHWOOM! With a green flash the sound of scattering coal fragments, the sour cherry known as Professor Frederickson Tate zips out of the chimney flue. His close-trimmed beard is gleaming white, the starkest contrast to the black of his hourglass pupils. From a leather briefcase, he extracts a small paperback book. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? Eleanor, drinks are served? I’ll have orange on ice, none of this tropical goat shite you’re peddling. Where’s my chair?”

“Freddy, welcome. Good you’ve come just on time,” says Madam Bushboom. “Locomotor” A broad, worn armchair toddles quickly toward the hearth and comes to a rest beneath Professor Tate’s lowering ass. “Gather around everyone! Let us begin! Nishal? Nishal. Would someone poke that goddamn bird?”

Luna gestures for Hermione to take a seat on the couch next to her. Hermione whispers, “Are we not going to talk to Tate, first?”

“The order of activity at these engagements is very touchy,” says Luna softly. “Enjoy the discussion if you can, and we’ll attempt to gain audience during closing remarks.”

Hermione’s sigh is loud enough to lure a glance from the mermaid, but everyone else settles into a more or less circular formation. 

While the assembled take their turns sharing thoughts against the prompts provided by Madam Bushboon - the host for the week always generates the questions for discussion - not a one of them seems to notice Hermione’s presence let alone acknowledge her. It all seems a bit rude, but Luna sits quietly with a pleasant smile on her sunny face. Hermione can’t help but notice the fullness of those lips. And at some point since Hogwarts, the white-blonde witch has developed dimples. 

It’s remarkable how much Luna has matured. And not matured. She was always so strange growing up and never had a complaint. Still imperturbable, she seems to take considerably less shit from people. Hermione always had the impression Luna was bullied quite fervently. Harry, that is Harriet, sometimes stepped in to stop it. Hermione kept out of things like that as a general rule. If she was going to step in, it was a go big or go home scenario. Thinking back to any kind of friendship she might have had with Luna, Hermione might regret those policies. Luna may have been Harriet’s friend and Hermione’s by proxy, but how many friends can Hermione say were truly hers, earned by her own merit.

Even now, outside the Ministry… hell, inside the Ministry… work mates at best. Harriet and Ron. Maybe Ginny. And now Luna. At least, she hopes Luna considers her a friend.

She does? When did this happen? Is this The Heart’s influence? Perhaps a by product of nearly having sex? Neither feels right. Plenty people have sex without developing platonic interest. And The Heart’s influence, hmm. It runs hotter. 

“Professor Tate,” says Luna. “If I may have a word.”

Oh, so… they’ve finished. Hermione tries to remember any of the discussion, but all she can recall is thinking about Luna. How inconvenient. 

Professor Tate’s hmm is full of gravel. “You may not, Miss Lovegood, as you are no doubt lobbying for an audience for Auror Granger. As I have told her before, chronology and chronomancy are incompatible! One benefits us all and the other potentially our undoing. Practitioners shall have no audience with me.”

“That’s precisely the issue, Professor,” says Luna. “Evidence of abusive chronomancy seems to be appearing across London.”

Professor Tate grimaces. “Nonsense. Auror Granger and I have had words on this before. Ad nauseam. Time magic has the very unfortunate outcome of being rather problematic to detect given one cannot actually change past, present, or future.”

“Even during a convergence?” asks Hermione, rising to her feet.

The packing of Tate’s briefcase slows. “Even so. The original timeline would cohere so quickly as to make detection impossible.”

“Even if the splinter timeline is being forced to converge with ours?” says Hermione. Tate all but spits his distaste. “There are time scars, Frederick. All over the space once occupied by the Ministry.”

At this, the professor does pause. “Impossible.”

“Improbable,” says Hermione. “But there nonetheless. Nocturne Alley was bombarded this morning. Industrial smog was reported filling King’s Cross. I was… accosted by an old school mate, replete with scars and tattoos which I know very well he does not possess so tell me, if not a forced convergence, what then?”

Tate sits back down.

Chapter Text

The room clears quickly, club participants departing. Luna accept glances or glares as she waits. Cameron looks as though he wants to stay, but Eleanor ushers him to the flue. Meanwhile, Tate says nothing, and Hermione seems smart enough to leave him the discretion to continue the discussion. 

Once the young wizard, the mermaid, and the groggy penchapenchi have made there exits, Tate speaks up. “Eleanor, we need the room.”

“Certainly, Frederick. Shall I fetch the tea?”

“You shall stay in the kitchen.”

“Now see here!”

“I don’t believe he means to be sexist, Madam Bushboon,” says Hermione. “But we would very ever so grateful of your discretion and deafness to the conversation that is about to occur. For the good of the wizarding world.”

“He does mean to be a little sexist,” says Luna. To which the professor nods smartly. “But as we also require his expertise...”

Eleanor Bushboon harrumphs and shoves her way through the pantry door, disappearing around the corner as it swings behind her.

“Tell me everything,” says the professor, to which Hermione does less the bits about The Heart and the intimate encounter she had with Luna in the hostile. Snape’s appearance as the inciting event is glossed over as secondary, which of course it would be to the chronologist who believes his discipline is the key to everything.

“Ultimately, Professor Tate,” says Hermione, “we need to understand what is happening, the repercussions, and if there’s any way to stop it.”

Tate stands. 

Luna often wants him to rub his trimmed beard absently when he looks so pensive, but he never does. Once time she reached out and rubbed it for him. And truth to tell, that’s how she ended up sleeping with him. The treasurer thing… well, she needs to get better at thinking on her feet. He was so smug, talking the entire time about his prowess and how easy it was to make her moan. She didn’t even finish! Luna isn’t a revenge type of person, but she did enjoy the look on the professor’s face when he thought he was being used by her for his influence. Then, of course, she had to double-down with Cameron and that guy cannot keep his mouth shut. 

Women suit her sexual interests better, anyway. Well. Mermaids have their own peculiarities, so they maybe don’t fit the scale properly. But human women, not to be speciesist, are just… so yummy. 

The cool daylight washes through the window and splashes the side of Hermione’s face, the translucent skin of her cheek practically glowing, a cheek Luna can still feel pressed against her inner thigh. It’s sad, the way Hermione has been treated, upsetting even. She’s so much better than the train crash Ron Weasley turned out to be. Maybe this convergence would change things for Hermione. Maybe Draco Malfoy in that other world made alternative-Hermione very happy. The way he kissed her was intense. Luna feels the heat rising in her cheeks thinking about it, remembers the tightness in her chest as she watched someone take Hermione’s lip into his mouth.

Tate hums with wizened grit. “What you are describing sounds precisely like a convergence, theoretical of course. There is no way at all of knowing if there’s ever been one as the two splinter timelines become coherent and some events are displaced by others. There are some theories that suggest a convergence is impossible, and that the splinter realities will annihilate one another, though this is about as unlikely as a convergence in the first place as annihilation is a cancellation and two timelines so separated as to require a forced convergence would not possess the symmetry required for annihilation, while it could perhaps be that only some things would annihilate. There’s also no way of knowing what the outcomes will be whatsoever, nor could any theoretical mechanism of forced convergence allow a selection of outcomes. But as for stopping it? Perhaps.”

“That would be ideal,” says Luna. “How do we do that?”

“I should first note, any theory of forced convergence comes with a point of no return, a threshold for displacement or annihilation or whatever is happening after which the convergence cannot be stopped and will only accelerate. If it’s not already too late, there are mechanisms theorized that a chronomancer might employ to reverse what they’ve done, which comes down to the method used in the first place. The leading candidate is some kind of intentional time doctoring, journeys to moments, not to change the outcome which cannot be done, but to destabilize time. The meeting of one’s self, for example. If I was a chronomancer, which I absolutely am not, that’s how I would attempt to go about this.”

“Amazing! So, we stop the destabilization from occurring in the first place,” says Hermione.

“But… I thought no one can change the past,” says Luna. “That it happened because it was always going to happen.”

“This is a sticky toffee pudding, Miss Lovegood,’ says Tate. In case you were wondering, yes, he called her Miss Lovegood in bed, too. “Because of the laws of displacement. Two of the same waveforms cannot exist at the same time. To meet one’s self, especially to touch one’s self, and one runs the risk the two waveform summing destructively to eventual decay or constructively to feedback saturation. Either way, the timeline begins to… wobble, shall we say. Enough wobble, and even the sturdiest structure will collapse. Damage a structure strategically, and one might predetermine the direction of the collapse.”

“How would you stop it, Professor?” asks Luna.

“I have some ideas.”

“Do tell.”

“I don’t think I shall, no.”

“Here we go,” says Hermione, crossing her arms with eyes rolling hard.

“I’m sorry,” says Luna. “But why?”

Tate grins. “I’m an academic, Miss Lovegood. I learn, I don’t do. And this… well this will be fascinating.”

“If you don’t survive, how fascinating with that be?” asks Luna.

“You’re wasting your time,” says Hermione. “At this point he just wants to hear himself talk and jerk off to his high ideals.”

“You’ve never understood Miss Granger,” says Tate. “You. Of all the witches of this age. Should have no trouble teasing out the purity of knowledge from the perversion of its application. I am an observer. I will someday die. Perhaps my thoughts will survive, perhaps not. Either way, I’m too dead to notice so… If I can’t live by my ideals, a committed intellectual to the end, will my final moments know pride or regret?”

“We’re leaving,” says Hermione, taking her feet. “We have what we came for.”

“I don’t see how,” says Luna, eyes widening.

Hermione snorts, walking over to the hearth. “I sorted this out before the sun came up. I simply needed the rigor of an expert opinion, which I now have, to reduce the risk of spending valuable time on dead ends. This pigheaded goat will go to his grave feeling high and mighty, and that’s no concern of ours.”

“I strive for excellence in all things, Miss Granger,” says Tate. “It’s a shame you put yourself in a position to fail so often.”

“A life without failures is bleak indeed,” says Luna. “How can you appreciate success without feeling the sting of its opposite?” 

Hermione pauses, fists clenched, and then she rounds on the professor. “How can you sit there with that head full of knowledge and just… let people die? Because if this happens, if we don’t stop it, people will die.”

The professor chuckles at this. “People always die.”

“Who hurt you?” asks Hermione, shrugging. “How do you live with yourself?”

“My conscience is clear,” says Tate. “I won’t be shamed into bucking my integrity on a threat so trivial as death, and certainly not uttered by a meddlesome underling. These forces will rip you apart.”

“What game are you trying to win here?” says Hermione, her tone on the edge of a boil. “What would it hurt just to help?”

Tate’s smile is tart. “I am the master of my own game. The day I let you make the rules for me is the day I do truly fail. And as I said, I don’t fail.”

Luna leans into Tate and whispers, “And just in case you were wondering, you have failed at a few things, Professor. Quite.”

Tate’s smug smile falters. 

Luna stands straight. “Enjoy the apocalypse.”

As Hermione readies her flue powder, Tate bristles to full height. “Don’t expect my vote for treasurer, Miss Lovegood.”

Shaking her head, Luna says, “I think I’ve outgrown this book club. I’ve certainly outgrown you.” Then she whips out her wand. “Accio Sennheiser.” At which point a microphone on a black stand with a long boom arm crashes through the window and lands at Tate’s feet.

Hermione doubles over, howling and snorting with laughter.

From the kitchen, Eleanor Bushboon’s voice sounds, absent any trace of elegance. “What the bleeding fuck hole was that?”

“Eleanor!” shouts Tate, face blooming crimson. “Language!”

“We’re going to need more answers,” says Luna. “Where to?”

Hermione regains just enough composure to say, “Where else?”

Together, they say, “King’s Cross Station.” And Hermione tosses the flue powder into the hearth.

Chapter Text

“So this sucks,” says Hermione, pulling on the reins. Her rented horse, Oscar, isn’t particularly interested in listening to shit. “I need to look at the map. Stop you fucking stupid horse!”

Luna reaches out and grabs Oscar’s harness, and both horses slow. “Horses are a lot like people,” she says in that soft, mystical voice she sometimes uses when she’s dispensing wisdom. “They respect those who respect them.”

Hermione growls as she twitches her wand from the holster up her sleeve. “Tabulua locus.” A transparent image floats ahead of her, the topography of meadows and mountains marked with the red x, you are here. “Can you believe there isn’t a single spell to control a horse?”

“Not a forgivable one,” says Luna.

“That’s what I meant.”

“No one knew the Hogwarts Express was suspended.”

“Someone knew,” says Hermione. “And I should be privileged to know who.”

“But with the Ministry gone, who is to log and distribute that information?”

“Yet there were official orders to do so,” says Hermione. “Who gave those orders in the absence of the Ministry? The rail authority had no idea. And they should have disclosed it further! They didn’t even recognize me, Luna. This convergence may be happening faster than we expected.”

Luna points. “There, up the hill between those two peaks. The third port key is on the other side. And that goes… oh, what’s that?”

“Lovely, right into The Forbidden Forest.”

“Could go around through Hogsmeade.”

“That will take half a day at a gallop. Do you see Oscar galloping anywhere? And confound Longbottom for extending the aparate blockade all the way to London. How utterly ridiculous. I mean, I’m as cautious as the next person, but really.” 

With a slap of the reins, a kick of her heels, and a click in her cheek, Luna’s horse, Twink, ambles forward toward the cleavage of the meadow. Oscar follows. Luna says over her shoulder, “I offered you a dragon, a gryphon, a hippogryph…”

“I don’t do air travel anymore.”

“… a harpy, a thestral, a pegasus…”

“Haven’t been on a broom in years, either. Not everyone is Harriet Potter, you know.”

“Did Harriet and Ginny agree to meet us?” says Luna.

“If they can,” says Hermione. “The Ministry was not completely erased underground. There are missing limbs and some collapses.”

Luna is quiet up ahead. Then she says, “You didn’t mention any of this.”

“Well,” says Hermione, looking at her hands, “you’re sensitive. I didn’t want to upset you.”

“I’ve seen a lot, Hermione Granger. Maybe I’ve never held a horcrux, but I’ve seen my fair share of torture and pain. Please do not try to manage my emotions. I will manage them myself, if you please.”

Hermione coughs, her chest tightening.

Another hour of riding, they see it beneath an alder, a bottle on its side. There appears to be a small castle inside. The horses are immediately skittish as passing through the first two portals saw the equines quite disoriented. That’s not normal - possibly a side effect of Neville’s protections. But Hermione and Luna agree they need to leave the horses to walk back to London the long way. The Forbidden Forest is better traversed on foot, and two disoriented horses are going to be more hazard than aid. They bid farewell to Oscar and Twink and kneel on opposite sides of the bottle.

3, 2, 1… They grab the key.

Dried twigs snap beneath their feet, but it is the feeling and not the sound. The sound they do hear is a deafening roar. Then Hermione and Luna are knocked prone by the gusting wake of a bolder flying overhead, crashing through trees, and crashing into an embankment.

“The fuck!” shouts Luna.

“Stay down!” shouts Hermione. Looking back over her shoulder, she sees the skeletal soldiers pushing forward, a giant hole in their ranks where the boulder decimated everything in its path. The ground shakes with the footsteps of giants, and Hermione can hear the earsplitting shriek and sizzle of dragon fire. “We’ve landed in a battle!”

“No shit!” calls Luna. “Anything else you want to share, Professor?”

“You’re a salty bitch when you’re in danger!” yells Hermione. 

Luna climbs to her feet, wand out. “Bullies piss me off.”

“Wait!” says Hermione. “Don’t do anything!”

“What?” yells Luna. “Why the fuck not?”

“You don’t know who the bullies are!”

“Oh, so it’s not the army of undead?!”

Luna is typically more thoughtful than this, but Hermione can forgive a moment of poor risk management under duress. “That seems reasonable, but I think we've gotten some rather useful items from a perfectly nice if rather insane necromancer, so maybe give it a moment.”

Another boulder sails overhead, crashing into the army, and a worm-chewed skull lands in Hermione’s direct line of sight. Luna and Hermione dive in opposite directions to avoid the spray of debris. The ravine in which Hermione finds herself is a small, dry creek bed. About ten feet further down, Luna takes cover beneath the rotting cavity of a fallen tree.

“How about this?” shouts Luna. “That skeletal army is between us and Hogwarts.”

“How about the undead are marching from Hogwarts?” says Hermione. “But I see your point.”

A guttural hiss precedes the shadow falling over Hermione, and she looks up to see an animated corpse cresting the low rise, flesh sloughing from its cheekbones, black tongue wagging as it dives for her. She swings her wand upward, but the creature’s body knocks it aside. The creature’s putrid stink fills Hermione’s nostrils as she shoves it backward, her fingers sinking into the pudding flesh between its ribs. It snaps at her face.

IZI SUB!

Hermione’s voice reverberates through the wood, and the creature is launched upward.

IZI LA!

The reanimated corpse ignites midair, its chest exploding in a wash of black fire.

Hermione’s fingers drip with decay and ichor, and they tremble, though not from fear. Her heart thunders in her chest, powerful and defiant. No… not from within…

Luna scrambles on her hands and knees through the dried leaves and snatches Hermione’s wand from the ground. “What was that!” she asks, scooting in next to Hermione. “Was that you? Without your wand?”

Hermione knows exactly what that was.

“We need to move,” grunts Hermione. She wipes the funk onto her sleeve, grabs Luna’s hand, and pulls her up and out of the ravine. Luna tries to hand Hermione the fallen wand, but Hermione places her hand over The Heart at her sternum. Ice and fire flow through her body, sworn enemies making love in her veins. Thhheeeeeeerreee. She grins through the euphoria. Time to work.

Words of power rip through her skull and out of her mouth, the undead turning away, falling, hurtling, bursting into black flame, into ash, into goo. There is no stopping her. She strides forward, the parapets of Hogwarts coming into view through the trees, an avenging angel, the wind of destruction, the breath of a goddess. Trees, bushes, they blacken to rot as her spells beat back the undead horde. 

A chime sounds. The undead halt.

Hermione turns left toward the sound, teeth bared. On a shaded hilltop, a pale rider sits atop a pale horse. Black robes and fiery red hair stream from her body in the wind. Another chime, and the undead begin sink into the ground, otherwise motionless. Hermione catches her reflection in a silver breast plate - black veins spiderweb from her mouth, black voids in her skull where her eyes once were. She is neither surprised nor frightened, but the veins dampen and diminish as the threat disappears into an unmarked arboreal graveyard. When Hermione looks again to the hilltop, the figure is gone.

She looks behind her, and Luna is white as a sheet. But Hermione is not interested in Luna. The boulders have stopped shattering. There is no sound of dragon fire. The Forbidden Forest is quiet.

“Was that…?” asks Luna.

Hermione nods. “Come on,” she says. “There are some conversations that need having.” That fiery red hair… not what she expected of a necromancer, but then, neither was Trelawney dabbler though she may have been. 

The sun beat down on the hillside as the women emerged from the wood. The wards surrounding the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the kingdom hardly sneezed as Hermione passed through. At least one thing was working correctly.

Luna said nothing as they walked, which might have unnerved Hermione given what she now knows of the chatty blonde, but there was no space in her mind for concern. Too much to process. Too much to consider. And all the while, from the Ministry disappearance to wandless obliteration through the forest, the Phantoms had been silent.

She had followed protocol the best she could.

Register with the apothecary in Nocturne Alley to initiate lock-down. Check.

Confirm lock-down with the witch monitoring the exit. Check.

Draco was a surprise, that’s a given, as was her early exit from the hostile. She would have been contacted there in the morning, but the protocol has allowances for a change of plans.

Within 48 hours, if there is no contact from the agency, reach Hogwarts, register with the headmaster, and await instruction. Well, Hermione is ahead of schedule, perhaps, but given the circumstances, she’d say it was warranted. 

Of course, it’s entirely possible Hermione is the only active Phantom remaining. In which case, the underworld infrastructure her organization had worked so hard to implement would begin to crumble. How long would assets continue to operate? How long could she count on agency resources at her disposal before those of the wizarding populace at large were all that remained? 

She’d used her downtime wisely. She collected intelligence. Hopefully other agents in the field were doing the same, and they could combined their knowledge to determine how to reverse this convergence. It would be convenient if she knew the identity of any other Phantom. Any other agent at all. Hell, she had never spoken to the Lord Phantom in person. It could be anyone. It could Neville Longbottom for fuck’s sake. Bad enough he was running Hogwarts.

Now, Hermione, she scolds herself. A bit of bumbling is no fitting counterpoint to a heart so compassionate in a man so brave. 

If only he’d not broken the chandelier at the Ministry Christmas party. I mean, how did he even do that? It was 100’ in the air and suspended by an ethical modification of an unbreakable curse. Dumbledore himself would not have been able to get it down.

“Blimey, Hermione, is that you?”

Hermione’s passionate march is broken instantly by that voice. “Hagrid,” she says, turning with irritation at his untimely appearance. “How lovely to see you.” There was a time Hermione would have shrieked and run into his arms, but a decade and change of bitter reality calms such impulses.

The half-giant lumbers across the lawn, though from whence he came was anyone’s guess. He looks essentially the same as Hermione remembers him, perhaps a bit more grey of beard and temple. “And ‘ello to you, as well, Miss Luna.”

“Hello, Rubeus,” says Luna, grinning with a fervor Hermione is annoyed she cannot muster. 

“But what are you pair doin’ here? You know darn well Hogwarts ain’t hospi’able to guests ain’t come in the front door. For tha’ ma’er, how did you manage tha’?”

“Hagrid,” says Hermione. “Did you know about the undead army in The Forbidden Forest?”

“The wha’?? Where??”

“Take that as a no. Hagrid, I need to see Neville as soon as possible.”

“What about the undead?”

“They’re gone now,” says Luna. “Not to worry.”

“Well, that’s alroight then.”

“Hagrid,” says Hermione. “Neville, if you please.”

“Roight, the headmaster should be on the grounds, but I ‘aven’t seen ‘im in some while. You best try ‘is office. I should escort you, though, seeing’ as how…”

Speaking quickly, Hermione says, “That would be a boon, Hagrid, thank you. Off we go?”

Luna and Hagrid chat all the way. The end of the world doesn’t come up once. Probably for the best as they pass a squadron of first years and pass through the upper corridors as classes are changing. Luna’s musical, airy laugh is almost enough to let Hermione forget her exceptional anxiety and the crush of her internal clock, but truly, nothing will be strong enough for that.

“Bo’om dollar,” says Hagrid at the gargoyle statue Hermione knows is the entrance to Neville’s office. “BO’OM DOLLAR! It don’ like the way I say bo’om. Would you moind?”

“Bottom dollar,” says Luna, pulsing her wand. The gargoyle rotates, and the spiral staircase is revealed. Hermione and Luna climb, and Hagrid agrees to stay behind to monitor the entrance.

Hermione expects she’ll have to wait a very long time for Neville Longbottom to oh look there he is.

“Hermione!” says Neville, rounding the monstrosity he calls a desk hurriedly. He pushes a tuft of roughly quaffed hair back upon his head. He’s broader than Hermione remembers. Taller, too. “Welcome, welcome to Hogwarts! Oh, I’m so sorry about Ron.” 

“How did you…? Never mind,” says Hermione. “He’s a cunt.”

“He is that,” says Neville. “Jolly shame. I suppose you’ve come about the orders?”

Hermione squints. 

Looking at Luna for a moment, Neville puts his hands over his ears. At this, Luna also squints.

“Ear muffs,” says Neville. “You don’t know ear muffs? You know what, it doesn’t work anyway. I suppose in for a penny in for a pound. The orders, more specifically my orders. Apocalypse Protocol 2. If contact isn’t made within 48 hours of lockdown, all Auror Phantoms are to report to Hogwarts and register with the headmaster. I do say, you’re a bit early. You really needn’t come all this way.”

Now, Hermione’s mouth drops open. “Oh but… but of course. I’m to register with you. You would know the circumstances and the Phantoms.”

“Register what now?” says Luna. “You’ll forget I didn’t take the train, so to speak.”

“It’s… I’m sorry, Luna,” says Hermione. “I should have asked you to wait with Hagrid. You’ve already heard more than you should.”

“Nonsense,” says Neville. “Luna Lovegood is going to be an asset in this fight. Frankly, you should see her test scores. Almost as high as yours, Hermione. Yes, I maybe did some snooping but that’s my prerogative as headmaster.”

“Neville, with all due respect, you don’t have the authority to reveal Phantom existence let alone Phantom secrets.”

With a broad grin, Neville says, “Hogwarts headmaster may not, but the Lord Phantom does.” His slips his hands casually into his robes.

Hermione blinks. “You don’t mean...”

“Who do you think started the order?” says Neville. “Growing up, I never really saw myself in counter-terrorism, but would you believe it suits me?”

“But… but…,” Hermione gesticulates and sputters. “But you’re a… a…”

“A buffoon,” says Neville. “Yes, it’s convenient to play the role you’ve been publicly assigned to operate covertly.”

“But the chandelier…”

“Yes, that was a challenge to bring down, but what a performance, eh?”

“Yes, buffoon! That’s the word, buffoon!” shouts Hermione. “You’re a buffoon! A complete buffoon.”

Neville chuckles merrily, opening his robes to reveal a Quidditch Cup ’05 tee shirt. “Would a buffoon have abs this ripped?” To which he lifts his shirt.

Hermione’s mouth drops open, and both women tilt their heads, staring at Neville’s firm, sculpted mounds adorned with the most delicate treasure trail dropping between two artfully defined cum gutters.

Luna whistles long and low.

“Now that’s settled,” says Neville. “Shall we discuss the apocalypse?”

Chapter Text

Luna watches in silence as Hermione discloses the sum of the shit show that has been happening since Undead Snape - probably a ghoul - crashed into Luna’s pub. Only one small, rather sexually confusing circumstance is excluded from Hermione’s retelling, not that Luna is surprised. All the while, Neville Longbottom stands attentive, hands behind his back, listening to Hermione with impassive calm until she reaches the bit about hollowing out entire swathes of undead in one go. At this, he frowns.

“And this brings us to the present, Nev… Lord Phantom?” Hermione screws up her mouth.

“Neville should do,” says the headmaster, his eyes narrowing. “Right, so. I might have been hoping you wouldn’t actually use The Heart. Not that I’ve heard it could do quite the damage you describe but... hmm.” He touches his lip. “I don’t need to tell you magic isn’t free.”

“I know,” says Hermione, exhaling. “I hadn’t been able to think that through at the time. It was… on top of me. The euphoria.”

“Power is like that,” says Neville. “And I’m afraid The Heart demands a different toll from all of her partners. She does have some specific vices. But you already knew that, didn’t you, Luna?”

Luna reboots for a moment and stands straighter. “What? Well, um, yes.”

Neville winks at her. “I’ll let you discuss that together at a later time. But you will watch for signs?”

Luna nods, but Hermione scowls and says, “Excuse me, what exactly did we already know? Were you in that Deathcasting book Trelawney gave you?”

“I was,” says Luna, “but that’s not what Neville is referring to.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It seems we haven’t exactly had the time?”

“We were on horseback for three hours!”

“Was it a full three?”

“Luna, do not redirect.”

“Let’s bring this topic back to the convergence,” says Neville with calm authority that Luna finds herself grateful for. “Mainly that Ginny and Harriet are expected by morning with a report on everything they found at the Ministry. I believe it wise to discuss detangling multiple timelines with as many facts as we - ”

Hermione clutches her abdomen and doubles over. Luna crosses the room in a heartbeat and touches Hermione’s back, then pulls her hand away.

“Yes, signs like that,” says Neville, shaking his head.

“You’re burning up,” says Luna. 

Breathing heavily, Hermione shoves herself upright. “I’m fine.” But the sweat on her back and the flush in her cheeks say otherwise. 

Neville clears his throat. “I have quarters you can use. Close. Private. Sound proof.” He nods at Luna without a hint of shaming or suggestion. Most people that know Luna’s true specialty are not so respectful. She nods in return.

“We have work to do,” says Hermione, and a little moan escapes her throat. Luna can see, Hermione’s hands are not cupping her tummy but rather notably lower.

“The Heart wants what The Heart wants,” says Neville. “Quick, I can’t imagine there’s much time.” He walks to the back of his office, and Luna nudges a bent and panting Hermione after him. On the balcony, Neville taps the stone to his left, and a staircase thrusts from the exterior wall of the tower, disappearing upward as it rounds the curve.

Luna looks up the stairs, bracing Hermione’s struggling form against her body. Yes, Neville is correct; Luna’s special talents are Hermione’s best shot a living through this. Hell, Luna is so confident in her mastery that she’s certain Hermione will survive.

But then why are her thoughts darting around in her head like a deranged squirrel? Why is her pulse racing? Why is there a fist gripping her guts, twisting? Hermione’s name sounds in her head, and it’s like a fleet of polywamps are getting together to have a seven-ring circus.

The situation is deteriorating quickly. By the time they reach the balcony marking the staircase terminus, Hermione’s tight breathing has become grunts, and the heat of her body is almost too much for Luna to touch. Luna spryly draws her wand, “Ignis murus,” with a flame-like flourish. She can still feel the heat, but it doesn’t hurt… yet. It makes sense - Hermione’s animus is burning fuel to maintain coherence, which of course, will leave her a shell or…. Luna can’t… she can’t consider that.

“Stay with me. We’ll sort this out.” Luna releases Hermione only long enough to pull the glass doors shut behind her, and the sounds of the outside world go dead. She scans the large resident quarters which is essentially a massive bedroom. 

The bed? Risky if Hermione’s temperature continues to increase. The floor? It’s stone… so if they must. Through a door to the left, she can see the gold fixture of a shower head. Yes, yes that will do.

“I can’t…,” says Hermione. “I don’t know… what is happening.”

Luna guides her friend toward the bathroom. “Necromancy requires ready sources of energy, and while it may borrow from an energy dense reservoir such as a life force, it must be replaced.”

Hermione groans, though not necessarily from pain. 

“Well, excuse me. If you’re going to overuse your power, you’re going to get a lecture. You’ll know there are few ways to replace a tapped life force that don’t involve stealing the lives of others, which is why it turns out necromancy is so destructive. Convenient, then, that I should specialize in an aggressively generative type of magic. Very old, but very effective.”

Pausing, Hermione tilts her head gingerly toward Luna, a drop of sweat leaving her brow for the stone floor to drink. That same brow lifts.

“Yes,” says Luna. “Come on.”

They reach the shower stall, ornate reliefs of angels and demons in the tile, stone eyes vacant. As if that’s in any way comforting in a bathroom. Luna pulls the handle and sets the water to warm. Cold water will not have the effect she needs right now.

Luna takes a hold of Hermione’s hot, trembling hands. “I’ll need to take your clothes off. Normally I require verbal consent, but I’ll make an exception if you can nod.”

Hermione forces out a nod against pressed eyelids.

Stepping in close, Luna’s nose hovers at Hermione’s jawline as deft fingers begin to release the buttons on Hermione’s shirt. Luna inhales and Hermione’s breath catches. The sheen of sweat is musky but sweet, and Luna’s sensitive nose easily gathers the delicate scent of arousal originating at Hermione’s groin. The Heart leaves a crimson welt where she touches the brunette’s sternum, though a black spiderweb is creeping outward across alabaster breasts.

Hermione’s shirt falls to the cold stone floor, and steam begins to pour from the shower stall. The brunette sways on her feet, her previously flushed skin looking suddenly pale. That display of power in the forest would ruin the most stalwart of witches, and with the toll on deathcasting so much higher… Luna should have known better, should never have accepted a moment of pleasant conversation. Now, she has to mindfully ground herself to properly focus, lest worry for her new friend dash all hope.

Luna reaches around Hermione’s back, releasing her bra with a pinch. Lithe, delicate fingers drag along the sides of Hermione’s breasts as the blonde removes the fabric. Hands settle on Luna’s waist, and Hermione’s half-lidded eyes saccade over Luna’s lips in the fashion of one thoroughly inebriated, lips Luna brings near Hermione’s… close enough to touch… but touch they do not. Hermione presses forward, and Luna evades the kiss with ease.

“Not yet, greedy girl,” whispers Luna, drawing her wand from the long pocket of her skirt. “ Amatorios navitas.” Nnnngggggg… Magic flows through her body, pulsing between her legs, a insatiable ache demanding attention. That first anchor always catches her by surprise, no matter how many times she does it.

Fingers glide down Hermione’s tummy, fingers that tug at her skirt, a skirt soon around her ankles. All that remains is a pair of black boy-short panties. For this, Luna drops to her knees, and Hermione stiffens though with what strength Luna can only imagine. The Heart bearer seems hardly able to stand, hands on Luna’s shoulders as she leans heavily.

If Luna rushes, the spell will break. Trust the method. And trust The Heart. Certainly the amulet wants this enough to keep Hermione breathing. Luna tries to keep her nerves steady as her hands settle on Hermione’s hips, her tongue pressing into the hot skin below Hermione’s navel. Must not flinch. Must feel every twitch in Hermione’s body to know which components to invoke next. 

Hands on Hermione’s hips, Luna’s tongue glides up, across Hermione’s navel and abdomen, banking up her left breast, and gently flicks the pink peak. A whimper sounds in Hermione’s throat, and Luna’s mouth seals over the nipple, sucking it erect, tongue licking and fluttering until Hermione’s whimper is louder.

Breaking the seal, a string of saliva connects Luna’s bottom lip to Hermione’s nipple until she says, “Are you ready, greedy girl?” 

Hermione moans, “Ngggyeeeess.”

“Prove it… touch yourself, get your fingers wet for me.”

If there’s any hesitation, it’s owed entirely to Hermione’s lack of strength. It occurs to Luna that only a talisman as powerful as The Heart could muster such stout sexual need in a person that had burned through a massive percentage of their own soul. Luna forces the concern from her expression. This is what it takes. The contract must be consensual. Luna has made her bid, now Hermione must make an exchange. Hermione’s fingers enter her own panties at the waist, and Luna watches as the shape those fingers appear against the fabric, slipping in and out of Hermione’s aromatic crease, the sound of it sloppy and and wet. Luna’s hand touches Hermione’s panties, feels raw desire through the fabric in the form of thrusting, trembling fingers. Hermione’s breath catches.

“Does that feel good, angel?” whispers Luna. “Do you like doing the things I tell you? Do you like fucking yourself for me?”

Hermione whimpers again.

“Feed it to me,” says Luna. “Let me taste you.”

And Hermione’s fingers enter Luna’s mouth. The second anchor settles into place, and Luna moans as an electric transient hits her clit and ripples outward. The air hums with energy as Luna’s laps Hermione’s sour, musky fingers, sucking them clean, and Hermione at once seems a bit less pale. The energy resonance has already begun.

Pressing herself to her feet, Luna draws her wand one last time. “Aufero vestments.” And Luna’s own clothes seem to melt and reform upon the floor next to Hermione’s, her wand she tosses on top. Stepping to the side, she feels the humid air from the shower kiss her silken, bare vulva, and she reaches inside herself to gather her own milky need upon her fingers.

Hermione is swaying, but Luna fights her impulses and remains calm.

“Open,” she says, lifting fingers to Hermione’s mouth. “Accept me into your body, and the spell is cast.”

Licking first at Luna’s fingers with hazy awareness, Hermione is soon suckling, half-lidded eyes fixed on Luna’s, eyes flashing with the sort of white hot spark that precedes a conflagration. Ah, there. Luna feels the waves of the third anchor coursing through her body. The ghost of an orgasm flows from her core, radiating outward, and her moan is throaty. Pure sexual energy passes from Luna into Hermione as she presses their lips firmly against one another. Their tongues dance and stroke, lips caressing, warm and moist. Luna take’s Hermione by the hand and pulls her mid-kiss into the shower spray.

Tepid water sizzles on Hermione’s hot skin. Luna plants one leg firmly between Hermione’s, her thigh slippery as she grinds hard against the girl’s salivating cunt, mouths hunting for one another, parting with ache only to join again with renewed vigor.

Hermione’s breathing is labored. Is her strength ebbing, or is it a result of her desperate fucking need? Luna can usually feel these things instinctively, but she’s too vested, and she knows it. Instead of masterful sexual empathy, her body suffers an agonizing thirst to know she’s a good mistress, that the domination of Hermione Granger is unlike anything the girl has ever known.

Luna growls in her throat but tries to center herself.

She fails.

Breasts slip and catch, nipples hardening when they meet and tug and flick. Luna splays her fingers against the back of Hermione’s neck, the sheet of wet hair against her hand, and she rakes her fingers upward to cradle her lover’s skull. Hermione yelps when those fingers clench together and firmly pull Hermione backward by the hair to lift her chin, exposing her soft neck. Luna’s tongue glides along Hermione’s collarbone, up her throat. Then Luna is pressing kisses into Hermione’s jawline.

All the while, she can feel the thrum of power growing, entering Hermione, returning even stronger. It ripples through her skin, adds to the pressure in her groin, the ache in her breasts. Luna turns Hermione’s entire body to face away from her now and spoons against her back, nudging the shower head to one side, and grabbing the fresh bar soap from the small alcove. 

The bar begins begins with Hermione’s underarms, then down to wrists and fingers. Soaping Hermione’s breasts and tummy takes some time, as Luna is terribly thorough. Soon enough, Luna retires the bar as Hermione’s body is glistening with slick, soapy bubbles. Hermione closes her eyes, passively accepting with naught but honeyed humming the careful hands sliding across her body.

This is not necessary. Certainly not pressing the lather down Hermione’s tummy, down the grooves between her thighs and pubis. Nor nudging Hermione’s leg up onto the tiny ledge so that Luna’s fingertips can gently, circle Hermione’s sensitive pucker, now slick with soap. It’s selfish. Those little moans… Luna feels them. Every one of Hermione’s hums of pleasure, Luna feels each whimper like a fingertip on her clit.

Luna could have given Hermione an orgasm already. Several, in fact. This is her area of expertise, years of study, with accomplishments and accolades she can never share on account of… well, this type of magic isn’t exactly praised, is it. Luna Lovegood has even managed to add spells to the canon, things that never existed before, and spell craft is usually reserved for the absurdly hermetic ancient witches and wizards of towers and dungeons and such. Luna is one of the youngest witches to contribute to any magic system, let alone one of the oldest magic systems.

Selfish and unnecessary, Luna thinks as she turns Hermione’s head and sucks the drops of water from the brunette’s lower lip. But oh so delicious.

Luna’s hand cups Hermione’s mound, her hand undulating, massaging, and Hermione is soon panting. For a moment, Luna is afraid she’s done something wrong, her partner wiggling in her embrace. But Hermione reaches back, slides her hand down between them… cupping Luna’s mound. Luna groans at the touch. Yes, yes this feels right. Their hips rock rhythmically, and soon, Luna is panting as well.

Luna’s body is alight, aglow, afire as Hermione’s skin slides over her own. Three fingers caress her sex, open her up, encourage the pedaling of her delicate lips. Hermione’s middle finger smears Luna’s drooling arousal over her prominent, bulging clit. She can feel Hermione getting close to cumming, though she has never witnessed the brunette orgasm, Hermione’s near panicked insistence is screaming that a climax is rising swiftly now. 

Breathing hard, no knowing where steam ends and sweat begins, the witches begin to tense. Hermione’s fingers curl up inside Luna and stroke the silky anterior ridges, and she pinches her own nipple with urgency. Hermione’s need is a roaring, snarling beast pounding its fists against the walls, and in seconds, it feels as though Luna is holding on to keep herself upright.

“Cum, angel,” whispers Luna, the instruction punctuated by her own whimper as Hermione curls her fingers into Luna’s g-spot. “Cum for me. Cum on my fingers.”

Hermione throws her head back onto Luna’s shoulder and inhales hard… stops breathing… Her body arches… Luna buries her face into Hermione’s neck, tongue stroking Hermione’s throat, fingers driving against Hermione’s rigid nub…

Squirt jets from Hermione’s little hole, forceful against Luna’s fingers, as her moan becomes a wail, and she quakes violently as the climax thunders through her body. Luna has to hold Hermione tight to keep them both on their feet, Hermione grinding her cunt into Luna’s hand as the trembling goes on and on…

The blonde has witnessed few orgasms so powerful in her many years in this craft. Hermione’s pleasure floods Luna’s body as if it was her own, and though Hermione’s fingers inside Luna’s cunt are useless now… the fullness of those fingers, the pressure as Hermione writhes in Luna’s arms… 

Luna’s body trembles, her own orgasm beginning around her heart, flooding outward, filling her chest, hot and wild and fucking brutal. She gasps and moans and nearly falls over until Hermione’s fingers slide out of her sopping wet cunt, fresh with the musky dew of a formidable climax.

Hermione rolls forward, wrapping Luna in her arms, devouring Luna’s mouth with her own. All traces of The Heart’s destructive influence obfuscated by Hermione’s hungry kiss, as much as Luna can be aware of anything with this insatiable lover demanding more. The spell begins to release, the anchors lifting.

It’s Luna’s laughter that finally breaks Hermione’s ferocious onslaught. Hermione pulls back, her face a mask of horror. “What did I do!” she gasps. “Did I do it again??”

“No, sweetheart,” Luna says, her face radiating her smile. She kisses Hermione softly and breathes in the musk of their lovemaking. “I’m… irrationally happy.”

Hermione’s lips quirk, and Luna giggles, kissing the upturned corner of Hermione’s mouth.

Eyes sweeping across Luna’s face, Hermione whispers, “Yes… yeah. I think… so am I. It’s strange. Or maybe not so strange.”

Luna reaches up to move the shower head back onto them, rinsing away suds and sex. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

Biting her lip for a moment, Hermione then says, “You would actually listen. Wouldn’t you.”

Touching Hermione’s cheek. “It’s what you do for people you’re falling in love with.”

Hermione steps back. 

Luna’s hand burns where Hermione’s face once was. Oh. Oh no.

“Love? What do you mean, love?”

Yes, Luna, you stupid fuck. What do you mean LOVE?? “I didn’t… It’s an expression… er… Like, falling… like crush but…”

“What… do you think is happening here?”

“Just, there’s a lot of emotion in this is all.” This is not how sex magic works. 

Shut up, Luna. You fucking amateur!

“Hermione…”

Hermione shakes her head, backs up. Then she pushes open the stall door and steps out.

Luna calls, “Crushes are cool, right?”

fuck.