AN: This is a standalone sequel to Dispelling the Silence. Reading the first story isn't necessary to be able to enjoy this one. Welcome to my novel-length, Alternate Universe Harry Potter Drama/Mystery/Romance fanfic! The pairing is Harry/Hermione and many details are changed from canon, based on the idea that Hermione attended school in France instead of Britain. I originally started this during the Rough Trade website's Harry Potter Writing Challenge in Spring of 2018, but didn't get a chance to finish since I blew past the word-limit (a perennial failing). If you get confused, let me know! Otherwise, strap in and enjoy the ride. :D

Dispelling the Lies

The Dispelling Series 2

by Indygodusk

Chapter 1: The First Mistake

The attack wouldn't have happened if Hermione hadn't insisted on buying the chocolates. That was her first mistake. The second was lying to everyone about what happened afterwards, though the mass hysteria over the dead unicorn and what came after wasn't her fault, no matter what Malfoy later claimed.

Stepping out of the public Floo station, Hermione felt the brisk November wind scour across every inch of skin not covered by her dress cloak. Switching direction abruptly, the wind spurted cold air up the hem of her robes. She stifled a yelp as goosebumps sprang to attention up and down her legs. Despite the discomfort, Hermione refused to deviate from her plan. She had decided to travel on foot and by Merlin would not give up just because of a little adversity.

Trying to ignore the cold, Hermione touched her enameled hair combs to make sure they were still in place and reviewed her schedule. It was tight, but doable. Her first stop in magical London was Marple's Chocolates & Jellies. At her current pace of walking, she should arrive with just enough time to buy a birthday gift before they closed for the evening. After that, she'd walk to the next transit station, stopping in to browse for ten minutes max at the jewelers on the way to see if she wanted to add one of the fashionable chains made popular by a celebrity that all the men at work seemed to be wearing lately. Then she'd go straight to the party, arriving in a twenty minute window centered on the start time, neither too early nor too late.

Icy fingers slid down the back of her neck, exposed by the french twist and enameled combs taming her riot of brown curls. Hunching her shoulders, she strode faster down the street, wishing—not for the first time—that she had longer legs. After working at a desk researching new spells all day, stretching her legs should feel good, she told herself bracingly. The exercise would help balance the calories from the chocolates she was about to sample with her purchase.

Besides, she hated the feeling of Apparition and saw no reason to inflict spell-induced nausea on herself without a really good reason. A little chill and a walk was infinitely preferable to Apparating from one place to another and arriving with sloshing innards, even if the sloshing only lasted a few seconds. No matter what Harry said, it wasn't that she feared doing the Apparition spell wrong and Splinching herself, leaving clothes and body parts behind. She was far too intelligent for that.

No, Hermione wasn't afraid of doing the spell wrong like so many other magicals. She just hated the rubbery stretching feeling of her head being pulled sickeningly far away from her toes before getting squashed back into place on landing. She used the Apparition spell to travel when she had to, but otherwise preferred to get around using Floo travel and portkeys like the majority of the magical population. Proper scheduling rendered the need for such a spell practically superfluous, except in emergency situations, of course.

The bell on the shop door rang gaily as Hermione entered the warm and sweet-smelling embrace of Marple's Chocolates & Jellies, one of her favorite places in Britain (if you didn't count libraries or bookstores). Unbuttoning her cloak, she opened it to let in the warm air. As always, everything in the exclusive shop looked half art piece and half edible.

"Welcome to Marple's, Ms. Granger. How delightful to see you again." Charles Marple, nephew of the owner, had graduated from Hogwarts last spring and started his apprenticeship in the family business. The shop's female clientele had tripled over the summer. Above a crisp white apron that failed to completely hide the fashionable gold chains hanging from his trim waist he had spiky brown hair with bright magenta tips, a signature hair color sported in some way by everyone in the Marple family.

"You look even lovelier than usual this evening," Charles greeted. "I suppose it's too much to hope for that you dressed up just to see me," he sighed with exaggerated mournfulness, dropping his head and looking at her through long, dark eyelashes.

Before Hermione could answer, a young voice from the back snapped out, "Charles, you better not be flirting with customers again or I'm telling Uncle!"

Turning to look over his shoulder, he called, "It's Ms. Granger. She's one of our most loyal customers and gorgeous to boot. You know I can't help myself! Besides," he turned back, "she doesn't mind, do you?" He sent Hermione a charming look of wide-eyed pleading.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "You scamp. That look might work better if I didn't get the same one from your ninety-year-old grandfather when he's in here complimenting my wand work."

Charles shrugged cheerfully. "Gramps is still smoking hot and has a wife almost half his age, so I'll take that as a compliment."

A young woman's head popped out of the back door, magenta striped hair pulled back into a tight bun, one cheek smudged with gold glitter, and face annoyed. "Can't you at least pretend to be a professional, Charles? If you don't sell her something soon, I'll get you switched from counter to kitchen duty, just see if I don't."

"Don't be so sour or you'll spoil the candy, cuz." Rolling her eyes, the cousin disappeared back into the kitchen.

Charles folded his hands behind his back and easily switched to professional mode. "But what can I get for you this evening, Ms. Granger? Perhaps some sparkling mints? For the upcoming holidays we've just added wintergreen flavor, which makes snowflakes and soft pine needles fly from your mouth with every breath."

"No thank you. I have a special birthday party tonight," Hermione went straight to the far end of the chocolate case, not even glancing at the gummies, jellies, and nuts. "I'd like a gift box of Violet Mint Morphos."

"As always, you show excellent taste. Why don't you try some of our other flavors while I put that together for you." Pulling out his wand, Charles summoned a sample plate holding two small delicacies. The plate slid down the glass counter to stop in front of her, leaving behind a glowing trail of silver, gold, and magenta filigree made up of tiny letters spelling out the shop's name. The intricate pattern faded from view after only a few seconds, returning the counter to clear glass.

Waiting for Hermione to take a bite and nod her approval, Charles then opened up the glass case and used his wand to gently levitate each Violet Mint Morpho into a decorated box so none of the rich chocolate coating smudged or cracked with handling. Closing the lid and casting a cushioning charm to protect the contents, he wrapped the box in bright purple cellophane that chimed melodically instead of crinkling and tied it shut with a velvety silver ribbon that would rub softly against your fingers like a fond pet when touched.

"Can I get you anything else?" he asked, waiting for her to swallow the last bite on her plate and wipe her fingers before handing over the package.

Passing him several galleons, Hermione shook her head and returned her plate to the counter. "Just that today. Thank you, Charles."

"You sure? I'm closing up and getting off in less than an hour, so if you do need a date for your party..." he trailed off hopefully. He actually looked half-serious, which surprised her.

"I'm still dating Harry," she said gently, firmly pushing down the coda of: for now , "and I think you're a little young for me, but thank you for the offer." He flirtation was sweet but harmless.

"A man can only try," Charles said with a half-wistful smile, ringing up her purchase and passing back her change. "Potter's a lucky man. Have fun at your party and see you next time, Ms. Granger. As always, Marple's appreciates your business."

Thanking him, Hermione left the shop, tucking the gaily-wrapped package of chocolates into the pocket of her cloak, which she'd altered using a spell she'd found in an old book from Switzerland to make the pocket look flat on the outside but hold up to thirty objects on the inside and withstand the weight of a medium-sized male tiger.

The night had gotten even colder and darker while she'd been in Marple's, the barely risen moon hiding its scant light behind the gathering clouds. Most of the offices and shops in this part of town had already closed down for the night, their windows dim, doors barred, and wards activated to prevent thievery. Only a couple of people dotted the sidewalks in the far distance, their heads tucked down into their collars to ward out the brisk wind tugging at their cloaks. Hermione bit her lip in hesitation at walking alone at night, but then shook her head briskly and started off down the street.

Maybe she should have followed the instructions on the birthday invitation and not bothered buying a gift... but this was for Sirius . Not only was Sirius Black a personal friend made during one of the lowest points in her life, he was also her boyfriend's adoptive father, the patriarch of the noble House of Black, and the Deputy Minister for Magic, the second most important post in Magical Britain's government. She couldn't just show up empty handed on his birthday, no matter what the mass-produced invitation had said.

In fact, Sirius probably hadn't even written the note himself, instead delegating it to some secretary. Not bringing a present was against all the rules of good etiquette and friendship! Besides, no one else would ever think to get him his favorite Violet Mint Morpho Chocolates because almost everyone else—being uncultured barbarians—thought they tasted like cloying perfume for old people. Hermione's gift would make Sirius happy . That was the important thing.

Checking her pocket watch, Hermione realized that she only had a few more minutes before the jewelry shop closed. She would have to hurry. Turning the corner rapidly with a staccato tap of her bootheels, she found her eyes drawn to the sharp hiss of wind-blown leaves skittering down the empty cobblestone street.

In her distraction, she failed to see the two men coming out of the dark alleyway until it was too late.

"Oomph!" Hermione grunted as she ran hard into a bony elbow. Automatically she began to apologize, a bit out of breath from the impact, "I'm sor—"

"Watch it, girly!" the tall man snarled, roughly shoving her shoulder with one meaty palm. He had weathered skin and a muscular but spare build. A thin black mustache hung limply over cruel lips.

Shocked and unbalanced by the push, Hermione fell onto the ground, scraping her knees and palms. "Hey!" she cried, glaring up in outrage. "That was rude!"

The tall man's friend, an extremely pale and greasy-haired older man covered in pockmarks, sniffed dismissively. He flicked his eyes over Hermione, curled his lip, and made to turn away, but abruptly stopped. Eyes narrowing, he gave her a second, longer look. She tried not to judge based on appearance—being scarred and ugly didn't automatically make you evil—but his cold and cunning expression made the hair on the back of her neck rise in warning.

The two men loomed threateningly above Hermione where she sprawled on the ground. Their clothing looked like it had been expensive several years ago when new, but had since grown threadbare and stained with overwear and failing spellwork. They looked like the type of men who had no problem kicking a leashed dog, casting forbidden spells, and ripping apart library books in front of innocent children.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Harry Potter's little mudblood slag," the pockmarked man sneered down at her. "Being down on your knees is probably the natural state for something like you."

Outrage and shock jolted through Hermione's body. Surging to her feet as she pulled her wand, she snapped, "Back off!" moving her wand tip back and forth between the two men in open threat. Unfortunately the street was empty of any witnesses or help. Hermione stumbled back several steps to get some distance, trying to decide if she could get away with hexing them both without it turning the men more violent or getting the Aurors called.

She'd hate to call Harry away from his adoptive father's birthday party to bail her out of jail. Besides, the last thing Hermione needed right now was to give Malfoy more fodder in his campaign to tar her in Harry's eyes. Maybe she could get Hoshimi to bail her out instead? But her best friend was dating Sirius and probably glued to his side tonight, so Harry and Malfoy would still find out. That meant that whatever Hermione did, she needed to not get caught.

Unimpressed by her threat, the men exchanged a look that made Hermione extremely nervous. Swallowing down her fear, she held tightly to her confidence. She could do this.

"Back off, hmm?" the pockmarked man drawled with a languid flick of his wrist that sent his wand jumping out into one long-fingered hand. The edge of his sleeve rode up at the motion, revealing the sinuous edge of a dark tattoo. Hermione's stomach dropped into a sick freefall as her mind remembered descriptions of the Dark Lord Voldemort's followers. His Death Eaters all had matching tattoos of snakes with human skulls on their forearms. Hermione had been in France during the War, so she'd never personally seen such a tattoo or met a Death Eater. Weren't they all supposed to be in prison?

But maybe she was just being paranoid. She blew out a controlled breath that steamed in the cold air and shifted onto the balls of her feet. Perhaps it was merely a stain from an exploding quill or tipped over inkwell? Or the tattooed name of the man's girlfriend or mother? After all, she'd only seen the merest edge of it.

"What do you think, Macnair?" the pockmarked man rubbed his thumb up and down his wand.

The mustachioed man—Macnair?—giggled unnervingly, snapping her attention to his face. In the few seconds she'd been distracted staring at the pockmarked man's wrist, Macnair had also drawn his wand. His tongue flicked out to run across thin lips, making them red and shiny. "Well we wouldn't want to make poor Potter cry, now would we Rookwood?"—Was Rookwood the pockmarked man?—"He is a hero, after all." His sardonic tone was just a shade too sharp and made his negative opinion of Harry crystal clear. "Word is Potter hasn't known the bint long, since she hid out in France with blood traitors and creatures instead of attending Hogwarts like a true Brit. It would be a tragedy to lose a girlfriend so soon, might break his heart. Besides, what kind of message would that send to the people who depend so heavily on Potter to keep them feeling safe from the dark?" Macnair's voice turned vicious.

Swallowing down her fear, Hermione focused instead on the protective anger that boiled up over the implied threat to Harry. She refused to let them use her to hurt him. Even though the odds were two to one, Hermione knew she was a faster spellcaster than most.

Too bad she had relatively little combat training. Unfortunately they didn't look like they suffered from a similar handicap. If she tried to Apparate, she worried that they'd catch her with a nasty spell before she could get away and then she really would be truly helpless. Her only hope lay in a preemptive strike.

Hermione's eyes flicked between them, searching for a weakness. Tension crackled in the air. Macnair and Rookwood stepped away from each other, making it more difficult to keep them both in view. They had the light at their backs and the surrounding buildings cast their bodies into shadow, obscuring the movement of their wands. Her chances of coming out of this unscathed were becoming slimmer by the second.

Unable to bear the mounting tension any longer, Hermione decided to just spit out a hex and take her chances. Parting her lips and slashing her wand sideways to start the spell, she found her focus broken by a loud SLAM and a pop of light across the street. Startled, she botched the wand movement as she looked over.

In the second it took for her eyes to jerk away and back, the two men disappeared with the near-silent pop of a well-practiced Apparition.

Across the street, yellow light spilled out into the alleyway from an open door that still swung on its hinges. The silhouette of a rotund figure appeared in the doorway and levitated a bulging trash bag into the dumpster. As soon as the bag dropped inside, the employee disappeared back into the building, slamming the door shut and returning the alley to darkness.

Hermione was alone on the street.

Shaken by the awful encounter, she rubbed her sweaty palms on her cloak and took a hitching breath. She considered Apparating away herself, but that would be a cowardly retreat. She already felt unsteady and knew that if she Apparated, she would spend the rest of tonight's party with a churning stomach. If that happened, Harry might notice and ask for an explanation, and she didn't want to see his expression on learning that someone, potentially the very Death Eaters he'd spent most of his adolescence fighting, had threatened her because she was his girlfriend. Harry already had too many hang-ups about his fame, his past, and the difficulty of trying to protect her from it all without adding fuel to that fire. She'd much rather just protect him instead.

Besides, she wasn't some wilting flower. Those men were gone and she refused to scurry off like a terrified mouse. She wouldn't let one bad encounter make her change her behavior. Chin lifting bravely, she knew she could walk the last few blocks to the jewelry store and then the Floo station by herself just fine. Hermione was a brilliant, talented, and resourceful witch. If those men came back, she'd deal with it.

A gust of icy wind slapped the fabric of Hermione's party robes tight against her bare legs, reminding her to start walking again. She shivered, wishing she was still wearing her thick work robes instead of the pretty but impractical-for-November dress robes Hoshimi had pushed her into wearing for the party. Her nicest cloak also wasn't heavy enough for the cold weather, but she'd wanted to look pretty for Harry and not embarrass the House of Black on this important and public occasion where coworkers, important ministry officials, and even members of the press would be in attendance to celebrate Lord Black's birthday.

Love made her do all sorts of stupid and impractical things. It was unfortunately the story of her life. Knowing that and changing it were entirely separate affairs.

Rubbing her fingertips down the familiar knobs and whorls of her wand, Hermione let her thoughts turn to more pleasant things as she walked the night-dark streets. Meeting Harry Potter earlier this year had certainly caught her by surprise. Harry was famous for defeating the Dark Lord Voldemort twice: once as a baby and for the second and final time in his late teens.

Hermione still found herself surprised that Harry insisted he preferred her unassuming company to the many beautiful and accomplished women trying to capture his attention. Sure, she was a genius, but despite the injustice of it, life had taught her that most men didn't think intelligence was the most important quality in a woman. When compared to her gorgeous part-veela cousins the Delacours with their magically seductive auras that drove men crazy, Hermione was one hundred percent human and only passably attractive.

She and Harry had certainly had a memorable first meeting. She'd looked up during her cousin Gabrielle's party to see a striking man with jade green eyes and intriguing scars obscured by dark bangs and a close-cropped beard. Unfortunately, he'd been drunk (for only the second time ever, she'd found out later) and in a bad mood, insulting her at first sight. She'd found him rude but fascinating despite herself, and sneakily potioned him into becoming sober. He'd gotten angry and then kissed her senseless, stealing one of her favorite red and gold hair combs (a theft he'd soon turned into a habit), all without bothering to divulge his name. When she'd found out a few days later that he was the famous hero Harry Potter, the boy who'd defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort, she'd gotten mad. He'd convinced her to forgive him and had her playing footsie within the hour.

It was ridiculous.

Harry may have then helped break the terrible curse she was under, and she'd helped find his missing godson using an obscure blood spell, but that should have been the end of their short and intense acquaintance. Both of them had communication issues and a trunk full of traumatic experiences. They didn't add up.

Yet they'd started dating at Harry's insistence and soon found themselves fitting together like two halves of a whole. They were happy.

At least, they had been.

Unable to help herself, Hermione had spent the summer and fall falling head over heels in love with Harry Potter. The emotion felt deeper and stronger and more powerful than magic itself. It was both scary and liberating. Neither of them had said the words yet, but Hermione loved Harry and would've sworn that he loved her too, at least, she'd thought he did. Harry had a certain way of touching her, of looking at her like no one else in the world existed. Being the center of Harry's focus made her feel like he saw everything she was, all her flaws and peccadilloes, and still not only liked and admired her, but wanted to glut himself on her like a starving man at a holiday feast and lay claim to her forever. He made her feel cherished, protected, and desired. His every touch shouted his devotion… if only his mouth would do the same.

Lately Harry had become quiet. He was hiding something, distracted and moodier than usual, but he always denied it when she asked if something was wrong and changed the subject. Hermione was at a loss for what to do. She thought about confessing her love out loud, but taking that step first scared her.

Boot slipping sideways on a patch of wet leaves as she rounded the corner too quickly onto another deserted street, Hermione barely kept herself from falling. Huffing with annoyance, she scraped the slippery leaves off her boot sole using the curb and resolved to keep her mouth shut about everything, including tonight's unpleasant encounter. She didn't want to give Harry an excuse to break up with her, not for her own protection or out of panic at too much commitment. Better that he never found out.

At the start of their romance, she'd let herself feel so optimistic about everything working out. In the euphoria of rescuing his godson and the first flush of attraction, Harry had babbled something that sounded suspiciously like a marriage proposal. Hermione had been flattered but taken aback, not ready for such a commitment so soon after being freed from her curse and such a short acquaintance. At the time, they hadn't even gone out on a single date yet, though her heart had already started to unfurl as if it was a blooming flower and Harry the warmth of the sun.

Although Hermione was now more than ready for that conversation, Harry had never mentioned marriage again. Not once. Most likely he regretted it. Perhaps he'd found her interesting to date but not suitable for a wife.

After all, not only was Harry brave, honorable, and handsome, he was also a rich and famous wizarding hero with a newly bestowed noble title and a busy career in law enforcement. As the tabloids liked to remind her, Hermione didn't really measure up, having only booksmarts to recommend her since she was 'unfortunately' schooled in France instead of in a 'superior' British institution, born outside the wizarding world to 'ignorant' Muggle parents, and 'distastefully' cursed for several years. She hated tabloids, but that didn't mean there wasn't a kernel of truth hidden inside. Maybe Harry had finally wised up to that truth, but was too kind to know out how to break up with her.

Where once Harry had babbled, now he bit back words. At times when everything seemed perfect and their love practically tangible, when she could clearly picture being with this man until they turned old and crotchety together, Harry would unexpectedly turn moody at any mention of the future, deflecting the conversation. The growing silences were killing her. Hermione was afraid to push any harder, afraid it would hasten the clock counting down to the end of their relationship. She didn't want her time with Harry to end, would take friendship if she couldn't have romance, but lately it seemed more a matter of when it ended than of if.

Perhaps she should have more pride and not stick around where she wasn't wanted, but the heart didn't care about things like pride, only about needs and desires. Just thinking about losing Harry made the air in her chest turn thick and choking like paste. She didn't know if he was trying to protect her with his silences or protect himself. Either way, she hated it.

Draco Malfoy certainly made no bones about the fact that he'd throw a party when she was finally gone. Malfoy was both Harry's Auror partner and a cousin through adoption in the House of Black. He found Hermione wanting in just about every aspect and told her so at every opportunity.

The man was arrogant, snide, and self-centered. Hermione wasn't blind to Malfoy's good qualities—loyalty to family, a keen wit, and a handsome face due to genetic luck and expensive styling—but in almost every other area she found him thoroughly disagreeable. Raised in an aristocratic household that secretly followed the Dark Lord, the haughty blond and his mother had chosen to turn their backs on the Dark at the eleventh hour, somehow saving Harry and not so coincidentally their own necks just in time.

Hermione and Malfoy made a bad first impression on each other, but unlike with Harry, they'd never gotten over it. Hermione had hexed Malfoy for mocking her friend Luna at work and a few days later he'd harshly questioned her over a poisoning at the Ministry. That she wouldn't answer any of his questions (due to the Choke Collar curse and not her own choice) just made him more hostile. Their mutual annoyance and dislike had quickly crystallized.

Somehow they'd managed a fragile peace when she and Harry had first started dating, but in September, Harry had gotten injured three cases in a row. He acted like it wasn't a big deal, but it had her worried. On her way to visit Harry's room at the hospital, Malfoy had seen her in the hallway and snapped. He'd grabbed Hermione's arm, dragged her into an alcove, and accused her of taking advantage of Harry's savior complex, saying she was purposely distracting Harry from work with her manipulative demands. Insults like 'needy hag' and 'nagging harridan' were thrown. He blamed her for Harry being off his game, messing up spells, and getting himself injured. Malfoy wanted her gone.

She'd refused to leave, but in the months since, Malfoy had taken to always looking down his nose at her with a condescending sneer, quick to deliver a cutting remark or sly dig. In return, she took great pride in deflating his monumental ego and showing him up at every opportunity. Supposedly Harry and Draco used to hate each other too, but they'd somehow gotten over it.

Unfortunately.

If Harry didn't, for some unfathomable reason, like Malfoy so much, she and their friend Ron Weasley would happily gang up to Stupefy Malfoy into unconsciousness and dump him off a broom into the English Channel.

Hermione was not giving up Harry without a fight. Until such a time as he explicitly told her that they were through, she'd hold onto and defend their relationship viciously. Harry had become the most important person in her life. Hermione did her best to play it cool on the surface, but the last woman who'd thought to sabotage Hermione in the wrongful assumption that it would clear the way to Harry had come to thoroughly regret it. The woman still Apparated away with an uncontrolled bang when she accidentally ran into Hermione on the street.

Not that Harry was perfect. Hermione wasn't blind. Harry had whole castles full of irritable qualities that made her ears steam. He was obsessive, stubborn, impulsive, and simultaneously both arrogant and lacking in self-esteem. He inconsistently used the planners she bought him, had horrible taste in ties, fell into brooding when work went badly, never took proper care of himself, minimized or outright ignored injuries, had trouble trusting others, and tried to solve everything and save everyone by himself.

Really, it was a miracle their relationship had lasted this long, she told herself morosely.

The autumn wind pulled several curls loose from the french twist she'd secured with her two favorite red and gold enameled hair combs. Lifting a hand, she made sure the combs were both still there. After all, she'd just stolen them back from Harry's flat a few days ago, so she needed to enjoy them before they disappeared again.

Tucking her numbing fingers back into her pockets, she added the title of unrepentant thief and extortionist to Harry's list of flaws. Ever since the fateful night they'd first met, Harry had made it a habit to steal clips and combs out of her hair the moment she let her guard down. Ordering him to stop had proven useless. A smug Harry would only return the hair combs for kisses, despite her repeated assurances and proof that she'd kiss him for free.

Although she adored kissing Harry no matter what the excuse, a woman had to stand up for herself or get flattened, especially with a strong personality like Harry Potter. He may look sweet when he smiled and babble adorably when nervous, but no pussycat lived behind those gorgeous green eyes. Behind Harry's stare crouched an arrogant predator, one with a lashing tail and watchful stare who rarely relaxed. With his history of betrayal, she'd never quite figured out how she'd so quickly earned his trust, but she cherished it all the same. He could be so dense and stereotypically male sometimes that she wanted to scream, but then he'd turn around and knock her off the warpath with surprises like big books and ethnic restaurants and niche museums, until she almost forgot why she'd gotten upset in the first place and just wanted to beam at him, shower his face with kisses, and grab onto his hand and never let go.

In self-defense and retaliation, Hermione had had no choice but to start breaking into Harry's flat on the regular. After all, she had to get back her combs without surrendering to Harry's high-handed demands. That would set a dangerous precedent.

Two month into these excursions, she'd also started transfiguring the worst of his ugly ties into a less offensive pattern (one of the few things she and the hoity-toity Malfoy actually agreed on). Somehow that slid into stocking his bare cupboards with unexpired food. The way he neglected himself was appalling.

When she broke in on her lunch hour one day to find Harry passed out on the couch, purple circles under his eyes, robes splattered with glowing green goo, one boot half-unlaced, and so exhausted from a case that even accidentally knocking over the umbrella stand with a clatter failed to rouse him, she knew she had to do something.

Hermione wrote him a strongly worded note.

The next time Harry saw her, he wrapped her in a long and tight hug and kissed her temple, but otherwise didn't mention it.

Silence was as good as permission, so when she broke in again, Hermione left more: little notes about eating healthier, not working himself to death, and limiting his manly brooding, notes about how stealing hair combs was a slippery slope to becoming a career criminal and finding himself arrested by his coworkers. On charitable days, she also left love notes. And if she sometimes charmed the notes to deliver invisible kisses, spelled his pillows for sweet dreams, and infused his robes with luck and protection sigils powered by her personally patented but socially controversial blood wards, well, that was nobody's business but hers and her painfully pricked fingers.

No matter how often the two of them bantered—both publicly and privately—about Harry always stealing her hair combs, especially her favorite red and gold set, Harry never actually protested her break-ins or mentioned the notes. Not once. He'd look at her while fingering a stolen comb with a special quirk to his lips that she suspected meant he was thinking about the notes to come, but it never got addressed.

A couple of months into their relationship, they'd had their first big fight in public. They'd stupidly agreed to go on a double-date after a grueling work week. They'd both been tired and hungry, a deadly combination. She'd said something bossy and scathing, Harry had snapped back, and their friend Ron had unhelpfully chimed in with a blustering coda about her being a good friend but a horrible nag. Ron's date had kept her head down uncomfortably. Harry had neither defended Hermione nor disagreed.

The next day everyone had apologized, but the accusations kept ringing in her ears, making Hermione second-guess herself. She made the decision to stop leaving notes in Harry's flat, afraid they'd unintentionally teetered from caring and sweet into invasive and annoying. She didn't stop breaking in to take back her combs though, since Harry didn't stop stealing them.

Over the next couple of weeks, Harry became increasingly tense every time they dropped by his flat. He kept sending her soulful stares, but refused to explain why. He'd just bite his tongue and change the subject, an odious habit.

One day, a blank scroll along with an ink pot and quill appeared prominently in every room of Harry's flat, including the kitchen and bathroom. She noticed, but didn't think it worth remarking upon. Harry could be strange—see his taste in ugly ties and love of broom flying and the sport of Quidditch.

Instead of talking to her about his feelings like a normal person, Harry decided to escalate. Dramatically.

One week he made a big deal about inviting her over to his flat to listen to a musical concert on the wizarding wireless that Wednesday night, mentioning it every single day leading up to the event. On the day of the concert, he asked permission to personally escort her to his flat using the private Floo connection in her flat instead coming in through the lobby connection, like he normally did. Flattered but thinking him a little silly, especially since she'd added him to the flat's ward permissions early in the relationship, she'd waited for Harry to come over, only to take three steps into her flat, turn, and gesture her to go ahead of him back into the fire.

Indulging him, she'd grabbed a handful of Floo powder, threw it into the fireplace, and clearly enunciated his address before stepping into the hearth, which spat her back out into the fireplace in his flat. Cleaning the soot of Floo travel off her robes with a flick of her wand, Hermione walked forward so Harry wouldn't bump into her back. She'd only gotten about five steps into the apartment before she finally looked up and started laughing so hard she had to sit down before she fell over. It took her almost a full minute to stop giggling long enough to wipe the tears from her eyes and take a closer look around.

A stationary store had set up shop in Harry's bachelor pad. Writing materials in every possible variety and hue covered every surface. Only the floor and couch had escaped. There were scrolls, pads, and reams of paper in a variety of thicknesses and sizes, from bright white to colored to black, with patterns both static and spelled to constantly move. Pots of ink in traditional colors as well as rainbow, metallic, neon-glow, and melody-producing formed towers and lopsided cityscapes, along with profusions of quills shoved into flower vases, mugs, and empty boxes of cereal and crackers. He'd even stashed a yellow Muggle pencil and a pocket-sized, spiral-bound blue notebook in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator. When, bemused, she'd wandered back into the front room with a carrot and pencil in either hand, Harry had avoided her gaze to focus on finding the concert on the wizarding wireless, as if the radio hadn't already been set to the correct station.

She'd barely restrained herself from pinching his pinking cheeks, freshly shaved for their date. Shaving made the scars on his forehead and cheek stand out more, which sometimes made Harry uncomfortable since they were reminders of the war with Voldemort, but shaving was his way of trying to look his best for their dates. She enjoyed both the beard and smooth cheeks as long as he was careful with kisses during the sandpapery transition period.

"Do you want to talk about this?" Hermione grinned and gestured around the messy flat.

Despite the overwhelming evidence that Harry really liked and missed her notes, he merely turned the volume up on the concert. "Here, the program's starting." His shoulders went up around his bright red ears. Silly man.

Hermione wasn't called the brightest witch of her age for nothing. Munching on her carrot, she curled up against his side on the couch and bided her time.

The next day while Harry was at work, Hermione took a long lunch break and broke into his flat. Delighted with the bounty of options, she left him outrageous notes on every surface she could find, including the ceiling and inside the cabinets. This time, she even let herself go into the bathroom to nag him about cleaning his teeth at least twice a day and remembering to apply potion on his knuckles before the skin got so dry it split. She'd also left a dirty limerick in his sock drawer and a soppy haiku in his spare boots.

When she passed him in the hall at the Ministry Building the next day, he'd blushed bright red and sent her a beaming smile.

After that, the morning after every break in, he always gave her a small, crooked smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and left the tips of his cheeks and ears pink. She absolutely adored those smiles. Since the pads of paper and towers of ink in his flat diminished to more reasonable levels but never quite disappeared, Hermione just blinked innocently when other people mocked Harry about his obsession with office supplies.

Still, things would be so much easier if Harry would just talk to her. He had a bad habit of ignoring his feelings until they burst out and exploded everywhere—explosions of emotions and office supplies, of rude relatives and rivals—but pushing him to talk didn't work. Merlin knows she'd tried to get him to tell her what was going on lately, to fix it if she could, but he refused to talk.

Driven by a gust of wind, a few more curls escaped her red and gold hair combs to whip irritatingly across her cheeks and tangle in her eyelashes. She hoped it didn't ruin her eye makeup, since she rarely made the effort to wear any. As she flicked her head to the side to dislodge the strands, something moved in the corner of her eye. Hermione cast a hard look around, but the street looked empty and still. She wasn't sure if she'd actually seen anyone, but it ramped up her paranoia all over again.

Going colder than she could blame on the weather, Hermione stomped down on her fear and strategically paused in front of a dark window display, pretending to check her appearance in the reflective glass as she scanned the street at her back. It looked deserted in both directions. Up ahead several of the street lamps had lost their magic and been blown out by the wind. Those dark patches made her uneasy, but men walked through dark streets without fear all of the time, even muggle men without magic.

Pushing her escaping curls back behind her ears with, she was proud to note, steady even if slightly numb fingers, Hermione resumed her trek. Quickly scanning back and forth across the shadowed street, she kept her wand out and slid the fingers of her free hand into the pocket of her cloak to stay warm. Rubbing her fingers nervously inside the expanded cloak pocket, she brushed against the sheath of her athame—the small, ceremonial dagger sometimes used during magical rituals.

Here in Britain, few witches and even fewer wizards bothered to carry athames around for daily use, as they shortsightedly considered blood magic only good for the most formal of ceremonies or dark and morally suspect spellcraft. Blood magic was not socially acceptable at all. Most of the women she knew in Britain didn't even track their moon cycles to take advantage of how a drop of blood from the finger could boost the power of transfigurations during ovulation and curses during menstrual bleeding. Not for the first time, she felt grateful that she'd gained a world-class education at the Beauxbatons School in France with her Delacour cousins. The French were much more sensible about such things.

Hermione barely kept herself from breaking into a run as she entered the dark stretch where all of the street lamps had gone out. In her mental map, the jewelry store was just around the next corner. She thought about casting a Lumos Charm to light the tip of her wand, but the extra light would just make her more of a target if anyone really was watching. Not that she couldn't protect herself, but better to be smart about it.

To distract herself from paranoia, Hermione started mentally composing her complaint letter to the ministry about repairing the spellwork on the dark street lamps to make them more impervious to weather. Letting so many lamps go dark was just sloppy, even if the street didn't see much traffic at night. Someone wasn't doing their job correctly and deserved a reprimand. In fact, she was so focused on remembering the exact wording of the legal statutes violated that she failed to see the figures lurking in the dark alleyway as she marched past.

By the time she noticed the distinctive red flair of the approaching Stunner, it was too late. Hermione whipped up her wand and got out the first syllable of the shield spell, "Pro—" even as the spell slammed into her shoulder. Everything went fuzzy and gray.