CHAPTER 1

THAT GIRL WAS NOT THIS GIRL

There are few places anywhere that bear witness to the entire spectrum of human emotions. Usually, a place invokes a general feel: happiness or sadness, rage or disgust, bubbly, giggly elation or deep introspection and people tend to follow the status quo. Also, places have a 'type' of person who go to them, generally. Some people like the cinema, some people never go at all. Some people visit the newsagents to pick up the paper each morning, others sit in a coffee shop with their laptop and digest the world's goings on there. Somebody's idea of heaven is another's idea of hell. Human beings like continuity and patterns, there is safety in the familiarity of life spent doing what they always do.

But sometimes life changes. And the biggest of life's changes are recorded at the Registry Office: births, deaths, marriages and civil partnerships.

Ron Weasley had always considered it a privilege to work in a place where the most important things in life were noted. He liked the fact that everyone was equal when they came for an appointment with him. Social status, wealth, none of that mattered; everyone sat in the waiting area, cheek by jowl, waiting to tell him their plans, their joy, their despair. And no one could avoid it. Which meant he got to meet all sorts of people, every day. He cheered with them, he laughed with them and, more often than he cared to admit, he cried with them. Every story he heard was prized in its own way, each person brought theirs to him and it was his job to make it official. As a rule, Ron's was quite a happy job. He rarely met with two people who weren't excited about getting married for example. People loved bringing their babies to register the birth. Deaths were different of course. There would often be a lot of tears, disbelief, worry. Sometimes people were glad. Their loved one had been spared the suffering of a long illness following a terminal diagnosis perhaps. Or maybe they had had a long, content life and it was considered the natural order of things that they go. That was Ron's favourite death to record, if he had to record them at all. And this was what he was doing on a drizzly Thursday morning with Mrs. Alderdyce.

Strictly a Registry Office shouldn't have regulars but somehow Mrs. Alderdyce had become theirs. She had a lot of elderly friends in the area, many of whom lost spouses and required her stoic support. She had five granddaughters, who were slowly getting wed, and great grandchildren were being born at an alarming rate. Sometimes she didn't have a real reason to come into the office at all and Ron would dander in to find her propped on booth three talking to Meda, cup of tea in hand. "Nothing to report!" she would holler, waving a finger of shortbread, sugar shedding on the carpet. She carried a huge, ancient, black leather bag that drooped off one arm and it was a veritable treasure trove of curiosities. Whomever 'got Mrs. Alderdyce' in any given day had a duty to report back if they had seen anything peeking out. In his time knowing her, Ron had seen the hood ornament from a BMW, a small wheel of cheese, a Walkman that played cassettes, various lengths of ribbon and a gilt-framed photo of the Queen. "Only the most special get a frame", she told him, patting it gently.

Today, Mrs. Alderdyce had brought in Mrs. Harwin, whose husband had recently passed away. Mrs. Alderdyce had a fondness for sartorial wildness and, on any one day, could be sporting feathers, crushed velvet, fuchsia pink. Jeremy swore that on one visit she was wearing a bowtie. However, registering deaths was a serious business and as such, she stuck to a muted palette. Her black wool coat was long enough to display only two inches of black, tiered skirt and her mottled grey hair was pulled back from her face in a fat bun at the nape of her neck. Very Whistler's mother. Mrs. Harwin looked like she hadn't got the memo on dressing the part and wore navy trousers and a short camel peacoat, buttoned to her chin.

"A terrible business pmoaneeah", Mrs. Alderdyce was saying as Mrs. Harwin read through the documents that Ron had prepared, sounding out the P sharply, "Sam had THE most awful cough didn't he Barb?" Mrs. Harwin nodded mutely.

Ron slid her an electronic pad for her signature. "I'm very sorry about your husband Mrs. Harwin. Had he been sick for a long time?"

"Yes", she replied, signing and handing the pad back, "Terrible pains in his chest, couldn't get a breath. Wracked with coughing. It was a blessing... in the end". She looked at him with hopeful eyes.

Ron nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. "Of course. No one wants their loved one to suffer. And he was..." Quick check at the computer screen, "89. A great age. He must have had some stories to tell?"

Mrs. Harwin beamed back at him. "Oh yes. He led a great life, right 'til the end. Interested in so many things".

"They were easily the best dancers in the Wednesday tea dance", Mrs. Alderdyce proclaimed, patting Mrs. Harwin who shook her head bashfully. "You were Barb! Everyone said Sam had the most elegant stride. He looked like Fred Astaire! Mr. A wouldn't know a rumba from a kick up the arse!"

"He was a lovely dancer", Mrs. Harwin conceded, speaking to Ron again, and only slightly frowning at Mrs. Alderdyce's usage of the word 'arse'. "It was one of the first things I noticed about him. We met at a dance, you know that's where you met people back then. I was wearing a dress I had altered myself... it had been my sister's and I took it in and added little straps. A sweet little dress." Ron relaxed in his chair and rested his chin in his palm. He had heard thousands of these stories and he was ten minutes late on his next appointment, but he didn't mind. Sitting across from him was woman whose whole life had changed. Her life partner, with whom she had shared every trial and tribulation, was gone. He was never coming back, and she would continue to live on. Ron couldn't imagine what that was like. Her sorrow had earned her the right to tell him her precious memory of her most precious person.

"It was nearly the end of the night and I was so disappointed because I felt my dress had been wasted. There was no one there I would have stepped out with. And I had put my coat on to leave and then I saw him. He was dancing with another girl, it was a slow one. They played the slow ones at the end. And he moved so beautifully. Glided her round the floor. I couldn't stop watching him, although the floor was packed. Anyway, the song ended, and she went one way and he came mine. He said 'Are you leaving? We didn't get the chance to dance'. And he held out his hand."

Mrs. Harwin raised her hand in the air, palm up and stared at it. "We danced the last dance together." Ron felt his eyes prickling, a slow burn in his cheeks, and she glanced up at him. "Don't be sad son", she smiled at him, placing her hand over his where it rested on the desk, "We danced every one after that together too".

A loud trumpet from Mrs. Alderdyce and her hankie brought Ron back to the booth and into the here and now. As she was stuffing it back into her bag, she exposed a large framed photograph of Daniel O'Donnell. Noticing him looking at it she said, "Lovely boy Daniel. I bet he was glad he got married before his mother died. It would have given her such peace to know he was well looked after." And then, with a gimlet eye, "Isn't it time you were thinking of settling down Ronald?"

Ron returned Mrs. Harwin's smile, bent his head and began printing out her copies of the documents. "There's plenty of time for all that Mrs. A", he said, not meeting her gaze, "I'm only young".

"Pfffft. When I was your age I was married with a baby on each hip and one on the way. What age are you now? Forty?"

She was goading him now. "I'm thirty-two". He folded the pages neatly in half and slid them into a brown envelope which he passed across to Mrs. Harwin, who took them and tucked them discreetly into her handbag. Mrs. Alderdyce got her feet stiffly, heavy petticoats swishing at her toes.

"Don't wait forever. All the good ones will be taken. C'mon Barb. There's a tea cake with our name on it".

Ron sighed a little as she turned on her heel and hobbled towards the door. Mrs. Harwin paused at the desk, like she had more to say. "Is there anything else I can do for you Mrs. Harwin?"

"No. It's just..." She stopped and looked a little embarrassed. He nodded encouragingly. "You'll meet the right one, son, when you're ready. I was a bit older myself when I met Sam, you see, and I used to cry to my mother that I was never going to meet anyone. And she would say 'Barbara, there is a lid for every pot. Everything in its own time'. And she was right". She placed her hand over his again and gave it a squeeze and then followed her friend out the door.

Ron sat back in his chair and felt it give a little as it supported his weight. Every time, the same thing. When are you going to meet someone Ron? All the good ones will be taken Ron. What's wrong with you Ron? She was as bad as his mum. It was none of her business anyway. Wasn't he still young? Surely he should still be out, living it up? Thirty-two was still young nowadays. Look at his brother Charlie. He was way older than him and he had never seemed remotely interested in a wife and kids. But then Charlie had shown more wit than Ron and moved to Africa to work at a sanctuary for endangered species. He had literally chosen wrestling wild animals over being in the vicinity of their mother's criticisms/loving observations. He was a wise man.

A sharp tap on the table in front of him drew his attention away from the matter. A large, gruff man with a florid face stood in front of him wielding a sheaf of paperwork. "Are you working here or not?"

At five to five, Meda stood up and pulled the brass door shut, locking it with a satisfied sigh. It was the international office code for 'Home time' and immediately a bustle of activity started; logging off computers, addressing one last letter, stuffing lunch boxes into little cool bags. Ron had three more reports to sign off, so he worked on and the office gradually became quieter, the noise petering out until it was just Meda leaning on the door frame, handbag dangling over one arm, waiting. Next to her a plexiglass document holder was mounted to the wall, three colours for three types of registration. Green for marriages and civil partnerships, red for births, purple for deaths.

"One of these days you are going to have your work completed by five Ron", she said, making a show of tapping her watch.

Ron smiled, head still bent to his report. "You know I'm easily the best employee you have Meda. I do ten times more work than anyone else. Also, do you know you look like Mrs. A when you hang your bag over your arm like that?"

Meda straightened, dropping her bag to her hand and seemed to concede both points. "You are my office star, that's true. But you're also the only one who keeps me back from my dinner at night, so you lose points there. How much I love you in any given day really depends on how hungry I am." As if on cue, Meda's stomach gave a low rumble, which translated to a pointed expression on her face.

"Go. I will lock up. I can't be responsible for your starvation".

She shook her head and dropped the bunch of keys on the table next to the door. "One day you are going to be running out this door, Ron. You'll have something that good to go home to".

When the door closed behind her the silence closed in and fit round him like a glove. Ron chose not to think about what Meda had said just then and instead focused on getting his work completed. It only took another half an hour, now he didn't have any distractions. Pleased that his desk was now bare, reports done, he locked the office and left the keys at the security desk.

The Registry Office was located in the City Hall, an off-white Baroque style building built in the 1800's. Ron loved the marble columns, black and white checkerboard floors and the deep crimson of the carpets and drapes. City Hall was grand and felt special; rightfully respectful of all the things that happened under its roof. Many of the lead lined windows were stained glass and when the sun shone, the whole atrium filled with colour. Above the deep blue front door, was a huge semi-circular window featuring a sunburst. Orange flames licked out from a gold centre, intermittently spiked with yellow rays. It was Ron's favourite part of the whole building. The couples who married here liked to have their picture taken under it, happy faces pressed together, clutching each other close. Every morning and every night Ron stepped underneath it and it reminded him of those couples. The window represented their hope, the sun rising on their new life together.

Tonight, he found himself stopping to look up at it, dim in the low light. An image of himself standing underneath it flashed into his head, dressed to the nines. Meda and Jeremy and everyone from the office standing grinning at him. His dad patting his mum on the back as she wept vigorously, his brothers and sister jostling each other for a better look. Ron Weasley, bridegroom, waiting for his bride so they can take the picture. Ron felt the corners of his mouth raise a little then drop again just as quickly. To have a bride you need to get engaged. For that you need a girlfriend. And those were in short supply at the moment. Still. It would be nice wouldn't it?

He adjusted his bag across his body and gave himself an internal shake. Where had that come from? Bloody sunburst window. He was going soft in the head. Ron pulled the door open and stepped out into the darkness. He didn't glance back up.

The next morning, he didn't look up at the window either as he barreled through the door, ten minutes past nine, toast triangle hanging from his mouth. Meda was standing at the pigeon holes, coffee in hand, chatting to Brian who collated statistics for the General Office. Ron threw himself into his chair and stabbed the start-up button on his computer. Meda pressed her hip against the booth desk next to him and raised an eyebrow. "I'm conflicted. As your manager, I should give you a bollocking for being ten minutes late. On the other hand, you being late is such a rare occurrence that nosiness implores me to ask if there's any special reason why you are late. Any special person?"

Ron threw her a glance, cheeks bulging with toast. "Don't start Meda. Buswasonstrike".

Meda clicked her tongue with disappointment and pushed off the desk. "Consider yourself bollocked then", she said over her shoulder. Ron grinned and lifted the 'Position Closed' sign from his desk.

Friday was always a busy day; everyone seemed to want to get their business done before the weekend started. The office closed early at four and inevitably people would turn up with ten minutes to spare, not realising. Meda enjoyed thwarting them. Normally Ron found Meda a very tolerant, empathic person. She was certainly much more charitable with Mrs. Alderdyce than he was. But when Fridays rolled around, it was a different story; Meda was prepping for the 'Home time' code from 3 o'clock, at half past she would start turning off 'unnecessary' lights to discourage people from coming in and by quarter to she was bouncing on her toes, hovering near the door, daring someone to walk through it.

Which, unfortunately for them, someone did. Ron was in the back room shredding confidential waste and even with the machine whining to life every ten seconds or so as he fed the beast, he could hear the satisfaction in Meda's voice as she turned them down... "We close at four you see... couldn't possibly get it done in that time... it IS Friday after all..." Ron couldn't hear the replies, but he felt sorry for whoever it was. Meda was militant about leaving the office at four on Fridays.

The shredder shuddered to life again and snatched the paper as the door behind him opened. Meda's expression was dark. "She won't leave", she hissed, eyes narrowing. "She said she had an appointment at three, but the buses were on strike, so she couldn't get a cab and she had to run here."

"Now that is actually true Meda. Give her a break."

"Normally I'm the very definition of understanding and selflessness but it's Friday Ron. What am I going to do with her?"

The shredder took the last feed of paper and Ron sighed. He had nothing on tonight anyway. "Tell her to sit at my booth. I will see her now". Meda's face lightened immediately, and she kissed him firmly on one cheek.

"Godsend you are Ron. No more bollockings for you ever". She whipped out of the room before he could change his mind.

Ron walked back into the office and dropped into his chair, flicking his mouse with one hand and lifting the documents with the other. "Now Miss..."

"Granger. Hermione Granger."

It's a cliché to say 'my heart stopped' but later Ron would swear that, at that moment, he actually felt his heart stop. He knew it had stopped because he stopped breathing too. And he knew he had stopped breathing because his chest suddenly felt very tight. The tightness crawled up his neck and into his jaw, which he noted was clenched. This bodily reaction happened in a split second and Ron hoped it was too noticeable as he raised his eyes to her.

Hermione Bloody Granger. Her hair was sleeker than he remembered; there were probably all sorts of products around now that would tame misbehaving curls. When he had known her, she used to spend an hour every morning grappling it into a chunky braid or a fuzzy knot at the back of her head. It had been longer then too. These lush, shiny waves fell carefully to her shoulder. Come to think of it, Modern Day Hermione looked altogether more put together then he recalled. The girl framed by his childhood had a sweet open face, her smile made all the more innocent by her slightly elongated front teeth. Her eyebrows were thick and expressive, her skin scrubbed and clean. She wore jeans and trainers, t shirts with little breast pockets and soft yarn beanie hats.

This. Was not her. Hermione sat in front of him, spine erect, shoulders straight across. Her brown herringbone coat was thick and expensive looking, and the funnel neck cupped her face which was delicately but definitely made up. She didn't look like someone who had run to an appointment, that was for sure. She clasped a brown leather tote bag on her knee with one hand, a shell pink manicure visible. The eyebrows had been disciplined and they sat, well behaved, above her eyes. Her eyes. At least, Ron thought with some relief, at least they haven't changed. And right now, they were looking at him in astonishment.

"Ron?"

"Yeah", the word came out in a shaky breath, "Yeah, hi. Hermione. How are you?"

She stared at him for another moment and her grip tightened on her bag. "I... God. Of all the people". She released the bag and swept her hair away from her face, a little diamond stud sparkling in her ear lobe. A sharp intake of breath, a pause and then, "I'm well." Hard emphasis on the well. "How are you?" Hard emphasis on the you.

"I'm ok. Good. Great actually. God. It's been a million years". He tried for a chuckle and was relieved when it came out relatively normally. Light-hearted, that was what he was going for. Laid back, easy-going, absolutely, positively unconcerned. Shit, she looked fantastic. A little polished maybe. There was certainly never going to be ink at the corner of this girl's mouth because she'd sucked her pen too hard when writing a ten-page essay. That girl was not this girl.

She smiled and he realised what had been bothering him. She'd had her teeth fixed. Two straight white rows. No more bunny teeth.

"You fixed your teeth". It was out before he had a chance to think about it and when her eyebrows shot up he knew it was the wrong thing.

"Yes... I did. Is it really that noticeable? People say you can hardly tell..." She raised her hand to her mouth involuntarily.

"No... not at all. Sorry. Stupid thing to say", Ron rushed to cover it up, words tumbling over each other, "It's not obvious at all. Honestly. It would only be noticeable to someone who..."

"Someone who had known me for a long time", Hermione finished the sentence for him and he nodded, thankful. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. "Well that's certainly true. You know me better than most. Or, longest at least." He allowed himself a small smile. "I was always paranoid about them. Just one of those things you always wish you could fix if you had the opportunity. And then, when the opportunity arose..."

"You look great. Really." Ron felt himself relax a bit as she beamed at him and he leant back in his chair, allowing himself to take the sight of her in. "Honestly, it's lovely to see you again Hermione. Imagine, of all the offices, you come in to mine. Haven't seen each other in years and in you walk. Wait until Harry hears. He'll be made up".

The beam on Hermione's face faded, she looked a little sad. "You and Harry still taking on the world together are you? Some things never change".

"And some things do," Ron laughed, "Look at you! So proper and elegant. I wouldn't have known you if I'd have seen you in the street. Talk about posh totty!" Her eyes slid from his face uneasily and he felt he might have said something else daft, so he hurried on. "So whatareyadoin' here?"

The unease on her face continued and she didn't answer him. Instead she met his eyes with hers, the eyes he knew from personal experience looked nearly black from far away but up close were flecked with ginger, the exact colour of his hair. A long moment and something uncomfortable passed between them.

And then the utter stab of realisation. Ron's gaze lowered, and his grip tightened round the sheaf of papers in his hand.

Green paperwork.

Shit.