Little Swimmers
A somewhat bawdy (aren't they all?) eventual Harmony fic by canoncansodoff

A/N: This story got its start when cold temps, short days, and more than a month straight of overcast skies had me bouncing against the walls (how do you folks in Portland and Seattle deal with this crap?), and gave me a serious hankering for some fluffy escapist travel porn [As defined by the Daily Mail (27 Nov, 2014 on-line edition): "Britons spend three hours EACH DAY indulging in 'travel porn' as they fantasise about their next holiday ... with Barbados the most longed-for destination."] And it's almost obligatory for HP fanfic writers who mostly ship harmony to do a "Hermione retrieves her parents" story. Whip those two together, throw in some brainstorming for B4B (where Arthur Weasley is currently on his way to Oz), and there you go. Although the funny thing is that the parent retrieving turned out to be more of a plot device employed to get the Golden Trio Down Under.

I'll try not to annoy my Australian readers by joking that their national anthem is "Waltzing Matilda," (like I did in Muggle Summer), or by laying on the Crocodile Dundee accents extra-thick. I'm also pushing the entire canon timeline forward to contemporary times, which keeps me from having to take the time to go back and figure out what technology was locally available and which hotels or hostels were opened back in 1998. Sticklers for the canon timeline are politely directed towards my pen name. The technology shouldn't impact the story all that much. Exchange rates in July 2014 were roughly 1GBP=1.80 AUD, and 1USD=1.05AUD.

Big thanks to Alix33 for sharing thoughts on the concept and for proofing this chapter.

Disclaimer: Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.

oo00OO00oo

Chapter 1

Taxing Down Runway 16
Melbourne Airport, Australia

When it came to chewing on lower lips, Harry Potter knew the difference between worry and reflexive habit…even when he could only see those lips within the reflection of a passenger jet's window.

He reached across the empty middle seat, covered his best-friend's hand with his own, and for the ninth time over their twenty-two hour long trip said, "It's going to be okay, Hermione."

The bushy-haired Muggleborn turned towards Harry and tried to turn her lip-chewing into a brave smile as a flight attendant brought the airplane's intercom system to life.

"On behalf of Air India and the crew of Flight 302, I would like to welcome all of you to Melbourne. Please remain in your seats while the airplane taxis to the terminal, and continue to keep your seat belts fastened until the seat belt sign is turned off."

Hermione shook her head in disbelief as several dozen other passengers completely ignored the flight attendant's instructions and rushed to unbuckle and retrieve their belongings from the overhead compartments.

"I can't believe these people," she said with a scowl.

Harry shrugged as queues quickly took shape down the length of both aisles within the economy section.

"So do you think the pilot will accidentally on-purpose slam the brakes again, like he did in Sydney?"

"It would serve them right if he did," Hermione replied.

The-Boy-Who-Won nodded across the aisle, towards the red-haired passenger who had managed to sleep through the landing.

"Should I wake Sleeping Beauty?" he asked.

Hermione giggled and shook her head. "No, let him rest…even with a half-empty cabin we're still probably looking at thirty or forty minutes to deplane."

"Deplane," Harry mimicked. "What kind of made up word is that? It's not like I 'debroom' at the end of a Quidditch match, is it?"

"Shush!" Hermione whispered. "I strongly suspect that the Statute of Secrets still applies Down Under."

"Alright," Harry said (with his eyes rolling). He then pointed towards the incoming passenger card that was peeking out of Ron's seat pocket and asked, "Do you want to check if he needs to revise?"

"No, that's alright, the flight attendant gave me a few extra," Hermione said. "Merlin knows…I mean Lord knows...we'll have enough time to revise as we wait to clear customs."

There was a lull in the conversation, as the flight attendant used the intercom system to scold the standing passengers. Not talking allowed Hermione to mull, and mulling allowed her to worry. Harry responded to the worry with another squeeze of her hand.

"They will understand," he insisted. "They'll have to, once you show them those pictures of their burned-out house and surgery."

"But…what kind of daughter am I, to make her parents forget that they even had a daughter?"

"The kind of daughter who did what she thought needed to be done to save her parents' lives," said Harry. "The kind of daughter who did what was necessary to give her father the chance to walk his daughter down the aisle, or give her mother the chance to someday dote on her grandchildren."

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "Wedding aisles and grandchildren, Harry?" she asked. "Are you trying to rush something along?"

The seventeen-year old wizard reflexively glanced across the aisle towards one friend, then turned back towards another and shook his head.

"Obviously not...at least not on my end, right?" he asked.

A tear threatened to form in the corner of his best friend's eye. She pulled her hand out from under his, and gave his hand a firm squeeze.

"I'm sorry," Hermione insisted.

The teen-aged wizard shook his head and insisted that there was no need for apologies and that they were treading on recently trodden ground as the airplane reached the gate. The very abrupt stop sent the standing passengers sprawling, and brought a vindictive smile to the head flight attendant's lips. It also finally woke the third member of "The Golden Trio." Ron stretched his arms and twisted his back one way then the other. The "other" twist brought Harry's covered hand into view.

He scowled. Hermione noted the scowl and slowly drew back her hand, trying not to make it seem as if she had been caught reaching for the biscuit jar.

"So are we there yet?" the red-haired wizard asked (with a rather snippy tone of voice).

"Yes, Ronald," Hermione said with a long sigh. "We're finally there."

oo00OO00oo

Ron Weasley's attitude only worsened once they finally got off the airplane and followed the signs that pointed towards the end of a very long queue.

"Remind me why we couldn't use a portkey or something to get here?" he whined, dropping his Muggle rucksack to the ground with a loud thump.

"Shush!" Hermione hissed. She lowered her voice to a whisper, and added, "You know very well that the Ministry is still a mess, and that the international portkey interdiction still hasn't been lifted."

"But Kingsley said it would only be a few more weeks…"

"Nobody forced you to make this trip, Ron," said Harry.

"Right," his friend snapped. He ran his fingers through his red hair, then waved with disgust at the long queue in front of them. "This wouldn't be so bad if you had woken me up before that bloody queue formed on the airplane."

"It wouldn't have mattered, since we were still required to sit while the plane was in motion," Hermione shot back.

"So how long, do you think?"

Harry craned his neck for a better view of the entry control point.

"Thirty or forty meters?" he quipped.

"You know what I mean!" Ron whined. "All they served on that last part of the trip were those spicy peanuts, and I'm starving!"

"It was only a ninety minute flight from Sydney," Hermione countered. "How many times did they feed us on the flight from India? Or on the first leg from Heathrow to Delhi?"

"And don't forget the pound of duty-free chocolates you scarfed down while we sat on the tarmac," Harry added.

"But it has to at least be lunch time by now?" asked Ron.

Harry shook his head. "No time changes during that last leg, Mate. It's only 9:45."

"Yeah, but my stomach is still on real time…probably dinner back home, right?"

Hermione pinched her nose and sighed. "It's closer to midnight, actually."

"Still hungry," Ron muttered.

Ron impatience was seemingly rewarded when two persons wearing the uniform of the Australian Customs and Border Protection Service approached the British teenagers.

"G'day, everyone," the dark-skinned male said. "If you three would like to follow us, we can get you sorted out straight away."

Catching the sour looks of the people lined up in front of them, Hermione grabbed hold of Ron's arm. Harry understood her reaction, and agreed with the underlying sentiment.

"Thank you for the offer, Officer…Billy?" he half-asked (not knowing whether the name on the man's badge was a first name or surname). "But we don't require any special treatment. We're happy to wait our turn in line."

"Oh, no," said Officer Billy. "Special people who can do special things deserve special considerations."

"Yes, we insist," said Officer Billy's partner. The tan female whose blond hair was tied up under her blue cap placed herself between the three teens and the other arriving passengers, and guided them away from the queue. Once there were a few feet of separation, she pulled on the end of one of her short shirt sleeves, and revealed the hidden butt end of a white mahogany wand.

"Sounds good to me," said Ron, as he hefted his rucksack onto his shoulder.

Harry proved that he wasn't nearly as eager to accept the invitation at face value when he took a few steps to the side and slipped his right hand behind his back. A breath caught in Hermione's throat as the two uniformed officers quietly shifted into defensive stances. She quickly closed the wand-waving distance that her friend had created for himself and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Take a deep breath, Harry," she whispered. "We're on the other side of the world now."

Her best friend's lips thinned. "These two behind you," he calmly stated. "Cleaning guy on your nine, and two more, I think on my six. Check the window."

"You're barmy, Mate," their friend scoffed dismissively.

Hermione looked back over her shoulder and hissed, "Teaspoons, Ron!" Then she returned her focus to Harry, and said, "The Snatchers were never this subtle…our hosts are probably just being cautious."

Her touch deflated some of the air out of his apprehension. He glanced over her shoulder towards the uniformed male and asked, "Are we in trouble, or something, Officer Billy?"

"Not at all, Mate," the Australian replied. "We'd just like to move this conversation to a more…special…location where we can speak more freely."

The black-haired teen thought for a moment, then shrugged as he reached for his rucksack with his free hand. "Alright, then," he decided.

"Excellent," the female officer declared, allowing the three teens to follow her partner's lead towards the other side of the hall. This gave her a chance to address the concerns of those who still found themselves at the back of the queue.

"What makes them so special?" one of the arriving passengers asked.

The Border Patrol officer gave the upset man a good look-over, devoting most of her attention to his suspiciously over-stuffed bag of duty-free goods.

"Are you a special arrival, Sir?" she asked politely. "The kind of special arrival that deserves extra special attention and extra special scrutiny of their declared customs limits? Because that certainly can be arranged."

The disgruntled man's face paled, and he was quick to claim that he was just a normal guy with normal needs that was more than happy to stand in the normal queue.

oo00OO00oo

Harry and Hermione's assumption that they had been greeted by Australian Aurors in disguise was briefly tested when Officer Billy opened a locked door by swiping his identification card through a wall-mounted electronic reader. But then he quickly erased any doubts (about his magical status, if not his employer) when he drew out his wand just as soon as the door closed behind them.

"Easy on, Mr. Potter!" the border patrol officer coolly stated.

"Waz'at?" Ron asked.

"My partner is suggesting that everyone calm down," a voice called out from behind.

"Shite," Harry hissed, having realized that the witch dressed as a Border Patrol officer had silently gotten the drop on him.

"Relax, Mr. Potter," the male officer said, "This isn't some kind of trap. We're just an all-magical team that works for the government's border patrol service. Now if you all would slowly place your wands and passports on the table in front of you?"

Harry frowned. "I don't believe that we ever introduced ourselves to you, Officer Billy…if that's your real name and real uniform?"

"Oh yes, that's my real name, and this is my real uniform," the older wizard stated. "That's Officer Davis behind you, by the way, dressed in her real uniform as well."

"How did you know our names?" Ron asked, as he placed his wand on the table, then fished his passport out of a trouser pocket.

"We checked the passenger list, Mr. Weasley," the male officer explained. He waited until Harry and Hermione had surrendered their wands and passports before he lowered his wand and explained further.

"The Indian authorities gave us a ring, right after they spotted you coming off the flight from London," Billy noted. "They were all set to detain you three, before we reminded them that the international arrest warrants for Undesirable Numbers 1 and 2 had recently been rescinded."

"Nobody cared about catching Number 3?" Ron whined.

The officer turned towards the red-haired wizard, shook his head, and said, "Afraid not." Then he picked up the passport that Ron had placed on the table and opened the cover.

"Standard Muggle-issued passport, issued on your departure date?" he asked. "Is this legitimate, or a good-enough magical forgery?"

"It's legitimate, Sir," Hermione quickly replied. "Although, fair to say that someone at our Ministry had a hand in convincing the Muggle authorities to expedite his application."

"Same with mine," Harry said, as he twisted his head to the side. "Do I still need your wand tip near my ear, Officer Davis?"

"I suppose not," the female officer replied, as she lowered her wand and joined her partner on the far side of the table. She picked up Harry's passport, comparing the messy black hair in the passport photo to the messy black hair on Harry's head.

"My passport is older, at least," Hermione offered.

"It would have to be, wouldn't it?" the male wizard asked, as he opened her passport to the inside front page, then entered some data into a hand-held device that appeared to be far more electronic than magical.

"Sorry?" Hermione asked.

The wizard looked up towards the teen-aged witch and said, "You would have had a hard time visiting Australia last year without a passport."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked. "This is my first trip to Australia."

Officer Billy frowned. "Not according to our records," he stated. The frown grew when he flipped through the endorsements section of Hermione's passport and failed to spot any Australia-specific stamps. A wave of his wand over the passport didn't resolve the issue.

"Hmmmph," he muttered. He handed Hermione's passport to his partner, who repeated the diagnostic scan and got the same result.

"Your passport hasn't been altered, as far as we can tell," Officer Davis told Hermione. "The last entry stamp is French, from three years ago."

"That sounds right," the younger witch agreed. "I went on holiday with my parents."

"Strange," the officer decided. "I suppose that the problem could be on our end."

"When do your records say she traveled here?" Harry asked.

"Last June," the wizard replied.

"Hey, Hermione…isn't that about the time your parents came here after you obli…" Ron asked (ending in mid-sentence when he came under the full force of her death glare.)

"Yes, Ron…that is right around the time that my parents decided to emigrate here."

The male border patrol official arched his eyebrow.

"What are your parents' names, Miss Granger?"

"Monica and Wendell Wilkins," she quickly replied.

"Really?" the official asked, as he entered those names into his hand-held device. The skeptical wizard stared at the device's screen for a few seconds, then shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't have any entry records for anyone traveling together under those names over the past five years."

"They're Muggles," Hermione explained.

"We don't differentiate at the border, Miss Granger," the male officer said testily. "And we don't think too much of that epithet, either."

But that's…"

Harry quickly slipped his arm around Hermione's shoulder and tried to steer the conversation away from potential trouble.

"So, are we allowed to enter the country, Officer Billy?" he asked.

The Australian wizard slowly nodded. "Few things to clear up, first. After the customs check you'll need to watch a video, and Mr. Weasley and you will need to visit a healer for a required vaccination."

His partner added, "While you're there, it might also be worth Miss Granger asking about potential memory damage."

Ron groaned. "Is all that going to take a while?"

Officer Billy shrugged. "The video is fifteen minutes long…you'll probably spend an hour or so getting your shots…is anyone waiting for you in the Arrival Hall?"

"No, Sir," Hermione replied. "I think Ron's just eager to sample the local cuisine."

"Really?" the officer asked with a grin. "I've got a jar of Vegemite back at my desk."

His partner snorted. "Let's ease these kids into that experience, shall we?"

"Ah, right then…there's a Nando's right across from the baggage retrieval area," the wizard stated. "We could swing by there for some take-away that you can eat while you watch the video."

"Thanks," said Ron.

Officer Billy glanced down at his hand-held device and asked, "So nobody is waiting for you…is there a local witch or wizard who is hosting your visit?"

"No, Sir."

"Here on business?"

"No, Sir," said Hermione. "We're here on holiday."

"On holiday?" the official asked. "You do know it's wintertime down here, right?"

"Well…yes, but we were rather busy during your summer, so…"

"Where will you be staying, then?"

The three teens looked at each other.

"Erm…the Nunnery?" said Hermione.

The male wizard chuckled. "Are you asking me that or telling me that?"

"Are we really staying at a nunnery?" Harry quietly asked.

"It's a hostel," Hermione said with a sigh. "Highly recommended in the tour guide that I purchased at Heathrow."

"I know the place," the female officer stated. "Popular with backpackers."

"There you go," Harry concluded, gesturing towards his rucksack.

"So you plan on visiting non-magical areas during your holiday, then?" the older wizard asked.

"Is there a problem with that?" Hermione asked.

"Not at the moment," the Australian replied. "But there might be if you're going to be traveling about on your own and don't keep us updated with your location…they'll talk about that in the video."

Officer Billy then asked for the incoming passenger cards that they had filled out while on the airplane. They were a bit shocked when he tossed the completed forms into a rubbish bin.

"But…?" Ron asked.

"There's an expanded form for visiting witches and wizards," the official explained. "Did any of you check a bag?"

"No, Sir…just these carry-ons," Hermione replied, gesturing towards the three modestly-sized rucksacks.

"Just those carry-ons?" his partner skeptically asked. "No magically-shrunk down trunks or mokeskin pouches in your pockets?"

The nervous looks that the three teens gave each other revealed the truth well enough.

Officer Billy chuckled. "Look, kids," he said, "it's not against the law for a witch or wizard to want to avoid paying excess weight charges or pay for extra bags. And you'd be barmy if you actually chose to check your bags and run the risk that they wouldn't show up in the baggage retrieval hall."

His partner nodded, and added, "But it is illegal for a witch or wizard to try to sneak their magical luggage or most anything else that is magical through customs without first declaring it."

"Ah, so…do we do that here?" Ron asked.

"That's the idea," the wizard replied. "Lay out everything that's magical into separate piles on the table." He then pointed towards his hand-held device and added, "While Officer Davis sorts through those piles, I'll wave this scanner around your bodies as a manual search for any residual magic. You'll be able to stay dressed…the scanner will discount things like temperature-control charms on your shirts, or deodorant charms on your shorts…"

"Why would you need to deodorize your shorts?" Ron asked.

"Are you kidding?" Harry asked. "Definitely sounds like something that I'm adding to your Christmas list."

"So, everything in a pile except for charmed clothing, then?" Hermione asked.

Officer Billy shook his head.

"We've pre-identified as false positives some of the more…intimate…pieces of magic that someone might be reluctant to place on the table."

"Like what kind of intimate?" asked Ron.

Officer Davis tried not to grin as she rattled off the start of a long list.

"Things like charmed ben-wa balls, vibrating nipple rings, magical intrauterine devices..."

"Intra-what?"

"Never mind, Ronald," Hermione said with a blush. She then changed subjects and asked the female officer, "Are there any restrictions on bringing potions into the country?"

"Depends on the potion and on the volumes," the older witch replied. "Medically-necessary potions are allowed, so long as they're accompanied by an authorized prescription."

"Oh, bugger," Harry muttered under his breath.

"Something wrong?" the male officer asked.

"We've…at least I…have always gotten my potions and my medical care provided by the school nurse," Harry explained. "She never wrote out a prescription that I'd then take to a chemist…or a potions shop, for that matter."

"Yeah, we've run into that with some other European arrivals," said the official. He then asked, "Is it safe to assume that your Ministry didn't provide you with a list of what can and can't be transported across magical borders?"

"Yes, Sir," Hermione replied. "I also didn't have any luck finding a magical version of the Australian High Commission."

"That's because there isn't one," the Australian witch stated. "We don't have separate governments and separate embassies like you have in Britain."

"Really?" asked Hermione. "How do you keep the wizarding world secret, then?" she asked.

"That's something else they'll talk about in the video," Officer Billy stated.

Officer Davis pulled her partner back for a short whispered conversation. He arched an eyebrow, then shrugged and nodded his head. When they returned to the table, the blonde witch said, "We really shouldn't be doing this, but…"

A wave of her wand placed three identical pieces of parchment on the desk in front of the three teenagers.

"These are lists of banned magical items, as well as the things that are allowed in specific quantities if they are declared," the witch said. The official then picked up a metal trash can, and added, "This is a magical rubbish bin that will empty itself when you place your wand tip against its side and say the magic word 'empty'."

"We are now going to step out for the next ten minutes," Officer Billy stated. "That should give you plenty of time to dispose of any questionable items currently within your possession. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir," Harry replied. "We understand."

"Yes, thank you for your help and for your understanding of our situation," Hermione added.

Ron just nodded.

oo00OO00oo

Ron was a lot more vocal a few minutes after the border patrol officers stepped outside of the room.

"Can you believe that we have to do this?" he whined, as he pulled a Fanged Frisbee out of his expandable trunk. Scanning down the customs declaration list, he asked, "Does this qualify as a potentially injurious object?"

"Of course it does," Hermione replied. "Why did you bring that along in the first place?"

"Something to toss around when we got bored?" he asked.

Harry kicked the rubbish bin towards Ron and said, "One last toss, then…make it a good one."

Ron swore under his breath as he dropped the wheeze into the bin. "Why can't they just hold on to this stuff for us, and give them back when we return to England?"

"You're really expecting them to store items that they consider to be illegal for us to possess?" Hermione asked. She adopted a sarcastic tone of voice and added, "Oh, Officer Billy, I don't want to bring this pound of heroin into your country…I just want you to hold it for me until I'm ready to leave."

"What's heroin?" Ron asked.

"One of the illegal drugs on your list," Harry replied.

"This list is ridiculous," Ron whined. "It's almost as bad as Filch's!"

"With good reason, in some cases," Hermione snapped back. She turned towards her other friend and glanced with sympathy at the growing discard pile in front of him.

"None of those potions were properly labeled?" she asked.

Harry shook his head. "Never really needed labels, for the most part. Each one has a fairly unique bottle size or color, and if that wasn't enough, they each smell awful in a distinctly awful way."

"Let me at least write down what they are, and what you needed them for," Hermione said. "It might help once we find a local healer to resupply you."

"I'm already doing that," Harry noted.

"Empty!" Ron shouted.

The other two quickly turned towards him.

"What?" the red-haired wizard protested. He set the now empty rubbish bin back down onto the floor and added, "Just doing what he told us to do."

"You didn't have to shout," Harry noted.

"And what, exactly, were you binning?" added Hermione.

"Erm the Frisbee, and some other…things…"

"Oh, come on, Ron," said Harry. "I saw you toss a few potion bottles. It's not like we didn't already know about the fart potions."

"What?" asked Ron. "It wasn't…well, actually… that." The red-haired teen shook his head and asked, "So what do you think will be cheaper? Visiting an Aussie healer for a new potion, or buying a pair of those charmed shorts that Billy bloke was talking about?"

"I think that the situation definitely calls for redundancy," Hermione said with a grin.

"What's that?"

"She's suggesting that you need both the anti-flatulence potions and the odor-eating shorts," Harry explained. "And I'm buying."

"Oh," said Ron. "Well alright, then."

oo00OO00oo

Not having packed any Dark objects and being fairly aggressive when it came to pitching anything that might create trouble made the subsequent customs inspection and magical scan straight forward and relatively painless. The female officer stayed in the room as the three teenagers repacked their trunks, pouches, and pockets, and volunteered some ideas on magical points of interest that wouldn't be listed in Hermione's Muggle travel guide. Once they were set to go, Agent Davis opened a different locked door that led directly into the Arrival Hall. She pointed towards the currency exchange, only to learn that Harry and Hermione had already converted galleons into Australian dollars back in London. By that point, Ron had already queued up for some take-away.

As Ron quizzed Agent Davis about the menu, asking things like what in Merlin's name "peri-peri" sauce, Harry and Hermione, watched their fellow passengers trickle out of the secured area. Dozens of people were waiting on the near side, carrying bouquets of flowers and handmade cardboard signs. Some of these people impatiently glanced at the arrivals board, wondering whether there was enough time to buy yet another coffee. Others kept their eyes glued to the sliding glass door, convinced that it would be their friend, or lover, or grandchild who would be the next one through.

What upset Hermione the most about this scene was the sequence of emotions displayed on the faces of those who were arriving. The initial relief that they'd finally cleared customs, quickly followed by the uncertainty of whether their ride would still be there waiting for them. Then it was the combination of surprise and joy, as they either recognized a friendly face within the crowd, or heard their names called out at ear-splitting volumes. Then smiles grew wide, bags were dropped, and they willingly fell into the embrace of reunited friends and loved ones.

It was hell for Hermione, as she feared that it literally would be the customized hell that would be waiting for her…instead of a sulfur-fumed, orange-flamed cavern, she would be chained-down and forced to watch an eternal stream of joy-filled reunions within an airport arrival hall.

Harry, who had been gathering his own wool as he watched a child being held in her grandmother's arms for the first time, once again rescued his friend from her funk. He leaned towards her ear and whispered, "Hey, Hermione…how much do you want to bet that your reunion is just as happy?"

The teen-aged witch shook her head and scoffed at the idea.

"No, really," said Harry. "I'll bet you!"

A smile threatened to force itself upon Hermione's lips as she glanced back over her shoulder towards Ron. With his complete focus still on the menu board, she leaned her head towards Harry's and placed her lips close to his ear.

"If you can guarantee me that kind of happy reunion," she whispered, "I'll spend a day with you at the beach, and sunbathe nude!"

A breath caught in Harry's throat.

"Well, let's see," he whispered back. "I can't guarantee it, but it sure sounds like a fun bet…I suppose that if I lose, then I have to be the one that's on the beach naked?"

Hermione thought for a moment, then shook her head. "No…you'll just have to wear a pair of skimpy Speedos that I get to pick out."

"Oh, well that doesn't seem like a fair bet," Harry quipped.

"Did I mention that it's going to be a deserted beach if I lose, and a crowded public beach if I win?"

"Hmmm…no, you didn't," Harry whispered. He glanced back over his shoulder towards a still preoccupied Ron, then turned to his best friend and asked, "Just the two of us, then?"

Hermione rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Harry…his head would explode if I lost."

"Which one?"

Now that they were at the head of the order line, Hermione's response was limited to extending out her hand and asking, "Bet?"

Harry smiled, then (after glancing over his shoulder to ensure that Ron was still focused on the menu board) nodded in agreement and gave his best friend's hand a good squeeze.

Chicken burgers, wraps, and drinks were ordered, paid for, and presented in short order. Harry and Hermione weren't all that hungry, but it was close enough to lunch hour, and they wanted to get their stomachs adjusted to the local time.

Officer Davis took the three teens and their take-away back through a different doorway, and into the border patrol's staff area. After a few twists and turns down different hallways, they entered a small, glass-walled conference room. The Australian witch gestured towards the elongate wooden desk and office chairs, and invited the three teenagers to sit while she set up the presentation.

There was a large flat-screen television mounted against one of the two shorter, solid walls, with cords leading from the back of the screen down towards a cabinet of electronic video equipment. Officer Davis picked up a black remote control, pointed it towards the cabinet, and began pushing buttons.

"Hey, Hermione?" Ron asked. "How is this supposed to work?"

The Muggleborn witch spun around in the ergonomic office chair and sighed. Her magic-born friend had an unwrapped drinking straw in one hand, and a carbonated fountain drink in the other.

"Watch, and remember," she told Ron, as she pushed the plastic straw free of its paper. Pointing towards the incised "X" within the plastic cup cover, she stabbed the straw into the fizzy liquid and declared, "There will be a test."

Harry laughed as he unwrapped his chicken sandwich. "He'll score nothing less than "O's," so long as the test involves gaining access to food and drink."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Ron replied. He took a long sip from his drink, and then asked, "Is it still 'Make Fun of Ron Day' after we skipped all those time zones?"

Some not-quite-under-the-breath swearing from Officer Davis's lips turned their focus towards the Australian witch; thirty seconds of effort had failed to produce anything more than menus and language options on the blue screen video display.

"Sorry," she muttered.

"No worries," said Harry (making a bit of effort to speak locally).

Hermione giggled. "Speaking of tests to see if witches and wizards can blend into the Muggle world…"

"Can you imagine?" Agent Davis said with a sigh. "Not just for magicals, but if we tested everyone on arrival? Ah…here we go."

The Border Patrol officer told the three teens that she was going to step out during the presentation, but would return at the end. Then she pressed "Play," and left the room.

The video started with an introduction by two men: a burly, light-skinned man wearing a Muggle two-piece suit, and a much older, darker-skinned man with a long white hair and a white beard that would have had Dumbledore nodding in approval. That this man stood in front of the National Flag of Australia, while the other was in front of the Australian Aboriginal Flag, was a clue (at least to Hermione) that the presentation might be rather topsy-turvy.

"G'day, my name Harold Milfoil," said the man wearing the suit. "I am a wand-wielding honourable Member of Parliament, for Mallee, New South Wales. On behalf of the Australian government, I'd like to welcome you to our great country."

"My name is Geoff Mundine," the other man stated. "I am a wand-wielding Elder of the Gumatj clan of the Yolngu people. I extend my welcome on behalf of all of the Aboriginal peoples of Australia and the Torres Strait Islands."

The first wizard said, "The purpose of this video is to explain how the witches and wizards of Australia and the Torres Strait Islands go about meeting their obligations under the International Statute of Secrecy. It is important that you pay attention to the presented information, since you will be expected to comply with all local laws and magical practices during your visit."

"The fact that we are using electronic cameras to record this presentation about local magical practices might be your first clue that we go about things differently here," said the darker-skinned wizard. "At least when compared to many other parts of the world."

The burlier wizard nodded in agreement. "And if that wasn't enough, I am proud to note that I represent both magical and non-magical residents within my district. Moreover, I am currently the Shadow Minister for Magic, and a member of the Prime Minister's Cabinet."

"He is the Shadow Minister for Magic, even though he belongs to the majority party, because it is a secret position," the other man noted. He smiled, then added, "A different wizard holds that position within the minority party's shadow cabinet, which makes him the Shadow Shadow Minister for Magic."

"These internal politics aren't important for the foreign witch or wizard who is visiting our country," the first wizard declared. "The key point here is that Australia does not have stand-alone magical governments at the federal, state, or local levels. As Minister for Magic, I am the highest-ranking wizard within our federal government. And yet, I am but one minister within the cabinet, and I serve at the pleasure of a Prime Minister that lacks any magical abilities."

"A fact that is proven to every Australian on a fairly regular basis," the Aboriginal wizard quipped.

The Shadow Minister frowned.

"We will be removing that editorial comment from the final video presentation, right?" he asked.

"Of course we will," the grinning wizard replied, before turning towards the camera and giving them a big wink.

The governmental wizard nodded, cleared his throat, and said, "Right,then. Moving on…"

oo00OO00oo

The main part of the video presentation was a historical accounting of Australia's "One House" philosophy of co-existence that was central to magical Australia's laws and customs. It was essentially an extension of the practices and policies that were already in place when a small delegation of Aboriginal magic users journeyed to Paris to sign the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689 (their week-long series of apparition jumps occurring almost a century before the First Fleet of eleven Muggle ships took thirty-six weeks to make the reverse trip from Portsmouth to Botany Bay). Instead of forming magical communities that were isolated from the non-magical majority (to every extent possible), magic-wielding Aboriginals continued to live within their tribal communities (secreting the use of magic, rather than the magic user).

The first European witches and wizards who chose to make a life for themselves within Australia were quick to adopt this differing approach to the enforcement of the International Statute of Secrecy. They simply didn't have the numbers to go it alone and live apart from the other new arrivals. And neither they nor their magical brethren within the indigenous communities had any interest in joining forces to build a stand-alone magical society. And so the "One House" analogy was born…rather than have magical and non-magical families build separate houses next door to each other, the two families shared one big house that had separate bedrooms. The magical residents of this house would, for the most part, restrict their wand waving to the privacy of their own bedroom. The majority of their time would be spent in the shared common areas, where they would wash the dishes, and dust the sitting room the same way that their "normal" housemates would do those tasks. Magic use wasn't banned in these common areas, but you had to be really, really discrete about its use (to keep up the analogy, you could use magic to scrub the shared toilet, so long as the lavatory door was closed).

Taking a "One House" approach meant doing things mostly the way that the non-magical majority did them. Australian witches and wizards had their own floo network, but were just as likely to use a Muggle tram, or own a private car. Magical children advanced through the same educational system that everybody else did, and received their magical training through summer camps, after-school tutoring, and full-time post-secondary instruction. Magical Australia didn't have a separate currency or a separate banking system, or (as mentioned in the introduction) even a separate government. The only truly magical habitation was a government-financed gated senior community, where wizards and witches in their nineties went to live the rest of their magically-lengthened lives after they faked their own deaths within the "normal" world. A handful of uninhabited government-run magic reserves were located in the most isolated regions of the continent, where witches and wizards could openly carry wands and practice their magic. There were also a few private magical resorts, catering to magicals who wanted to "Go Full Magic" while on holiday. But most native witches and wizards didn't see a need to visit these areas, likening them to nudist colonies that were patronized by people who were "clothing optional" behind the closed doors of their own homes.

The video presentation ended with a series of skits that showed how visiting witches and wizards could avoid making a mess of things during their stay. The lessons on how to live like a "normal" person who lacked magic were surprisingly practical and well done, in Harry and Hermione's eyes. But all three of them benefited from the suggestions on how and where magic could be safely and effectively used.

Ron wondered how he was expected to remember all of these rules, and not use magic even though he was of age. Hermione suggested that he just imagine that they were all back under his mother's thumb, cleaning Grimmauld Place by hand rather than by wand. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry when Ron considered that to be an immensely helpful hint.

oo00OO00oo

The female border patrol officer returned to the conference room as promised and answered a few questions once the video presentation had ended. Hermione had more than a few questions, but the officer was pressed for time, so she recommended a magic-focused travel guide that could be purchased within a local magic-friendly bookstore (all magic-friendly shops and restaurants within Australia were discretely identified by a black top hat symbol that was posted in their storefront window).

Following up on one of the talking points within the video, Agent Davis pulled out a small bag of business cards and gave one card to each of the teens. She told them to ignore the fact that the printed address was for a delicatessen in Sydney. The telephone number was real, and would put them in contact with Australia's Magical Detection Office (MDO). Calling that number and telling the witch or wizard on the other side of the line where they were staying would keep the MDO from sending out an Obliviation Squad if they were casting spells within areas where magic was rarely cast. Failing to make that call, and causing that squad to be dispatched due to a false alarm, would result in a hefty fine.

Hermione wondered how common public telephone boxes were, given the popularity of mobile telephone service within the non-magical world. The officer said they could look for public phones in front of post offices and service stations, and within most bars. She further noted that every magic-friendly "black top hat" store or restaurant would allow a witch or wizard to call the MDO if they flashed their fake business cards.

Officer Davis next provided them with an Australian Ministry-approved list of healer and hospitals. Hermione thought that the older witch was anticipating their need to refill potion prescriptions, but there was a different reason to provide this information; the medical providers on the list were all approved sources for Ministry-required vaccinations. The main concern was a local variant of Wizard's Flu known as "Billabong Bollocks" (since it produced sterility in approximately 80% of infected wizards).

When asked if she could make an unofficial recommendation within the list of medical providers, Officer Davis pointed to a solo practice in Sydney. She said that this specific healer was very professional, offered reasonable rates, and always seemed to be able to offer same-day appointments (although she didn't know if the healer had expertise with memory blocks). Officer Davis even offered the three teens the use of her office floo, so that they could call the healer and check availability. They were told over the flames that there were indeed two immediate openings available, so they thanked the Border Patrol officer for her help and stepped into the floo connection, one at a time.

The receptionist that greeted the three teenagers on the other side led them to the waiting area in front of her desk and handed Ron and Harry new patient intake questionnaires. Hermione didn't need an appointment since the vaccination was only for adult wizards, and she hadn't binned any potions. She was told that she would have to ask the healer for a referral for a magical mental specialist.

As the two teen-aged wizards filled in the different blanks as best they could, Ron whined about the fact that they'd just wasted all that time flying on a Muggle plane from Sydney to Melbourne, only to need a few seconds' time to make the return trip by magical means. Hermione defended her choice of destination by reminding Ron that her intuition had suggested that she start her search in Victoria. She also reminded him that nobody had forced him to make the trip.

Harry almost said something when it looked like Ron was about to argue that point, but held his tongue.

The forms were completed and the authorizations were signed without Hermione succumbing to the urge to insist in reviewing and revising Ron and Harry's answers. The two boys were then shown into adjacent examination rooms, and instructed to swap out their clothing for white open-back robes.

Hermione was going to wait, until the receptionist informed her that Harry and Ron would be in those examination rooms for at least sixty minutes. Deciding that there were better uses of her time than reading out-of-date magazines, the Muggleborn witch asked for the name of a shared floo access point in Melbourne, then headed off to do some research.

oo00OO00oo

The lime green robe-wearing healer had a rather down-to-earth disposition that reminded Harry more of Pomona Sprout than Poppy Pomfrey. She walked into his examination room with his completed paperwork in one hand, and a cup of steaming liquid in the other.

"Good morning, Mister…Potter?" she asked, reading his name off of the clipboard.

The Healer's gaze rose inexorably up off the clipboard and zeroed in on her patient's forehead. She blushed a bit when she spotted the fading scar and confirmed her patient's identify. And she blushed a bit more when she realized that her patient had caught staring.

"My apologies, Mr. Potter," the Healer said, as she placed the steaming brew down onto a counter top and closed the examination room door. "Of course there has to be more than one Harry Potter in the world, but when you identify the Hogwarts matron as your primary care healer, and list your parents' names as James and Lily Potter…"

"That's alright, Ma'am…I'm used to it by now."

"No excuse on my part, Mr. Potter, and please don't call me Ma'am…that makes me sound so old and matron-like."

"Fair enough, Healer…"

"Healer Dunn, Mr. Potter."

"Please, it's Harry," the teenager said. "Dare I ask whether everyone in this country will have the same first reaction?"

"Most folks within the Australian magical community won't know you by name," the Healer replied. "There were a few families like mine who emigrated here during Voldemort's first reign of terror. More arrived over the past two years, and some of those families were steered in my direction for the vaccine…which does allows time for updates on the Old Country…oh, right!"

"What's that?" Harry asked (now recognizing the Healer's residual British accent).

"I need to stop rambling, and you need to be vaccinated straight off," the Healer stated. "The protocols require forty-five minutes of monitoring after taking the potion."

"Any particular reason why?"

"Just need to treat the occasional side-effect or three," the Healer replied. "Easier to deal with lost toe nails while you're still in the office."

"Oh…any other potential side effects that I should be aware of?"

The Healer pulled a pamphlet out of her robe pocket and handed it to her patient.

"It's all here…nothing too horrible, and nothing that can't be fixed with a spell or potion."

Harry's eyes widened as he looked at all of the different potential side-effects.

"Is this vaccination really necessary?"

"It is if you ever want to have kids," the Healer stated. "It's also a government requirement for all post-pubescent wizards to be vaccinated against this disease…I can't force you to take the potion, but I'm required to immediately notify the Border Patrol Service if you choose not to take it. They'd pick you up and escort you out of the country before you had the chance to leave my office."

"That much of a risk?"

"Absolutely," the Healer stated "Billabong Bollocks is ridiculously easy to transmit by coughing or sneezing, and the sterility numbers are well-established…you'd face greater than three in four odds of killing off all of your little swimmers."

"And the government is that concerned about my ability to have kids?"

"It's not you that they're worrying over…it's the whole bloody country," the Healer said rather sharply. "It took more than a year's time to develop the vaccine after the first outbreak was recognized…by that point the damage was already done."

"How bad was it?"

The Healer sighed. "Approximately thirty-eight percent of all Australian wizards are casting blanks," she stated. "An additional twenty percent have sperm counts low enough to make their odds of becoming a biological father remote."

"More than half? Damn!" Harry hissed.

"Quite," said the Healer. "The government is really worried about the long-term survival of Australia's magical community…but look on the bright side!"

"There's a bright side?" Harry wondered.

"At least now we have a vaccine, and it's provided at no cost to you."

"Ah, so…sounds like I've got a potion to take."

"Excellent!" the healer replied, as she handed her patient the still-smoking cup.

"All of it?"

"Yes, all of it."

"Is it going to taste awful?"

"Is there a medicinal potion out there that doesn't?"

"Right…figured as much."

Harry's ability to chug the disgusting brew without a break or complaint impressed the hell out of the Healer. She placed the empty cup back onto a side table, then glanced at her wrist watch.

"Brilliant…you still have fifty-two minutes of my undivided attention."

"What's that?" Harry asked. "You aren't going to step out and see another patient, or something?"

"Heavens, no," the lime-green clad witch replied. "That wouldn't be very professional of me…and what are the chances that you'd experience an acute side-effect just as soon as I walked out the door?"

"Near-hundred percent, as long as I'm your patient."

"There you go, then," Healer Dunn declared. She patted Harry's knee with one hand, and used the other to fish a second pamphlet out of her robe pockets.

"So now we need to discuss a completely optional health survey," she said, handing Harry the pamphlet. "The government has initiated a long-term study that monitors local and regional trends in reproductive health issues."

"Is this related to the vaccine that I just took?" Harry asked, as he skimmed through the pamphlet.

"It is, actually," said the Healer. "I've already given you the percentages…after the Billabong outbreak, there's been understandable concern regarding our magical community's ability to sustain itself."

"I see," said Harry. "So this survey involves…."

"It is a longitudinal assessment of male fertility rates," the Healer explained.

"Sounds like you're tracking sperm counts in Australian wizards."

"That's exactly what we're doing."

"What does this have to do with wizards who aren't Australian?"

"We need external baseline points of comparison," the Healer said. "In addition, before and after samples obtained from vaccinated wizards who are only within the country for a short period of time can be used as a control for other environmental variables."

"So…what exactly would I need to do?"

"All you'd need to do is produce a sample. Shouldn't take that long, and since you are basically stuck here for the next forty-five minutes or so…"

"You want me to…produce…a semen sample?" Harry asked.

"It would, of course, be a completely anonymous submission," the Healer continued. "Nothing to tie you or your name to the sample or sample result, and all of the sample material would be incinerated once the analyses were completed."

Harry winced. "I don't know…I mean, it's not like I don't want to help, but…"

"Did I mention that you'd be compensated for your participation in the study?"

Harry shook his head, as his thoughts drifted towards their limited travel budget, and to the potions that he'd been forced to discard.

He chewed on his lower lip a bit, then asked, "What kind of compensation are we talking about?"

"Two-hundred fifty Australian dollars for the first sample," the Healer replied. "If you stay in country for at least two weeks and provide a second sample before you depart, it's two-fifty for that one as well."

Harry let out a deep breath as he thought about the offer. Access to his Gringott's accounts was still blocked while lawyers and goblins disputed dragon damages. All three of them were due significant cash awards tied to their Orders of Merlin, but they wouldn't be paid out until the Ministry of Magic got back up on its feet and got its finances in order. So the money simply hadn't been there to search for Hermione's parents…until Harry had the bright idea of selling most of Grimmauld Place's uncharmed furniture to a Muggle antique dealer. That windfall had been big enough to purchase three round-trip airplane tickets and finance a month of budget travel once they were in Australia. But it was a really tight budget, and it didn't allow for unanticipated medical expenses.

He briefly considered just going without his potions, but was smart enough to know that Hermione would insist on sleeping in the streets in order to replace what had been lost.

"Can I…get something from my trouser pocket?" Harry finally asked, pointing towards his folded pile of street clothes.

The teenaged wizard hopped off the end of the examination table and walked over to his clothes pile, with one hand firmly gripping the back of his robes together. He retrieved the list that he'd written out at the airport, and handed it to the Healer on his way back to the table.

"That's all of the potions that I've been taking over the past couple of weeks," he told her. "It's also a list of what I had to dump this morning, before clearing customs in Melbourne."

"Why did you need to….?"

Harry shook his head. "Because my school nurse didn't bother to write out a prescription for potions that she either supplied or brewed herself?"

"No, Mr. Potter," the Healer replied. "I was going to ask why you needed to take this many potions, and in these dosages."

The teen-aged warrior snorted. "I thought you kept up on what's been happening back in Britain."

"Right…were you looking to have all of these replaced, then?"

"Yeah, I was…any idea how much that would cost me?"

The Healer did some quick mental math.

"How long were you planning to be here?"

"Let's assume four weeks."

"Well, then…a four week supply for someone who doesn't qualify for the government subsidy…roughly two hundred and thirty dollars."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You aren't jacking up the prices, just to get them close to the wanker's reward, are you?"

"Close to a wanker's what?" the Healer asked. "Oh, right…the answer is no. That total actually includes a new patient discount for the potions that we brew in-house."

Her new patient let out a deep breath.

"Alright, then…sign me up."

"You do realize that I can't just write out these prescriptions without at least some understanding of why they are needed?"

"How much observation time is left?"

It was the Healer's turn to let out a deep breath. "You actually did a fairly good job identifying your symptoms in the questionnaire. We should be good…assuming that it takes you the normal amount of time for a teenager to provide a sample."

Harry laughed. "Is there some kind of minimum volume requirement?"

"No, there isn't a minimum…well, actually there is, but at your age it won't be an issue, unless you've…erm…produced a sample within the past hour or two?"

Her blushing patient shook his head.

"Excellent," the Healer said. She walked over to a bank of cabinets, opened one of the drawers, and pulled out a new set of forms and a capped porcelain cup that was slightly smaller than a coffee mug.

"I can fill out all of these while you go about your business," she stated. "It's a very simple process…no muss, no fuss."

The Healer held the covered cup in front of her, then pushed her index finger straight through the cap. The porcelain cup immediately shrank down, creating a snug fit around the finger.

"It's a charmed semi-permeable barrier, combined with a sized-right grip that will expand or contract as needed," she explained. "Adjusts to fit any size erection, and provides a very vigorous level of suction and stimulation. Once you slip it over the head, you just lie back and let the collector do the work."

"Sounds more like a milking machine," Harry quipped.

The Healer laughed. "I suppose that isn't an unfair comparison." She pointed to a red dot on the bottom of the cup and identified it as the emergency release button; while the collector would automatically return to its original size once a sample was produced, the emergency release was to be used in case the device needed to be removed before that point. The Healer then demonstrated how the emergency button worked by retrieving her finger.

"That's it, then?" Harry asked, as she handed him the cup.

"Yes, it should be…oh, right…," the Healer said, as she walked over to the counter and pulled open a drawer. Grabbing a stack of pornographic magazines, she asked, "Would you like some visual aids? It helps some patients move things along…I've got both straight and gay to select from…"

Harry's cheeks reddened as he looked down and shook his head.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, Mr. Potter," the Healer said. She brought the stack of porn over to the examination table and slipped it underneath the paper-covered pillow. "I'll leave these here, just in case."

Harry nodded.

"Alright then," the Healer said, "just need to do a quick check for side effects….ten finger nails, ten toe nails, ear lobes aren't resting on your shoulders yet…I think that you're good to go. I'll be right over there at the desk if you need me…"

"You mean…you aren't going to step outside?" Harry nervously asked.

"I'm sorry, I can't," the Healer said sympathetically. "It would create a bit of an issue if I ran into myself out there."

"Ran into yourself…time turner?" Harry asked.

The Healer shushed him, and placed a finger over her lips.

"Is that why we didn't have to wait for an appointment?" Harry asked.

"Why Mr. Potter, I have no idea what you are talking about!" the witch said with fake concern.

"Right," her patient replied. "Well…this isn't going to work, if you think that I'm going to…with you still here…"

"Please, Mr. Potter…what are you suggesting?" the Healer asked. A smile formed on her lips as she pointed her wand towards the ceiling and called for a set of curtains to slowly drop down around the examination table.

"These drapes are soundproof, if you're worried about me hearing you," she explained. "That means you'll have to lift them up once you're done…I won't know otherwise…it's the same if you need help, or start losing fingernails while the cup is working…"

Harry just shook his head in disbelief as the curtains reached the floor and cut off the Healer's instructions. He waited a full minute, in case she popped in to tell him something else that she'd forgotten. But the curtains stayed down, and the external sounds stayed out.

"Hermione, you really owe me one," Harry said out loud. He lifted the hem of his robe, applied the collector device as directed, and leaned back onto the table. As the vibrations kicked in, he closed his eyes, and added, "You'll just have to trust me when I'm too embarrassed to explain why."

oo00OO00oo

Once the work was done and the curtains were raised, the Healer treated her raven-haired patient with kid gloves over the balance of the hour. A dedicated secure floo connection was used to send the sample directly off for analysis. An envelope containing both test results and cash came back from that laboratory facility just before the Healer's time-turned hour had elapsed. She congratulated Harry, telling him that his sperm count was well within the normal range for a healthy teen-aged wizard. In addition, his little swimmers were strong swimmers, and would be more than up to the task of fertilization when it came time for Harry to start a family.

Harry and the Healer had used the brief period of time in between the curtain raising and cash payment to discuss his war-related health issues. He was initially reluctant to talk about all that had happened, but the Healer was good at her job, and was eventually able to coax out some of the reasons behind his need for sleeping potions, and anti-anxiety potions, and a potion that mitigated the effects of Cruciatus exposure. It wasn't that she couldn't have figured that out all on her own with a series of diagnostic scans…it was more the fact that she wanted Harry to at least begin talking about and processing what had happened.

The Healer quickly realized that her patient was presenting symptoms that were consistent with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Harry resisted her diagnosis, until she took the time to explain both the symptoms and the potential negative outcomes. The healer admitted that she wasn't an expert on diagnosing and treating PTSD, but she did know someone who was…a wizard who was cross-trained as a healer/physician, and that worked with the Australian Auror Corps. Harry reminder her that he was just visiting the country, and that he didn't know where he'd be or how long he would be staying. The Healer understood, but still pressed the issue. She gave Harry the other Healer's contact information, and insisted that he give him a ring…at the very least he might know someone back in Britain who could help him upon his return.

When the alarm chime on the Healer's wrist watch went off, she smiled, pronounced Harry past the danger zone for vaccine-related side-effects, and shook his hand. She then headed off to prepare his prescriptions, instructing him to return to the waiting room once he dressed.

oo00OO00oo

Harry almost bumped into Ron as they both exited from their respective examination rooms at the same time. The red-haired wizard waggled his eyebrows and asked, "So was it good for you too, Mate?"

"Shut the hell up!" Harry whispered harshly.

"What?" Ron asked.

Harry held up a finger, urging his friend to stand still and stay quiet. He snuck down the short hallway and looked up at the convex mirror that hung over the blind intersection. Not seeing anyone within the intersecting hallway, he tip-toed back towards Ron and hissed, "Don't you dare say a word about any optional surveys and sample collections to Hermione!"

"Why not?" the other teen asked.

"Because she's going to feel guilty that we went through that, just so that we could help her find her parents."

"But it wasn't like it hurt, or anything," Ron replied. "I almost asked if she wanted me to whip up a second sample!"

"Just…don't!" Harry insisted.

Ron thought for a moment, then snorted. "So what's this really about, then?"

"Nothing more than what I said…if I hadn't traveled with Hermione, then I wouldn't have needed to pay for replacement potions, or had to worry about how much money we'll have to search for her parents."

"Oh," said Ron. "So…are you saying that we can't blow the toss money on a night on the town?"

"I've already spent my money on those potions," Harry hissed.

"Okay, then…well if we can't tell Hermione how I got my money, then we can't add it to the travel budget, right?"

Harry sighed, seeing where the conversation was going.

"No, we can't. I'll have to claim that the potions were free under some national health program, or some such. And you'll have to keep your cash it in your wallet as an emergency stash."

"So we can't just 'find' it on the sidewalk or something?"

"No," Harry decided. "Now let's head back to the waiting room before Hermione gets suspicious."

As it turned out, the bushy-haired teenager wasn't waiting for them in the waiting room. Once the receptionist told the two teens that their friend had left to run a few errands, they rummaged through the magazine collection and took a seat.

It didn't take Ron much time to revisit the earlier discussion topic. Using an opened magazine to block the receptionist's view of his face, he leaned towards Harry and whispered, "So what was your score?"

Harry turned towards his friend and hissed, "What?"

"Your sperm count, Mate. How big is it?"

"Are we playing mine's bigger than yours?"

"No, of course not," said Ron. "Just curious."

Harry rolled his eyes. "She didn't give me an actual number. Just said that it's good enough to get the job done."

"That's all?" Ron asked. "Interesting."

"How so?"

"Mine was so high that she had me practicing the contraception charm," Ron boasted.

"Good on you, Mate," Harry said half-enthusiastically.

"Guess it makes sense, given how big my family is," Ron noted.

Harry shrugged, and nodded his head as he returned his attention to his selected magazine.

Ron did his best to hide how great he was feeling at that moment. His best wasn't very good.

His friend eventually looked up and sighed.

"You know you can't tell Hermione, right?" Harry asked.

"Of course I know!"

"And you know that she's going to ask why you're obviously so damn proud of yourself?"

"Really?" Ron asked. "I'm trying not to show it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Right then, when she gets back, we'll explain that the crazy-arse grin on your face is one of the lingering side-effects of the vaccination."

"But you're not smiling?"

"So it's a side effect that not everyone gets?" Harry replied.

"Hmm…guess that works," Ron decided.

That the excuse wasn't immediately necessary when Hermione stepped out of the office floo connection said far more about her emotional state than Ron's.

Harry was quick to notice her brave face, and asked, "What's wrong?"

The watery-eyed Muggleborn glanced towards the receptionist, then pulled her two friends towards the far corner of the waiting room. She gratefully accepted the handkerchief that Harry offered, and with her back turned towards the other witch, explained where she had been.

Melbourne's most popular floo destination was the Traveller's Aid Office that sat inside Flinders Street Station (the largest and busiest train station within the city). That floo connection was located within a separate room that catered to magical travelers, and was staffed by someone that knew about magic and could help the arriving witch or wizard with their questions or needs. There was a computer work station in that room that offered free internet access, and Hermione had used that internet connection to do a few simple searches.

One search identified a Roger Granger and Emily Granger that shared a street address within an upscale suburb of Melbourne. A second search provided a shared telephone number at that address.

It had taken Hermione most of her time away from the Healer's office to summon up enough Gryffindor courage to use the Traveller's Aid Office's telephone to ring that number….

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this the Granger residence?"

"Yes it is….Oh! Is that…HERMIONE?"

(click)

Hermione hadn't actually heard that last shout, as she had slammed the handset down onto its cradle just as soon as she had recognized her mother's voice.

Ron thought it was fabulous that they had located Hermione's parents so quickly, and asked if the Traveller's Aid Office could help them book next-day return flights to London. Harry displayed more than a teaspoon of empathy, and wrapped his best friend into a hug. He shushed her tearful apologizes, and once again assured Hermione that her parents would understand, and wouldn't hate her for what she had needed to do to ensure their safety.

The receptionist called out Harry's name a few minutes later, and let him know that his prescription order was ready. The large collection of capped vials and stoppered bottles was sitting on a side table, along with the corresponding prescriptions and instructions. While none of the containers would have looked out of place within a Muggle bathroom cabinet, the collective volume was large enough to warrant storage within Harry's shrunk-down trunk. The act of organizing those containers within Harry's trunk and cross-checking against the prescription list did a lot to help Hermione bring her emotions under control.

With everything packed away and all three teenagers finally ready to venture out into fresh air, Harry asked Hermione if she still wanted to spend the night at a Melbourne hostel. He figured that it would be just as easy to find someplace to stay in Sydney (or any other Australian city that was connected to the floo network). The Muggleborn witch shook her head, and said that before calling her parents she checked on room availability at the Nunnery. There were spaces available, and Hermione wasn't about to let an opportunity to prank Molly Weasley pass by.

Ron asked how booking a place to stay would prank his mum.

Hermione asked what Molly might think when she received a postcard from her son stating that he'd spent a night inside a nunnery.

Harry asked if either Hermione or Ron knew whether howlers could be sent internationally.

oo00OO00oo

Traveller's Aid Office
Flinders Street Station, Melbourne

The female squib that was staffing the magic room desk within the Aid Office looked up from her crossword puzzle and gave Hermione a friendly wave when she stepped out of the floo. The welcome that she gave to the teen-aged wizards that followed behind Hermione was far more enthusiastic. She had so many questions about who they were, and where they were from, and if they had been vaccinated, and how she might make their stay within Melbourne more memorable. Harry might have passed off the woman's exuberance as gossip mining, but couldn't shake the feeling that Ron and he had just been tagged as fresh meat.

The three teens quickly left that room, through a door that was marked with the "One House" symbol that symbolized the common area shared by magical and non-magical on the other side. There were a handful of other travelers in the main room of the Aid Office, looking for help finding places to stay or sights to see. Hermione pulled a free city map out of her rucksack pocket, and showed Harry and Ron that she had already marked their half-hour long walk from the station to their hostel. Harry asked what the two "M's" marked along the route stood for, and congratulated Hermione on her foresight (once she identified them as the home of golden arches).

The-Boy-Who-Won laughed out loud when the three teens walked out of the Aid Office and into the station proper. When Hermione asked Harry what was so funny, he pointed towards the track numbers marked on either side of the Aid Office, and asked if they were expected to think it mere coincidence that the station's floo connection was located in between platforms 9 and 10. Hermione just shook her head as she led the two teen-aged wizards into the station's domed foyer.

Sunshine filtering in through four large stained-glass arched windows cast the area beneath the Flinders Street Station's copper dome in warm yellow colors. The main entrance on the far side of this expansive tiled area opened to the street, with people passing into and out of the station underneath an iconic set of clocks that marked train arrival times.

It was the early afternoon of the first Friday of the Australian winter month of July, and Melbourne's cool but comfortable temperatures were being carried into the domed area through the wide open entrance. As they walked past an open-air flower stall, Ron wondered out loud about what kind of winter it really was when cut flowers could be sold out in the open by vendors who didn't need to wear a jacket. Hermione reminded him that winters were different at latitudes lower than Scotland's, pointed towards the jackets and scarves that some of the locals were wearing. That led Ron to question the cold-weather heartiness of the locals, which in turn led Harry to remind Ron that people who lived in heat-charmed glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

Ron, of course, didn't get the reference.

The wide stairs that led from the station down to street level were, according to Hermione's guide book, almost as famous as the clocks that hung over the entrance. Moving from the relatively quiet station out into a vibrant, chaotic street scene filled with cars and trams and people drove Harry's senses back into full-blown threat assessment mode. His eyes darted from one side to the other as the three teens stood at the top of the stairs. He was looking for a hint or hidden wand, or for out-of-place clothing worn by people who themselves seemed out-of-place…any clue that might reveal a Death Eater in disguise. The wizard-specific search criteria initially carried his piercing gaze past the tall, curly haired man who was checking his smart phone at the base of the stairs. But there was no missing this man's fish-out-of-water appearance a few seconds later, as he stared directly at Hermione with saucer-sized eyes.

It was the way the man was chewing on his lower lip that allowed Harry to make the connection, and to lower his guard.

"Hermione?" the man called out tentatively.

She turned towards the voice, froze for a second like a deer in the headlights, then (like a deer) turned tail and fled back towards the station…only to collide head-on under the clocks with a parent coming from the other direction.

That parent, who had just used the station's washroom, wrapped her arms around her little girl and joyfully shouted out her little girl's name.

The echo within the cavernous domed area was impressive.

"HERMIONE!"

The flower seller looked up and smiled, as yet another teary-eyed reunion took place on the steps of the Flinders Street Station.

Harry and Ron had also turned towards mother and daughter, allowing the father to walk up behind them and place a hand on their shoulders.

"You boys aren't thinking of trying to disappear on us as well, are you?"

Harry shook his head and smiled.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Granger."

"No problems with your memory, then?"

"No, Sir," Harry replied. "We met in Diagon Alley, school shopping before second year."

"The year we had to buy all of that foppish fraud's books, wasn't it?"

Ron laughed at the description.

"How did you know we were here?" Harry asked.

"Hermione called from Traveller's Aid, and we've got caller ID," Roger explained.

Ron frowned at that cryptic explanation, while Hermione's father stepped forward to get his own Hermy Hug.

Mrs. Granger used that opportunity to rush over and pull Harry and Ron into their own awkward three-way embrace.

"Thank you for giving us back our daughter," the woman sobbed.

Harry reached up and gave Hermione's mother a pat on the back. He shook his head and said, "No, Ma'am…we're the ones that should be thanking you…thanking you for letting your daughter go back to Britain in the first place."

The fit middle-aged woman spun the three-way hug around, and opened it up that they were now facing her husband and daughter. She looked up at Harry and asked, "So you knew, then?"

"Knew that Hermione never altered your memories?"

Emily Granger nodded.

"Just figured it out, actually," Harry replied. "She had someone alter hers, then?"

Hermione's mother nodded.

"We got a letter in the regular mail last July, from a wizard named Alastor Moody," she explained. "She asked him to do it. He was going to restore her memories after the troubles ended, so I gather that he didn't…?"

"No, he didn't," Ron muttered. "A lot of good people didn't survive."

Emily nodded. "There was a letter within that letter as back-up…it's sitting back home on our fireplace mantle, waiting for Hermione. Written by Hermione, for that matter."

"She might still be able to have her memories restored," said Ron.

"Might be better off if they weren't," Hermione's mother sighed. "Still…water under the bridge, and all that?"

"Yes, Ma'am, lots of dots to connect," said Harry. He waved towards Hermione and her father and asked, "Maybe we should go someplace where we can talk freely?"

Emily Granger looked around the station, and out towards the station's steps, and noticed a lot of disaffected teens and earbud-wearing, mobile phone-staring adults. She laughed, and asked, "Do you think anyone would really notice if we talked freely here?"

Harry performed his own perimeter scan, and conceded the point…maybe this "One House" approach to keeping magic secret really wasn't really going to be all that hard?

Roger and Emily loved the nunnery joke, but still insisted that the three teens stay with them in their new home in the Melbourne suburbs. Hermione's mum also insisted that Ron ride in the front passenger seat on the drive home, since he had the longest legs. Having Hermione sit in the middle of the rear bench gave her mum more opportunities to hug her daughter. It also gave Harry the one opportunity that he needed to whisper into Hermione's ear, and remind her that she'd just lost a bet.

The bushy-haired teen kissed Harry on the cheek and said, "Lucky me!"

She playfully refused to elaborate upon that statement, leading Harry to wonder whether she was talking more about paying off the lost bet than about her parent's reaction.

oo00OO00oo

Garema Arcade
Canberra, Australian Capital Territory

Carolyn Umbridge was a frumpy fifty seven-year old witch that ate lunch at a popular Muggle café often enough for the Muggle waitress to thank her by name as she dropped off the check. She was also enough of a regular to know the total amount on that check without looking. That meant that she would need her Muggle credit card to pay the bill, since she'd forgotten to stop by the Muggle ATM to get Muggle cash from her Muggle bank account. So she gave the Muggle waitress her Muggle card, then used a Muggle ball-point pen to sign a Muggle charge slip that was printed on Muggle paper.

The great majority of native-born witches and wizards within Australia didn't use the term "Muggle," and wouldn't have applied this kind of mental labeling to the everyday objects and experiences within their day-to-day life. And if they did winnow, it wouldn't be between what was "normal" and what was "Muggle." It would be exactly the opposite, with the non-magical being their "norm."

Those kinds of witches and wizards, in Carolyn Umbridge's opinion, didn't deserve their magic.

The plain-looking witch was one of those rare native Australians who wanted governmental policy to shift closer to the way things were done in England, where Carolyn's cousin lived. The kind of place where children sat for OWLs and NEWTs, witches and wizards lived in proper magical communities, and where the government was run by proper witches and wizards that had proper blood purity and proper skin tones. Carolyn and some similarly disgruntled witches and wizards belonged to a secret group…a secret group that held secret meetings where they dreamed up secret schemes, and yearned for a game-changing crisis from which great opportunity could arise.

Billabong Bollocks was the crisis that they had been waiting for, with the potential to help shift the demographics of the Australian magical community in a favorable (i.e. elitist and racist) direction. And Carolyn Umbridge and her friends/co-conspirators were in a position to tilt the playing field, which was why her pulse had been racing throughout her meal. She was a governmental employee, and using her position to secretly promote her racist viewpoints would (if revealed) result in both her sacking and some jail time. So she (and those who thought like her) had to be sneaky about it, and employ methods that were right out of a Muggle spy novel.

Methods like secret signals and dead-drops.

There had been an extra chalk mark on the chalkboard easel that sat just outside of the café's doors. It was just a small mark in the corner of the board…nothing that anybody else would have taken note of (not even the waitress who would wash the board clean the next morning to write out that day's specials). Carolyn had spotted the mark, and had wanted to immediately proceed to the dead-drop location to retrieve the secret message. But she was a proper pseudo-spy who knew that she shouldn't break from routine. So she entered the café, ordered her usual meal, and paid for it using her Muggle charge card. And then she decided that she really didn't need her copy of the charge slip, so on the return walk to her office, she tossed it towards a city-owned rubbish bin.

She missed, and sent the balled-up receipt into the adjacent foliage. As she rummaged through the foliage to retrieve her misplaced trash, she did her civic duty and picked up an additional piece of litter.

That additional piece of "litter" wasn't properly disposed of until after the middle-aged witch had returned to her governmental office and visited the ladies room.

Hidden behind a locked stall door, the witch read what had been written on that extra piece of litter while she emptied her bladder:

"250-95-4-92"

The numbers were unbelievable…at least if you knew that they were associated with a semen analysis.

- Two-hundred and fifty million sperm cells per milliliter, when the average range for still-fertile Australian wizards was ten to thirty million.

- Ninety-five percent of the little swimmers actually swimming, when fifty percent was more the norm.

- Four on the zero-to-four scale that measured "quality of movement," which meant that the sperm cells not only could swam in the right direction, but could do so at a record pace.

- And 92 on the 100 point scale of morphology; so they were damn-fine looking sperm, with the streamlined profile needed to get where they needed to go.

The middle-aged witch looked at the message a second time, just to make sure that she hadn't misplaced a decimal place. Then she tossed the slip of paper into the toilet bowl, weighed it down with several pieces of bog paper, and flushed it away.

Umbridge mulled over the numbers as she washed her hands, then returned to her office. This was Superman-quality spunk…the kind of ejaculate that could get a witch pregnant just by some heavy petting. All they needed was for this semen to have sprung forth from the right kind of penis…a white, Pureblood penis, to be exact. Preferably English or of English heritage, and uncircumcised.

It was unlikely that the person who had risked their career to give Umbridge this message knew these other details. For security purposes she didn't know who this person was, or what they did. But she imagined that they worked in the governmental laboratory that analyzed the quality of all magical sperm samples collected within Australia. And while this collaborator might have access to all of the test numbers, strict secrecy and non-discriminatory protocols would prevent this person from knowing which wizard had produced any given semen sample.

Carolyn's best guess was that the super semen sample was from a wizard who was new to the system; either from a native teen whose balls had just dropped, or from a foreign wizard that had recently entered the country and volunteered to participate in the government's sperm survey. She wasn't in a position to track which pimply-faced boy had just tossed his first one off in a healer's office. But her position as a policy analyst within the magical division of the Customs and Border Patrol Service could help on the foreign arrivals side. As long as she was willing to risk everything to do her part for the cause.

She was.

There was a computer-printed list within Carolyn Umbridge's purse when she left the office that evening. On that list were the names of twenty-seven foreign wizards who had entered the country through a controlled border point over the previous twenty-four hours. Twenty had arrived using magical means of transport; the other seven had flown into the country on a Muggle airplane. All had (presumably) received the vaccine, but there was no way to tell how many had volunteered to submit a semen sample for the longitudinal study.

Some of the names on this list obviously didn't belong to the right kind of wizard. But it was important for their cause to identify the source, even if they were from an "undesirable" ethnic group (it wasn't too far-fetched to imagine that the witches and wizards within these communities were searching for their own super-sperm donor who could single-handedly boost their head counts). It wasn't for Umbridge to decide whom to pursue, or what to do once the super sperm donor was identified. That decision would be made further down the chain, at least one or two persons removed from whoever would be receiving this list of names as their own dead-dropped message, later that evening.

That dead-drop might well end Carolyn's involvement within this particular scheme. Unless, of course, she was given this super sperm producer's name and location, and asked to take on a new mission for the cause…a mission that might require nine months to gestate.

oo00OO00oo

A/N #2: The sun actually shined down on the fresh snow this afternoon, allowing for some much-needed natural light therapy. Whether the muse keeps me focused on this new story (or turns me back to B4B) might depend on the efficacy of that sunshine.

This story could probably use a good Aussie-pick, if someone is inclined to point out where my internet research has failed me. It is also un-beta'ed at the moment.