The Wand of Ravenclaw

Changing Hands

The fifth floor of the Ministry of Magic was a rather dull place and perhaps the least daunting location at the Headquarters of Wizard government. The Department for Magical Law was the closest point at which the world of Muggle and Wizard could be connected. People here dressed in plain, boring robes or business suits. Matters dealt with here ranged from the mildly mundane to the call-the-hangman mind numbing. It was here that Harry and Hermione now found themselves.

Harry was glad of one thing, it was a quiet time of day and they had managed to enter the Ministry with only the most fleeting of glances in their direction. Harry didn't blame people for gawping at him, not when the Daily Prophet was still telling the world he was some kind of saviour. The looks might have been tinged with an edge of apprehension and, again, Harry couldn't argue; the last two occasions he had visited the Ministry had resulted in a confrontation with Voldemort himself and more lately a vociferous showdown with the Minster of Magic himself. It seemed that every time Harry entered this building bad things tended to happen.

But he was sure that little of that nature was likely today, not in such dull surroundings. Harry had seen plenty of movies with beige and grey offices and this place seemed modelled on the worst of these. Unlike the fascinating Auror office the cubicles here were not decked with moving pictures of wanted criminals. Instead there were tottering piles of parchment and bulging files in every corner and overworked, bored and haggard witches and witches attending the daily grind. The place smelled strongly of powerful coffee and polish and little paper aeroplanes shot around from cubicle to cubicle narrowly missing the heads of unsuspecting workers too disenchanted to realise where they were walking.

Hermione, who was good at following signs, led the way to a small room on the far side of the office where a glass door gave relief to the beige walls. Peeling letters on the grubby glass spelt the name of Asphyxias Bloom and a small balding man sat at a desk inside. Looking up, he beckoned them in.

'Ah, you must be Mr Potter!' he said rising and shaking Harry's hand, revealing an unexpectedly firm grip. 'It's a pleasure, of course. And who is this? Your partner?'

'My, uh - what?' said Harry, who had understood perfectly but was flustered all the same.

'Your partner,' said Mr Bloom. 'You know, significant other? Spouse? It's not politically correct to say 'girlfriend' these days. But only significant others can be present at a reading such as this.'

'That's alright,' said Hermione. 'I am his partner, girlfriend, whatever you wish to use. We have no documentation of this, though. I hope this isn't a problem?'

Harry looked at her, surprised at the ease with which she lied. What came as an even bigger surprise was how he liked the sound of her words.

Hermione. As his girlfriend. There was an idea. And his heart flapped hard in eager, impatient agreement, as though exasperated that his head had taken so long to finally consider the one thing he'd made most off limits in his life.

But now he'd thought it, he couldn't shake it. Nor the pleasant tingle that crossed every inch of his skin as the notion caught him. Was that what this was? This strange unease he'd been feeling; this dangerous, illicit idea that had been tickling the edge of his mind? Wonderful and terrifying all the same.

Did he fancy Hermione?

He couldn't then think of a single reason to say he didn't. He was floored by the revelation. The sound of conversation drew back his racing mind.

'No, no, of course not,' said Mr Bloom happily. 'Your word is enough, though seeing you together leaves me in no doubt of your attachment. Young love, is it? Elopement and illegitimate children planned, eh?'