The Bodyguard

Hermione was pacing the length of her chambers when the door opened and Kingsley appeared. He had this look on his face that she immediately hated. 

“What?” she said, stopping in the middle of the room. She could hear the antique clock on the mantelpiece ticking. “What is it?” 

Kingsley sighed and closed the door behind him. Even for a man who was nearing sixty, he still moved in a sure, leonine manner. “The High Council has reached its decision.”

Hermione balled her hands into fists, wishing she had something to cling onto. “And?” 

“They’ve moved to enact Action Plan Delta, ma’am.” He was watching her closely, his dark eyes hooded and impenetrable. “Effective immediately.”

Hermione felt herself sway a little, and she made for one of the high-backed upholstered armchairs that usually seemed so intimidating. She sat down, gripping the armrests. “Right. I suppose that makes sense.” 

“It does,” Kingsley agreed. He came over and sat down in the chair across from her, crossing his legs. He was so at ease, so casual about the whole thing. “Do you remember the particulars of Action Plan Delta?” 

“No,” said Hermione, then, “Yes. Stage One is a marked decrease in public appearances. Heightened security, personal detail, all of my correspondence subjected to even more diagnostic spellwork, my residence put on twenty-four hour surveillance. Stage Two is essentially the same, but with no public appearances and even more security. Stage Three is—”

“Hermione,” said Kingsley, his voice gentle. “We won’t get to Stage Three.”

“You can’t know that,” she bit out, before she could stop herself. She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he assured her, and he even smiled. For some absurd reason, the creases in the corners of his eyes gave her a sense of strength — he had made it through this job once, too. “I would be pretty tense if someone had just made an attempt on my life, too.”

“When you put it like that,” Hermione said, sinking back and pushing a hand through her hair, “it all sounds so reasonable.”

Kingsley chuckled then. The sound was rich, warm, and it actually calmed her. “I don’t believe you know how to be unreasonable, Minister.”

Hermione glanced at the clock. God, it was already past six. “Walk me through it, then.”

“We’ve canceled approximately half of your speaking engagements for the next two weeks, and all out-of-office meetings will be moved to Tier 2 approved locations only, so you’ll be within Apparating distance of the Ministry. Travel will be restricted to Apparation and Floo only, no Portkeys. Your internal meetings and courtroom appointments will continue as scheduled, no real changes there. 

“In terms of security, you’ll have half a dozen special-forces MLEP at your disposal. They will travel with you to any and all locations outside of the Ministry, including your residence, where they will be stationed at key entry points and will conduct surveillance sweeps every half hour. While you are at the Ministry, these officers will have rotating shifts where they will be stationed outside your office, and they will accompany you to all meetings. You will also have two of our best Aurors present at all non-Ministry events, along with an Auror as your own personal detail. This Auror will run the entire security team, and will be with you at all hours of the day, except for one off-day per week, when another Auror will rotate in.”

Hermione felt several different things at once. Frustration, unease, exasperation. Fear. Well, she had nearly taken an Avada Kedavra to the head just a few hours before.

“When you are entering and exiting the Ministry, you will use a communal Floo that will take you directly to and from your own residence. You will reach your office in the usual manner, though you may change the route you take, just to keep things unpredictable. And, the wards on your office will be changed — you will be able to Apparate in and out, and use the fireplace as a Floo, but I would advise doing so only in moments of serious danger. If there is an incident, the department offices will be a rendezvous point, and you will receive direction from your personal security detail on any of the other smaller matters. 

“Your personnel will likewise have to undergo an increased set of security parameters to ensure that none of them have been subject to an Imperio or a dose of Polyjuice. These screenings will take place twice daily, and some will be unannounced. Higher-ranking members of the Wizengamot and the High Council will have to do the same.” Kingsley’s gaze softened a bit. “It’s the best chance we have of making sure the threat isn’t internal.”

Hermione immediately thought of Jill, her secretary, and winced at the thought of the mother of three going through all those tests every day. “Isn’t all this a bit much?”

Kingsley’s eyebrows flickered upwards. “With all due respect, I would say it’s almost not enough. You’re the toughest Minister we’ve had in decades. To say your loss would be a shame… it’s an understatement.”

“Kingsley.” Hermione almost smiled at him. “You don’t do yourself enough justice.”

He shook his head and grinned properly. “I could say the same to you.”

“Perhaps.” Hermione put a hand to her hair again, fighting the urge to pull it out of its bun. The long-term Sleek-Eazy was wearing off, so it was getting more and more difficult to tame. She supposed that if she wanted it done soon she would have to ask her hairdresser to consent to questioning, too. The new normal. Merlin, she thought, what a nightmare. “Kingsley,” she said, letting her hand fall to her lap. “Which Auror has been assigned as my protection detail?”

Kingsley shifted in his seat, and for a moment, she could see through his usual inscrutable expression — he was uncomfortable. “Head Auror Potter,” he said finally. 

Once again, Hermione felt several different things at once, and it took a lot of her remaining energy not to let any of it show on her face. “Naturally,” she said, keeping her voice flat.

“He’ll be reporting soon. He just needs to finish up some paperwork.”

Of course. He would have to submit a statement about that afternoon. The crowd, the banners, how everything seemed completely normal until it wasn’t. She’d barely seen him, but she’d known he was there. He’d probably given chase to the suspect, not that it would’ve done any good. 

Hermione stood up, ignoring the way her stomach rolled. “I believe you’ve covered all of the necessary details.” She looked Kingsley in the eye. “I trust the investigation is underway?”

He stood up as well. “We’ve got our best on it. Well, apart from Potter.”

Hermione felt a prickle of annoyance, but she nodded. “I expect an update in no less than forty-eight hours. I’ll be damned if I’m going to live the rest of my life in lockdown.”

“Well said.” Kingsley had a sparkle in his eye, then, to her surprise, he reached out and gripped her shoulder. His hand was warm, firm, and he produced a sheaf of parchment. “Here’s a copy of the security protocol, in case you’d like to know the details. Chin up,” he added. 

Hermione nodded again, feeling a rush of gratitude for him. She watched him go, and her office door closed behind him with a thud of formality. Alone again. 

She let out a sigh, her shoulders sagging, threw the bundle of parchment onto the couch, and kicked off her heels. Merlin’s balls. Hermione wandered over to one of the windows — these ones were much larger than those in her old office, stretching almost floor-to-ceiling — and the carpet was warm and plush beneath her toes. It was one of her simple pleasures, walking barefoot in her office when she was alone. She’d never felt such expensive carpet in her life, and the Ministry cleaning charms kept it like silk. 

Her office view was of Parliament, Westminster, Big Ben. Everything was cloaked in a misty, dark rain; it was early February, and winter still had the city firmly in its prickly, icy grip. 

Hermione watched as a few drops congealed and ran down the glass, trying to sort through everything Kingsley had told her, and everything he hadn’t. “Head Auror Potter,” she murmured, then shook her head, reaching for her hair pin. 

Her hair tumbled out in coarse, thick waves, falling to the ends of her shoulder blades. It was longer now than it had been in years — good public image, someone had told her at the beginning of her campaign. It felt like a lifetime ago, when in reality, it had only been three years.

“Three years,” she mumbled now. Almost halfway done with her first term, and people were already telling her that she ought to stay in the running for a second. It didn’t matter that she had a handful of grey hairs, that a second term definitely meant abandoning the idea of marriage, a family. Not that she was anywhere close to that now. It had seemed, as the years passed, that sacrifices had to be made to get where she wanted to be, and Hermione had made them without so much as a second thought. She didn’t have any regrets, but in moments like this, when she was facing the prospect of lockdown in a house that only had one occupant, she began to wonder if it was really worth it.

Three years, seven years, twenty years. It was almost twenty-one years now since she’d seen Voldemort fall, collapsing to the stone like any other human, any other man, any other murderer. His death had seemed too simple, too kind then, and it seemed so small now. The lengths they had gone to in order to stop him felt almost ridiculous. Almost. 

It wasn’t really a question of forgetting. That, of course, was impossible, especially since there were all those statues everywhere, not to mention the plaques and the anniversaries and the annual moment of silence. Harry had been forced to make speeches for years before he’d put his foot down. Not that she could blame him — gratitude is only tolerable for so long, and Harry hated attention. Even if his most recent actions would indicate otherwise… 

He’d been Head Auror for five years now, and showed absolutely zero interest in moving any further up the Ministerial ladder. Logically, Harry would take over from Kingsley as head of the DMLE when Kingsley retired, but even that seemed like a long-shot. He was arrogant, comfortable. Well-seated, well-liked, far too powerful for his own good, pig-headed to boot, and—

Hermione clenched her jaw and closed her eyes. This train of thought never ended well. She could feel a migraine beginning to blossom behind her right temple. 

And then, because this just really wasn’t her day, the door opened, and Harry Potter walked into her office. 

She turned to look at him, momentarily forgetting that her shoes were off, her hair was down, she probably had the complexion of a ghost in winter — because Harry Potter looked at her and fucking grinned.

“ ’Mione,” he said, low and jovial, closing the door behind him. He was in his dark crimson Head Auror robes, but they were open down the front, revealing a pair of jeans with a torn knee and a Led Zeppelin shirt that had seen better days. 

“Harry,” she replied. Bastard, she thought. 

He mirrored her, going to stand in front of the windows on the other side of the mantelpiece. The bridge reflected in his glasses — still round, but wire-rimmed — and the grey light brought out the salt in his salt and pepper hair. “Fun day,” he said. 

Hermione inhaled, reminded herself that she couldn’t hex the Head Auror without very due cause, then exhaled. “You could say that.” 

Harry turned away from the window and leaned against the sill. “I like your hair.”

She scowled before she could catch herself, pinning her glare on Parliament instead. “We don’t need to talk.”

“You should wear it like that more often. Intimidate the High Council into submission.” He put his hands in the pockets of his robes, and cocked his head when she didn’t reply. “You’re right,” he said, “we could not talk, but that would make this whole thing pretty awkward, wouldn’t it?” 

Hermione couldn’t agree with him, so instead, she turned around as well, heading for her desk. She grabbed the security protocol and her shoes on the way. “I have work to do.”

“You’re joking.” He watched her sit down at her desk. “You’re not joking.”

“You may recall that my day was quite rudely interrupted,” she told him, reaching for the stack of memos she’d been reviewing before she left for the rally. “There’s quite a bit I need to finish before I can go.” 

Harry stood there for a moment. Indignation and surprise were warring in his face, and Hermione fought the urge to smile. It’s the little things, she thought, tapping the nib of her quill on the parchment in front of her. 

“Okay,” he said at last. He swiped the Prophet from one of her end tables and flopped down onto the couch, sprawling out like the pain-in-the-arse teenager he wasn’t. “Take your time.”

“I intend to,” she replied, gathering and twisting her hair, putting it back into a bun. Then, she had the thought that if she was going to make it through this situation with even a shred of sanity left, she would need to learn how to ignore Harry Potter.

Some things were easier said than done. Much, much, easier.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed 8:30, and Hermione looked up from the weekly judicial review. She’d been so absorbed in the catalog of new laws coming before the Wizengamot that she’d lost track of time. There was a crick in her neck, a pinch in her fingers, and her eyes itched. 

Nothing on Harry, though. He’d given up on the Prophet an hour before and had taken to pacing, fidgeting, conjuring, and performing diagnostic spellwork on her wards that was completely unnecessary. Now, he was back on her couch, twiddling his wand through the air, producing streams of multicolored ribbon. Thank Merlin for her ability to focus, otherwise she’d have shut him in a jam jar and left him there overnight.

“Thank Christ,” Harry said when she stood up, paperwork in hand. “I was worried I was in for another OWL year. Finding you collapsed in front of the fire at two A.M.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” she told him. She shuffled the papers together and clipped them into her briefcase. “I’ll be ready in a moment.”

Harry Vanished the ribbons and stood up with a groan. She couldn’t help but notice the way he favored his left leg. He’d taken a Bombarda close to his right knee several years before, and it hadn’t been the same since. You’d never know, on an average day — he hardly ever limped. Hermione realized he must only show it when he was tired, or off his guard, or both. 

She cleared her throat, looking away. “Do you need to stop at home?”

“Nope,” he said, spinning on the spot. His robes flapped, oddly playful. “Took care of that before I came here. Got everything I need for the rest of the week.”

A week. Damn. The full reality of the situation sunk in as Hermione locked her briefcase and activated the security charms. She stared down at the leather, the corners already getting worn from use, and swallowed a wave of panic. Harry Potter. Living in her home. Shadowing her. Going with her from meeting to event to trial to meeting. Seeing her in the morning, late at night, after a long day of work. They’d hardly spent any time together in the past ten, fifteen, years, apart from the occasional work event or chance encounter in Diagon. And now, they would be spending all their time together.

The panic was rapidly turning to nausea. Hermione swallowed again and switched off her desk lamp. A nervous mistake — it was pitch black outside, she hadn’t bothered to re-light her fire today, and there were no other lights on in her office. She heard a chuckle through the darkness, followed by a thin crackle. 

A golden orb appeared by Harry’s ear, casting a warm light across the room. The space was almost brighter than it had been before, and the light made his hair look even more silver. He was grinning again. “Didn’t think that through, did you, ’Mione?”

Hermione barely held back a scowl and stepped into her shoes. 

In spite of her best efforts, it seemed that Harry noticed. “Cheer up,” he told her as she crossed the room. He followed her to the door, the orb bobbing behind him. “It could be worse. You could be dead.”

“Yes, thank you for the delightful reminder.” Hermione opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, which was still partially lit. She didn’t bother to turn or wait for Harry, knowing that he would be right behind her. “In fact, I’d almost forgotten.”

“So what’s for dinner?” Harry said next. The glowing orb had disappeared, and she almost missed it before she could stop herself. He had his hands in the pockets of his robes again, and he was sauntering alongside her without a care in the world. “You must be famished after all that.”

Right. Another wave of nausea threatened to overtake her. Famished. “Didn’t realize I would be taking on catering duties.” She nodded to a passing cleaning witch and turned the corner, heading for the lifts. “I’m afraid you’ll find my abilities rather remiss.”

Harry snorted. “Don’t need to tell me twice. I’ll never be able to forget those stewed mushrooms.” He affected a shudder. “Not what I meant, though. So, what’s the plan?”

“To go home,” she replied, wondering if there was always going to be this much talking. “Or did you miss the part where we were leaving?” The lift bank appeared and she stepped into the closest one, punching the button for the Atrium.

Harry was right behind her, of course, and he grabbed one of the handles dangling from the ceiling. “I caught on. Italian? Thai? Vietnamese? Ethiopian?”

The lift lurched, sweeping them up and away. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment and willed herself to remember what patience felt like. 

“Don’t hold out on me,” Harry said. “I want to know what Hermione Granger, Minister of Magic, eats on a Tuesday night.” 

“Dinner,” said Hermione. The lift hurtled to a stop in the Atrium and the doors popped open. Hermione set out for the departure grates, only turning a few heads as she went. This was part of the reason she’d decided to stay late — fewer people to gawp at her when she left. 

“Hold on!” Harry tried to step in front of her, getting between her and the fireplace. His glasses flashed in the low overhead light. “You know the rules.”

Hermione stopped short, just two feet away from the Floo. Of course. Side-Along only. Gritting her teeth, she held out her arm to Harry. He took it, and together, they stepped into the Floo. 

A short squeeze and a spin later, she stumbled into her living room. Hermione blinked, momentarily disoriented, because she’d forgotten what it was like to share in Harry’s magic. It was rather like being tethered to a small comet. 

Harry stepped away — she’d almost forgotten he was there — and cleared his throat. “Nice place.”

Hermione ignored this and waved a hand, turning on a few lamps. They illuminated a large — well, for London, anyway — but cozy space, with neat furniture and lots of bookshelves. The view from her front windows, when it was day, looked out on a small road and tidy neighborhood just two blocks away from Marylebone High Street. She tried, for a moment, to see her home through the eyes of an outsider. Inviting, but without much personality — Hermione wasn’t one for photographs, or decor.

Not that it mattered much.

“Give me a minute,” Harry said. “I need to do a sweep.”

Hermione frowned at him. “Didn’t the team already do that earlier this evening?”

“Yes.” He shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. “I have to do one upon entry as well. I don’t write policy, ’Mione, I just follow it.”

Hermione sighed, pulling out her mobile. “Very well. Be quick.” 

He was, thankfully. He did her bedroom first, then the dining room, the kitchen, and the water closet before going upstairs. When he reappeared a few minutes later and gave her a nod, Hermione pulled off her coat.

“I’m going to change,” she said to Harry. “Make yourself comfortable, I suppose.” She turned and left without waiting for a reply. 

Her bedroom, much like the rest of the house, was fairly utilitarian, save for the luscious, even decadent, King-sized four-poster bed that had a massive billowy white comforter and eons of fluffy pillows. She closed the door behind her and smiled properly for the first time that day. “You two seem comfortable.”

Casper and Winnie popped their heads up from behind one of her pillows. One of them — she guessed Casper — let out a meow. 

“Busy day, was it?” She crossed to her closet, kicked off her shoes, and began to strip. Ever since the incident that afternoon, she’d been crawling out of her own body, her clothes sticking to her like an unwanted second skin. Peeling it all off flooded her with relief. “Looks like you haven’t even moved since this morning.”

Winnie chirped and stood up, stretching his long, lean legs. Casper followed suit, shaking his head until his ears flapped. 

Hermione bent and gave each of them a kiss, then went to the bathroom and put on the shower. She pulled the pin out of her hair again, letting it fall, then caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She stared for a moment while the water began to heat up. 

She looked the same, because of course she did. She’d dodged an AK , not one of a wide number of disfiguration spells. But still, she couldn’t help but look at her face, at the faint dark circles that never seemed to fully go away, at the thin lines in her forehead, in the outer corners of her eyes, around her mouth. Those seemed to be getting more pronounced these days, but it wasn’t any wonder. To say her job was stressful would be a vast understatement. 

And she’d gotten even thinner. Hermione turned to the side and sighed at the sight of her figure, rueful. It wasn’t intentional. It certainly wasn’t that. But it was the stress again, she supposed. Stress and the inability to remember to eat more than the odd biscuit and the occasional sandwich or Chinese takeaway. She missed the way her waist used to curve into her hips, the way her back would crease and fold when she turned to the side, the way her stomach would roll when she bent over. 

She’d looked so vibrant before. So bold, so bright. Now, she looked sort of pinched. Unhealthy.

For one wild, absurd moment, she missed being taken care of. Someone telling her to eat, or else she’d wither away. “But that’s beside the point,” Hermione muttered, shaking her head and stepping into her shower. Nothing to gain from lamenting the unlikely.

Hermione took her time, not something she usually did. Thanks to the Sleek-Eazy, she could get her hair wet whenever she wanted, even shampoo it, so she did. Warm, fruity tendrils of honey and gardenia snaked around her, turning her water pale green and sudsy. She forced herself to breathe slowly, inhaling the calming, delightful scent, poking at the bubbles hanging in the air. The day, the stress, the fear, the old adrenaline, was melting off of her, spiralling down the drain. 

She could handle Harry Potter. Logically, she knew this, but it didn’t seem to be sinking in. He was doing the same thing he’d always done. Playing with her, dancing circles around her, making her feel like an idiot. 

His friendliness was unsettling. Disconcerting. They’d barely said ten words to each other in the past six months — outside of official meetings, of course — and less than half of those words had been genial. It wasn’t a secret that Head Auror Potter and Minister Granger didn’t see eye-to-eye, and they had no trouble letting everyone know it. Though Hermione liked to think that she handled a healthy argument with more dignity than some, especially since she’d never stormed out of Conference Room B in the Department of Mysteries swearing at the top of her lungs. 

Growing up. Something that was better in theory rather than practice. At age eighteen, in the middle of their make-up NEWTs year, she never would’ve guessed that one day she and Harry would barely be on speaking terms. Or that she and Ron would part ways not six months after she began her apprenticeship at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and he began his at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. She still saw him, of course, in the Atrium and the occasional meeting, even in Diagon Alley. He’d long since fallen in love with a Muggle named Sally, and they had four bouncing children at their home in Surrey. Ron was happy. Blissful, even. 

Harry, though. A much more complicated question. And, she guessed, a much more complicated answer. 

An answer not worth trying to find, she told herself, switching off the shower and wrapping herself in a warm towel. Hermione shook out her hair, half-drying it with a brush of her hand, and went back into her bedroom. 

When she went out into the living room, wearing her poshest loungewear and with her hair in a plait, she couldn’t help feeling nervous. It was odd, having a near-stranger in her house, a space that so rarely held anyone other than herself. She was putting on a bit of a performance, and she knew it. 

Harry was standing in front of one of the bookshelves, scanning the titles. He’d taken off his robes and his shoes, and if she squinted, the jeans and t-shirt made him look like a twenty-something instead of a thirty-something. He looked up when she came in, and she realized — or perhaps remembered — that without her heels on, he was quite a bit taller than her. 

Just like the old days, she thought, not at all bitter.

“Who were you talking to in there?” he said. 

That stopped her short. “I—”

Thankfully, Casper and Winnie chose that moment to appear, strolling into the living room with their eyes fixed on the newcomer. 

“I should’ve guessed.” Harry smirked down at them. “Cats.”

Hermione felt a blush threatening to break free so she started talking. “Would you like me to show you where you’re staying? I suppose you’ve already seen the upstairs, but you could put your things away.”

He cocked his head. “You haven’t had dinner yet.”

“No,” Hermione conceded. “I haven’t.” 

Harry just stood there looking at her for another moment, then he shook his head. “You can show me before you go to bed.”

Hermione blinked. “All right.” A second later, she realized why he was delaying it. Stairs. “I’ll feed the boys, then.”

She turned and headed for the kitchen, Harry and the cats not far behind. Hermione passed through the dining room, which she hardly ever used to its true purpose, and turned the corner, switching on the light in the kitchen. 

Harry leaned against the counter. “You’ve certainly done all right, ’Mione. I think I can see my reflection in the fridge.” 

Hermione chose not to reply to that. She pulled out a fresh tin of Whiskas and split it between two dishes. The cats were clustering at her feet, meowing something ridiculous. 

“What are their names?” said Harry.

“Casper is the white one, and Winnie is the tabby.” She dropped the spoon in the dishwasher and brought the dishes to their feeding area, where the cats went after their food like beasts. With a wave of her hand, she refilled their dry food and water. “Both boys.”

Harry gave her a funny look. “You named a boy ‘Winnie.’ What cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Nickname for Irwin,” she told him, going back to the fridge. It was nearly empty, save for the usual jars of sauces, some milk, a bar of chocolate she kept forgetting to eat. And, thankfully, a glass dish full of leftovers. “Here,” Hermione said, sliding the container across the island. “You can have that, if you like.”

“What is it?” 

“Gnocchi in Bolognese. From the Italian place a few streets down.” What she didn’t say was that it was the by-product of a bad date with a Muggle named Thomas who had horrible table manners and the inability to ask personal questions. 

Harry seemed surprised. He tapped the lid. “All right. What about you?” 

Hermione was already in the freezer, pulling out two pieces of bread. “Don’t worry,” she said as she popped them into the toaster. “I’m not that hungry.” She held out a hand. “Want that warmed up?”

Harry got that funny look again. “That’s all right.” He took off the lid, produced his wand — hip holster, she guessed — and gave the container a tap. The pasta sprang back to life with a sizzle, and the smell of warm, rich sauce and fresh basil wafted over to her. Before she could do anything else, Harry conjured a fork.

He sat down on one of the barstools at the island and dug in, shoveling several gnocchi into his mouth at once, and she realized that his eating habits hadn’t changed at all since school. “You don’t use magic,” he said, and, well, that threw her.

“Pardon?”

“To do any of this stuff,” he clarified, waving a hand at the kitchen. “To make toast, serve cat food, heat up leftovers.”

She shrugged, wishing now that she had used it on her toast. It would’ve meant a swifter exit. “Old habits.”

“I suppose.” Harry was still looking at her. Thankfully, the toast chose that moment to pop up, and Hermione busied herself fixing her food. 

Every part of Hermione wanted to take her toast and go back to her room, anything to escape having to do this now, here, in front of Harry. But he would just follow her, so she gritted her teeth and sat down across from him. 

They ate in a blissful silence for about a minute, then Harry was smirking again. “Toast with peanut butter. How gourmet.”

Hermione chewed carefully, and began to catalog the different hexes she would dearly love to hit him with. Ten seconds in, she realized she needed categories and subcategories, particularly if this situation was going to last for a while. “Have you checked in with the other Aurors?”

Harry nodded. “Everything’s quiet and running smoothly.”

Of course it was. “Good.” Then, curiosity got the better of her. “How do you all stay in touch? Patronuses can’t be quick enough, surely.”

“You’ll like this one.” He reached into his back pocket and produced a sleek black square, hardly half an inch thick and no bigger than his palm, with a short antenna. Hermione blinked at the familiar object. There was no way —

“Latest thing out of R&D,” Harry said, smug. “Little interdepartmental cooperation between the Unspeakables and Misuse of Muggle Artifacts.”

“A… walkie-talkie?”

“Enchanted walkie-talkie,” Harry corrected her, flipping it over. The small screen briefly flared blue, and she was reminded of her new mobile, which glowed every time a new text came in. “That means it’s connected and all in good order. Mine’s off at the moment, except for urgent calls, but we can page each other at any time. The device uses a nuanced form of Accio , so we only come in on the radios we want to reach. If you want everyone to hear you, you just flip the switch on the side.” He pointed to a small button. “Got lots of other features, too. Emergency contacts that get you straight to the DMLE, a siren in case you get lost or buried, a button for sending Morse code, and a live tracking beacon that never turns off.”

“Ingenious,” Hermione breathed, before she could stop herself. “Whose idea was it?”

“Mine.”

Harry was grinning, she knew it without looking. Hermione withdrew her hand from the walkie-talkie and picked up her second slice. The toast had turned to lead in her stomach, but she couldn’t stop now. “Good work.”

A beat passed. Then, Harry said, “Was that as painful to say as it was to watch?”

Hermione stared down at her plate, willing herself not to cave. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right.” Harry pocketed the walkie-talkie and went back to his food. They fell into silence, which Hermione was stupidly grateful for. It was easier to choke down her toast without trying to talk at the same time. 

A few moments later, the cats clearly had enough of their dinner, because Casper jumped up onto the island and sniffed his way to Hermione’s plate. She nudged it out of his reach. 

Harry watched, chewing. “You let them on the island?”

“Not much I can do to stop them, short of a curse.” Hermione looked at Casper, who stared back at her and meowed. “No,” she told him, “come on, you’ve had your supper.”

Harry, thankfully, said nothing, and Casper hopped back down to the ground. She waited for Harry to finish his food before she stood up and cleared their dishes. “Anything else you need before—?”

Harry looked at her. “You’re going to bed?” 

Hermione fought the urge to fidget. “For all intents and purposes. Why?”

He looked at her some more. The overhead lights were thin white orbs reflected in his glasses. “Nothing, it’s just…” He cleared his throat and stood up. “Nothing.” 

Hermione nodded and left the kitchen, taking him back through the living and dining rooms to the staircase on the side of the house. She turned on the hall light and went up, glancing behind her to make sure Harry followed. He did, and he kept pace with her on the stairs. 

“Rare to find a house with the main bedroom on the ground floor,” he said. 

“Yes,” Hermione replied. She reached the landing and headed left, turning on lights as she went. The open space was a lounge-slash-library; this was where she kept the majority of her books, and where she usually sat to read them. There was a set of large, squishy armchairs beside another fireplace, and a nice music system along the opposite wall. 

“This is the guest bedroom.” Hermione led Harry around the corner into a small but airy bedroom. She flicked on the lights as well and held the door open for him. “The ensuite bathroom has a fresh set of towels and the fireplace out in the lounge is connected to the Floo.” She headed for the closet and pulled the doors open. Thank goodness she’d cleared it out a few months earlier. “You can keep your things in here and in the dresser.”

“Thanks.” Harry swept a hand across the top of the duvet. “Are you sure you want me up here and not downstairs? I’d be fine on the couch, and I’d be closer to you, in case.” He paused, looking at her, then swallowed. “In case something happened.”  

Hermione’s heart throbbed in her throat — just once, and painfully. “I’m sure. And I believe Kingsley gave you permission to Apparate within my wards, in any case.”

Harry exhaled, a touch rueful. “Well, all right.” He pulled something out of his pocket and gave it a rough shake. The something was a canvas duffel, and it sprang back to its original size as he dropped it on the floor. Hermione tried not to stare. She was reminded of the tent they’d stolen and secreted into her beaded handbag all those years ago — the duffel was crumpled, a touch dirty, and had definitely seen better days. 

“I would advise you to keep your door shut if you don’t want midnight visitors,” she told him. “The cats aren’t very good at respecting personal space.” 

“Right, of course.” Harry gave her a quick smile. “I’ll be sleeping in shifts. Just to make sure everything stays quiet.”

The thought of him being awake and wandering around her house without her there was mildly infuriating, but Hermione nodded, heading for the door. “Whatever you need to do.”

Harry turned to look at her as she left, and before she could say anything else, he said, “Sleep well.” His voice was low, sincere.

Heat flooded towards her face, and she had to get out of here, now. “Thanks.” She turned and fled, making it downstairs in record time, but the image of Harry bloody Potter standing in her guest bedroom was burned into her mind, likely for good. 

When she got back downstairs, she went through her usual habit of closing off the Floo, turning off the lights, double-checking the wards and locks, making sure the curtains were closed. She’d once felt sort of self-conscious about doing this every night — maybe it was too paranoid — but she certainly didn’t feel that way now. Next were the dishes, which she cleaned by magic, too strung-out to do them the Muggle way. 

Her bed, when she fell into it, was fluffy and warmed by the fire she’d left crackling in the grate. Winnie was already dozing on a pillow, and he got up to snuggle into her side, purring loudly. In spite of herself, in spite of everything, Hermione smiled for the second time that day. She hugged him close and pulled out her current book, a juicy, sort-of-trashy novel that she never told anyone about reading, except for her twice-monthly Muggle book club. Sandra had picked this one — the title was something about big lies — and Hermione couldn’t wait to hear what the others had to say on Saturday.

Once her bedside lamp was off and her mind was elsewhere, Hermione let herself give in to the soft, ebbing glow of the fire, feeling a strong rush of contentment and peace that never came to her during the day. It was like that, finally thinking that perhaps this would all be okay, that exhaustion finally overcame her and she fell asleep.

The next morning, Hermione walked into her kitchen fully dressed, heels already on and hair up, with a decision ringing clear but new in her mind. Harry, of course, was sitting at the island, skimming the Prophet, sipping at a cup of tea.

Milk, no sugar, she suddenly remembered, and felt a swooping sensation in her stomach. 

Harry looked up when she came in, and his eyebrows flickered. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” she replied, going to the fridge and pulling out the milk. She could feel his gaze on her as she moved about, switching on the kettle, digging out the bag of muesli and a bowl. After a minute, she fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Is there something on my suit?”

“No.” Harry cleared his throat. “It’s seven in the morning.”

“Indeed.” Hermione slid the bowl of cold cereal onto the island and went about fixing a cup of tea. The water was still hot. “What of it?”

“Nothing.” She heard him take a sip of tea before he continued. “You’re dressed.”

Mug of tea in hand, Hermione turned and sat at the island. “If you think the position of Minister is a bread-and-butter nine-to-five, prepare for a rude awakening.”

“That’s not what I—” Harry shook his head. “Never mind.”

Hermione felt a spike of irritation, but she pushed it away and tried to focus on her food. Even though it was a nice muesli, one of her favorites, it felt like sand in her mouth, and she forced herself to swallow. The silence hung between them like a fog, and she cataloged Harry’s appearance. No less rumpled than yesterday, still in jeans, but today he’d paired it with a black wool jumper that had definitely seen better days. Fitting, considering the sleet that had been pounding at her windows since dawn.

She made a mental note to have a word with Kingsley about matters of personal appearance within the DMLE. No point in having regulations if the boss was going to break all of them. 

“Sleep well?” Harry asked, out of nowhere. He was looking right at her, and for a moment, all she could think about was how green and bright his eyes were. 

“Yes,” she said, a bit stiffly. “Was everything upstairs satisfactory?”

“Very comfy, thanks.” His gaze dropped back to the Prophet and he smiled. “Casper followed me around when I did my walk-through. He’s very talkative.”

Hermione tried not to smile at the mental image that conjured up. Casper had probably batted at his ankles and tried to trip him on corners. “Yes, he is.” 

They lapsed back into silence, save for the clink of Hermione’s spoon on the bowl and the rustle of the newspaper. For a moment, absurdly, she was reminded of one of the hundreds of breakfasts they’d shared at Gryffindor table. Tea, toast, eggs, bacon. Morning post. Watching Harry watch Ginny. A different lifetime.

“You’re on the front page,” Harry said, out of nowhere. Thankfully, he was in the middle of the paper, so the front page was hidden from view. “Great big drama about the incident yesterday.”

“That’s hardly news,” Hermione replied. “I was on the front page yesterday, as well. One does get used to it, after a while.”

“Indeed.” He glanced at her. “You don’t read it?”

“Not usually. Sometimes the financials, and sometimes, the crossword.”

“Then why get it at all?”

Hermione got up to clear her bowl. “I’ve been meaning to ask. I was planning on going to the gym tomorrow morning and—”

“Off-limits,” Harry said. “Sorry,” he added, when she turned to frown at him. “Since it’s a public space, there are too many uncontrollable factors. We can’t guarantee that you’d be protected the whole time you’re in there.”

“I see.” Hermione went back to the dishes. “So if I want to exercise—”

“You’ve got to do it at home.” 

“Right.” She did a quick mental catalog of her closet. Her running shoes were probably a bit dusty, but she could make that work. She had a sudden mental image of jogging through the nearby park, Harry puffing and panting as he tried to keep pace, and fought off a grin.

It was almost enough to take her mind off how invasive this all was. Harry was more in her life now than he’d been since Hogwarts. Maybe even then he hadn’t had this much of a presence, of a selective, glaring perspective into her day-to-day mundanity. His having access to the little, boring things was somehow much worse than him being there for the big events. That, of course, was unavoidable — collateral damage from his high-level position and their admitted shared history — but this, this nonstop needling into her private world, almost certainly was worse. Which brought her back to the decision she’d made almost immediately upon waking. 

But that could wait. It wasn’t a conversation she could have here. Not in her home. 

Hermione finished the dishes and glanced at the cats’ bowls, refreshing them with a wave of her hand. “Ready?”

Harry blinked. His mug of tea was still half-full, which she’d known before she asked. “You want to head in now? It’s barely quarter-past seven. The cleaning witches won’t even be—”

“Yes and no.” Hermione strode out of the room, not bothering to check if he was following. “Do keep up.” 

“’Mione— Minister—” Harry hurried to catch up, nearly hitting the dining table on his way. “You haven’t got anything on your calendar.” And he pointedly waggled his mobile at her.

Hermione gritted her teeth. The Ministry was still catching up when it came to advancements in Muggle technology — only the high-ranking employees, including Hermione, had laptops, wifi, and email accounts — but all Muggle-borns and mixed-bloods had mobiles and routinely used them, even at work. And since Muggle-borns and mixed-bloods made up most of the Ministry these days, Ministerial life revolved around the benevolent force of Google Calendars. Hermione already knew that all the Aurors on her personal team had been given access to her own calendar, along with all of her secretary’s files. But to have it literally waved in her face — “I can assure you that I can have a life outside of those grey lines.” She pulled on her wool overcoat and shouldered her briefcase. “Coming?”

“Coming? Jesus, Hermione.” Harry crossed to the coat stand and grabbed his robes. “Where are we going?” 

“Nowhere by Floo. So I suggest you cast your mind back to fifth year and recall the basics of clothing transfiguration. It’s quite cold outside.”

She could practically see the anger coming off him in waves. “I’ll have to inform the team about the schedule change.”

“You can do that on the way.” Hermione opened the front door and stepped out into the wind and sleet. Thank Merlin for her coat’s built-in Shield and Heat charms. 

For a brief moment, she could see the itch for rebellion crawling underneath Harry’s skin. It wasn’t as obvious now as it had been at Hogwarts, but she could still read him quite well. He Transfigured his robes into a heavy wool overcoat not unlike her own, shrugged it on, then stepped out and closed the door behind them. Her front awning gave them brief respite from the weather, and she heard him mutter into his walkie-talkie — “Gamma team, the Eagle is on the move. Shift into triangle formation and double-check domestic wards. Over.”

Hermione set off at a march, heading southwest, and Harry hastened to follow. The road was practically empty, thanks to the weather, and she kept her arms close to her body, wincing at the force of the wind. Even if she couldn’t feel it, she was aware of it. Bloody February. 

“Where are you going?” Harry said to her, his voice raised above the elements.

Hermione ignored him and continued on. Marylebone had some traffic, a lazy river of people heading to work, and she turned right at the intersection, continuing up the main road. A block and a half later, she came to a tiny coffee shop, and she pushed in the door with a sigh of relief. The air in here was warm, sweet, chocolatey, and it buffeted her like a hug. 

“Morning, Cassie,” she said to the barista with a smile. “Usual, please.”

Cassie nodded and smiled, her fingers darting across the screen of the computer. “Anything for your… friend?”

Merlin’s balls. She’d forgotten Harry was lurking behind her like an ogre. “Nothing for my colleague,” Hermione quickly replied. “Thank you.”

Cassie looked skeptical but nodded anyway, her gaze lingering on Harry. He did look foreboding in that trench coat, sort of dark and mysterious—

Hermione squished the rest of that thought before it could form and stepped aside to wait. Mentally, she began to count. Behind the counter, the espresso machine fired up and Cassie got to work, her blonde bun bobbing above the metal machinery.

“You didn’t pay.”

Fifteen seconds, he’d lasted. Hermione hid her smile and glanced at Harry. “I have a tab. We settle monthly.”

She could feel him staring at her. It was a prickle in the back of her neck. “You must come here often, then.”

“Yes.” Hermione pulled out her mobile and flipped through it. A few messages in her book club chat — theories about Jane, a snarky joke about Renata — and a couple calendar alerts for new meetings Jill had already added to her day. The Gringotts liaison after lunch, then some transport executives after that. She sighed a little. Welcome to Wednesday. 

Her coffees were soon done, along with a bag of half a dozen pain du chocolat, and Hermione whisked them away, giving Cassie a wave goodbye as she left. Harry followed her out of the shop and around a corner, into a little-used alleyway. There, finally, she stopped, and turned to face him. 

He spoke first. “Minister. Before we go any further, I require an explanation. I need to know where we are going and how long you intend to stay there.” He was frustrated, that much was obvious. 

“Covent Garden,” she replied, offering her free elbow. Harry glanced at it with distrust. “Around the corner from St. Paul’s. For approximately half an hour. Then straight to the Ministry, my chambers.”

Harry pulled out his walkie-talkie, looked at her for a moment. “Covent Garden?”

“Tell the team,” she replied.

It took a moment, a long moment in which they just stared at each other, but finally, Harry gave in and pressed the button on his walkie-talkie. “Apparating to Covent Garden, half-hour detour. I will accompany the Eagle solo, rendezvous at the office in forty minutes. Over and out.”

Feeling a small glow of triumph, Hermione offered her elbow again. Harry stepped closer, took her arm, and she pulled.

A tight squeeze later, they landed around the corner of an old white brick building. Hermione nearly stumbled as she stepped away from Harry, a touch dizzy from his magic. That would definitely take some getting used to.

Harry frowned at her. “All right?”

“Never better,” she replied. She turned on her heel and headed for the street, Harry right behind her. 

The little side road was just beginning to wake up, shops and houses stirring in the grey morning fog. A few lights glowed here and there, signalling cups of tea being poured, toasters popping up, cash registers trundling open. Hermione smiled in spite of herself, and headed for a nondescript dark blue storefront, with a fading golden script painted next to the door. “Alonzo’s Fine Books” greeted them from windows over a century old, and Hermione pushed open the door, relishing the familiar scent of old books and the warm rush of heat. She almost forgot Harry was with her, especially once he gritted his teeth and pulled out his wand, tapping himself on the head. The Disillusionment Charm took immediate effect, and a moment later, she was looking at a stretch of cobblestones instead of his horrid trainers.

“Al?” She went into the shop and wove between cluttered shelves and stacks of books. Some of the towers were taller than her, and were standing from the combination of sheer willpower and a prayer. And a little magic, but only Hermione knew about that. 

“Back ’ere, darlin’!” 

Hermione headed to the back of the shop, where, sure enough, Al was up on a ladder behind the register, book in hand, trying to find a space that didn’t exist (yet). He grinned down at her, his wizened face golden and creased in the light, and tipped his tweed cap. “Top of the mornin’, my dear! Though what a gloomy mornin’ it is, can’t hardly walk for damp. I told June to keep the fire goin’, this sort of cold always sticks to your bones and settles in for the day.”

“Good morning,” she replied, sliding the food and drinks onto the counter. “Up early?”

“As always, my dear, as always!” He made his way down the ladder and caught sight of the coffee. “Ah! You’ve brought breakfast.”

“As always,” Hermione parroted. She turned and pulled a wooden stool out from under a nearby table, where it always was, then pushed it up to the counter and sat down. “Shall we invite June?”

“Of course, my dear, of course!” Al poked his head into the doorway that led to the back of the shop and, she knew, the ground floor of his flat. “June! Miss Hermione’s here, and she’s brought some sweeties!”

Hermione smiled at him, delighted to find him in such a good mood. She began doling out the coffees and pastries, and tried to ignore the prickle at the back of her neck that told her she was being watched.

Harry, for all his faults, could keep his head when necessary. So he waited until they were at the Ministry, in her office, alone, with the door shut.

He rounded on her. He’d turned his coat back into robes, and they fluttered at his ankles. “I demand an explanation. Changing your movements at the last minute—”

“It was hardly last minute,” Hermione replied. She took off her own coat and brushed a hand across her hair, tucking in a few flyaway strands. “I go to Al’s every Tuesday, and no, it doesn’t show up on my work calendar. You would know that if you had approached this assignment with the bare minimum of professionalism.”

Harry’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair. “Professionalism?” he repeated, his voice getting dangerously sharp. 

“Yes, Auror Potter. It appears to be a concept of which you have only the most basic and tenuous grasp.” She rounded on him, fortified by the fact that she was in home territory — this was her space, her desk, her domain, and she’d faced worse than Harry Potter. “You and I both know that, according to DMLE practices, any Auror assigned as a personal security detail is responsible for establishing the routines and movements of their asset, through personal interview or, if necessary, investigation. That should have been your first task, not flopping across my sofa or passing comments on what I should have for dinner.” She paused for breath. “You made a rookie mistake, Auror Potter, and that was to assume that you knew the first thing about my life. 

“I’m guessing that this mistake was borne of arrogance, a result of thinking that our ever-dwindling personal history would give you a degree of insight that does not, in reality, exist. Thankfully, you’re competent enough to have handled the situation adequately, and you adapted, but as a result of your oversight, I was at greater personal risk than I should have been. And that is a scenario I do not wish to repeat, especially given the current circumstances. Am I making myself clear?”

A beat passed. Then two. Harry was staring at her, his jaw clenched. A short eternity later, he nodded and straightened, shifting into a stance she realized was parade rest. “Yes, Minister.”

“Good.” In spite of herself, Hermione’s cheeks heated. She hadn’t expected him to give in that easily. “I am nothing other than another assignment, Auror Potter, and you would do well to remember it. Making conversation with me and passing comments on my life, home, or appearance are in no way part of your job description. The time that you are with me is time that you are on the clock. I would recommend you behave accordingly.

“On a related note, it seems that while you have forgotten departmental regulations pertaining to personal appearance, I have not. I do not want to see you in another pair of jeans unless it’s for undercover purposes. In the course of this assignment, you will be with me at all times, occasionally in public and at formal events, often in the company of high-ranking officials, and I will not tolerate the presence of a man dressed as an overgrown teenager who cannot remember to get a haircut. That is not the message that this government wants to send to its own dignitaries or to those from other countries.” Hermione unlocked her mobile and sent a quick text to Jill. “Since I’m back at the Ministry and only have internal meetings today, I suggest taking a few hours of personal time to make the required changes. You can send along a temporary replacement if you feel it necessary.” Her office door opened to show Jill, with her hand on the handle, holding it open for Harry’s exit. One of her MLEP security team — Rogers, she thought — gave the room a cursory glance, having the grace to hide most of his surprise. “That will be all.”

Harry gave a nod. His face was flat, expressionless, and his gaze bore a hole into her own. It was almost like he was a different person from the man who’d walked her into the Ministry just a few minutes before — a negative version of the full-color Harry, a few shades off from normal. “Ma’am.” He turned and left her office, his pace measured and grim, and so wholly opposite from what she’d been expecting that Hermione felt a bit lightheaded. 

She wobbled a bit on her heels as Jill closed the door behind him, and caught herself on the edge of her desk. “Right,” she said aloud. “Time to work.”

Thank goodness there was a lot of that. She wasn’t sure much else could distract her from one of the most disturbing things she’d ever witnessed — Harry Potter giving in without a fight.

The day passed, because of course it did. She sat in on a few judicial hearings — only listening, not voting, since Ministers had forfeited that privilege under Kingsley’s reforms — and spent the rest of the morning reading through briefings on the trade situation — fairly strong — the house-elf situation — improving with every year — and on Brexit.

Hermione would be voting in the Muggle election, of course, as all Muggle-borns would. She stared down at the transcript of Boris Johnson’s latest speech and shook her head. She’d only met with him once since he’d taken office, and it had been enough to make her blood boil. What was the world coming to?

All day, the Ministry had buzzed around her like a hive. She was aware of the whispers, the gazes, the smirks as she walked across the Atrium, through court, down a hall. True, the MLEP took her along slightly less public routes now that she was semi-sequestered, but it was pervasive all the same. The gossip, the snark, the rumors, were all things she’d gotten used to in the run-up to the election — you don’t get to be a Department Head and then Minister before age forty without growing a very thick skin — but it somehow felt different now that her life had actually been threatened. Did none of these people care that she had come within inches of death? If anything, it had made them more ruthless, more biting. It was difficult to feel like the popular choice when everyone still seemed so ready to cut you down. 

But she couldn’t waste time dwelling on it, even if it was almost poetic. She knew, now, how Harry had felt at Hogwarts — always on the defensive. It was an exhausting way to be, to live, even if someone always had to be at the center of the target. 

At some point, morning turned into afternoon, and Hermione dimly recalled eating an apple or something, but she was nose-deep in a report on wand core stocks when her office door opened and Harry walked in.

At least, she thought it was Harry. But it could have been his deeply elegant and slightly evil twin. It was enough of a difference that her stomach flipped and her mouth went dry, because of all the things she’d expected, she hadn’t expected this.

He’d had his robes freshly pressed, and they gleamed in deep, rich crimson, parted to reveal a dark grey suit tailored to within an inch of its life. He’d paired it with a pale blue shirt and a deep blue tie, along with sharp dark brown leather shoes. The contrast between his clothes and his robes was distinctive, bold and bright in the pale light of her office. And the lines of the suit showed her something she hadn’t noticed before — Harry Potter had muscles, and his shoulders were broad, sloping into a sleek torso that she almost never would have expected from a man who was nearly forty. And that was to say nothing of his hair. He’d had it trimmed then combed back and to the side, and the part showcased the gleam of silver among the black. Now that it was out of his face, she could see his jawline, the sharp jut of his chin, the ridge of his nose.

He looked, for the split second that Hermione allowed herself to think it, like James Bond.

Like a knife. A weapon. 

And when he met her gaze, his face was so placid, so enigmatic, that she felt an odd ripple of fear. But she supposed this was what she’d glimpsed before — Harry, not putting up a fight. 

“Anderson,” Harry said, stepping out of the doorway. He turned to the Auror who’d taken his place and was currently standing by the mantelpiece. “You may return to your office.”

Anderson — she was quite a bit younger than them, Hermione now noticed — nodded and made to leave. “Minister,” she said, and Hermione nodded in reply. 

Then Anderson was gone, the door shut, and Harry turned to Hermione once again. Hermione felt a distinct flutter in the region of her stomach, which was deeply unhelpful, given—

“Kingsley will be reporting at four o’clock with a situation update on the suspect at large,” Harry said. “I understand before that, you have Gringotts and the transportation officials, correct?” At her nod, he pulled out a small notebook. “So you have no commitments until two?”

Hermione blinked at him. “Well, nothing official—”

“May I impose upon you for a few minutes then, Minister?” 

She exhaled. Of course he’d decided to make up for lost time as quickly as possible. Typical Seeker behavior. “I suppose so.” She pushed her trade briefing to the side and capped her fountain pen. “What do you need?”

“An overview of your personal habits, so I can plan adequately. We might be in this stage of lockdown for an extended period, so it’s better to be prepared for every eventuality.” Harry took a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk, and she caught a whiff of his delicately spicy aftershave. Unhelpful, some corner of her brain thought. Very unhelpful.

“Let’s begin with Alonzo’s Books.” Harry held his pen at the ready on the new page of his notebook. “You visit once a week?”

“Yes. Tuesday mornings before work.”

“And you are aware that it is an unregistered magical space?”

Hermione gritted her teeth. She’d wondered if Harry had noticed, even though they hadn’t stayed longer than twenty minutes. “The only magic on the property consists of the wards used on their personal flat and a few simple spells to keep the books preserved and shelved properly. Otherwise, the space is frequented almost exclusively by Muggles, and the Riccis haven’t lived in the Wizarding world since the first war. They are completely out of touch with the Wizarding community — they use Muggle money, and haven’t set foot in Diagon Alley or even read the Prophet for almost fifty years.”

That got a reaction. One of Harry’s eyebrows twitched. “You mean they have no idea—?”

“—who I am? Correct.” Hermione cleared her throat. “I stumbled upon the shop several years ago and quickly became friends with them. They know I’m a witch, but they think I’m a low-level Ministry functionary. And we’re going to keep it that way.” 

“That is not the recommendation I would make,” Harry replied.

“I don’t care.” Hermione sat back in her chair. “I’ve been friends with them for years and I can’t stop visiting them out of the blue. We can come back to this topic if the security threat increases, but in the meantime, the visits will continue as usual. Next item.”

Harry looked at her for another moment, still inscrutable, then nodded. “Tell me about your weekly errands and personal commitments.”

“I go to the coffee shop every day on the way to work. And as I mentioned this morning, I like to exercise a few times a week. If I can’t go to the gym, then I will figure out something else. I usually go to the shops first thing on Saturday morning — there’s a Waitrose I like on Marylebone, so I walk there and back.”

Harry was writing very quickly. “Do you keep most of your shopping in your neighborhood, or do you go to other parts of London?”

“I usually stay in that area, unless I need something specific. I might go to Diagon Alley once in a while, but I try to avoid it if I can.”

Harry gave her a sharp glance, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I understand,” he said, and with a jolt, she realized that of course he did. Diagon had always been tricky for him, even back in school. Trying to do errands while people bombarded you with questions and gratitude and veiled insults was practically impossible. “We’ll have to restrict shopping trips to a half-hour maximum, and you will have to travel everywhere by Apparition. No more walking,” he clarified at her frown. “You can go out for recreational exercise for one hour three times a week.”

Hermione stared at him as that sunk in. “This is sounding more and more like house arrest.”

“I know.” Harry glanced at her again. “I’m sorry.” 

Those two words hung there between them like a net. A trap. Hermione wondered what would happen if she fell into it. 

“Moving on,” said Harry, going back to his notebook. “Any other commitments?”

“My book club,” Hermione said. “We meet twice a month. It’s a dozen women, and they all know me as Jean the corporate tax accountant. Sandra hosts, and she lives out in Chiswick. I take the Tube,” she added, “but Apparating won’t be a problem.” At Harry’s nod, she continued. “Sometimes, I visit my parents. They’re living out near Guildford. I set them up for the Floo, so that’s how I usually get there.” She shrugged.

“How often?”

Hermione took a quick breath. “Once a month. But recently it’s been less often.”

There was another pause, until Harry said, “Okay.” He glanced at her again, and it was different this time. He seemed edgy. “What about your personal life?”

Something in Hermione came screeching to a halt, and she forced herself not to fidget. “I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate.”

Harry cleared his throat with a cough. “Any other relationships, standing commitments? Do you have dinner with anybody? The Weasleys?” he added, at her look of confusion. 

“No.” Hermione fought the urge to laugh like a maniac. Molly had never forgiven her for breaking Ron’s heart, so that was certainly out of the question. 

“Do you…” Harry trailed off and glanced at her again. “Do you date?”

Hermione inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the way her heart fluttered. “No,” she said, hoping that they would be done with this soon. “No, I don’t.”

Silence fell once more, except for Harry capping his pen, the clock on the mantelpiece ticking away like it always would. For one blinding instant, Hermione wanted to tear open the windows and scream at the top of her lungs. 

“Is that all?” she asked him. 

“Yes, thank you.” Harry stood up, giving her a fresh whiff of that aftershave, and now Hermione wanted to punch something as well as scream. “For now, we won’t have to make that many other changes. Everything can continue much as it did before.” He tapped the chair with his wand, creating a duplicate out of thin air, and he levitated it beside him. “I’ll be over there—” he pointed to the back corner of the room— “while you have your meetings. You won’t even notice me.”

Hermione nodded, but before she could say anything, her intercom buzzed and Jill’s voice came filtering out. “Minister, the Gringotts team is here. Shall I bring them in or do you need a few more minutes?”

Hermione exhaled, trying not to watch Harry as he settled into his chair, crossing his legs in a way that was practically indecent. His dark blue socks had tiny golden dragons on them. She pressed the button on the intercom and resolved not to so much as look at him for the rest of the afternoon. “Send them in.”

Hermione stepped into the lift, Harry close behind her. As usual, they were alone, since most of the Ministry had cleared out by that point, and the majority of the offices with night shifts were on another floor. She hit the button for the Atrium, and the lift swept them away. 

“I didn’t know you spoke Gobbledygook,” she said. 

There was a pause, then Harry gave a dry chuckle. “‘Speak’ is a generous term, Minister, I only know a little. Enough to get by in conversation.”

Hermione glanced at him. Even now, at the end of this long day, in the somewhat unflattering light of the lift, he still looked like MI-6’s newest and coolest recruit. An image only sharpened by the way he’d chatted to the goblins earlier, friendly and at ease in a way that was deeply ironic, given that it had taken years of apologies and formalities for the Golden Trio to regain admittance to Gringotts. “Did you learn it for an assignment?”

Harry shook his head. “Teddy.” 

They came to a stop, and the lift doors opened with a ding! Hermione stepped out and started for the Floo bank. “Teddy taught you?” 

“He taught himself, first, so it was only a matter of time before I got caught in the fray.” Harry gave that chuckle again as they passed the fountain. “Summer between his third and fourth year, I would’ve eaten my hat if it meant he’d ask for his breakfast in English.”

Now that — Hermione stopped mid-stride and turned to him. “He learned Gobbledygook when he was thirteen? ”

Harry stopped as well and nodded. “He inherited all of his parents’ brains as well as their independent streak. Whatever Hogwarts couldn’t teach him, he taught himself.” Harry almost smiled. “Sort of like you.”

Hermione turned away and continued towards the nearest fireplace. “Why Gobbledygook?”

“It was always his dream to have a job at Gringotts, which, of course, he’s now done. Curse-Breaker,” he added, at her questioning look. “He’s in South Africa at the moment.”

“Oh.” Hermione felt her pulse in her throat, and she wasn’t sure why. There was no reason for her to have kept tabs on Teddy, or on what he’d decided to do with his life. The image of Harry trying to get a petulant thirteen-year old to speak English at the breakfast table made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. She’d known, logically, that Harry had looked after Teddy once Andromeda had gotten too old, and had become Teddy’s legal guardian when she’d passed away several years before. 

But knowing something and feeling something were two very different things. 

Side-Along with Harry was getting easier. They landed in her living room and she immediately stepped away from him. 

Winnie perked up from his spot on the couch and meowed, blinking as the lights came on around him. 

Harry let out a laugh, a short, sharp sound. “I didn’t realize you had a welcoming committee.”

“Most days, yes.” Hermione rubbed Winnie on the head before putting down her briefcase and unbuttoning her coat. “Anything to get their dinner faster.”

“Cheeky beggars,” Harry said, and Hermione almost did a double-take. It was the closest he’d sounded to his old self that whole day. “I’ll do the sweep, now, if you don’t mind.”

It took the last of Hermione’s patience to wait for him to get back, and when he did, she avoided his gaze and made a beeline for her room, Winnie hot on her heels. “I’ll be out soon.”

Once she was in her shower a few minutes later, Hermione sank onto the bench seat, hugged her knees to her chest, and closed her eyes. She tried to lose herself in the sensation of the hot water spiralling down her body. It tingled as it trickled through the crevices of her joints, between her fingers and toes, at the nape of her neck and under her eyes. 

Breathe, she reminded herself, so she did. In and out. Gardenia and honey.

As bad as the previous day had been — this one, somehow, had been much worse. 

Her evening in the office had ended with the transcript of a speech given that day by her main opposition leader, Octavius Crane. He’d been her most vocal opponent in the Wizengamot, and he was still sore over losing the most recent election for Minister. A sleek, trim tyrant who wanted to undo most of Kingsley’s good work, and who seemed determined to restore several bulwarks of traditional wizarding life, but in untraditional ways. He would put forward a bill challenging public voting protocols that would appear to be righting many wrongs, but would in fact make voting more difficult for Muggle-borns. Or, he would try to contest revisions to Wizarding inheritance law to make it possible to put house elves back into indentured servitude — slavery, really, Hermione thought — when such practices had been outlawed for almost a decade. 

Crane was an unconventional sort of opponent as well. He was a businessman first, politician second — he owned one of the largest broomstick manufacturing companies in the world. Anyone who’d heard him speak for more than five minutes would swear up and down that he made the best brooms around, but Ron had given her the insider perspective just the year before —

“They’re run-of-the-mill, average brooms that have been stuffed into tutus and three-piece suits.” He’d given a one-shoulder shrug, halfway out the door of the conference room. “Dressed up and made to dance, but no real power. He might get some rare materials from his contacts on the Continent, but they don’t make a lick of difference when it comes to substance. It’s all window-dressings, ’Mione. Just window-dressings and a price tag to match.”

Not that it was much consolation when it seemed that Crane was trying to turn the whole Wizengamot against her. But perhaps that was just the paranoia talking, even if that was the message Hermione could see in his speech, clear as glass.

The rest of her day had been almost typical, if it weren’t for all of her guests ending their meetings with some sort of comment about the events the day before:

“— surprised you’re in the office today, given the circumstances—”

“—an absolutely shocking display, Minister, you might want to have a word with your security team, it seems they’re not entirely—”

“—we were very glad that the unfortunate criminal didn’t have better aim, Minister—”

“—does this change your position on the Punitive Relief Bill, Minister?”

“—bloody hell, Minister, when I tell you that I’ve had a Probity Probe stuck in many places, but I’ve never—”

“—what are your plans for when you do catch the bugger? Friend of a friend’s been doing some interesting potionwork in Italy and—”

“—do you really feel safe?”

Hermione stifled a sob, burying her face in her knees. She was trembling, though not from cold, and she hugged her knees even more tightly, trying to draw into herself. No, she wanted to scream, no, I don’t feel safe. Even here, now, what was to stop a powerful and determined witch or wizard from breaking through the wards, disabling her security team, getting past Harry—

“No,” Hermione muttered, forcing herself to pull away and lean her head back against the tiles. “Stop it. Not going to happen.”

She supposed it was Kingsley’s fault, if it was anyone’s. His briefing had been succinct, candid, not very helpful. 

“This is what we know,” he said, his face smooth and grim in the fading afternoon light. “We believe we’re dealing with an offshoot anarchist group called Salvation.”

Hermione frowned. “That’s fairly religious for—”

“It’s a pureblood and Muggle-born coalition,” Kingsley replied, and nodded when both Harry and Hermione gaped at him in surprise. “I know. The first of its kind, as far as we can tell. So we’re assuming the religion-based fervor came from the Muggle-borns, and the purebloods hopped on the train, as it were.

“Their movement appears to be organized around the quintessential anarchist notion of inciting upheaval at any cost, meaning that they are no strangers to violence. This explains their decision to attempt a political assassination at a public event in full daylight. As far as we can tell, this determination to unseat the Minister is part of a larger plan to unravel the entire system as we know it, starting from the top down. It seems that they are unsatisfied with how the Ministry endured, though in its different form, in the wake of Voldemort’s demise. They want to wipe the slate clean.” He swept a hand through the air, and Hermione felt her magic crackle in reply.

“We’re still working to determine the specifics of their organization. They appear to have a single leader, and a series of lower-ranking captains that the leader delegates certain tasks to. The captains, in turn, delegate to foot soldiers. We believe that it was one of these captains who made the attempt on your life yesterday — it seems that soldiers are only responsible for very mundane or everyday duties.”

“How many?” Hermione cleared her throat and tried again. “How many of them are there? And have you identified any of them?”

“We estimate their numbers to be anywhere from fifty to five hundred. The trouble is, Minister…” Kingsley paused and took a breath. “The trouble is, Salvation is a secret society. Its members are private, highly guarded, and because the group prides itself on its exclusivity as well as its inclusivity—”

“It’s almost impossible for you to identify its members,” Harry finished for him. 

“Precisely.” Kingsley shot a glance at Hermione. She was gripping the arm of her chair, willing her stomach to stop falling through the floor. “The trouble is, its members appear to be, for all intents and purposes, fully-fledged members of everyday society. They are everywhere.”

Those words had echoed in Hermione’s mind, and she still heard them now. “Everywhere,” she mumbled, watching the water droplets slide down the glass door. 

“What all this means,” Kingsley continued, “is that we have to assume that some of its members are here in the Ministry. It’s far more likely than not.”

“Right,” Hermione said. “So what does that mean, in terms of—?”

Kingsley paused, looking at her again. Something in his gaze made her want to cry. “For now, I will not be increasing security measures within the Ministry.”

Hermione nodded, part of her going numb. “If you did, it would show your hand.”

“Precisely.”

Kingsley’s plan was simple. He’d sent two of his best Aurors undercover to try to work their way into Salvation’s lower-rankings, to find out whatever they could about the group’s beliefs and, more importantly, their plans. In the meantime, the team of underground informants working for the Aurors would make information-gathering on Salvation their top priority. 

“Right now, we need whatever intel we can get. We have to learn everything we can before launching a counter-offensive. In the meantime, we will continue the security plan as is. We will stay on the defensive.” 

“And you really believe that is the best course of action?” Harry said, looking Kingsley in the eye. “Rather than moving to Stage Two of Action Plan Delta?”

Kingsley sighed. “Harry, you and I both know that those decisions are made by the High Council and the High Council alone. Just because I’m a sitting member doesn’t mean I can activate policy on my own.” 

Harry nodded, his jaw clenched. 

“So we stay the course, for now,” Hermione said to Kingsley, and he nodded. “That makes sense. As much as I would prefer to lock everything down and isolate this office from all outsiders, I understand that a degree of danger is necessary for the sake of identifying the enemy.”

“Well said,” Kingsley told her, with one of his rare reassuring smiles. It had little effect on her, and Hermione’s gaze shifted to the window, where the sky was already growing dark. 

Now, hours later, her gaze slid along the tiles, finding miniscule cracks in the grout, tiny chips in the tile. She’d have to have a contractor in at some point. 

A sudden, bleating meow shook her out of her thoughts, and she turned to see Winnie using the glass door to prop himself up on his hind legs. She could count the pads of his paws through the glass, and his eyes were wide as he meowed at her again. 

Taking a shaky breath, Hermione stood up. No use to anyone cowering in fear. And with that thought held firmly in her mind, she went about her shower.

When she emerged from her bedroom, still feeling shaky but determined not to show it, she found Harry right outside her door, leaning against the wall. 

“Sorry,” was the first thing he said, when he saw her expression. “Protocol.”

That explained how he’d heard her speaking to the cats the night before. “I see.” She continued past him, heading for the kitchen, and she didn’t need to turn around to know that he was following. 

Once the cats were fed, Hermione wandered over to the fridge. Harry was seated at the island again, and while she was in the shower, he’d taken off his suit jacket as well as his shoes, loosened his tie, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. It was practically casual, compared to how he’d looked the rest of the day, and she absently wondered if it was because he felt more comfortable here, more at ease. That thought, like the sight of his muscular forearms, was sort of terrifying, so she shook it off and stared at her mostly-bare shelves. 

“One thing we never covered,” she found herself saying, “was if I’m meant to feed you or not.”

There was a deadly pause, then Harry gave a dry cough. “Pardon?”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, willing the earth to open up and swallow her. That wasn’t how she meant for it to sound. “Am I making you any meals or are you—?”

“Oh, I see,” Harry said in a rush. “Well, it’s up to you. If you’re comfortable cooking for both of us, that’s fine, or I can get one of the team to bring me something—”

“I think,” Hermione said, to the inside of her fridge, “that that would be the best option for now.”

“Okay,” Harry said, and she heard him pull out his walkie-talkie. 

Some twenty minutes later, she sat down at the island with a bowl of pasta and willed her stomach to stop rolling. It didn’t help that across from her, Harry was unwrapping something that smelled heavenly. One of the other Aurors had dropped it off just a few minutes before, and Hermione was doing everything she could not to stare. 

She poked at her pasta, then took a reluctant bite. It was nothing special, just farfalle tossed with sauce from a jar. Nothing compared to the grilled chicken in green curry that Harry was tucking into. 

“I didn’t know you liked Thai food,” Hermione said.

Harry nodded, swiping at his mouth with a napkin. “It’s my bread and butter.” He looked at her as he chewed. “When you go to the shops this week, I’ll get some stuff for myself. That way you won’t have to worry, so long as it’s all right for me to take up space in your tiny fridge.” There, for just a moment, was a twinkle in his eye. 

Dammit. Hermione shoved another forkful of pasta in her mouth. “Of course. It’s no trouble at all.”

“Good.”

They finished eating in silence, save for the cats, who had apparently decided that Harry was their new favorite guest. Casper sat and stared up at him while Winnie rubbed against his ankles, purring loudly, and Harry chuckled. Hermione stared daggers at Winnie’s brindled backside. Traitors, she thought, standing up to clear her bowl. 

It was getting close to nine o’clock by the time she finished the dishes, and she glanced at Harry as he stuffed his containers in the bin. 

“I’m going to work in the living room,” she told him, wrapping her arms around her middle. It was nothing but nervous reflex, a by-product of her thought-spiral in the shower, but he noticed all the same, his bright green gaze darting up and down her body. 

“All right,” he replied, and she turned away from him, her cheeks burning. 

It was almost worse now than it had been before. She found herself longing for their easy, if brittle, banter from the previous night, and fought the urge to kick herself. All that insistence on professionalism and detachment seemed to have made for a very awkward situation in the home. But there was nothing she could do about that now. So Hermione resolved to do as she had done for years, and throw herself so completely into her work that the rest of the world — even Harry Potter and his stupid forearms — disappeared.

Hermione woke with a gasp, her ears ringing, her chest tight, her stomach in her throat, and realized that there was a hand on her arm. A warm, rough touch that she hadn’t felt in years. 

“Hermione?” came a voice, seemingly from a great distance through the dark. The word bounced around in her mind as she struggled to breathe. “Hermione, it’s all right—”

Hermione ripped her arm away and lurched across the bed, shoving her hand under one of the big pillows. Her wand was smooth and reassuring in her grasp, and she rounded on her attacker, firing off a volley of wordless jinxes. 

“Jesus Christ!” the voice yelled, followed by the sharp crackle and resonant hum of a Shield Charm. Their magic exploded blue and white as it met in the dark room, and she caught a glimpse of her attacker’s face. 

It was Harry, looking stricken, annoyed, and about a dozen other things. Hermione fought off a sob, slumping into her pillows, and dropped her wand. 

“Jesus Christ,” Harry said again, and her bedside lamp came on. He was in his pajamas, his glasses were lopsided, and he was staring at her like she was a bomb about to go off. The cats were nowhere to be seen, presumably scared off by the noise. 

Hermione looked away, still fighting to get her breath back, and caught sight of her fireplace. The fire had gone out; the hearth lay dark and empty, as silent as the air around them. “The fire,” she said weakly. “The fire’s gone—”

Harry waved his wand, and the fire sprang back to life. It crackled and popped, sending a wave of relief across Hermione’s body. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing her heart to slow, her limbs to relax. 

A strangely electronic burble sounded from Harry’s pocket, and he pulled out the magical walkie-talkie just as a voice threaded through — “Boggart, this is Mandrake. Report, defensive magic detected in the Eagle’s residence. Please signal need for backup or—”

Harry muttered a curse and brought the device to his mouth. “Mandrake, this is Boggart. False alarm, repeat, false alarm. No further action required, over.” He switched off the device before he heard the reply and stuffed it back into his pocket.

A beat passed. Then another. The silence seemed to throb around them. “It seems,” Harry said, his voice low, “that you were having a nightmare.”

Hermione turned to stare at him, her brain throbbing, her tongue thick. “What?”

Harry took a slow breath, and stepped closer to the bed. “You were screaming, in your sleep. I thought you were being attacked, so I—” He broke off with a wince. “Are you… all right?”

“Yes.” Hermione scrubbed a hand across her face. Mortification was warring with the panic that was still seeping from her body. “You can go.” 

“It’s probably a delayed reaction.” Harry was already at her windows, testing the wards. Apparently satisfied with them, he rounded on her again. “Does that happen often?”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, just for a moment. “You can go.”

Harry nodded, pocketing his wand. “I’ll make you a hot cocoa.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “No, that’s not—”

“Won’t be a minute.” And he was gone. 

Shit. Hermione sank back into her pillows, pressing her fingers to the pulse point on her wrist. Her heart was hammering, but the beat was steady, strong. Not going anywhere. She sighed, still feeling a bit disoriented, and tried not to let embarrassment overcome her. It was then that she realized that her face was wet, and she snatched a tissue from the box on her bedside table.

Right on cue, Casper appeared, jumping up onto the bed. He sniffed around, his big golden eyes fixed on her, and slowly stepped closer.

“Hello,” Hermione murmured, putting out her hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

As Casper approached her, she tried to run through the events of the previous evening in her mind. That awkward meal, then Harry in the armchair while she worked at the coffee table, making her way through stacks of memos, briefings, budget reports. They’d sat in steady silence for several hours, and at half-past eleven, Hermione had called it quits, taking herself to bed. 

Now, the clock by her lamp showed it was just past two. So she’d fallen asleep without banking the fire, and had paid the price for it. “Stupid girl,” she muttered, sinking back into her pillows. “Stupid, stupid girl.”

When Harry came back into the room, she had Casper tucked in on her side and Winnie curled up on her stomach. They were both purring, and warm, and it was enough to keep her grounded as she met Harry’s gaze. 

He smiled, sort of, and held out a mug. “Here you are.” 

Hermione felt a blush creep up her neck, and she took the mug just to have something to hold in front of her face. Reprimanding him for his appearance to comforting hot cocoa, all in one day. “This wasn’t necessary.” Even if it smelled delicious — like pure melted chocolate. 

“No worries.” Harry stood there for a moment. His pajamas were a proper old-fashioned set, long sleeves, dark blue and pinstriped, and, she realized, a few buttons of his top were undone. Even in the low light, she could see a triangle of exposed skin — more tan than she would’ve expected — and a bit of chest hair. The hair was fine, dark, and smattered with grey. Hermione felt her blush creep higher, so she dropped her gaze to his feet. He was barefoot, and his toes were long and a bit lopsided. The same as they had been when he was a child. 

Weirdly, absurdly, Hermione found herself wanting to smile, and took a sip of her cocoa instead. Some things really never changed. 

“If you’re feeling all right,” Harry said, “I’ll just head back upstairs.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, “yes.”

Harry nodded. “Good.” He made to leave, then paused in the doorway. He looked at her, his green eyes burning gold in the reflected light of the fire, and against her better judgment, Hermione went a bit breathless. 

“It’s not just you,” he said, his voice low. “With nightmares.” And with that, he stepped into the hall. “Sleep well.” 

Once he was gone and her bedroom door was shut, Hermione sank back into her pillows with a shuddering sigh. Harry Potter would very likely be the death of her, if she wasn’t careful.

Thursday morning — the morning after the nightmare debacle — Hermione debated three different methods of sneaking out of the house on her own before she set her jaw and went into the kitchen. She knew, somewhere in her mind, that she had nothing to be embarrassed about, that it was bound to happen eventually — Harry seeing a part of her she’d rather he didn’t see — and there was no point in worrying about it. 

It helped that he didn’t look at her or speak to her any differently. He sat across from her, nose-deep in his tea and the morning’s Prophet , looking as sleek and sharp as the day before. It was almost impossible for her to match this version of Harry with the one in a pair of torn jeans and an old jumper with catastrophic hair. His suit was a medium grey, in some sort of woollen fabric that had lighter and darker threads woven through it, and Hermione fought the urge to run her hand along his sleeve, just to see how it felt. Weirdly, it reminded her a bit of his hair. 

They didn’t speak much as they ate, or as they grabbed coffee, or when they made their way to her office. The Ministry was as busy and crowded as normal, and if nothing else, Hermione was glad to see that no one seemed to be too frightened by the attempt on her life. It was business as usual, and a part of her was glad for it. 

As they passed through the halls of Level One, heading for the back entrance to her office (which Harry now insisted upon using), Hermione caught a glimpse of something she hadn’t seen at the Ministry before — a long queue outside her departmental offices. There seemed to be movement at one end, and she stopped to watch. 

Harry stopped as well. “Ah,” he said, “security screening. I wonder what’s backing them up.”

Hermione understood in a flash, and realized that she was watching an MLEP security guard struggle with a Probity Probe. The line of people were all personnel from her office — there was Stanley, who specialized in record-keeping, and he was chatting to Jill — and they all hummed with nervous energy. Clearly, the fact that something seemed to be wrong with the Probes wasn’t helping the situation much. 

Harry was frowning. “Minister, I wonder if I might—”

“Go ahead,” said Hermione, stepping to the side of the hallway. “I’ll wait here.”

“Appreciate it, ma’am.” Harry set off for the queue, his expression shuttered and no-nonsense. Hermione couldn’t help but watch the way his robes rippled as he went. 

It only took a few minutes. Harry questioned the head officer, then inspected one of the Probes himself. His expression flickered, just for a moment — you wouldn’t have caught it if you weren’t looking for it — before he put the Probe down, very carefully, and pulled out his walkie-talkie. He spoke into it, and Hermione felt a breeze against her shoulder. One of her special-forces MLEP — Rogers, she realized — appeared out of thin air, his Disillusion rolling off his back like water as he jogged up to meet Harry. She belatedly realized he’d been following them since they’d left her residence, per protocol, and took a moment to be impressed by his stealth. 

Rogers wasn’t alone. A moment later, two of her other special-forces MLEP burst out of the department offices and joined Harry and Rogers. Harry started speaking to them very quickly, but not at great volume — she saw one of the regular MLEP guards trying to lean in to hear him. 

A moment later, the special-forces team turned to the guards and started issuing orders, while Harry conjured a large trunk from thin air. He began muttering spells, waving his wand over the body of the trunk in small, precise movements. Within moments, all Probity Probes had been surrendered by the guards and stacked onto the table that usually served as a welcoming desk for visitors. The special-forces team then ordered all of Hermione’s personnel into two lines, and led them down another corridor to a spare set of chambers, followed by the security guards, who all looked confused and worried.

Hermione watched all this with a frown. What was going on?

Now alone in front of the entrance — and in the hall, apart from her — Harry finished his spellwork on the trunk and rounded on the pile of Probes. With another flick of his wand, the Probes gently lifted into the air, then down into the body of the trunk. The lid closed with a thud , and Harry unleashed another cascade of spells. A set of chains materialized around the trunk, followed by a series of padlocks, several maximum-strength Shield Charms, and the bright orange glow of a spell that made Hermione wobble where she stood. 

“Sero Infinitatum,” she whispered, her heart thudding painfully. That meant—

Harry had abandoned the trunk and was now jogging back towards her, wand in one hand, walkie-talkie in the other. He pressed a button and spoke into the speaker. When he brought the device away from his mouth, it sent a glowing orb whizzing down the hall and up a memo chute — it took Hermione all of three seconds to realize it was a Patronus.

“Minister,” he said, drawing even with her. He wasn’t even breathing hard, not even a hair out of place, and only a slight flash in his gaze signalled his worry. “We need to get to your office.” He grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her towards the back entrance, at a jog. 

“Why?” she demanded, her heart going haywire. She focused instead on the heat of his hand, which she could feel through her blazer as well as her shirt. “What’s happening?” 

“I’ll explain in a moment,” Harry replied through clenched teeth. They turned a corner and the door banged open the instant he set his eyes upon it. Had Hermione been in a calmer state of mind, that would’ve provoked a wave of stubborn jealousy — she’d never managed that before. 

Instead, all it did was heighten her worry. She forced herself to take a breath as he pulled her down another dark hallway, up a short staircase, through one false wall, around another corner, down another staircase, and finally, through the false wall in her office. 

They stumbled out in front of one of her floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Hermione caught herself on a shelf and tried to catch her breath, her palms sweating and her pulse hammering in her ears. Harry was already in front of the windows, wand out again, muttering a slew of spells under his breath. The spells glowed in a vast array of colors as they settled into the walls, forming a thick web around the room. 

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked him, trying to get back in control. The knuckles on her left hand were white from gripping the handle of her briefcase, and she dropped it, feeling a hot rush of blood to her palm. It seemed that the near-assassination had rewired her body. First the nightmare, and now a full-blown panic when normally, she would’ve only been rattled. 

“Checking your wards,” Harry replied, beginning to circle the perimeter of the room. He wasn’t looking at her. “And upgrading them a bit,” he added, and her heart thumped in reply. 

A minute later, her fireplace glowed green, and Kingsley materialized in the hearth. His face was grim as he looked first to her, checking that she was unharmed, before he turned to Harry. “Disposal specialists are on their way now,” he said. “They’ll be on-site in a few minutes.”

“Why the delay?” Harry demanded, his voice commanding and brittle as he rounded on Kingsley. An involuntary shiver went down Hermione’s back at the sight of him — it was the first moment he had betrayed even a bit of frustration. “This takes top priority—”

“They were dealing with something in Swansea,” Kingsley replied, not rising to the bait. “Travel is slower now, with the security restrictions. You handled the situation very well, in the meantime. I doubt that there will be any issues.”

“Since we’re waiting,” Hermione said, “could someone please explain what’s going on?”

Kingsley went over to look out one of her windows and clasped his hands behind his back. “Auror Potter, report.”

Harry looked at her, his expression almost apologetic. “The Probes were rigged with some sort of explosive, along with an incendiary or other harmful liquid. It seems that if the charges were triggered, a localized explosion would spray the liquid across a radius of six feet or so, if not over a wider area, thereby increasing the damage. This modification was very cunning, built into the mechanics in a seamless way, so the Probes were essentially still functional, except for one feature — the Disguise Detector. If the person using the Probe attempted to use the Detection feature, and the Probe failed to perform, the person would try to get it working—” Harry mimed banging the base of his wand on her desk, and Hermione winced. “You can do that to a normal Probe without issue, of course, but in this case, the concussive force would trigger an explosion. Once one went off, I imagine it would set off all the others, like dominos.”

Hermione swallowed. It all made sense now, of course — Harry’s reaction, relocating her staff, the way he’d lifted the Probes so carefully into the trunk, the fact that he hadn’t just Vanished them. The Probes would need to be subjected to a diagnostic evaluation by both the DMLE and the Department of Mysteries, then the parts traced to the manufacturer. “So you think that the fault was intentional? The Probes were meant to malfunction, rather than just go off at a particular time?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, and he shot a glance at Kingsley. “It… creates greater potential for random damage, that way.”

Hermione’s stomach rolled again, and she forced herself to take a slow breath. “And none of the MLEP security guards were aware of this?” 

“It appears not,” Kingsley said. “But of course, they’ll all be subjected to interrogation and a series of tests for disguises and Dark magic.”

And that, Hermione realized, must have been why Harry’s team had gone with her personnel to the conference room — so they could make sure none of the security guards escaped. “Is it normal? That an MLEP guard wouldn’t be able to identify such a modification to a routine piece of equipment?”

“Well, it is possible,” Kingsley replied, clearly reluctant to admit it. 

“The modification was very clever,” Harry said. His tone was biting. “Though I do find it surprising that no one noticed, particularly given the security threat level we’re under at present. It should have been spotted. If I hadn’t been there at the right time, who knows—” 

“Enough.” Kingsley turned around and shot him a frown. “The security guards who were on-duty today will be reevaluated, and you and I can discuss whether the situation warrants any further disciplinary action.”

“Disciplinary action should be the least of their concern,” Harry replied. “They’ll be lucky if I don’t suspend them for negligence alone.”

“No one was hurt, Auror Potter,” Hermione found herself saying. “The situation was dissolved before it could become catastrophic. Please, let’s leave the more drastic steps for an equally drastic situation.” 

Harry gritted his teeth — she could see the set of his jaw even from across her office — but didn’t fight back, somewhat to her surprise. 

Hermione released her breath and went to sit down at her desk. She was grateful for the familiar sensation of the oak and leather. It grounded her, kept her in the room. “What now?”

“The disposal team will page me when they arrive, and I’ll supervise the extraction of the compromised Probes.” Kingsley turned to face her, the pale grey light of the morning glimmering across his expression. “There should be a report completed on the Probes by the end of the day, and at that point, we can reevaluate the security threat level, and see if any further measures need to be taken. I think the three of us are all working under the assumption that this was Salvation’s handiwork, but until we have confirmation of that suspicion, business will continue as normal. I’m sure we’ve already caused quite a stir, so it’s important that we neutralize your employees’ suspicions.”

“What about the screenings?” Hermione said. “Now that the Probes are compromised?”

“We’ll have to bring in more special-forces to help screen everybody manually,” Kingsley said. “It’ll take longer, of course, but our hands are tied.”

“That’s fine,” Hermione replied. “And Kingsley?” She met his gaze. “It is one thing for these terrorists to threaten my life, but it’s quite another for them to threaten the lives of my staff. I would like some assurance that it doesn’t happen again.” 

Kingsley nodded. “I understand, ma’am. I’ll do what I can.” He glanced at Harry. “You and Auror Potter can decide how you would like to proceed in the meantime. I would urge you not to make any last-minute changes to your schedule, especially since your special-forces team is tied up for the moment.” 

“Understood,” Hermione said, even though she could see Harry’s nostrils flare.

“Good.” Kingsley went back over to the fireplace and threw in some Floo powder. “I’ll check back in an hour.” And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the green flames. 

Hermione pulled a fresh sheet of paper onto her writing pad and selected one of her self-inking quills. She would definitely have to submit a formal report on the situation to the DMLE before the end of the day. “Don’t,” she said, before Harry could start pacing again. 

“Ma’am?” he said, managing to pack so much insolence into the word that she had to take a moment to be impressed. 

“Don’t ask me to change my schedule or cancel any meetings. It’s not going to happen.”

“I—” Harry seemed to swallow the rest of the sentence before he let it escape. “Why not, ma’am?”

“You heard Kingsley the other day. Precaution is one thing, but over-precaution shows weakness. I can’t let them think that they have any real impact on my job. Besides, we don’t have any proof of a legitimate threat to me, personally.”

Harry’s eyes flashed. “I would argue that a pile of cursed Probity Probes on your office’s front doorstep is a fairly legitimate personal threat, Minister.”

Hermione ignored this and began writing. The sound of her quill on the parchment was reassuring — it rooted her to the spot, kept her brain from going haywire.

“You’re really not going to adjust your schedule, then?”

Hermione sighed through her nose, her attention still on her statement. “No, Auror Potter, I won’t. I have a busy day ahead, and there are only so many people I can cancel on at the last minute without ruffling feathers. There is a larger picture here, and it would be a disservice to ignore it.”

There were a few moments of tense silence, enough that Hermione began to count her heartbeats. She looked up, and her stomach jolted when she saw the way Harry was looking at her. His expression was grim, almost hurt. 

“Just to be clear,” he said. “This larger picture doesn’t include the preservation of your own personal safety?”

Hermione’s stomach jolted again, but she didn’t let it show on her face. “No need to be so overdramatic, Potter. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some work to attend to.”

And with that, she dipped her head and went back to writing, unable to ignore the prickle at the back of her neck that told her she was still being watched.

“It was as we suspected.” Kingsley didn’t even bother to announce himself as he came through her office door. “Salvation’s handiwork, and they’ve certainly got some talent on their side, based on the potion we located inside the Probes.” He spotted Harry leaning against the mantelpiece and nodded. “Evening. Quiet as usual?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry was back to his monotone, and Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Evening, Kingsley.” Hermione leaned back in her chair and gestured to one of the two chairs in front of her desk. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He did so, energy and competence in every line of his body, even though it was getting on for nine o’clock. “I’ll get straight to it. The Ministry sources its Probes from two manufacturers, one in Scotland, the other in Germany. This set of Probes came from the Continent — it arrived two months ago, and there was nothing about the shipment that stood out to our Customs officers.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. Two months? This was getting more and more sinister by the moment. 

“But they could have been Confounded,” Harry cut in, and Hermione fought the urge to agree with him. “Or Imperio’d. And we’d have no way of knowing by this point.”

“We’ll do our best,” Kingsley replied. “I’m sending a few agents to Munich to question the outgoing Customs officers, do a routine check and audit of their processes. But according to the records we have available here, there’s nothing that stands out.”

“What about the factory?” Hermione said. “Could something have been done at the factory?”

“That’s our line of thinking,” Kingsley said. “Müller’s Dark Detectors has always been solid, we’ve had a contract with them for over a hundred years, even during the whole mess with Grindelwald. We’ve never had a problem before, and Müller runs a tighter ship than most. I would be shocked if someone was able to get past his security. But,” he added, when Hermione opened her mouth, “I’ve sent a few agents to question him as well, and do a search of his factory. Hopefully, that will give us some direction in the meantime.”

“So what you’re saying,” said Harry, his voice getting louder, “is that we have no solid leads, and practically no more information than we did at the beginning of the day.” 

“No,” Hermione cut in. “That’s not what he’s saying. We’ve learned that this group is careful, and very good at covering their tracks. They either have agents inside every organization that touches the Ministry, or they’re extremely skilled and dangerous wizards who can manipulate everyone around them. Maybe it’s a combination of the two. And, we’ve learned that they’re planners. They prepared those Probes over two months ago, and they knew we would have to break into our backstock of Dark Detectors in the event of a threat to my life, which, of course, they also orchestrated.” She sank back into her chair, the tips of her fingers going numb. “They’ve been planning this for a long time. They’ve been in control every step of the way.” 

“Then we need to break that control,” Harry said, his eyes flashing. He turned to Kingsley. “You need to assemble the High Council. Hermione’s right, and that means she’s in greater danger each minute she’s here.”

“No,” Hermione found herself saying. “Not yet. The High Council can’t enact the next stage of Action Plan Delta unless there is another credible threat to my life or well-being. Correct?” she said Kingsley, who was frowning. 

“Unfortunately, yes.” Kingsley stood up and walked towards the fireplace, his back to her. “And a seemingly random shipment of Probity Probes that might or might not have malfunctioned in an area near or far from the Minister likely won’t be enough to call a vote.”

“But what about the evidence that this group of terrorists has been working for months — years, even — to target this administration?” Harry fired back. “If we were in court, their sentences would carry the weight of Willful Intent, Conspiracy to Commit. Surely the High Council can’t ignore that sort of evidence—”

“They can,” said Kingsley, his expression grim as he turned to face both of them. “Until we have our reports back from Germany, we won’t have evidence to prove that the Minister has been targeted for far longer than we thought. I can’t even guarantee that that evidence would be enough to call a vote, because our courts don’t weigh intent as equal to action.” 

Harry crossed his arms against his chest. He looked sort of daunting with the fire blazing behind him. “So you’re saying there’s nothing more that we can do?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kingsley said, his tone suddenly much sharper. “We can’t lock her down completely, but I can reassign six more special forces MLEP to your team and tighten security protocols within the Ministry. Start doing screenings upon entry, random spot checks during the day, restricting all travel to domestic only. We’ll prioritize the offices that work most closely with the Ministerial Department, but we’ll make our presence known through the whole Ministry.”

Harry considered Kingsley, cocking his head slightly. Kingsley’s seeming reprimand appeared to have calmed him slightly. “It’s the right move, but you haven’t got the manpower for that.”

“We have over fifty recruits in Law Enforcement training. This can count towards their work study requirement.”

Hermione balked. “Kingsley, I’m not having people who are fresh out of school risk their personal safety just to put Potter’s nerves at ease—”

“We did worse while we were still in school,” Harry said, his voice getting that edge again. He wasn’t looking at her. “Needs must.”

“Kingsley,” Hermione said again, ignoring Harry. “You can’t be serious—”

“I’m afraid I am.” His wide, clever face was somber. “It’s only temporary, and none of them would be in the field. They would all be on home turf, and supervised by fully-qualified MLEP personnel. Besides,” he added, drawing himself up to further height and leveling her with a look that made her feel like an outspoken teenager, “you could only stop me with a veto, which would have to go to court. Are you sure you wish to do that?” 

Hermione swallowed. Kingsley’s gaze was dark, flat, threatening in the sense that it wasn’t threatening at all, only concerned. “No, I’m not going to do that.” She forced herself to take a quick breath. “But really do use whatever manpower you have before turning to the new recruits. I want to minimize their risk as much as possible. And if that means keeping them in the offices doing research and paperwork, then so be it.” 

Kingsley bobbed his head, shrugging off his mantle of authority like a cloak. “That, I can do. You’ll have to sign some of the approval paperwork, overtime and wage sheets and the like. I’ll get them to you by tomorrow morning, along with a new mockup of the security plan. For now, our verbal agreement will do?” He waited for both of them to nod before producing a thin scroll from an inner pocket of his robes. “And Minister, the Potion Master in the Department of Mysteries thought you’d like a report on the substance found inside the Probes.” 

“Thank you.” Hermione took the scroll from him, and, recognizing the thin, curving handwriting, tucked it into her briefcase. “I’ll wait to hear from you tomorrow.” 

“Indeed.” Kingsley’s expression softened. “Get some rest, Minister. You certainly need it.” He gave Harry a nod and made his exit. The snap of the door shutting behind him felt quite final. 

Harry and Hermione made their way back to her home in silence. Their routine played out like the well-oiled machine it was steadily becoming. The lift, the Floo, the sweep, Hermione’s retreat to her bedroom and the small eternity of her shower. Dinner — for Hermione, a reheated frozen vegetarian lasagne, and for Harry, a small takeout pizza and salad that made her stomach growl — was relatively silent until Hermione made her way to one of her cupboards and produced a bottle of Merlot. 

As she was pouring a glass, she could feel Harry watching her, but didn’t offer. He couldn’t drink on duty. She sat back down at the island, took a sip, put down her glass, and stared at her largely untouched lasagne. Next to Harry’s incredible pizza, it looked grotesque. “I can’t believe,” she found herself saying, “it’s only Thursday.” 

Harry let out a snort, and Hermione’s gaze whipped to his face, where she could see all sorts of things that hadn’t been there earlier — sympathy, camaraderie, exasperation. He almost looked like the Harry of her Hogwarts years, and she was suddenly overcome with a wave of nostalgia, of yearning for whatever it was they had all that time ago. She forced herself to take a breath, to let none of her emotion show, to keep her hand from resting on his arm. 

“That,” said Harry, his voice rich and amused, “is a sincere understatement, Minister.”

Hermione couldn’t help it — she began to laugh. Quiet at first, but soon, she couldn’t hold back, and she leaned against the table, a real grin cracking her face for the first time in days, and she laughed. Harry joined in, his smile impish and pleased, and for a moment, for a light, brief, lovely moment, it was just them in her warm kitchen, like nothing had ever happened. 

Not long after that — they’d been at the Ministry until nine-thirty, and she hadn’t eaten until a quarter past ten — Hermione was in bed, her open briefcase on the floor next to her, reaching for the thin scroll Kingsley had given her. The sight of the handwriting and the wax seal made her smile. It was like greeting an old friend, which, in a way, she supposed, was exactly what it was. 

Minister —

I’ve enclosed everything I was able to deduce about the substance found in the modified Probes. I look forward to hearing your thoughts, though I can’t fault you if you put them on parchment rather than express them in person.

Feed me and I will live, give me a drink and I will die. What am I?

Yours,

D.M.

Her mind already whirring through the riddle, Hermione broke the Malfoy seal and began reading Draco’s report. It was ridiculously thorough, of course, meticulous to a tee, legible, organized. She bit back a grin and shook her head. Draco really was particular about these things.

A Level One analysis of the unidentified substance contained in the Probity Probes (confiscated 08:15, 5 Feb 2019, Ministry of Magic, Level One Reception, under orders from Head Auror Potter) found the following:

Swelling Solution — 45%

Drink of Despair — 20%

Moonseed Poison — 10%

Erumpet Horn — 10%

Griffin Claw — 7%

Death Cap — 5%

Galanthus Nivalis (Snowdrop) — 3%

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, and the brief cheer she’d felt from Draco’s note began to evaporate. Kingsley hadn’t been joking, this was a very serious Potions-master they were dealing with. Someone who was able to balance two of the most volatile potions and one of the most volatile raw ingredients in the same concoction, and find a way to keep it stable for an extended period of time. She knew without having to read Draco’s notes (which she was sure he included just for formality’s sake, not because he thought she needed them) that the Erumpet Horn was used just to make the potion incendiary and caustic, to cause the liquid to not only cover a wide surface area but also to create an explosion. The griffin claw and the snowdrop then acted as long-term stabilizing agents — though the griffin claw would only further strengthen the negative effects of the Swelling Solution, she realized — but the airborne Death Cap and the Moonseed surely would flatten anyone within a fifteen-foot radius of the blast. 

That is, she thought grimly, staring down at Draco’s neat percentages, if the Swelling Solution and Drink of Despair hadn’t already driven them completely insane. For a strange moment, Hermione felt thankful that all she’d dodged was an Avada Kedavra — that would most certainly be the better option, compared to what else might have been fired at her head. 

Draco had included several useful chemical diagrams breaking down the various ingredients to their smaller constituents. Some parts of it were Muggle chemistry, which would have surprised her fifteen years earlier, but certainly not now. Wizarding Potion-Masters were incorporating more and more of Muggle science into their field, much to their benefit, and to the Healers’. Chemistry couldn’t explain everything, and there were areas where science and magic couldn’t meet, but where they did, there was room for growth. Muggles were certainly lacking in some areas, but having a regimented system for identifying and labeling things like Hydrogen and Carbon was proving to be more useful to the Wizarding world than not. 

They were beautiful drawings, because Draco was devilishly good at this sort of thing, but Hermione felt unsettled, listless. She dropped the roll of parchment and looked into her fire, which was banked and a cheerful burnt orange in the dim light of her bedroom. 

Despair. Erumpet. Moonseed. Death Cap.

Hermione shuddered, brushing Draco’s note to the floor. She turned out her lamp, sank into her pillows, and pulled her duvet over her head, hoping that whatever tomorrow held, it would be better than today.

“Bugger.” Harry scowled and shook out his foot, glaring at the icy puddle that had just made a valiant attempt to steal his shoe. He glanced up at Hermione. “Sorry, Minister.”

“No need to apologize.” Hermione waited for him to blast his foot with a series of heating and cleaning charms before she spoke again. “Would you like me to Disillusion you?”

“No, thank you, ma’am.” Harry stuck a hand in the pocket of his suit jacket and produced a length of fabric she recognized at once. “This will do just as well.”

“What about the rain?” Even Muggles would notice if droplets were collecting and hanging in midair. 

“Notice-Me-Not does the trick.” Harry tucked the Cloak under his arm and turned to look up the road. “Shall we continue?”

“Yes.” Hermione set off up the street, adjusting the box of cookies tucked under her arm. The weather had eased up a bit, warming enough for rain rather than snow or sleet, but it was still grey, windy, and frosty. She kept an eye out for stray frozen puddles, and belatedly realized that they made quite a pair. A man and a woman strolling along in dark, nearly-formal clothing, scanning the surrounding buildings for immediate threats, with a box of cookies in tow. And, of course, half a dozen invisible law enforcement personnel not far behind them.

“You should put on the Cloak now,” she said to Harry, as they approached the cluster of houses at the end of the street. “Before anyone has the chance to see.”

“Right you are, Minister.” Harry unraveled the garment and held it at the ready. “You remember the signal, correct?”

“I’m afraid I have to run, I think I left the oven on?” At Harry’s nod, Hermione stepped aside. “Go ahead.”

After checking there were no Muggles around to spot him, Harry swept the Cloak over his shoulders and put up the hood, disappearing entirely from view. 

Hermione turned on her heel and continued walking. “Do keep up.”

The door of number eighty-four was a cheerful royal blue in the sea of greys and whites, and when Hermione knocked, it opened to reveal a sunny face framed by blonde hair. 

“Jean!” Sandra smiled at her. “You’re just in time! And what’s this?”

“Just a little something,” Hermione replied, wiggling the box of cookies. 

“Oh, you cheeky thing! Come in, come in, we’re just about to settle down.”

Hermione followed Sandra inside, and felt a distinct breeze at the back of her legs before the door closed. Good; Harry had managed to sneak in.

Sandra’s home was refreshingly airy but warm after the cold closeness of the street. Her furnishings were simple and tidy, welcoming without being claustrophobic. At the first meeting she’d attended, Hermione had remarked upon how clean everything was, and Sandra had laughed and told her it was because she didn’t have any children. Hermione had been surprised but refreshed by her frank honesty, and was still glad to have Sandra as a friend. It was always so helpful to talk to someone outside of the Wizarding world, who had no idea of the stresses and conflicts that Hermione faced day-to-day. They didn’t have to talk about the Hinkypunk infestation reports coming out of Scotland, or about the current trade embargo with Belgium, or about the possibility that raw gold was becoming scarce. Instead, they could wax lyrical about Richard Madden. In Hermione’s opinion, there was no contest.

She added her box of cookies to the table of “nibbles and bites,” as Sandra called it, and started chatting to the other women. Everyone was in remarkably good spirits, and gradually, Hermione felt some of the tension in her body loosen. She helped herself to a glass of wine — it was four o’clock on a Saturday, after all — and settled in for a good, hearty gossip. 

Friday, thankfully, had been close to average. After signing all of the necessary paperwork to approve Kingsley’s plans for increased security, Hermione went back to her usual flood of meetings, court dates, and briefings, all without the threat of a bomb on her front doorstep. She’d even had a moment to eat lunch — a salad from the canteen that ended up being tastier than she’d expected — and send Draco a note with the answer to his riddle. 

The memory made Hermione’s cheeks burn, but only for a stupid reason. She’d come up with the answer shortly after getting to the kitchen on Friday morning—

“Fire,” she said, in the middle of making her tea. 

There was a pause, then Harry said, “Pardon, Minister?”

“The answer to Draco’s riddle,” she replied. “He included it with his report on the potion.” She turned around, mug in hand, to find Harry watching her, his expression mostly inscrutable except for a certain tightening around his eyes. Hermione cleared her throat, trying not to go red. “It’s, um. We’ve done it for years. Trade riddles wherever we write to each other.”

Harry sat back on his barstool. “How…” He paused, trying to find the right word. “Friendly.”

That only made her blush threaten more. “Yes,” Hermione said, a touch breathless, before taking her own seat. “It is.”

But anyway. Friday was comparatively quiet, quiet enough that it allowed her to think, which was always dangerous. She couldn’t help but notice that she and Harry had fallen into a routine, because of course they had. After all, they had lived together for several months at one point in their lives, as much as Hermione wanted to forget it. 

During the day, Harry was a constant and near-silent presence in the corner, behind her right shoulder, or just in front of her before she entered a new room. And through it all, he stayed much the same as he had been since her reprimand — stoic, efficient, professional to the nth degree — all of the fire and brimstone from the Probe incident seemingly put aside for the moment. She did find herself wondering more than once just how he spent the time. It seemed God-awful, standing or sitting in one spot for hours on end, rarely any entertainment beyond the newspaper or the colorful characters present in her meeting — Hermione wouldn’t have been able to cope without a good book. But somehow, day in and day out, Harry did it. Vigilant, watchful, careful to check every room, every hallway, before she entered it. 

She wondered what he thought about. If he ran through scenarios and conversations in his head, if he silently joked and carried on with an invisible Sirius. But it wasn’t hers to know.

Logically, Hermione knew that his efficiency was born of duty to his job, to his proverbial calling, and not out of any attachment to her. But it was nice, if a little forbidden and dangerous, to imagine that maybe, just maybe, he did care about her, and not just in a this-person-is-my-boss’s-boss-and-it-would-actually-be-quite-helpful-if-nothing-happened sort of way. They had been best friends for almost a decade, for Merlin’s sake, and each other’s closest confidants for nearly a year on the run, staring down certain death and sharing one too many desperate glances over a measly campfire or disappointing meal. 

There had to be something there, something between them that even years of separation and arguing and head-butting couldn’t erase. Wasn’t there? 

Oh, stop it, Hermione admonished herself, forcing her gaze away from the corner of the sitting room where she was positive she had just seen an end table wobble a little — Harry was off his game, clearly. No use in having thoughts like this. She was only feeling this way — sentimental, self-conscious, a touch desperate — because of the other night. None of this would have happened if she hadn’t had that stupid nightmare. 

“So, Jean,” said Penny, settling in the corner of the sofa across from her. “How’s work?”

Hermione plastered on a practiced smile. “Oh, you know, busy as usual. Can’t seem to catch a break, even though tax season is many months away!”

Penny chuckled good-naturedly. “Ah, but that’s the way it is, I’m afraid—”

And so it went. Another rehearsed conversation, a set of smiles and jokes that the others had all heard before but never seemed to forget, and then on to the book itself. But not before she heard all about number seventy-six’s new Mercedes, and Eleanor’s decision to take the marital issues to court. Hermione sighed and sank back into the couch cushions, more and more of the tension drifting out of her frame. Though that could be the wine. 

“I just loved Bonnie’s story, all the way through,” Felicity was saying, her brown eyes nearly as earnest as her freshly-dyed blonde hair. “I could never have done it, let it sit on my conscience, no matter how much he might have deserved it.”

“I know, me too,” Jennifer chimed in. “We could get into the whole bit about a sin being a sin, but that seems a bit—”

“Well that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Sandra said. Hermione felt such a strong surge of affection for her in that moment — she was poised, sharper than she looked, her thoughts as clear as a bell. “We all know where eye for an eye leads us.”

“Perhaps blindness isn’t the problem,” Hermione muttered into her glass. Thankfully, no one heard her. 

The meeting broke up about half an hour later, once they’d decided that the next book was going to be Wild by Cheryl Strayed. Hermione wasn’t too sure about that one, but it was Penny’s week to pick, so she went along with it, shooting another glance at the corner by the end table before she left the room. A gentle breeze hit the back of her neck, telling her that Harry was closer than she’d thought. Suppressing a shiver, Hermione bid Sandra goodbye, promising to call. A moment later, the front door closed behind her, and she was back outside in the unforgiving — though thankfully dry — cold, pulling her coat tight against the wind. 

She walked most of the way down the street in silence. Once she was a good distance away and no one was watching, Harry appeared, sweeping the Invisibility Cloak off and into his pocket. 

“Shopping now, Minister?” he said, once again the consummate professional as he straightened his suit jacket. Navy blue, today, with a grey shirt. No tie, but instead a dark blue fine-knit scarf that Hermione kept wanting to drag her fingers through. To latch onto, to pull.

“Yes,” she replied, even though the sky was rapidly darkening around them. “I’d like to buy that book as well. I’ll make it quick, I know you all would rather I didn’t run errands in the dark.” 

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. He stepped closer, holding out his arm. “Whatever works for you, Minister.”

Hermione’s breath caught, though that could just be the wine. She tucked her hand into his elbow, trying to remember that it was absurd to feel unsettled, off-kilter, that this was Harry bleeding Potter, even if he was buttoned into a sharp suit. His arm was warm and solid beneath her touch, and she could almost count the threads in his scarf. 

This was why she hated Side-Along, apart from the exposure to Harry’s power. They hadn’t been so close — so physically close — in years, and it seemed to be quite dangerous for Hermione’s sanity. Because when she was standing this close to him, she wanted to forget all the times they’d fought, disagreed, traded barbs in front of their coworkers. She wanted to forget that Harry didn’t like her, not anymore, that he wasn’t her friend, or even an acquaintance. 

And maybe, just a little, it made her want to think that he was here because he wanted to be, not because he was under orders. 

Hermione took a shaky breath and tried to push all of those thoughts deep into the back of her mind, into a void where they couldn’t be touched. But then, she looked up, and felt breathless all over again. 

Harry was looking at her, and even though his expression was flat, his gaze was piercing, relentless. He looked at her, and she fought the urge to melt. 

Harry took a quick breath and looked away. “Shall we, ma’am?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied, and together, they spun into nothingness.

The door to Hermione’s office opened, and she looked up from her work, feeling an unhelpful tremor in her stomach. 

“Morning, Minister.” Harry closed the door behind him and gave her a nod. 

“Morning,” she said, hoping she’d schooled her expression into something bland and intimidating. Really, it had only been twenty-four hours since she’d last seen him, there was no excuse for—

Harry approached her desk, his hands clasped behind his back. The action pulled her attention to his chest, which was looking rather nice in its dark blue button-up and slate grey tie. His suit was almost the same color as his shirt, and against the deep crimson of his robes, the whole thing gave off a rather intimidating air. “I’ve checked in with the team and all reports from the increased security measures are coming back favorable, ma’am. Operations will continue as normal, and the High Council has decided to meet again at the end of the week. They will be receiving Kingsley’s report on the Probity Probe situation from last Thursday.”

Hermione sighed through her teeth, ignoring the shiver that went down her spine. “Wonderful. I don’t suppose—?”

“Some of our operatives on the Continent have turned in their reports. Kingsley will be meeting with you this afternoon to give you their findings.” Harry’s expression shifted slightly, a touch of real concern peeking out from beneath his professional facade. “I believe some of what he has to say is helpful, ma’am.”

“Good.” Hermione curled a finger into the corner of the parchment in front of her. “I trust your day off was restful?”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am.” Again, a shift in his face, a little smile as he parroted her: “I trust my replacement performed adequately?”

“Yes.” Hermione felt the corner of her mouth twitch and she stamped down that urge before it could blossom in full. Auror Thistlewhit — which really was her real name, not a code one — had been perfectly adequate, if stoic. Unlike Harry, Thistlewhit didn’t take tea and dinner with Hermione, didn’t really make conversation beyond the niceties, didn’t pester the cats until they adored her from top to toe. She was the consummate professional, a shadow rather than a complete presence, everything that a personal security detail should have been. She was so many things that Harry wasn’t, and Hermione couldn’t help disliking her for it.

You’re being ridiculous, Hermione told herself, rubbing her thumb along the edge of her quill. You can’t live your life comparing everyone to Harry. And he shouldn’t be considered a standard, anyway. “Busy day ahead,” she found herself saying. “I hope you’re prepared.” 

“Indeed.” For a moment, Harry looked a bit more serious than usual. “Actually, I was wondering if we might review your schedule for the day?”

Hermione frowned. “Why should that be necessary? It’s already been cleared by the security team, and—”

“Right, but.” Harry cleared his throat in a quick cough. “This lunch you have planned with Octavius Crane. I’m not sure—”

“Majority Leader Taylor’s idea, I’m afraid. I’m not looking forward to it, but she says it might be a good step towards reaching a cease-fire. The Wizengamot can’t get much done if it’s embroiled in petty bickering and name-calling—”

“Yes, but in a Muggle restaurant? Surely that’s not the usual policy. Ma’am,” he added, at the look on her face. “I definitely can’t imagine Crane enjoying the idea.”

“Neutral ground,” Hermione replied, feeling a flush of heat rise in her cheeks. Good grief, he’d been back on duty for all of five minutes and here they were, arguing again. “Far less likely to turn to magical confrontation if there’s a threat of cleanup duty.”

Harry set his jaw, and she got the sense that he was digging his feet in. She certainly knew the signs well. “I don’t see why you can’t have the meeting here, in your chambers. With the security situation as it is—”

“We are meeting well within the requirements of the action plan. The restaurant is on the list of approved Tier 2 locations, and we’ll be Apparating directly in and out of the stockroom. I can’t see what problems there might be, especially when the restaurant is so close that I could walk back to work.” She tapped the end of her quill on her palm. “I would prefer to not be under complete house arrest until it’s absolutely necessary.”

“I understand that,” Harry said, “but it is my professional recommendation that the meeting be moved.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “On what grounds, Auror Potter?”

There were a few moments of silence, and she could hear the rain pattering against her office windows. She watched as the wheels turned in Harry’s mind, as he evaluated the different things he could say to her. She doubted that at least half of them were worth hearing. 

“Instinct,” he finally settled on, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. 

“So no concrete proof?” Hermione replied.

“I would argue that there is little proof more concrete than a gut instinct,” he said, his eyes flashing. “That has certainly been my experience over the course of my lifetime.”

“Unfortunately, political machinations cannot be held hostage by your personal instincts. If I cancel or relocate this lunch, it will look like I’m issuing a challenge. It’s one thing to ask Crane to meet me on neutral territory, but it’s another thing entirely to summon him to my chambers. One course of action appears amiable and non-threatening, but the other would only fuel his attempt to label me as a power-hungry leech who expects the Wizengamot to bend to her every whim.” Hermione paused and forced herself to take a breath. Her face was livid with heat, and a small piece of hair fell out of her bun. “This may come as a surprise, but I’m inclined to discourage that assumption when I can.”

Harry clenched his teeth, and she could see the frustration boiling under his skin. “So you’re willing to risk your own personal safety for the sake of trying to make nice with a second-tier politician who has no respect for you or the office you hold?”

“Unlike you, Potter, I have to answer to the Wizengamot, and to the people they represent. I have to be an ally, to help where I can, and if the Majority Leader asks a favor of me, I do what I can to make it happen. And,” she added, feeling a vindictive prickle shoot down her spine, “I’ll consider my safety threatened when I see proof of it. Otherwise, it’s a mere waste of time and energy.”

“Proof?” Harry repeated, his voice getting a hard edge. “You want proof? I thought nearly catching an Avada Kedavra to the head less than a week ago might be enough proof. Not to mention a dozen poisonous bombs right outside your office door.”

“You’ll have to do better than that if you expect me to yield to your recommendation,” Hermione fired back. “Having threats to my life is just part of the job. In case you hadn’t noticed, we aren’t exactly in the middle of a Wizarding Golden Age. Times are tumultuous, and our people require strong, steady leadership, not someone who backs down in the face of potential threats and gut feelings. I have a duty to perform, and I certainly don’t have to ask permission to perform it. The lunch will continue as planned. If you take issue with it, I suggest going to Kingsley.” 

Harry’s expression was a wild mix of emotions, chief among them anger and frustration, and for a moment, Hermione thought he was going to draw his wand on her. A part of her wanted him to — she was itching for a fight, hadn’t had a real one in years, and she wanted to see if Harry still was as good a duelist as everyone said. 

“I—” Harry bit off the word and seemed to swallow the rest of his thoughts. He schooled his expression into something just this edge of reasonable and made an aborted movement towards the door. “I’m going to get a cup of tea. Minister.” He turned on his heel and stalked out, the door flying open before he reached it. Hermione caught just a glimpse of Jill’s surprised face before the door slammed shut again, the wall vibrating until the thrum of security wards restored everything to peace. 

Hermione sighed, dropping her quill and slumping forward against her desk. Now that was not the best way to start the week.

Hermione arrived at the restaurant at precisely the time of the meeting — one o’clock — and she didn’t waste any time striding out of the stockroom, through the darkened hallway, and into the main area of the restaurant. Harry managed to keep up, but only just, and the rest of her security team fell into step, just a few paces behind him.

They’d booked the entire place — it was protocol, and the Muggle managers had been Confounded into thinking that she was the Minister of Defense meeting a foreign dignitary, which she supposed wasn’t far from the truth — so the dining room was empty. The room itself was wide, but the ceilings were low, creating a rather sunken, secretive feel. Several of the rear walls were exposed brick, offset by warm yellow torch lights suspended from the ceiling, and the furnishings were in a rich brown wood. A long wall of slightly tinted windows looked out onto Great Scotland Yard, and the winter clouds cast a pale, dim light across the open space. It made the deep red tablecloths look even more ghastly, and Hermione got the feeling she was walking into Glamis Castle rather towards the end of the play.

Crane was already there, because of course he was. It was his style, and a matter of protocol. He was sharply dressed, in a three-piece suit that was well-made, but perhaps more appropriate to the fashions of the early twentieth century, rather than the twenty-first. He already had his long nose in a glass of wine, and Hermione hoped with everything she had that the officers had made his security screening unnecessarily thorough. 

She plastered on a smile as she approached the table. “Octavius, thank you for meeting me.”

“Minister.” He bowed his sleek head but did not rise. She felt a spike of irritation as she sat down, draping her napkin across her lap. “I am glad you could make it. I would have suggested rescheduling had I known that the security situation was…” He trailed off, glancing first at Harry then at the MLEP officers guarding the exits. “So dire.”

“Not at all,” Hermione replied. “It’s precaution, rather than reaction.” There was no need for him to know about the close call with the Probes, not when the High Council didn’t even know. 

“I’m glad to hear it.” And his smooth, snakish smile told her the exact opposite. “Have you dined here before?”

“No, I’ve not had the pleasure.” Hermione flicked open the menu and scanned it. “What about you?”

Octavius sighed through his nose, tracing his finger across the bulb of his wine glass. “No. I make a habit of only frequenting the finest Wizarding restaurants. I don’t see the point in trying the Muggle ones. What’s the point in a good tableside flambé if the fire doesn’t sprout wings and fly around one’s table?” 

“Yes, I always ask myself the same question whenever I’m selecting a place to have dinner. Does the fire have wings, and can it fly?” Hermione snapped her menu shut, relishing the brief look of surprise on Crane’s face — he clearly wasn’t expecting her to give as good as she got — when the waiter chose that perfect moment to appear. He was young, and looking a little dazed. That was the Confundus working its magic. “I’ll have the trout, hold the radishes, thank you. And a bottle of sparkling water.”

“Certainly, ma’am. Anything for you, sir?”

“The duck,” said Crane, without so much a glance in the young man’s direction. Hermione met his stare, unimpressed.

“Excellent choice, sir.”

Once the waiter had left, silence fell. Hermione fought the urge to fidget. She’d been through some tough lunch meetings, but good grief, this was a very special kind of torture.

“So,” Crane eventually said. “Given that this whole lunch was Taylor’s idea, she must have had some idea of what we’d discuss.”

“I believe her intention was for us to find some sort of common ground, perhaps an impasse. The Wizengamot can’t get much done if it’s distracted by politicians who resort to name-calling rather than frank, open debate. Personal squabbles between individuals aren’t nearly as important as trying to find solutions to our current problems.”

Crane’s eyebrows flickered, and he leaned forward with a sly grin that made Hermione’s skin crawl. “My, you don’t mince your words.”

“Why should I?” Hermione replied. “You don’t.”

“That is true.” Crane dragged the tip of his thumb through the cleft of his chin, considering her. “But I don’t see how finding common ground could be possible when we disagree on the most basic principle.”

“Which is?”

“That of the two of us, you belong in the position of Minister.”

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, well, I’m afraid that decision isn’t up to the two of us. There was a popular vote, and I don’t see much point in contesting it.”

“Of course you don’t.” Crane was smirking now, and he took another sip of wine. “Fine, then. Putting that most basic principle aside for the moment, what should we talk about? The weather? The stock market? The most recent Gobstones tournament?”

“Gobstones,” Hermione repeated, momentarily blindsided. “You follow Gobstones?”

Crane lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “A boyhood hobby, now an occasional distraction.”

“How interesting,” she said, hoping that none of the sarcasm was detectable. “We could discuss your most recent trip to the Continent. Didn’t you just return a few weeks ago?” 

“Indeed. I was meeting a few contacts in Germany and Poland. Going over supply orders for my new range of luxury brooms.” His smirk returned. “Quality only hurts once.”

What then followed was one of the most boring — though infuriating — conversations Hermione had ever sat through, and she’d been through a lot of boring conversations. Crane nattered his way through several different topics — Quidditch, rising wheat prices in Eastern Europe and what that was doing to the British economy, his thoughts on the House system at Hogwarts and whether it really fostered unity and cooperation. 

Hermione actually couldn’t fault him for that last one. It was something she’d wondered more than once, and now, she thought on it for a bit, chewing on her trout, which was quite good. If anything, her experience at Hogwarts — and the cause Harry had died for — had proved that arbitrary divides didn’t do much good. 

“You’re very good at this, you know,” Crane said, apropos of nothing. He took another sip from his glass of his wine, which was at its last gasp. 

“At what, Octavius?” she replied. 

“Having a conversation while not betraying an inch of your own personal thoughts and beliefs.” His eyes glimmered as he watched her. “I will admit that is not a quality I share. Perhaps you are in fact well-suited to the office you hold. But only by that factor alone.”

Hermione smiled, not betraying an ounce of the anger that was screaming beneath it. She imagined herself with skin of ice and salt — hardened, impervious, cold. “Perhaps.”

“And there, again.” Crane tapped the tines of his fork on his plate. “Expertly done.”

She fought the urge to sigh. “Earlier, I mentioned an impasse.”

“That you did. Would you say we’ve had enough idle chit-chat to call it so?”

“Depends.” Hermione leaned back in her chair, abandoning her half-eaten meal. “Is that what an impasse would mean, between us? Would it keep you from derailing the Wizengamot?”

“Derailing,” Crane repeated. “She comes seeking an impasse, and she accuses me of derailing. ” He brushed his napkin against the corner of his mouth, a burst of red against his pale skin. “What am I to make of that?”

Before Hermione could reply, before she could do much of anything other than clench her fist to keep herself from smacking him across the face, her eye caught a flash of movement. She followed it, looking up at the back wall of the restaurant, which wasn’t really a wall at all, because there was a gap where she could see into the kitchen. One of the chefs was standing there, staring at them, and when Hermione met his gaze, a gaze that was black with fury, she realized what that sudden movement had been. 

The supposedly Muggle chef had drawn his wand. 

She turned to Crane, reaching to grip his arm, ignoring his look of surprise. “Down,” she said, and pulled him down to the floor just as the room around them exploded. 

Defensive spells flew above her head as Hermione shoved the full weight of her body against the legs of their table. It was made of heavy wood, and pain blossomed in her shoulder, but she gritted her teeth, ducked a flying shard of porcelain, and shoved again. This time, the table gave, crashing onto its side, sending the rest of her trout skittering across the floor. She ducked behind it, only pausing to yank Crane to relative safety. The man was stunned, white as a sheet, but he curled up behind the table all the same, his eyes huge with fear. There was butter on his suit jacket.

Behind her, Harry was yelling, but he was still too far away, she could tell. The spells were flying thick and fast above their heads, shattering the crockery on the tables around them, and she couldn’t tell how many assailants there were. Enough to keep Harry and the others busy, so busy that none of them had flanked her, as protocol dictated. 

Now on her knees, Hermione forced herself to take one breath, then another, and distantly wondered why she wasn’t panicking. Though maybe this was what panicking felt like, these days. Not the hot, ceaseless rush of adrenaline she became accustomed to her in her youth — no, this felt like something completely different. This felt… like clarity.

She shoved a loose chunk of hair behind her ear and rounded on Crane. “Do you have your wand?”

He only blinked at her, wincing when a yell came from the direction of the kitchen. 

“Wand?” she screamed at him. “Your wand?!”

Crane finally nodded, and pulled it out of his sleeve with trembling fingers. 

“Good!” Hermione drew her own and cast the strongest Protego she could over him. “When you get a chance, Apparate out of here and get to the Ministry, tell them what’s happened. Until then, stay down.” And with that, she took a quick breath, then braced herself on the table’s leg and looked over the edge of the table. She took in the scene before her in less than a second, momentarily grateful that she’d worn trousers instead of a skirt.

There were at least six of them, which was bad luck — there were only five officers with her, including Harry. Three were in the kitchen, half-hidden behind the wall, and the others that she could see were advancing from the rear entrance of the restaurant. They were talented fighters, giving as good as they got from the Aurors. One in particular — thickset, with ruddy hair — cast a mean-looking curse that Harry shattered with a swipe of his wand. In the same instant, Crane Disapparated, disappearing from behind the table. 

Well, Hermione thought, nothing for it now. And with that, she stood up and fired off a series of jinxes, hitting one of the men in the leg. He collapsed with a yell, and everyone, both on her side and not, whirled around to stare at her. Clearly, they’d forgotten she was there.  

“You,” bellowed Harry, between firing spells and ducking behind a chair, “have—got—to—be—fucking—kidding me, Hermione! ”

In spite of herself, Hermione smiled, spinning away from an Imperio and nailing one of the men in the kitchen with a Petrificus straight to the chest. He collapsed, and his partner rounded on her with a roar, firing off a series of familiar curses — Impedimenta, Crucio, Reducto. Hermione parried them all, the strength of her Shield Charm sending a shiver up her spine. Her opponent was relentless, but heavy-handed; she could see that speed would be the best way of beating him, or perhaps surprise. 

Dodging another jinx, Hermione swept her wand in a complex curve, causing all of the dishes in the kitchen to rattle. The sound built, overwhelming, like a swift wind had pushed through a forest of porcelain leaves, as she spun her wand and pulled it back towards her. Her opponent only had time to look behind him before a huge wave of crockery swept over him, burying both the men in a mountain of bowls and plates. 

The sound of it was deafening, but it barely seemed to affect the other fighters, who were still going at it like wild animals. But her attackers were now two down — they were outnumbered. The tide of the fight was changing, and Hermione only had a moment to take it in before a hand gripped her elbow and an angry voice hissed in her ear, “Enough!”

A spin, a whirl through time and space, then she landed in the middle of her office at the Ministry, barely able to keep standing as she lurched into her desk. 

Heart pounding, head reeling, Hermione could only stare as Harry marched away from her, his shoulders a tense line of anger. His robes were singed from the battle, his hair was half-vertical, and he looked ready to throttle something.

“What,” he growled, “the hell were you thinking, Hermione?!” He whirled on her, his back to the fire, and his expression was nothing short of terrifying. He was livid, seething, his chest heaving from the fight and the Apparation, from having to stop himself from strangling her, she was sure. “I mean really, what the hell?! You could have been killed, you could have been Imperio’d, tortured, taken prisoner— I mean, I can’t even begin to tell you how stupid it was of you to do what you did!”

Anger, sudden and hot and relentless, mixed with the outrage seething from her belly, and Hermione pushed herself upright, facing him head-on. “Don’t you dare presume to speak to me like that, Harry! How dare you!”

“How dare I?” he repeated, his voice rising, and Hermione bristled in reply. “How dare I? How dare you, Hermione! You put all of us at risk by doing what you did! You completely disregarded protocol, and you—!”

Hermione laughed a jeering, scornful laugh, and relished the way his eyes sparked with fury. “Oh, imagine that, Harry Potter giving me a lecture about breaking the rules! Don’t ask me to apologize for my actions, they were completely warranted, given the situation—”

“And what situation was that, Hermione?! A lunch appointment at an unsecure location that I told you not to go to—”

“We followed every rule, Harry!” She was screaming now, she realized, and she also realized she didn’t care. “We did everything we were supposed to do, and it still happened! Sometimes—”

“What, Hermione, what?!” he bellowed, stepping towards her. The fire surged behind him, licking at his ankles, rearing behind his head in a clear display of his power, and she fought the urge to step back. He cut an incredible figure, looming and dark against the burning light. “Please, enlighten me as to what, exactly, sometimes happens when you disobey a direct order from the person whose job it is to protect you!”

“I can protect myself!” She was trembling, but she forced herself forwards, closing the distance between them. Even with her heels on, Harry was still a head taller than her, and she had to look up at him as she stood her ground. “I refuse to be treated like nothing more than a petulant child, when you know, you know better than anyone, Harry, that I am perfectly capable of holding my own!”

“Good God, Hermione,” he bit out, staring down at her. “What I would give for you to just listen for once.”

A beat passed, and for a moment, the air around them seemed to stand still. All Hermione could think about, all she could feel, was the near warmth of his body, the relentless heat of the same emerald green gaze that she’d met across tables, battlefields, classrooms, offices, for most of her life. The same gaze that gripped her now, that had her spellbound, rooted, pinned. 

Hermione swallowed, her heart giving another painful thud, but held her ground. After all the shouting, the room seemed to ring with silence, and she could hardly believe herself when she said, “Make me.”

The space between them flickered again, suddenly becoming charged and humid, like the air before a thunderstorm. Harry was staring at her, his expression at once blazing and hidden, impossible to read. His face was close enough that Hermione could see the hint of his stubble, the sweat along his hairline. Close enough that she could feel his breath, could smell his soap, could find herself reflected in his glasses. 

One of them moved first. It might have been her, but, later, she couldn’t remember. All she knew was that one moment, they were staring at each other, on the brink of exploding, and the next, Harry’s hand was on her neck, his thumb under her jaw. His skin was boiling hot to the touch and she gasped, pulling him down to meet her. 

The kiss was less of a kiss and more of a battle. Harry’s lips were soft and dry, relentless as he bent over her, his other hand falling to the dip of her back. Hermione gasped again when he bit down on the corner of her lip, and he surged forward with a groan, sliding his tongue along her teeth. She raked her fingers through his hair, satisfaction and fury and desire warring equally in her body as she sucked on his bottom lip.

It’s just how I remember, some part of her still had the ability to think. It’s the same, only—

Harry growled, deep in the back of his throat. His hands fell to her hips and he pushed her backwards, crowding her up against her desk. She grunted at the impact, then, following his momentum, hopped up onto the edge. He broke away to pull her blouse aside before ducking in to mouth at her neck. The wet, searing heat of his tongue made her dizzy, and she clung to him, her hands sliding under his suit jacket as she parted her legs. He slid against her with a grunt, lapping at a spot beneath her ear that made her entire body twitch. 

She was panting, spellbound, on fire, half-numb. The feeling of his hands on her skin, the weight of his body against hers, was like a drug. She pressed her mouth to Harry’s temple, his cheekbone, his forehead, any part of his body that she could reach. Hermione wanted nothing more than to tear off his clothes and hold him there for hours, and she shuddered as he mouthed his way along her jaw. 

When Harry reached her lips, he kissed her like they were drowning, holding her head in place with one hand while the other slid up the back of her blouse. Heat flooded her face, and she fumbled with his button-down, working one hand under his shirt and clinging to the warm skin beneath it. He groaned again, letting even more of his weight fall into her, and this time, she felt his erection press into her inner thigh. 

Hermione choked on a moan, pulling him even more tightly against her, her fingers digging into his arms as arousal flooded her veins. Everything in her wanted him, wanted him so badly that she forgot where they were, that they were in several layers of clothing, that this was Harry—

A sudden knock came at the door, disengaging the ever-present Silencing Charm, followed by Jill’s voice, clear as a bell: “Minister? Are you in there?” 

It was like a bolt of lightning. Before she knew what was happening, Harry was halfway across the room, hurriedly straightening his shirt, his tie, his glasses —

Hermione cleared her throat, her face going hot as she yanked her blouse back into place, straightened the waistband of her trousers, and pushed a loose chunk of hair back into her French twist. “Yes, Jill,” she called in reply, hoping her voice was suitably steady. “I’m here.”

Her office door opened to reveal a harassed-looking Jill. Hermione went very still, trying not to look guilty. “Thank Morgana,” said Jill. “I just heard what happened, Crane broke half the wards on the DMLE Apparating into Kingsley’s office to tell him the news. Are you all right?” 

“I’m fine,” Hermione replied, trying to remember how to breathe. “Auror Potter managed to get us out in time. How’s the rest of the team?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, ma’am,” Jill said, clearly pained. “St. Mungo’s already dispatched two Medi-Witches to the scene and Kingsley’s there now with reinforcements. He wants you there, too, Auror Potter,” she directed to Harry. “He wants to know what happened.” 

“Certainly,” said Harry, doing the vocal equivalent of the color beige. His gaze flickered towards Hermione for a split second and her stomach swooped in reply. “That is, if you’re comfortable with that, Minister—”

Hermione nodded. “Go. I can take care of myself for half an hour.”

Harry nodded back and, a moment later, turned on the spot and disappeared with a crack! For a moment, Hermione was leveled by a wave of disappointment, but she tried to shrug it off. 

“You’re bleeding, Minister,” said Jill, her voice going low and soft. Between that and the now obvious ticking of the clock, the room was beginning to feel larger and emptier. Hermione almost missed the battle. 

Hermione glanced at her secretary. “Am I?”

Jill nodded, tapping her own temple as a reference. “Just a little. Would you like me to fix it for you?”

“No, that’s all right.” Hermione turned to her desk and picked up the compact mirror she so seldom used. She stared at herself, then angled her head to see a long, but shallow, scratch going from her temple back through her hairline. It surprised her — she couldn’t feel a thing — but it must’ve happened when she tipped the table over, or during her duel. A glancing jinx or even a shard of broken dishware. 

Hermione sighed, pulling out her wand as Jill watched, worry written plain as day across her face. She wondered when, or if, this day would ever end.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze, as much as Hermione didn’t want it to. She’d once again been attacked in broad daylight — she was entitled to shock, panic, concern, but none of these feelings even came close to touching her. She was too busy replaying her fight with Harry, and everything that had happened afterwards. Now that was the real shock. It was a slew of teenage fantasies sprung to life. It was insane, it was dangerous, it was breaking half a dozen rules, it was—

“Incredibly hot,” Hermione admitted to her reflection during one of her bathroom breaks, which was the only time she had any real privacy. She stared at herself in the mirror, feeling but not seeing the small mark Harry’s mouth had left on her neck, now hidden away beneath the collar of her blouse. She felt the ghost of his stubble on her skin, his breath against her cheek, and she shivered, turning away from the mirror and heading back into the fray. 

Where does this leave us? Hermione wondered over and over again, as Kingsley chewed her out for engaging in a duel, as she listened to the report that her protection team had only sustained two minor injuries and managed to detain two of her attackers, as she watched Harry watch her. 

Was he thinking about it? Was it just adrenaline, or had something else floated to the surface, drawing them together like embers swirling out of smoke? Did he really want her that badly, badly enough to shove her onto a desk and hold her like he couldn’t get enough of her?

Mid-briefing, Hermione shivered in spite of herself, and Harry noticed. He cast his gaze down her body, far too much heat in it for it to be a mistake, and she fought the urge to shiver again. 

What happens now?

The afternoon bled into another long, tiresome evening. She couldn’t go home until the High Council ruled, and in the meantime her movements within the Ministry were strictly restricted to her chambers and her chambers only. They weren’t small rooms, by any means, but Hermione felt like the walls were creeping closer, bending over her with leery grins. It didn’t help that her office was packed with people, a jumble of Aurors, Ministerial staff, a handful of lackeys from Kingsley’s office. She could barely get a moment to herself, let alone a moment to process the fact that she’d dueled an insane terrorist and had won the upper hand. 

If it weren’t for a few aches and pains, the only evidence she’d been in a fight was a small singe-mark on the sleeve of her blazer. The glancing blow to her head had left her with a thumping headache eased a little by a dose of Pepper-Up, and her shoulder was still sore from shoving the table onto its side. But Hermione didn’t say a word about any of it, knowing it would only be fodder for another “I told you so” from Kingsley. So she waited it out as the day closed down, only half-listening as the men in the room argued about the entire situation three times over, skimming the written report Kingsley had brought that summarized the Aurors’ findings from their trip to the Continent. The report was long, but she had to admit it was thorough. 

Auror Dean F. Williams

Report on Continental Reconnaissance

9 February, 2019

Page 7

… commenced second interview with Frederick A. Müller, owner and proprietor of Müller’s Dark Detectors. Once again, Müller was affable, reasonable, compliant, and showed no resistance to Ministry involvement… 

… when questioned regarding behavior of employees, Müller was adamant that everything has remained as normal. There were no instances within the past few months — apart from occasional personal issues — that he or the Ministry could regard as suspect… 

… A complete list of Müller’s suppliers show a heavy reliance on raw material, meaning that Müller’s Dark Detectors does not source any Detector hardware from other manufacturers, but rather manufactures all components in-house. This makes it almost impossible for the Probes to be altered anywhere other than in Müller’s factory… 

… British DMLE officials swept the factory and warehouse from top to bottom and were unable to recover any remaining evidence that the Probes had been altered in-house. However, because the modification took place some months ago… 

EVIDENCE CATALOG

Evidence no. 39985

Delivery Invoice Reports, January 2019

Annoyed, Hermione flicked a few pages forward, scanning the Invoice Reports even more quickly than she had the written briefing. Then, a small note in the middle of the October 2018 Report caught her eye—

Evidence no. 39988

Delivery Invoice Reports, October 2018

Tuesday, 16 Oct

TLDH — 5 boxes reverse-osmosis Polyjuice Potion (25 100mL bottles/box)

400 G [paid in full]

Elflock’s Oddities — 2 bushels Green Beetle eyes

50 G [paid in full]

Messelman Ltd. — 10 pallets raw titanium alloy (approx. ½ ton)

1,000 G [paid in part]

Robertson Fine Apothecaries — 50 cases Exstimulo Potion (10 200mL bottles/box)*

*Auror’s Note: This is a cataloguing error. There is no company known as “Robertson Fine 

Apothecaries,” and the shipment seemed to be accidentally delivered to the factory, 

which has no need for large quantities of E.P. Müller contacted the local parcel service and, to his 

knowledge, the package was shipped back to its original sender.  

Hermione frowned, and glanced at Kingsley. He and Harry were in the middle of another conversation, trying not to watch the clock as it neared the fateful hour of six P.M. — the time that the High Council was holding an emergency meeting to discuss the events of the day. In the corner were the only remaining group of MLEP, a mixture of Aurors as well as patrolmen who were filling in for her usual security team while they were still at St. Mungo’s. 

“Kingsley?”

He sat up, folding his hands in his lap. “Yes, Minister?”

“I have a question about something in one of these reports.”

“Certainly.” Kingsley stood up from the sofa and made his way to her desk, Harry watching him with a frown. 

Hermione pointed to the note and said, “Normally, I wouldn’t think anything of it, but—”

“I see.” Kingsley frowned down at the parchment as well. “I can understand why such a mistake would give you cause for concern. If someone wanted to smuggle an illicit substance into a factory—”

“Then a fake company name would be the way to do it. But is it correct that Müller had the materials sent back without any issue?”

“If that is what the report says, then, yes, I’m inclined to think so.” He caught a look at her face and hastily cleared his throat. “I’ll follow up with Auror Andrews, just to be certain.”

“Thank you.” Hermione flipped the thick packet closed. “And do pass on my compliments, this was an exceptionally thorough report.” 

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Kingsley replied, just as the clock chimed six. 

“You’d better go,” Hermione said at once, easing back into her seat. “Send my best, I suppose.”

“Of course.” For a moment, Kingsley looked more somber, more subdued, than she would’ve expected. It made her throat catch, made her want to look away. “You should try to get something to eat. It might be a while before you… well.”

Go home, she filled in. “Indeed.” She tried to smile, for his sake. 

When he’d left, one of the Aurors — Thistlewhit, Hermione realized — piped up. “Shall we send out for some takeaway? Looks like we’re in for a bit of a sit-in.” 

“Sure,” said Hermione. She glanced at Harry, only to find him smiling at her, and quickly looked away again. “Pick wherever you’d like, and ask Jill to tap into the departmental petty cash before she leaves.” 

“Thanks, Minister.” Thistlewhit’s expression seemed to flicker. “Is there anything in particular you’d like?”

“Oh, no, just get whatever the group wants. I’m sure I’ll find something.” 

“All right,” Thistlewhit replied, though she didn’t seem convinced. 

Hermione bent her head, going back to the stack of untouched mail sitting on the corner of her desk. Truthfully, the last thing she felt like doing was eating, but she wasn’t about to draw attention to herself like that. So she picked up her quill and went back to work, ignoring her throbbing head and Harry’s gaze. 

Some time later, a pile of food appeared on the table at the other end of her office, and the group fell on it with enthusiasm. Hermione could see pizza, sandwiches, salads — a whole mess of food. Soon enough, everyone else was smiling and laughing as they piled their plates and found space to sit. 

Hermione had her head down again, supposedly absorbed in her work, when she felt a hand brush her arm. “Minister,” came a familiar, smooth voice, and she startled, looking up to find Harry standing beside her, a plate of food in hand. 

“Just in case you’re hungry,” he said, sliding the plate onto her desk. She blinked at it, seeing Margherita pizza, Caesar salad, half a chicken-and-pesto panini. 

“Thank you,” Hermione said, going a bit numb. She dropped her quill, catching the edge of Harry’s smile. 

“No problem.” He stepped away, and she instantly missed him, then hated herself for it. “I’ll get a plate for myself, if that’s acceptable, ma’am?”

“Of course,” she replied. “Yes, take a break. Merlin knows you deserve one.”

“Appreciate it, ma’am.” Again, just a flicker of that smile, then he turned away, going over to the others. Only now, with his back to her, did she see a fresh repair in the seam of his sleeve — clearly, his outfit had also suffered — and that he was limping ever so slightly. 

Hermione blushed and dropped her gaze to her food, her head spinning. Of course his knee would be giving him trouble after a fight like that, it was only logical, but had it been hurting him when he lifted her onto her desk? Had he done all that, even if it put him in pain?

Enough, Hermione told herself, picking up the panini and shoving the corner of it into her mouth. Enough, enough, enough. She couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t think anything about Harry and the way his mouth felt on her skin, his fingers pressing into her hips, her back, his—

Hermione forced herself to swallow, her eyes watering with the effort. Merlin, this was going to be a long night. 

Her prediction turned out to be accurate. It was quarter to nine before Kingsley returned, only the slight slump of his shoulders betraying his fatigue. Hermione stood up at once, trying to look for a clue, something, anything, in his face, but it was almost impossible. 

He turned to the group of MLEP personnel, who were standing at attention. “Gamma Team, you’re off-duty until 0700 tomorrow morning. At that time, please report to Auror Thistlewhit at the DMLE offices for your new assignment. Dismissed.” He waited until they had filed out before he turned to Thistlewhit, who looked quite pale all of a sudden. “Auror Thistlewhit and the rest of Beta Team, you’ve been reassigned to backup detail for the Minister’s personal security. Any and all reported concerns from the other subordinate teams will come through you. You will coordinate with Auror Potter, who will oversee your assignments and the assignments of those reporting to you. Thistlewhit, tonight you will accompany Potter and the Minister back to the Ministerial residence, where you will rendezvous with the other members of Alpha Team. They are out of St. Mungo’s and eager to return to work, so let’s do our best to make that transition as smooth as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” said Thistlewhit. 

Kingsley gave her a nod. “Good. Beta Team, your new primary function as a unit is to help protect the Minister and coordinate the movements of the other security teams accordingly. Think of yourselves as a bridge between the two different sides of our security forces. Get a good night’s sleep and report to Potter at the Ministerial residence at 0730 tomorrow morning. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the entire team chanted back to him. 

“Dismissed, except for you, Thistlewhit.”

It only took a moment for the others to file out of the room. Kingsley closed the door behind them, and Hermione’s hands went numb. She knew what this meant. She knew what was happening, what the High Council had decided—

Kingsley rounded on them, clasping his hands behind his back. “I imagine you all have plenty of questions. Shall we sit down?”

Hermione headed for her sitting area on autopilot. She sat down across from Kingsley and Thistlewhit, and Harry sat down next to her. He was less than a foot away, close enough that she could see the royal blue thread in the fabric of his suit. She had a sudden flash of memory — specifically, how that fabric and the muscles beneath it had felt against the skin of her hands — and it took a lot to keep herself from blushing. 

“Out with it,” she said to Kingsley, not regretting the hard edge in her tone. 

“Very well.” Kingsley cleared his throat. “The High Council voted unanimously to enact Stage Two of Action Plan Delta, effective immediately.”

Hermione felt no comfort in knowing that she’d been right. “I suppose your report on today’s incident necessitated another report concerning the Probity Probe issue?”

“Yes.” Kingsley winced a little. “They were not thrilled by my decision to delay telling them.”

“Seriously?” Harry interrupted, his eyes flashing. “After they made such a stink about being assembled for matters that they deemed not urgent enough for Council attention?” 

Hermione silently agreed with him, and it seemed like Kingsley did as well. “I know,” Kingsley replied, several decades’ worth of bureaucratic frustration behind his words. “But they all agreed to increase your security, and that we need to move you to a further state of semi-lockdown.”

“What?” Hermione interrupted with a frown. “That’s not a parameter of Stage Two—”

“You’re not wrong,” Kingsley told her. “They want to do a modified version of the existing protocol. No more public appearances, and you’re only to take a handful of meetings each day in your actual office here in the Ministry. At all other times, you’re restricted to your personal residence, except for two hours a week. You can use that time to conduct errands and other business, but only under the shield of a glamor or a pre-approved dose of Polyjuice.”

Frustration, sudden and hot, overtook Hermione so quickly that she almost felt blinded. No more morning coffee, no more Alonzo’s, no more book club. She clenched her arm rest, her bruised shoulder throbbing from the strain. 

Kingsley noticed and nodded again. “I knew you wouldn’t like it, but you have to comply.”

“Have they considered,” Hermione said, trying to keep her voice even, “that keeping me holed up in one place might actually create a much larger and more obvious target?”

“That’s why they’re sending over a team first thing in the morning,” Kingsley replied. “They’re going to do as much as they can to make your residence completely impenetrable. Within the existing floor plan, of course.”

“Charming.” Hermione sat there fuming for a moment. The others were all watching her, and that somehow made everything so much worse. “I suppose this means I’ll be working almost entirely from home.”

“Yes.” Kingsley’s gaze was friendly, calming, and it didn’t help at all. “Jill has already been informed via owl and all of your in-person appointments have been restricted to top-tier individuals only. Everything else you can do via owl or fire-call. And, no more communal Floo ports. You’ll be travelling directly from this fireplace to your home, and vice versa. An agent from the DMT was dispatched to your residence about half an hour ago, and you should now be able to access your home Floo from this fireplace.” 

Hermione inhaled slowly, then exhaled. “Is there anything else?”

“Not for the moment, no.”

“In that case, I believe I should be going. I’d like to get home as soon as possible.” Hermione stood up and made her way to her desk. “Thank you, Kingsley.”

“Of course, ma’am.” He seemed a little puzzled, but Hermione ignored it.

By the time he’d left and her briefcase was stuffed fit to bursting (even with its Extension Charm), Hermione’s irritation had boiled down to a pleasant rolling simmer in the back of her mind. It sent tendrils of fresh heat down her neck, drawing her attention away from her headache and her stiff shoulder. She picked up her briefcase, tossed her coat over one arm, and made directly for the fireplace. “Are we good to go?”

Harry and Thistlewhit, who’d been having some sort of conversation in low tones, broke off and hastened to her. “Of course, Minister,” said Harry quickly, falling into step behind her. Thislewhit copied him, and Hermione fought the urge to sigh. What a pantomime this was all becoming. She took a handful of Floo powder from the little box on the mantelpiece, then passed it to Harry. His fingers brushed her hand, his touch warm and rough, and she tried to ignore the pleasant shiver it sent up her arm. 

Her home was dark, quiet, unchanged. Hermione turned on some lights to prevent Harry and Thistlewhit from running into the coffee table, wondering where the cats were. They likely hadn’t enjoyed the unexpected presence of the DMT official. 

Harry appeared a moment later, followed by Thistlewhit. “I’m going to see to the cats,” Hermione told them, heading for the kitchen. “Please, take your time setting up whatever needs to be set up, and pass along my renewed thanks to the team.” 

“Certainly, ma’am,” said Harry, but she was already gone. 

This time, she did use magic to crack a tin of cat food. The boys showed up just as she was reaching for the open bottle of wine, and she gave Winnie a quick stroke down his back. 

“You would not believe the day I’ve had,” she told Winnie, pouring a large glass. He looked up at her with his big green eyes and meowed, his ears twitching. 

Now that she was practically by herself, in the relative quiet of her home, her mind began to churn. In spite of it all, in spite of the surprise battle and the near-chaos that had followed, there was one indisputable fact — in mere minutes, she and Harry would be alone in her house, with no discernable reason that they would be interrupted. 

Hermione took a large sip of wine, her heart hammering. Well, she thought, there’s no turning back now.

The wood of the stairs was chilly under her bare feet, and Hermione fought off a shiver, gripping the bannister for extra support. Her stomach was jumping from nerves — a feeling she’d not had in quite some time — and she couldn’t tell if the wine had made things better or worse. It had certainly given her the courage to go upstairs in nothing other than a satin nightie and matching dressing gown that she only wore in the summer. 

All the upstairs lights were out, save for a thin band of golden light radiating from the gap between the guest bedroom door and the wooden floor. She swallowed, even if this was encouraging — Harry was still awake. 

Somewhere, logically, in the depths of her brain, Hermione knew that what she was doing was insane. Harry had kept his distance even after Thistlewhit had left, and by the time Hermione had finished her shower, he’d gone upstairs, likely assuming that she’d gone to bed. She tried not to read too much into that, because, like it or not, she understood Harry, to a certain extent. She got the feeling that he was giving her space, letting her be the one to make the next move, if there was even a move to be made. 

No — everything rested on this moment, this decision. She could turn around and go right back to bed, and they could chalk it all up to adrenaline and relief, letting their brief moment of poor judgment fade into the past, where neither of them would speak of it. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time we did that, she thought, somewhat ruefully. She wondered, again, if this was a continuation, rather than a beginning. 

Impossible, she thought, because it was sort of true. What had happened between them today was impossible, and in spite of her best efforts. And yet, it had happened all the same. Which was par for the course with Harry Potter. 

Hermione also wasn’t entirely certain why she was doing this, why she was choosing to push this even further rather than let it go. She had to admit that it was a little out of desperation — she hadn’t had someone between her legs in quite some time, much less someone who knew what they were doing. After all, Harry was a man, and in her experience, men didn’t usually turn away no-strings-attached sex. Even — and sometimes especially — if the sex was with their superior. 

Because, she reminded herself as she crept up to the guest bedroom door, that’s all you're offering. An outlet. Stress relief. An arrangement of convenience, not of fate.

And with that, she gripped the doorknob, twisted, and pushed the door open, stepping into the bedroom before she could second-guess herself. 

Harry sat up on the bed, surprise written plain as day across his face before he schooled his expression into what was becoming his usual mask of bland professionalism. He’d undressed, but was lying on top of the covers, and there was an open book lying face-down a foot away from him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, so he couldn’t have been reading. Maybe he’d been waiting. “Minister, I— I didn’t know you were up.”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out. Her mind spun, suddenly going blank, because Harry wasn’t wearing a shirt. 

The fine dusting of chest hair that she’d caught a glimpse of the other night was still there, overlaying a thick layer of muscle and tapering to a faint shadow over the waistband of his pajamas. But, unlike the other night, now she could see everything. His lightly tanned skin, the mole just below his left pec, the several — no, dozens — of old battle scars that marred the canvas of his body. Most of them were small and long-faded, but there was one gash near his left hip that looked rather puckered and pink, no more than a few weeks old. Then there were his arms, corded with muscle and leftover summer freckles, and his hands. Deft, knuckly, broad. Soft. 

She lost herself for a moment in the reality of this, in knowing that this was what Harry looked like on the edge of forty. He looked perfect, but not because he looked perfect. He was so much healthier now than he’d been when they were younger — rosy from eating several square meals a day, lean but not skinny, muscular but not carved out of marble. He could probably throw her halfway across the room if he wanted to.

That thought brought a fresh wave of color to her face. Spindly, gawky Harry had become an adult when she wasn’t looking. Wasn’t paying attention. 

He mistook her stunned silence for embarrassment, and chuckled ruefully, sweeping a careless hand across his torso. “I know, it’s a bit of a shock. Perks of the job.” Harry shifted, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and putting his hands on his knees. It made his biceps stand out, lovely and smooth in the low light. “Did you need something?” 

If only you knew, Hermione thought, then gave herself a mental shake. She gently pushed the door closed behind her, the sound of the latch seeming to echo in the air around them. Harry’s gaze darted to the door, then to her face. Even now, he was impossible to read. 

Steeling herself, she slipped out of her dressing gown, letting it fall to the floor, and took a few steps forward, closing the gap between the doorway and the bed. Within moments, Harry was even more real than he’d been before, like he’d come into focus. He was still watching her, inscrutable. And then, the distant heat of his body became a firm reality against her own as she swung one of her legs over both of his, lowering herself into his lap. 

Her heart was beating in her ears. She draped her arms over his shoulders, grazing a light trail up the back of his neck with her fingernails. His mouth parted, and his face was so close now, within inches of her own. 

A beat passed, and she briefly wondered if he was going to push her off, spouting excuses about propriety and rules. It was possible — this was a gamble, and she knew it. The heat of the moment was one thing, and almost ten hours later was quite another. 

But then. Then.

His hands slid up her bare thighs, the touch going from gentle to possessive when he gripped her hips, his fingers pressing through the satin fabric down to the bone. Hermione swallowed a gasp and brought her hand up to his jaw, thumbing a spot just below his ear. 

“I believe,” she whispered, her heart giving another painful thud, “that we have some unfinished business.”

Harry huffed, and just the hint of a smile flitted across his face before he leaned in, closing the ever-shrinking distance between them. 

Hermione had expected him to kiss her, but her confusion was quickly replaced by a searing wave of surprise when he pressed his mouth to her neck. This time, she couldn’t hold in her gasp as his hands edged under her nightgown, sweeping up her bare skin. His touch was just as rough and just as smooth as she remembered, and those memories alone made her shiver. He mouthed slowly, relentlessly, at her neck, her collarbone, her jaw, his fingers digging into the flesh of her ass as he pulled her even closer, nearly flush with his chest. 

Harry was methodical, even dedicated, as he made his way up her neck to her face. His mouth was soft, but his thin layer of stubble dragged at her skin, and she relished the burn. Hermione clung to him, eager and unashamed of it, her thighs gripping his, and when he finally, finally , brought his mouth to hers, it felt at once like a new beginning and an end. Closure with infinite possibility. 

He kissed her just as relentlessly as he had earlier that day, but with none of the fever of battle. This kiss was silky with need, his mouth plush and wet against her own. She kissed him back just as thoroughly, shivering again when his tongue swept through her mouth, along her teeth. 

They kissed, and kissed, and kissed, snatching breaths where they could, and Hermione felt like an exposed wire, electric and jumpy and languid all at once. She tangled her fingers in Harry’s hair, squeezed his shoulders, gripped his arms, everything she could do to ground herself in the moment, to remind herself that this was really happening. She could have gone on like this forever, but she was burning for more. 

Then, in a flash, things changed. Harry’s teeth snagged on her bottom lip just as one of his hands slid up her torso. As he grazed his teeth along her lip, he grazed his thumb across her nipple. 

Hermione bucked, her belly turning to liquid when the action brought her inner thigh up against the warm, rigid length in Harry’s pajama bottoms. Harry broke away to groan into her neck, but he didn’t stop. His other hand found its way to her other nipple, and he set a merciless, burning rhythm, circling them with his thumbs until they hardened and peaked beneath his touch. He lapped at her neck, his teeth occasionally grazing against her skin, and Hermione moaned, loud enough that she blushed at the sound of herself. 

Her brief insecurity vanished when Harry pulled away to look at her, his gaze dark and heated. His breathing was heavier than normal, and he had her pinned with his gaze when his thumbs stopped moving. 

Breathless, nearly drunk with arousal, Hermione was momentarily confused — what was he waiting for? But then, he leaned in again, keeping his eyes open and his mouth just out of reach of hers. She was waiting for a kiss when his fingers shifted, brushing her nipples, and then he pinched.

Hermione surged against him, pleasure searing hot through her veins, and her momentum pushed them back onto the bed, brought her crashing down to Harry’s mouth. She kissed him with ferocity, grinding down against him, desperate to have him inside her, and he huffed against her cheek, clearly pleased with himself as he kissed her back, his hands sliding her nightgown up her back. The cool air of the room prickled against her bare skin, a stark contrast to the burning heat of Harry’s body, and she rolled against him, from her hips to her chest, wishing she could swallow him whole. 

Harry made quick work of her nightgown, pulling it up and off and flinging it into the corner of the room. She gasped at the feeling of her skin meeting his, the faint tickle of his chest hair against her breasts, but then it was gone. He pushed her up the bed, pulling away to take off his pajamas as she sank down into the pillows. His cock sprang free, swollen and red and a little larger than she’d expected, and her mouth watered at the sight of it. Harry kicked off his bottoms, and the action brought her attention to an even wider array of scars.

The one on his left hip — the pink, jagged chunk that still looked fresh — was at least four inches long, and she realized it had to have been a knife wound of some sort. There were a few other marks on his thighs, white lines of various sizes and shapes that she assumed were from curses and jinxes glancing off his body. And then, then. There was his knee. 

She couldn’t see all of it, just a brief glimpse when he moved his leg, but it was worse than she’d imagined. The skin and muscle around his right knee was permanently swollen and disfigured, a blend of mottled purples and reds that made the bulging knots of scar tissue look fresh, even though she knew the wound was several years old. The scar tissue licked up and down the side of his leg like flames, tapering to thin points just a few inches above his ankle and below his hip. She couldn’t imagine how much it had hurt when it was fresh, how much it must still hurt him now. Her breath caught a little, the sight of his body a sharp prickle of reality in the midst of this heady fantasy. 

But then he was on her again, his mouth sealing over hers with fierce intention. She melted against him, all other thoughts surrendering to the pure tingle of sensation sweeping through her body, and she parted her legs, clenching his torso with her thighs. Harry’s body was deliciously heavy on top of her, and she rolled her hips, relishing the thick heat of his cock as it grazed against her crotch. Harry moaned into her mouth, his hands slipping where they gripped her waist, so she did it again. This time, the head of his cock caught the edge of her arousal, sliding wet and hot against her, and they moaned in unison, sparks flying up Hermione’s spine.

Harry broke away, and she frowned at him before he muttered off a few contraception spells, looking down at her, the heat in his gaze almost overpowering. His hand slid down between her thighs, and she almost throttled him because honestly, this was no time for foreplay. But then, then, two of his fingers slipped inside her. His fingers bent, pressing her open, and he watched as she bucked against his hand. 

“Now,” Hermione managed, from somewhere deep in her throat. 

When he slid into her, it was in one sure, steady movement, and Harry made a muffled sound against the skin of her neck. She thrust up to meet him, her knees going weak at the feeling of being stretched and filled, and they hung there, still for one brief moment, then Harry flexed his hips, testing her. It was gentle, even kind of him, to take it slow, but thankfully, it didn’t last long. 

Harry reignited the flame that had burst between them earlier that day, ruthlessly fucking her into the bed, his teeth biting a searing hot line against her throat. His breath was muffled in her ear, and she could barely keep breathing herself, overwhelmed by the weight of his body, the feeling of his skin, the way he stretched her open but kept her close. Hermione shut her eyes, her hands sliding around to grip at the flesh of Harry’s ass, driving him even deeper, shivering when the angle took him directly against her G-spot. She angled her hips up against him as she thrusted, and was met by an answering spasm when his lower stomach ground against her clit. 

“Yes,” she breathed, digging her nails into his skin. “Just like that.” 

Harry moaned in reply, mouthing at her collarbone. It was wet, sloppy, and Hermione clenched around him, pleasure rushing through her in a building roar. Sparks danced along her thighs, up her back, and it was so good, it was so close—

He built a driving edge, pulling her towards it with precision and ease, and the bed began to fall away from beneath her body. Hermione tangled her hands in his hair, desperate to keep him close, even as sweat made their bodies slip and slide against one another, made the bedspread snarl under her hips—

“Harry,” she murmured, and he pushed a hand through her hair in reply, “Harry, on your back— Please—”

He obeyed her in a trice. When he pulled out, she instantly felt his absence, and even felt exposed in the low light until he swooped down and kissed her so thoroughly it burned down her stomach all the way to her toes. He released her lower lip with a pop and collapsed next to her, rolling onto his back. 

She climbed on top of him, breathless. Harry’s gaze was impenetrable, dark and glittering, and his hands found her hips, squeezing her so hard she thought it might bruise. As she reached for his cock, leaning back to guide it in, he brushed his thumb against her nipple, and her answering shudder nearly sent her off balance. 

“Word of advice,” she told him as he slid inside her once more. He bucked slightly, his mouth parting on a silent moan. “Keep doing that.” 

And with that, Hermione braced herself on his chest and began to fuck herself on his cock, gasping when the new angle brought him even deeper into her body, filled her and stretched her until she thought she might burst. It was incredible, especially once she tilted her pelvis forward and brought her clit into direct contact with his skin, once Harry reached up and began to toy with her nipples, flicking and pinching in a way that made her body hum. 

Her face flooded with heat, and her hips stuttered as the wave of pleasure built to a merciless, steep summit. “Oh,” she moaned, biting her lip, closing her eyes. Her body surged, tingling and twitching atop his. “I’m going to—” she gasped, her face going numb, “I’m going to—”

Her orgasm hit her like a brick wall, dazzling and relentless. Hermione blacked out for a moment, clenching down around Harry’s cock, sparks flooding her stomach, her fingers, her toes. She moaned again, riding it out, shuddering when his cock pulsed through her. 

“God,” Harry breathed, his hands coming to rest at the tops of her thighs. He gripped her tightly, his fingers digging into her flesh, and she loved the way it felt — desperate, possessive. His hips began to thrust, small, steady movements as he tested her once again, and she encouraged it, meeting him halfway. Her body ached from it, oversensitive and languid all at once. 

Harry started fucking up into her in earnest, his thighs tensing from the effort, and Hermione let all her breath out in one hot rush, almost dizzy from the sight below her — Harry, one tight line of arousal, his eyes shadowed and merciless. His jaw was clenched from the effort of holding himself back, and a part of her wanted to see that control snap, to let him go at it. 

But there wouldn’t be time for that tonight. She could tell he was close, relished that she was the reason for it. Hermione slid her hand up his chest, grazing across the scars, through his chest hair, over a nipple. He shuddered, his rhythm breaking, and he moaned when she squeezed the top of his clavicle, using it as a prop for her weight as she bent over him and licked into his mouth, sucking on his tongue until a fresh spasm of pleasure tickled her gut. 

His hips stuttered again, and he grunted into her mouth. A handful more thrusts, sweat beading on Hermione’s hairline, and he came with another grunt, pulsing inside her. 

Hermione slid off him with a sigh, collapsing onto the pillows next to him. Her body was shivery, achy from doing this for the first time in a long time. Sweat was drying in the creases of her knees, on her forearms, at the small of her back. She let her breathing slow, watching Harry’s chest rise and fall. It was much better than looking into his face, dreading the moment when he spoke, when he said something that she didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to hear. 

No, this was easier. Guessing which curses caused which scars, as macabre as it was. Her gaze slid across the raised, slightly purplish stain from Slythrin’s locket, faded after all these years but still there. She fought the urge to touch it, lay her hand across it, cover it from view. 

Hermione knew she was stalling. She was still in shock that this had happened, let alone under her own roof, in a supposedly professional context. And with Harry, of all people. The constant thorn in her side, the smart-arse, the one she’d had a crush on all through—

“Well.” Harry’s voice was gravelly, satisfied. She brought her gaze to his face, and a pang went through her at the sight of him. He was relaxed, rumpled in the extreme, languid and golden against the pillows. He was a little sweaty as well, shiny in the low light. All of it made Hermione want to jump on him again. “Now,” he continued, his voice low, “do we say goodnight?”

Hermione let out her breath and tried not to smile. How like Harry to say exactly what she’d wanted to hear, for once. “Yes,” she replied, shifting to slide off the bed. 

The carpet was delightfully soft against her feet as she padded over to where her nightgown lay crumpled on the floor. She turned away from him as she slipped it on, because something about it was too intimate and too cowardly all at once. 

“Your shoulder,” he said, his voice still low. Still relaxed, not confrontational.

Hermione swallowed, straightening her nightie. She’d forgotten that the bruise was visible. “Yes.” She flashed him a little smile as she made her way to her dressing gown and the door. “It’s from earlier, when I pushed the table over. It’s nothing, I’ll put some Dittany on before I go to sleep and it’ll be gone by morning.”

“Okay,” said Harry, and it sounded like he meant it. 

Hermione grabbed her gown and reached for the door, almost too embarrassed to look at him again. Then—

“Goodnight,” said Harry. The sight of him, naked and sated, sent a fresh spasm through her core. She knew what all of him felt like, now. “Hermione,” he added. 

Hermione exhaled in a rush. “Goodnight, Harry.” And with that, she stepped into the hall, shutting the door behind her. 

She fled — fled slowly, she reminded herself — through the darkened house, and when she got back to her bedroom and closed the door behind her, only then did she breathe again. A crazed grin spread across her face, and she touched it, almost unable to believe its presence. 

“Oh my God,” she whispered, wrapping an arm around her torso. Her skin was still warm and buzzing, like there were sparks trapped inside her. “I just fucked Harry Potter.”

And something told her it wouldn’t be the last time, either.

The next morning, Hermione woke slowly, languidly, blinking as her bedroom came into focus around her. Weak sunshine was spilling through the curtains, bringing her room into a soft-edged brilliance that was just this side of beautiful. 

She sighed, smiling, and stretched, feeling all of the new, low-burning aches left by the night before. The feeling settled deep in her hips, the small of her back, her stomach, her shoulders. It was a pleasant type of exhaustion, something that was practically decadent by this point in her life — a sensation born of pure pleasure, rather than obligation. Hermione hadn’t felt like this in a long time. 

Or maybe ever, an unhelpful corner of her brain supplied, and she frowned, rubbing her nose on her pillow. But before she could chase that thought down and put it in a chokehold, a soft meow sounded from the foot of the bed. Winnie perked up, the tops of his ears visible over her duvet, and one of them twitched as she watched. 

“Good morning,” she said to him, reaching out to give him a rub. “Time for breakfast?”

Then, a cluster of voices threaded through her door and into her room. “—think the Minister would be opposed to a few hidden defensive spell triggers?” “No, but you should probably make sure—” “We can’t make these sort of decisions—”

Hermione’s frown deepened and she slid out of bed, gathering her hair into a plait as she went into her closet. So much for a bit of a lie-in on her first day of house arrest.

Somewhere between getting dressed and brushing her teeth, her stomach twisted into a series of knots the extent of which she had never experienced before, not even on NEWTs day. It almost made her inhale her toothpaste, and she blinked at her reflection in shock.

She was being ridiculous. This was nothing new. She’d had sex before, and this was Harry, not some stranger off Camden Road. Whatever had happened between them, whatever might happen again, was insane, but it hadn’t been a mistake, or a fluke. He’d wanted it as much as she had. Of that, she was sure. 

Conviction. A feeling she knew, yet it felt unfamiliar in this context. Somehow, she would have to keep a handle on her nerves — that much was clear — because apart from everything else, they wouldn’t be alone for another twelve hours. If they had to talk about it, they could talk about it when they were no longer under constant scrutiny. There was nothing she could do about it now, and there was certainly no reason for her to have a wobbly about it in the meantime. 

Five minutes later, Hermione swallowed her nerves, shut the cats in the bedroom, and went out into the sitting room, where she came upon quite the group of people. 

Harry was nowhere in sight, though whether that was good or bad, she didn’t know — she was thankful for it, regardless, because seeing him right away would’ve thrown her off her guard. She couldn’t afford that because there were five newcomers, and the sight of them in full robes in the middle of her rather Muggle sitting room was nothing short of jarring. 

Three of them wore DMLE robes, and the other two were in the sleek black velvet robes worn by the Department of Mysteries. The DMLE squad she recognized at once — two of them were specialists from the Disguise and Disfigurement branch, and the third was none other than Seamus Finnegan, who was the Department’s Director of Locational Security. One of the Department of Mysteries employees was a relative unknown to her — an Angela something — whom she vaguely recalled as being involved with experiments to do with Space, and the other she knew so well she couldn’t help but smile when he turned to her. 

“Minister. Good morning.” Draco inclined his sleek head and gave her a smile of his own. It was sort of surreal, seeing him in her sitting room, leaning against her sofa. His regal chin and pointed nose made everything around him look almost pedestrian by comparison. “I do apologize if these buffoons woke you. I’ve been trying to corral them, to little effect.”

“Nice, Malfoy,” said Seamus, from where he was standing in the corner of the room, wand out and a thin blue diagnostic beam projecting from it onto the wall. He glanced over his shoulder. “Though I apologize if we disturbed you, Minister. We were trying to have this finished before you started your day.”

“It’s not a problem,” Hermione replied, leaning against the back of the sofa beside Draco. He was well-dressed as usual under his robes, in a dark grey pinstripe waistcoat and trousers paired with an emerald green shirt and a gold watch chain. The outfit was so typically Draco that she wanted to roll her eyes. “Though maybe you could give me some idea of what it is you’re trying to do, Seamus.”

“Increase your wards,” said Seamus. “Well, and add in some defensive mechanisms.”

“Defensive mechanisms,” Hermione repeated, raising an eyebrow at him. Seamus grinned in response. “I wasn’t under the impression that those would be part of the security workover.”

“But are you opposed to it?”

Hermione gritted her teeth, doing a lot to keep herself from grinning back. “I suppose not. What did you have in mind?”

“Couple of trigger spells, combination of defensive jinxes and trap jinxes. Petrificus and stuff like that. And, if you’re open to it, a couple proper booby traps. Trick trapdoors, hidden cells, that sort of thing.”

That explained why Angela was here. “You may proceed,” Hermione replied. “Just make sure I or any of the other security guards can’t get ourselves stuck in any of it. And check in with Ha—Auror Potter to make sure you’re all on the same page.”

“Will do, ma’am.” Seamus gave her a nod and eagerly went about his work, conferring with the other three as they joined him in the corner. 

Draco, however, hung back, and he bumped his shoulder against hers. “You’re looking well, all things considered.”

“You should’ve seen me at around two o’clock yesterday. Would’ve given Pansy six months’ worth of material for her column.” Hermione glanced at him. “Why are you here?”

Draco sniffed. “To offer my expert services as the in-house Potions Master.” His cool expression lasted for five seconds before it cracked and he flashed her just the hint of a grin. “No. I wanted to see how you were doing. The last time we actually spoke in person was—”

“Was the morning of the initial incident, yes.” Hermione took a breath, her mind suddenly flooding with images from the past week — ducking the AK, Harry and Kingsley nearly shouting at one another, the look on Crane’s face when the first spells went off, the fire smoldering in her bedroom grate — before getting replaced by another image entirely. Harry, naked, between her legs, gazing up at her with all of the hunger and passion she felt, his hand sliding— “I’m holding up, really, I am.”

“You’re certainly in better spirits than I’d expected.” Draco shot her another glance. “And you’re somehow on a first name basis with he-who-must-not—”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Hermione replied, feeling a blush threaten. Of course he’d caught her near-slip with Harry’s name. “But I suppose it was get along and find a way to work in the middle of all this insanity or… not. Things are easier this way.”

Draco nodded. “I can understand that. And I noticed that he’s dressing like an actual Ministry official for the first time in… what, a decade? Am I assuming correctly that you had something to do with it?” He took her silence as confirmation and smirked again. “Damn, Granger. Remind me to send you an owl the next time Blaise doesn’t want to help me clean out the basement.”

“I’m afraid my services aren’t for hire.” Hermione watched the others, who were still trading ideas in the corner, before she sighed. Might as well get it over with. “I don’t suppose you know where—?”

“Upstairs,” Draco replied. “Strategy meeting, I think. Seems like Potter’s turned your lounge into something of a situation room.”

“Lovely.” Hermione ignored the way his name made her stomach flip, like she was fifteen and pining all over again. “Just what I always envisioned in my home. Politics, strategy, enough Ministry employees to make my décor the next front-page special.”

Draco huffed, nudging her with his elbow. “I know it’s a bore, Hermione. And it’s unsettling. But if it’s any consolation, there’s barely been a peep about the incident yesterday. The meeting with Crane was so top-secret in the first place I think everyone’s on a need-to-know.”

She thought for a moment. “I wonder how many arms Kingsley had to twist to keep it quiet. He must be running low on favors by now.”

“I suppose.” Draco turned away from watching the others and faced her, looking her directly in the eye. “Seriously, though. Are you all right?”

Hermione shivered in spite of herself. She’d forgotten how intense his gaze could be, especially when he was worried. “Yes.” She forced herself to nod. “It’s been a lot, obviously, but I’m handling it.”

Draco took this in with a nod, but his hand found his signet ring, which he began to twist in a way Hermione knew well. He was nervous, and it was so sweet of him it made her heart skip a beat. She hadn’t realized until this very moment just how badly she’d missed having a friend’s company through all this. 

Then, Draco asked her what she thought of Harkniss’s most recent publication on Sleeping Draughts, and that led to a conversation that took them from her living room and into her kitchen, where Hermione went about making them tea and a plate of biscuits. 

“I do think it’s a very important step in the treatment of sleeping disorders as well as addiction,” Hermione was saying as she polished off the last of her tea. “Finding a non habit-forming distillation of Valerian would unlock a vast array of medical possibilities. You could even start brewing according to a strength grading scale, which could prevent patients from accidentally or purposefully overdosing themselves.”

Draco nodded as he chewed. He’d polished off three of her good Petit Écolier biscuits, which she kept on hand for precisely this reason — Draco’s sweet tooth had always been something of a problem, and a problem that had only worsened once Blaise decided to try his hand at making pastries in the off-season. “Parvati is very excited about it, as well. She’s actually reached out to Harkniss to see if he’s interested in joining one of her research teams.”

Hermione nodded, unsurprised. During Parvati’s tenure as a Deputy Healer for the Department of Potions and Poisoning, she’d brought research and development to a whole new frontier, but without exorbitantly high costs or garnering the disapproval of the Trustees. Hermione had an inkling that she would be addressing Parvati as ‘Head Healer’ before long. “I honestly think this sort of development is long overdue. Mungo’s has been a little slow to adapt to the twenty-first century, so it’s about time they started taking some steps forward.” 

Before Draco could reply, there came the sound of footsteps from the dining room, and a moment later, Harry appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. Hermione’s heart thudded painfully and her stomach dropped to her ankles at the sight of him. 

He was dressed somewhat informally — he’d forgone his Auror robes, and was wearing grey slacks and a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sight of his muscular, scarred forearms was indecent at this time of day, especially now that she knew how they felt under her touch. He had a five o’clock shadow and his hair was somewhat messily combed, like he’d had to get ready with little warning, and she wondered if he, too, had slept in a tad longer than he’d meant. 

In short, Harry looked completely different and exactly the same. Hermione wondered if the whole world had rearranged itself into paradoxes overnight. 

“Morning, Minister.” His gaze landed on her for a split second before it drifted to Draco, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Morning, Ferret.”

“Potter,” Draco replied, sending him a bland smile in reply. “I take it your confab is over?”

“For the moment.” Harry made his way over to the kettle and went about making a cup of tea, his movements easy and practiced. Hermione had forgotten just how comfortable he was in her presence, in her kitchen, but was reminded of it when Draco looked at her and raised an eyebrow. She blushed and stared down into her mug, the feeling of Draco’s gaze on her face almost too much to bear. 

“Sounds like I interrupted quite the discussion,” Harry went on. “You both know we don’t have to write Potions essays anymore, correct?”

Draco snorted. “Easy for someone who never earned better than a ‘Dreadful’ to say. Jealous, Potter?”

Harry chuckled, the sound doing something very messy and twisted to Hermione’s insides. He turned and leaned against the counter, still not looking at her. “Of you, Ferret? Never. How’s the kept man, anyway?”

“He’s very well,” Draco replied, his expression shifting into something softer, more fond. “The team’s just coming off a holiday, so he’s quite excited to get back onto the pitch.” Blaise was the Manager for the English national team.

That kicked off a detailed discussion of Quidditch that Hermione couldn’t follow even if she wanted to, so she pulled her tablet out from under a stack of miscellaneous memos and started clicking through her schedule. The clock told her it was already half past eight, somewhat to her surprise. Jill had sent her a couple of texts, saying she would arrive as soon as the security team gave her the all-clear, and Hermione replied with sincere gratitude — she hated facing departmental budget proposals on her own. 

Apart from that, the only meetings she had at the Ministry that afternoon were at two and three o’clock, and Hermione stared at the calendar blocks, hardly able to believe it. It would be the earliest she’d left the office in months, perhaps even years. 

Well, she reminded herself, your workday doesn’t end just because you come home. And that was true even in normal circumstances. It was one thing to see the bright side in a dire situation, but it was another to take the dire situation as an excuse to let down her guard, or to hold herself to a different standard. No, Hermione thought, clicking out of her calendar and opening the Guardian app, this isn’t any different to a normal workday. The sooner you start thinking that, the better.

Besides, she knew that inside of a week she’d be climbing the walls and want nothing more than to go back to work as usual. Which was why it wasn’t up to her — these decisions were made by the High Council for a reason. After Fudge, Scrimgeour, and Thicknesse, it was made clear that the office of Minister held rather too much unchecked power, and the Minister should be held accountable by a final, comprehensive team of Ministry officials. The High Council was made up of Ministerial Department Heads, and they were the ones who decided policy as far as the office of Minister was concerned. The only prevailing ultimate power left to the Minister was the veto, though that was now regulated through a trial process. And as Kingsley had pointed out the night before, she couldn’t very well veto a policy that was put in place for her own protection. 

Hermione found it delightfully ironic that Kingsley, ever the quiet rebel against bureaucracy, had ended up making the Ministry more bureaucratic than it had ever been. 

She peered at a headline about Boris Johnson and absently wondered if maybe Parliament should try to follow the same route.

“Minister,” said Harry, breaking her focus. She looked up to find both him and Draco watching her. “What’s on the agenda?”

“Two meetings after lunch and budget proposals before and probably after that, as soon as Jill can get here. Any idea how much longer the team needs?”

“I’m not sure, ma’am.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “When I left the sitting room, Seamus was muttering about a trick painting, so it might be a while.”

Hermione sighed through her nose. It was all she could do at this point to hope that there wouldn’t be permanent damage to her house. Though maybe she could convince them to let Jill slip inside between lengthy modifications. “Lovely. Any news from the DMLE?”

“Nothing yet. I’ll inform you as soon as I hear something.”

“Please do.” Hermione scrolled through a couple of articles. “How’s the security team?”

“Shored up and ready to make the new system work.” Harry took a sip of his tea. “Might have a few minor hiccups today, might not. I’m just glad to have Alpha Team back at its fighting best, ma’am.”

“I’m glad they’re back as well. They did excellent work yesterday.”

“Yes,” Harry replied, and something about the way he said it made her glance up. His face was unchanged, but there was a renewed heat in his eyes, and her stomach twisted in reply. “They did very well yesterday.” 

Hermione did everything she could not to read into that, but as Harry and Draco picked up the Quidditch conversation again, she had the distinct suspicion that today would be very interesting, indeed.

When Hermione said finally goodnight to Jill, it was almost eight o’clock, and the cold night was inky black around her house. She watched as two of her special agents, dressed in Muggle clothes and with glamors in place, fell into step behind Jill as she made her way to the designated Apparition point, then felt a peculiar numbness overtake her. This was her life, now, and for the foreseeable future — a life in which her friends and coworkers had to pass endless rounds of test and follow protocols that seemed to change by the hour; a life with next to no privacy, no spontaneity—

Hermione shivered in the brutal evening air and stepped inside, closing the door behind her, the wards reengaging beneath her hand. No point in self-pity, she told herself, not when people ended up in St. Mungo’s yesterday thanks to your stubbornness.

The day had been normal, or as normal as it could’ve been, given the circumstances. Draco and the other Ministry officials had left around midmorning, not long after Seamus finished putting his so-called “finishing touches” on her front doormat. Hermione knew, of course, that the DMLE as well as her own security team had all of the details of Seamus’s modifications, but a part of her couldn’t help feeling apprehensive. She still remembered a very odd morning in her Ministry office when one of her bookcases suddenly vanished without any warning, and April Fool’s the previous year when Seamus had turned the DMLE’s entrance into a trapdoor that emptied out into the Atrium fountain. 

Really, she thought now as she had then, it’s a small wonder he’s not working with George.

Whatever Draco thought about her and Harry’s ‘stalemate,’ he at least had the sense to hold his tongue. But she’d been all too aware of the way he’d watched her and Harry do their fickle dance, trading barbs as well as pleasantries as the morning went on. It was the closest they’d been to being friendly around other people in years, and as self-conscious Hermione was about it, Draco was worse — he was tuned in to the situation like a giant antenna, cataloguing every detail in his usual, meticulous way, she was sure. He hadn’t said a word to her about it, but when he left, he’d given her a look that had clearly said, Come on, you must be joking.

Hermione swallowed. She probably had quite the letter headed her way.  

But, in spite of what Draco’s reaction might have suggested, any worries she’d had about her and Harry interacting in a professional capacity after the events of the night before had disappeared — he really was as good at compartmentalizing as she was. There weren’t any awkward moments, and he never tried to push any boundaries by sneaking a kiss or anything like that in the rare interludes that they were alone. 

Hermione was relieved, of course. She had enough concerns without the added issue of a handsy hookup trying to push her buttons. 

Is that what he is now? she thought, her stomach jolting. A hookup?

“Minister?” came Harry’s voice from the kitchen. He sounded worried, and she realized she’d been gone for longer than she’d meant. 

“Yes, I’m here.” Hermione cleared her throat and started heading towards the kitchen. “Jill’s just gone.”

Harry looked up when she entered. He was leaning against the counter by the sink, and she could tell her was trying to look casual and unaffected, but without much success. Like her, he was apprehensive, and trying to hide it. “Early day today, wasn’t it?”

Hermione nodded, going for the fridge, where she produced the half-full bottle of white wine. “I run out of steam when it comes to budgets. There’s probably something poetic or ironic about that.” She turned, and was surprised to find a wine glass in his hand, only inches from her own. In spite of her best efforts, she blushed, and took it from him. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Harry stepped away, crossing his arms against his chest. Hermione took a seat at the island, and they lapsed into silence. 

The sound of the wine hitting her glass echoed in the quiet room, and Hermione almost wished the cats were there to serve as a distraction, but no, they were elsewhere, sleeping off their dinners and the tidal wave of affection they’d managed to sneak out of Jill. She brought the glass to her mouth, relishing the cold bite of the wine, its floral bouquet bursting across her tongue. 

Only a moment after she’d swallowed, Harry cleared his throat and said, “It’s purple.”

Hermione stared at him, utterly confused. “Pardon?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “The elephant in the room.”

“Oh. ” Hermione bit back a laugh, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “I see.” 

Harry scuffed his foot against the floor. “We have to talk about it.”

“I know.” Hermione spun the wine glass in a little circle, its surface smooth under her fingers. It helped to distract her from the way her stomach was rolling, the way it felt like she was falling and flying at the same time. “What should we say?”

Harry exhaled, closing the distance between the counter and the island. He propped himself on the edge, once again drawing undue attention to his forearms, to the cords of muscle just barely visible under the fabric of his shirt. Now that he was closer, a mere foot and a half away from her, she could see the seriousness in his eyes, a sincerity that felt closer to Hogwarts Harry instead of Auror Harry. It didn’t help her stomach situation. 

“We can say it was a fluke. A by-product of high stress and adrenaline and whatever else you’d like.” One of his fingers tapped a slow beat on the marble surface. “We can say it was about the moment, rather than the person. That we forgot about the boundaries, that I’m technically your subordinate, that there are at least a dozen rules forbidding this sort of thing.”

The numbness returned, sweeping up Hermione’s neck, across her mouth. “Right,” she found herself saying, trying not to feel disappointed, because that would be ridiculous, she hadn’t lost anything, there was nothing to feel disappointed about —

Still watching her, Harry stepped around the island. “We can say that we’re adults. That we know what we want, and we can separate what we want from what we have to do each day.” He was standing right in front of her now, close enough that she had to look up at him. His eyes were their unchanged, brilliant green, and the sincerity was still there. “We say that we can be honest with each other, when we need to be. That we can do this for reasons that make sense to us, even if they don’t make sense to other people.”

He paused, and Hermione had to remind herself to breathe. She was scrambling for something to say, and the only word she could force out of her mouth was, “Right.”

“So, Minister.” There he was, being coy again. As if he hadn’t just flattened her in less than a minute. “Would you like to tell me what this is?”

Hermione swallowed thickly, fighting the urge to reach for him, to tangle her fingers in his shirt and kiss him until neither of them could breathe. She forced herself not to crumble, not to move an inch. “It’s physical,” she found herself saying. “Nothing else. Just sex.”

Harry nodded, clearly unsurprised. “And if I were to say there’s no such thing as ‘just sex’—”

“Then I’d say ‘I’m Hermione Granger, fuck you.’” Hermione blinked, almost unable to believe she’d just said that aloud. 

Harry gave her a sudden grin, then it was gone. “If that works for you, it works for me.”

“Yes,” Hermione breathed, giving in and standing up and wrapping her arms around his neck. “It works for me.”

Their kiss was sloppy, heated, and she could’ve leaned into it for hours, but it didn’t last long. Harry broke away, took her hand, and pulled her into the sitting room. 

“Good call,” Hermione murmured, and he nodded in reply, his hands already at the hem of her jumper, his fingers brushing her skin, curling at the dip of her waist. Too impatient to get to the bedroom, she pushed him down onto the sofa and climbed on top of him, kissing him again and again as her hands scrabbled at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to have him naked—

Harry huffed against her mouth, his hand lost in her hair, which had somehow come loose, and was tumbling around her in waves— “Here,” he mumbled, and snapped his fingers. 

Their clothing disappeared, and Hermione lurched back in shock. The sudden feeling of his skin against hers was delicious, but it was still— “What—? How did you—?”

Harry replied by pulling her back in and sweeping his tongue through her mouth. His hands were everywhere, squeezing, holding, stroking, and Hermione felt like she was on fire, her body buzzing and electric and ready. She clung to him, his shoulder lovely and firm beneath her hand, even if it was almost bisected by a thick scar. Her hips flexed, grinding down against his lap, and she moaned aloud when his cock grazed against her, thick and warm and—

Harry grunted, his mouth dropping to her breasts. He tongued at her nipples, circling and flicking as his fingers dug into the flesh of her ass—

“More,” Hermione breathed, her pulse throbbing in her face. He obeyed, sucking at her until his teeth grazed the edge of her skin, and she shuddered, clenching against something that wasn’t there, pleasure surging and singing along the edges of her body—

Harry slipped two fingers inside her, groaning when he found her wet, and his fingers twisted, grazing her G-spot, making her shiver, and Hermione could have stayed like that for a long weekend, his mouth on her breasts, his fingers drawing patterns inside her body, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t—

“Now,” she breathed, and Harry murmured the spell they needed, giving her one last stroke before he pulled his hand away. She shifted, looking down at his chest so she wouldn’t have to look him in the face, and used her hand to guide his cock inside her. 

They both moaned as her body took him in, and Hermione rocked against him, relishing the way she stretched and filled. It felt different from the night before, and yet completely the same. She rolled her hips once, twice, three times, testing her body, and once it was ready, she began to fuck him in earnest. 

It was rough, fast, messy — she was impatient, chasing the edge she’d found the night before, moaning when the angle took his stomach right against her clit, sending tingles up her spine. Hermione kept her eyes half-shut and her head tilted back, still not wanting to meet Harry’s gaze, listening to the slick slap of their bodies in the quiet of her home. 

It was surreal. Practically illegal. Immensely hot.

His nails were digging into the skin of her ass, and his hips twitched beneath her, meeting her halfway. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck and she squirmed, hot waves of pleasure surging up through her body. One of his hands shifted, moving to play with her nipple, and Hermione went a bit dizzy. He was learning. 

Minutes or hours later — Hermione couldn’t tell — her mouth went numb again, and her hips stuttered as tingling heat built at the base of her spine — “Oh,” she moaned, speeding up, “Oh—”

Her orgasm rushed her in a golden crest, ebbing and surging even after it hit. She went a bit limp, and Harry’s grip on her hips redoubled. He began to fuck up into her in earnest, her body jolting with every thrust, and Hermione went with it, bracing herself on his shoulders until his legs began to tremble, until he threw his head back and groaned—

Harry didn’t move after he came, and Hermione felt no inclination to break the spell. He was still swollen inside her, and she shifted a little, noticing that the entire area between her thighs was a slick mess. She was sweaty, the inner creases of her arms and the skin behind her knees soft with moisture. Her breath began to even out, but Harry’s breathing was still rapid and shallow—she could even see the pulse jumping in his neck, and she looked away, blinking as the room came back into focus around her. 

So. They were doing this now. 

It was stupid, foolish, even dangerous, but Merlin help them. They were doing it.

Then, in the relative silence of the room, her stomach growled. Very loudly. 

Heat rushed into Hermione’s face, but she was still too numb to react. “That—” She cleared her throat and tried again. “That—”

Harry brought his head up and looked at her, still a bit fuzzy, still a bit cheeky. His glasses were missing, though she couldn’t remember that happening. His hands were still resting on her hips, warm, rough. “I’ll order us some Thai.”

“I—” Her stomach growled again, drowning out her protest. Hermione shut her mouth for a moment, trying not to die on the spot, and nodded. “I need to shower.” 

“All right.”

She shifted, getting her feet under her and standing up, reaching for the thin throw on the edge of the sofa. For some reason, it was too much — naked and having sex was one thing, but naked and standing in the middle of her sitting room was another. She wrapped it around her and hurried out of the room, then fought the urge to slam her bedroom door behind her. 

“Get a grip,” she growled to herself as she went into the bathroom. “You can handle a terrorist throwing curses at your head but not this?” 

Her shower was a little rushed, perfunctory. It was strange — her body was languid, relaxed, and to a certain extent, so was her mind, but a part of her was fidgety, antsy, unnerved. It’s because it’s still new, Hermione told herself as she rinsed off her body wash. It’s new, and you can’t believe that you just had sex in your sitting room. That’s all.

She’d never done anything like that before. Nothing so brazen, let alone so unconventional. That was the first time she’d ever had sex in this sitting room. Perhaps it was silly for her to make that sort of distinction, but maybe, at the same time, it wasn’t. She and Harry were officially doing this now — whatever this was — and it was obvious that he had a tendency to take what he wanted. To get what he wanted. This probably wouldn’t be the first or the last time that she found herself doing something she’d never done before. 

And enjoying it, she thought, somewhat ruefully, and switched off the shower. 

When she emerged from her bedroom in her pajamas, her body still warm and loose, she found Harry in the sitting room. He’d put his clothes back on — the ones he’d charmed off her body were in a neat pile at the end of the sofa — and it was like nothing had ever happened. 

One minute, they were one version of themselves, and the next minute, another. 

Like Transfiguration, Hermione thought, before she could stop herself. Or Alchemy. Trouble was, she knew, in processes like that, the elements never remained pure. They changed no matter what, even if they didn’t show it.

Harry was unpacking what looked to be enough Thai food for four people. It smelled incredible and looked identical to his meal from the week before. He glanced at her as she sat down in an armchair. “I figured we’d eat in here, if that’s all right?”

“Sure,” she said, trying not to look at the sofa, at the reminder of what had just happened. A part of her was dying to know the spell he’d used to undress them, to know how his wandless magic had gotten so precise. But her stomach growled again, and Harry shot her another look. It was amusement and warmth all rolled into one, and Hermione busied herself with the container of Pad Thai, drenching it in lime juice. “What else did you get?”

“Pad Si-ew, chicken in green curry, chicken in red curry. And some rice.” Harry nodded at her telly. “Is that thing just for show?”

“No.” She dug the remote out of the coffee table’s lower shelf and switched it on. Kitchen Nightmares was playing, a rerun. 

“Nice.” Harry sat down on the sofa, in the same spot where she’d—

Hermione swallowed heavily, forcing that thought away. Now that Harry was distracted by Gordon Ramsey yelling at a doleful restaurant manager, she let herself look at him for longer than a few seconds. He had barely a hair out of place, and the only thing betraying their… activities… was a slight flush along his cheekbones. His eyes were on the TV, and he was shoving chicken curry into his mouth like he was on the brink of starvation, and he just avoided dripping the sauce on his slacks. It was sort of horrible, but for some reason, it made something inside her twist and sigh. Some things about Harry never changed, and it was just the reminder she needed. 

No emotions. No attachments. Certainly not to Harry Potter. 

At least the food was delicious. Hermione tucked into the noodles with relish, then told herself to do the impossible and relax.

The next few days passed in a strange sort of limbo. Working mostly from home was a difficult adjustment for Hermione to make, but not because she was unprepared — her dining room made an excellent second office, and going to the Ministry once a day meant she could collect her mail and memos in due course. She had no shortage of quills and ink and parchment, and Jill settled in as well, alternating between her laptop and her paperwork with ease. 

But it was no comparison. Hermione found herself reaching for more casual clothing — which she changed out of anyway for the few meetings on her calendar — and ending her days earlier than she normally would have done. Should have done. She let herself get distracted by the cats, by the occasional flurry of security personnel stopping in to receive a briefing from Harry, by the overwhelming lack of scrutiny. 

For all that her occasional trips to the Ministry helped to maintain her equilibrium, they also reminded her of the world she was missing. There were no more daily trips to the coffee shop, or drop-ins at Alonzo’s — she’d already sent them a note letting them know she was going on assignment abroad and wouldn’t be back for a while — or the book club. Hermione had decided that she wouldn’t cancel on that ahead of time, to avoid suspicion. She would just call in sick, and in the meantime, settle for chatting to Sandra over the phone instead of their usual brunch. 

Hermione had never claimed to lead much of a social life, but even this was making her feel lonely. Isolated. 

Kingsley’s reports both helped and worsened the issue. He stopped by on Thursday morning with a thick stack of parchment and asked Jill to leave the sitting room, then cast triple-thick Silencing Charms as well as a Muffliato. 

“Well, Kingsley,” said Hermione, watching him with a raised eyebrow, “this had better be good news.” 

“Of a sort,” he replied, then sat down in the other armchair while Harry took a spot on the sofa. He dropped the stack of parchment on the coffee table and looked her in the eye. “We’ve had some reports come in from the Aurors we sent undercover to infiltrate Salvation’s lower ranks.” 

Both of Hermione’s eyebrows went up this time. “They were successful?”

“One of them, yes.” Kingsley shuffled through the parchment and produced three documents that looked familiar — information forms, the sort they usually used for criminal files. Once, there had been files like these with Hermione and Harry’s names on them, and each time Hermione saw them, she felt a shiver of fear. She felt it now, even if she didn’t recognize the three glowering faces staring up at her from the photographs. “We’ve had three suspects identified. Two male, one female.”

“Good,” Hermione said, as Harry leaned forward for a better look. “What do we know?”

“Two of these individuals—” Kingsley gestured to the younger of the men and the woman— “are at the lowest rank of the organization. They are foot soldiers, delegated a small set of tasks and responsibilities that they carry out on a daily or weekly schedule. The man, Lance Jenkins, age twenty-five, is a Muggle-born wizard of moderate ability, and he appears to be in charge of targeting new members. If he identifies a like-minded individual, he sends their information to his captain, Leo Marchbanks—” here Kingsley tapped the photograph of the second man, who appeared to be slightly older than the other two— “and Marchbanks’ captain then gives him the order to pursue or disregard.”

“Kingsley,” said Harry, his eyes burning a hole in the piece of parchment, “where does Lance Jenkins work?”

Kingsley paused, and Hermione closed her eyes, because they’d all seen it on the form, plain as day, under the prompt of ‘Occupation.’ “He’s a clerk for the European Trade Committee, in the Department of International Magical Cooperation.” 

It was silent for a moment. Hermione forced herself to take a breath and reopen her eyes. Then, Harry clasped his hands together and met Kingsley’s gaze. “Continue.”

“The woman, Christine Thompson, is another Muggle-born whose sole purpose appears to be intelligence gathering. She is a twenty-two year-old witch of low-level ability, and perhaps it would be best to think of her as a magpie. She steals pieces of information wherever she can get them, then passes them along a series of channels to her captain, who deems them useful or not. That information is then compiled by higher-ranking members and passed around accordingly.” 

“And where does she work?” said Harry, anger edging into his voice. 

Kingsley took a breath, then said, “The mail room at the Ministry.”

Hermione swallowed, trying not to imagine this woman touching the mail that found its way to her office every day, the mail that was sitting on her dining table at this very moment—

“Please tell me,” said Harry, scrubbing a hand along his jaw, “that this Captain Marchbanks of theirs does not work at the Ministry as well.”

“Private sector. An agricultural consulting firm based down south.” Kingsley sighed a little, and they were all silent for a moment. 

Even if Marchbanks didn’t work at the Ministry, the fact that there were already two Salvation operatives hidden in the organization was nothing short of devastating. Probability suggested that there were a dozen more just like them. At least, Hermione realized, now they knew how the Probity Probes had ended up in DMLE storage, and how Salvation had managed to corner her at the Muggle restaurant. Even if all the group had were low-level Ministerial functionaries, it was enough access for them to snatch fragments of her security detail, her movements, her plans. Given enough pieces, they could form a complete picture.

Hermione felt a sudden jolt of fear, directly to her stomach. This was getting serious. 

Kingsley cleared his throat and continued. “At this stage, it’s difficult for us to tell where the group’s headquarters are, or if they even have them. That’s the next assignment.”

“What about the members you arrested at the restaurant?” Hermione said, flipping over the captain’s information sheet so that his photograph was hidden from view. She couldn’t stand the way he sneered at her. “Have they offered any useful information?”

“No. Actually, I’ve been meaning to speak to you both about that.” Kingsley glanced at Harry, then back at her. “We’ve run into a bit of trouble, regarding the interrogation. They haven’t answered any of our questions. They’re using stolen wands, and they had no identification on them. We can’t figure out who they are, much less the particulars of who they work for.”

Harry frowned. “Haven’t you dosed them with Veritaserum?”

Kingsley sighed again, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Yes, we have.”

Harry stared at him, uncomprehending. Hermione felt much the same way, because Veritaserum was foolproof, unless—

“Kingsley,” she said, her heart thumping painfully, “are they unresponsive to Veritaserum?”

“Yes.”

Harry blinked at him, his expression shifting from confusion to outrage. “Are you telling me that they have a cure—?”

“It appears so, yes.” Kingsley raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Now, we’re still working on diagnostics. Mr. Malfoy has been—”

“And not just any cure, a cure that works long-term. They’ve been in custody for three days, and you haven’t even—” Harry broke off and stood up. He began to pace behind the sofa, frustration coming off him in waves. “Brilliant, bloody brilliant.”

“Harry.” Kingsley’s voice was sharp. “Calm down.”

“I am calm,” Harry spat, his eyes flashing. “I’m incredibly calm, considering that we can’t seem to get a win against these people. We change protocol, they find out. We move the Minister, they find out. We get two of their own into custody, and we can’t even squeeze out an inch of information because they found a bloody cure for bloody Veritaserum—”

“We must focus on what we do have, Harry. We have good information, and we’ll have even more in the next few days, maybe enough to launch an offensive.” Kingsley took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. “If we keep our heads, if we take small, calculated steps, we just might beat them. But we’ll never get there if we focus on everything we don’t have.”

He was making good sense; even Hermione could see that. For a brief moment, she was hurtled back into the war, and she remembered all of the hushed meetings and secret conversations that she, Ron, and Harry had never been allowed to access. Was this what it had been like for the Order, back then? Guessing and checking until someone on the other side eventually slipped up?

“Everything we know about them so far indicates that they are clever, and they are dangerous. We thought the usual parameters would be enough to stymie them, but they weren’t. We have to be ready for anything, Harry, and getting upset certainly won’t help you there.” Kingsley was firm: “You’re doing good work, Harry. Don’t forget that, even with everything else going on.”

For a fleeting moment, in the split second that Hermione glanced at him, Harry looked stricken, something in his face flashing so desolate, so empty, that it was sort of frightening. But then it was gone, and he nodded. “I’ll bring you up to speed on the security teams, Kingsley. There have been a few low-level disturbances and…” 

Later, as Harry licked his way up her thigh, pausing to bite the skin next to her hip, Hermione thought of that moment, of the split second in which she’d glimpsed a version of Harry she’d not seen in years. She couldn’t forget the way he’d looked — haunted and vulnerable all at once — and it clung to the back of her mind, even as she moaned at the feeling of his stubble against her inner thigh and tangled her fingers in his hair, urging him deeper.

Forget about it, she told herself as she circled her hips and fucked herself on his tongue, that’s not what this is, and you know it.

Working from home had done wonders for… whatever this was between her and Harry. The moment they were alone in the house, it was like someone flicked a switch. He would be on her in an instant, and she would follow his lead with relish, the worries and stresses of the day dropping away from her like a second skin. For those sumptuous moments, all she had to think about was his mouth, his body, his hands — not the terrorists, not her own safety, none of it. 

Hermione was learning him, she realized, albeit slowly. She was learning to read the signs of his body, his eyes. Spinning a pen between her fingers; bending over to pick up a fallen piece of parchment; laughing when Jill muttered a dirty joke — all of these were things that got his attention, made his gaze simmer as it raked across her body. Not that it ever showed on his face, at least not when there were other people present, no — even when they were alone, his face was so often inscrutable that she had to take her cues from other parts of his body. She catalogued his tells with enthusiasm, filing them away in a precise, measured way that had nothing to do with how desperate she was to keep this separate from the rest of who they were. 

Friends, colleagues, enemies. None of that mattered when his hands were on her body, in her hair. It made everything else so easy to forget. 

Just that morning, before the sun had even properly risen, he’d fucked her raw on the kitchen island, clothes on, his hand braced under her knee, cracking her open and holding her tight, fast and ruthless and messy, barely giving her time to get her breath back before he dropped to his knees and sucked her clit until she screamed. Hermione hadn’t even remembered her own name after that, much less that Harry Potter was the reason she’d nearly fallen asleep slumped against the kitchen island. Because that was impossible. Of course it was. 

When he wasn’t ruthless, he humored her. Now, he was supple, lithe, moving with her as she lurched on the bed, in no kind of hurry. He was in control, but so was she — setting the pace, putting him where she wanted him. 

When he finally slid into her after making her come twice on his mouth, Harry buried his face in the pillow beside her head, his expression hidden from view. Hermione found she didn’t care — she was too busy rolling against him, shuddering when the action sent tingles down her legs. She felt like she was floating on water, her stomach like jelly as he drove deeper and deeper, his breath coming in pants. A part of her relished this more than anything — the fact that her body could unravel him in moments, could shatter his composure and leave him reeling, breathless. 

Hermione had never had this kind of control over Harry. It was heady, and it made her feel sort of drunk, addicted. And when his breath caught in his throat and he stilled, choking out a moan as he came inside her, a part of her wondered how they could ever go back to normal. How she could carry on without having this every single day. 

Afterwards, they lay there next to each other in her bed, staring at the ceiling as they caught their breath. It was only the second time they’d done this in her bed at all, and Hermione still wasn’t sure about it. For some reason, it felt far more personal than any of the other parts of her house. Lying there, she felt exposed in a way she hadn’t before, in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that she was naked. 

Not for the first time since beginning this, she didn’t know what to say. 

It helped that they never talked, during. Very little before. Not much after. They had yet to do anything other than bite off a word or two here or there, maybe an occasional complete sentence, but never an actual conversation. That only happened after one of them left the room and came back in, a moment that Hermione had begun to think of as their ‘reset.’ And she wasn’t about to break that streak. 

Thankfully, Casper chose that moment to be completely inappropriate and jump up onto the bed. He froze, staring at them, and Hermione expected him to jump back down, but he didn’t. He made his way over to Harry and got comfy, putting his paws up on Harry’s chest. 

“Hey.” Harry’s protest was sleepy, hoarse. “What’s he— ow!”

Hermione slid off the bed. Casper continued to knead at Harry’s chest, his claws grazing the skin. “That’s his way of showing affection.”

“Lunatic,” Harry hissed, squirming. This did nothing to deter Casper, who only dug his claws in further. 

Hermione turned away and went into her bathroom. She used the toilet, then was distracted by her reflection. Peering at the purplish love-bites across her chest and neck — and even her bottom — some of them fading, some of them fresh, she felt a little surprised. She never would’ve guessed that Harry had such territorial convictions as a lover, but she wasn’t about to complain. Either by coincidence or keen observation, he’d worked out exactly what she wanted — Hermione hated being handled with kid gloves in the bedroom. 

The cool air of the bathroom made her shiver, and Hermione put her hand to her neck, using a healing charm to fade the few marks that would be visible above her clothing. The others, she left where they were, and pulled on her bathrobe. It’s laziness, she told herself as she splashed water onto her face. It’s laziness, not sentiment.

“Ow!” Harry bit out, then came the sound of a scuffle. “That’s right, see how you like it—”

Bemused, Hermione dried her face and went back out into the bedroom, where she found Harry in the middle of the bed, still naked, pinning Casper belly-up to the mattress, overwhelming him with attention. Casper’s tail was thrashing, but Hermione could tell he was delighted — his rumbling purrs were loud enough to hear from across the room. Harry was making sounds that went beyond description, he kept rubbing his face on Casper’s head, and something about the whole scene was so ridiculous and so sweet that—

Hermione cleared her throat. “Dinner?”

“Yes.” Harry didn’t look up. “I already ordered a pizza. It’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

She choked on her reply, her face flooding with heat, because that was presumptuous, arrogant, and bloody right on the money. “I— all right.” 

Harry flashed her a smile and play-shoved Casper under the duvet, tunneling in after him. Feeling a blush threaten again, Hermione swallowed and went into her closet. After tonight, her room was definitely off limits. 

It was three o’clock in the morning, and Hermione couldn’t sleep. 

It was hours since they’d finished their late pizza, tidied the house (which was steadily becoming a waystation for half of the DMLE), and gone to bed. But something — maybe the sex, maybe the food, maybe even bloody Mercury in retrograde — refused to leave her be. Sleep had taunted her, washing over the soles of her feet and the backs of her legs only to recede a few minutes later, over and over again until Hermione decided she’d had enough. She sat up, put on the lights, and got out of bed. 

Ten minutes later, cup of tea in hand, she sat down at the dining room table and pulled the files Kingsley had left behind towards her. They only had so much information about the inner workings of Salvation at this point, but it was possible that what they needed lay in the mundanity, in the details that the Aurors had so painstakingly catalogued — it was worth rereading, worth sinking in and burying herself until she couldn’t even think straight. 

Maybe, she thought, doing this would settle her, would get her to the point of not feeling like she was on the run for the second time in her life. Something about knowing thine enemy or whatever. Clichés were often clichés because they were true. 

So that’s what she did. She opened the file, took a sip of tea, and started reading. 

The reports really were meticulous. Auror 151C — identity obscured for safety reasons, of course — had pinpointed the Salvation contact after only a handful of trips to a certain pub halfway down the dodgier end of Knockturn. Hermione recognized the name of the pub at once, having seen it on at least a dozen memos and reports compiled by the DMLE, and felt a prickle of irritation. These people really could be predictable, when it came down to the obvious. Knockturn? Really? Stupid Death Eater wannabes. 

But they were selective wannabes; that much, she had to admit. It had taken this Auror several attempts to even get Lance to speak to him, let alone begin something referred to as the ‘initiation process.’ Hermione stared at those words, momentarily humbled by the seriousness of this situation, and Winnie chose that moment to hop up onto her lap. She stroked him as he settled down, purring, and continued reading. 

A few minutes later, one of the sitting room lights went on and Harry appeared in the doorway of the dining room. He was in his pajamas, his hair half-vertical, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek, but his eyes were open, bright, and alert — she realized that he was worried, and felt a pang of guilt that sort of horrified her. 

Good God, she thought, am I actually concerned about causing Harry Potter undue stress?

They stared at each other, mute in the dark and empty house. Hermione began to play out the conversation in her head —

Why are you out of bed, Minister? It’s half past three in the morning.

I couldn’t sleep, and I don’t see what concern it is of yours.

It is my concern, because I’m the one who has to protect you.

Don’t be ridiculous, I’m only reading, what sort of—

You can’t just sit here on your own, you know that—

But then, Harry did the most surprising thing of all: he didn’t say anything. Instead, he came over to the table and sat down across from her, pulling the second pile of reports in front of him. He put his head down and began to read. 

Hermione ducked her head, trying to refocus on the words in front of her. Out of everything she’d expected him to do, she certainly hadn’t expected that.

The back door opened, and Hermione tilted her head at the sound, listening to the footfall that accompanied it. The stone patio outside her kitchen had iced over during the night, and each movement created a gentle, cracking crunch that echoed around her miniscule, disused garden. She exhaled slowly, watching her breath pool in the air. 

“Minister.” 

It was Harry, because of course it was. “Yes?”

He didn’t reply, but he came closer, shuffling across the slick stones. Something nudged at her elbow, and she looked down to see a steaming mug of white coffee. 

Hermione blinked at it, momentarily thrown. Did he really remember how she liked her coffee? No, he must’ve asked Jill or somebody else. It had been too long. She took the mug, just avoiding brushing his fingers with her own. It was scorching hot. Another detail he must’ve—

“All right, Minister?” So he was staying, then.

“Yes, thank you.” She took a sip. In addition to the heat and the milk, the coffee was tooth-achingly sweet. Another tick in the column. It had to have been Jill. 

Silence. Then, “May I ask why you’re—”

“I needed some air.” Hermione took another sip, then risked shooting him a glance. Harry was standing just a few inches to her right, copying her pose exactly — back towards the house, eyes front. Except he was wearing a coat, the collar turned up against the frigid breeze. It was stupidly attractive. “I often need a shock to stay awake.”

“Ah.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Feeling it, Minister?”

She sighed into her mug. “A little. I haven’t pulled an all-nighter in—”

“Me either,” said Harry. “Perk of rising in the ranks. I can delegate the night stakeouts.”

“What a leader.” Hermione tried to hide her smile when Harry gave a low chuckle, then they lapsed into silence once again.

Hermione drank her coffee, relishing it. It was a smooth, delicious blend, and the sugar made it taste like dessert. She thought briefly of all the people still in her house, waiting on her or Harry or Kingsley, and fought the urge to roll her eyes. 

“June third,” said Harry, out of nowhere. 

Hermione turned, frowning at him. “I beg your—?”

“The last all-nighter I remember you pulling.” Harry wasn’t looking at her. “Our seventh year, the second-to-last review day before NEWTs. Transfiguration. I thought you’d finally cracked, you tried to pour tea on your eggs at breakfast.”

“Oh.” She fought off a shiver and silently refreshed her warming charm. Of all the things for him to remember, let alone bring up— “Anything going on in there?”

He accepted her redirection without comment. “Not really. I think Thistlewhit is giving Kingsley her reports from this morning’s screenings at the Ministry.”

“Well,” Hermione mused, “I picked the right time to duck out.”

“Indeed. Will you be ready to go soon?”

She nodded. It was getting on for three o’clock, and she had a meeting with the French Minister for Magic in her office at the Ministry. “D’Argent is always late, but I don’t suppose the situation will force him to be punctual?”

“It’s possible.” He seemed to hesitate, then said, “What about your four o’clock?”

“You mean with Crane?” Hermione shook her head. “I know, I’m mystified as well.”

“But you feel safe?”

Hermione turned to look at him properly then, letting her confusion show on her face. “What on earth do you mean?”

Harry’s reply was calm, measured: “The last time you were with him, you were attacked. It’s natural to—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She turned away again, irritation overtaking the confusion in a heartbeat. “I’m sure he just wants to complain about getting ambushed in broad daylight.” 

“Well—” Harry started, then he was interrupted by his walkie-talkie gurgling to life in his pocket. He fumbled with it, but not before she caught Rogers’ voice—

“Come in, Boggart, come in. A lorry stopped in the road and it’s blocking my visual of the garden. Confirming that you are still outside with Otter, repeat, still— ”

“Boggart to Mandrake, I’m still with Otter, and we are coming back inside, over.” Harry switched off the walkie-talkie, studiously avoiding her gaze. 

Hermione was staring at him again, her stomach doing something very ugly and unhelpful. “Otter?” she repeated, the word getting stuck on her tongue. 

“Your code name,” Harry replied. He turned away and opened the back door. Warm, humid air spilled out onto the patio. “Shall we?”

“My code name is Eagle,” she said. She was clinging to the mug like it was a lifeline. “Eagle.”

“We switch it every ten days or so.” His gaze was fixed on her back fence, and his expression was blank. “There was a memo.”

And, for the first time in a while, Hermione was speechless. She stared at Harry, uncomprehending. What on earth was she supposed to say to that? How was she supposed to feel? Of all the things they could’ve called her, that Harry could’ve called her—

“Minister!” Jill appeared in the doorway, looking a touch harried. “They’ve just sent over a new briefing packet for your meeting with Minister D’Argent, there’s been some policy edits—”

“I’m coming in,” Hermione said. She steeled herself and marched right past Harry, not looking at him even once as she went into the house. Enough, she told herself, slugging down another gulp of coffee, it’s time to get back to work.

The meeting with D’Argent was practically routine. They discussed trade, the current Continental threat level (medium), and pending changes to French stock market policies. It was so blithely normal that Hermione almost wanted to cry with relief.

“Well.” She went over to her desk once D’Argent had left, sifting through the different documents from her briefing packet. “That was a nice change of pace.”

“Indeed, ma’am.” Harry was standing near the door in parade rest. 

Hermione glanced at him. “Should I be surprised that he knew about the current security situation? I mean, those details about the incident at the rally, then at the restaurant—”

“Not at all, Minister.” Harry looked at her with a frown. “It’s standard procedure for Continental Ministers to be briefed on any and all serious threats to your life, and vice versa. In fact, you may have noticed that his security detail has doubled in size. If the situation here were to worsen, he would be put under lockdown — all his travel would be restricted to certain parts of Paris, and his residence would be put under twenty-four hour surveillance. It’s comparable to Stage One of your current Action Plan.”

“Oh.” Hermione stared down at the papers, her mind whirling. She’d known that, of course she had. It was all part of the international security protocols that had crossed her desk and her mind at least once a month. “Of course. It just slipped my mind.” This is what you get for staying up all night, she admonished herself. At least it’s Friday.

Before Harry could reply, there came a knock at the door. Jill poked her head in, her quirked eyebrow telling Hermione everything she needed to know. “Minister, Warlock Crane here for you.”

“Right.” Hermione cleared her throat and straightened her suit jacket. “Send him in.”

Jill nodded and opened the door, stepping aside as Octavius Crane walked into the office. 

He looked much the same as he had the other day — instead of a suit, his Wizengamot robes pressed to immaculate perfection, slick hair, shiny shoes — but something about his expression was different. His eyes were wide, and his face was warm, almost friendly. Harry glared daggers at the back of Crane’s head, though none of his disapproval showed on his face. 

She stepped forward to meet Crane with an outstretched hand. “Octavius, how are you?”

“Minister,” he replied, shaking her hand, and Hermione blinked in surprise. That was the first time he’d addressed her by title and actually sounded sincere. “I’m well, thanks to you.”

Something clogged in her throat. “Yes, ah. I’m glad to hear it.” She turned, gesturing to her sofa and armchairs. “Shall we sit down?” 

“Certainly.” Octavius made himself comfortable on the sofa while she did the same in her usual armchair. Harry shifted closer, moving from his spot by the door to lean against the mantelpiece, close enough to Octavius to seem intimidating but not threatening. Hermione almost told him to calm down. It didn’t seem like Octavius was spoiling for a fight. 

“So,” Hermione said. She adjusted her notepad and pen on the end table beside her, just to be ready. “You didn’t really give Jill much of an indication as to what this meeting was about. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes,” said Octavius, then seemed to reconsider. “Well, uh, no, actually.” He cleared his throat, then, to Hermione’s continued surprise, he actually looked nervous. “Really, I, I wanted to come here to thank you for what you did the other day.”

Hermione blinked at him some more, at a loss for words. She had no idea what to say to that, to the last thing she’d ever expected to come out of his mouth. “Okay,” she finally settled on, but even that wasn’t quite right. 

But Crane didn’t seem to care. “Minister, I can’t thank you enough. You protected me, at your own risk, and it is because of you that I’m here in one piece today. I have to admit, had I been in your position, I’m not sure if I would have been able to do the same.”

Heat flooded Hermione’s chest and neck. This was embarrassing and somehow delightful all at once. Of all the things she’d expected him to say, this was near the very bottom of her list.  “Really, Octavius, that’s a bit of an exaggeration—”

“Not at all,” he insisted. “And, really, Minister, I ought to apologize. I had no idea— I mean, I didn’t know you could fight like that—”

Hermione gave him a brief, pained smile. “Well, I’ve had lots of practice—”

“—the way you just whipped out your wand and knew what to do— I have to applaud your reflexes, you didn’t even train in the DMLE, how did you—?”

“Mr. Crane,” she said loudly. “How can I help you?”

Octavius cleared his throat, sitting back in his chair. He clearly hadn’t meant to go on the way he had and was trying to recover ground. “Well, I’ve heard some whispers about the people who are targeting you. Is it true that they have some sort of connection on the Continent? Contacts in Germany, Belgium, and the Czech Republic?”

“Maybe.” Harry stepped forward with a frown, crossing his arms. “Where did you hear about this?”

Octavius blinked. “I have contacts in the DMLE as well as in other departments, Auror Potter, I assure you this was all behind closed doors—”

“It’s fine,” Hermione interrupted, shooting Harry a look. “If you could continue—”

“Well, I simply wanted to offer my services.” When she didn’t react, Octavius hurriedly tacked on, “I mean my contacts, of course. I know wizarding suppliers and manufacturers in most major European cities, and half of them owe me a favor. I’m sure at least some of them have heard whispers that members of your task force might find interesting.”

Hermione felt like she was split down the middle, and she didn’t know what to say. It seemed too good to be true; out of everybody in the Ministry, for Octavius Crane to be offering her help— But what he was saying was accurate. He had a vast network, borne not only of his Pureblood status but also his political life and his business ventures, and it seemed ludicrous for her to even think of turning down that kind of help. 

Harry clearly felt along the same lines. He’d pulled out his notebook and pen, and they were now hovering next to his elbow, the pen working furiously across the paper. “The DMLE is grateful for any information that might bring us closer to apprehending a suspect,” said Harry. “But I must admit I’m surprised to hear you offer it, Warlock Crane.” 

“Naturally,” Crane replied, so smoothly that Hermione wondered if he’d been expecting this response. He reached into the breast pocket of his robes and produced a folded slip of parchment, which he held out to Harry. “Here is a complete list of everybody I thought might be of use to your investigation. Feel free to contact any of them, and you need only mention my name for them to cooperate in full.” 

A brittle smile flickered across Harry’s expression, and Hermione shot him a frown. That look of his terrified everyone except for her and Ron. He put the parchment into his pocket. “I’ll check into it.”

Hermione looked down at her fingers and absently wondered if this would be a good time to paint her nails. She normally didn’t bother with it, but now that she was at home seven days a week…

She sighed, sticking her arms under the spray from the showerhead. The suds from her body wash melted beneath the water, trickling down her hands and torso. It tingled slightly against her skin, and her body began to relax, her fatigue finally catching up to her. Midnight would soon strike, closing the chapter of her first week working at home, and she couldn’t wait to crawl into bed. She might actually get to sleep in tomorrow, if there were no emergencies to tend to—

Suddenly, there came a sharp knock at the glass door, and Hermione startled, her eyes flying open, but it was only Harry. Naked, no glasses, towel around his hips. 

A beat. Then, “Can I join you?” he said. 

A thousand different replies flew through Hermione’s head, chief among them, What the fuck and Yes, please. They hadn’t done anything like this yet, and Harry usually let her push the boundaries first — she was the one who’d gone to his room, shoved him down onto the sofa, yanked him into her bed. He let her make those kinds of decisions, and it was sort of sweet of him, but she wasn’t thinking about that because he was standing outside her shower, naked and inviting and just a bit smug.

Hermione nodded, stepping back. Her heart was pounding from the shock as well as his proximity — she still wasn’t used to being naked around him, except when they were having sex, which she supposed was kind of weird, but then again, maybe it wasn’t. Because it’s meant to be physical, she thought as he dropped the towel and stepped into the shower, not personal.

The water sprayed across his chest in a rather breathtaking way, and Hermione was so busy staring at the droplets beading on his neck that she almost missed his smile. His face really did look different without the glasses — softer, maybe kinder, or younger — and it made this smile, this warm, careful, smile of his, all the more endearing. 

Hermione’s heart stuttered and her mouth went dry. “What?”

Harry blinked, then dunked his head under the water. It sprayed everywhere, and Hermione turned her face away with a startled laugh. But before she could do anything else, Harry’s hands were on her, pulling her body flush with his and flattening her to the tiled wall. She gasped at the shock of cold and he licked into her mouth, filthy and hot, sending a jolt of heat straight to her belly. 

It only built from there. Their kisses were wet, languid, and Harry’s hands mapped her body, sliding across her skin, grazing her nipples, squeezing her ass. He wasn’t in any hurry, but Hermione could barely keep up, and her grip on his torso, his thighs, was the only thing keeping her tethered. She was floating, tingling, burning beneath him, hot and cold all at once, and when he finally, finally, brought his hand to her crotch, she let out a moan that barely sounded human. 

Harry smirked, pressing a kiss to her jaw, then dug his teeth into her pulse point as he stroked her. He was slow about it, leisurely, lifting her leg and wrapping it around his hips so he could get a better angle, pressing his erection against her stomach. His fingers were gentle, but clever, and within minutes, Hermione was shuddering against him, covered in goosebumps and close, so close—

His hand slid from her clit up her stomach just as his mouth brushed against her ear. “Let’s take this to a more comfortable venue.”

And with that, he Apparated them to her bed. 

Hermione let out a violent shiver — the cool air against her wet skin was pure electricity, and in the half-darkness of the room she could only watch as Harry settled beside her, his hand drifting southward again. He nuzzled her breasts as he continued to tease her, pressing her down into the pillows, into the sheets that clung to her like a second skin, and it was overwhelming, dizzying—

“Do you like that?” Harry asked her, his voice low and husky in her ear. A whimper crawled up her throat and she felt the ghost of his grin on her collarbone, sharp and pleased. “I think you do,” he continued, his stubble like sandpaper on her skin, and her whole body twitched in reply, aching for something, anything—

“You like it when I play with you?” he whispered. His hot, liquid mouth traced the line of her neck. “You want me to fuck you until you forget your own name?” 

Her orgasm hit like a train, sudden out of the blinding dark, and she let out a guttural moan, clenching against something that wasn’t there. Her body flooded with warmth and energy, and Hermione was so overcome she didn’t notice the dampness spreading between her thighs. 

Harry froze, and his stillness pulled her back into reality. He was looking at her in the dim light, his face flushed and somehow reverent. “Did you just—?” he breathed, his wet fingers brushing the lowest edge of her sex, where the thin, curly hair was soaked through. “Was that—?”

Hermione blushed, violently. That had only happened with one other partner before, and he could never find out. “I, I think so,” she mumbled, rolling on top of him. She sighed, pressing her damp cunt down onto his thigh, taking his cock in hand. “Not a word.”

His smile was cheeky, impertinent. “Never.” Harry pulled her down into a sloppy, filthy kiss, and Hermione let herself go, only stopping to think that, at all costs, she had to make sure he didn’t fall asleep in her bed.

Hermione stroked the cover of her new Arithmancy textbook with barely-constrained glee, unable to keep herself from smiling. After all this time, finally. 

“Harry,” said Ron, though half a sausage, “she’s doing it again. She’s stroking the textbook.”

“‘’Mione,” said Harry from behind the Sports section of the Prophet. “We’ve talked about this. No stroking the textbooks at meals.”

“Honestly. ” She swatted at him, punching a dent in the paper. “You two could show at least some interest, a year ago we would’ve given our left feet to come back to Hogwarts!”

“I dunno, I’m rather attached to my left foot.” Ron grinned at her, nudging her leg with said left foot under the table. Hermione blushed and shifted away.

“The old Hogwarts, maybe.” Harry put down the paper and went back to his porridge. “And I’m not you, Hermione, I don’t foam at the mouth at the mere mention of homework.”

“What’s on this morning, Harry?” Ron was digging into his eggs now.

“Transfiguration,” Harry replied. “Then Charms.”

“Double Defense this afternoon,” Hermione cut in. “With that new professor from America.”

“Rivers.” Harry nodded. “She seems like the real thing.”

“Better be,” said Ron. “Just because we defeated the most powerful Dark wizard in history doesn’t mean I can pass my NEWT.”

Harry chuckled, and Hermione glanced at her watch. “We should be going,” she said. “McGonagall won’t cut us any slack.” Even though she was now Headmistress and had handed off most of her teaching responsibilities to the new Transfiguration Professor, McGonagall had insisted on teaching their year. Hermione had a sneaking suspicion it was a backhanded way of making sure certain people didn’t start skiving off in her absence. 

“All right,” said Ron, taking a last bite of his toast.

Harry made to stand up, glancing down the table where Ginny was sitting with some sixth-years. Hermione looked away, busying herself with stuffing her book into her bag. 

As they walked out of the Great Hall, Harry paused next to Ginny and squeezed her hand, giving her a smile that would melt chocolate at fifty paces. Hermione looked away and kept walking. When she reached the end of the table, Ron fell into step beside her, smiling. 

“Ready, then?” he said, bumping her arm with his elbow.

Hermione smiled back and nodded. “Yes.”

The clock on the wall chimed midnight, and Hermione glanced out the window, feeling an odd pang of déjà vu. How many times had she looked outside a window exactly like this one, in another part of the castle, in another dormitory, another life? It was pitch black outside  — of course it was — and she could hear the rain pattering softly on the roof. The rain was heavy and cold for October, even in Scotland, and she was sure that winter this year was going to be brutal, though at least she wouldn’t be stuck in a poorly-insulated tent. 

Hermione sighed, dropping her gaze back to her parchment. She was already three inches over the minimum for her Potions essay, but the end was in sight. She went back to work, the scratching of her quill drowning out the ticking of her clock. 

In many ways, it was lovely having her own room. That was all McGonagall’s doing, once they’d gotten past the biggest repairs to the castle. They’d added on another turret to Gryffindor tower and built two dozen small, single bedrooms to accommodate the returning “seventh” years — those whose final year had been interrupted by the war, provided that they wanted to return for their NEWTs, of course. Several people hadn’t, not that Hermione could blame them, and others had gone abroad to pursue secondary programs at other institutions. The other houses had likewise received similar additions onto their dormitories for the extra “seventh” years, and the younger students had been accommodated as well. They’d had the choice of either repeating the year outright, or sitting a series of qualifying exams to see whether they could test into the year above. Ginny was one of the students who had opted to test into seventh year, following a summer of intense revision. Hermione couldn’t fault her for it — it was what she would’ve done, herself.

Now, Hermione and the remaining people from her original year were shuffled into classes along with the other seventh years. It was strange, spending time and sharing classrooms with people she didn’t really know, people who already had their rivalries and friends and inside jokes. And they certainly had their opinions about the Golden Trio… She, Harry, and Ron had had to put up with more than their fair share of sideways glances and whispering. But that had only lasted for the first few weeks — thank goodness — then everybody had relaxed, and the world continued to turn away from the shadow of war. 

Things were going back to normal. Almost.

She finished the last sentence of her essay and put down her quill, blowing gently on the glistening ink. The only thing she had to do now was update her planner.

A few minutes later, she changed into her pajamas and bathrobe, then stepped into the quiet, darkened stairwell and pulled the door shut behind her. While her room was generously furnished with its own fireplace, sink, mirror, and the wizarding equivalent of a hot plate, the one thing it didn’t have was a toilet. She, along with the other girls in the tower, had to use a communal bathroom. 

There wasn’t anybody else in the toilets, and Hermione kept to her routine. Face, teeth, hair. She separated her hair — which was getting long again — into two sections and braided them into two chunky plaits, absently wondering if she ought to do box braids again for the winter. She’d missed doing it the year before, and a part of her wanted to restart the tradition. 

For a moment, she was flooded with memories from her childhood — camped out in the sitting room watching the Doctor Who marathon while her mum braided her hair, carols floating in from the kitchen where her dad was making mulled wine and mince pies, flurries of snow drifting past the window. Hermione closed her eyes, letting herself indulge in it, because she could now that her parents were safe and knew who she was again. She no longer had to close herself off from the first eighteen years of her life, no longer had to try to forget two people she loved more than almost anybody else. 

Almost, her brain echoed back at her, and she opened her eyes, staring at her reflection. Even with her dressing gown, she could see the edge of the small scar on her neck, could feel the ghost of the blade, the ghost of his hands as he held her—

Hermione switched off the light and made her way upstairs, her heart hammering in her throat. She’d done such a good job not thinking about it, and here was her treacherous brain, thinking about it. She’d assumed schoolwork would be enough for her to—

Hermione looked up just in time to avoid crashing right into Harry as he was coming down the stairs. She jumped back as if electrocuted, and he stared at her, gripping the handrail. 

Well. Wasn’t this just perfect. 

“Sorry,” they both said, then Harry, “It’s my fault, I should’ve—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said in a rush, clutching her dressing gown. “If I’d only been looking where I was going—”

They both fell silent, staring at each other. The tower was empty, and like her, Harry was in his pajamas. He looked a wreck — his hair was vertical, his top was rumpled, and even his glasses were sitting crooked. She couldn’t help but wonder why, at nearly one o’clock in the morning, Harry was still awake. 

“—He shared a damn sight more of what he was really thinking with Gellert Grindelwald than he ever shared with me!”

“It doesn’t matter, Harry, none of that matters! You have got to stop thinking about what you don’t have and realize what you do have. Whatever Dumbledore did or didn’t do, whatever he said or didn’t say, he’s gone, and you will drive yourself insane wishing for something he couldn’t give you! Because you have people, real people, supporting you, sacrificing everything for you—”

“Charms,” he blurted out, and Hermione blinked at him. “I was finishing that worksheet.”

“Oh.” She nodded, a little too quickly. “Right.” 

“You think I don’t know that?!” he bellowed. “You think I don’t know, don’t feel guilty— And he made it worse, he made it so much worse because he didn’t—”

“He cared, Harry, of course he did— if he didn’t, he would’ve told you everything right from the beginning. But he wanted to protect you, he never wanted you to feel like you couldn’t trust him!”

“I don’t care!” And there was so much pain in his voice that Hermione took a step back. “What good does it do now? How can I trust his word, when there’s so much he didn’t tell me? Did he even want me to succeed, to live, or am I just supposed to be the martyr?”

“Don’t say that,” she said, her voice trembling. “Don’t you dare say that. You were everything to him, to all of us, you have no idea—”

“Show me proof,” he said, closing in on her, his voice grim. “Show me that I’m doing the right thing, because I haven’t got the faintest idea, Hermione!”

Something inside her snapped. “You want proof?!” she yelled up at him, several weeks’ worth of frustration pouring off her in waves. “I’m proof, Harry! I’m proof that you are exactly where you need to be, where Dumbledore wanted you to be, because I am the most logical person in the world and I’m the one who didn’t walk away!”

A ringing silence fell as he stared at her, broken and whole and furious and scared. She stared back, her chest heaving with emotion, daring him to step closer — or further away.

“What about you?” he said, all pleasant and friendly and not at all awkward. 

“Oh— uh, essay.” Hermione tried to smile. Why did it have to be so weird when they were alone? They were fine around other people, they were normal— “On the Exstimulo Potion.”

Harry’s face broke into a sudden grin. “The one that’s not due for three weeks?”

Heat crawled sharply up her neck. “Yes.” 

“Of course.” He tapped out a quick rhythm on the bannister and glanced behind her. “Anyway, I’d better—”

“Yes!” Hermione stepped to the side, letting him pass. He smelled warm, but there was something musky as well— smoke, and vanilla?

“See you at breakfast?” he threw over his shoulder.

“Breakfast,” she replied, still trying to figure out what that scent was. 

Harry nodded as he stepped into the men’s toilets. “Night, ’Mione!”

“Night.” Frowning a little, she started up the stairs again. 

“I understand, Harry,” she said, before he could say anything. “I understand that you’re angry, that you feel betrayed. You have every right to be angry, especially with me—”

“I’m not,” he said, his voice low but firm. His gaze was impenetrable and dark in the shadows of the tent. “I’m not angry with you. You did what you had to do to get us out of there alive.”

Something relaxed inside Hermione, a tension she hadn’t known she’d been carrying, and she forced herself to nod. “Okay. But please, Harry. Don’t focus on the choices of a dead man. Focus on what you can learn from his mistakes, from what’s in front of you.”

“What’s in front of me,” he repeated, and something about the way he was looking at her made her shiver.

Lost in thought — she knew what that smell was, she just couldn’t place it — Hermione continued up the stairs to her room. The portraits on the walls were slumbering, though more than one occupant cracked open an eye as she passed, no doubt curious as to why she was awake.

“We can do this, Harry.” She reached out and gripped his wrist, wishing she could make him believe it. The warmth of his body beneath the fabric of his sweater grounded her. “We got through Godric’s Hollow, didn’t we?”

Harry glanced down at her hand, then he nodded. When he met her gaze, his eyes were smoldering, intent, and she shivered again. He was so close now, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his irises, and when he leaned in, she surrendered with a gasp. 

Their kiss was sloppy, desperate, full of heat and energy and everything else that hung unsaid between them. It made her dizzy, overwhelmed, because Harry’s hands were in her hair, his thumb was under her jaw and his tongue was doing unspeakable things to her mouth and she’d never been kissed like this before, not by anyone—

Hermione looked up and just barely avoided bumping into yet another person. She pressed up against the bannister, her heart hammering as she met Ginny’s gaze. 

They were outside Harry’s room, and Ginny’s face was flushed, her eyes bright, her pajamas rumpled. Like Harry, she smelled like something smoky and sweet, and when she gave a sheepish grin, the pieces slid together in Hermione’s mind. 

Firewhisky, she thought, then her stomach turned over. And Ginny’s shampoo.

“Sorry,” Ginny said, closing the door to Harry’s room behind her. “Am I in trouble?”

As Head Girl, Hermione could dock points and give detention for catching Ginny out of her dormitory past curfew, but she wasn’t on duty. She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Cheers, Hermione.” Ginny grinned and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. “Goodnight!” And with that, she dashed down the staircase, heading back to her own tower. 

Hermione stood there for a moment, her heart hammering, her knees wobbling. 

Their teeth clacked and they broke apart, panting. Harry’s breath was hot on her cheek when he turned to look at the entrance of the tent. 

“Pull yourself together,” she muttered, and continued up the steps to her own room, closing and locking the door behind her. It was mostly dark now that she’d put out the lamps and banked the fire, and she crawled into bed, pulling the covers up over her head. Crookshanks curled up against her chest, but his presence did nothing to calm her racing heart and burning face. 

“What?” she murmured, her fingers curling into his sweater, trying to pull him close again. All she could think about was how badly she wanted this, wanted him, here and now and every day after that. But an eerie white glow had filled the tent. “What is it?”

It took a moment for Harry to reply, and when he did, he sounded astonished. “It’s a doe.”

Thunder rolled above her and the rain picked up. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, doing everything she could to forget.

Something bumped into her table and Hermione glanced up, irritated. This was her spot in the library, a fact she had established and maintained since third year, and she did not tolerate interruptions—

Draco Malfoy looked back at her, his expression a complex mix of embarrassment, hostility, and honest-to-God fear. His bookbag was over his shoulder and he had two books in his arms. “Granger,” he said, by way of greeting. “All the other tables are taken, and I was wondering if I could… well, you know, if it would be all right for me to…”

Hermione understood at once, and for a moment, she was going to say no. This was Draco Malfoy, for crying out loud, and just because he’d cooperated with the Ministry didn’t guarantee him any sort of favors. And really, out of every table he could’ve chosen in the whole of the Library, he’d come to hers—

She glanced behind him, and noticed that everyone else nearby was watching him. Watching them. Whispering to each other, staring daggers. “Death Eater freak,” she heard one of them mutter, and for some reason, that lodged in a weird space between her ribs. 

As accurate as that might be, Draco had already endured his fair share of public scorn. Between the summer of wandless house arrest and the concurrent trials of the few remaining Voldemort supporters, he’d shouldered all of it with a peculiar kind of grace. He’d turned witness against the Death Eaters, against his own father, all without the guarantee of a place at Hogwarts at the end of it. He’d had to fight tooth and nail for it, endure a degree of investigation and speculation that she wasn’t sure she could imagine, just for a chance at finishing his education at a school full of people who hated him. All this, when Durmstrang had offered Draco a place without any conditions, or so she’d heard. 

Perhaps Draco Malfoy is a little bit brave, she thought. Or very very stupid. Or both.

Maybe it was pity, maybe it was the lack of a good night’s sleep — between running into Ginny and the storm, she’d been tossing and turning all night — or maybe it was the lingering postwar sense of camaraderie. But something made Hermione nod and kick the chair opposite her out from beneath the table. 

Relief flashed across Draco’s face before it was replaced by a kind of wariness. He put down his books and took the seat, pulling out a few scrolls of parchment, his bottle of ink, and a neat black quill. Around them, some people were still openly staring. Others had turned away, perhaps disappointed that the confrontation hadn’t come to blows. Hermione wondered if she was a bit disappointed, herself. 

They passed a few minutes in companionable silence before Hermione glanced at one of the huge books — which, to her chagrin, she didn’t recognize, even though Draco was in most of the same classes she was. Curiosity got the better of her. “What are you working on?” 

“Ancient Runes,” he replied, then tapped the other book. “And Potions.” Draco glanced up, his gaze flinty and skittish. “What about you?”

“Arithmancy.” 

“The proof?” He shook his head. “I couldn’t get through it, had to take a break.”

Hermione nodded, looking down at her calculation sheet with a touch of irritation. It was giving her trouble, as well.

They lapsed back into silence for the next few hours, and when Pince announced that the library was closing for the night, they both stood up and started packing. 

Draco shouldered his bag and glanced at her. “Thanks, Granger.”

“Sure,” she said, then he turned and was gone. 

The next day, he didn’t have to ask. She just nodded, and Draco sat down in the same chair, relief evident on his face. “You can call me Hermione,” she said, and he gave her a nod, a slight flush hitting his cheekbones. 

“The Chancey coefficient,” he said on the third day, when she was ready to tear her parchment in half out of sheer frustration. “I know, Hermione,” he added, when she opened her mouth to argue, “but try it.”

“I have patrol with Justin tonight,” she said on Friday. “So I’m only here until eight.”

Draco’s nose was an inch above the page of his Charms textbook, his quill tapping a rhythm on his parchment. “Glorified babysitting, you mean.”

Hermione choked, fighting the urge to laugh. “ No ,” she forced out. Even if she agreed that that was all being Head Girl really amounted to. 

Draco flashed her a grin, so sharp and bright and sudden that she again had to keep herself from laughing. 

“Stop it,” she hissed, chucking a crumpled bit of parchment at his arm. 

Four days later, he hung back and walked out of the library with her, the castle quiet and cold around them. Hermione fought off a shiver and tucked her hands into the sleeves of her robes. 

“I know,” Draco said, his gaze sliding along the few burn marks left on the walls. “Sometimes I feel the ghosts, too.”

Hermione was too surprised to speak. She looked at his profile, at the ever-present purplish circles under his eyes, and realized that of course, he’d lost everything, too.

“Really?” Ron said to her one night, when he met her on her way back to the Tower and saw her saying goodnight to Draco. “Malfoy?”

Hermione shrugged, too tired for a fight. “He’s better, now.”

“Nah,” said Ron dismissively, but he didn’t look too sure. 

She and Draco worked together during their overlapping free periods, too. The Library was less crowded then, and they didn’t have to glare at people for whispering too loudly. One afternoon, they managed to get everything done before dinner, and they walked down to the Great Hall, quiet and a little bleary-eyed from their success. 

“I’ve been meaning to say,” said Draco, as they made their way down the main staircase. He looked nervous. “I want to apologize to you. For everything, if that’s even possible.”

Hermione stopped, staring at him. A beat passed, then he glanced at her, nervous and just a touch vulnerable, and she said, “It’s a start, I suppose.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Good. Because I am sorry, for the name-calling, the bullying, the whole being-a-self-entitled-and-prejudiced prick. It was immature, and foolish, and it wasn’t right. I know that now.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” And somewhat to her surprise, she actually was. “But it’s not just me, you know. It’s Harry and Ron, too.”

Draco nodded, his expression getting a touch more serious. “I know. I’m working on it.”

“All right.” She shot him a smile. “For what it’s worth, you’re doing well so far.”

“Thanks, Hermione.” They’d reached the bottom of the stairs and he nudged her with his elbow. “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she echoed, and they parted ways. 

On Halloween, Hermione caught him frowning at a group of giggling second-years and raised an eyebrow. 

“Bloody Halloween,” he said in response, closing his book with a snap.  

She smiled down at her Defense essay. “Not your style?”

“It’s so pedestrian. And yes,” Draco added before she could open her mouth, “I know I sound like an uptight prick, but it sends everyone in the castle around the bend.”

“Do you even like the feast?”

Draco considered this. “The feast is all right.”

Later that evening, slumped in her favorite cushy armchair in the Gryffindor common room, Hermione had to agree with him. The feast was certainly all right.

“This was a good Halloween,” said Ron from the floor, where he was leaning up against her legs. A few feet away, the fire crackled merrily. 

“Yes,” Hermione sighed, happy and warm and full of pastries. She’d also had a few nips off Pavarti’s secret stash of Gigglewater, which helped. 

The common room was alive with heat and energy, in stark contrast to the sleet hitting the windows. Students were squeezed into every corner, playing Exploding Snap or Jackknifing Jenga, trading sweets, listening to the wireless, and telling jokes. It was Hogwarts at the best of times, and she felt a great surge of affection for all of it, deepened by the knowledge of how close they’d come to losing it. 

Her eye snagged on an armchair at the other end of the room. Ginny and Harry were tucked into it together, laughing at a joke Seamus was acting out, surrounded by a smattering of other sixth- and seventh-years. She watched them trade a grin, then Harry pressed a kiss to Ginny’s cheek and she gave him a squeeze in return, delighted. 

Hermione turned back to the fire, feeling a touch hollow. She carded her fingers through Ron’s hair and said, “Let’s go on a date.”

Ron tilted his head back to look at her, not bothering to mask his surprise. She’d been putting him off this exact thing for weeks now. “Really?”

She nodded, ignoring the faint tremor of anxiety in her stomach. Her instincts told her this wasn’t the right thing, that this would only be unkind to both of them in the long run, but maybe, just maybe, her instincts were wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time, and she’d have to find out one way or another. Courage, she told herself. “Yes. The Three Broomsticks, tomorrow night?” They could go to Hogsmeade whenever they wanted to, now that they were seventh-years. 

“Yeah,” said Ron, grinning happily, and he pressed a kiss to her knee. 

Their ‘date’ — a shared meat pie and pints of ale at The Three Broomsticks — ended with a tender, quiet kiss outside her door. Hermione sighed into Ron’s mouth, telling herself that she was happy, that this was enough. “Goodnight,” he whispered, his eyes alight with a kind of warmth she just couldn’t return. 

“Goodnight,” she whispered back, but when she closed the door behind her, she felt lonelier than ever. 

Hermione watched as Harry disappeared beneath the surface of the frozen pond, shivering from the cold as well as fear. This was idiocy, lunacy, why was she letting him do this—

Stop it, she told herself, redoubling her grip on her wand. She had to be ready to blast him with a dozen Warming Charms the moment he resurfaced, to throw him a spare change of clothes. She couldn’t afford to panic, not now, not when they had no idea what lay beneath the surface of the lake. It had remained impervious to every diagnostic spell she’d thrown at it, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a trap, no matter what Harry said.

What does it matter? came the silvery, cool voice from the locket where it was nestled against her chest. He’s going to die anyway, it’s just a matter of when—

Shut up, Hermione’s brain fired back, her heart pounding in her mouth. She had to close herself off, seal her mind, she couldn’t let herself be distracted—

A bubble burst across the exposed surface of the water, and she took a step forward, a jolt of adrenaline clearing her thoughts in an instant. Was that—?

Suddenly, Hermione found herself flung violently backwards, yanked away from the shoreline, a ripping, cutting line of fire exploding across her neck. She hit the ground hard, pain blossoming in her back, head, and shoulders, fresh snow flooding her jeans and sweater, but none of that mattered because she couldn’t breathe—

Choking, she kicked out, her fingers scrabbling at her neck, where the chain of the Horcrux was digging into her windpipe. But it was no use — the necklace was pulled tight and dragging her away from the pond. Black spots burst across her vision and tears squeezed out of her eyes as she tried to scream, tried to find something to grab onto, she couldn’t leave Harry—

Something came bursting out of the bushes and leapt straight into the water. Hermione’s fingers found a tree root and she clung onto it for dear life, even as her vision began to fade and her body began to slacken. She wanted to scream, wanted just a single gasp of air, but voices were yelling inside her head, full of rage, and the chain around her neck pulled tighter and tighter. Her whole body seized, her mouth gaping in a silent yell, the snowy branches above her disappearing into black—

There was another huge splash, and Hermione felt a few drops of icy water hit her legs. Someone nearby was shivering violently, she could feel it, hear it, and she gagged, her body going numb—

A third splash, then a bellow of “HERMIONE!” Hang on— she knew that voice—

A flash of silver, a cold, high-pitched hiss that echoed around the trees— “Ronald Weasley, the coward—”

A yell, a burst of energy, the chain around her neck breaking—

A shadow and a flash of green exploded across the clearing, and Hermione was flung face-first onto the ground, knocking the small amount of breath she’d managed to regain out of her lungs. She gagged again, black and white spots bursting across her vision, then inhaled dirt and snow in the same breath. Air, wonderful air, flooding her lungs cold and clear, even as her throat burned to take it in—

“Why didn’t you take the damn thing off?!” came that voice again, then hands were on her body, rolling her onto her back, and she blinked up at the snowy trees, tears blurring her eyes. A ginger mop swam into view, and below it, Ron’s anxious, angry face. 

“Harry,” she choked out, then broke into a coughing fit. She flung out an arm towards the pond. “Get— Harry—”

Something in Ron’s face shifted, and he backed away, giving her space. “He’s fine, Hermione, he’s out of the water, he’s just over there—”

Hermione rolled onto her side, blinking as the scene in front of her came into focus. Harry, curled up at the edge of the pond, soaking wet and shaking, his eyes half-lidded and blacker than night. Relief overtook her and she broke into another coughing fit, fighting the urge to pass out—

Hermione woke on a scream, her throat raw and her ears ringing. She screamed and screamed, choking on air that she didn’t have, her skin crawling, the room swimming in front of her eyes—

The door banged open and suddenly there were hands on her arms, her face. “’Mione, it’s just a dream, you’re having a nightmare—”

She broke off mid-scream and burst into tears, clinging to the person in front of her. “Harry—!”

“He’s alive,” said the voice, Ron’s voice. “You’re alive, I’m alive, we’re all alive. You’re at Hogwarts, and you’re having a nightmare.”

Hermione exhaled in one long, shuddering breath, and the room stopped spinning. Everything was blurry, but there was Ron, his face only inches away, pale and worried—

“Ron,” she forced out between sobs. “What— what are you—”

“You sent a Patronus,” he said, rubbing her back. It was weirdly soothing. “I don’t know how you did it, but you did — it was definitely yours. It came into my room and woke me up.”

“Oh.” Hermione kept trying to breathe, but her throat was still tight. A wandless Patronus? She’d never done that before. And when she was sleeping? How on earth—?

“There now,” he said. “Just keep breathing.”

She tried to obey, some corner of her mind wondering when Ronald Weasley had gotten so good at this kind of thing. Maybe at Shell Cottage… maybe this past summer… 

“Was it the locket?” he asked, his gaze on her hands. She realized she was rubbing her throat, at the now-healed and scarless wound that had left her without a voice for over a week. “Were you dreaming about the locket?”

Hermione nodded, her terror still too fresh to put into words. 

Ron sighed a little. “I’ve had that one, too. It’s nasty. I always wonder, what if I hadn’t been there? What if I hadn’t gotten to you in time? What if I hadn’t gotten to Harry in time?”

“Ron,” she whispered, blinking back a fresh stream of tears. “Not helping.”

“Sorry.”

With Ron back, it was several hours before Hermione could corner Harry alone — she waited until Ron was in the shower, and cast a strong Muffliato just in case. She didn’t have much of a voice, and her throat was now heavily bandaged, but she figured she could make herself understood regardless. 

“Don’t,” Harry bit out, once he realized what she was doing. “We can’t, Hermione.”

“Just tell me,” she managed to whisper, wincing at the pain. But it was nothing compared to the pain of not knowing, of him never touching her like that again. “Tell me what you want.”

“Don’t you see?” he replied, stepping away from her. “It doesn’t matter what I want, not anymore. Putting aside the fact that I’m apparently a living, breathing Horcrux, Ron came back because of you, Hermione. He came back to win you over, to prove himself to you, and I can’t jeopardize that, not now. Not when I need all the help I can get, not when I already lost him once.”

“That’s it?” Hermione was shaking now, tears threatening behind the hot wave of anger building in her chest. “After everything, that’s all you have to say to me? That you don’t want to be with me because you might hurt Ron’s feelings?”

Harry shook his head, looking more tired, more grey, more beaten than he ever had before. “It was the adrenaline, Hermione. Tensions were running high and we didn’t know what we were doing.”

Something inside her broke and was falling, falling, falling. She wanted to fight him, but she couldn’t. “Okay,” she managed.

“But we’re friends,” he said, with such conviction that she realized he was trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to convince her. “We’re best friends, and nothing’s going to change that. So we just… go back to normal. It never happened.”

She had to get out of here. “Okay,” Hermione whispered again, then stepped away. In that instant, she caught a bright flash of hurt in Harry’s eyes, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She couldn’t do this anymore. 

She left him standing there in the kitchen and went to her bed, where she buried herself in a massive pile of blankets and squeezed her eyes shut, the tears finally flowing free. Hermione let herself cry, let herself mourn, because tomorrow, it was back to the war. She could put aside what might have been, and keep everything else.

“What time is it?” she said, her gaze darting to her clock. In the half-light of her banked fire, she couldn’t read it from this distance. Crookshanks poked his head out from under the bed, staring at her with evident worry. 

“Half past three,” said Ron. “You’re on the train at ten o’clock, right?” At her nod, he glanced at her trunk and said, “At least you’re already packed. I’m not so lucky. Nor’s Harry, I s’pose.”

Hermione took a shuddering breath and almost smiled. “Ever the procrastinators.”

“Yep.” He shot her a cheeky little smile, his hand still tracing circles on her back. “Want me to stay?”

That gave her quite the jolt and she blinked at her comforter, trying to hide her surprise. “It’s all right, I don’t want you to get in trouble—”

“Nah, don’t be silly.” Ron stood up and closed her bedroom door, then went to the sink and got a glass of water. “I’ll sleep in the chair.”

Her surprise doubled. She accepted the glass and took a sip, weighing the situation in her head. Even now, it was difficult to shake the ghost of Harry, standing in that tiny kitchen, shattering her world with only a handful of words. “You don’t have to sleep in the chair.”

Ron paused where he was scooting said chair closer to the bed and looked at her, surprise evident on his face. “You sure?” he said.

Hermione nodded, wiping her face with her sheet. “Only sleep, mind you. Nothing else.”

He shot her a smile, easy and warm. “No worries.” 

And it really was that simple. Ron climbed into bed behind her, draped an arm across her middle, and sighed into her neck. “I can’t believe it’s already the Christmas hols.”

Hermione looked out her darkened windows, where snow was glowing on the sills and awnings below. She fought off a shiver. “Me, either.”

Hermione stared down into the frying pan and nudged the pancakes with her trusty spatula, which wasn’t so much being trusty as it was being conniving and evil. Things were bubbling, which she supposed was a good sign, though it had been ages since she’d last done this — she usually just walked to the greasy spoon around the corner if she wanted a decent fry-up. Maybe it was just because she was out of practice. 

Practice, she thought, glancing at the screen of her tablet, where a very friendly YouTube personality was saying something about butter foaming in a hot pan. That’s all you need, practice—

Hermione took a sip of her coffee, then winced. She hadn’t added enough sugar, but that was just par for the course this morning. Her mind, her whole body, was in a fog, and she couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything, even the simple stuff. She wasn’t sure why.

“Sorry, the call took longer than I thought.” Harry appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He’d showered and changed into his usual slacks and button-down, but his glasses were smudged and his hair was a mess. She had a sudden pang of recollection — specifically, Harry fucking her from behind the night before, pulling her still-wet hair until her back curved and made her nearly blind with pleasure, then biting at her shoulder while she gasped and begged—

Maybe that was why her brain refused to work this morning. She fought the urge to scowl at him. Bloody men. 

Harry took her in with a glance, his gaze fixing on the pan in front of her. “Kingsley will be here in an hour or two. He’s bringing Malfoy with him as well, apparently there’s something he has to tell us. What are you doing?”

“What does he want?” she said absently, flipping a pancake and only making it halfway. Batter spilled into the pan and smoked while she tried to poke at the now taco-like pancake. Sighing, she paused the video on her tablet.

“Just some updates.” Harry approached her. “Are you cooking, Minister?”

Hermione stepped aside to let him see. She was too tired and too out of it to fight him on it. “In theory. The practical application is somewhat lagging.”

“I see.” She could hear so many things in his voice — restraint, humor, fear. He reached for the plate of finished pancakes, which didn’t look like pancakes so much as they looked like lopsided hockey pucks. Harry picked one up and took a bite out of it. 

Hermione watched his face as he chewed, slowly, and then swallowed, with great effort. His expression didn’t change, but she saw the restrained shudder in his body. 

“Here.” Hermione handed him the spatula and headed for the coffee pot. She needed a fresh mug, a new brain, a different life. 

“Cheers.” Harry used it to scrape the pancakes into the bin, closely followed by the ones on the plate and the remaining batter. 

Hermione watched all of this with the faintest sensation of floating above the earth. Harry Potter, in her kitchen, binning her attempt at pancakes and digging through her cupboards to remake the batter, dodging Casper’s attempt to trip him. A month ago, the sight of this would have made her head explode into a thousand pieces. But now? She felt nothing. 

Well, not nothing. Exasperation, definitely. Who did he think he was, knocking together a pancake batter, knowing the contents of her cupboards like the back of his hand and that she kept the flour in the freezer? Then there was nostalgia, which was unhelpful. She couldn’t shake the ghost of a dozen mornings that were nothing like this one, where he’d shuffled into the tent’s kitchen and fumbled his way through making a cup of tea while they brainstormed the different objects into which a psychopath would try to split his soul. He’d been so much smaller then, so much more gentle, in a way. This was a different Harry, now. Different and yet the same. 

Alchemy, Hermione thought, and felt a horrible tremor low in her stomach. Horrible, because she knew what it meant, and had to take a glug of coffee to force the lump out of her throat. 

“I’ve had some practice at this,” Harry was saying as he wiped out the frying pan. “Got more than a few weekend fry-ups on my CV by now.”

A beat passed, in which Hermione contemplated just hitting the floor and sliding out of the room, because surely he had to know how that sounded. “Oh?” she finally managed to say. They had never talked about that, not even back in their early Ministry days, never—

Harry seemed to catch on and he paused before hanging the towel up again. “Teddy was always a sucker for pancakes and French toast. It was the only method of bribery that ever really worked on him.”

There, that funny tremor again, but this time, she was sure it was partly from relief at sidestepping that minefield. “How sweet.”

Harry chuckled darkly, turning the burner back on. “It was something, all right.”

And then he proceeded to make a stack of perfect, golden-brown pancakes that did not have a single strange lump of flour or raw batter in the middle. Hermione had to work very hard at not saying a word as she ate with minimal dignity, getting syrup on her thumb and butter in the corner of her mouth. 

Harry, thankfully, seemed too interested in the morning’s Prophet to pay her much attention. He was nose-deep in the Sports section, as usual, and she frowned at him, feeling an uncharacteristic flash of jealousy. How dare he make perfect pancakes and look fresh off a GQ cover, when here she was, feeling a bit lopsided and fuzzy, her hair refusing to budge, and apparently incapable of working a frying pan?

Almost as soon as that thought finished, Hermione blinked, coming back to herself a bit. What on earth was going through her head? She had to get out of here, to get herself sorted before Kingsley and Malfoy turned up.

She stood, somewhat abruptly, catching her hip on the corner of the island. Harry glanced at her, a crease between his brows. “I’m going to— get changed.”

“All right,” he said, his tone betraying none of the concern she saw in his eyes. 

Hermione fled, shutting herself in her bathroom and turning on her news podcast as loud as it could go. She stared at herself in the mirror, her eyes huge and shining beneath the terrifying bird’s nest of hair that was currently sitting in a huge tangle atop her head. It had been so long since her routine was interrupted that she’d forgotten what happened when she got her hair wet and didn’t immediately dry or style it afterwards. Here she was, a thirty-nine year-old woman, with the hair of a mountain troll. 

Muttering to herself, Hermione turned on the shower and stripped out of her pajamas. Time for her to return to the real world. 

An hour and a half later, she emerged from her bedroom with dry hair and a fresh change of clothes. She’d also put on a bit of makeup, which she normally didn’t do on weekends, but it was one more way to kill time. Now, Hermione sat down on the couch, flicking through her phone, combing one hand through her hair to refresh the Smoothing Charm. She desperately needed another treatment, and soon, or she wouldn’t be able to control it any longer. 

Harry appeared and took one of the armchairs. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.” He glanced at her. “Everything all right, Minister?”

“Yes.” Not meeting his gaze, she reached for her notebook and pen. “I’ve been meaning to ask — if I want to visit a salon, a wizarding salon, what protocols must I follow?” 

This seemed to take him by surprise. “I’m… not sure, ma’am. Is it… urgent?”

She sighed through her nose. “Yes, I’m afraid it is.” 

“Okay. We can ask Kingsley before he leaves.”

Before Hermione could reply, the man in question appeared in a blaze of green flames, stepping out of her fireplace and brushing the loose ash from his shoulders. “Good morning, Minister. Auror Potter.”

“Morning,” Hermione said.

The fire blazed green again and out stepped Malfoy, barely a hair out of place, wearing a pair of grey slacks and a dark grey shirt. It was the equivalent of jeans and a t-shirt for him, and Hermione tried not to let her surprise show. He nodded to both of them and she noticed that he looked exhausted. “Morning.” 

She smiled at him. “Cup of tea, anyone?”

Once the tea was made and they were all settled down, Malfoy spoke up. “Kingsley’s the one with the good news, so he should probably go first.”

Kingsley reached into his briefcase and un-Shrunk a huge pile of parchment. “We have a possible location for Salvation’s headquarters.”

Hermione almost choked on her tea. “Really?!”

“That was…” Harry blinked, seemingly at a loss for words. “Quick.”

“A couple of those leads from Octavius Crane were a little too good to be true,” Kingsley replied. At their expressions, he added, “Don’t worry, they’ve all been vetted. Nothing to give us much concern, at least not where our troubles lie at the moment. Plenty of questionable business dealings, but as far as their allegiances go, these people don’t seem to give politics a second thought. Anarchy is bad for the economy, so there you have it.” Kingsley waved his wand, and a few pieces of parchment lifted into the air. One of them unrolled to reveal a large, intricate map of Park Royal that combined modern and outdated architecture. As Hermione watched, the newer buildings, which were drawn in a heavy blue ink, faded away to be replaced by buildings drawn in red ink. Those then faded back into blue, and as this process continued, the roads remained much the same, thick black lines that did not waver while the rest of the map moved backwards and forwards through history.

“There’s an abandoned warehouse down at the end of Coronation Road.” Kingsley pointed to a small red rectangle that didn’t change color, even as the buildings around it sprouted like blue weeds. “It hasn’t been used for about fifty years, and the Council marked it for demolition ages ago. But someone must’ve put a delay on it, because it seems as if the Muggles have just forgotten to knock it down.”

Harry snorted into his tea. “How convenient.” 

Kingsley flashed him a smirk. “Precisely.” He waved his wand again, unfurling what looked to be several different interview transcripts. 

Hermione recognized some of the names from Crane’s list, and she blinked in surprise. Kingsley had clearly taken this tip seriously, if Aurors had already been dispatched to the Continent and had submitted their reports. 

Kingsley caught her reaction. “I sent a few Aurors via Portkey directly after your meeting yesterday afternoon. Crane’s intel was too strong of a lead to disregard. The Aurors were able to make contact yesterday evening and this morning.”

“Good on them,” said Harry. “Not wasting any time.”

“The result of these interviews pointed to one key location — that abandoned warehouse.” With another wave of his wand, a few sentences lifted off each of the transcripts and floated into the air, the letters expanding until they were the size of Hermione’s palm. The sentences curled around the sitting area and began to scroll past them in a lazy circle. Some of the words glowed gold as Kingsley said, “The business contacts all claimed to have noticed certain shipments and invoices going to a new address. This address was registered to a few different false company names, of course, but it stuck out to these individuals because they knew this area of London to be predominantly Muggle, and they had never shipped anything there before.”

Hermione watched the glowing words as they floated past her:

—and I thought zat was a bit strange, all zat going to Park Royal? I’ve never even heard of it —

No one told me there were wizards in that part of London, it’s nowhere near Diagon Alley—

—I asked a friend of mine from Knightsbridge, he says this area is known for Muggle industry, and so then I ask him, what would a wizard, Muggle-born or not, be doing there? He says he doesn’t know—

“What was being sent to these false companies?” said Hermione. 

“All kinds of things,” Kingsley replied, nodding to Draco while yet another scroll unfurled. Draco pulled out his own wand and even more words began to glow in the air before her. 

“We’re looking at a wide variety of wizarding supplies,” said Draco. “Everything from raw materials to potions ingredients. If you skim off the fat and ignore the more random purchases, you start seeing a pattern.” Another wave of his wand and a few of the words grew in size, lifting off the parchment to join the others in the air. “Giant purple toad wart. Abraxan hair. Five hundred sheets of raw metal alloy. Moondew. Fairy wings. Gold flakes. Hellebore syrup.” 

Hermione shook her head. “What does any of that mean?”

“We think it means two things,” said Draco, a bit more energy coming into his face. “One, that we’ve found the Potions Master. They’re in that building, or at the very least, their workshop is. Two, Salvation is planning something big. You don’t order metal and ingredients in these quantities if you’re just brewing something one-off.”

Her heart skipped a beat and she swallowed. “Something big, meaning?”

“We don’t know,” said Kingsley, and he sounded frustrated. “It’s difficult to tell, at the moment. When Draco says something big, he sort of means that literally — either it’s a singular object large in size, or it’s many of the same small object marketed en masse.”

“A weapon?” said Harry. His voice was sharp, even though his face was calm. 

“Perhaps,” Kingsley replied. “We really won’t know until we raid the warehouse. If we have any luck, we’ll find some useful answers, maybe enough evidence to get one step ahead.”

“Raid?” Harry repeated. “When?”

“Tonight.”

Harry and Hermione stared at Kingsley, who put up his hands in a placating gesture. “For what it’s worth, it wasn’t my idea. It was the High Council’s.”

“But surely it’s a bad idea, nonetheless,” said Hermione. “It’s too soon! Have you even done a stakeout, reconnaissance, any of it?” 

“Yes. That’s all happening now, as we speak.” Kingsley clapped his hands once, and the floating words melted out of the air. In spite of the situation, Hermione took a moment to be impressed. “The building seems to be moderately guarded, with a minimal amount of warding. They’re taking it for granted that being in a Muggle area gives them an easy hiding spot.” 

“But aren’t you automatically outnumbered when you step into the unknown?” said Harry, frowning. “And quite apart from that, Kingsley, this is sounding more and more like a trap.”

“I have to agree,” said Hermione. “And if this is where they’re developing a weapon, it will be teeming with guards, no matter what appearances say. Are you certain it’s worth the risk?”

“Yes.” Kingsley was firm, his gaze burning. “Because we almost lost you twice in so many weeks, Minister. We can’t afford to tread carefully anymore.” 

Something in Hermione’s stomach twisted and burned. Her throat worked as she tried to swallow the emotions that were surging through her chest, and she stared at Kingsley, wondering how on earth she was supposed to respond to that.

“You’re right,” said Harry, “but that’s no excuse for being reckless.”

“We’re not,” Kingsley replied. “A calculated risk is still a risk, but we’ve put our best people on this. I have full confidence in this mission, and I wouldn’t bring it to you if I didn’t.”

“What Kingsley isn’t saying,” Draco cut in, “or rather, what he’s too kind to say, is that we need to do this if we’re to have any hope of figuring out the whole Veritaserum mess.”

Hermione stared at him. “Draco, don’t—”

He waved an impatient hand at her. “No, it’s true, and it’s why I’m here. You deserved to hear it straight from me. I’ve been working at it day and night and I only have a handful of ideas. Ideas, mind you, not counter-cures. I don’t have anything solid, and if there isn’t a break, and soon, those two men in lockup will continue to be useless.”

“So will anyone we arrest at the scene today,” said Harry. “We can assume they’ve all been dosed with the cure, just as a precaution.”

Draco frowned at him. “Really? You think?”

Harry nodded. “Absolutely. If Salvation has something that valuable, they aren’t wasting it. Now that they’re openly at war with the Ministry, they’re probably expecting an offensive attack at any moment. What better way is there of ensuring that they won’t have any snitches to worry about? If they dose everyone every day, or however often they need to keep their tolerance up, then that liability dissipates.”

“Tolerance,” Draco repeated, and a light went on in his eyes. “Now that’s an idea.”

“You could do basic blood panelling,” Hermione said to him, a touch breathless, her mind spinning. “Test for any abnormalities, even in all the normal vital areas, and try to reverse-engineer the levels you find. If they’ve been taking something for a while, if it’s still affecting their systems—”

“—and if they’ve built up a tolerance—” Draco stood up suddenly, almost knocking over his chair. “I have to go. Minister, Kingsley.”

“Malfoy,” said Kingsley, and there was a flare of green fire and Draco was gone, leaving only a smoldering piece of ash in the air. Kingsley glanced at Hermione. “That was a good idea, Minister.”

Hermione shrugged, her heart still going a bit quick. “I thought about being a Healer, once. Read lots of books about it.”

Kingsley’s smile was bright, kind. “I see.” 

After that, the conversation turned to the details of the raid. Kingsley produced a floorplan of the building and talked them through the proposed attack, but Hermione sort of lost interest — a raid was a raid was a raid, and she’d authorized almost twenty of them by now. She found her attention pulled instead to the pile of interview transcripts, and she began sifting through them, skimming the paragraphs for more details. Harry and Kingsley continued talking, now guiding handwritten x’s around the floorplan. 

Kingsley hadn’t been wrong, before — most of these people were stereotypical businessmen, not adverse to the occasional shady deal or cut price on supposedly high-quality goods. She noticed, with a spark of annoyance, that there weren’t any women in the pile, but, of course, this was Crane — most women wouldn’t want anything to do with him. She kept reading, skipping over the parts that didn’t seem useful, and frowned when a particular section jumped out at her—

Auror Andrews: Can you recall when you received the first order from this company? 

Mr. Bisset: Mon Dieu, no, I can check ze records—

Mr. Bisset, cont’d: Here, I believe — yes, January 2017, approximately two years ago, but zey were only intermittent at first, tu sais, a few unicorn hairs zere, a few elixirs zere, but zen six months later, it becomes like clockwork, vraiment, every four weeks, another order, and always ze same. Well, ze same, but wiz occasional variations, a smidge of this, a pinch of that—

Hermione stopped reading, her pulse rising to her throat. No, that couldn’t be. She had to double check the others, had to make sure—

She thumbed through the other interviews, searching for the same question. It took her a few moments, but then: 

Auror Greenspan: Can you recall when you received the first order from this company?

Mr. Černý: According to my invoices, I received a small order in January 2017. By November of that year, they were regular customers. My supply manager could tell you more.

Auror Reynolds: Can you recall when you received the first order from this company?

Mr. Baumgarten: No, my store manager would have to answer that. But they became regular customers within the past year, I believe.

Hermione stared down at the words, suddenly aware of everything around her. The clock ticking on the mantelpiece, the crackle of the fire, the smudges on Harry’s lenses, the shine of Kingsley’s single earring. She put the stack of parchment back on the coffee table, slowly stood up, and left the room. 

When she returned a few minutes later, Harry and Kingsley didn’t react. They were still deep in their own discussion, which had become some sort of friendly argument about entry points.

Hermione cleared her throat, clutching a huge binder to her chest. Kingsley and Harry finally looked up at her. 

“According to the interviews, Salvation didn’t start ordering supplies until about two years ago. The orders were irregular at first, but within six months, they became regular. We can assume that within that time frame, the Potions master went from casual to serious experimentation, and the group’s leadership solidified their ideology as well as their long-term goals. And I think I know why.” She stepped forward and dropped the binder on the coffee table with a loud thud.

Harry leaned forward. “Muggle-borns in Britain and Northern Ireland,” he read aloud.

“Otherwise known as Article 1236 of the Wizarding Constitution.” Hermione forced herself to take a breath. “Announced in the Wizengamot in January of 2017 and ratified in September of that same year.” She met Kingsley’s gaze. “This is what they’re reacting to, I’m certain of it. Nothing else fits the timeline. Even if their anarchist movement began earlier, this was the call to action.” 

Kingsley’s expression was shrewd, calculating. “It would certainly make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Harry frowned at both of them. “Why would Muggle-borns unite with Purebloods, of all people, against an amendment that gives them more legal rights than they’ve ever had before?”

“Because,” said Hermione, “they’ve been told that by protecting Muggle-borns, the Ministry is actually making it easier to identify and potentially discriminate against them in the future.” For a brief moment, she felt as if she’d stepped into the TARDIS and was back where her term as Minister started — talking about this amendment until she was blue in the face, debating it on the floor of the Wizengamot for hours at a time. “Or, that by guaranteeing Muggle-born rights in black and white, the government is further implying that these rights did not exist prior to the ratification of this amendment. In short, that the Constitution of the British Wizarding World inherently guarantees a particular set of personal rights, and enumerating the rights of certain groups is unnecessary, contradictory, and a further tool of state interference.”

Harry was staring at her. “That… that…” He looked back down at the binder. “Clearly, I missed a lot while I was undercover.”

“In this construction,” Kingsley said to Hermione, “you’re implying that Muggle-borns are capable of reaching this level of opposition on their own. Is it really best to assume that some sort of brainwashing wasn’t a factor, here?”

“We don’t have to discount it, but I do think it’s possible for Muggle-borns to be persuaded by the political rhetoric on its own. You have to remember, Kingsley, that Muggle-borns are hearing this rhetoric after growing up with the shared memory of World War II, when minorities were slaughtered by the state without even a moment of hesitation. Add on top of that the anti-Muggle-born fervor that gripped the British Wizarding World for close to twenty years, and you have a ripe environment for governmental distrust.” Hermione glanced down at the binder, hearing the distant echo of Umbridge’s voice, feeling a burn in her left arm, where the scar from Bellatrix, though faint, was still present to this day. “I can understand wanting a little more privacy.”

“But not at the cost of legal protection,” said Harry, and Hermione met his gaze. “Surely not at the cost of that.”

“You’re trying to invoke logic in this situation,” replied Kingsley, “and that never works when it comes to politics.” He sat back in his chair, looking contemplative. “Well, now we have an idea of what they’re after, apart from inciting chaos. Nullifying this amendment and imposing legislative safeguards that would make it nearly impossible for any law like this to pass again in the future.”

“Exactly,” Hermione replied. “And the only way they can do that is with a veto.”

An uneasy silence fell. Harry was staring at her, his expression somehow blank and horrified all at once, and it was he who spoke first.

“But you can’t do that, you can’t veto something that passed—”

“Theoretically, I could. It’s never been done before, but I could veto, if enough votes in Wizengamot brought the amendment back onto the floor. That could happen following an onslaught of bribes or threats.” Hermione swallowed, her throat clogging up. “The Minister who takes over from me when I’m killed could also veto, under similar circumstances.” 

“Don’t say that,” Harry snapped, his temper boiling to the surface. “Don’t you dare—”

“They’ll keep trying,” Hermione went on. “And they’ll try again soon.”

“Or,” said Kingsley, looking thoughtful, “they’ll attempt to force your hand.”

Harry scoffed. “They can’t Imperio her, she’s too well-guarded. And surrounded by enough people that we’d know right away.” 

Something in Hermione’s chest burned at his use of ‘we.’. 

“It wouldn’t have to be an Imperio,” Kingsley replied. “If we can’t find them, if we can’t stop them, they could continue to make her life and her term a living hell until she agrees to veto. It’ll be even worse if they pivot their strategy and decide to become a legitimate political party.”

Hermione nodded. She’d already reached this conclusion on her own. 

Harry stared between the two of them, his outrage rendering him speechless. “Well, then,” he finally said. “Let’s make sure this raid is a success.”

They worked through lunch, spending the next few hours going through every detail, reviewing all of the information that was coming in from the Aurors currently casing the building. Kingsley didn’t waste any breath denying their suspicions that this entire thing was a set-up, a trap, because he agreed with them. But, he argued, it wasn’t his call at this point, and all he could do was prepare the Aurors for any and every possible thing that might be lurking inside the ruined warehouse. 

It was at this point that Hermione realized Harry was slipping away from her. She glanced at him, and noticed the way he leaned forward, staring down at the current diagram of the raid, his eyes boring into the parchment with an intensity that was all too familiar. He wanted to be there. He wanted to help. 

She sat back in her chair, ignoring the hollow feeling in her stomach. She had no real claim to him or his time. This would play itself out, she was sure. 

Once the meeting had finished, Hermione went about gathering the empty mugs and dirty plates. Just as she was heading for the kitchen, a hand caught her elbow and she stopped. 

Harry’s gaze was bright, sincere, and he was close enough that again, she could see the haze of his stubble, catch the faintest tinge of his aftershave. An involuntary shiver trickled down her back and she set her jaw, a part of her hating that he could still affect her like this with just a single look. 

“Minister,” he said, “I’m going with Kingsley for a few hours. I want to oversee the final preparations for this raid, we can’t afford a single mistake.” A pause, then he gave her arm a squeeze. “Is that all right with you? Rogers will take over for me while I’m gone.”

Hermione found herself nodding and she tried for a smile. “Sure, that’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Hermione carefully pulled her elbow out of his grip. “Go. Like you said, it’s only a few hours.” 

Harry nodded, his hand dropping back to his side. “Thank you, Minister, I really do appreciate it.” 

“Of course.”

Harry gave her a final look, then he turned and went over to Kingsley, walkie-talkie in hand. She heard Rogers’ voice filter in over the comms as she left for the kitchen, her face burning. 

Clearly, her body was betraying her. That was the only explanation for this behavior, for this… reluctance to part ways with Harry. For wanting him close, wanting his hands and his fingers on her body, his mouth on—

She slammed the dishes down on the counter, her heart pounding in her throat. 

A drink. That’s what she needed. A bottle of wine, and some peace and quiet. 

Hermione swayed, spinning off the arm of her sofa, almost catching her leg on the coffee table. She giggled, the sound vibrating in her chest, and did another turn, shimmying to the beat. 

… Fill me with sweet desire, Fill me with love…  If I’m with someone else, I'm still alone… 

She hadn’t listened to this album in ages, and the volume was loud enough that if it weren’t for the wards, her neighbors would be listening to it as well. Hermione paused by the end table and had another glug of wine, ignoring Winnie’s pointed look from his spot on an armchair. This song brought back so many memories that it was difficult for her to choose just one — her mum showing her how to drop the needle on a record; digging through the discount tape bins at the shop on the corner until she found a beaten-up second-hand copy for her Walkman; dancing in the sitting room of her childhood home, her mum’s hands soft and warm as she spun Hermione around; running through St. James’s park in the dim morning light before work, playing this album loud enough to forget that she was alone—

The next song came on, and Hermione paused to take a breath. She was flushed, a little sweaty, and having the best time she’d had in months. 

… Someday we'll be together… You played your part so well… You really had me fooled…  

After a few moments she started humming along, swaying around the room. Her pajamas — an oversized t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that had seen better days — swayed with her, and she thrilled at the privacy of this moment. It had been so long since she’d been alone, actually alone, that she’d almost forgotten what it felt like. She could never do this in front of Harry, not even with him in the next room, and she was only doing it now because Rogers, after some fierce debate, was keeping his station on the upstairs landing. 

Her turntable had an ‘on’ light that was throwing an eerie blue glow up on the wall of the semi-darkened upstairs lounge. That, too, conjured up a slew of memories that she couldn’t bother stifling — unwrapping the turntable on her nineteenth Christmas, grinning at her dad until her face hurt and he laughed, delighted by her reaction; fumbling her way through setting it up in her first apartment, her fingers slipping on the cartridge and the latch out of nerves; wandering into a small shop on the north end of London when she needed to replace a piece of the motor. The turntable was almost twenty years old by now, but you’d never know to look at it, and it occurred to her now, as it had many times before, just how much history had happened in front of its eyes. Her first flat, her first boyfriend, her first lover, her first promotion, her engagement—

Hermione swayed and spun around again, not fighting those memories as she usually did. Perhaps it wasn’t the best habit, trying to bury the past, but it did keep her focused. And what did focus matter now, when she was alone, under house arrest, and two-thirds of the way through a bottle of wine? 

As the next song began, Hermione felt a sudden and keen stab of emotion. She could just picture her mum singing along in the kitchen as she made her signature spicy chicken, her delicate but strong fingers hovering in the air until they twitched, snapping along to the beat. According to her parents, when Hermione was a baby, she could watch her mum dancing for hours without a single complaint, sitting in her high chair with a huge smile on her chubby face. There were photos in albums somewhere, but nothing had changed, really — Hermione could still watch her mum dance all day, even with her greying hair and tricky knee. Even now, she imagined her mum’s bright, clear voice weaving its way through the song, and she closed her eyes, opening her mouth and letting the music pull her along. 

… If my love looks good to you, Come and get it… Honey why don't you — Take my heart, take my soul… Take the wheel, take control… Take my life, in your hand… Make my world, wonderland… 

She paused for a sip of wine, pushing her hair out of her face. Much of its earlier tameness had all but vanished, and it was beginning to snarl and tangle at the nape of her neck. Before he’d left, Kingsley had confirmed that she could visit her salon, she just had to make the appointment outside of usual business hours and warn her stylist, Danika, that she and the salon itself would have to go through an extensive security screening beforehand. Hermione had texted Danika as soon as Kingsley and Harry had left, getting a touch desperate to have her hair back under control again, and got an appointment for early Monday morning. She usually never let her hair go this long but, she supposed, she’d had more pressing concerns. 

Her throat burned from the unfairness of it all. Why did Salvation have to be so determined to undo all the good work she’d done, was still trying to do?

Hermione took another sip of wine, trying to bury those thoughts as best she could, and started singing along again, dancing to the beat—

… Come and get it… If my love looks good to you, Come and—

Behind her, someone cleared their throat, and Hermione lurched around with a gasp, nearly sending the remainder of her wine straight onto the carpet. 

Harry was standing on the hearth, staring at her with an expression that contained way too many things for her to parse in her current state. He was in his Auror robes, fresh from the Ministry, and she suddenly realized that she must not have heard the Floo. 

She swallowed thickly, mute with embarrassment, clinging to her wine glass. This was, without a doubt, the worst thing that had ever happened to her. And in the air around her, of course, the song continued to play. 

And Harry just kept… looking at her. It was very unnerving, particularly when Hermione knew that there was no way for her to save face at this point. Maybe it was the wine, or her irregular heartbeat, but she couldn’t read his expression. There was so much to it, and so much that she hadn’t known or studied in years, so much that she’d forgotten, that even the idea of trying to guess what he was thinking made her want to faint. Or maybe that was just the embarrassment talking — she wasn’t really sure. 

They stood there, staring at each other, and just as Hermione began to wonder if there was a way for her to reverse time or sneak out of the room without him noticing, the song ended. The few seconds of silence hung between them like a cloud, then, the next song started to play, a bright, fluid melody that was so familiar she could hum it in her sleep. 

It was Harry who moved first. He stepped out of the hearth and took off his robes, draping them across the loveseat. Then, he walked up to her, paused, and held out his hand. 

Hermione’s stomach dropped to her feet and she fought the urge to quiver. What right did he have to look and act like James Bond? It wasn’t fair, especially not when he was looking at her like that, his eyes so warm and so full of something that it made her want to swoon, because it had been so long since anyone had looked at her like that, and this was Harry, they hadn’t danced together in years, and she was in her ratty pajamas and her hair was a mess and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she could have this now and probably never again. 

But something made her put down her glass and slide her hand into his. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close, and she rested her other hand on his shoulder, tucking her head against his chest. Hermione could barely hear the music over the pounding of her heart, but then Harry shifted, and they were dancing. 

As the midnight moon, was drifting through… The lazy sway of the trees… I saw the look in your eyes, lookin' into mine, Seeing what you wanted to see… 

His body was warm under her cheek, his palm was rough against her own, and Hermione’s heart really was threatening to give up. But it kept beating, somehow, and even as she hated herself for giving in, for doing this when she knew she shouldn’t, she closed her eyes, sinking into the music and the man holding her in his arms. 

… Darlin' don't say a word, cause I already heard, What your body's sayin' to mine… I'm tired of fast moves, I've got a slow groove… On my mind… 

It wasn’t like the first time they’d danced, back on that rainy, awful evening in that goddamn tent. It wasn’t like the second or third time, at that one Wizarding club when they’d had a few too many shots, or — and this memory came with the faintest prickle of pain — like the time at his wedding, when it had taken far too much effort to keep herself from closing her eyes and imagining. It wasn’t like the fifth time, at that weird Ministry Christmas party, after she’d lost that bet and had to grit her teeth through it, hating the way his hand just seemed to fit in the small of her back, while everyone had watched in poorly-concealed delight, taking photos and closing out side-bets. 

Five times, Hermione realized, with a weird tremor low in her belly. They’d only danced together five times before this, and she remembered all of them with perfect clarity. 

… I want a man with a slow hand… I want a lover with an easy touch… I want somebody who will spend some time, Not come and go in a heated rush… I want somebody who will understand… When it comes to love, I want a slow hand… 

They were only swaying back and forth, but Harry was in complete control, guiding her effortlessly so she didn’t run into her furniture or Casper, who had turned up and was, as usual, trying to figure out the best way of tripping them. She gripped his shoulder, wondering if she should let herself build this memory at all. 

… On shadowed ground, with no one around, And a blanket of stars in our eyes… We are driftin' free, like two lost leaves, On the crazy wind of the night… Darlin' don't say a word, cause I already heard, What your body's sayin' to mine… If I want it all night, you say it's alright… Ooh, we got the time… 

If she concentrated, Hermione could hear Harry’s heartbeat through his shirt. It was steady, but a little faster than usual, and she wondered if he’d had a stressful evening at the Ministry. No doubt, the raid was either happening or about to happen, and she couldn’t help but think that none of that mattered, because Harry had his hands on her body and neither of them was naked. 

… 'Cause I got a man with a slow hand, I got a lover with an easy touch… I've got somebody who will spend some time, Not come and go in a heated rush… I found somebody who will understand… When it comes to love, I want a slow hand… 

His grip was firm, but not uncomfortable, and he spun them in a gentle circle. Hermione let herself follow, far too many emotions beginning to cloud her mind. Stop it, she admonished herself. You can’t do this to yourself.

… 'Cause I got a man with a slow hand, I've got a lover with an easy touch… I found somebody who will spend some time, Not come and go in a heated rush… I found somebody who will understand, I found a lover with a slow hand… Ooh, a lover with a slow hand… 

The song was ending, and Hermione had no idea how they would walk away from this, what they would say when they parted. The mere thought of stepping out of his arms flattened her heart, stole the breath from her lungs. 

… And I get all excited with his easy touch… I found somebody who will spend the night, Not come and go in a heated rush… Ooh, lover with a slow hand…

The music began to fade, and Harry stilled, giving her hand a squeeze. Hermione opened her eyes, fighting a wave of disappointment as her dim sitting room came back into focus around her. The moment hung and stretched between them, that delicious moment in which he was still touching her, holding her, and then it broke. She stepped away, out of Harry’s reach, and went to the record player, lifting the needle and stopping the motor. 

After staring down at the shiny black plastic of the record, Hermione steeled herself and turned around. “I’m going to bed now.”

Something in Harry’s face shifted, and the warmth in his eyes faded a little. “All right,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. 

Hermione swallowed, dropping her gaze to the floor. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, Minister.” 

She brushed past him, then past Rogers, doing all she could to keep herself from going at a dead sprint. Only when her bedroom door was closed and locked behind her did Hermione allow herself to breathe, and to think. 

She had to draw a veil over tonight, or she risked ruining everything. What they had right now was working, it was all she could handle at the moment. She couldn’t handle questions, or arguments about what might have been, and she certainly couldn’t handle feelings , regardless of whether they were hers or not. She couldn’t keep doing this — letting him make pancakes, dance with her, none of it. It was too dangerous, too close to something that was always just out of reach. 

Hermione could do it. She could act as if nothing had happened, as if Harry hadn’t just turned back time. And she was sure that he would follow her lead on this. 

It was a grim prospect, but it was necessary. And with that, Hermione set her jaw and went about pouring herself into bed.

The following afternoon, Hermione stepped out of her local Waitrose and squinted in the bright grey daylight. It was cold but dry, and she buried her nose in her scarf, then realized that her new nose was much bigger than her old one. 

She was in disguise, as was Harry, who was currently sporting the guise of a portly elderly man with a funny walk. Hermione was posing as his middle-aged daughter, who apparently had a nose the size of a warship. It was precaution, of course, and the result of Alpha team’s superb sneakiness in selecting a set of hairs. But they only had the one hour Polyjuice afforded them, and the shop had been so crowded that time was running short — and Harry had to be back to hand her off to Thistlewhit, who would take over until his return the following day. 

“Come along now, Belinda,” said Harry loudly, affecting a pompous and merry voice that suited his disguise all too well. 

“Don’t push it, Harry,” she muttered, but followed him all the same. 

The Waitrose opened on a small square that channeled the overflow from a spread of different shops, and Harry was leading her through the crowd of customers to the opposite end, where they would Apparate behind a pile of dumpsters. It wasn’t the best scenario, by any means, but Hermione still insisted on doing her shopping herself, so it was the only option.

There was a large raised seating platform at the center of the square, coated in mosaics and currently occupied by what seemed to be half of the English public school system. Hermione rolled her eyes at the teenagers, because really , who hung around in freezing weather like that?!

“Harry,” she hissed, after just barely dodging a trio of young girls squealing about something called Tickity Tock. “Harry, really, slow down—”

But she never heard his reply, because just then, gunfire exploded across the square. 

Hermione dropped her bags and dove for a nearby bin, crouching behind it and covering her head, adrenaline flooding cool and hot through her veins. Her ears were ringing from the shots, and everyone around her was screaming, running for cover, more than one person tripped over her feet, but she didn’t care, because—

“Harry!” she screamed, trying to spot him through the chaos, but it was useless, people were stampeding and ducking for cover, it was chaos, utter chaos—

A hand gripped her arm and she shrieked, whipping her wand out of her inner coat pocket, but then she realized—

“Minister,” grunted Harry. He was on the ground a mere foot away from her, less than an arm’s length from the bin. The Polyjuice had worn off — either from the time limit or the shock, she wasn’t sure — and his face — what she could see of it — was pale and strained. “Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” she said, breathless, and inched closer to him. As best as she could tell, the gunman had been on the opposite side of the square, directly across from them. She couldn’t learn more without standing up, and she wasn’t about to leave Harry. The chaos continued around them, but there hadn’t been any more shots, so maybe— “You?” 

Harry winced, then made a strange grunting sound. “I’m hit. But the rest of the team—”

She never got to find out what the rest of Alpha team was doing. Because just then, the platform at the center of the square exploded. 

The impact threw Hermione back down to the ground, and it took her almost a minute to recover. Head throbbing, eyes blurry, ears ringing, she squinted in the direction of the blast, trying to figure out whether it had been magical or Muggle. The square was all but empty at this point, and any stragglers had been flattened by the explosion. None of them were moving, and Hermione’s stomach lurched. 

“—ter! Minister!” Harry bellowed. 

Hermione frowned, turning her attention back to him. He’d recovered enough energy to move closer to her, and he was reaching for her, his hand pale with dust from the blast. She looked down and realized that dust was settling on her as well, along with chunks of broken concrete. 

She reached for Harry, knowing that they only had to clasp hands to Apparate away, but then, when she tried to take a breath, she realized that she couldn’t.

“Minister?!” Harry yelled, and suddenly he was above her, staring down at her, and she was on her back, chunks of concrete digging into her spine. “Minister!”

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe. Her hands scrabbled at her chest and her neck, desperate to free herself from something that wasn’t there, and her lungs were on fire, burning and bubbling in her chest—

“Hermione!” Harry’s hands were on her face, and there were tears in his eyes, and he looked so angry and so scared and—

Her breath returned with an echoing rattle, and she lurched onto her side, violent coughs wracking her body. It blinded her, overwhelmed her, made her body seize and shake, and it was only in the briefest lucid moment between fits that she realized the ground below her was sprayed with dark, crimson blood, blood that was coming from her mouth.

Harry was speaking into his walkie-talkie: “Get Mungo’s here now — Code Red, Code Red, the Minister is down, I repeat, the Minister is down—”

Black spots exploded across her vision and she slumped back down to the ground, her lungs threatening to rip themselves from her body. Liquid — what she now realized was blood — gurgled up her throat and she choked, too weak to fight it off. She stared up into the cool grey sky, the pain fading into the background, and she absently wondered what would happen to her shopping. 

Harry’s hands on her, his face just inches away. “Stay with me, Hermione, God, please stay with me—”

The grey sky was turning to black, and she reached for him, and—

“Happy New Year, ’Mione!”

She glanced up at him from her novel and smiled. “Happy New Year, Harry.”

He took the chair across from her while Ron sat down beside her on the couch. Ron gave her a smile and squeezed her hand, and Harry dropped his gaze. After what seemed like months of tiptoeing, these two appeared to be on solid ground. All for the best, he reminded himself. At the very least, it gave him a break from Ron’s moaning. 

“Missed you on the train,” Harry continued, which was an understatement of the blinding panic that had taken hold of him when she’d failed to show up to their usual compartment. Thankfully, he’d received an owl from McGonagall not five minutes later, assuring him that Hermione would be at Hogwarts when they returned. He and Ron had only just made their way up from the Entrance Hall, the fresh snow still drying on their shoes.

Hermione shook her head, closing her book. Crookshanks was curled up beside her, and his tail twitched as she moved. Now that she had her hair in braids, he could see more of her face, and she looked tired. “There was a Portkey delay at the French Ministry. I ended up taking the Floo from the Gare de Lyon, straight to the British Ministry, and from there, to McGonagall’s office. I got in maybe an hour ago?”

“Blimey.” Ron sank back into the cushions. “That’s a lot of hops for one day.”

“Portkey delay,” Harry repeated, frowning. “Why?” 

Hermione gave him a warning look, the one he knew to mean ‘don’t get mad.’ “That’s been happening a lot, apparently. There have been intermittent transportation delays across Europe ever since the War. No real rhyme or reason to it, but my guess is it’s a security precaution.”

“You’re joking,” Ron scoffed. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry added. “The country’s been stable for, what—”

“Eight months, maybe?” Hermione cut in, giving him that sly, knowing smirk of hers that challenged every competitive bone in his body. 

“Well,” said Harry, still heated. “That’s certainly better than the past five years!” 

“Yeah,” said Ron, “but that’s the frogs for you. Worrying themselves to death over nothing.”

“Honestly, Ron.” Hermione rolled her eyes, then glanced around. Most of the students were still making their way to their dormitories, since dinner wouldn’t be served for another half-hour. “Where’s Ginny?”

She’d sounded almost tentative. Harry caught her gaze and said, “She’s off meeting Luna’s new canary. She’ll be along in a minute.”

Hermione nodded. She held his gaze for another long, inscrutable moment, then looked away, biting her lip.

Harry felt a weird jolt in his stomach. He could still remember, with frightening clarity, how warm and plush her mouth had been against his own, the way she’d shuddered and melted into his arms when—

Ron sat up and clapped his hands together. “Chess, anyone?”

Hermione dignified that with a snort and opened her book again, settling into the cushions. 

“I’ll play,” said Harry, all too glad for the distraction. 

Ron went to fetch his chess set from the dormitory, and once he was gone, Harry and Hermione sat in relative silence for several moments. Around them, the controlled chaos of students returning from the holidays continued, someone put on the wireless, and the fire crackled. 

“What are you reading?” Harry found himself asking. 

Hermione spared him a glance. “David Copperfield. I always—”

“Read it around Christmas, I know.” 

Hermione looked at him now, really looked at him, but before he could say anything else, Ginny plopped herself into Harry’s lap and gave him a kiss. 

“What did I miss?” she asked him, grinning, then finally noticed that they weren’t alone. “Oh, hello, Hermione! Good holiday?”

Hermione gave her a thin smile. “Great, thanks. And you?”

“Brilliant,” Ginny replied, and she reached for Harry’s hand. He stared down at their intertwined fingers, unable to shake the feeling that he was watching this play out from someone else’s body, someone else’s life. It still didn’t feel real. None of it did.

Ron reappeared, chess set in tow. “All right, Harry, two chocolate frogs say I take your bishop in the first ten minutes.”

February brought the feeblest rays of sun back to the snow-covered highlands, but Calgrave was still determinedly dismal. Harry frowned up at the dark grey sky, and Teddy cooed in his arms as if sensing his unease. 

“It’s all right, little man.” Harry gave the baby a bit of a jiggle and got a gurgle of delight. “Harry just hates the rain, that’s all.” 

“’Arry!” Teddy poked him in the cheek. “’Arry, ’Arry!”

Andromeda’s new cottage was snug and warm, an oasis in the midst of the dull winter. She now lived in a small Wizarding village near Nottingham, far away from London and Sussex and all the memories she couldn’t afford to entertain. She worked in a little Wizarding nursery school around the corner, where Teddy spent most of his days, and Harry couldn’t think of a better situation for his young godson. And, he could have the assurance that Teddy was growing up away from prying eyes, from scandal, from reporters who didn’t seem to know when to stop. Teddy had rolling hills, fresh cow’s milk, a forest to prowl through, a creek to splash in, and his own bedroom full of the best toys. (Harry had discovered he had quite a spending problem when it came to family.) What more could a young child need or want, he often found himself wondering. What more could there be, other than this?

Harry brushed a kiss to Teddy’s neon red hair, inhaling some of his delightful, warm scent. It was getting more and more difficult to go back after days like this, to switch from pseudo-parent to teenaged war veteran. More exhausting. Less rewarding. A part of him, a part he always tried to ignore, just wanted to stay here. To stay here and grow old while Teddy grew up. 

“There we are!” Andromeda appeared with a bottle in hand. Her long, greying hair was falling out of its loose bun, but otherwise, she was completely put-together, as usual. She passed him the bottle with a smile. “He’ll be ready for a nap once he’s gotten that down.” 

“I hope so, I thought that walk would do him in for sure.” Harry shifted Teddy onto his back and popped the bottle into his mouth. Teddy went after it like an animal, and both Harry and Andromeda laughed. 

“Has he gotten better about eating his greens?”

Andromeda nodded, wiggling Teddy’s foot. “He ate a whole portion of beans and spinach just yesterday.”

Harry blinked. That was a huge change. “How on earth did you manage that?”

Andromeda flashed him a grin. It made her look younger. “I mixed it with his sweet potatoes. Don’t tell.” 

Once Teddy was down for the count, Harry made his way to the Floo with reluctance. After he put his cloak on, Andromeda pulled him into a hug, and he let her, wrapping his arms around her small, delicate frame. It seemed that he’d grown again, because he had to hunch over a bit to rest his chin on her shoulder. 

She released him and rubbed his arm, her gaze searching. “We’ll come up north once the weather warms up a little. I haven’t been to Hogsmeade in years, and Teddy will love Zonko’s.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll try to visit again before the end of the month.”

“No pressure, Harry.” She rubbed his arm again. “It’s your final year. You should enjoy it.”

An unexpected lump rose in Harry’s throat. “I know.”

Andromeda was still giving him that look, like she was trying to find something in his face and failing. “Are you doing all right, Harry?”

He nodded, fighting the urge to step away. “Yeah, of course.”

She clearly didn’t believe him, but she nodded. 

Harry landed on McGonagall’s hearth with a shiver, and he looked round to see the Headmistress at her desk, in the middle of writing something. She glanced up at him with her usual enigmatic expression, and he smiled. 

“I trust you had a productive afternoon, Mr. Potter?” 

“Yes, thank you, Headmistress.” He brushed a bit of soot off his shoulders. “Once again, I very much appreciate you allowing me to use your Floo.”

McGonagall waved a dismissive hand. “You’ve been doing so since the beginning of the school year. I believe we can dispense with the niceties.” 

Harry grinned. “Understood.” He made for the door, turning his back on the office that was so familiar and so foreign all at once. “Have a good evening, Professor.”

“And you, Mr. Potter.” 

The castle was quiet and cold, which was par for the course on a wintery weekend afternoon. Harry pulled his cloak tighter around his frame and cast a discreet Warming Spell; he’d become more susceptible to catching a chill since his tenure in the tent. 

He still had some time before dinner, and an unfinished Defense essay that was, unfortunately, calling his name. So he made his way to Gryffindor tower, and into a common room that was much quieter and emptier than he’d expected. He’d left his school bag by his favorite table near the fire, and after taking off his cloak, he pulled out his essay, quill, ink, and his Defense textbook. 

It was only then, once he’d helped himself to a biscuit or two out of his personal stash, that he realized Hermione was in her usual armchair, head down, her back to him, fiddling with something that looked a lot like knitting. 

“Hermione,” he said, more out of surprise than anything else. “You’re not in the library.” She’d been holding herself — and, occasionally, him and Ron — to a NEWTs study schedule that was ruthless at best, evil at worst. It was incredibly rare to find her here, in the common room, on a weekend afternoon. 

She glanced at him over her shoulder, and he felt a strange swooping sensation in his stomach, because her eyes were a bit red and her whole face was puffy. He knew that look so well by now that he felt a sudden burn of anger — he wanted nothing more than to punish the person who had made her cry, to turn back time and make it all disappear.

“Oh, I.” She looked down again, a bit dazed. “I finished early, so I came back here.” 

“Right.” Harry fiddled with his quill. “What are you making?”

Hermione sighed, then frowned. “A cowl, but it’s not going well.” She glanced at him. “I don’t suppose Teddy’s in need of another blanket?”

Harry fought off a grin. She’d already made him three. “Sure.” 

“That’ll be my back-up plan, then. What are you working on?”

“Defense. I’m guessing you already—”

“Two days ago.” She put down her knitting and rolled up her yarn. “Are you stuck?”

“Yeah,” he found himself saying, even though he wasn’t. “Yeah, I am, a bit.” 

“What on?” Hermione came over and settled down across from him. Underneath the puffiness, she was alert, sharp, ready. An expression he had seen countless times, one that meant pressing on in spite of what she was feeling, one that he’d wished to never see again. 

“The feeding patterns,” he replied. “You know I’m useless at geography.”

They then passed a very fruitful hour or two discussing the different characteristics of a banshee, where Muggle and Magical folklore overlapped and where they differed, and whether banshees could potentially be manipulated by the whims of Dark wizards. Harry finished his essay with ease, and he found himself enjoying this, the simplicity of being a student again, of being able to distract Hermione, even if only for a short period. When the time came to go down to dinner, he packed up his things while Hermione stood and stretched. Her face was clearer now, brighter, and Harry felt a tingle of relief. 

“I meant to ask,” she said, as they stepped through the portrait hole. “How are Teddy and Andromeda?”

“Very well,” he replied, unable to hold back a smile. “Teddy’s walking more and more, he’ll be a nightmare in no time. And his hair changes so often, Andromeda thinks it won’t be long until he can do parts of his face. He’s right about where Tonks started doing it.” 

“That’s great!” And it sounded like she meant it. She even offered a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You must miss him.”

Again, a funny feeling in his stomach, and he could only nod. As they joined the flow of students heading for the Great Hall, he leaned in a little closer and said, “Are you all right?” 

Hermione took a quick breath, her knuckles turning white on the bannister of the staircase. “Yes, I’m— It’s nothing, really, I was just being silly—”

“What happened?”

She glanced at him, and he was surprised to see anger as well as hurt in her eyes. “Another stupid fight, that’s all. But I don’t see what business it is of yours.”

That stung. He stared at her, unable to understand what was happening. “Hermione, if someone’s upsetting you, then—”

“Then what, Harry?” Her voice was brittle, ruthless, and she turned away from him. They were almost at the Entrance Hall now. “Just forget it.”

He was completely lost. “But Hermione—”

She marched ahead of him, getting to the Great Hall before he did. When he managed to catch up, she was sitting with Luna and Hannah at the Ravenclaw table, already tucking into a plate of Shepherd’s Pie. She didn’t even glance at him as he made his way to the Gryffindor table, where Ginny was sitting with some of her friends. There was no sign of Ron anywhere. 

Grinny looked up and smiled at him as he sat down. “Hey, stranger! Where did you disappear off to today?” 

It took Harry a few seconds to shift his utter confusion from Hermione to his girlfriend, and Ginny gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Ginny, I— I was with Teddy today, I told you last night.”

Her eyes widened a bit, then she shrugged, going back to her meal. “Sorry, must’ve slipped my mind.”

“S’okay,” he said, glancing over at Hermione again. He’d thought things were better between them, but maybe, he realized, he’d been wrong.

In mid-April, high winds rolled through the grounds of Hogwarts and cancelled two weeks’ worth of Quidditch practices. Students who dared to venture into Hogsmeade returned with wind-burned faces, streaming eyes, and a persistent shiver that turned into a cough if you didn’t take a dose of Pepper-Up right away. Even most Care of Magical Creatures lessons had been moved into the castle for the time being, which proved to be most entertaining when a young Niffler broke ranks and ended up nestled behind one of the tapestries on the fourth floor, half of the school’s watches tucked in its paws. 

The winds beset the castle at all hours of the day, and managed to squeeze into every possible nook and cranny — moans, groans, and howls had all become part of Hogwarts daily life. Flitwick had resorted to Sonorous more than once to make himself heard, and students walked the halls wearing ear muffs and hats. Silencing Charms ran amok in the dormitories, especially at night, along with Warming Chams and huge piles of bedding to drown the noise as well as the sharp, tingling cold that seemed to follow every gust. 

It’s the wind, Harry thought desperately as he watched the glow-in-the-dark hands of his watch tick closer to three in the morning. It has to be the wind.

That had to be the explanation, though insomnia was not new to him. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a solid night’s sleep, certainly not since coming back to Hogwarts. Perhaps at Christmas, when he’d finally collapsed in Andromeda’s guest room and slept undisturbed for a full fourteen hours. Exhaustion seemed to chase him everywhere in the castle, slipping through the shadows of the past, of the dead and wounded, of the faces of schoolmates he’d never seen again. He felt it most at times like this, in the dead of night, when the dark of his single room was inky-black and infinite. Completely different from and exactly the same as King’s Cross. 

It would be different, he thought now, rolling over to catch a glimpse of the skirting clouds through his velvet curtains. It would be different if it weren’t so quiet.

Because it was, inside Harry’s head. He’d expected, even wanted, to be haunted by everything, to carry the burden of all his trauma. To have his ears ring with the screams of the dying, the burn of rebounding spells. But it was as if someone had closed the door on a chapter he hadn’t yet finished reading, and sealed the book under lock and key. He couldn’t open it again, wittingly or not. It was normal, according to his Healer, but Harry wasn’t sure he believed that any normal standards could be applied to his situation. What can you tell someone who stared Death in the face and bowed to it, only to awaken to a world hardly better than the one he’d left? 

This wasn’t to say that he didn’t have nightmares, because he did. Infrequently — sometimes several nights in a row, sometimes not for several weeks — but often enough that he knew the greatest hits. Drowning in the lake, Godric’s sword just out of reach; swallowing Fiendfyre until his lungs burned red and gold and he swallowed all of Hogwarts in a burst of rage; suffocated by the roots of the Forbidden Forest, his parents’ faces melting into branches burnt black by the Killing Curse; Hermione’s shriek of agony at the sight of his dead body, then her brown eyes dull, her skin ashen, blood pooling beneath her body and the bodies of all the people he—

Harry sat up, scrubbing a hand through his hair, irritation burning beneath his skin. This was pointless. He had to get out of here, to do something else. He got out of bed, shoved on his glasses, then pulled on another two sweaters, another pair of pajama pants, another pair of socks, and his slippers, then pocketed his wand as well as his Invisibility Cloak. He didn’t know where he was going, but it didn’t matter. 

The wind whistled through the eaves as Harry made his way down the otherwise silent tower. As he passed the bedrooms of his classmates, he couldn’t suppress a tinge of jealousy — they were probably all fast asleep, or close enough to it not to know the difference. 

But, he was proved wrong when he stepped into the common room and found that one of the armchairs by the fire was occupied by what looked to be a life-size marshmallow. A marshmallow with a sort of frighteningly huge bun on top of its head. 

Harry hesitated, then steeled himself and went over to the fireplace. They were the only two who were awake, so he couldn’t just pretend that he hadn’t seen her. “Morning,” he murmured, taking a seat on the adjacent sofa. 

Hermione blinked, coming back from wherever she’d been as she gazed into the fire. She was wrapped in a fluffy white comforter with only her head and her hands visible above the folds, and her braids were piled into a crooked bun that must’ve weighed about ten pounds. She squinted at him, apparently irritated, though not surprised. “Morning.”

“Good book?” he asked her, rubbing his hands together for warmth. The wind, which had calmed down for a few minutes, whistled past the windows, making them rattle. 

She glanced down at her lap, at the open book that she apparently had not been reading. It was massive, and it looked old. “Yes,” Hermione said. “Fascinating.” 

Harry tilted his head to see the cover. “Magycal Humours And How to Balance Them,” he read aloud. “Light reading?”

Hermione ignored him, closing the book and putting it down on the coffee table. “Why are you—?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Harry sank back into the cushions. “You?”

Hermione shook her head, her gaze drifting back to the fire. Her expression was closed-off and naked all at once, a vat of raw and suppressed emotion. It made his tongue stick in his mouth. He didn’t know what to say to that, to any of it.

So they sat there, in silence save for the wind and the crackling of the fire, for long enough that Harry forgot to check his watch. It was so similar to the many nights they’d shared in the tent, and so completely different. Now they were warm, healthy, well-fed, and the only thing they had to worry about were their exams. The war was over. Voldemort and all the shattered pieces of his soul were gone. Hermione’s parents knew her again, and had held her for what must’ve been hours after she’d managed to reverse the Memory Spell. He could remember that moment with distinct clarity, waiting just outside the sitting room in their Australian house, tense and jittery from the anxiety he’d seen in Hermione’s face for far too long. He could remember the way her mother had gasped, her father weeping, the thud of their knees hitting the floor as all three of them fell into a joyful, messy hug in the middle of the room. 

He’d been an outsider then, just as he was still an outsider now. The interviews, the speeches, the commemorative plaques and statues, the annual minute of silence, all of it had catapulted him to a level of notoriety he had, foolishly, not expected. Harry had tried to push recognition onto some of the other heroes from the Battle, but it hadn’t worked — the Wizarding public had known his name since he was a baby, and that wasn’t about to change, scar or no scar. Said scar had all but faded away now, and he no longer carried the fear of not knowing what he might be capable of. Now, he knew. 

He knew he was capable of feeling alone in a room full of people. He knew he could kill. He knew he could make a passable dinner or two — usually pasta. He knew he was a miserable packer, especially for international travel. He knew he still had trouble tying a tie. He knew his temper was somehow shorter and longer, now. He knew how to torture someone and make it count. He knew how Hermione liked her eggs — sunny side-up — and her weak spot for room service. He knew he would die for her, just to forget that sound she’d made when she saw him in Hagrid’s arms. 

“D’you ever miss Australia?” he said aloud, breaking their silence. 

It took a moment to register. Hermione blinked, looking away from the fire to shoot him her trademark old-fashioned look, the one she’d been giving him ever since they’d met. He didn’t think she was aware of it, half the time. “Pardon?”

“Australia,” Harry repeated. “I know we were only there for—”

“Yes. No.” Hermione shook her head, frowning now. “I don’t know.”

Harry nodded, letting a few memories flicker past him. Getting to the hotel in downtown Melbourne, meeting a few officials at the local branch of the Australian Ministry, shaking hands with the Australian Minister for Magic. Walking along the beach, watching Hermione think her way through what would probably be the most difficult conversation she’d ever have in her life. Sand in her hair, sun in her eyes. Room service and bad movies in her room the night before they went to her parents’ house, when she was too keyed-up to sleep and he was too paranoid to let her sit it out in a room with multiple entry points. Lots of to-go coffee the next morning, burning his tongue before he followed her into their home. A seafront dinner when they celebrated, Mr. Granger popping a bottle of champagne, Hermione’s face shining with joy in the blood-red sunset. It didn’t matter, in that moment, that Ron wasn’t there. 

He was mourning, Hermione had said. She couldn’t ask him to travel halfway across the world mere weeks after Fred’s funeral. 

“I liked the beach,” Harry found himself saying, even though he knew he should drop it. “And that park by the hotel, the one next to the bridge.”

To his surprise, Hermione smiled. “The one with that sculpture?”

Something jolted in his stomach and he fought the urge to smile back. “Yeah.”

Hermione snorted. “I still don’t understand how they allowed that thing in a public place.”

Harry chuckled. “I think it was inspired—”

“It was…” She shook her head. “Harry, it was lewd. And just awful.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were an art critic now—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s just an objective—”

She was interrupted by a crisp pop! as Kreacher appeared beside the fire, a small rag in one hand an unamused expression on his face. 

“Kreacher was waiting,” he growled, shuffling closer to the fire. “He was waiting to clean until the common room was empty. But it seems that Master Harry and Miss Granger have forgotten the way to their bedchambers this evening.”

Harry grinned at him. “Hello, Kreacher.”

Kreacher gave him, then Hermione, a short bow. “Please excuse me, Master Harry, but I must tend to the fire.” With a snap of his fingers, the flames shrank, the ashes disappeared, and the fire banked itself. It was still warm, but Harry felt as if he’d just been splashed with cold water. 

“Chilly night, isn’t it, Kreacher?” he said.

“Indeed, Master.” Kreacher was wiping down the coffee table now, and Hermione lifted her book out of his way. “Headmistress McGonagall has given us all more bedding and extra sweaters to wear outside of the kitchens.” And he was indeed wearing a small black sweater with the Hogwarts crest on it.

“That’s good,” said Hermione, kindly. “Sorry to keep you up, Kreacher.”

“Not at all, Miss,” Kreacher replied. He glanced at both of them, in a shrewd way that instantly made Harry suspicious. “Is there something wrong with your bedchambers?”

An awkward silence fell, and Harry did not look at Hermione. “No,” he said, fighting a blush. “No, we just… well…”

It was silent again, and Kreacher just… looked at them. “Kreacher understands,” he said, going back to wiping up the coffee table. He clicked his long fingers again. The remaining trash scattered around the room vanished, and the furniture straightened itself out. Chairs scooted back under tables, books stacked themselves, and cushions plumped up. “Kreacher must be going.”

“Goodnight,” Harry said. 

Kreacher gave him another bow. “Goodnight, Master Harry.” Then he turned and did the same to Hermione. “Miss Granger.” He vanished with another pop! and Harry felt some part of himself unclench. 

“He’s gotten so much better, Harry,” said Hermione, flashing him a small smile. “Really, he has. A year ago he never would’ve worn that sweater, no matter how cold it got.”

“I know,” Harry replied, feeling a small burst of pride. He’d put in a lot of work with Kreacher after the war, and it seemed to be paying off. He checked his watch and saw that it was now close to four o’clock in the morning. His mind, his eyes, his body, ached with tiredness, but he was wired, electric, almost jumpy. The thought of going to sleep now seemed impossible. 

Hermione suddenly sat up with a gasp, staring at hearth. “Harry, look!”

He did, and his mouth fell open.

Sitting on the hearth, just inches in front of the fire, was a small feast. A fresh carafe of steaming hot cocoa, another of coffee. A plate of croissants and sliced baguette, another filled with ham and cheese sandwiches, and a third with sputtering sausages and freshly-fried eggs. There were even a few apples tucked in around the plates for good measure, along with a pile of napkins, forks, and some mugs.

“No way,” he breathed, sitting up. “Kreacher sent us a midnight feast.”

Hermione just shook her head, speechless. But she made no move towards the food, either.

Harry didn’t waste any time — he was suddenly starving, and the hurried plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding he’d had at supper felt like a lifetime ago. Sitting down in front of the fire, he went for the coffee first, pouring himself a mug and stuffing half a croissant into his mouth. The pastry was fresh and buttery, and the coffee was piping hot and delicious. He slugged down half a mug before he realized Hermione hadn’t moved an inch.

Harry swallowed heavily. “Come on, it’ll get cold.”

But she looked torn. “Harry, d’you think he woke them up just to—”

Harry snorted. “Kreacher’s not that popular. He probably just heated it up and sent it on its way, you know most of the elves are asleep by now.”

“I suppose,” Hermion said, pained, but he could see her wavering.

Harry tossed a ham sandwich into her lap. “There’s no point in griping, he’s already done it. Come on.” 

That did the trick. She inhaled the ham sandwich and slid down to the floor, tucking her comforter in around her. Now, she resembled a beehive. 

Harry poured her a cup of hot cocoa and after that, it was as if a dam had broken. They ate and spoke in whispers, stifling their laughter in the sleeves of their sweaters. They talked about everything and nothing, rehashing stories that were years old, trading details of their first eleven years in a Muggle-only world. The wind continued to howl around them, but it faded into the background as the night melted into further infinity. 

Eventually, Harry ended up in Hermione’s armchair, slumped and dazed from the food. She was still curled up on the floor, polishing off her last bit of sausage, staring into the fire. 

“Why do you do that?” he murmured, before he could stop himself.

Hermione’s gaze did not falter. She chewed and swallowed, still staring into the orange embers. “I don’t know. I find it comforting.”

“Oh.” He shifted a little, the upholstery soft and plush beneath his head. He could see why Hermione liked this chair so much — it was so old that it had lost all of its rigidity. “I see.”

She did look at him then, shooting him this smile that was so small, so gentle, it made his stomach do this weird, twisty thing that, had he been more awake, would’ve freaked him out. But he just smiled at her in return, and she held his gaze for another moment, then turned back to the fire, brushing a stray crumb off her cheek. 

Harry watched her, her nimble fingers, her feet buried in the comforter, her hair threatening to create its own orbit. She glowed, and the night ebbed around her. He felt his eyes slipping shut, and he didn’t bother to fight it. 

What felt like only minutes later, he felt a hand on his shoulder, then his arm. He jerked awake, going for his wand, the breath freezing in his lungs. 

It was Ginny, her hands up in a placating gesture, her eyes huge as she knelt in front of him. She was dressed, a Weasley Wheezes beanie pulled down snugly over her ears, and the room around her was bright with fresh yellow sunshine. 

Harry blinked, slowly realizing the situation. The few other students in the room were staring at him, fascinated and a little repulsed all at once. “Gin?”

“You were asleep,” she murmured, concern and confusion warring equally in her voice. “I went to your room and you weren’t there.”

“Oh.” Harry felt his heart rate begin to return to normal. He stowed his wand and sat up. “What time is it?”

“Nearly nine,” Ginny replied. “I thought you’d want to get out of here before everyone—”

Of course. It was a Sunday. He nodded once, pulled himself up out of the chair. Every part of his body creaked and groaned in protest — sleeping in a chair definitely wasn’t on his list of things to repeat — but it gave him the chance to take a look around the room. There was no sign of Hermione, and the remains of their late-night feast had likewise disappeared. Harry shoved a hand through his hair, then stretched, popping a few joints in the process. 

“Why were you sleeping down here?” said Ginny, still using that hushed tone that he felt belonged more in a hospital than a common room. “Did something happen?”

Harry took one look at the panic and concern warring equally on her face and shook his head. “Got up to wander around a bit, ended up falling asleep. Nothing to it.”

Ginny nodded, but she clearly didn’t believe him. “All right. Are you coming to breakfast?”

Harry’s stomach was as heavy as a ball of lead, but he nodded as he made his way to the staircase. “Yeah, be down in just a minute.”

He didn’t see Hermione at all that day, until he went to the library that evening to finish a bit of research for Potions. He noticed her from a distance, sitting at her usual table, across from Malfoy — something that he still didn’t understand — stifling a laugh in the middle of her textbook, her eyes dancing above the pages. 

“Must’ve been a killer joke,” he muttered, yanking his book from the shelf with a little more force than was necessary.

NEWTs were only a few days away, and it was as if someone had performed one large, group spell on all of the seventh years. With each hour that passed, they seemed to become more panicked — their eyes twitched, their shoulders tensed, they chewed their nails to gritty stumps, they burst into tears or shudders with little to no provocation. It was about as entertaining as it was frightening, and Harry found himself wondering, more than once, how this group of teenagers had defeated some of the Darkest wizards in history without batting an eye but were rendered useless by a couple of exams. Really, he thought, grabbing Hermione’s arm in time to stop her from pouring tea onto her eggs. Maybe all they need is another lunatic to throw some spells at.  

It was Tuesday, the morning of their second-to-last review day. The exams began at eight o’clock sharp on Thursday, and Harry was beginning to worry that his best friends wouldn’t make it. Hermione clearly hadn’t slept the night before, and was muttering various Transfiguration laws under her breath. Ron was staring down at the tabletop, his eyes unfocused, his hand raised in midair, tracing the shape of a spell that Harry couldn’t place. Harry shook his head, swapping the pot of tea for a platter of sausages just in time — Hermione flicked some of the sausages onto her plate, not even watching what she was doing. 

Satisfied that no one was about to do irreparable damage to either themselves or their meal, Harry went back to his porridge. He wasn’t particularly nervous about the exams because he’d been studying quite hard for the past few months, more than he had for any other test in his Hogwarts career. Part of it was Hermione’s unavoidable influence, part of it was to set a good example for the sure-to-be-miscreant he had for a godson, and part of it was the excuse to do something other than think about what he was going to do after Hogwarts. 

As if the universe had heard him, the morning’s mail appeared. Harry glanced up, feeling a slight tingle of foreboding, and saw three nondescript owls heading for him. 

One owl was for the Quibbler, which he paid for and immediately sent away again. The other two had thick envelopes tied to their legs, and Harry fumbled to untie them. He was thankful that his friends were too distracted to notice any of this — otherwise, there would be questions, questions that he couldn’t answer. 

Once the owls were gone, Harry forced himself to take a breath. He wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else until he opened these letters. So with a quick, wandless spell, he cut both of them open, unfurled the first, and read it under the table. 

3 June 1999

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to offer you a place as an Apprentice Teacher at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in the Department of   Defense Against the Dark Arts   under Professor   R. MacIlvy . As a part of this program, you will receive a small stipend, room and board in one of our fine lodgings, and compensation for travel expenses. Enrollment in this program requires you to fulfill two years’ obligatory assistance to your Professor, and to complete a Master Thesis to demonstrate competency in your chosen field.

The letter went on, but Harry folded it back up, his heart thudding in his throat. This application had been a complete shot in the dark, something he’d done during one of those countless sleepless nights when the idea of making a future, a career, among the same people who had hated him not five years before, was more repulsive than he could express. Something he had done without considering the consequences, with the same blind faith as jumping off a cliff just a smidge too high above the water.

He knew it was impossible. He knew he couldn’t leave Teddy and Andromeda like that—

They could go with you, came that tiny, infuriating voice in the back of his head. They could live in Boston or New York, Andromeda could get away from all the shadows of her past, you could start again, could build something new—

Harry opened the second letter, hoping that none of his emotions were showing in his face. Hermione and Ron were still lost in their own worlds — Hermione now had some flashcards in hand, and Ron was repeating a list of potion ingredients under his breath. 

3 June 1999

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are excited and pleased to offer you a place as   Seeker   for   Puddlemere United, with the chance of a place on the   England National Team. Under normal circumstances, players enter the team with a Reserve standing, but given your record and natural ability, we are waiving this requirement and offering you a place as a Starter. Annual salaries are ranked by tenure, but we are happy to offer you a competitive package, along with assistance for relocation, and suitable accommodation. Training begins on   25 July 1998. Please reply immediately if you would like to move forward with this opportunity.

Harry folded the letter up, crumpling the edges a little in his haste. His heart was pounding painfully fast now, and he stuffed both the letters into the pocket of his robes, shoving them as far out of sight as he could. 

This action finally caught Hermione’s attention. She broke out of her reverie and frowned at him, her eyes asking a silent question. 

“Sorry,” he said, shoving a spoonful of lukewarm porridge in his mouth. “So what’s on the agenda today, apart from you taking a nap?”

Harry was three NEWTs down, with three to go, and he was losing his mind. 

Not because of the exams — no, they were well under control, and nothing compared to, you know, the multiple times he’d had to fight for his life — but because of the damn letters. 

Every time he sat down to study or even to take an exam, he couldn’t stop a tidal wave of images featuring all of his potential futures. It was like the greatest hits of all his possible lives, and it was maddening. He could see it all clear as day; all he had to do was close his eyes — 

Walking in through the front doors of Ilvermorny, his robes fresh from the tailor, Teddy perched on his hip, pointing and cooing at all the sights and wonders of the new school. Marching onto the Puddlemere field, his wrist guards shiny and unbroken, Oliver Wood slapping him on the shoulder in greeting, the morning sun burning their eyes. Striding into the British Ministry, into a lifelong career doing the very thing he’d had to do since age eleven, all on his own, never able to trust anyone—

“That’s it.” Hermione plopped down next to him, tossing a few braids over her shoulder. She shoved one of her stacks of flashcards — these were blue, with green borders — into his hands. Her tiny writing was cramped into every possible inch of space, and it made his eyes swim. “I’ve got Charms coming out of my ears now, I can’t do it any longer. Quiz me.”

This was clearly History of Magic, and Harry had never felt more grateful that he hadn’t chosen to keep taking it. He let out a breath, fanning the cards, his gaze still on the rolling green lawns far below. The ghosts of his future were still there, just out of reach, and something about it dampened the sunshine, made the window seat feel cold and impersonal. 

Hermione clicked her fingers in front of his eyes and he jumped. She was looking at him, concern evident in her features, and her other hand was on his arm. 

“Right,” he said, sitting up. “Sorry.”

“Harry,” she said, all quiet. “What’s wrong?”

His heart stuttered a little. He’d forgotten how easily she could read him, better than anyone he knew. “Nothing.”

She gave him one of her trademark looks. This one said ‘come on, you know I’m not that stupid.’ It was one he knew well. 

Harry sighed. “Like a dog with a bone.”

He got a pinch on the arm for that one.

“All right, all right.” Harry pushed a hand through his hair, dropping his gaze. “I’ve just got something on my mind, and I can’t—” He broke off, glancing around the common room. “I can’t talk about it here.”

Hermione took this all in, her gaze thoughtful and searching. After a moment, she leaned back a little. “Something,” she echoed. 

“Something… big,” he said, then winced. This was all becoming very dramatic. “Listen, can we just… talk about it later? Somewhere we can’t be overheard?”

He could practically see her weighing the scenario in her head. It was Saturday evening, they only had another thirty-six hours or so before their next exam, and Hermione Granger did not compromise her study time. But then, to his surprise, she nodded. “Meet me down here at eleven o’clock, all right?”

Harry nodded, hardly able to believe his luck. Nor could he believe that he was really doing this, really telling someone about it. But he knew, almost as well as he knew that Hermione would receive an Outstanding in History of Magic, that she would know what was best. She could help him figure out what he needed to do. 

And with that, he held up the flashcards. “Tell me about Drogomir the Dull.”

Several hours later, the common room was all but deserted. The library hadn’t closed yet, so most of the seventh years weren’t in the tower, and the younger students had called it quits as well. Harry was surprised to find the common room as empty as it was, but that surprise vanished when he saw Hermione waiting for him by the portrait hole, in her pajamas and dressing gown. 

She also had a bag in one hand, and she jerked her head in the direction of the exit. With a nod, he followed her out of the room. 

They didn’t speak as he followed her down the hall, then through a tapestry with a false back, down a hidden flight of stairs, along another hall, and finally, into a disused classroom with a large stone fireplace. Even though it was June, the room was dark and chilly, and Harry suppressed a shiver, waving his hand at the fireplace, conjuring a large fire. The flames reflected cherry-red and gold on the dusty old windows, and Harry leaned against a desk, too jittery to sit down. 

Hermione was busy locking the door, and he heard her mutter a few of the old favorites — Muffliato, Silencio — before she made her way over to him. She set her bag on the neighboring desk with a loud clunk, and Harry’s surprise only tripled when she pulled out a sizable bottle of Firewhisky, followed by two small glasses. 

“What?” she asked him, not bothering to whisper. She looked smug, pleased. “Did you really think I’d come unprepared?”

“No, I— I—” Harry blinked down at the bottle, trying to sort through the different emotions he was feeling. Delight was currently at the head of the pack. “I just didn’t expect—”

Hermione snorted, already pouring them a measure. “Give me a little credit, Harry. I knew that if we could only talk about this in the dead of night, in complete solitude, we’d need a little liquid courage to get through it.”

He grinned in spite of himself. “Hey, the dead of night thing was your idea, not mine.” But he picked up his glass and clinked it against hers. “Besides, we have exams in less than two days.”

“Believe it or not, Harry, over the past year or so I’ve become quite adept at a new skill. I call it seeing the bigger picture.” And with that, Hermione knocked back the entire shot of whisky like it was water. 

Harry stared at her in astonishment. He had no idea, had never even seen her drink—

“Go on, then.” Hermione poured herself another measure and started walking around the room, waving her glass in the air. “Catch up.”

Harry did. The whisky went down like burning liquid ash, but he was so used to it by now he barely even winced. 

“Can you tell me now, or do we have to wait a while for it to kick in?” Hermione dragged her finger along the top of some scattered desks, and a few clouds of silvery dust drifted into the air. 

“We don’t have to wait.” Harry pulled the letters — now worn, rumpled, and smoothed from the number of times he’d reread them — out of his pocket and held them out to her. 

Hermione paused, looking from him to the letters, then back again, almost as if she thought it was a trick. She was striking like this, half of her face bathed in the warm orange glow of the fire, the other in a silvery beam of moonlight. Her hand reached out and plucked the letters from his grip in a movement so quick he almost missed it, then she turned away, moving closer to the fire to read. 

Harry leaned back against his desk again, and poured another glass. He sipped this one, knowing he wouldn’t have to wait for long. 

It took less than a minute. Hermione went from one letter, then to another, then the third, then the fourth, then the fifth, then the sixth. She turned to him, and he could see all of his emotions reflected back at him in her face. “Harry,” she managed, putting the hand with the glass in it to her mouth. A bit of Firewhisky splashed to the ground, but she didn’t notice.

“I know.” He took another sip of whisky. “Makes it hard to concentrate.”

“No, I mean—” Her mouth hung open for a moment, then she shook her head and grinned. “When you said you couldn’t talk about it, I thought you meant— God, I thought—”

Harry frowned at her. “What d’you mean?”

Hermione straightened, barely masking a look of alarm. “No, nothing. Nothing at all.” She dropped her gaze back to the letters, then slowly made her way back to him. “Wow. It’s certainly a wide variety to choose from.”

“Understatement of the century.” Harry finished his glass and started wandering around the room, looking out of the windows that showed him the north lawn. He had never been in this classroom, and he was beginning to wonder how Hermione knew about it. 

“So, Ilvermorny. Puddlemere. New York. Berlin. Ballycastle. London.” Hermione fanned out the letters just as he’d done to her flashcards not six hours earlier. “And you can’t decide?”

Harry shook his head. Outside the windows, a pair of owls drifted past on a lazy breeze. 

Hermione hummed, going over to the other end of the room. “Harry, this offer from MACUSA is hard to refuse.”

“So is the one from Ilvermorny,” he replied. The Firewhisky was smoldering in his belly, and for a brief moment, he felt like he could breathe fire. “And the one from Puddlemere.”

That earned him a chuckle. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the two best teams in the league are trying to get their hands on you. They’ve only been sniffing around you since you were thirteen.”

There was a loud dragging noise, and Harry turned around with a frown. Hermione was wheeling out a massive, dirty chalkboard from one of the shadowy corners of the classroom. She stopped when it was in the middle of her room, dusted off her hands, and pulled out her wand. A piece of chalk floated into the air accordingly, and Harry bit back a laugh. 

“Let’s think this through.” Hermione waved her wand, and the chalk drew the outline of a huge chart with five columns and six rows. Next, at the top of the columns, the names of his different employment options appeared. She turned to him then, holding out the pile of letters. “Come on. Pros and cons.”

Harry quickly lost track of time after that. Hermione wasn’t keeping the possibilities at bay — she was inviting them in. Now that he allowed himself to think about it without fear, without hating himself for wanting to leave Britain, things became simple, even obvious. 

The Puddlemere offer had more pay, but the Ballycastle offer had more long-term benefits. Ilvermorny offered him more geographical distance, but not any more prestige than Wallenburg Institute of Berlin, which specialized in DADA. Both had similar pay structures, and either place was as good as any for a fresh start. 

The Auror training at MACUSA was comparable to the one in Britain, and it gave him a clean slate, a position without too many expectations, a career line that was predictable, even delightful. But then, of course, there was the Ministry. And Kingsley. And the faces of everyone he knew, everyone he’d lost. 

“I won’t fault you,” Hermione murmured, when it was well past one o’clock in the morning and they were both several shots in. She was next to him, leaning against the desk, and she was close enough that he could smell her soap. She stared up at the massive chalkboard, which was covered in her scribbles and arrows and more than a few strange drawings. “I won’t fault you for leaving.”

Harry blinked, his whisky-soaked brain needing a moment to catch up. “Really?”

Hermione paused for a moment, then shook her head, a small smile ghosting her features. “You’ve earned the right to do what’s best for you, in my opinion. It’s time to put yourself first. And Teddy, of course.”

Harry stared at her, feeling a trickle of warmth low in his belly. He could see the freckles on her nose. “Right.” 

Her smile grew, and she turned to look at him. “So then, Harry Potter. Have you decided?”

He started to grin. “Yeah, actually, I think I have.” 

“Good.” With another wave of her wand, the chalkboard wiped clean, and trundled itself back into the corner. Hermione stood up, stretched a little, and started putting away the whisky. 

“Hermione,” he said, his tongue thick. “Have you decided yet?” 

She paused for only a moment, so briefly that he almost missed it. He knew she was swimming in job offers, none of them contingent on her NEWTs. “Yes,” she said, and the glasses clinked against the bottle as she zipped up the bag. “I’m starting at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the end of August.” 

That sunk in much faster than Harry had expected it to. He found himself nodding and smiling. “Good. That’s perfect for you.”

Hermione smiled again, and he could tell she was relieved. “Don’t let it hold you back, Harry. It’s time you stopped worrying about the rest of us.”

“I’m trying,” he told her, and swept his hand through the air, extinguishing the fire. 

When they stepped out from the shadows into the dim hallway, Hermione paused, shooting him a glance that he could only describe as wary. “Harry,” she murmured. “What about Ginny?”

Harry forced himself to nod, even as his stomach turned to stone at the prospect of asking Ginny what she thought about America. “I’ll handle it.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced, but when they parted ways at Harry’s bedroom door, she gave him a smile that was encouragement and affection all rolled into one. Harry found himself smiling back, and he slept soundly through what little remained of the night. 

The following Tuesday, a mere half-hour before his last NEWT — Potions, of course — Ginny came charging into the Great Hall, her eyes glowing and her face ablaze. She was little more than a red streak as she shot down the length of the room, and Harry could only jump in shock when she launched herself into his lap, sobbing incoherently into his shoulder. 

Baffled, Harry tried to get a grip on her before she took both of them down to the floor. Everyone was staring at them, including Ron and Hermione, who were sitting across from him and watching the scene with expressions of genuine concern. 

“Ginny—” Harry tried to peel her arms away from his neck. He’d never seen her like this before, and he couldn’t help but worry that something— “Ginny, tell me what’s—”

“The Harpies!” she shrieked, close enough to his ear that he flinched, trying to shove her away. But it didn’t work, and she flapped a bit of parchment in the air. “The Harpies! They want me, Harry! They want me to start training right away!” 

The pieces clicked together in Harry’s mind, and he felt as though he’d skipped several steps on his way down a winding, steep tower. “What?”

“The Holyhead Harpies, Harry!” Ginny gave him a playful shove, beaming, tears still streaking down her face. “They’ve made me an offer, and a bloody terrific one at that!”

“Oh.” Harry quickly rearranged his face into a smile. “That’s incredible, Gin—”

“I know!” she squealed, launching herself back into his arms. 

Harry patted her on the back, wondering if he would ever breathe again. He didn’t miss the look on Hermione’s face, the brief look that mirrored the disappointment welling in his own chest. 

“It’ll be brilliant!” Ginny was gushing into his shoulder. Around them, people were starting to grin and laugh and go back to their breakfast. “We can get a little cottage right in the middle of town, we’ll stay there during the season and you can get to the Ministry via the Floo, and it’ll be so lovely, Harry, you can come to all the games, maybe they’ll even let you coach—”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing her back, feeling hot and hollow and itchy all at once. He looked everywhere except for Hermione’s face. “It’ll be brilliant.” 

Hermione woke slowly, feeling as if she were floating down an endless, swampy black river made of smoke and ash. She looked down at her greying arms, at her burning feet, then up into the yellow sky. She tried to speak, but nothing happened, and then—

She opened her eyes. The room was mostly dark, and the few dimmed lights were cold and white, burning her eyes at first. Hermione squinted, then blinked as a few objects came into focus—

A large, sterile room with pale blue curtains drawn over a purplish night sky. A fat sofa rested beneath the windows, and her gaze fell on a square, white cart, then on the door, which had a shade and a handle without a lock. 

She was lying in a bed, a massive, white bed with handrails, under layers of thin, crinkly blankets. Hermione frowned down at them, then tried to move her hands, her feet. Nothing happened, and the shock of it was so astute that she didn’t react beyond a stifled gasp. 

It burned in her lungs like liquid ice, and she forced herself to stop looking, to stop breathing, to stop thinking, and it was only then that she realized she was not alone. Panic gripped hold of her, but then she realized who it was, and released her breath. 

Harry was in a chair not three inches from her bed, slumped over, his head propped in his hand, apparently dead asleep, and he looked awful. Hermione had seen him in some pretty rough situations, but even this made the top five. He clearly hadn’t shaved in days, his clothing was rumpled and creased, there were greyish circles under his eyes, and his hair was half-vertical. She could just see the way he must have pushed his hands through it, over and over again, and felt a pang of something rather like affection. 

She tried again, breathing in and out, much more slowly than she had before. This hurt very little — close to not at all — and the relief was so intense that tears pricked at her eyes. 

Suddenly, there came a quiet chime from something beside her bed, and a little light glowed orange in the relative dark of the room. Hermione stared at it, bewildered, then her gaze returned to Harry, and she almost passed out because his eyes were open and he was looking at her. 

Neither of them moved. She had no idea how long they stayed like that, staring at each other, while the orange light bathed Harry’s face in its strange, sickening color. 

Finally, he moved, shifting forward in his seat, still staring at her like he didn’t quite trust what he was seeing. It was only then that she realized that her right hand was not beside her in bed, but hanging just off the edge, mere inches from Harry’s own. Perhaps it was because she looked at it, perhaps it was because he’d forgotten about it, but Harry closed the distance between them and took her hand. 

His touch was gentle, tender, warm and rough, and Hermione took a shuddering breath, tears threatening again, because she could feel it.

Harry frowned, his thumb sweeping across the back of her hand. “What’s wrong?”

Hermione opened her mouth, then realized how dry it was. “Nothing,” she managed to get out. Her voice was cracked and rotten from disuse, but she plowed on. “I just… can’t seem to move my arms and legs, but I can feel—”

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, though his frown didn’t budge. “Just wait a few moments and then we can—”

Suddenly, the door opened, throwing a beam of golden light into the room. Hermione blinked, momentarily dazzled by it, and a dark figure came in, their robes glowing green in the blade of light. 

“Minister,” came a low, smooth voice. “Glad to see you’re awake.”

“She can’t move her arms or legs,” said Harry sharply, giving the Healer a pointed look. “Is that normal?”

“For someone just regaining consciousness for the first time in three days? Absolutely.” The Healer turned on a lamp beside her bed, and Hermione was surprised to find herself staring at a woman, none other than Cornelia Rutherby herself, the Deputy Head Healer of St. Mungo’s, world-renowned specialist in magical diseases and potions damage. Cornelia was tall and imposing, but her face was warm, kind, no-nonsense, and Hermione had a sudden, terrifying vision of what the conversations between her and Harry must have been like. “Give it a few minutes, Minister, then I’m sure you’ll feel some remarkable improvement. Would you like some water?” 

Hermione nodded. “De-Deputy Healer—”

“Call me Cornelia, please, Minister. Certainly, we’ve known each other long enough for that.” Cornelia held out a glass of water with a straw in it and placed the straw in Hermione’s mouth. 

Hermione drank quickly, eagerly. She hadn’t realized she was so thirsty. 

Meanwhile, Cornelia pulled out her wand and used it to turn off the orange light on Hermione’s machine. “Any pain, Minister? Discomfort?”

Hermione shook her head, then nodded. She drained the rest of the water, spat out the straw, and said, “If I breathe too hard, or too quickly, then—”

Cornelia nodded, refilling the cup with a tap of her wand. “To be expected. Your lungs are still healing, I’m afraid.”

Hermione drained the second cup even more quickly than the first. 

“And the mobility?” Harry’s voice still had a hard edge to it, and he was still holding her hand.

Cornelia took the cup back and gave Hermione a nod. “Why don’t you try again now?”

Hermione looked down at her right foot and thought, Move. To her relief, the toes on her right foot twitched, then the toes on her left. She couldn’t hold back a grin, and Cornelia grinned back at her. 

“See?” Cornelia gave her a pat on the shoulder, then another cup of water. “Better already.” Hermione took the cup from her, delighted that she could do so, ignoring the slight ache that went through her shoulder and down her arm. 

Cornelia went to the foot of the bed, where she picked up a clipboard and started flicking through Hermione’s chart, wand in hand and one eye on the machine next to the bed. “You’re certainly improving. We didn’t think you’d wake up for another day or so.”

Hermione swallowed, feeling a spike of nerves, and reminded herself to keep her breathing even. “I suppose that’s good news.”

“Very,” Cornelia agreed, waving her wand and taking what Hermione knew to be her vitals. 

She steeled herself. “Cornelia. What’s wrong with me? What happened?”

Cornelia met her gaze, then looked away. “Let’s not get into that right now. The important thing is that you’re recovering very well—”

“It was an unknown, airborne potion,” Harry cut in, his voice low and his gaze simmering with heat. He looked Hermione right in the eye. “The moment you inhaled it, it attacked the lining of your lungs and caused it to disintegrate.”

Hermione stared back at him, awash in the few memories she had of the attack — coughing up blood, feeling as if someone was ripping her lungs out of her chest with their bare hands. “But you were there, you must’ve inhaled it, too. Nothing happened to you.”

Harry nodded. “That’s because—” He exhaled suddenly, then shifted closer. “Hermione, that’s because this wasn’t like any other potion.” His other hand came up and brushed over her hairline. “Do you remember that cut you got at the restaurant?”

Hermione frowned, then nodded. 

“This wasn’t like any other potion because it had your blood in it. They stole your blood during the fight and used it to make a poison that would only affect you.”

She gaped at him, her heart giving a painful thud. She looked to Cornelia for confirmation, and while Cornelia looked unhappy about this line of conversation, she did nod in reply. 

“Blood magic?” Hermione whispered, feeling a deep, sickening horror well up in her stomach. “You mean to tell me they’re using blood magic?”

“Yes,” said Harry, his voice grim. “Which does narrow the suspect pool considerably. There are very few people who have the raw talent to use blood magic, not to mention access to the right resources. I would be surprised if it was someone who went to Hogwarts, those books were taken out of the Restricted Section hundreds of years ago.” 

“All right,” said Cornelia, her voice sharp. “That’s enough of that. She needs her rest.” 

“Wait!” Hermione sat up, ignoring the ache it sent through her chest, her hips, her back. The rest of her memories had come upon her in a rush. “You were shot, Harry! Are you all right?!”

Finally, finally, he cracked the world’s smallest smile, and he nodded. “Turns out a bullet’s nothing in the face of magical medicine. One went clean through my calf, so it was an easy fix. The other went in my shoulder, but they got it out in no time. I’m fine, ” he added, his thumb brushing her hand again. “I was up and about not half an hour after they brought us in.”

Hermione nodded, sinking back into her pillows. Her heart began to slow again, and she realized that Cornelia was right — she was exhausted. 

Cornelia gave her a knowing look and went to turn out the lamp, but Hermione stopped her, putting her hand to Cornelia’s elbow. 

“Please don’t,” she murmured. “I like the light.”

Cornelia nodded and smiled. “I’ll be back to check on you in a couple of hours. Sleep well, Minister.” And with that, she left, her footsteps receding along the hall. 

Hermione exhaled, allowed her gaze to travel back to Harry. He was still looking at her, his face impassive, but his eyes speaking volumes — fear, relief, pain, she saw all of it. 

“Where am I?” she whispered. “I don’t recognize this ward.”

Harry cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t. It’s a private one, top-level access only. Cornelia is one of three Healers who know that you’re here right now, and apart from them, it’s only me, Alpha Team, and Kingsley. Security precaution.”

“I see.” Hermione felt her eyes slipping shut, but she frowned anway. “Harry, you should go home. Get changed, take a shower, get some sleep, really, I’m fine—”

He gave her that small smile again, his thumb tapping her hand. “No.”

She tried to frown some more, but her face was fuzzy with sleep. “Harry…” 

“Hermione.” Harry tapped her hand again, something in his face so soft, so caring, that it made her insides twist. 

But that didn’t matter. She fell asleep mid-frown, descending yet again into the endless, velvet black.

When she woke again, there was fresh, watery sunlight coming in the window, and she was alone. Hermione blinked at the empty chair next to her bed, still too groggy to really feel anything, and couldn’t help but wonder where Harry had gone, and whether she now had a replacement security detail. Would they have to stay in the room with her, or would they be outside the door?

Another part of her, the part that lived in the hollow edge of her stomach, wondered if she’d dreamt it all. If Harry hadn’t actually been there, or Cornelia, if it had all been a potion-induced hallucination — Harry looking at her, touching her hand, speaking softly but clearly, telling her what she needed to hear—

But. She glanced up, and noticed that her bedside lamp was still on, its golden glow paling in the sunshine. She hadn’t dreamt that. So maybe—

Suddenly, a door she hadn’t noticed before opened, a light switched off, and Harry stepped back into the room. He froze when he saw that she was awake, his eyes widening in surprise. 

“Good morning,” Hermione managed to croak. Her mouth was much less dry than the last time she’d woken up, but still far from normal. 

“Afternoon,” he corrected her. He didn’t budge. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she replied, and it was the truth. Her body was slowly waking up, and her limbs didn’t feel quite so heavy, or as stiff, which made it easier to speak.

“Good.” Harry still made no moves towards her, and she felt a flash of irritation. 

“What time is it?”

“One o’clock, and it’s Wednesday,” he replied. “You woke up around three this morning.”

Hermione did the mental math in seconds, then felt a rush of satisfaction that she could. She’d slept for almost ten hours. “Is there… could I have a glass of water?”

“Of course.” Harry went over to the cart, where she noticed several dishes, a large bowl, and a stack of cups. “They sent along some ice as well, if you’d like?” 

Hermione had a sudden, intense flashback to being in a hospital room much smaller than this one, cuddling her teddy, waiting for her mum to bring her another cup of ice chips. Having her tonsils out wasn’t exactly a fond memory, but it was certainly well ahead of this one. “Please.”

Harry poured her a cup of water and prepared what had to be the largest cup of ice chips she’d ever seen in her life. The ice had a preserving spell on it, and it smoked a little as he carried it over. He put the ice on the table beside her bed, well within her reach. She didn’t miss the way he kept his gaze down, and when he handed her the water, she took it, then took his hand. 

“Harry.”

His fingers curled into hers, but he still didn’t look up. 

“Harry. ”

He broke, then, his gaze darting up to meet hers. His eyes were full of so many things — fear, anger, pain — and they glimmered in the sunlight. He’d put on a fresh pair of slacks and a new shirt, and he’d combed his hair, but he still looked grey, worn-out. 

She knew he wouldn’t believe her, but — “It’s not your fault.”

Harry said nothing, but he squeezed her hand. 

“It is not,” she insisted, “your fault, Harry.”

That finally got her a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, Minister.”

Hermione swallowed a strong, sudden urge to punch him. “I won’t hear anything to the contrary. In fact, if I do, I shall banish you.”

Harry quirked an eyebrow. “Banish me?”

“Yes. To Greenland.” Hermione took a gulp of water. “I’m Minister for Magic, I can do these sorts of things.”

“Greenland,” Harry repeated, some of the tension leaking out of his body. “Not much going on in Greenland by way of Dark wizards.”

“That you know of, Harry.” Hermione finished off her water. She wanted the ice, but she also didn’t want to stop holding his hand. It was terrible, but it was the truth. “With your luck, you might find another terrorist cell to infiltrate. Or a halibut conspiracy.”

“Out of everything you’ve ever threatened me with,” said Harry, and he was still standing so close to her, she could practically feel the heat of his body, “investigating a halibut conspiracy is probably the strangest.”

“It could be fun, Harry. Even deadly. Lots of action to be had over halibut.”

“Top of my to-do list, then.” He squeezed her hand again. “Go to Greenland, see a man about some halibut.”

Suddenly, the door to her room opened, and Harry stepped away, letting go of her hand. To her horror, Hermione blushed, then quickly traded her empty cup for the cup of ice, looking up to meet Cornlia’s smile. 

“Good afternoon, Minister.” Cornelia swept over and pulled out her wand. “How are we?”

“Very well, thank you.” Which was true. Apart from a lingering, persistent ache in her chest, some soreness, and a slight shortness of breath, she felt almost normal. 

“I’m glad to hear that, and to see you’ve found the ice. We’ll have to keep you on that for a few hours, I’m afraid, you’re on quite the cocktail of potions and switching back to solid food can be a bit dodgy.” Cornelia took her vitals, then reached up and switched off the lamp. “You’re still improving, which is an excellent sign.”

Hermione nodded, then crunched up a piece of ice and gestured to the IV in her left arm. She couldn’t feel it, but she could see it now in the daylight. It was thin and clear, the point of insertion hidden beneath a bandage and the sleeve of her hospital gown. “What are you giving me?”

Cornelia laid the chart on Hermione’s lap and Hermione picked it up with her free hand, flicking through it to get the record of her treatments. “Some painkillers, some anti-inflammatories, some nutritional fluids, and the tail-end of your course of antibiotics.” She gave a small, knowing smile, as if anticipating Hermione’s next question. “The majority of your anti-poison course was administered within the first twelve hours of your arrival. We were able to stop the damage with spellwork, but reversing and repairing the damage was quite another story.”

“I’m sure.” Hermione felt a bit strange to be talking about this so clinically, as fascinated as she was by it — she’d almost died from this poison, and she was sure the Healers had had their work cut out for them developing a potion to counteract blood magic. She could see the ingredients listed on the prescription chart, and took a moment to be impressed by the Healers’ skill. “What’s the recovery timeline?”

Cornelia blinked, as if she were surprised to hear Hermione asking about it so soon. “We’ll keep you here for another day, mostly for observation purposes. I’m afraid the DMLE wants to move you to a safe house as quickly as possible, so as soon as you are able to travel, you will. Once you’re installed in the safe house, I will visit you daily to check on your progress, but at this point, you just need time. Your body will continue to heal itself, and the only way that’ll happen is by resting.”

There was an edge to these words, and Hermione fought off a smile. She’d forgotten how good Cornelia was at reading people. “What about long-term effects?” 

“None, hopefully. But to be honest, Minister, this is the first case of blood magic we’ve had at St. Mungo’s in almost four hundred years. We’ve done our best, and everything indicates that we’ve taken the correct course of action, but there is always the possibility of unknown long-term effects.” Cornelia frowned a little, then added, “You must be honest with us — with me — at all times, Minister. Every detail, every little irritation, could be a possible symptom of a larger problem. But we can only identify and counteract it with your help.”

Hermione nodded, pushing her chart back down the bed. “Understood.” 

Harry glanced at both of them before he spoke. “Now that you’re awake, Minister, Kingsley would like to discuss the details of the safe house with you, preferably sometime this evening. That gives us adequate time to prepare before we move you tomorrow.”

Cornelia shot him a look, her eyes flashing. “It appears that someone did not listen to my advice about resting.”

“It’s fine,” Hermione told her, then took a slow, careful breath. “Harry, I’m happy to speak to him later. That gives me plenty of time to catch up on everything I’ve missed the past few days.”

Cornelia now looked ready to strangle something. “Minister,” she said, her voice hard, “you must not overexert yourself. It is my professional recommendation that you do not make an attempt to return to work for another week, at the minimum.”

It took some time, but eventually, Hermione haggled Cornelia down to three half-hour work sessions staggered between naps. She was under strict orders to spend the following day doing no work at all, since travelling would likely take a lot out of her.

“Very well.” Cornelia pocketed her wand and shot both of them an unamused look. “Should you tire of the ice chips, please ring for me and we’ll see about getting you some broth.” And with that, she marched from the room, the door hissing shut behind her. 

Hermione took another slow, deep breath. “It seems I’ve lost all my good credit with Cornelia. Such a shame, too, it took me years.”

“Don’t be silly.” Harry sat down in his chair again. “She’ll be back to her reluctant approval by tomorrow.”

Hermione couldn’t help smiling. “I appreciate your vote of confidence, Harry.” She crunched up some more ice, feeling tired and wired all at once. Then, all too quickly, she remembered — “Wait, what about the raid?”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean, Minister?”

“The raid,” she repeated, reminding herself not to get too worked up. “How did it go?”

Harry’s frown got a wary edge to it. “Minister, I — we were briefed on Sunday morning, before we went to the shops.”

She blinked, surprised. “Oh.” But everything up until the blast was a complete wash — she barely even remembered walking in and out of Waitrose. “Well… I’m afraid I—”

“It went well,” Harry said, before she could say anything. “We were able to apprehend several of Salvation’s operatives with minimal casualties on our end. They certainly seemed surprised to see us, so I think it’s fair to say that our intel was solid. Not a trap.”

“What about the Potions master?”

Harry shook his head. “Our luck ran out on that account. He managed to break through the anti-Apparition wards and escape just as we got into his workshop.” His eyes glimmered. “But we got his notes. And some samples of his work.”

Hermione had to take a moment to remind herself to breathe much more slowly than usual. “Really? Anything good?”

Harry nodded. “Loads. Draco’s got all of it, I don’t think he’s slept at all the past few days. He’s close, Minister. He’s very close to breaking that cure for Veritaserum.” He took one look at her expression and added, “It’s not a cure in the conventional sense, either, which is somewhat of a relief. The method they use to undermine the effects of Veritaserum is based in Occlumency.” 

Hermione could only stare at him in shock.

“I know,” Harry replied, “I was surprised as well, particularly because some of these operatives — well, Minister, they’re not the sharpest tools in the shed, no one would suspect them of knowing Occlumency. But this potion gives them the ability to strengthen the natural barriers of their mind, to take what’s already there and fortify it. Someone only had to go to the trouble of teaching them the most fundamental basics of Occlumency, then let the potion do the rest of the heavy lifting.”

This information sank in slowly. “That… is…” 

“Incredibly clever, yes. Draco’s certain that once he finishes the antidote to the strengthening potion, we’ll be able to question the suspects without any trouble.”

“But what about Legilimency? If they’re using Occlumency, then surely—”

Harry shook his head. “We had our best people from the Department of Ministries give it a shot, but no luck, I’m afraid. Whatever’s in that potion, it bloody works.”

Hermione sighed a little. “Shame you didn’t have it back in fifth year.”

He gave her a sudden, bright grin, looking every inch like his old teenage self, and she dropped her gaze back to her ice chips. Hermione crunched through another mouthful, absently thinking of crisps, then realized, with the sudden clarity she used to only associate with Arithmancy proofs, that this was one of the most amiable, the most normal conversations she and Harry had had in years. Outside the bedroom, of course. 

This realization made her heart do something embarrassing, embarrassing enough that a little red light flickered on the box next to her bed. Harry frowned at it, and she could only stare at it in horror as her heart thudded again and the red light flashed. 

Harry turned to her with a look of genuine concern. “Are you all right, Minister?” 

“Yes,” she said, too quickly, then faked a hiccup. “I think I was just eating too quickly.” 

Thankfully, her heart decided to get with the program, and the red light switched off. Hermione stopped herself from breathing a sigh of relief and buried her face in her ice chips. She hoped Malfoy had his nose to the grindstone, because they needed to stop these terrorists and she needed to go back to normal when it came to Harry. 

Hermione wasn’t sure what their ‘normal’ was at this point, but whatever it might be, she would take it.

It wasn’t until the following day, when the sun was melting into a cold, blue evening, and the nearby waves were whispering against the shore, that Hermione opened her eyes and felt a sob welling in her stomach. 

She blinked, staring up at the ceiling of her semi-darkened bedroom, trying to get a hold on her emotions before they provoked a disastrous coughing fit. She’d had one of those already just a few hours earlier — it had taken her by surprise, only a few minutes after they’d arrived at the safe house, her hand on the wall as she looked at the sparse, simple furnishings, feeling the weight of her travel catching up with her. They’d had to do Side-Along, and she’d guessed, as she fell to the floor, coughing so hard that tears sprang to her eyes and spots burned black in her vision, that it had taken her a bit by surprise.

Cornelia had been unhappy, of course, and not shocked in the least. But thankfully, she didn’t waste time on an I told you so, and got Hermione stable and into bed, wordlessly shoving a small dose of Dreamless Sleep into her hands. “All of it,” she’d said, stern and unyielding, and Hermione had been all too happy to obey, anything to forget the way Harry had bolted to her side, held her, his face twisting with panic and a sadness too deep to touch. 

Now, as she squinted at her comforter, she tried not to cry. A deep, wrenching anguish was rearing in her gut, a feeling she hadn’t known in years, and her hands were trembling with the effort of holding it in. 

It’s your fault, a slick, snide voice whispered in the back of her head. All those people, all that damage, and it’s all your fault.

Hermione shuddered, a few tears slipping down her cheeks, and pressed her hand to her mouth, forcing herself to take long, slow breaths. It didn’t work. More tears slipped through, hot and burning against her cheeks, and she shuddered, unable to keep herself from seeing the bodies of all the Muggles scattered around the square. Minimal injuries, Harry had told her only yesterday. All healed and Obliviated, you’d never know anything had happened—

But it didn’t matter. It had still happened, people had still been hurt, and she’d put so many others at risk with her own foolish crusade. Maybe she hadn’t really listened to the people she’d written legislation for, maybe they’d been warning her all along and she never heard it, too caught up in her own agenda, in her own preoccupation with making things better, no matter the cost. 

Look at yourself, came the voice again. You’re half-dead and you still don’t know when to stop. When to give in. And who’s going to want you now? You’re—

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing another sob. Her lungs were starting to ache, a sharp pain shot between her ribs, but she forced herself to keep her breathing slow. In, two, three, she told herself, sucking in air between clenched teeth. Out, two—

Suddenly, her bedroom door opened, and before the words Go away even managed to form in her mind, Harry appeared, a steaming mug in one hand. His eyes found hers at once and he paused where he stood, one hand on the doorknob, one foot inside the room. He stared at her, and her body flooded with the fresh heat of embarrassment. She wished she was feeling just a little bit better, a little bit stronger, because the lamp on her nightstand would make a very good projectile—

He didn’t say anything, just watched as she gulped and stifled another sob. Then, he moved, slowly coming to her side of the bed. Harry put the mug down on her bedside table, turned on the lamp, then reached down and picked up a box of tissues. 

To her mounting horror, he sat down on the edge of the bed, less than a foot away from her, propping the tissue box on top of the comforter. He was staring at the wall, but she looked away, one hand on her chest as she tried and failed to keep her sobs under control. 

“It’s always wrose,” he said, his voice so low she almost didn’t hear him. “It’s always worse when you get out of the hospital.” The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. “Things are easier in the hospital. More normal. It’s only once you get home that you realize how truly fucked it all is.” 

Hermione gulped, a fresh wave of tears breaking free. In spite of all her instincts telling her not to, she grabbed a handful of tissues and buried her face in them. 

It was silent for a while — silent save for her strange half-sobbing, half-breathing — and then Harry spoke again, using the same low, careful voice. 

“You’re doing really well, Hermione,” he said, and then she felt the warmth of his hand on her knee. “I mean it. You’ve been through hell and back by this point and you’ve handled it better than anyone could have imagined.” He squeezed her knee. “I know it’s terrifying to have someone come after you like that. But you’re safe here. You’re safe, and you’re nowhere near London, and all you need to do right now is get better.” 

Again, in spite of her instincts, Hermione nodded. She’d make a mess of the tissues so she reached for another handful, letting out a single, mournful cough. 

Harry didn’t react, but he nudged the box closer. Something about that movement, and the look on his face, was so warm, so understanding, that she had a powerful urge to punch him. He had no right, not even now—

“I couldn’t get out of bed,” Harry said, then licked his lips, hesitating. “I couldn’t get out of bed for a week after they sent me home from Mungo’s. After my knee,” he added, and Hermione could only stare at him, mute, all of the anger trickling out of her as quickly as it had arrived. Her breath crackled in her lungs but she ignored it. “Teddy was still at school, obviously, so I didn’t have any real reason to get out of bed, to eat, to see the sun, none of it.” He shook his head. “I didn’t — couldn’t — understand how I was supposed to keep going. Why I should bother trying, when my body already looked like a battlefield and there was no end in sight.” 

Hermione sniffed, wiping at her eyes. A part of her wanted him to stop talking, to stop telling her these things, but then another part wanted him to do the exact opposite. 

“And in the end, it wasn’t some big realization, or a lightbulb moment. Nothing like that.” His smile was soft. “It didn’t help to think about everyone who expected nothing less of me. Everyone who was waiting for the Chosen One to come waltzing out of the Spell Damage ward like nothing had ever happened. But I didn’t do it for them. I got out of bed because I got bored of waiting to feel better. I knew I had to try, I knew I had to get over the new reality of… of this.” He rubbed his knee, and even though Hermione couldn’t see it, she could recall the feeling of the warped, thick scar tissue beneath her hands. 

“It wasn’t about who won or who lost, in the end,” said Harry. “That didn’t matter. What mattered was how I felt about myself. How I made the decision to get out of bed when I didn’t have any real reason to.” He shrugged. “It’s awful, but you get through it, because that’s what we do. And you’re twice the fighter I am, so you have nothing to worry about.”

It was too much. A fresh sob gurgled out of Hermione’s throat, and a new wave of tears streamed down her face. 

Harry shot her a look of alarm. “Oh, no, don’t—” He was up on the bed in an instant, his arm around her shoulders. She hiccupped, then snorted, then coughed, then hiccupped again, and he rubbed her back, shoving more tissues at her. “’Mione, I didn’t mean to— Oh, Merlin, this is a real mess, isn’t it—?”

She gave a watery chuckle, curling into his chest. Her lungs were really aching now, but this was helping, weirdly. 

“Just—” he tried, and he really was panicking now. She would’ve burst out laughing if she had the air for it. “Let it out, I guess, or don’t, just— please, don’t get one of those coughing fits, Cornelia will have my head on a spike if it happens twice in one day—”

Hermione blew her nose, making one of the most inelegant sounds she’d ever made in front of another person. If she’d had the energy for it, she would’ve been embarrassed. 

“Good, good—” He was definitely still panicking, and his back-rubbing grew frantic. “Merlin’s balls, I guess that means you can still breathe—”

“Harry,” she managed, through another hiccup. She was grinning. “I’m fine, I’m better—”

“No you’re not, you’re better when you can take a breath without sounding like an elephant, I mean, Jesus Christ, ’Mione, are you sure you’re not hiding another medical condition in there somewhere, or maybe a herd of wildebeest?” 

“Harry. ” She blew her nose again — making a much more acceptable sound, this time — and wiped at her eyes. “I’m fine, I promise. Wobbly moment over.”

Harry sank back into the pillows, giving her a lopsided smile. “Still alive, then?”

Hermione looked at him, then realized for the first time that he was wearing jeans — a clean pair, granted, with no mysterious rips or tears — and a thick sweater atop his usual button-down. His hair was combed, but it was a little scuffed at the top. It was the most casual he’d been since the beginning of this assignment, and it unsettled her, making her both comfortable and uncomfortable all at once. “Yes,” she managed, forcing herself to pause and take a measured breath. “Still alive.”

“And I live for Cornelia to disembowel me another day.” 

Suddenly, Winnie jumped up onto the bed, giving Hermione a worried look. He meowed warily, then padded up towards her, purring. 

“See?” Harry said to Winnie, giving him a rub on the head. “The wildebeest are gone.” He nodded at the bedside table. “You should have some tea before he knocks it over. It’s that foul herbal stuff, but it’s got loads of honey in it.”

Hermione nodded, reaching for the mug, and curiosity got the better of her. She knew she should be telling him to leave, but she didn’t. “Harry, how on earth did you get through having Teddy?” She couldn’t help wondering, since he’d panicked so quickly at seeing her cry. 

Harry scoffed. “Wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that much.” But then his gaze softened. “It was strange. I was always the one who was a mess. He was the tough one, the one who comforted me when I got upset about whatever scrape he’d managed to get himself into.” He shook his head. “He’s always been like that. Looking after me. I felt terrible about it, of course, still do, because that wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He shouldn’t have felt like he had to do that, like he had to be strong for me when I couldn’t.” 

Hermione stared at him, the mug forgotten in her hand, Winnie curled up against her hip. Harry wasn’t even looking at her, but that didn’t matter. Seeing him, now, after their strange couple of weeks together; after sharing meals, talking more than they had in years; knowing the way his hands and his body felt against hers, the way his mouth, his eyes, swallowed her without trying; remembering the way he’d shouted over her limp body; his hand holding hers even as she lay unconscious… and now this, hearing him talk about Teddy, about knowing what it was to suffer and to keep going, even under the weight of a million expectations, and to still find glimmers of happiness — it was so different. They hadn’t spoken like this, like friends, in years, and she’d forgotten what it was like to have Harry in her life, by her side, understanding her in the smallest, most unspoken of ways. The reminder was overwhelming. She stared at him, and felt a sudden surge of emotion, an emotion that, were she in her normal state, she would have buried at the bottom of a well far beyond the reach of daylight. 

But she knew what it meant. And in that moment, Hermione realized she was falling in love with Harry. Again. 

In the next moment, she panicked and remained calm all at once. She sipped at her tea, which was lemony and quite nice, praying to every god and magical figure she could think of that none of her thoughts were showing on her face. All the while, Hermione could only berate herself, her mind whirling, because she was an idiot . She, Hermione Granger, was quite possibly one of the stupidest people in the world, because she’d thought she could invite Harry into her life without a single consequence. She should’ve known. She should’ve guessed that they would end up here, just as they had before, just shy of catastrophe, regardless of how she’d tried to steer them towards any other course. 

“There’s some stew, if you’re hungry,” Harry was saying. His hand was still on her back, his fingers tracing small circles over her spine. “Cornelia said you can try eating more substantial stuff now, but it’ll be soups for the next couple of days, just until you’re feeling better.”

Hermione found herself nodding, because she was indeed a bit hungry. A glance at her watch and the purplish sky told her it was getting on for six. “Sure. Do I—?” She hesitated, glancing at the door. “Do I need to eat at the table, or—?” The cottage was small, but the dining area was still a short walk away, far enough that her lungs ached just at the thought of it.

“No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “You can eat it here.” And with that, he slid out of the bed, still not looking at her. “Did you want the telly on?” 

“Yes, please.” Hermione was all too thankful for the distraction, even if the television was small and quite a few years out of date. 

Once Harry was gone, Hermione sank back into the pillows, crumpling her used tissues into one large glob. This was going to be a serious problem. She just had to get through the rest of this stupid lockdown, however long that would be. Kingsley was confident that they’d be able to target or even arrest the Potions-master and Salvation’s other leaders within a week, but Hermione wasn’t convinced it would be that easy. Even if more information was forthcoming, Salvation would probably be ready for anything the Ministry had to throw at them. 

But a week. She could handle a week more of Harry. And then—

Hermione let out a growl of frustration, then coughed a little and rolled her eyes. What would happen when this was over, when they went back to life as it was? When they went back to veiled insults, glares, and distance? Would that even happen? Hermione was reluctant to call whatever she and Harry now had a friendship, and just because they’d been able to stand each other for the past few weeks certainly didn’t guarantee that their uneasy truce would continue. 

But would they keep—? Even when this was over? Would he show up on her doorstep, pin her to the wall, his mouth hot and rough, making her shudder and scream until—

No. Hermione clenched her jaw, swallowing another wave of anger, frustration, denial. This was ending, all of it. She’d made a mistake before, when she’d let him cross the lines she’d spent years building around herself just for the excuse of having someone in her bed again, and now look where they were. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again. 

Harry reappeared a few minutes later, carrying a tray with two bowls and a pile of fresh bread. Casper followed, and he jumped up onto the bed, looking very imperious. “I wasn’t sure how hungry you were,” Harry said, somewhat sheepishly.

Hermione couldn’t hold back a smile. “That’s all right.”

Harry slid the tray up the bed, and she sat up against the headboard, still half-buried in blankets, Winnie dead asleep beside her. The seafront was colder and drier than her house in the middle of London, and she was having trouble getting used to it. “Thank you,” she said, pushing her hair out of her face and pulling the tray up onto her lap, out of Casper’s reach. 

Harry gave a nod. “Sure.” He glanced at the television screen, where a Doctor Who marathon was playing, and gave a sudden, brilliant smile. “Should’ve guessed.”

Hermione said nothing and kept her gaze on her food, which, helpfully, did look delicious. 

“I didn’t know you kept watching it,” Harry went on. “Once it started up again.”

Hermione stirred her stew. “I stopped after David Tennant. Just wasn’t as good.”

Harry nodded, looking thoughtful. “Teddy felt the same.” Another pause, then he shifted a little. “Well, guess I’d better—”

She pictured him sitting alone at the tiny, little table and felt a weird lurch below her belly button. “You don’t have to—” She paused, swallowed. “You can stay.”

Harry blinked at her, then gave her a small, tentative smile. “All right.” 

And so he settled in a squashy armchair at the foot of the bed, watching as Chris Eccleston tried to reason with a Dalek. Hermione looked away with a blush, absently brushing a chunk of hair over her shoulder, and dug into her own food. 

The beef stew was delicious — hearty, salty, bursting with vegetables. It was the best thing she’d had since waking up the day before, maybe one of the best things she’d eaten all year, and she said, “Where did you get this? It’s incredible.”

Harry hesitated, then shrugged, chewing and swallowing. “Nearby farm. It’s where we’re getting most of the supplies.” 

Of course. They were so far away from anything else, and she and Harry weren’t even allowed to go anywhere. Only two members of her security detail could leave the safety of the wards at a time, and Hermione understood why a Tesco might not be at the top of their list. “Well,” she said, scooping up another spoonful. “We’ll have to leave them a note or something.”

Harry flashed her a knowing look, then smiled. “Of course, Minister.”

And even though she was fresh out of St. Mungo’s, with a bunch of people desperate to kill her, hiding in a remote backwater of Cornwall, without even her books for company, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a rush of warmth for this moment. For the coziness of sharing a meal with Harry, watching one of her favorite shows, tucked up in a deliciously comfortable bed. It was ridiculous of her to feel safe, to feel at home, but she did, and there was no changing that. 

They ate their dinner in companionable silence, and Hermione realized that she was going to have to be very, very careful if she was going to make it out of this cottage with her sanity — and her heart — fully intact. 

A day at a time, Hermione told herself as she shuffled from the bathroom back into bed, wincing a little at the echoing pain in her chest. 

A day at a time, Hermione told herself as she caught her gaze lingering on Harry’s jaw, his mouth, his hands. He was hovering in the kitchen, movements quiet in the hollow rush of the nearby tide, close enough to hear her if something happened, if disaster struck between the sofa and the staircase, but not close enough for her to see his whole face, not close enough to be spending time with her. They ate separately now, since she was still on bedrest, and Hermione found herself hating it. 

A day at a time, Hermione told herself as she swallowed yet another dose of potion, the night quiet and damp around her. Cornelia had brought in a blood magic specialist from Romania with a frightening intellect and troubling bedside manner. He’d prescribed a course of obscure, foul-tasting potions and a series of diagnostic tests that took hours. These tests showed only normal results, but Cornelia had assured her that they were necessary, important, vital, potentially the only chance of catching a mysterious side effect before it had devastating consequences. So Hermione relented, seething as she lost precious work hours to lying on her bed, trying to keep her mind quiet as Healer Balan loomed over her motionless body, murmuring under his breath in words beyond her understanding, the tip of his wand glowing blue, gold, red. “Are you sure we can trust him?” she heard Harry murmur to Cornelia, frowning where he stood in the doorway. “Of course,” Cornelia whispered back, her voice steely. “He saved my life once. I wouldn’t let him cross the threshold unless I trusted him to do the same for anybody else.”

A day at a time, Hermione told herself as she sat in a private, heavily warded meeting between herself, Harry, and Kingsley, in the late hours of the night. “I just don’t understand it,” Harry was saying for the third time in as many days, “how do they keep getting to her? There has to be someone on the inside, someone on my team—” “I think the same,” said Kingsley, his voice grim, “but show me proof, Harry. Everyone is tested for dark magic multiple times a day, and do you really want to fault yourself, or your team, when you trust them with your life?” Harry scowled at that, his stubble gleaming in the low light, and Hermione felt a weird flip in her stomach. She knew she had to be focusing on the topic at hand, but Merlin, his face was unhelpful. 

“Let’s take it as inevitable,” she said the next morning, over a bowl of porridge with fresh apples and brown sugar. It was only her second day off of bed rest, and she was already desperate from cabin fever. Harry glanced at her from the morning’s Prophet, which bore the headline “Where’s Our Minister?”, and she met his gaze without flinching. “Let’s take it as a given that they’re going to get to me, no matter what. What then?”

“This is a terrible idea,” Harry said as they walked out onto the long stretch of land between the cottage and the beach. The weather had warmed slightly, a weak yellow sunshine spilling through the thin, scuttling clouds. Against the deep blue sea and its foaming edges, the sky was almost beautiful. The members of her security team circled her and Harry like low-flying crows, and Hermione felt her heart skip a beat as she looked at them. Any one of them could be betraying her, and she’d never know for sure. 

“This is a great idea,” she shot back, steeling herself against a shiver. They were both bundled up — Harry looking obnoxiously cool in his long black woolen coat — and dripping in Warming Charms. “Actually, I think we should’ve done this a long time ago.”

“Why?” he countered, as he began to walk away from her. “I always thought we argued so beautifully.”

Hermione slid her wand into her palm and felt her skin warm from its contact. “Words have their limits, Harry.” And with that, she shot a Petrificus Totalus directly at his head. 

It was everything and nothing like the DA. She’d known, obviously, and heard about his ever-growing prowess as a duelist — the best in the Ministry, even better than Kingsley — but it was one thing to see Harry’s arrest record on paper and quite another to find herself on the other end of his wand. And, as he’d made a point of saying before they left the cottage, he was going easy on her, since she was still recovering. No deadly spells, either, what with her being such a stalwart public servant. 

In less than a minute, she was on her knees and his wand was at her throat, its point hot enough to make her skin tingle but not close enough to burn. Hermione seethed. 

“Dead,” said Harry, sounding far too smug about it from where he stood behind her. Around them, the security team circled, keeping their perimeter wide and their Shield Charms constant. 

She held out a little longer the second time. But then he got her with a Jelly-Legs Jinx and she hit the ground hard, letting out a wheeze. “Dead,” said Harry, peering down at her with a smirk. 

And so it went. On and on. A dreadful dance along the Cornish seaside, their spells flaring and singeing and burning. It took all of Hermione’s effort to even break through the outer edge of Harry’s defenses, and all she got in return was a hex that made her eyebrows sprout and grow like weeds. Within seconds, they were down to her nose. “Sorry,” said Harry, undoing the hex with a wave of his wand, “personal favorite. Oh — and you’re dead.”

About an hour after they started, Hermione sat down where the grass met the sand and shook her head. “I’m done,” she said, then gave a short, dry cough. 

Harry sat down beside her, stowing his wand. The wind was tossing his hair all over the place, and it curled over his forehead, dancing along the edge of his nose. “Not too bad,” he said, barely audible over the waves. “For a solicitor.”

“Minister,” Hermione corrected him, but she couldn’t hold back a smile. “It has been a while since I found myself in a combat situation, I suppose.”

Harry cocked his head to one side. “You mean other than that little interlude what, two weeks ago? Or did you already forget about that?”

She waved a lazy hand in the air, feigning apathy. “You’ve seen one attempt on your life, you’ve seen them all.”

Harry grinned. “Come now, no need to be so jaded.” His gaze shifted to the water, and he pulled a few blades of grass out of the ground. “You did well,” he said, and the words seemed heavy on his tongue. “I don’t think I ever said. But you did well that day.”

Hermione couldn’t keep herself from staring at him in surprise. She opened her mouth, trying to find the right words, but it seemed that she was speechless. 

Harry glanced over his shoulder and stood up, leaning heavily on his left leg as he did so. “Looks like Cornelia just arrived. Come on, we shouldn’t be late for my beheading.” And with that, he offered her his hand. 

Hermione blinked at it, then took it. His skin was hot and dry, and she wobbled a little as she stood up. She found herself just inches from his chest, his gaze bright and close, so close, then he squeezed her hand and stepped away. 

A day at a time, Hermione told herself much, much later that day, or maybe a night. She frowned, her fingers getting caught in yet another monstrous snarl at the nape of her neck, then gave a shaky, frustrated sigh. Her hair was worse than it had been in ages, worse than it had been during her first few years at Hogwarts, when she was still getting used to managing it without her mother’s help. Even the best Detangling and Smoothing Potions she’d had stowed away in her luggage — Jill really was a very diligent and thoughtful packer — hadn’t done more than lightly tame the topmost layers, and she knew from experience that it would take hours and lots of conditioner to get out these rats’ nests. 

And it looked horrible. Her throat clogged even at the thought of someone else seeing her like this — pathetic, mournful, hair bigger than a stormcloud. Every time she caught a glimpse of it in the mirror, her ears would ring with the taunts of a thousand schoolchildren, everyone who’d ever had something to say, something to sneer at, something they wanted to touch —

Almost unaware that she was doing it, Hermione slid out of bed, then crept out of her bedroom and into the darkened upstairs hall. It was well past midnight, and the downstairs — where Harry was supposedly asleep on the couch — was quiet. She tiptoed across the landing, wincing when a floorboard creaked, and slid into the bathroom, switching on the light only when she was sure the door was shut. 

And there. 

Hermione stared at herself, hardly able to recognize the woman staring back at her. In-between, she thought, because it was the first thought she had, and it was how she looked — in between living and dead, in between old and young, in between happy and devastated, in between stress and relief. She paused, her hand hovering in midair, then began to touch all of the places that her body had changed since that night in her bathroom, when all of this had started. Even with the handful of days she had spent as an invalid, her body had filled out, curving slightly in places that hadn’t curved in years. In spite of herself, Hermione smiled, squeezing the skin above her hips, below her bum, around her stomach. She looked, she looked—

But her hair. It dwarfed her. Swallowed her. Made her look young. Small. Scared. 

Her smile melted into a scowl, and she couldn’t stop herself from tugging at her hair, getting her fingers stuck in those tangles again, and that only made anger, violent, devastating anger, rear hot and bloody in her stomach, and she snarled, tears stinging at her eyes, because why, why did this have to happen to her? What had she done? Why her? Why did she deserve—

Hermione felt as if she was moving through a fog. She was only dimly aware of digging through the cupboard under the sink, finding what had to be Harry’s toiletry bag, pulling out an old set of clippers. Her hands were numb as she straightened up, staring down her eleven year-old self in the mirror, and turned on the clippers. 

It took longer than she’d thought. After the second cut, tears began streaming down her face, but she ignored them, swallowing thickly as another clump of her hair drifted to the floor. Even with a blurry gaze, she could see what she was doing, and her hands remained steady. 

When it was done, she stared down at the clouds of hair on the floor, the cool evening air on her scalp making her break out into goosebumps. Ignoring her pounding heart, she pulled out her wand and Vanished all of the cut hair, then adjusted the guidecomb on the clippers — as she’d watched her father do so many times growing up — and got to work. 

By the time Hermione crept back to her room, cocooned in the light, clean scent of the castor oil she’d used on what remained of her hair, she was exhausted, but her anger had dissolved. She turned off the light and slid into bed, pulling Winnie close to her chest, and closed her eyes, feeling more at peace than she had in a long time. 

The next morning, however, was a different story. 

“Minister?” came Harry’s voice, and Hermione buried herself even further under the covers, her face flooding with heat. “Minister, is everything—?” A knock, then, when she didn’t answer, she heard the door to her bedroom open. A beat. Then: “Minister?”

Hermione sighed, her breath puffing hot and stuffy under the covers. Casper shot her an unimpressed look from where he lay curled up just a few inches away. “I’m here.”

His sigh of relief was audible. “Is everything—?”

“Yes,” she said, too quickly. “Everything’s fine.”

Another beat. “You know,” Harry began, “I can’t help but remember—”

Her eyes widened. “Harry, don’t—”

“—a certain morning after a particularly fun night out—”

“Harry—”

“—I think you actually hexed Ron’s buttock out of place when he tried to—”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. “Harry!”

“But this is a much more impressive pile of blankets,” Harry went on.

That’s it. Hermione popped her head out from under the covers to glare at him. “Shut up, Harry, shut up. You know very well I have no desire to relive that particular morning, so you would do well to stop talking about it.”

Another beat. And then she realized that Harry was staring at her, a slow smile spreading across his features.

Hermione cringed, fighting the urge to bury herself back under the covers, because that was what cowards did. She ran a hand over her short, fuzzy hair, shivering a little from the contact. “Yeah. I know.” God, her campaign manager was going to murder her.

Harry was grinning now, his eyes impossibly bright and his expression full of so many things that she had to look away. “So,” he said, “I thought I heard you get up last night. Now I know why.” 

She sighed, sinking back into the covers. Casper popped his head out, unamused. 

“It looks incredible, ’Mione. Really, really good.”

She risked a glance at his face, too surprised to bother hiding it. He hadn’t called her ’Mione since that first night—

“I mean it.” Harry shifted, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was still grinning, wide and bright in the midmorning sunshine. “It suits you.”

Hermione could only blink at him, surprise once again rendering her speechless. And then, Harry’s walkie-talkie burbled to life, and saved her from saying anything. 

Later, she was on the couch, resting after another so-called training session out on the grass. She’d held out longer this time, put up more of a fight. Thrice, she’d managed to crack Harry’s defenses, and once, she’d managed to disarm him entirely and knock him onto his back. Harry had grinned, sharp and deadly, then given a shout of delight before launching himself off the ground, the air around him crackling with blue, electric magic, before he landed on his feet and blasted a shockwave that sent her flying through the air, only to land on a fresh Cushioning Charm. The sand settled around her as she gasped for breath, before she saw Harry striding toward her, wand back in his hand, his face glowing with energy and alive with glee. 

He’d looked incredible. Frightening. Devastating. 

It didn’t help that Hermione was enormously jealous of his wandless capabilities. Before this, she’d thought he had mastered all the smaller stuff, the extent of throwing open doors or heating up a kettle, but no — Harry had abilities she’d only read about, had never thought she’d see in real life. And it was clear that it was the result of careful, methodical practice — the very thing she’d once doubted him to be fully capable of. 

Questions burned at the back of her throat with a shocking persistence, but Hermione held her tongue, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Under normal circumstances, the Aurors trained together on a daily, or weekly, basis, and she was sure that he already got enough stammering praise and envy from his peers. Besides, she could just picture his reaction to her questions — a smug grin, an arrogant raised eyebrow — and wanted to do all she could to avoid it. 

But it didn’t stop her from trying. When Harry wasn’t looking, or wasn’t in the room, she tried doing the smallest bits of wandless magic, things she hadn’t bothered trying in years — turning on the burner, stirring her tea, picking up a dropped pen or her pajama top — all with mingling success. A few things worked, a few things didn’t, but every time Hermione reached deep into her well of magic, into the veiled river of burnt gold and deep ocher sitting just below her consciousness, it became easier and easier to let it flow free. Her magic felt warm, comforting, familiar and alien all at once, a powerful feeling she hadn’t had in years — since Hogwarts, maybe — and, when she thought about it, she realized just how long she’d been stifling her magic, pushing it out of her daily life, forcing it into a slumber that did neither of them any good. 

She’d been worried, Hermione realized, about dimming it. Or forgetting it. Or entertaining a freedom that she no longer had access to. 

But with Harry, it didn’t feel like that. Her magic never felt restrained, humbled, borrowed. Instead, it felt wild, captivating — powerful.

Harry sat down at the other end of the couch, nudging her out of her reverie. He took a very inelegant slurp of tea from his mug before putting it down on the coffee table, shaking out the evening’s Prophet. She glanced at the headline — “Minister Remains Out Of Sight, DMLE Assures All Is Well” — then looked back down at the open file in her lap. A cruel, angry face glowered up at her, and she sighed. 

“I have to admit,” Hermione said, “the updated suspect list is nothing short of thorough. I think this is everyone from the Ministry’s Most Wanted for the past five years.”

“Blame Malfoy,” Harry replied. He sifted through the sections and plucked out the Sports, then handed her the page with the crossword on it. Hermione was so surprised by this that it took her a moment to convince her hand to move and take it from him. Their fingers brushed, sending a shiver down to her stomach. “His little potion works almost too well,” Harry went on, oblivious. “The detainees are naming everyone under the sun.”

Hermione nodded, slipping the crossword under the stack of folders. It helped if she didn’t have to look at it. “What do you think of this Numod character?” She tapped the photo at the top of the file. “He certainly looks the part.”

Harry glanced at it and frowned. “Kingsley likes him for it, but I’m not convinced. I don’t think he’s smart enough for the level of Potion work we’ve seen so far, or to lead such a large group of operatives. We’re looking for someone clever, someone hell-bent on revenge. Besides—” He leaned in and pointed to the blood status field. “He’s a Half-Blood, and we’re definitely looking for a Pureblood.”

“Really?” said Hermione, hoping her surprise wasn’t too obvious. She’d been thinking the exact same thing, but she wasn’t about to say— “Why?”

Harry snorted, shifting back to his seat. “Several reasons. First, you’ve got the resources. Salvation’s leaders needed serious cash, real estate, and social pull to get this thing off the ground. The only people in the Wizarding world with all that and more are the Purebloods. And, you’ve got the advanced level of secrecy and subterfuge — they’ve had operatives planted in the Ministry for ages, and we’re only just finding out about it. I’m not saying that Muggle-borns can’t be sneaky, because they can, but this type of infiltration and disguise is high-risk, high-reward, and that means we need to look at the group who’s going to profit the most if these terrorists succeed. And that’s the Purebloods.”

“So you don’t think the Muggle-borns are running the show,” Hermione countered, raising an eyebrow. 

Harry shook his head. “No. This is definitely a brainwashing, puppeteering situation. The moment you were elected — the first Muggle-born Minister in history, not to mention the first woman in however many decades — the Purebloods realized that things really were changing. They needed to act quickly, but not obviously. They knew if they came out against you in the Wizengamot they would be shouted down by your allies, by the people who got you onto the floor in the first place. No, they had to act in secret, and they needed to appeal to the very people they hated — the Muggle-borns. 

“They realized that if they could convince the Muggle-borns that more freedom somehow meant less freedom, you would lose your base and the support for your reform bill could be undone. Once they had the plan, all they had to do was target certain individuals — outcasts, near-Squibs, people without support networks, those who had felt betrayed or unsatisfied with the way things are.” Harry sighed, hitching his bad knee up onto the couch, barely an inch from Hermione’s own leg. “If you haven’t noticed, a lot of the members we’ve identified are quite young. They didn’t live through the War, they didn’t see how bad things were before Kingsley changed everything.”

Hermione considered him, then nodded. “You make a good point.”

“Anyway. After they figured out who they could target, the leaders needed to get themselves some muscle. So they got the Potions-master, or the Potions-master came to them — or maybe the Potions-master was involved from the very beginning. Then they delegated their leadership roles, started a propaganda machine, and came up with a plan to assassinate you and incite civil unrest, priming the Wizengamot for full overthrow of your bill.” He flashed her a sheepish smile. “At least, as far as I can figure it.”

Hermione sighed a little, suddenly wishing she still had a curtain of hair to hide behind. Harry had just strung together and voiced so many of the thoughts she’d had over the past few days, and had filled in the few details she hadn’t accounted for. And, he’d done it seamlessly, without even a whisper of arrogance. “You’ve certainly thought this through.”

His smile softened, as did his gaze. “I’ve had some time on my hands.”

Of course. Hermione dropped her gaze, and her attention snagged on the front page of the Prophet. “They’re getting more and more creative with the headlines, I see.”

“It’s all gossip, Minister.” Harry picked up the paper again and looked down at the photo on the front page, which was a rather dramatic, staged affair of reporters clustering outside the closed door to Hermione’s offices. “They’re running out of lines to spin. And they can’t really prove there’s anything wrong because you maintain the work ethic of a house elf with a bee in its bonnet.”

She sat up and thwacked him in the arm with the Numod file. 

“Ow!” Harry winced theatrically and drew his arm to his chest like it was an injured wing. “You wound me, Minister!”

“Shut up.” Too late, she realized how fond the words sounded. Now that she was closer to Harry — less than a foot away — she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from the corner of his mouth, the corner where his cheeky grin always seemed ready to break to the surface. And he was giving her that look, the one full of challenge, of slumbering heat, one she knew well by now, knew to mean that he was deciding whether or not she should have her way. Hermione sighed, gathered the remaining files, and dropped them onto the floor. “I’m not sure how long we can keep this up.” She leaned into the cushions, wrapping her arms around her legs. “I have to appear in public at some point, or there are going to be rumors that I’ve been killed and someone has set up a shadow government.” 

Harry frowned a little, putting down the paper. “I think you underestimate your support,” he replied, resting his arm along the top of the cushions. Now, his hand was just inches away from her cheek, and she felt her face heat at their proximity. “They can only say a certain amount before it becomes libellous, and you have plenty of friends in the Wizengamot who will put their feet down before it goes too far.”

“Libellous,” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Good word.”

“One of my favorites,” Harry replied, dry as the winter wind.

Silence fell, and Hermione wasn’t sure how much time passed as they just looked at each other, that small, impossible smile playing around on Harry’s face. The clock ticked, the refrigerator hummed, the waves rolled into shore. 

Harry broke first. He shifted, reaching for his mug, and his other hand — the one on the sofa — accidentally brushed the nape of her neck. 

Her responding shiver was immediate, involuntary. She’d always known that her neck and her scalp were sensitive areas, but now that her hair wasn’t there to protect them, the sensitivity had increased tenfold. Hermione slid her eyes shut, wishing that the earth would open up and swallow her whole, because that was the last thing she’d wanted Harry to find out. 

For a moment, nothing happened. It was enough for Hermione to risk opening her eyes again, her heart in her throat, praying that Harry hadn’t noticed. 

But of course he had. He’d frozen in his seat, staring at her with those bright, bottomless green eyes. Hermione met his gaze without flinching, her face on fire, wondering what on earth would happen next, if she could make some excuse and flee to her room—

It was Harry who moved first, of course. He leaned forward a little, then his hand shifted closer to her body. His fingers traced a burning line from her collarbone to her jaw, his touch as light as a feather, and she shivered again, her eyes slipping shut. 

Harry let out a shaky breath, and he repeated the movement, but this time, his hand cupped the back of her head, his nails grazing her scalp, and Hermione gave a full-body shudder, feeling goosebumps erupt on every inch of her skin. Idiot, some hazy corner of her mind protested, you can’t let him—

He shifted, leaning back against the arm of the sofa, and then his hands were on her elbow, her waist, his gaze burning into hers, and she realized what he wanted. Hermione gave in, sliding into Harry’s lap, a low-burning fire seething in her belly, and moaned aloud when his hands found their way back to her neck, her scalp, his mouth pressing to her chin, her collarbone, her chest—

It was torture, sheer, exquisite torture. His hands, his fingers, traced an infinite number of patterns across her skin, through her hair, and it was all she could do to cling to him, to tangle her fingers in his hair and pull him closer, always closer, but not close enough—

“Hermione,” he bit out into her chest, and his fingers flexed against her scalp. Her body shook in reply, and his moan was deep, stifled. 

She could feel him, could feel all of him, the heat of his skin, the tense line of his back, his shoulders, through the layers of their clothing. His attentions, his body, all of it was intoxicating, building a burning line of sensation that dangled her above an empty abyss, held her in the space between reality and—

His hand slid from the back of her head to her jaw, and the feeling of his thumb against her temple made her eyes slip open again. 

Harry was staring at her with a half-lidded gaze. His glasses were gone, and without them, she trembled under the weight of his scrutiny, under the weight of everything she saw in his eyes —

And then he leaned in, and her brain shut down. He paused just a hair’s breadth away from her mouth, glancing up at her, seeking permission. Her heart squeezed tight as she nodded, and he closed the distance between them, pressing his mouth to hers. 

It was everything and nothing like the other kisses they’d shared. It was slow, supple, infinitely sweet and simple. Hermione lost herself in it, leaning into Harry’s chest with a sigh, loving the way he hummed into her mouth, his thumb stroking her cheek while his other hand slid down to her bum, her thigh, then up to her hip, which he squeezed so tightly it made her wonder if he thought she was going to disappear. 

She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, kissing and kissing and kissing as if they’d never get enough, drinking each other in with such a steady yearning that it almost felt impossible. At some point, Harry broke away to pull her jumper off, then let her do the same to him, huffing a chuckle against her collarbone. The feeling of his hands on the skin of her back, her belly, had Hermione shivering again, grinding against the rigid length in his jeans. For a long while, it was enough just to have his skin on hers, to dig her nails into his back as he made her shiver and shake with only his touch, and then, suddenly, it wasn’t. 

“Upstairs,” she gasped into his shoulder, squeezing the back of his neck. “Please.”

He was on her the moment her bedroom door closed, pressing her down into the bed with his mouth at her ear, her neck, the edge of her bra. It was hurried and slow all at once, and Hermione couldn’t hold back a smile as she held him close, delighted by the feeling of his body on top of hers. Harry seemed to sense this, and he pressed his answering smile into her skin, making quick work of her bra before his hand found its way to the waistband of her leggings. 

He pulled them down her body with excruciating slowness, kissing and squeezing her legs as he went, his mouth hot and supple and teasing as he lapped at the crease between her thigh and her crotch, behind her knee, above her ankle. Her smile was almost painful now, even as she shivered and shook below him, pleasure sending tingling waves up and down the length of her body. 

When he reached her feet, Harry looked up at her with a bright, teasing expression, squeezing her toes in one hand. “I didn’t realize you’d forgone underwear today,” he murmured. “Had I known, we would’ve gotten here a lot sooner.”

“Shut up,” she managed to wheeze out, and to her surprise, he did. 

When Harry made his way back up her body, his mouth tracing yet another damp, heated line up her skin, she realized he was naked, and shuddered from the feeling of his erection pressing into her thigh, her hip. She wanted him so badly she thought she might explode, and she reached for him, her fingers tangling in his hair and squeezing his arse. 

And then he was there, his face only an inch from hers, his body a languid line of energy against hers. He was staring at her with that same look of heat and wonder, so full of tenderness that it was all she could do to meet his gaze without any hesitation. When she did, he smiled, and something in her heart squeezed tight. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, once again sliding his thumb along the edge of her jaw. And then he kissed her, simple and brief and so sweet it made her ache with longing. 

Harry’s fingers were gentle, practiced, slipping into her and pressing her open. His mouth sucked and teased at her neck, her breasts, her nipples, making her squirm and shake and gasp into the cool, salty air. He groaned into her skin, shuddering from restraint, grinding his cock against her stomach. And then, after a short eternity, he pulled away, and she instantly missed him, though he wasn’t gone for long. 

Harry paused as he hovered above her, one of his hands braced on the underside of her thigh, holding her leg up and open. He said nothing, but his hand stroked the line of her neck again, pressing into the skin with something akin to wonder. Hermione met his piercing gaze, swallowing thickly, then choked on a gasp as he slid slowly into her, his mouth falling open on a moan. 

It was luscious, unhurried, plush and warm and silken. Every moment blurred together, and all Hermione could think, all she could feel, was Harry’s mouth, his hands, his chest, his— They kissed, again and again, and Harry kept sliding his hand along the line of her neck, moving with her when she bucked and shuddered, trailing kisses along her temple, over her forehead, breathing against the thin hair curling against her scalp, and she wanted to weep with adoration, with longing, with the feeling that this, surely, would be the last—

But no. She couldn’t think about that. She forced herself to focus only on the richness of this moment, on the surety of pleasure, and she glanced up at Harry’s face. He was watching her as he moved inside her, his eyes half-lidded and glazed, reverent and happy all at once. 

It was then, with Harry’s eyes on her, and his body above her, that Hermione took a shuddering breath and did something she’d never done before, something she knew she would never regret, regardless of how this all ended.

Hermione closed her eyes, and let her magic flow out to meet him. 

She was tentative, at first, feeling but not seeing the warm, rich ochre spill out of her skin and wrap around Harry’s body like tendrils of burning water. She both heard and felt him gasp and shudder, then something deeply blue and richly purple met the edges of her magic, tangling with it, creating a web of energy in the sparse air between them. A white-hot rush of pleasure blinded Hermione, and she choked on it, on the sheer, quaking electricity snaking along her skin, snapping and biting like a thousand tiny bolts of lightning. 

Their magic wove together in a warm, velvety tapestry that seethed and ebbed with every movement of their bodies. It set Hermione on fire, made her tingle and shiver like an earthquake. She sighed with it, rocking up against Harry, combing her fingers through his hair until he shuddered and moaned and tensed above her. She mouthed at his chest, his clavicle, and all the places where their bodies met went hot and cold all at once. 

It was beautiful. Heart-wrenching. Through her magic, Hermione could feel all of Harry, and she knew he could feel all of her. Their magic pushed past every boundary, both physical and mental, ignoring every possible restraint, every insecurity, every excuse she might have made to spare herself heartache. Because none of it mattered, she now understood. None of it mattered, because nothing had ever felt so right.

Suddenly, she realized neither of them was going to last much longer. Harry was curling into her, clinging to her like she was the most important thing in the world, and Hermione smiled, holding him close, letting love flow out of every inch of her body, and not regretting it one bit. 

Nine days, eighteen hours, and thirty-five minutes after Hermione woke up in St. Mungo’s, she blinked awake on a freezing, damp stone floor. The air was so cold her body ached with it, and she began to shiver as she squinted at her pitch-black surroundings, trying to understand where she was, what was happening.

“Hermione?” came a low grunt from several feet in front of her. 

She shifted, wincing at the responding ache in her muscles, like they were waking up after a long, unwanted rest. “H—Harry?”

Another grunt, then the sound of him moving around. Hermione could see a little more now, enough to make out the shape of his huddled body amongst several other dark, hulking objects. They were clearly in a cellar of some kind, and a window set high in the wall cast a sparse beam of moonlight onto the floor. 

“Harry?” she tried again, grimacing when it made her head throb with pain. “What happened? Where are we?”

“I—” Another grunt, and she realized he’d forced himself to sit up. “I’m still trying to get that straight.” The moonlight caught the ridge of his nose as he glanced around. “Clearly, we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, then instantly regretted it when it spiked a pain in her temple. She used her arms to force herself up into a seated position, her hand brushing something cold and metallic. Harry’s glasses. She held them out. “Here, this might help.”

“Cheers.” He gave them a brief clean on the corner of his jumper before putting them on, their lenses flashing white in the moonlight. “Ah.” He looked at her. “You all right?”

Hermione checked herself for any breaks or sprains or bruises, her fingers prodding and searching through the fabric of her jeans and her jumper. “Other than what feels like one of the worst hangovers I’ve ever had, yes, I think so.” 

Harry gave a humorless chuckle. “I feel the same. They must’ve given us something.”

She stopped, staring at him. “They?”

“Yes, they.” Harry sat forward, looking down the length of the room at what she now realized was a cellar door. “They got to us, somehow. Do you remember anything?”

Hermione frowned, sifting through her headache to try to collect her thoughts. “It’s Friday,” she said. “Has to be. Friday night. They must’ve grabbed us—”

“At sunset,” Harry finished for her. He was looking at the ceiling now, at something she couldn’t see. “We’ve only been unconscious for a few hours, then.” She caught the glow of the hands on his wristwatch, and knew that he had to be right. 

“But we should remember something.” Hermione was still frowning, rubbing her forehead, trying to stop shivering. “Why don’t we remember anything?” 

“Who knows.” Harry stood up, then, with a huge effort. He braced himself on a nearby stone pillar, panting a little. “Any number of reasons.” He looked at her. “Wand?”

Hermione’s heart seized, and she patted down her pockets, the shaft of her boots with trembling hands. “No. You?”

Harry shook his head. “No,” he replied, his voice grim. “Not that I’m surprised.”

Hermione bit her tongue, forcing back the tears that threatened to spring to her eyes. Instead, she looked around the room, what little of it she could see in the relative dark. It was a wide, open, disused space, made from old brick and stone — which accounted for the damp and the grime — intercut by pillars and occasional piles of what looked to be rubbish. The ceiling didn’t clear more than eight or nine feet, and the whole thing gave off an overwhelmingly depressive, gloomy air. Which, she supposed, was rather the point. 

Then, Hermione’s heart catapulted to the roof of her mouth, because somebody not three feet away from her let out a low, pained groan. 

Harry got there in an instant, kneeling beside what she’d mistaken for a pile of old, sodden clothing. “Malfoy?” said Harry, surprise overtaking him for a split second before he composed himself and gripped Draco’s arm. “Draco, it’s all right, it’s Harry and Hermione.”

“What.” Draco coughed as he squinted at both of them. “What the hell’s going on?”

“We’re trapped,” Harry said, and it sounded so simple when he put it like that. “We’ve got no idea where we are, but it’s someplace foul, and we’re definitely someone’s prisoners. Can you sit up?”

“Give him a moment, Harry,” Hermione said, then forced herself to move and kneel at Draco’s other side. He looked awful, dark circles staining the skin under his eyes, his hair mussed, his robes creased and in all kinds of disarray. “They knocked us out,” she told him, squeezing his shoulder. “It feels rotten, I know.”

“Valerian,” Draco spat out, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “And a few other things, by the feel of it. Poppy. Saffron. Maybe a couple other heavy-hitters.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Harry said. “When they took you?”

Draco frowned, then shook his head. “I was working in my lab at home,” he said, then his expression went flat with panic. “Blaise— he’ll have come home and I’m not—”

“Don’t think about that,” Hermione said, her voice firm even as it shook. “They took our wands, Draco. We can’t afford to be distracted.”

“Right.” With a loud groan and shaking arms, he forced himself into a seated position, glancing at their surroundings. A moment later, he frowned. “We’re in the Cotswolds.”

“Pardon?” said Harry, and Hermione could practically hear his raised eyebrows.

“I recognize the stone.” Suddenly, Draco was on his feet, going over to the nearest wall. “This looks just like—” He stopped, then turned to face them with an expression of mingling horror and shock. “I know where we are.”

But they didn’t have a chance to press him any further. A pair of footsteps sounded on the stairs outside the cellar door, and they all froze, staring at the door, awaiting whatever awful surprise was coming for them.

A second later, Hermione realized that Draco was staring at something else. Something on the ground, just a few feet away from him. “Harry,” said Draco, his voice hushed. 

Harry was there in an instant, then froze beside Draco, staring down at whatever it was. 

“What is it?” Hermione asked, and when neither of them answered she went over there herself, her mouth falling open in shock when she saw what lay before her on the floor. 

It was Rogers. His mouth slightly open, his gaze wide and empty. His body stiff and pallid. 

Hermione put her hand to her mouth, too surprised to keep the tears from trickling out of her eyes. He was still in his Auror robes, looking like he was fresh off patrol—

Draco moved first, crouching beside the body. He pressed carefully at Rogers’ chest, then his neck, then bent to inspect his head. All the while, the echoing footsteps grew louder and louder, closer and closer. Draco looked up at them. “Dead at least two weeks. There’s a Preserving Spell on him. And…” He hesitated, as if he couldn’t bear to say it. “Some chunks of his hair are missing.” 

Before Hermione could process this, could begin to do anything other than reach for Harry’s hand, Harry, who stood still and unmoving, staring down at the body of the same person they’d seen just that afternoon, the person who’d been dead and alive all at the same time, the cellar door opened, and a hooded, shadowy figure stood waiting for them in the doorway. 

“Come on, then,” they barked in a rough, male voice. “Can’t wait all night.” And with a flick of a wand, Hermione, Harry, and Draco were all bound with silvery metal rope, put under a Silencing Spell, and ushered up out of the cellar. 

Gradually, the rough stone of the cellar steps turned into ceramic tile, then into marble. Hermione looked around her as grand, austere hallways blossomed and grew like weeds, grey and dim in the dark blue night, seething with cruel, bony portraits that turned up their noses at the cluster of prisoners. They were clearly in a massive manor home, but an old one, one that was disused, falling to ruin. It reminded her all too well of Malfoy Manor, and she shuddered, wincing when it made the ropes dig even more into her skin. Harry glanced back at her, and she could tell he was thinking the same thing. 

Finally, they stopped at a pair of large, white doors, and the figure pushed them inside, slamming the doors shut behind them. 

They were in a massive dining room, with two huge fireplaces smoldering at either end. The walls were black stone, the fixtures were grey, and standing at the head of the table, sneering at her prisoners, her face grim with delight, was Bellatrix Lestrange.

Hermione stopped where her couch would be in a moment, looked out the wall of windows, and let out a happy, exhausted sigh.

“I know,” Harry said from a few feet away as he put down another of her new (to her) dining chairs. He was giving her this small, half-hidden smile. “It’s a great space. You really lucked out.”

And she had. She bounced a little on the floorboards, grinning as she looked out at the north bank of the Thames. She felt free here, lighter. Light as air. 

It wasn’t even seven months later that she stared out the same windows with tears running down her raw, swollen face. The midnight skyline twinkled back at her and she shivered, then winced at the forceful sound of Ron yanking his coat off the coat stand. 

“I should’ve known,” he bit out, trying to shove his arm through an inside-out sleeve. “I should’ve known you didn’t feel the same way when you didn’t want to move in together.”

Hermione turned then, steeling herself. “Ron, please don’t—”

“What, Hermione, what?!” He managed to get his coat on, and he stared at her with eyes full of tears. “Don’t what, don’t get upset when I saw myself spending the rest of my life with you, but you didn’t?”

“Ron.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I didn’t mean—”

“Clearly, you did.” Ron pulled open her front door and turned away. He didn’t look back before slamming it shut behind him, the sound a deafening echo in the remaining silence. 

Hermione shuddered, pressing her hand to her mouth, and wiped away her tears. Before she could think about it, she pulled out her mobile and began a text to Harry, her hands shaking:

Me: go to ron’s. bring ogden’s. NOW

Once it was sent, she turned off her mobile and tossed it onto the couch. When she sank into her pillow a few minutes later, a wet washcloth over her eyes, Crookshanks curled up against her stomach, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was on a precipice, leaning over a dazzling infinity far below.

“I am going to get drunk, Hermione, off my head, balls-to-the-walls—”

“Drunk,” Hermione finished for her, rolling her eyes but smiling. “I do pay attention.”

“Better than any man I’ve ever known.” Verity gave her a wink and kissed the air next to her cheek, then pulled open the door of The Golden Hippogriff with a flourish. 

The pub was packed with Ministry employees from every department, and Hermione quickly scanned the crowd, side-stepping a plume of purplish smoke from someone’s pipe. She shrugged off her coat and spotted Draco. “He’s at the table in the corner,” she half-shouted in Verity’s ear above the noise, pressing her coat into Verity’s hands. “You get the seats, I’ll get the drinks.”

People were hanging off the bar like it was going out of fashion, and Hermione had to squeeze behind a clump of witches from the Transportation typing pool to even get to the bartender. She ordered two neat Firewhiskys and a Gigglewater Twist, then leaned against the sticky edge while she waited. 

After a few moments, she realized she was being watched. She swallowed, her stomach jumping, and cast a casual glance around the crowd of people. Her gaze landed on a wizard at the other side of the bar, and then her stomach flipped for an entirely different reason. 

He was gorgeous. Lean, tall, skin the color of rich chocolate, a full mouth, and sleepy eyes that were watching her with a sparkle of amusement.

Hermione took a quick breath, feeling heat flare across her exposed back, her chest, down to her belly. Then the bartender brought her drinks and she busied herself opening a tab, and found her way back to Draco and Verity, who greeted her with a cheer of delight. 

“Did you see?” Verity said some time later, spinning a cherry stem in her fingers. Her gaze was bright, darting to something across the room. “He’s here.”

“I did,” Hermione said evenly, as Draco attempted a not-so-sneaky glance over her shoulder. If he timed it right, he would see Ron sitting with Harry and a bunch of other Aurors in training, flushed and grinning over a round of pints. “Good for him.”

“It’s been what, six months?” At Hermione’s nod, Verity added, “Do you think you can do it? Go back to being friends?”

Hermione shrugged, and Verity changed the subject. 

Later, after the pub had emptied out and both Draco and Verity were hunched over the table, giggling uncontrollably, Hermione shook her head and took their glasses back to the bar. 

“Club soda and lime,” she told the bartender, leaning on the edge again. The pub was nice like this — end of the night, a little quieter, a little—

“Hi.”

Hermione turned, heat flooding her face, and found herself looking up at the gorgeous stranger. Now that he was closer, she could see things she hadn’t noticed before — a freckle above the left corner of his mouth, dark brown eyes, the black lines of matching tattoos curling up the sides of his neck. Then he offered her his hand, and she saw that the tattoos edged around his wrists as well. “Theo.”

She smiled, shaking his hand. His grip was warm, smooth. “Hermione.”

“Hermione,” he repeated, like it was a spell. He had a velvety Mediterranean accent. 

“What is it you do, Theo? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before, and they drag me here often enough to—”

He was smiling. “Curse-breaker,” he said. “But I’m based in Cairo, I’m just here on a temporary assignment.” He cocked his head to one side. “What about you?”

A half hour later, Hermione fell back against her mattress with a gasp as Theo made quick work of her jeans. His fingers were hot and gentle, pressing against her thighs, her hips, her belly with a reverence that made her shudder. 

He paused between her legs, his hand sliding up the line of her ribcage. It made the tattoos along his arm ripple, and she watched in fascination. “What do you like?” he murmured, sucking a kiss on her inner thigh. His gaze was bold, dark. 

Hermione blinked, her stomach jumping. “I—I—” No one, not even the handful of one-night stands she’d had since breaking up with Ron, had ever asked her that. 

Theo smiled, then found her hand and brought it back down with him. “Show me.”

The next morning, her legs were liquid and her body ached with satisfaction. “Sorry to run out like this,” Theo said as he buttoned his shirt, and it seemed like he meant it. “Portkey.”

Hermione nodded, not caring if it was an excuse. They didn’t owe each other anything. Then she stretched, her toes curling into the sheets, and he slid her a look that was all heat. 

“You,” he growled, crawling on top of her to suck a mark on her hip, “are very unhelpful.”

Even Verity noticed that something was different. “You seem smug about something,” she said at some point during lunch on Monday. She eyed Hermione with a knowing look. “Maybe we should get you laid more often.”

Hermione smiled, taking a sip of coffee. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

When Harry walked into her office just a few days later, she later blamed her response on her lingering good mood, because that was the only thing that explained—

“Hi,” he said, giving her a small, tentative smile.

She returned it, putting down her quill. “Hi.”

“Been busy?” Harry glanced around her cupboard-sized office. 

“You know I have, as I know you have.” She tried, for a moment, to forget how little they had seen each other since she’d ended things with Ron, how tired Harry looked now, dark circles under his eyes. It must’ve been the training. “What’s up?”

He took a quick breath, shoving his hands in his pockets. It was still strange, seeing him in a pair of slacks, a shirt and tie. “I’m inviting you out, Friday night. There’s a new club, and we’re getting a whole group together. Luna, Hannah, Neville—”

Hermione cocked her head to one side, putting the pieces together. “Harry, are you sure Ron wants me there?” 

“Yes,” he said quickly, but not quick enough to feel like a lie. “He wants…” Harry tried again. “He wants things to go back to normal.”

“Normal,” she repeated, a few dozen replies itching to spill out of her mouth. He can tell me so himself, she wanted to say. Ron can speak for himself. “Friday?” she said instead.

Harry nodded, a real smile threatening to break through. “We’re meeting at the Hippogriff at nine o’clock. Can you make it?”

“Yes,” Hermione found herself saying. “Yes, I can.”

And she did. She walked into The Golden Hippogriff at precisely 9:03, and steeled herself as she made her way over to the large group of Hogwarts’ finest. She hugged Neville, kissed Luna and Hannah on the cheek, and noticed, with a tickle of surprise, that Ginny wasn’t there. 

“Training,” Harry half-shouted at her later, over the club’s insanely loud music. “She’s in Wales for the weekend.”

He seemed happier, she realized, watching him laugh at something Seamus was saying from her perch at the bar. Lighter. And Ron had been so normal with her — saying hi, keeping a respectable distance — that this whole evening felt like a trick. 

“Come on,” Hannah said into her ear, pulling her towards the dance floor, and Hermione let her, even though she’d never—

The club was a very posh one, with dark, velvety walls, high ceilings, and colorful lights that moved with her, around her. It took a while, and a lot of encouragement from Hannah, but eventually, she went with it, dancing and laughing, dizzy and electric, and then Hannah and Luna grabbed her with shrieks of laughter, because the boys were descending on the dance floor, and Neville spun Luna in a beautiful turn, Seamus shimmied up to Hannah, and Harry—

“Come on then, Granger.” He was so close to her face, and half-hidden by the darkness of the club, that she felt like she could see all of him and none of him all at once. His hands were warm on her arms, his body so close to her own, and she let herself go. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Stop asking, Harry, because it’s not going to work.”

He followed her through the doors and down the hallway, his Auror robes flapping dramatically. “Don’t be like that, Hermione—”

She snorted. Maybe she’d be able to shake him in the research hall, there were enough books in there to rival Hogwarts’ library. “What, dedicated?”

“Obstinate,” he fired back. “All I’m asking is one little favor—”

“What you’re asking is far beyond the bounds of a favor, Harry Potter—”

He sighed through his teeth. “One month, I’m asking one month—”

Hermione turned around to face him, too exasperated to notice the people staring at them. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to get this resolution in front of the Wizengamot? The arguments I’ve had to make, the promises?”

“If it’s anything like what I’ve had to go through, then—”

“No.” She gritted her teeth. “Harry, it’s not my fault they put me on the werewolf desk. But I need to make this happen, and one little word from you isn’t going to stop it.” I need this to happen, she didn’t say. I need to prove that— “That might work in the DMLE, but it doesn’t here.”

Harry rolled his shoulders, clearly nettled. “You’re—” He bit off a humorless laugh. “You’re undoing a six-month investigation, Hermione—”

“That’s hardly my problem,” she replied, her face burning. “Work faster next time.” And with that, she turned on her heel and marched away. Harry didn’t follow.

The following week, she was surprised but pleased to get an owl from Theo. He would be back in London, and wanted to see her. 

“I knew it,” Verity crooned over a hurried lunch in the canteen, heedless of the people around her. “I knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself.”

She was right, in a way, but Hermione barely had the wherewithal to think it as Theo fucked her ruthlessly into the mattress, slow and unhurried and aching, pulling sounds out of her that she didn’t know she could make. The next morning, he stroked patterns into her skin, looked her in the eye, and said, “I’ll be back in six weeks.”

And that was how they started… whatever it was they started. Hermione, somewhat to her own surprise, was fine with it — Theo was lovely, but after the slow-burning disaster with Ron, she wasn’t interested in a relationship, and work kept her so busy she barely even had time to see Crookshanks. Seeing Theo every once in a while was perfect, a treat she could look forward to with a pleasant ache between her legs. 

“Tell me,” she said almost two months later, her fingers grazing the pattern of his tattoos — tattoos that were traditional in his family, that helped him to channel his magic — “about your Greek name and your Egyptian rituals.”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Greek mother, Egyptian father. Born and raised in Cairo.” He pressed a kiss to her mouth. “I make a mean spanakopita.”

And then, Ron showed up in her office with a smile on his face. “Hermione,” he said, hand on the doorknob. “Got a minute?”

She blinked, then nodded. “Yes, what is it?”

Ron glanced around before closing the door, and sat down across from her desk. “I’m here as a part of a sacred obligation,” he said, his smile growing into a grin. “As best man.”

Something ugly and empty swooped in Hermione’s stomach, but she plastered on a smile that was sort of genuine. “Really?!”

“Really, as of last night.” Ron looked so excited he could burst. “Obviously, it’s not going to stay quiet for long, so I thought I should tell you before it hits the papers. Harry wanted me to— well, he’s been put on recon, otherwise he’d—”

“When?” As Ron’s frown, she added, “When, when’s the date?”

“Harry says a year, but Ginny doesn’t want to wait longer than six months.” Ron chuckled. “I don’t think they’ll leave it long, do you?”

No, Hermione thought, watching Harry and Ginny spin in the middle of an enchanted dancefloor, a rich purple haze fizzing into the air with each turn of her gown. They won’t.

Later, she was standing at the bar, lost in a memory of Theo’s hands on her legs, thinking about the hearing she had on Monday, what lines she’d have to spin this time to get Warlock Bennell on her side—

“’Mione.” His voice in her ear was rich, amused. “Care for a spin?”

She shouldn’t, but— “Yes.” Hermione glanced over her shoulder and let Harry take her hand. He looked far too good in his dress robes. “I think that’s the first time you’ve called me anything other than ‘Granger’ in months.”

“You exaggerate.” His smile was warm as he spun her onto the dancefloor. 

She followed, a little dumbstruck. Since when did he know how to do that? “I assure you,” she said, feeling his hand settle at her lower back, “I don’t.”

Harry gave an exaggerated sigh. “No shop talk tonight, all right?”

Hermione couldn’t hold back a smile. “All right, if it’ll make you happy.” After a moment, she cocked her head, looking him in the eye. “You are happy, aren’t you? Harry?”

He looked back at her, and they stilled, the music fading, but before he could say anything, a volley of fireworks shot off on the lawn, and the tent erupted in a cheer. 

“… elementary, when, following the precedent set by Somhurst v. Wizengamot in 1837—”

Theo hummed into the skin of her lower back, pressing his mouth to the space between her hip and her bum. “Hermione…” 

“Theo.” She shot him a warning look, even as she smiled. “Come on, we agreed. Food, fuck, and flashcards. I have to be in court tomorrow, just in case you’ve forgotten.”

He sighed dramatically, but didn’t budge. His fingers joined his mouth, trailing a teasing line down her spine. “It’s not my fault, you’re the one saying the sexiest shit I’ve ever heard—”

“Hush.” Hermione flicked a few flashcards into his face, then pushed him over and straddled him, rolling her hips. His cock grazed her still-wet crotch and he hissed, his fingers digging into her thighs. She raised an eyebrow. “What were you saying?”

“Ugh,” she said later, when the lights were out and she was checking her phone one last time. “I’m sick of all this wedding bullshit, I don’t even know why I’m in this chain—”

“Ron, right?” Theo slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck. 

“Yes.” Hermione turned off her mobile and chucked it somewhere under the bed, yawning. “It’s such a nightmare, and he gave me a plus-one, sick little shit that he is, I don’t even know who I’m going to bring, it’s not like I can bring Draco, besides, he’s visiting Azkaban that weekend—”

Theo hummed, his thumb stroking her lowest rib. “Bring me.”

There was a pause. An elephantine pause. 

“Theo,” Hermione tried, her throat unexpectedly clogged. “You know we don’t do that.”

He hummed again, his thumb stilling. “What if I wanted to?”

Another pause. Then:

“No, sorry, not with the light off.” Hermione turned on the light and sat up, staring at him. He looked completely calm, and he was smiling. “What did you just say?”

“What if I went,” he said, smug and genuine all at once, “as, like, your date, or something?”

She hit him with a pillow and he laughed, ducking away. “Be serious,” she hissed, her heart thundering in her face. “Explain yourself.”

Theo nodded, sitting up as well. He got close, his hand cupping her face. His eyes were deep, dark eternities that swallowed her whole. “Hermione,” he said. “They’re transferring me to the London office. It’s a promotion, a good one. Less travel, more reasonable hours. I’d be able to be here, to see you. So—” he took a breath— “would it be all right if I asked you out?”

For a moment, she had no idea what to say. Then, she tackled him to the bed, narrowly avoiding a concussion. “Yes,” she said between kisses. “Absolutely, yes—”

He was laughing, wrapping his arms around her. “Good. At least I can meet your friends—”

Hermione pulled away with a frown. “You’ve met my friends.”

Theo looked at her like she was crazy. “Not Harry or Ron.”

That gave her pause. She leaned back, thinking quickly. She’d met Theo five years ago, and in that time, they’d had a handful of pub nights with Draco and Verity, much to Verity’s unconcealed delight— “Oh.” Hermione shook her head. “You’re right.”

He grinned, toying with a bit of her hair. “The Golden Trio. It’ll be funny to see you all together, trying to imagine what you were like at Hogwarts.” The word sounded extremely strange in his accent, clotted and heavy.

Hermione made a face. “Please don’t call us that. And we—” She stopped just short of saying, we’re never all together anymore. “We haven’t seen each other that much since school.”

Theo shrugged. “There’s always the open bar to take the edge off.”

The open bar was definitely helpful, Hermione decided as she polished off her third martini. 

“Easy, tiger.” Theo brushed a kiss to her temple, his hand resting at her hip. “Much as I enjoy three-drink Hermione, I’m not sure—”

“I hate this,” she said through a smile, trying not to look at him. “Why haven’t they come up to us yet, this is—”

The ceremony had been too hectic — squeezing several dozen witches and wizards into a Muggle church was no mean feat — and she’d barely even had time to give Ron a hug and Harry a nod before the priest was marching in and telling everyone to clear the space before—

And then, because the universe hated her, Ron appeared, grinning fit to burst. Sally was still on the dancefloor, getting twirled around by one of her bridesmaids. “I’m so sorry,” he said to Theo, “I don’t think we were introduced—”

It was like a slow-moving nightmare. Hermione gulped as Harry approached a few moments later, something in his face hidden and sharp beneath the smile, Ginny at his arm. Hermione squinted at him as he approached, hoping that he would behave here, at least—

“Congrats, mate,” Theo was saying to Ron, and Ron clapped him on the back. 

“Bliss, mate. It’s bliss.” Ron pushed Harry forward. “Theo, this is Harry and Ginny. Harry and Ginny, this is Theo. Hermione’s date.” He was definitely tipsy, maybe even drunk, because there were about three levels of meaning hanging onto the word date, and that was a level of subtlety Ron could never pull off sober.

“Right.” Harry shook Theo’s hand. “I’ve seen you. At the Hippogriff.”

This was news to Hermione. Theo chuckled, pulled her in close to his side. “Seems like it’s everybody’s favorite haunt.”

“Yeah, seems like.” Harry didn’t even look at her, then he stepped away, Ginny shooting him a confused glance. “Nice meeting you, Theo.” 

Later, Theo gave her a knowing look and said, “I have to admit, he wasn’t what I expected.” 

Hermione snorted, stumbling as she kicked off her heels. “Welcome to the club.” Shoes gone, she stumbled into the kitchen. “Nightcap?”

Theo laughed, a short, bright sound, and followed her. “What happened between you two?”

Something jolted in Hermione’s stomach, and she paused before uncorking the cognac. “What do you mean?”

“You weren’t…” Theo seemed to cast around for the right word, watching her. “Friendly.”

“No. We aren’t, most of the time.” She handed him his glass and he followed her to the couch, where Crookshanks was curled up and purring. “Not since I became his bureaucratic enemy number one.”

Theo’s hand went to Crookshanks’ belly and he took a sip of cognac. God, he looked beautiful here — in her flat, in her life, on her couch. “Explain.”

Hermione sighed a little. “He’s been on the warpath, trying to track down everyone Greyback turned during the war. You know Fenrir Greyback, I assume?” At Theo’s nod, she continued. “Greyback wasn’t picky, and he had a thing for children. Doesn’t help that our Wizarding society is severely prejudiced against werewolves, and they have almost no legal protections or freedoms, so they would have no reason to want to register themselves in the first place.” Hermione swirled her cognac, almost surprised she could talk so coherently at this point in the evening. “The higher-ups put me on the werewolf desk. It’s my primary focus, followed by house elves and centaurs. Kingsley is determined to start fixing things as soon as possible, and some of the protections we’re pushing through, well…” She sighed a little. “It makes it more difficult for Harry to prosecute and sentence the older werewolves, the converts who were loyal to the cause. And the irony—” she almost stopped here, but she didn’t— “the irony is that Harry’s godfather to a boy whose father was a werewolf, someone who was turned by Greyback himself. His godson faces layers of discrimination, both legal and not, that we can barely even fathom—”

Theo hummed, his fingers twisting in Crookshanks’ fur. “Sad,” he said, his voice low. “It all sounds… very sad.”

Hermione swallowed, looking down into the amber cognac. “Yeah.”

“He wears all of it,” Theo went on, to her surprise, “like a shroud. He’s heavy with it.”

Hermione tried to swallow again, but she couldn’t. Her gaze drifted to the skyline across the river. “Yeah. He is.”

Theo tapped his knife against his glass, and the crowd around their table went silent. “Everyone,” he said, standing up, glass of wine in hand. “I’d like to call a toast — a toast to my incredible girlfriend.”

Hermione couldn’t hold back a grin, her eyes meeting her mum’s across the table. Her mum was beaming, as were her dad, Draco, Verity, even Blaise was sort of smiling—

“A toast to the Department’s youngest Deputy Counsel in history, their toughest prosecutor, the only person who knows the Wizengamot like the back of her hand. I am honored to be her partner, to have the privilege of watching her take this world by storm. To Hermione, a woman like no other.” 

“Hermione,” the table echoed, followed by a cascade of cheers. 

“You spoil me,” she murmured into Theo’s ear much later that night, shuddering as his hand dragged up the length of her cunt.

His laugh was a rumble against her neck. “Not enough.” His thumb teased her clit and her shudders multiplied, her entire body clenching and quaking, and both of them were surprised when her inner thighs and the sheet below her grew damp. 

And then Theo was on her, biting a hot line of kisses up her chest, the shell of her ear, and he was pressing inside her, pushing a gasp out of her throat. “So good for me,” he growled, one hand tangling in her hair and pulling her head back, his breath ghosting along her jaw. She shivered, goosebumps erupting, and could barely hold on as he fucked her senseless. 

The only problem with being Deputy Counsel — apart from the increased workload — was her position on the Board of Internal Budgetary Oversight. It would’ve been fine, but—

“The Department of Magical Transportation does not need an extra credit line for Emergency Portkeys,” Hermione argued, “those are already covered under—”

“Their current Emergency Protocol is severely lacking,” Harry fired back. He had dark circles under his eyes, his robes were creased, and he clearly hadn’t shaved that morning. “And the DMT has resisted all attempts to force an overhaul of the existing process, so in the meantime—”

Hermione seethed, ignoring the way everyone at the table was watching them like a ping-pong match. “That money should go towards International Magical Cooperation, they haven’t received a supplementary grant in—”

And so it went, on and on and on. It seemed like they could never stop fighting, and soon, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Harry in a non-work setting. He was always busy, always somewhere else, always with Ginny. On that particular day, the day of the great battle between the DMT and the DIMC, Hermione tried to pull Harry aside after the meeting ended, but he was already gone, his robes flapping as he disappeared down the end of the hall. 

She sighed a little, suddenly feeling exhausted, and made her way to the Atrium, where she was meeting Verity for lunch. She was early, so she leaned against the edge of the fountain, and then the headlines at the Prophet stand caught her eye—

MRS. POTTER AND HARPIES HOP OVER TO HAMBURG FOR TRAINING SEASON — DOES THIS SPELL TROUBLE FOR THE YOUNG COUPLE??

Hermione’s stomach flipped, but before she could think about it, Verity appeared, and they were off to lunch. 

The next time she saw Harry outside of work, it was in Ron and Sally’s sitting room, and a newborn Jessica was being passed into her arms. 

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione managed, tears blurring her eyes. Jessica smelled like milk and warmth, and Theo squeezed Hermione’s shoulder as she cuddled the baby. “She’s perfect. She’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“I don’t take any of the credit,” Ron replied, brushing a kiss to Sally’s cheek. Sally blushed and smiled, beautiful and exhausted all at once. “She takes after her mum.”

Harry was watching this from an armchair in the corner, his hair half-vertical and his eyes mussed. His knitted jumper had holes in it, and a nine year-old Teddy was perched on his lap, his eyes huge as he watched the baby. Harry looked nothing like the terror of her career, and everything like the Harry she’d seen the morning after they’d rescued Sirius. Brimming with love, disappointment, anger, and hope all at once. Ginny, she’d noticed, was not present. 

After Teddy promised that he would be extra-specially, super-duper-fantastically careful, she handed the baby back to Ron, then stepped aside and watched as Ron showed Teddy how to hold Jessica the right way. Teddy nodded, as focused as a laser, and moved carefully, letting Ron help him tuck Jessica’s head into the crook of his elbow, leaning in to brush his nose against her forehead, tickle her cheeks with his messy forest-green hair. 

Then, Hermione made the mistake of glancing at Harry. He was staring at Teddy, arms crossed against his chest, and he was completely still, hunched a little like he was protecting himself from something. As she watched, his throat worked, and he turned away to look out the window instead, his hands clenched into fists. 

They hadn’t spoken in so long, she realized, once she and Theo had gotten home. Not as friends, anyway. She didn’t know what was going on in Harry’s life anymore, just as he didn’t know what was going on in hers. And Ron never dropped any hints, either, which was very unhelpful. 

But then, suddenly, none of that mattered, because she and Theo were sitting at her dining table, holding hands, and she was crying. 

“It’s your dream job,” she forced herself to say, her chin trembling. “You can’t turn it down just because of me. You can’t.”

“I can,” he said, so fiercely that she almost relented. “There will be other opportunities—”

“No,” she said. “There won’t. We both know how hard it is to get a permanent assignment within spitting-distance of the Singapore office, let alone in the Singapore office itself. You have to go, Theo. I won’t let you stay.” 

He swallowed thickly, and liquid pooled in his lovely, dark eyes. His thumb stroked the back of her hand, and she knew, then, in spite of what she wanted to believe, that they would probably never see each other again.

Her apartment felt empty without him, like she’d lost half of her own body, half of her own mind. Her walls were bare without his artwork — magical ink on papyrus — her kitchen was stale without the smell of his favorite imported coffee, and her bed was always cold. She cried, a lot. Verity dropped by with Ogden’s and ice cream almost once a week, and Draco began planting himself on her couch, turning on some Eastenders marathon, and refusing to budge for at least twelve hours. Crookshanks started pressing against her legs and looking up at her, even when he wasn’t waiting for dinner. 

It took a long time, longer than she’d expected, and then, then.

The Department Head came into her office with a smile on his face and said, “Hermione, we would like to advance you to the position of Head Counsel.”

Verity gave her a tearful, tight hug, her engagement ring getting tangled in Hermione’s hair, and said, “I’ll come back every Christmas and every July, it’ll be like I never left, Ireland’s only a Portkey away—”

Malcolm from the DIMC’s Trade Commission shot her a smile across the canteen, talked to her after meetings. She always responded, friendly but polite, and tried not to think about the disappointment that would flash in his eyes. 

The ten-year anniversary of the War came and went. She had to sit through too many speeches, make a few of her own, and stand between Harry and Ron at the Hogwarts memorial, a circle of the remaining Hogwarts Heroes (the Prophet’s phrase) clustered behind them, for the five-minute Observation of Silence. Harry hadn’t said anything to her that day other than the usual pleasantries, and it wasn’t until a few days later that she realized he and Ginny hadn’t touched each other once during the whole event. But, at every moment that he wasn’t in the spotlight, Harry kept Teddy’s hand firmly in his own, Teddy, who was pale and red-eyed, who looked up at his parents’ names on the commemorative plaque with a glimmer of determination in his gaze. 

She went to Ireland for Verity’s wedding, stood in the line of bridesmaids, flowers in her hands, cried a little as the ceremony ended, drank too much at the reception, had so much fun that she almost felt guilty about it.

For many years, the first week of September had passed Hermione by without much notice — it was ages since she’d thought about Hogwarts, about the clusters of children arriving for the train — but that all changed when she went into work the Monday after she got back from Ireland and the newspaper headlines blared:

HARRY AND GINNY CALL IT QUITS — WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR THE FUTURE OF THE BOY WHO LIVED?

Her stomach twisted, and it hit her like a brick wall, leaving her face numb and her hands shaking. She couldn’t stop her first thought from surfacing, even though it was insane. Had Ginny waited— waited until Teddy went to Hogwarts to—

What followed could only be called an uproar. Harry, now a Deputy Head Auror, was put on leave, and his absence from the Ministry only made things worse. For months, Hermione couldn’t go two feet without hearing some new gossip about the split — about how much Ginny would get in the settlement, where Harry was going to live, about the men who had been caught sneaking out of Ginny’s apartment in Hamburg—

But she ignored it. She worked, kept her head down, and told reporters “No comment.” Spent evenings with Ron, Sally, Jessica, and baby Peter, went for drinks with Draco, went to the theater with her parents, passed a few laws, paced around her silent apartment, and when Malcolm asked her out to drinks in the new year, clearly as part of a last-ditch attempt, she said yes. 

The Hippogriff was crowded, as usual, and Hermione was glad that they’d chosen a table near the back. Malcolm was nice, which she’d known before this, but he was so— he was so—

Then, the door opened, and Ron stepped into the bar, windswept, brushing snow off his shoulders. And behind him was—

“Wow,” said Malcolm, before taking a sip of beer. “Haven’t seen him in a while.”

Hermione’s heart thudded in her chest, and she tried to ignore it. She watched as Harry — rosy from the cold, smiling a little, his glasses fogged and his hair crooked — ordered drinks and made his way to the table of Aurors, who greeted him with a cheer—

“There’s our free man!”

“What’s it like to be back on the market, Golden Boy?!”

“Got a copy of those papers? Prophet’s offering a small fortune, and I could do with a long holiday in France—”

Even Ron laughed, shaking his head ruefully, and Hermione put together the pieces — the divorce must’ve been finalized today.

 “I guess he’s back,” she said, then took a sip of her whisky. “So tell me about your family, Malcolm—”

It wasn’t until later, much, much later, that she came out of the toilets, stepping into the dim back hallway, and found herself face-to-face with Harry Potter. 

Hermione let out a breath, and saw him smile. “Harry,” she said, her voice much steadier than she’d expected. 

“Hermione.” He stepped closer, his movements slow and measured, and she realized, on pure instinct, that he was drunk. “Having a good night?”

He must’ve seen her with Malcolm. He saw everything. “Yes,” she breathed, somehow frozen to the spot. Behind Harry, the roar of the pub continued. “You?”

He nodded, and stepped closer. He was less than two feet away now, and— had he always been this tall?

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, and he frowned. “I’m sorry that you— that that happened—”

Harry seemed surprised now. “No, I—” He cleared his throat. “It was for the best.”

Hermione nodded, then suddenly found that she didn’t know what to say. She tried to walk past him, but then he turned towards her, and she backed into the coat rack, her heart in her throat and her eyes huge as he looked down at her, his gaze burning into hers. 

He looked different. Older. 

“Harry—”

“I saw you with him.” His voice was low, intent. “That prick from the Trade Commission.”

Her face heated for all the wrong reasons. “He’s not— He’s quite nice, actually—”

Harry laughed without humor, and something twinged between her legs. “What a ringing endorsement from Hermione Granger.”

And then, to her astute shock, his hand pressed against the wall beside her, his thumb grazing her hip, and suddenly, she was eighteen all over again, weak-kneed at their proximity, at the low-grade hum of magic in the air between them. “Hermione,” he said, and she bit her lip to trap a truly embarrassing gasp from escaping.

And then—

“No,” she said, before he could say anything else. Her heart thudded in her ears and he blinked, confused. “No, Harry.”

He twitched, stepping away, his arm falling to his side. “No?” he repeated.

“You’re drunk,” she said, clenching her fists. “And your divorce was finalized just a few hours ago. I will not,” she went on, gathering steam, “I will not be your rebound.”

And with that, she walked away, going back to Malcolm and their conversation about the new interest rate proposal on both their desks. It was only after they’d finished their drinks and left the Hippogriff that she realized she hadn’t seen Harry come back from the toilets. Hermione reached for Malcolm’s hand, smiling when he blushed, and walked with him into the night.

It was like a line of dominoes after that. Second, third, sixth, tenth dates with Malcolm, sex that was sweet but not mind-blowing, nights spent cuddled into his couch — he had the bigger flat, after all — and the occasional dinner with her parents, ignoring the way her mother watched her with eyes that could see too much and not enough.

Three new laws passing the Wizengamont. Ron having the twins. Becoming Department Head, then the news of Andromeda’s death hitting the papers. Hermione sent flowers, trying not to imagine the way Teddy must’ve cried, how small he must’ve looked in a little black suit. How Harry would’ve taken him home, Teddy asleep on his shoulder, and tucked him into a bed that was probably too big for him.

Moving in with Malcolm, shedding a few tears as she looked out of her windows at the Thames one last time. Spending Christmas with Malcolm’s parents. Saying goodbye to Crookshanks, her grief looming ridiculously large, realizing that she was mourning her childhood as much as she was mourning a companion. 

Butting heads with Harry at every turn in the few meetings that overlapped on their calendars. Ranting about him in the toilets to her new secretary, Jill. In a moment of weakness, entering into a Ministry-wide bet about who would raise their voice first in a certain number of meetings. Losing the bet and having to dance with Harry at the Christmas party, grinding her teeth the whole time, ignoring the way his hands felt impossibly right on her body, trying to understand why he was horrible to her at work but lovely outside of it. 

Receiving an invitation to a seat on the Wizengamot, opening her confirmation letter with trembling hands. Learning through the grapevine that Harry was named Head Auror, then realizing the true extent of that promotion when she started hearing his words, his guidance, in the testimonies of every Auror who came before the court. It made her clench her jaw, jealousy flaring hot under her skin, because it seemed like no matter what she did, she would never have as much influence as Harry fucking Potter. 

Once, when they passed each other in the hall, Harry with a flock of trainees, Hermione with her team of junior researchers, Harry grinned and said, “Nice job in court today, Granger,” and without missing a beat, her gaze straight ahead, she said, “Bite me, Potter.” 

Then, a candlelit dinner in their kitchen, and Malcolm down on one knee, a lovely diamond ring in his hands. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, because in that moment, a stream of memories flashed through her mind — Theo’s hand in hers, his mouth on her neck, going to Brighton on a last-minute train, catching the first act of a terrible play and spending the rest of the night wandering around Soho, ducking into hidden bookshops, then going home and mapping constellations on the ceiling of their bedroom. That wasn’t Malcolm. Malcolm was serious, not spontaneous; careful, not passionate; settled, not adventurous. 

But maybe that was what she needed. So she said yes, and smiled when he whisked her off to Spain for a few weeks to celebrate. The trip was planned within an inch of its life, but she still enjoyed it, telling herself that this was the right thing to do.

Within five minutes of her first morning back on the job, the ring on her left hand feeling odd and heavy, Ron was in her office, his face pale. “Hermione,” he said, and she was glad that they’d already gone through the whole congratulations thing before she’d left— “Harry got hurt.”

She inhaled, then exhaled. She could hear her watch ticking. “When.”

“While you were gone. Bombarda hit his knee.” Ron took a quick breath, and she could see his exhaustion, his worry. “He’s fine, he’s home, and he kept the leg, but—”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

The dominoes kept falling — Kingsley showed up in her office one day, after everyone else had left, and said, “I think you should run for Minister.”

She thought about it for days, weeks. She imagined finally having enough influence to actually get her Muggle-born legislation in front of the Wizengamot, to spearhead the rights of any and every magical creature who had been oppressed by Wizarding Britain, and it was at two o’clock in the morning, Malcolm snoring beside her, that she whispered into the cool, dark night— “I’m going to be the next Minister for Magic.”

The campaign — the longest days she’d ever known, more speeches than she’d thought she could ever make, fighting tooth and nail to make herself heard over the sneering tones of Octavius Crane. Ignoring Harry’s eyes on her at her events, in the Ministry halls, in the meetings where now, sometimes, he was silent, his hands on the table, his face open and careful. He walked with a limp, occasionally, but she always looked away whenever she saw it. 

Internal meetings with the Purebloods, with the people who had never thought that a Muggle-born would become a power player in government. Keeping a hard line in the sand, learning things about people, using information to get further ahead than she’d ever been, feeling a nameless thrill under her skin, pushing and pushing—

“I’m done,” Malcolm said late one night, his back to her. His words were cold, full of hurt and disappointment. “We’re… we’re done.”

Hermione inhaled, ignoring the jolt that went through her gut. It felt far too much like relief, and she couldn’t— “Why?”

He looked at her, and his face said far too much. “You’re not—” Malcolm swallowed, and he looked away again. “You’re not who I thought you were. I can’t do this anymore.”

She left that night, her ring sitting cold and bright on the bathroom counter, packed with a few sweeps of her wand, and immediately sent a Patronus to her campaign manager, letting her know that she had to start preparing for the fallout. She checked into a hotel, left a voicemail for her parents, and ignored every call from them for the next week. Within a month, Hermione had a house off Marylebone, and a pair of wheezy, greasy kittens that nobody had wanted. 

This is where I begin, she thought, looking out the windows of her empty sitting room, the kittens fast asleep in her arms. This, now, is me.

When she won a few weeks later, it felt like champagne, something ending and something beginning all at the same time. Which only made it worse when a roomful of officials applauded her success, Harry clapping the hardest of all, his grin blinding, only for him to turn around and needle her all the way through her first Departmental Oversight meeting. 

It was ridiculous, she realized. But, a small part of her thought, late one night after Draco and Blaise had invited her over for drinks that turned into charades and takeaway and a sleepover in their guest room, it was also kind of fun.

And sometimes, the dark, treacherous part of her brain thought, it was fantastic.

Time stopped as Hermione stared at Bellatrix, horror and disbelief and paralyzing fear curdling together in the depths of her stomach, and her first thought was No, it’s impossible—

How can she be here? She was cremated, I set her on fire myself, I watched her hair curl and her skin turn to ash, it’s not possible—

And then, in the briefest space between seconds, she noticed how the firelight flickered on Bellatrix’s uncharacteristically wide nose, and her heart stopped cold. This woman had the same figure, the same eyes, the same curly, endless black hair, but as she tossed it over her shoulder, the firelight fell on a heart-shaped face with a widow’s peak, a rounded jaw, a supple mouth —

It wasn’t Bellatrix.

Relief flooded through Hermione, drowning her fear, even though she still had every right to be afraid, because this wasn’t Bellatrix. Had she not been Silenced, Hermione would have laughed, genuine and deep and delighted, because this person could pretend, but Hermione had been through the worst, seen the worst, and she knew that this, right now, would never even come close.

And then, Not-Bellatrix spoke. “How delightful, you all seem to be quite shocked.” Her voice was the only thing that betrayed her youth; she sounded gullible, insecure, but clearly trying to bury it under a haughty tone and a jutted chin. “I trust you’ve been well looked-after?”

Silence. Hermione did not dare glance at Harry or Draco, sure that she would start grinning if she did. 

Not-Bellatrix smiled. “Good.” She stepped out from behind the table and began slowly walking over to them. She was in all black — Typical, thought Hermione — and her cloak whispered on the stone floor. “I’m sure you have any number of questions for me, so I thought I might as well take care of the greatest hits for you.” 

Typical, Hermione thought again, and beside her, she felt Harry shift his weight onto his hip. He was probably fed up with this, as well.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” said Not-Bellatrix, sweeping her arms wide and smirking. “It’s on loan, so if you have any problems with the furnishings, I’m afraid I can’t help you. It’s certainly a little grim, even for my taste. But I’m sure dearest Draco over here knows exactly where we are, isn’t that right, Draco?” Silence. “And who am I, you must be wondering?” Her smirk grew into a grin. “But that would take all the fun out of it.”

A knock sounded at the door, echoing around the cavernous hall, and the woman’s gaze snapped to it. “Enter,” she called out.

In came two men and a woman, all of them dressed in sharp black robes. The first man, Hermione didn’t recognize at all, but when she saw the man behind him, she felt as if she’d swallowed an icicle. 

It was Leo Marchbanks. The very man whose snide, scowling face had drifted across her coffee table just two weeks before. His chin was weaker in real life than it was in his photograph, and it was the only thing that kept her from keeling over where she stood because this was all the confirmation they needed — they were at the heart of Salvation itself, and odds were, the Potions Master himself was in this very room. 

Which brought her attention back to the woman, who looked even younger now that there were more people over the age of twenty in the room. She was leaning against the massive dining table, languid and pleased and on-edge all at once.

“I see our guests are doing well,” said the man who had come into the room first. He was clearly their leader, and carried himself with a smug, self-satisfied air that made Hermione want to roll her eyes. “I trust you’re keeping them entertained?”

“Oh, yes.” Not-Bellatrix shot Hermione a smirk. “But where are my manners? This is Septimus Crane, better known as… Auror Rogers.” She broke into a high-pitched giggle, and Hermione felt something rotten turn in her stomach.

But before she could fully process the fact that someone from Octavius Crane’s family was apparently one of the leaders of Salvation, Draco shifted beside her, his features contorting with fury. Everyone noticed, and Not-Bellatrix’s smirk widened into a grin. 

“Ah, yes, you’ve figured it out, haven’t you?” She stepped away from the table and walked over to a blank stretch of wall beside the ornate, empty sideboard. “I might as well… since you’ll all be dead soon.” And with that, she pulled a hidden switch on the sideboard.

There was a greasy, muffled grinding noise, then, to Hermione’s astonishment, the stone wall split and slid back, revealing a large, recessed set of shelves filled with a wide assortment of bottles and vials containing any number of multicolored liquids. Not-Bellatrix reached out and plucked one of these vials from its shelf, then wandered over to Draco. She grinned, sliding the end of the vial along his cheek; the liquid inside was a ruddy, sluggish brown. “Bet you’d never thought you’d see Polymorph Potion anywhere other than your nightmares.”

Polymorph Potion? Something stirred deep in Hermione’s memory. Hadn’t she heard that somewhere before?

“But it takes someone of exceptional skill to brew such a tricky, illegal potion.” Not-Bellatrix giggled again, her gaze boring into Draco’s. “You were always too much of a coward, a puppet. Mummy and Daddy’s shiny little toy.” She tapped the vial on his nose and he trembled with anger. His face was becoming quite red. “Not like me. No, where you only played at tradition, at inheritance, I embodied it. I dedicated my soul, my life , to the study of the Dark Arts, to learning magic and potion-craft that you could never even hope to touch. And what did you do? You turned traitor, you went to work for the very people we had sworn to take down. You are disgusting, Draco Malfoy. A disappointment. But how is that a surprise? You clearly take after your father.” 

Aha, Hermione thought. She’s the Potions Master.

Not-Bellatrix’s gaze drifted to Harry, and she closed in on him, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look her in the eye. “And you. You foul little Half-Blood, thinking you could undermine the grand designs of the Dark Lord. Luck, sheer luck, that was all you had, you snivelling speck of—”

“Electra,” said Septimus, and his voice carried a touch of warning. 

Not-Bellatrix — Electra? Hermione thought — stopped short and straightened up, taking a quick breath and tucking the vial of Polymorph into her robes. “Of course,” she said, a touch breathless, and recovered enough to smirk again. “Obviously, you can’t be allowed to continue. You were getting a touch too close, I’m afraid, what with my stolen notes and Draco’s lucky break. We can’t have you ruining all of our delightful work, can we, Septimus?”

“No,” he replied, and as he smiled, Hermione saw the ghost of Octavius Crane in his face. 

“No,” Electra repeated, and her attention drifted to Hermione. “Hello, Minister Mudblood. I do apologize for not greeting you before, but I simply… took no notice of you.” She grinned, leaning in until she was a mere inch from Hermione’s face, and Hermione had to swallow the urge to throttle her. “Thank you so much for joining us, we really look forward to getting to know you better, and to your cooperation in our endeavors.”

Hermione felt the smallest flicker of fear, and it must have shown in her face because Electra cooed, tilting her head to one side, her eyes growing wide. “Oh,” she crooned. “It has feelings. But not to worry, my dear.” She stepped away, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “You won’t be suffering at mine or Septimus’ hands. No, we’ve come up with a special plan for you.” And with that, she brandished her wand, and Harry winced. Dark red blood blossomed at his exposed wrist, then began to trickle down to the floor in a sickly, curling stream.

“There we are.” Electra hovered a small bowl underneath Harry’s hand, catching the blood. It pooled thick and heavy, and within a minute, the bowl was halfway full, but Electra didn’t stop. “No harm in getting a little more than we need, is there?” she said, and it was several moments before she waved her wand again, sealing Harry’s cut and sending the bowl of his blood drifting over to the shelves. “Thank you,” said Electra, grinning again, “for your cooperation. See you soon.”

Suddenly, the doors opened again, and the hooded figure reappeared. Hermione, Draco, and Harry were dragged from the room, nearly tripping over each other in the process, and led back to the cellar. Once the figure had closed and locked the door, the ropes binding them disappeared, as did the Silencing spells.

Both Hermione and Draco opened their mouths at once, but Harry held up his hand, stopping them. He waited, and after a moment, Hermione heard it as well — the echoing sound of their keeper’s footsteps fading up the stairs. Once it was quiet, Harry dropped his hand, cast a wandless Muffliato, and nodded.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say we’ve found the Potions Master,” Draco said bitterly, aiming a kick at a nearby wooden crate. 

“What was it?” Hermione asked him, her heart pounding as her adrenaline caught up with her. “The Polymorph Potion?”

Draco winced, shaking his head. “It’s the predecessor to the Polyjuice Potion, as you probably guessed, but instead of using the Universal Base to start the potion, you use the blood of the person you want to turn into. Because blood is such a powerful ingredient, Polymorph brews much faster than Polyjuice, so you can take someone’s blood and have the potion ready within a day or two. The rest of the ingredients are the same, but the key difference between Polyjuice and Polymorph is the time limit.” He paused, glancing at both of them. “Instead of an hour, the effects can last a full day between doses. A day and a half, if you have a really talented—”

“So it’s blood magic,” said Harry, and he seemed much calmer than Hermione would’ve expected. At Draco’s nod, he added, “If it’s a predecessor to Polyjuice, how did none of our sensors pick up on it? My team was tested for Polyjuice twice a day.”

“When you’re making Polyjuice, the Fluxweed and the Knotgrass react with the Universal Base and create a particular type of protein. This protein has no effect on the potion, but it can be detected in the system of anyone who’s taken it. When you’re testing for Polyjuice, you’re testing for the presence of that protein.” Draco sighed. “Obviously, if you use blood as your base—”

“The protein never forms, and the Polymorph can pass detection,” Hermione finished for him. It all made sense — they must’ve captured Rogers when he was off duty, drained his blood, and killed him, then had Marchbanks take the Polymorph and pretend to be Rogers. Draco nodded, and she finally allowed herself to look at Harry, to reach out and grip his arm. “See?” she said quietly. “You did everything you could.”

Harry looked back at her, then squeezed her hand and stepped away. “So who is she?”

“Bellatrix’s daughter,” Hermione said at once. “Has to be.”

“The resemblance is uncanny,” Harry replied, and she could’ve sworn he was smiling. He looked at Draco. “Is it possible?”

Draco frowned, leaning against one of the pillars. The weak, silvery moonlight made his skin and hair look grey. “I don’t know… if Bellatrix had any children, we would’ve heard about it by now, wouldn’t we?”

“Not necessarily,” Harry replied, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “You don’t remember them discussing anything?”

“Or,” Hermione added, “Bellatrix suddenly wearing very loose robes?” Both the boys turned to stare at her. “What? Bellatrix definitely would’ve seen pregnancy as a kind of weakness, I’m sure she never would’ve—”

“France,” said Draco, out of the blue. He looked at Harry. “Bellatrix, Rodulphus, and my mum went to France just after Christmas of ’97. They said they were doing something on Voldemort’s orders, and they were only there for a couple of weeks, but—”

“France?” Hermione interrupted. “Why would they—?”

“That’s where the Lestranges come from,” Harry replied, now back to looking up at the ceiling. “They’re Normans, they came over with William the Conqueror, and the family’s been split between here and the Continent ever since.”

“So they must’ve left her with Rodulphus’ relatives,” said Hermione, cottoning on. “And Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Narcissa came back to finish what they’d started.” She glanced at Draco. “You really didn’t know?”

He looked her dead in the eye. “No,” he replied. “I didn’t. But it does make sense. The French have never quite shared our aversion to blood magic. They only banned it about fifty years ago, and there are still plenty of people who practice it. If Electra grew up in a French Pureblood family and showed a talent for Potion-making, it’s no surprise that they taught her how to use it.”

“And because she’s Bellatrix’s daughter,” added Hermione, “they would’ve kept her hidden, educated her themselves. You can’t very well send the offspring of a famous set of Death Eaters to Beauxbatons. And that explains why no one knew about her.”

“Back to the other pressing question,” said Harry. He was now walking slowly around the cellar, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. “Draco, where are we?”

Draco twitched, as if shaking water from his head. “Right. We’re at the old Crane Manor, near Stow-on-the-Wold.”

“Nowhere near London,” Hermione pointed out, then the enormity of their circumstances began to sink in. “Without wands. Bellatrix’s insane daughter has your blood, Harry, which can’t mean anything good. And no one knows where we are.” Hermione forced herself to swallow. Her heart had become a steady drumbeat in her ears, and she felt a fresh rush of adrenaline. “Okay, before we continue, I think I’m starting to panic.” She looked at Harry. “Why, in the name of Merlin’s saggy left bollock, aren’t you panicking?”

Harry snorted. “Because they’re complete and utter amateurs, ’Mione.”

Hermione stared at him, then at Draco, who sort of shrugged. “What? ”

“Amateurs,” Harry repeated. “If they knew a single thing about what they were doing, they would’ve put us in separate cells, kept us gagged and chained, and used some warding that actually packed a punch.” And with that, he picked up a chunk of rock and hurled it at the ceiling.

The moment the rock connected, the ceiling lit up in a runemark the size of a bus. It glowed electric blue, bright enough to make her squint, then slowly faded away. 

“Anti-Apparition,” Harry supplied. “And anti-Portkey, by the looks of it. But not anti-magic.” Then, to Hermione’s increasing astonishment, he actually chuckled. “Oh, I love Purebloods.”

Draco chuckled as well, and Hermione scowled at him.

“Don’t take it out on him.” Harry’s grin was weirdly infectious. “I’m happy — thrilled, actually — because these were the perfect people to kidnap us, Hermione. They’ve spent their whole lives convinced that Purebloods are the only true wizards, that only Purebloods are capable of any real or effective wandless magic, and they’ve got their heads so far up their own arses that they don’t bother to see what’s right in front of them.” With that, he snapped his fingers, and the dust-covered sconces lining the walls all burst alight, their flames licking the ancient stone.

Heat flooded Hermione’s face and stomach. That was… a lot.

“And,” Harry continued, shoving his hand into the front pocket of his jeans, “they’re shit at detecting hidden compartments. Or just searching people’s pockets, I can’t really tell.” And with that, he produced his walkie-talkie.

Hermione could’ve kissed him. Could’ve tackled him to the ground, could’ve ripped off his jumper and—

She swallowed thickly, and caught Harry’s gaze. He held it for a moment, then gave her the tiniest smirk. That bastard. He knew, he knew—

“Okay, then.” She cleared her throat. “So what do we do?”

It was simple. You know, in the way that very complicated things are.

“I really don’t like this,” Hermione whispered to Harry. She took a step, the floorboard creaked, and she winced. “I really, really—”

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Harry whispered back, and she rolled her eyes.

They were about halfway to the dining room. Luckily, all three of them had memorized the route from the cellar, but Draco had insisted that they take a couple detours through a mouldy drawing room, a stuffy office, a blue room that clearly hadn’t been blue in years—

“Besides,” Harry added, peeking around a corner before he continued. “This is a lot better than some of the plans I’ve had in the past.”

Hermione stared at the back of his ridiculous head. “That’s hardly reassuring.”

Harry flashed her a grin over his shoulder. “Hey, I’m alive, aren’t I?”

Hermione sighed, and they continued along the hall. They must’ve looked like the Mystery Gang, she thought — creeping around a crumbling old manor in the middle of the night, trying not to get caught as they darted between beams of moonlight.

The main issue, of course, was their wands. Kingsley and the rest of the DMLE team would be arriving at any moment, and the only hope of sneaking them inside would be to disable the security wards. Even though they had only seen a total of four people in the dining room, Draco had warned them that there could be hundreds of others hiding on the upper floors of the mansion. If it came to a fight — and Hermione was sure it would — they could be outnumbered, even with the DMLE, and she, Harry, and Draco, had to be ready to fight. 

It didn’t help that they had no idea where their wands were. None of them had caught so much as a glimpse of them in the dining room. This was part of the reason for their various detours throughout the vast, empty house — they were checking every hiding-place they could think of, and, though no one said it aloud, looking for Electra’s workshop. 

They had rounded the east wing of the bottom floor by this point, and as Harry paused to turn another corner, he froze. “Draco?” he breathed.

“Yes?”

“Still want to be the one to let Kingsley in?”

Draco frowned. “I—sure.”

Harry nodded, then he straightened up and strode purposefully around the corner.

“Hello,” Hermione heard him say. “I’m afraid I’m a bit lost—”

There was a snarl of anger, then a rush of wind and a muffled bang. Then, silence.

Hermione and Draco stared at each other in mute horror before sprinting around the corner to find—

Harry standing above a Stunned, unconscious man — their jailer. He picked up the man’s wand with a faint expression of distaste and handed it over to Draco. “There you are. Now get to the front door, and quickly. Someone probably heard that.”

Draco’s eyes were huge, but he nodded. “See you soon.” And with that, he hurried in the direction of the front door, keeping his back to the walls as he went.

It was only then that Harry noticed Hermione staring at him. “What?” he said, slipping back into the shadows.

“Harry, I— How—” She shook her head and followed him, her gaze still fixed on the crumpled form of their jailer. “How on earth did you do that?”

He huffed a little. “Practice. Come on.”

Over the next few minutes, they made their way steadily closer to the dining room. They were met only with more silence, more shadows, more dim, grey real estate. Hermione was beginning to wonder if they were the only people in the manor, apart from the handful they’d seen in the dining room. Salvation had had a clear, fully-functioning network of operatives, but where were they? The fact that she, Harry, and Draco hadn’t met any guards was nothing short of astonishing, especially given the size of the house. But perhaps it was their remote location—

Suddenly, Harry stopped. His hand froze where it was pressed against the wall, and he cocked his head to one side. “Do you hear that?” he whispered. 

It was dead silent. “No,” Hermione whispered back, frowning. “What are you—?”

“Listen,” he hissed, so she did.

It took a few moments, but then—

Hermione’s heart thudded in her throat. “What is that?”

Harry was grinning. “Come on.”

They turned yet another corner, and then they were in the hall that led to the dining room. Hermione could see the entrance from where she was standing, and a pale orange flicker bled through the crack at the bottom of the double doors, casting an eerie glow on the dusty carpet. Electra and Septimus’ muffled conversation echoed down the hall, and she took a moment to give Harry credit where it was due — not even a Silencing spell; definitely amateurs. 

But that other sound. It wasn’t the people talking, it was—

“This way,” Harry hissed, making directly for the dining room. 

Hermione balked. This wasn’t the plan, they couldn’t just march into the dining room without wands, they hadn’t agreed—

Then, to her surprise, Harry stopped some twenty feet shy of the double doors and zeroed in on a blank stretch of wall. 

“Remember that latch Electra pulled on the sideboard?” he whispered, scanning the wallpaper, the baseboard. “What if there’s something—?”

Hermione was there at once, searching for anything that was out of the ordinary, out of place. She could hear it again, that faint, high-pitched sound, and it was coming from—

“Here,” she breathed, pressing a small indentation in the space where the floor met the baseboard. There was a muffled grind and a click, then a door-shaped segment of the wall slid slowly backwards and swung open. 

Harry and Hermione stepped inside without a moment’s hesitation, and the door closed itself behind them. 

They were in a narrow, windowless room with stone walls and a high ceiling, filled to bursting with a vast array of Dark objects and everything one might need in a state-of-the-art Potions lab. Hermione stared in mute horror and fascination at a work table covered in flowers and herbs she had never seen before, at a pile of dismembered dead animals and jars crammed full of dead insects. The shelves lining the room were spilling over with a haphazard collection of jars and boxes, some of them housing creatures and body parts suspended in hazy, yellowish liquid. She realized, after a moment, that one set of these shelves were the same ones that had rotated into the dining room, the ones from which Electra had plucked a vial of Polymorph. Standing there, in the middle of it all, was a massive dull silver cauldron, simmering above a low fire, sending silverish clouds plumes of steam into the air. No doubt, it was a batch of potion made from Harry’s blood, and Hermione barely suppressed a shudder as she passed by.

Hermione could hear the muffled conversation from the dining room next door, but that was of little importance, because she could also hear — 

“Harry,” she whispered, zeroing in on a large desk built into the fair wall below another set of shelves. The shelves were filled with vials containing a dark, thick substance, and they were all labeled with initials. Her stomach twisted a little — were the vials filled with blood? — but she forced herself to keep looking. The desk was covered in sheets of notes and the floorplan for a building she didn’t recognize. Hermione opened the top drawer, and there, before her, were —

“Brilliant, Hermione,” Harry breathed, grabbing his and Draco’s wands. “Bloody brilliant.” He grabbed her, kissed her on the forehead, and crossed to the adjacent wall like nothing doing.

Hermione’s brain misfired, then she shook herself and grabbed her wand, feeling its warmth spread from her palm up through her arm, her chest. It felt incredible, like regaining a limb she hadn’t known was missing — she felt whole again, felt ready for whatever might be coming next. She joined Harry, who was clearly trying to listen in on the conversation next door.

“This will never work,” he muttered after a moment, and he started back towards the door, walkie-talkie in hand. “Come on, I have an idea.”

His idea — which Hermione didn’t love, if she was being honest — was a couple of Disillusionment Charms and a suit of armor.

“Ready?” he whispered, and she breathed, “Yes.”

A moment later, the suit of armor propped just a few feet down the hall collapsed, creating the most magnificent avalanche of noise Hermione had ever heard. But there was no time to appreciate it, because the double doors were flung open and Leo Marchbanks charged into the hall, wand up, teeth bared. 

This was their moment. Harry and Hermione snuck into the dining room, slipping around the opposite side of the table. They were now directly across from Septimus and Electra, who didn’t look at all pleased by the interruption.

“What is it, Marchbanks?” Electra said, her voice sharp.

“Nothing,” he spit out. “Suit of armor just fell apart.”

Electra rolled her eyes. “Well, come back here, then.” 

Hermione felt an unexpected shiver of glee. The so-called leaders of this group could barely stand each other!

“As I was saying,” Septimus continued, rather imperiously, as Leo came back into the room and closed the doors. “The prisoner has become more and more… uncooperative. We will need to take certain measures, and soon, if we are to—”

Hermione frowned, and she was sure Harry did as well. Septimus couldn’t mean any of them, they hadn’t—

“Ah, yes,” Electra leered, looking all too much like her mother. “How is our favorite pet? Why don’t we bring him out to play? That should encourage him to keep to his good behavior.”

Septimus grinned and nodded at the other woman who’d come in with him earlier. “Celeste, be a dear and fetch him?”

Celeste sucked in her breath, her disdain showing on her face, but she nodded and left. 

There was a bit of a pause, during which Septimus made his way over to the closest fireplace and produced a small pipe. He tapped it on the mantle, and the sound echoed throughout the room. Hermione took a deep breath, her wand beginning to feel a little slippery in her hand. 

“So how much longer do you think it will take, Electra?” Septimus filled his pipe with tobacco and lit it with a snap of his fingers. Blue smoke curled around his mouth. “A week? A month? I’m simply trying to understand—”

“Two weeks,” Electra said, a hint of warning in her tone. Clearly, they were retreading familiar ground. “But I could work much faster if I could—”

“No,” Septimus said sharply. He gave her a hard look. “We’ve already discussed—”

She scowled, sinking back into her chair. “Septimus, I need test subjects. Without them, we can’t know how effective the machine is.”

Septimus raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You already have a wide collection of samples. I hardly see why you should need a group of subjects.”

Hermione’s heart thudded — were the samples the vials of blood? Had to be. Suddenly, she remembered Draco’s words: Salvation is planning something big. Harry had asked, A weapon? and now, she was beginning to see the edges of their plan. Whatever it was, it involved blood magic.

“Besides,” Septimus added, with a condescending flick of his hand, “that would attract far too much attention. We couldn’t just have a huge contingent of Mudbloods vanish from the population all at once. That would certainly turn some heads, especially after that ill-advised stunt of yours on Marylebone.”

“That stunt,” Electra bit out, “got the Minister right where we needed her.”

Before Septimus could reply, the doors opened, and Celeste marched into the room, dragging what looked like a huge pile of dirty rags. It was a man. He was filthy, his lank and unkempt chin-length hair clinging to his unshaven jaw, and there were half-healed cuts all over his legs and arms. Diffindo, Hermione thought at once, then she saw the man’s face and nearly gasped aloud.

It was Octavius. 

“Brother mine.” Septimus gave Octavius a passing glance before going back to his pipe. “Take a seat.” He pulled out his wand and used it to knock Octavius to the ground.

Electra laughed, shrill and biting, and waved her own wand. Octavius flew back against the wall with a thud and a grunt, and he lifted one watery eye to look at both of them. There was a spark in his gaze, Hermione noticed, a spark of life, of rebellion. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” Octavius mumbled. 

Something ugly flashed across Septimus’ face, and he raised his wand again. “Crucio.”

Octavius twisted and writhed beneath him, agony ripping through his body, but all he let out was a pained, high-pitched whine. Hermione couldn’t imagine what it was costing him.

After several long moments, Septimus let up, and he turned away from his brother. “We hear you’ve been restless. Belligerent.”

“And I’ve heard,” said Octavius, his voice thin and weak, “that you’re an arrogant, prancing fool. Are the rumors true?”

Septimus spluttered, his face turning red. And then, Electra let out a giggle. 

“Shut up!” Septimus roared, conjuring a gag out of thin air. Octavius struggled fruitlessly as the gag fastened itself around his mouth, and Septimus turned on Electra, brandishing his wand.

She lazily held up her hands, raising an eyebrow. “Relax, Septimus. You can hardly fault me for having a sense of humor.”

He let out a hiss of anger, turning back to his brother. “You’re a fool, you’ve always been a fool. Only a fool would be so naïve as to actually help the very Minister we’re trying to unseat—”

Electra rolled her eyes. “Septimus, we’ve already been through this. Octavius didn’t know you were involved, otherwise—”

“Technicalities,” Septimus spat. He truly looked quite awful. “He’s always done this. He’s always taken what is rightfully mine. Look at this house! You’d never believe that not twenty years ago it looked like a goddamn castle, but what’s he done? He’s let it fall to ruin, all to suit his own selfish, Galleon-driven desires— Crucio!”

Octavius twitched and seized against the wall, the gag forcing the screams to stick in his throat, so he emitted only a strange gurgling noise.

Hermione forced herself to take a deep breath, redoubling her grip on her wand. It was hard to watch, even if she couldn’t admit to liking Octavius. But she had to be ready, because—

“Expelliarmus!”

In the following couple of seconds, several things happened at once.

Septimus’ wand flew out of his hands, and he found himself bound and gagged with impenetrable magical chains. Hermione whipped round and did the same to Leo and Celeste, who could only stare at her in surprise as she caught their wands. With another wave of her wand, Octavius’ gag disappeared, and he slumped to the ground, giving her a nod of gratitude.

Their Disillusionment Charms now broken, Harry and Hermione advanced on Electra, who had fallen into a fighting stance, her wand out and her teeth bared. 

“You fucking pissants,” Electra spat. “How dare you— How dare you—?”

But before she could finish, there was a resounding crash as Kingsley, Malfoy, and what looked to be the entire DMLE hurled themselves into the room. 

“No!” shrieked Electra, advancing on Harry and Hermione. “I won’t let you!”

And with that, she fired off a volley of curses. 

Harry and Hermione immediately stepped into the formation he’d made her practice in the dungeon, and parried Electra’s curses while the Aurors removed Leo, Celeste, Septimus, and Octavius. In the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Kingsley and Malfoy coming towards her, and with her free hand she fired a Rebounding Jinx at them, forcing them back into the line of Aurors. 

This was her fight, and Harry’s. They were ready for it, and they didn’t want anyone else to interfere. 

Electra was one hell of a force to reckon with. She busied them with curses Hermione had never even heard of, then conjured and transfigured until any other opponent would’ve withered from sheer exhaustion. But not Harry. While Hermione protected him and redirected the curses, Harry met Electra strength for strength — when she cracked the walls and began hurling chunks of stone at them, Hermione shattered them in midair while Harry fired off a volley of the old favorites, and a few jinxes she didn’t recognize (though she was sure at least one of them would’ve grown Electra’s eyebrows). 

Even as she fought, Hermione watched it all with a curious feeling of detachment. It didn't seem real, any of it, even when a glancing jinx burned a line down the side of her leg, or when she was firing off so many spells at once that she could hardly breathe. It was just another fight, another thing she could do with her eyes closed and her hands tied, because doing this, standing their ground with Harry by her side — it felt as natural as breathing. 

When Electra formed a wall of broken glass — courtesy of the Aurors’ entrance — and used it to try to break through Hermione’s Shield Charm, Harry conjured a beam of light that melted the glass midair. When she sent a cloud of knives hurling at him, he transfigured them into flower petals and conjured a dragon out of the fireplace. The dragon swept around the room, swallowing Electra’s barrage of curses, and when she finally managed to make it evaporate, it buried her in sand. 

She Vanished the sand with a wave of her wand and a shriek of fury that was all too reminiscent of her mother, then conjured a volley of blue lightning that forced Harry and Hermione to separate, but not for long. With a sweep of Harry’s wand, the lightning turned to bright ribbons of water, and in the smallest space between spells, Harry clenched his fist, and the water hurtled itself onto Electra, swallowing her from feet to neck. 

Then, for the first time, Hermione saw a true flash of fear in Electra’s eyes, and that’s when she knew. She knew that they’d won. 

With another twist of Harry’s wand, the water turned to chains — the same magic- and Apparation-proof chains that they’d used to bind the others. Electra fell to the ground, her wand rolling away with a clatter. 

The room was silent. Heart pounding, chest heaving, sweat trickling down her back, Hermione finally allowed herself to relax, falling out of her fighting stance. She glanced at Harry, relief threatening to overcome her, and found him already looking at her, flashing her a crooked grin that made her feel a bit weak in the knees. 

“Kingsley,” said Harry, his voice ringing clear and bright in the ruined dining room. “As the highest-ranking Auror on scene, I am going to charge and question the prisoner before she is remanded to Azkaban, pending a formal trial.”

“Of course,” Kingsley replied, unable to keep himself from smiling. 

Harry closed the distance between himself and Electra, staring down at her with a look of thinly veiled disgust. 

“Electra Lestrange,” he said, and there was a palpable shudder around the room at the mere mention of her last name, “you are charged with high treason, terrorism, murder, attempted murder, grand conspiracy, resisting arrest, and the illegal use of blood magic. Do you accept these charges?”

She stared up at him, her gaze burning with pure hatred, and spat, “Yes.”

“Excellent. You will be provided with a barrister, if you cannot provide one for yourself, and the contents of your potions room will be taken into custody.” Harry gave Draco a nod, and Draco left the room, followed by a small team of Aurors. Hermione smiled at the thought of how he would react to the treasure-trove of Electra’s workroom. “Do you understand?” Harry continued. 

“Yes,” Electra repeated, somehow packing even more disgust into the word. 

Harry nodded, then stooped to pick up her wand. “Septimus Crane,” he said. “Strange choice in partner, Electra. He hasn’t been back to England for almost ten years. Why him?”

When she didn’t reply, Harry cocked his head to one side and said, “We can do this now, or after a couple days in Azkaban and a cup of tea laced with Veritaserum. It’s up to you.”

Electra seethed. “He was… convenient.”

“Expand on that, please.”

“He went to Durmstrang with one of my cousins, and our families knew each other through the usual social channels.” A sickly, smug smile crawled onto her face. “Of course, he didn’t find out about me until very recently. But it took only a little convincing for him to see that our partnership was the remedy to the scourge that has been cast upon our Wizarding world, thanks to your darling little Mudblood princess over there—”

Harry twitched his wand, and a draft of air slapped Electra across the face. “I would encourage you,” he said, his voice flat and calm, “to hold a civil tongue.”

Electra growled, then shook her hair out of her face and kept talking. “Our plan was simple, foolproof. All we had to do was convince some Mudbloods that we were the solution to all of their problems, that we would restore a Wizarding society that barely even noticed them, barely even remembered that they existed, all to their benefit. I selected Crane because I needed his money, his connections on the Continent — my own family kept me so hidden that I had barely any money, no property of my own. All I had was my knowledge, my talent, and that was what I bargained with.”

Harry looked at Hermione and Kingsley and said, “I suppose that answers the question of why the supplies were coming from Europe instead of Britain. They were all businesses intimately connected with the Crane family, going back who knows how many decades. Which is how Octavius made the unwitting mistake of putting us on the tail of his own brother.” He turned back to Electra. “So you and Crane enter into a partnership, and you decide that the best way to start getting Muggle-borns on your side was to launch an underground misinformation campaign. But tell me, Electra.” Harry made a sweeping gesture to the room around him. “Between the encounter in the restaurant and the raid on your old workshop, we barely have a half-dozen of your soldiers, and me and Hermione didn’t run into a single person when we did a bunk from your lovely cellar. So where are the others?”

Electra was scowling now, and it twisted her features into something ugly and dark. “There were… issues of loyalty.”

“Issues of loyalty,” Harry repeated. “You’ll have to expand on that, I’m afraid.”

“What few people remained after your little raid left after our attack on… the Minister.” Electra sneered. “Typical, snivelling Mudbloods. First sign of actual progress and they wither and balk, claiming that we were taking things too far—”

“But that only accounts for, what, a handful of followers? Our intelligence reports told us that you had operatives stashed in nearly every department and sub-department in the Ministry. So tell me — where are they?”

Electra’s scowl deepened, and she said nothing. 

And then, in the brief, echoing silence, the pieces slid together in Hermione’s brain. Suddenly, it all made sense — the vials, and the little labels with each person’s initials. She stepped forward, gripping Harry’s shoulder. “Polymorph.”

He turned to her with a frown. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it. Why waste time, money, resources, on actually recruiting an army of Purebloods and Muggleborns, when all you really need to convince someone that you’re everywhere and nowhere all at once—”

“—are their faces,” Harry finished for her, “and their names.” He turned back to Electra and snorted. “That is both wickedly smart and astonishingly pathetic.”

“You know nothing,” she snarled in reply. 

Harry laughed, cold and brittle. “I think it’s becoming clear that I actually know quite a lot. Now, tell me.” He closed the distance between them, pressing the tip of his wand underneath her jaw. “The weapon, the so-called machine you were discussing earlier. What is it?”

There was a muffled thud, then, to Hermione’s astonishment, a few of the broken stones near the sideboard rearranged themselves into a doorway, revealing none other than the surprised face of one Draco Malfoy, fresh from Electra’s hidden workroom.

“Hi,” he said, waving away the cloud of dust threatening to swallow him whole. “I think I might have an answer for you, Harry.” And with that, he came over to both of them, holding open a large, leatherbound notebook. 

Electra snarled again, but Hermione ignored her, stepping in next to Draco and peering at the spread of diagrams and notes. 

It looked like a bomb. A small, deadly, bomb encased in metal, with a place reserved for inserting a vial of liquid. 

“It’s the same one she used on you, Hermione,” said Draco, and his hand went to her elbow. Beside him, Harry frowned, and reached across to flick through the next few pages of the notebook. “Specialized, made-to-order bombs designed to target the individual whose blood is contained in the vial of liquid. Once detonated, whatever is inside the bomb will affect that person and that person alone, rendering them unconscious or ill or—”

“Poisoned,” Hermione said, her stomach dropping to her feet. She swallowed, then met Electra’s gaze, and felt a powerful, blinding urge to curse, to hurt, to kill—

But Harry got there first. He had his wand to Electra’s throat once again, and there was something in his face, in his gaze— “Why?” he spat out, jabbing his wand into her artery, making her hiss. “What’s the point?”

Electra took her time. She eventually slid her gaze to his, and a slick grin spread across her features. “A demonstration, Boy Who Lived, of the power of law. To show the Mudbloods what could happen when the government that once protected them decided to do the opposite.”

A tingling, edged silence fell after this pronouncement, and it was almost a full minute before Harry stepped away, turning his back on her. “Get her out of my sight,” he bit out, and it was as if the entire room came back to life. A team of Aurors descended on Electra, and within moments, they Apparated away, the sound like a clearing bell as it echoed around the room.

Hermione had never been so fussed-over in her entire life.

“I’m fine,” she insisted for the millionth time, rolling her eyes when Cornelia only smiled at her and continued taking her blood. “I just need a rest and a good cup of coffee—”

“If you go back to work within the following week, I will personally bribe Mr. Finnegan to booby-trap your entire office, including a little something involving gallons upon gallons of paint.” Cornelia raised an eyebrow as she capped the vial, then tapped the point of insertion with her wand, healing it instantly. “Clear?”

Hermione sighed, sinking back into her pillows. “Clear.”

A few feet to her right, Draco was getting much the same treatment, and Hermione had never seen Blaise exhibit so much nervous hovering in her life. She smiled as he tried to hand Draco a cup of tea, then he accidentally knocked Draco’s chart onto the floor and tried to pick it up, apologizing profusely, only to bang heads with the Healer who had done the same. 

A few feet to her left, Harry had been forced to change out of his jeans and was leaning back in his bed. He’d been rolling his eyes enough within the past half-hour that, had they been hooked up to a generator, they could’ve powered a small city. “What did I tell you?” seethed Healer DeSantos, his wand hovering above Harry’s knee. “I told you to take it easy—”

“I was taking it easy,” Harry replied, with an air of exaggerated suffering. “It was the wannabe Death Eater who decided to go for the drama—”

Healer DeSantos levitated Harry’s cup and smacked him over the head with it, sending a wave of water down Harry’s head and shoulders. Hermione bit back a laugh as Harry flicked a Drying Charm over himself with a scowl and said, “I don’t know who let you become a Healer, you pestilential pillock—”

Cornelia shook her head as she applied Dittany to a small rope burn on Hermione’s arm. “They’ve been like that since Mr. Potter came in with his injured knee. I’ve told him that he can see a different specialist, but for some reason, he’s never done so.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Hermione replied, holding in a giggle as Harry levitated every medical tool around him and bounced them up and down on Healer DeSantos’ head. 

She and Harry had barely had a moment alone since the arrest, barely even time to do more than give each other a quick hug, drunk on their success and the relief at finally putting an end to Salvation. Because, they’d realized, once Electra had disappeared from the room, that was what it was — without Electra and Septimus, without the endless supply of Polymorph and all the other potions, all Salvation was, in the end, was an idea. An idea with fading power and a short shelf-life. 

The mere prospect of Electra and Septimus’ trials made Hermione itch to get back on the stand, to renew her legal license. But, as Minister, she would never be allowed, and she consoled herself with the fact that she would get to testify, to watch Harry testify. It was going to be the trial of the century. Maybe she should call Rita Skeeter out of retirement and offer an exclusive… 

Time passed, and eventually, she found herself standing by the window, snatching a breath of fresh air, feeling the buzz of exhaustion begin to catch up with her. It was now almost two in the morning, and her adrenaline was wearing off. 

“I’ll set off the Decoy Detonator, and you Stun the protective detail.”

Hermione smiled, turning to face Harry. “That wouldn’t be very Ministerial of me.”

Harry sighed, leaning against the windowsill. “No, but it would decrease the distance between us and half a dozen cheeseburgers.”

Hermione choked a little in surprise. “Cheeseburgers?”

“My go-to after the end of an assignment.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Nothing like a bruised, bleeding, disheveled man turning up in a restaurant and ordering two cheeseburgers and enough fries to feed half the East End.”

“I can imagine,” Hermione replied, and it was almost enough to distract from the butterflies that had erupted in her stomach. Of course. This was it. His assignment was over. She no longer needed a security detail, and she’d already been informed by more people than just Cornelia that no one wanted her back at the Ministry for at least a week, at least not until all the leads had been tied down and the DMLE was certain that they had all of Salvation’s past members in custody. 

And then, the butterflies disappeared and her stomach flipped over, a sick feeling spreading up her throat. She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want to leave him, either.

But she couldn’t say it. Not now. Not here. Not when she didn’t know—

Harry looked at her, and his smile grew soft. “You’ll be all right,” he said, as much to himself as to her. 

Hermione forced herself to take a breath, and she nodded. “I will.”

Some time later, between another round of checking her vitals and swallowing a handful of precautionary potions — “I don’t like the little madam’s notes on that knockout potion,” Cornelia said, “we just want to be sure—” Hermione turned around and realized that Harry was gone. 

“He had to get home,” said Draco, his tone and his face telling her that he knew far more than he was letting on. “Said he had to meet someone.”

Something in Hermione broke off and fell, fell, fell. “Right,” she said, and knocked back the rest of her potion, forcing herself to swallow when all she wanted to do was cry. 

Hermione turned the corner, caught her heel in a crack, and nearly dropped her takeout bag. She swore under her breath, stumbling a little, and managed to yank her foot free. 

The street was sleepy, off the beaten path, and bordering a small, lush forest along the southern bank of the Thames. Even though night had fallen, and the bare trees were dusted with a thin layer of frost, she could still hear a faint trickle of birdsong as she passed a handful of red brick houses. Harry’s neighborhood was old, beautiful — a secluded spot in Barnes, one of the few suburbs of London to which she had never ventured. 

The past two days had been a slow-burning whirlwind. After St. Mungo’s, she was allowed to return to her house, cats in tow, where Seamus had disabled “most of” the booby-traps and none of the warding. “It’s the safest place in England, apart from the Ministry,” Kingsley had assured her, and she believed it. Knowing that Electra, Septimus, and the rest of their cohorts had been escorted into Azkaban had done wonders for Hermione’s assurance of her own safety — even if a lingering nutjob from Salvation managed to break through the best warding in the country, she knew she could handle it. 

The DMLE managed to track down the remaining ex-members of Salvation within the space of about twelve hours, and once they were all behind bars, their stories, alibis, and excuses all crumbled. Septimus finally admitted to firing the AK at Hermione’s head and stealing a copy of his brother’s schedule in order to corner Hermione at the restaurant. He also admitted to helping Electra Stun and Obliviate a frighteningly large number of Ministry employees to extract their blood and hair, which he and their various operatives then used to impersonate those employees. From his bed at St. Mungo’s, Octavius told them about being captured and tortured for information, which he had tried not to give. It was extremely satisfying, in a way, to watch all the pieces slide into place, to see where the DMLE’s guesses had been right and wrong, to see where security needed to be improved, and where it was already as strong as it could be. 

And it helped to distract her from the fact that she hadn’t seen Harry since St. Mungo’s.

Granted, it had only been about thirty-five hours, but still.

After crawling into bed sometime around three on Saturday morning, Hermione had slept for nine hours straight before she got up, showered, and went to her parents’ house. Her mum had taken one look at her and said, “Tell me his name.”

It had all come out after that — one long, winding, pile of nonsense that left her buzzing, exhausted, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea with too much honey in it. She’d glanced around the little lavender drawing room, recognizing a few mementos from her childhood, and wondered, not for the first time, what on earth she was supposed to be feeling. 

“Sweetheart.” Her mum was frowning, pressing her fingers to the inside of Hermione’s wrist. “Did you tell anyone?”

Hermione let out a watery chuckle, shaking her head. “I didn’t know who to tell, and a part of me thought—” She forced herself to take a breath. “A part of me thought that if I talked about it, I would… I would lose it.”

Her mum nodded, her fingers tracing a light circle into Hermione’s skin. It meant she was thinking. Eventually, she said, “I’m surprised that Verity had nothing to say about this.”

Hermione smiled a genuine smile. “She and her husband are off on some top-secret mission in New York. I’m supposed to hear from her by next weekend, and they probably haven’t even seen the news, so they wouldn’t know—”

“Hermione.” Her mum took Hermione’s hands now, looked her dead in the eye. “Whatever happened between you, it isn’t… it isn’t finished yet.”

Hermione swallowed. “I know.”

So, after briefly stopping in to the DMLE on Sunday morning under the semi-honest pretext of getting updates on the case, Hermione slipped into the Records Room and managed to find the personnel file for one H. Potter. 

It had been an odd, tangible moment of reckoning, realizing that she didn’t know where he lived now, or even what his mobile number was. She could’ve just texted Ron, but that—

Which was how she was here, standing in front of Number 12, Mulberry Lane. Barnes. 

Harry’s house was a small, squat, single-storey cottage with a half-wild garden and piles of slumbering roses that must have been stunning in the summer. The garden surprised her — she had no idea that Harry went in for that sort of thing — as did the neat, trim exterior of the stone cottage. But as she approached the bright red front door, she found small spots of messiness that made her smile; an untrimmed hedge under the window, a haphazard pair of wellies, an upended blue metal bucket, a scrape of mud on the front steps. 

This was almost enough to distract her from the mounting terror seething beneath her skin. She’d never done something like this before. Not for anyone. 

“Tits up, Granger,” she muttered to herself, then knocked sharply at the front door. 

A brief pause. Then, the sound of footsteps approaching, the locks turning, then—

Hermione found herself staring up at a tall, lanky young man with dark blue hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a thin, quizzical mouth. 

“Hermione!” he burst out, in a deep, rich voice several pitches lower than she remembered. 

She gaped at him, flabbergasted. “Teddy?!”

“It’s so good to see you!” Before she could do anything, Teddy closed the distance between them and swept her into a close, warm hug. She clung to him, joy meeting the terror and surprise head-on in her stomach and creating a fresh pool of butterflies. Teddy released her and stepped back, leaning against the door frame, and smiled. “Harry’s just been telling me all about all your adventures these past few weeks—”

A fresh jolt of anxiety rippled up her back and she tried to smile in return. “Was he?”

“Yes, I came back as soon as I could — he knows he’s only allowed one St. Mungo’s visit per year, the Ministry got a message to my head office the moment he came in—”

Her mind spinning, all Hermione could manage was, “Did they?” 

But then, a second voice cut in — “Teddy? Who is it?”

And there he was. Harry appeared behind his godson, and he looked… like his old self. A scruffy pair of jeans, a thick turtleneck sweater that had seen better days, a pair of slippers, and his hair was absolutely everywhere. In short, he looked rough and incredible and gorgeous. He stared at her, mirroring her own surprise. 

A beat, then —

“Minister,” said Harry, like he was trying to remember the word. “What— Is there something— How can I—?”

Hermione mentally kicked herself and tried, again, to smile. “I was wondering if we could talk about the fight at the Manor. Nothing too important, and I know you’ve already submitted your report, but—”

“Sure,” said Harry, and he stepped back into the hall, holding the door open. 

Teddy looked from Harry to Hermione and grabbed his coat. “I’ll go to the pub, stay out of your hair.” And with that, he was halfway down the front path, waving goodbye. 

Hermione stared after him, her heart jumping into her throat. In theory, this had sounded like such a good idea, but now that she was actually here, on Harry’s doorstep—

“Come in,” said Harry, still lingering by the door.

Hermione took a quick breath, steeling herself, and did just that.

The inside of his cottage was homey, snug, and more than a little cluttered. She hung up her coat on a rack that was already full — she spotted a mac that had little dinosaurs on it and was the appropriate size for an eight year-old — and quickly toed off her boots, swaying a little as she—

“What’s that?” said Harry, gesturing at the paper bag.

Hermione straightened, heat flooding her neck and face. “Cheeseburgers.”

Harry grinned, sudden and bright, and something in her stomach unclenched. “Brilliant. Come through to the kitchen, I’ll get the plates.”

She followed him around the corner, into a small, warm kitchen with old appliances, lots of plants in the window, and a table with two chairs. The table was covered in old Prophets and a few books, and this almost distracted her from whatever was bubbling in a huge pot on the stove. It smelled incredible, rich and savory and—

“Oh,” she said as Harry dug through a cupboard and pulled out two mismatched plates. “I didn’t realize you’d already cooked—”

“Oh, that.” Harry waved a dismissive hand and started clearing off the table. “I just made that for the week, we weren’t going to eat it tonight.” He put down their plates and went over to the fridge. “Beer?”

Hermione nodded, sitting down and plopping the bag on top of the table. “Please.” She watched the way Harry moved around the kitchen, and she couldn’t help but remember how he’d looked in her own kitchen. He looked different here — more at ease, perhaps — but very much the same. “It must be nice, having Teddy back.”

Harry grinned again, uncapping the two bottles with a flick of his hand. “Sure. I got a right telling-off, but I guess I sort of deserved it.” He sat down and slid a bottle across the table to her. “I hope we don’t have to share the fries, I’m not sure I’m feeling quite that generous this evening.”

To her surprise, Hermione found herself smiling as she shook her head and opened the bag, breaking the Preserving Spell. “I got plenty.” 

“Good.” Harry pulled out one of the burgers and a packet of fries and spilled everything onto his plate. “Now, what did you want to talk about?”

Hermione glanced at him as she did the same. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Waking up in the cell, how they got us there in the first place, how we managed to break out and sneak up on them…” 

When she didn’t continue, Harry raised his eyebrows. “And?”

She sat back in her chair, fiddling with a loose fry. “It was too easy.”

To her surprise, Harry smiled. “Was it?” he said, then he disassembled his cheeseburger and pulled out the slice of tomato. 

“Well, yes. After everything they put us through, we shouldn’t have been able to—”

“Shouldn’t we?” Harry reached over to the fridge — which was less than two feet away — and got out a bottle of ketchup and a jar of mustard. Then, he reached for a nearby drawer and pulled out a knife, which he used to spread a liberal layer of mustard on his bun. This done, he put his burger back together and took a huge bite. “Ketchup?” he said, pushing the bottle towards her. 

Hermione had watched this with a degree of fascination that was almost embarrassing. There was still so much she didn’t know about him. “Yes, thanks.” She helped herself and dug into her own burger. It was delicious. 

“I know you’ve thought about this even more than I have,” said Harry, between bites. “So maybe I’m just pointing out the obvious. But it felt easy because, for the first time since all of that nonsense started, we were the ones in control of the situation.”

She chewed, letting that sink in. He had a point. 

“They kick things off by shooting an AK at your head like nothing doing,” Harry went on with a shrug, “at a public, widely-advertised event that everyone and their great aunt knew about. We panic, thinking that they’re going to keep trying big, orchestrated attacks, but no — next thing, the Probity Probes are rigged, which means they’ve been planning this for a while, so we panic even more. But, they knew that any attempt on the Minister's life would activate certain protocols necessitating the use of more Probity Probes, which is why they bothered to get that sorted so far in advance. I’m sure they had no idea the Probes would end up in your department — they were probably hoping for a random target, which would only increase the fear and suspicion on our end, and widespread panic when the story hit. But because it happened so close to you, we were able to bury it, and the dance continued.

“Next, they cornered you at the restaurant, showing us that they had insider information, and we managed to walk away with a handful of their soldiers. Security tightened, and on Rogers’ day off, they—” Harry looked down at his plate, cleared his throat, and continued, “well, we know what they did, and Septimus stepped into the picture. Then, when Draco managed to crack the cure, we planned our first offensive attack, which was a success. Spooked, and in Electra’s case, furious, they retaliated by using Septimus’ knowledge of your location to plant the bomb — without his approval, apparently, which is interesting. We had no choice but to think that these people were everywhere, and they knew everything, which wasn’t exactly true. So when the time came, even though they had the upper hand, they made the mistake of underestimating us, and we took advantage of that.” Harry shrugged, licking a dab of ketchup off his finger. “Simple, really.”

“Simple,” Hermione echoed. She sat there for a moment, allowing her mind to sift through everything Harry had said. 

“And,” he added, “it didn’t help that they really put all their eggs in one basket. Without Electra, what did they have? A skewed ideology and no follow-through. She was the brains behind the operation, Septimus was just the bank account and the foot in the Pureblood social door. And as you know, by the time they captured us, they barely had enough manpower to overwhelm the Broom Regulation Board, let alone the entire DMLE.”

“That’s true.” Hermione nodded. “There’s still something I don’t understand, though.”

Harry gave her a nod. “Go on.”

“Septimus was already in disguise as Rogers when you helped Kingsley plan the raid. Why on earth didn’t he warn Electra? And why didn’t he just kill me and get it over with?”

“Killing you wasn’t the point of his being in disguise. Besides, they wanted to get me and Malfoy as well, so they had to time it just right.” Harry shifted a little, looking sheepish, and took a sip of beer. “And he didn’t warn Electra,” he went on, “because I’m a paranoid old goat and I didn’t tell anyone on my team about the raid.”

Hermione stared at him, fighting the urge to throw a fry in his face. “You what?”

He really looked sheepish now. “We knew that someone was leaking them information, and Kingsley and I agreed that the raid should be need-to-know. The only people who knew about it were you, me, Kingsley, Draco, and the Aurors who conducted the raid.”

She stared at him some more. “That was… extremely smart.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, just good old-fashioned paranoia.”

“No, really, Harry.” Heat flooded her face again. “You really… You’re incredible.”

He blushed then, and Hermione fought a wave of alarm as he went back to his food. 

She had to change the subject. “So, what are you and Teddy going to get up to now that he’s back in town?”

Harry smiled, the tension leaking out of his body, and started telling her about some grand plans for a movie marathon at the local cineplex, followed by a pub crawl of monumental proportions. “I have to keep reminding him I’m not in my twenties anymore,” Harry finished with a laugh. “I think he forgets, sometimes.”

“I’m sure he does,” Hermione said, grinning. She polished off her last fry with relish. 

Harry looked at her, his bright green eyes seeing far too much. “What about you? Have you told your parents… anything?”

She met his gaze, and there, again, more butterflies. “Yesterday. I told them everything.”

Surprise flickered across his features. “Really? And how did that…?”

Hermione shrugged. “It went. They handled it much better than I thought they would. I think they always suspected that something might happen, given that I’m… well, you know.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “A hard-knuckled, tough-as-nails ball-buster?”

A startled laugh burst out of Hermione before she could stop it. 

“Sorry,” Harry grinned. “A very efficient, hard-knuckled, tough-as-nails ball-buster.”

“Stop, Harry.” Hermione shook her head, and found her attention drawn once again to the huge copper pot on the stove. Curiosity got the better of her. “What are you making?”

Harry hesitated, and his grin faded. “Beef stew.”

Hermione looked at him, and something in his face— “Beef stew,” she repeated. Then, before she knew what she was doing, she reached into the silverware drawer, pulled out a spoon, and marched over to the stove. She dipped the spoon into the pot, blew on it gently, and swallowed a mouthful of broth. 

It was hearty, salty, and completely familiar. Hermione stared down into the pot and said, “What do you put in it? To get it to taste like that?”

There was a pause, then Harry said, “Nutmeg. Just a little.”

“Nutmeg,” she repeated, her hands going numb. She dropped the spoon on the stove and whirled round to face him, butterflies exploding from her stomach out through her arms, legs, hands, and he looked embarrassed and nervous all at once. “It was you? You made it? Back at the safe house?”

Harry stared at her for another moment, his expression pleading, and then, then. He nodded. “Yes.”

For some reason, for some ridiculous, unfathomable reason, this was too much. Hermione felt something inside of her tremble and break, and she walked out of the kitchen, not looking at him. “I have to go,” she mumbled, pushing past the table, stumbling into the hall. “I have to go—”

Harry was there in an instant. “Hermione, don’t—”

“No, Harry—” She was fumbled with her coat, then gave up and tried to get her boots on, but her hands couldn’t seem to stop shaking, and she— “I can’t do this, I can’t—”

“Hermione.”

Something in his voice, which was so steady, so calm, made her stop and look at him, and the emotions written across his face rattled her where she stood. Hermione dropped her boot, staring at him, wondering what on earth was going to happen now. 

“I can’t let you leave,” said Harry, looking her right in the eye, “without telling you that these past few weeks with you have been some of the best in my entire life.”

You’re dreaming, Hermione told herself at once. Wake up.

“And I know,” Harry continued, “I know that I have no claim to your time, your friendship, or your life. I know that our past is our past, there’s no changing it, and that most of the time, I am not your favorite person, that you find me annoying, that you prefer an empty room to one with me in it, and I know that I have no right to tell you any of this, but…” He shook his head, and something in his gaze glimmered. “Yesterday, and today, I woke up without you, and I hated it more than I’ve hated almost anything else in my entire life.” 

Hermione’s brain switched off entirely. She tried to think, but nothing happened — all she could feel was something swelling in her chest, beneath her sternum. Something warm and exhilarating and dazzling.

Harry took a step closer, his breath catching. “And I’ve had enough, I’ve had enough of not telling you exactly what you mean to me. That you are my favorite person, the only person I can see myself spending the rest of my life with, and when you— when we started— what we were doing, I thought that it was all I would ever get to have with you, and I was happy, I was over the fucking moon, and I thought that when it was all over, we could go back — that I could go back — to what we were before, but I can’t, Hermione, I just can’t.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I want to be in your life, Hermione, in any way that I can. I’ll take whatever you are willing to give me, and if you can’t give me anything, then that’s that, but I couldn’t let another day pass by without telling you. You’re it for me. Always have been.”

A ringing silence fell, and Hermione could only stare at him, wondering how on earth this was happening, wondering how Harry Potter was telling her— “What do you mean,” she murmured. “What do you mean, always?”

He smiled. “Hermione,” he said, his voice clear, and steady, and full of so much warmth and love that she could hardly believe it. And then, he turned, pointed his wand at the end of the hallway, and said, “Expecto Patronum.”

A shining, brilliant Patronus erupted from the tip of his wand, silvery and bright in the low light of the hall, and, as Hermione watched, a small, male otter leapt into the air, spinning and tumbling around Harry’s feet, making the little chattering noises she knew so well.

Tears pricked at Hermione’s eyes, and she sucked in a shaky breath, her entire body trembling. “Harry,” she managed, her voice cracking. “How long?”

He looked up at her, raw and heated all at once, and said, “Since Australia. Maybe before that, I’m not sure.”

Suddenly, with the clarity of a brick hitting the ground, Hermione remembered that night at Hogwarts, when Ron had woken her from a nightmare, telling her that she’d cast a Patronus in her sleep, but— “Why—” To her horror, tears leaked down her cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

A deep, unfiltered anguish crossed his features, and the Patronus vanished into thin air. “Because,” he said, his voice thick, “I was an idiot, trying to do what I thought was right. What I thought would make everyone happy. Hermione, I— I didn’t expect to survive the war, and I didn’t want you to— I thought it was for the best, and then Ginny, and Ron—”

“Don’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut, sending a fresh wave of tears down her face. Joy, anger, love, and frustration were roiling in her stomach, and as she clenched her fists, the light in the kitchen blew out. “Are you really telling me that we’ve spent years—?”

Harry nodded, taking a step towards her. “Yes.”

“And you married her, even though—?”

“Yes.” Another step. 

“And all this time, we could’ve—?”

“Yes.” He was so close now, she could almost see her reflection in his glasses. 

Hermione stared up at him, hardly able to believe it, then gave him a massive shove, sending him stumbling down the hall. “Harry Potter! I could throttle you!”

He gave her a grin, cheeky and adoring, and said, “Okay.”

“I mean it!” she sobbed, then she closed the distance between them and threw herself into his arms. 

Harry caught her with a laugh, loud and disbelieving, and she clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder. “I’m getting snot,” she hiccupped, “all over your jumper, and it’s the least you deserve—”

“Go ahead,” he replied, rubbing her back. She buried her face in the thick, warm wool, inhaling the clean, fresh scent that was Harry and Harry alone. “Just so we’re clear,” he murmured, his mouth barely an inch from her ear, and he pressed a kiss to her neck. “I love you.”

Hermione choked on another sob, and fisted her hands in the hem of his jumper. This was it. There was no point in pretending, now. “I love you too, Harry.”

She felt the shock pass through his body, and he gripped her even harder. “Well,” Harry choked out, “good to know we’re on the same page.”

A laugh burst out of Hermione, and she couldn’t stop, and soon, Harry was laughing as well, their joy ringing through the halls of his little cottage.

“You never told me you could cook,” she murmured, kissing the dip between his neck and his clavicle. 

Harry hummed, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure. “I made you pancakes, didn’t I?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and squeezed, delighted by the way he shuddered in reply. “That is not the same thing, Harry. Nor is reheating frozen meals from Waitrose, by the way.”

His hand skimmed up her arm, along her shoulder. For a brief moment, his expression deepened into something serious. “It was your space,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want you to feel like I was… taking over, or proving something—”

Hermione gave a mock gasp and squeezed again. Harry let out a grunt this time. “Harry Potter, is that a comment about my abilities in the kitchen?”

“No,” he bit out. “No, you’re an excellent cook, a wonderful cook, and remember, I didn’t say anything when you burnt that chicken—”

She gave an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose that’s true. You do know how to hold your tongue when you need to.” To prove it, she leaned in and sucked on said tongue, running her own along Harry’s teeth. She sighed into his mouth. “Then again, sometimes you don’t.”

Harry let out a groan of frustration, bucking into her hand, his breath hot on her cheek. “It’s— it’s your fault, you always—” Her fingers twisted and his groan deepened. “Ugh— know which buttons to press—”

“Oh, really?” Hermione grazed her mouth along his jaw. “What else is my fault?”

“Fucking— beef stew.” His eyes fluttered open in a moment of clarity. “I was going to— come to your house tonight, and give it to you, try and tell you— but no, you had to beat me to it, again, fucking typical—”

Hermione leaned away, staring at him, and her hand stilled. “Harry, were you going to use a vat of beef stew as a courting technique?”

A very telling pause. He blinked at her. “No?”

Hermione bit her lip, swallowing a laugh. “No?”

He relented. “Maybe.” He gave her that look, that sheepish, nervous, cheeky look that she loved. “Would it have worked?”

“No,” she replied, then kissed him as hard as she could, muffling his chuckle. 

When she pulled away, sliding down his body, Harry’s breath caught and one of his hands fell to her neck, where he stroked her in just the right place to get her to shudder. He watched, and his gaze darkened. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Breathtaking.”

Flustered, Hermione looked away, and nearly kneed him in the shin. 

“I’m not going to stop.” He was smiling now. “So get used to it.” 

Hermione didn’t say anything, but settled herself between his legs, twisting her fingers again to watch him shudder. It made his whole body ripple, along with his various scars. She ran her thumb along the pink, puckered line by his left hip and met his gaze. “This was your first visit to Mungo’s, wasn’t it?” 

Harry nodded, and his hand shifted, his fingers stroking the skin behind her ear. “Last month. Ridiculous patrol arrest that went south because I made a stupid mistake and the bugger managed to knife me. Would’ve been fine—” Hermione balked at that— “but the knife was cursed and the skin started to melt—” He broke off when she licked a line up the crease of his pelvis.

“Stop talking,” she breathed against his skin, and he did.

She took his cock in her mouth with one fluid movement, swallowing around the head and moving with him as he bucked. Hermione hummed, sucking from root to tip, and relished the shudder she got in reply. She did it again, then slowly pulled away and kissed his thigh, licking a leisurely, lazy pattern across his skin, squeezing his hips, his bum, holding him close. His hands were all over her, his thumbs playing at the skin of her neck, her jaw, and it almost made her head spin. But she had to focus. 

Hermione licked her way back up his cock, taking the shaft in hand and pressing her mouth to the soft, velvety skin, her tongue lapping at the thick, pulsing vein along its underside. She was teasing him, of course, and she kept at it, watching the tension build like a slow-rolling thunderstorm beneath his skin. His hands fell to the sheets, which he twisted and gripped as he moaned. She hummed again, sealing her mouth around the head and tonguing the slit, then had to mask her surprise when actual sparks burst out of Harry’s fingers. 

Fascinated, Hermione took the rest of his cock in hand and started stroking him in time with the movements of her tongue. Harry’s breathing hitched and he pulled the sheets taut, but when no sparks appeared, she raised an eyebrow and pressed the thumb of her free hand to the ridged, soft stretch of skin beneath his balls. 

That did the trick. Harry made a noise she’d never heard him make before, and once again, sparks burst out of the ends of his fingers, golden and dazzling in the low light of his bedroom. 

Thrilled, Hermione sped up, keeping her mouth loose and her hand tight as she worked him over. She could tell he was close, and within a matter of moments, he gave a full-body shudder and grunted, “Hermione— I’m going to—”

His hips twitched, and with a loud, final grunt, he spilled across her tongue. Hermione swallowed, then licked him clean, pressing a gentle kiss to his inner thigh before she slid back up his body, straddling his thigh and pressing her damp crotch into the tense, warm muscle. 

Harry’s eyes were closed, his chest was heaving, and there was sweat hazed along his hairline. He looked absolutely gorgeous, utterly at ease. She hummed, wrapping her arms around him, thrilled when he mirrored her, his hands coming to rest on her bum. 

“No need to look,” he murmured, “quite so pleased with yourself.”

“No?” Hermione smiled at him, stroking the line of his shoulder. “I suppose you look pleased enough for the both of us.” 

“Do I?” Harry cupped her head and pulled her in for a kiss that was all tongues and teeth. Hermione shuddered, rocking against his thigh, and he made a pleased little hum against her mouth. “Sorry,” he breathed on her cheek, making her shudder all over again. “Were you saying something?”

“I—I—” She cleared her throat and tried to keep her eyes open. “You— where— how did you learn to cook?”

Harry hummed again, his eyes dark and electric as they skated over her. “I taught myself, using something that I believe you’re familiar with.” His hands grazed her torso, her belly, and he looked right at her as he thumbed her nipple and said, “Books.”

Later, when her body was lax with pleasure, Hermione realized that she’d forgotten to ask him something else. They were spooning, Harry’s arm wrapped firmly around her stomach and his hand nestled between her breasts, his mouth tickling the back of her neck. His bed, like her own, was the embodiment of luxury, and they were half-buried in a huge, fluffy down comforter that rivaled even her own. He had a small fire going in the fireplace, and the flickering, golden light cast beautiful shadows across his skin, across the lopsided, beautifully-crafted wooden furniture that filled his snug little bedroom. 

“Harry,” she whispered, and he kissed her shoulder in reply. “If you… felt that way about me… then why…” Hermione paused to swallow, suddenly becoming much more awake. She stared at the doorknob with enough intensity to make it burst into flame. “Why were we always…?”

There was a bit of a pause. His hand shifted and began stroking her arm. “Fighting?”

Hermione blinked. “Yes, I suppose you could call it that.”

Harry grazed a line of kisses along the nape of her neck. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, “I wasn’t putting it on… if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Enough of this, she thought, and she rolled over. Harry’s eyes were only half-open, but he seemed awake enough as he looked down at her and shifted their position, bringing her flush with his chest. He did it so effortlessly that she almost rolled her eyes. “I suppose I’m comforted by that,” she said. “But it always felt… so personal.”

Harry frowned a little, the well-worn crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Did it?”

Fuck. “Well… yes.”

“We were disagreeing about policy, Hermione, and money, and budgets, and laws. The things that people are meant to disagree about.” He watched her take that in, then he added, “I’m sorry… if it ever felt like I didn’t respect you.”

Hermione nodded, something in her chest giving a weird flutter. “I appreciate that.” She thumbed at the lower edge of his ribs, loving that she could touch him like this and not berate herself for it. She didn’t have to protect herself, anymore.

Then, to her surprise, Harry shook his head, and the crease between his brows deepened. “No, Hermione, it’s—” His hand splayed across her lower back, and it steadied her. “I felt like you were the only person in the whole Ministry who would be honest with me.”

Now that— Hermione twitched, wondering if she’d fallen into the Twilight Zone. “Sorry,” she managed. “You’re going to have to explain—”

“You were the only person who ever pushed back,” said Harry. “Everyone else, they fell over themselves trying to do whatever I said, whatever I thought was best, even though I was just a kid, I barely knew right from left and I definitely didn’t know how to— I don’t know, amend sections thirteen and fourteen of the Annual Tax Act—”

Hermione’s brain lit up in spite of herself and she nodded. “In 2008, an annual decrease of 2% to account for the crash, then an increase once the market bounced back, then another increase just two years ago thanks to Brexit and those stupid tariffs we’ve had to—”

Harry was grinning now. “Thank you for proving my point.” His thumb traced an arching, ticklish pattern on her lower back. “You knew everything, and you weren’t afraid to give it as good as you got it. And, well.” That sheepish, cheeky look again. “I liked helping you show off.”

Heat flooded Hermione’s face and she swatted at him. “How dare you—” she hissed, hating and loving the way he began to laugh. “Show off — I’ll show you—”

He muffled her protests with a kiss, his tongue sweeping a brief, burning line along her lower lip before he pulled away. “Besides,” he said. “Sometimes it was a bit fun, winding you up.”

Hermione spluttered, her blush deepening. 

“See?” Harry teased her, brushing a kiss to her nose. When he pulled away, his expression was surprisingly serious. “Hermione,” he said, his voice low, “we can disagree — and we will disagree — but still care about each other.” Another kiss to her nose. “All that matters is that we agree on the important things.” 

In spite of herself, she snorted. “Oh, sure, because budget lines aren’t important—”

Harry cracked then, grinning again before he brought his mouth to hers. All he really managed to kiss were her teeth, but he didn’t seem to mind. “You know what I meant, smart-arse.”

Hermione faked a sigh, pulling him even closer. “I suppose I did.” She kissed his chin, his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. 

“And now that I’ve come clean about the beef stew,” he said, kissing her chin in return, “I can apologize for running out of the ward like that without saying goodbye. They told me Teddy was at reception threatening disembowelment to anyone who didn’t let him through to see me. By the time I got him calmed down and in a slightly more reasonable mood, you’d left.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “And you stole my cheeseburger idea.”

Hermione smiled demurely in return. “Well, it is a wonderful idea, Harry.” She passed another round of kisses over his face. “So I push back, do I?”

Harry groaned, squeezing her close. “I had a feeling I’d regret telling you that.”

A laugh bubbled out of her before she could stop it. “I didn’t know you liked it—”

“I do,” he grinned, gently smacking her bum. “You keep me on my toes. Need I remind you about the telling-off you gave me for my wardrobe choices?”

A blush surged up her neck. She felt quite embarrassed about that now — that was an overreaction, in hindsight. “Harry, I should really apologize—”

“Don’t you dare.” He kissed her nose. “I honestly hadn’t realized how lax I’d gotten until you pointed it out.” Something in his gaze shifted, getting a little darker, a little more inward. “I was sort of… in a rut, I suppose. But you were right, I need to set a better example.” Another gentle smack. “You’re the only one who treats me the same as everyone else, and I love it.”

Hermione bit her lip. “And, well…” Not point in lying now. “Harry, you do look very good in a suit.”

His mouth fell open in a mocking gasp, his expression glowing with delight. “Breaking news! The Minister for Magic had an ulterior motive! She didn’t care about regulations, she just wanted a piece of eye candy—”

She launched herself at him, pinning him to the pillows and licking into his mouth, swallowing his laughter. 

A few lovely, quiet moments passed like that. Then Hermione pulled away and just looked at him, thrilled that she could, and eventually, Harry raised an eyebrow. 

“You’ve got that face on,” he said, his hand tracing a line from the back of her thigh all the way to her shoulder. It felt wonderful. “Come on, what is it? 

“I just—” She bit her lip. “I have so many questions—”

Harry chuckled. “I’m sure you do. Is there any chance that they can wait until morning?”

Now that— Hermione blinked. “Morning?”

Something in his face flickered. “You are staying, aren’t you?”

She blinked some more. “Sure, I guess I—”

“Oh, the cats—”

“The cats have plenty of food and two new toys, they’ll be fine.” She frowned. “But what about Teddy?”

As if on cue, there was a grinding noise, followed by a loud thump out in the hall, then a muffled curse. Hermione sat up, heart in her throat, immediately cataloguing where her wand was — her jeans, on the floor — and how close she was to the exit—

Harry’s hand on her back, rubbing a soothing circle. “It’s the man himself,” he assured her, his voice low. “We have this… I don’t know, I guess you could call it a game. Whenever he goes out, he has to try to sneak in without me knowing. I get double points for catching him within the first thirty seconds. And it sounds like—” He cocked his head to one side, listening. “He used the window above the stairs. Bit of a risky move, I didn’t even know that window could open.”

Hermione just stared at him. “You two are insane.”

“Yes.” Harry sat up and kissed her shoulder, then gave her a look that was entirely unfair. “He adores you, you know. Has done since he was little.”

Hermione blushed, lying back down and cuddling into his arms. “You exaggerate.”

“No, I don’t. He was always asking after you, even when he was at Hogwarts.”

She had no idea what to do with this information. “And… I’m assuming he knows about… well, about—”

Harry flashed her a smile. “About us?” 

“Well… yes.”

“He caught on pretty quickly after I brought you up about eight times in the same conversation over dinner, and that was when he was ten years old. He’s sort of… embarrassingly happy about this.”

Her blush deepened. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, and he promises to behave.” He gave her another look, this one deeper, more searching. “Hermione, I know you have questions. For now, does it help if I say that… anything you want, I’m there?” When she frowned, he added, “If you just want me to take you on dimly-lit romantic dates once a week for the next five years, I’m there. If you want me to march down to the district office first thing tomorrow and get a marriage license, I’m there. If you want me to go buy a minivan, drive to the nearest orphanage, adopt the first five children we see, then quit my job and spend my time running around after them, I’m there. If you want to sneak away to Greenland together and get to the bottom of those halibut conspiracies, I’m there.” He looked at her some more, apparently oblivious to the way her heart was bursting out of her chest. “Does that help?”

“Yes,” she managed to breathe. “It does.” 

He smiled, so warm and so sincere that for a second, she thought she might die. “So. Are you staying? I’ll make pancakes.”

Hermione looked back at him, and a fresh wave of love crested in her chest. She let herself feel it, feel all of it, and it was wonderful. “Yes. I’m staying.” 

Waking up in Harry’s arms was nothing short of bliss. She woke slowly, cocooned in the warmth of the duvet, loving the way their legs were tangled, the way his mouth brushed the back of her head. He felt exquisite, and it took a lot of convincing — on his part — to get her out of bed. 

“Come on,” he murmured against her shoulder. “We’ll have plenty of time to do this later, I promise. You can keep me in bed for as long as you like, but first—”

She kissed him thoroughly, raking her hands through his disastrous hair. “I intend to hold you to that promise, Mr. Potter.”

Breakfast was a cozy, delightful affair, especially once Teddy appeared, dressed and bashful and grinning in the morning light. He joined Hermione at the table, nursing a cup of coffee, and soon, she was hearing all about his year in South Africa. 

“—then he erupted into these bright purple boils, and he stripped down to his pants and ran out onto the street. It took three of us to catch him and get him to hospital.” Teddy shook his head with a laugh. “Just another typical day at the office.” He checked his watch. “Speaking of the office, I have to check in—”

“Go.” Harry was smiling, sitting back in his chair, his hand resting on Hermione’s lower back. “The pubs will still be here when you get back.”

Teddy put a hand to his chest, wincing. “You wound me, Harry.” But then he winked at Hermione. “He likes the pubs just as much as I do.”

In a flash, Harry had a Prophet in hand and he chucked it at his godson, who ducked, grinning. “On that lovely note,” said Teddy, swooping in to catch Hermione in a hug that surprised and delighted her. “It’s been wonderful to see you, Hermione.”

“You, too.” She hugged him back, still astonished by how much he’d grown. When he left with a final, jolly wave, she waited until she heard the front door close to turn to Harry and say, “He’s wonderful, Harry. You did an amazing job.”

Harry ducked his chin, smiling. “It wasn’t all me. Andromeda was a force to be reckoned with. And Teddy is quite the master of his own fate.” 

Hermione nodded, reaching for his hand. “I see… so much of—”

“I know.” Harry squeezed her hand in reply. “Me too.” 

They were silent for a moment, letting their shared grief hang in the air. Then, Harry stood up, Vanished his conjured chair, and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. “So,” he said, leaning against the counter, looking ruffled and gorgeous in the morning light, “I believe you had some questions for me.”

Hermione sat up a little, rubbing a warming charm into her own mug of coffee. “Yes. If that’s all right.”

His smile was easy. “Of course.”

She looked right at him, and his face was so open that— “Why did you marry her?”

Harry blinked, almost as if he were surprised. “I… thought I was in love. And maybe I was, for a while.” He shook his head. “It was my first relationship, and I had nothing to compare it to. I had no way of seeing the flaws and the differences between us until it was too late. And she expected so much of me, there were so many things she wanted, and—” He broke off, and she saw some of that old, unfettered anguish rise to the surface. “Hermione, I— I was so lost, after the war. Living felt like a waking nightmare, like I was swimming through a life that wasn’t even mine. I barely knew what I wanted, and it was easier, so much easier, to let other people decide for me.” He gave a dry laugh. “And even when I figured out what I did want, there was always something else, someone else, pushing me in the opposite direction.”

Something welled inside her, catching in her throat. She remembered the look on his face when Ginny announced that the Harpies wanted her to join the team, the way he’d shut down, his face empty and tired. “Harry—”

He waved a dismissive hand, taking a sip of coffee. “It was a long time ago.”

She swallowed. “Were you happy?”

“Sometimes. It wasn’t like I was living in some Greek tragedy. There were things I learned to enjoy again, to be content with, but—” He shook his head. “We wanted different things, had different priorities. Ginny didn’t want to be a mother at the ripe old age of twenty-one, and she never admitted it, but she never really understood why Teddy was such a central part of my life. She wanted our marriage to be about just me and her, when that was never a possibility. She didn’t like…” He gave a rueful smile. “She didn’t like sharing me.”

Hermione swallowed again. She couldn’t seem to get the lump out of her throat. 

“So we got into fights, which was inevitable, I guess, and things got harder and harder, and she ended up taking that training session in Germany. That was sort of the nail in the coffin, but if I’m being honest, things were falling apart long before that. Once Teddy went off to Hogwarts and—” he did that dry chuckle again— “half my world went on hold, she seemed to think that was the best time to, well.” Harry shrugged, then glanced at her, wincing. “I never apologized, did I, for coming up to you at the pub like that?”

A prickle of something went down Hermione’s spine and she shook her head. “It’s all right, just forget it—”

“No.” Harry took Teddy’s abandoned seat across from her at the table, and he looked her right in the eye. “I was being an arse. To me, I hadn’t been in a relationship, hadn’t been in love , for a very long time, but I know that that wasn’t how it looked… to other people. I should’ve been more considerate, and I shouldn’t have been such a jealous prick.”

Hermione smiled and took his hand. “Well, at least we can agree on that.”

Harry grinned, and for a moment, he didn’t look a day older than eighteen. Then, his face softened, and he said, “Can I ask… about you?”

For a moment, she was too surprised to react. “Yes, I mean— of course—”

“Theo,” he said, and just for a second, there was a flare of heat in his eyes. “What happened there? You two seemed—”

“He was offered his dream job,” said Hermione, and as the memories overtook her, she didn’t feel an ounce of regret. “And I was within spitting distance of mine. It was the classic careers-come-first. It hurt, but…” She shrugged. “I got over it.”

“Okay.” Harry stroked a circle on the back of her hand. “Dare I ask about—?”

She groaned, slumping over her demolished plate of pancakes. “The waste of space? Let’s not and say we did. The point is, he’s so far out of the picture he’s basically in another dimension.”

Harry grinned again. “Not that I’m unhappy to hear it, but… Did you end it?”

“No,” said Hermione, and nodded when Harry showed his surprise. “I know. Not what you expected. He actually ended it. Said I’d changed, and he didn’t like what I was changing into.”

“Changed? Changed how?”

Well, there was no beating about this bush. “It was the height of my campaign, and I was really getting the hang of the Wizengamot. I was learning the political ropes, and, to use his words, he didn’t like being attached to someone who was apparently ruthless, petty, and self-absorbed.”

Harry gave her a knowing look. “Someone with far more power than him, you mean.”

She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Verity said something along those lines, too.”

“Good,” said Harry at once. “We’ll have to have her over for dinner, I like someone who agrees with me without knowing it.”

Hermione chuckled, squeezing his hand. “She’d love that.” She looked at him some more. “Harry, do you regret it? Staying at the Ministry? I know it wasn’t your first choice, wasn’t really what you wanted to do…”

He seemed to roll this through his mind. “No,” he said. “But that wasn’t how I always felt. Obviously, it’s a difficult job, and it comes with its own battles, its own weight. There were plenty of times I considered giving up, but…” He shook his head. “I got to see Teddy go to Hogwarts. I got to see Ron’s children grow up. I had a front-row seat to the reign of the youngest Muggle-born on the Wizengamot, then her election to the seat of Minister.” He offered her a crooked smile. “I liked staying close to you, Hermione. That shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

She had to catch her breath a little. “So if you could do… something else…”

“I want to teach,” Harry said at once. “I have done, for a long time, it just took me a while to figure it out. But I’m not in any hurry.” His gaze softened. “I don’t plan on leaving my Minister high and dry. Where she goes, I go.”

Her throat thick, Hermione could only nod and squeeze his hand. 

They were quiet for a few moments, the only sounds coming from the little clock on the windowsill, the birds chirping in the sunny garden, the hum of the refrigerator. It was Harry who broke the silence first.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “I’m sorry it took us so long to get here. It’s my fault.”

Hermione shook her head. “Maybe, but it was a little bit my fault, too. I knew what I wanted, but…” She gave a rueful sigh. “I was afraid to admit it, and I was afraid to go out and get it on my own.” 

Harry nodded, then smiled in such a small, delightful way. “It’s hard to imagine you being afraid of anything.”

She smiled back. “I’m not, anymore.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He tapped her hand, then leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of coffee. “So, Granger. What’s next?” 

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed six, and Hermione glanced up at it with a frown. She hadn’t realized it was so late, and these damn reports—

She sighed, gathering the scattered pieces of parchment with a sweep of her hand, then shrinking them to fit into her briefcase. Everyone else had already left for the day, so it was just her in the Ministerial offices, and the quiet was oddly soothing. Around her, the summer day was mellowing into something lenient and yellow, like a piece of pulled taffy. She couldn’t wait to get back to the house, to dinner in the garden and maybe a gin and tonic. At least there was a garden now, after Harry had taken one look during their first spring together and nearly passed out from the way everything had stayed dead and brown and withered. Now, their back garden looked the picture of the garden at his old cottage, though with a decidedly bigger lawn, and the roses were well out of reach of tiny, curious hands.

Hermione went about organizing the rest of her desk, a smile threatening to break through. Even just the thought of stretching out on the warm grass, cold drink in hand, closing her eyes and listening to the screams of laughter and the sound of running feet—

Suddenly, her fire blazed green, and a visitor stepped out of the hearth, brushing an absent hand down the front of his shirt, his golden wedding band glimmering in the sunlight. 

Harry smiled at her. “Minister.”

She eyed him with a raised brow. “Potter.” She thumbed through a second sheaf of briefings, wondering if she should bother bringing them home. “What are you doing here?”

Harry gave an easy shrug, strolling over to her desk. He was quite the picture, in his rumpled jeans, disastrous hair, and a creased button-down. “Got tired of waiting.”

Hermione scoffed and grinned at him. “Honestly, you make me sound like—”

“—a workaholic? Perish the thought.” He closed the distance between them and kissed her, one hand cupping her head and the other sneaking around to her lower back. 

His mouth was plush, warm, and she sank into his embrace, suddenly very glad that it was Friday, the week was over, her workload was light, she’d have time to do their usual Saturday outing at the museum—

“You,” she sighed, “are incredibly unhelpful.” 

“Am I?” Harry breathed, thumbing a line down her neck that made her shudder. 

“Yes,” she hissed, but she couldn’t bring herself to step out of his reach. “You know you are, don’t pretend. I have to pack—”

Harry muffled her with another kiss, his tongue sweeping through her mouth in a fierce, attentive line, and she hummed, going a bit weak in the knees. His hand slid from her back to squeeze her bum, pulling her even closer. 

This was lovely, except— “Harry,” Hermione managed to gasp into his ear, “we can’t, the children—”

“The gremlins are with your parents until seven,” he growled back. “I can think of at least a couple ways to spend the extra hour, can’t you?” 

“Shit,” she gritted out, then fisted a hand in his hair, tugging his mouth back to hers. 

Their kiss became sloppy, ruthless, and within moments, he was yanking at her blouse, his mouth hot and brutal on her neck, and she gasped as the backs of her legs hit the edge of her desk, her hands slipping under his shirt to rake up his bare back—

“You knew what you were doing this morning,” he growled, sinking his teeth into the skin below her ear. “Putting on this skirt like it was fine to just parade about in front of me like that—”

Somehow, Hermione managed to laugh. “Harry, it’s not the skirt’s fault—”

He hummed, soothing the love bite with his tongue. “Never said it was.” With that, he hitched her up onto the top of the desk, its contents scattering explosively around the room. 

Hermione glanced at the huge mess. “You’re cleaning that up.”

Harry ripped open the top three buttons of her blouse, smirking when she scowled at him. “Sure,” he said, light and easy, then he hitched her legs up around his hips, yanked her bra out of the way, and sucked a burning line of kisses into her breast. 

Hermione could only gasp, dizzy with the sudden pleasure, her hand fisting in his hair as she tried to draw him even closer. His free hand shoved her skirt up her thighs, then slid under the hem, up her inner thigh, and she smiled as he got higher and higher, then—

His gaze found hers as he stroked her, and she caught the barest edge of his surprise. “Are you—? You’re trying to kill me, Hermione—”

Her smile grew as she shrugged. “Well, I knew you liked this skirt—”

He let out a muffled growl of frustration, sucking on her exposed nipple hard enough to make her see stars. “You’re telling me you’ve been walking around the whole day without pants on— I could’ve had you in my lap, grinding on my cock—”

“Yes,” she gasped, white-hot pleasure ricocheting through her body. God, she wasn’t going to last long. 

“Jesus Christ—” He slipped two fingers into her and muffled her groan with a kiss, sucking on her tongue as he thumbed at her clit. She could feel his erection against her stomach, and she throbbed for it, clenching around Harry’s fingers, needing more, but she knew he wouldn’t let her until she—

“You thought about it, didn’t you?” he breathed into her ear, and her eyes fluttered shut. He paused to tongue at her nipple, flicking it in time to her clit until she shivered and bucked against his hand. “Thought about what you’d do to me once you got home. Shove my face under your skirt before you sank down and fucked yourself on my cock.” Harry stifled a chuckle between her breasts, pressing a kiss to her oversensitive nipple, then lapping at it, watching as her back arched and her mouth fell open. “How very devious.”

Hermione barely managed to moan in reply, fucking herself on his fingers. His thumb pressed into her clit, and her belly turned to liquid, heat exploding down her back, her legs. “Harry,” she managed, as his mouth sealed over her nipple and sucked on it in earnest. “Please—”

He hummed, but he didn’t let up. He went back to circling her clit, his fingers hooking inside her to press at her G-spot, and she gasped, feeling as if she were floating on a wire, pulled taut and made to stretch and stretch and stretch until she snapped. She writhed against him, shoving his head into her chest, hating and loving the way he walked the line between pleasure and pain, finding that endless, sharp edge along which her body was programmed to dissolve. 

“That’s it,” he murmured, and she clenched around him. He pressed his thumb directly onto her clit again and said, “Come for me.”

Her orgasm was sudden, explosive, and she shook with it, pleasure ripping through her body like a shockwave. But she barely had time to recover, going slack against his arm, before he undid his zipper and licked into her mouth, sliding inside her with a muffled groan. 

Hermione shuddered again as she stretched and filled, his cock radiating pleasure through her oversensitive body, and could only just hold on as he began fucking her into the desk, steady and ruthless. Even after years of this, she still wasn’t used to the way he felt, the way he dazzled her, overwhelmed her, and she gripped his arms as her eyes slid shut. 

Out of pure habit, their magic met in midair and formed a tangled, frothy knot that had jagged edges and an electric current that jolted her from the inside out. Her ebbing pleasure returned with a vengeance, passing through their connection, and she clung onto him as he shuddered. Then, his pleasure hit her like a wave and she let out a guttural moan, clenching against him until she felt her inner thighs grow damp. 

They kissed, messy and edged with teeth, and sweat was beading along her hairline, at the dip of her back, the cool air only adding to the frenzy of sensation dancing along her skin. Hermione felt herself returning to that familiar, exquisite precipice, and it built and built and built until it shattered. 

She might have screamed. Her nails dug into Harry’s biceps, and she could barely hold on as he fucked her through it. A few moments later, Harry trembled and grunted, then came inside her with a muffled shout, his face buried in her neck. They clung to each other, damp and sticky and boneless, Harry’s mouth tracing senseless patterns on her chest, her breast. 

“Well,” Hermione managed a few minutes later, blinking back into something resembling the present. “That’s certainly one way to kill time.” 

Harry huffed a chuckle, then pulled away to put her bra to sorts. “I do occasionally have a good idea, my love.” He smacked a final kiss to the swell of her breast, grinning when she swatted at him. “What? It’s been known to happen.”

“Yes,” she sighed, smiling. “It has.”

Harry stepped away, wiping a quick, gentle cleaning spell through her inner thighs. He tucked himself back into his jeans and held out his hand.

Hermione took it, easing up off the desk, swaying a little as her body turned from a liquid back into a solid. She tugged her skirt back into place and smoothed everything out, frowning at the torn buttons at the top of her blouse. “Harry.”

“Sorry, sorry.” But then he turned away from her, holding his hands out like he was about to start conducting a symphony. There was a gentle hum, then suddenly, the scattered contents of her desk all rose into midair, hovering there for a moment before they slowly floated over to her desk, rearranging themselves into their usual neat piles. 

Hermione smiled and rolled her eyes. “Show-off.”

Harry glanced at her, eyebrow raised. “Never.”

She pressed her fingertips into the ripped section of her blouse and whispered, “Reparo.” The seams and knots tied themselves together, and her missing buttons came zooming over from somewhere on the carpet, slipping back into place. Hermione buttoned her top with a smile — wandless magic of all shapes and sizes had become a large part of her life these past couple years, and each time she did it, she couldn’t hold back a feeling of absolute satisfaction.

Harry stifled a yawn, stretching a little. “At least we never have to worry about your parents pumping them full of sugar and sending them back to us right before the tantrum hits.”

Hermione nodded, reaching for her briefcase. “Teddy, on the other hand—”

He held up his hands in mock defense. “He says he learned his lesson about the chocolate cake incident. Granted, he was always a quick learner—”

She smiled. “That was barely a week ago. Give it two weeks, really let the horror settle in and mingle with the wracking guilt and hovering fear.”

“My goodness.” Harry leaned in and stole a kiss. “You are ruthless.” 

“Absolutely.” She kissed him back with relish, sweeping a hand through his hair. On the mantelpiece, the clock struck seven, and she pulled away with a groan. “You have to make me the world’s largest g-and-t once we get home, use a pint glass or something—”

“Anything for you, my love,” he replied, dry but sincere all at once, and he stepped away to fetch a handful of Floo powder. Harry held out his free hand to her, striking a fierce, burning silhouette against the fire, and a fierce wave of love tore through her at the sight of him, rumpled and powerful and lovely and sweet and Harry. “Ready?”

Hermione took a breath and stepped forward, taking his hand in hers. “Yes.”