A little short something that might or might not bend the (fictional) truth of both universes a bit - but please bear in mind that this is after all a fanfiction ;)

I own... the idea, and leave it for your perusal and enjoyment.

Watson

Three years was nothing.

She bit the inside of her lip, giving her a resolute mine when all she really wanted to do was to talk back and to set some things straight – like the fact that she hadn't volunteered for the mission; a tiny scrap of information that the authorities seemed to be convinced of, when she could clearly tell someone had pulled strings to get her here.

Here was the Hall of Justice, as it had been so eloquently called, presenting herself for a job of utter importance. A job she hadn't even known was open if she wouldn't have been debriefed by her loyal friend who'd taken over the organization of her papers and her own person. Luna was a good friend, no doubt – but, Hermione's eyes slid over to the woman in question, she was an even better employee and personal assistant to Kingsley, the man sitting to her left.

Hermione sat amongst three other candidates, each and every one of them older and, undoubtedly, more experienced than she was for the task at hand: extracting one Wilnius Wonderwort from Afghan Imprisonment.

Had it been anyone else in the place of Mister Wonderwort no doubt the Ministry of Magic would have taken some more time to sleep over the mission and the consequences extraction from foreign imprisonment by muggles would bring along with them, but as it was Mister Wonderwort happened to be the first heir of his family, a family whose current head was on his deathbed, uttering the wish of his son at home to a close friend in the Wizgamut.

No wonder they'd moved so fast.

"You owe me an explanation." She said by way of greeting, stepping through the door that Luna had opened.

And while, she was pleased to see, her no-nonsense attitude seemed to intimidate the tall African man – if only a little – it did nothing to phase her friend of years. Instead, Luna offered her a chair and a cup of coffee, precisely the way she liked it, black with hints of cardamom.

Accepting the token of apology – for surely that's what it was – Hermione calmed and, sitting down, waited for the man opposite of her to talk.

Kingsley smiled at fondly at Luna, nodding towards her as she left them to talk alone, before turning to Hermione (who silently wondered how many more years those two would dance around each other).

"First off, I am very sorry to have pushed you into the cold water without any warning – as well as ordering Luna to stay mum about it." Hermione shook her head, waving it off; she'd figured as much. Kingsley nodded. "Second… I am utterly relieved that the Wizgamut chose you instead of anyone else."

"And allow me to tell you why." He stopped her questions before they started – it infuriated her slightly, but then Kingsley was a master of taking one's word without making it appear offensive. "The other three, names unmentioned, might be renowned for their experience, but unfortunately also for their…ties to the old government."

Hermione nodded, understanding the implications – Kingsley, despite the fact that he was to be expected to be elected Minister permanently battled with a vastly infested Ministry that had ears everywhere and would try to topple him every second step he took. The less he relied on the old structures the easier he could construct a new ministry, one of his own making.

"And since you, of your peers, are the only one to have finished your education as well as the Auror programme you were the only one in question – I had to try."

Again she nodded – rationally he made perfect sense; but she had been able to tell that beforehand. She used his pause to intercept his speech, placing her cup down and giving him a meaningful look.

"Kingsley, I know. But that is not what I want my explanation for." She paused shortly, finding the words. "What I want to know is why you send me into another war, so soon again? Why me?"

She did not want it to, but her voice cracked slightly along with her masquerade and the wall she'd built around herself and for the split of a second she knew that the man could see her unhealed wounds, could see the un-surmounted trauma and the nightmares that still kept her awake at night – PTSD had made its' entrance in the wizarding world, whether they liked it or not and Hermione was no stranger to it.

A sigh wrangled itself from his chest and she could tell that he didn't like the next part, but deemed it necessary.

"Because you are the best at what you do." He admitted, hiding behind his hand. "You took your NEWTs and beat Severus' score despite the fact that you did not go back to repeat your last year. You raced through the programme, working part-time shifts at St. Mungo's – and don't look at me like that, of course I know – and for Merlin's sake while we're at it I also know that Severus nominated you his sole heir; I'm very aware that you pillaged through his scripts these last few years." He stopped his tirade shortly. "Thank you, by the way, for donating the darker books…"

Hermione would have blushed if it weren't for the fact that she'd donated them anonymously and figuring out who they truly came from was a piece of work she had to respect him for. She opted for a pout.

"Look… what I mean to say is that you are the perfect mixture of done with compulsory education to fit the profile and also reliable enough for the …new order."

"It has to be enough, doesn't it?"

Kingsley sighed in tandem with her, but afterwards very little was said. She accepted the confidential folder filled with the relevant information and exited his office with a friendly hug – knowing that he'd done his best for his ministry, knowing too that she'd do her best to support his rule.

Once outside, Luna decided to take five and escort her down to the floo network. Hermione offered her arm, as she was used to and her friend accepted, knowing she was pardoned for not saying a thing about the mission. They walked in silence, basking in the presence of each other until they reached the elevator – embarking it alone.

Inside, Luna looked at her, smiling softly. "You know they don't just accord Orders of Merlin to no one."

Without having to be told Hermione knew that her friend had listened in on her conversation with the minister; she smiled, bending down just slightly to press a kiss to Luna's lips – so soft, still like on the first day. She smiled at her friend ruefully then.

"Promise me two things."

Luna nodded eagerly, playing with her locks as the elevator rocked them – sometimes steady, sometimes unsteady. Their personal cocoon of steel, wood and magic.

"Keep Ron and Harry in the dark." She sighed, her forehead resting against Luna's, her eyes closed. The blonde hummed, playing with her locks still, pressing a kiss to her temple now and then. It was almost as if they were back in the Room of Requirement, then, so close before the war but innocent enough to give their blossoming love a try – they had wizened since then.

They stayed like that until the elevator came to a halt and Hermione, straightening her spine, stepped out, unwilling to leave her confidante's embrace, but she knew that she had to – for both of their sakes, otherwise who knew what she'd ask of Luna.

"What is the second thing, Lómhara?" the tinkling voice of the blonde flittered through the air, caressing her ear for the last time in probably months.

Hermione smiled, rakishly: "Don't make him wait too long! You definitely have my blessings."

It was the last she saw of Luna that year.

He'd heard of the new arrival, but was convinced (hoped) that his comrades were wrong. Nobody should be here at that age.

Stepping into the medic tent he could tell, however, that neither had his corps been wrong nor did she look like she wanted to leave anytime soon. If anything, she looked right at home – there at the makeshift desk, reading up on the patient's files.

He was supposed to be her supervisor but by the looks of it (her) and the curious (lecherous) glances of the company outside of the tent he would have to be her guardian.

Noticing him, she stood, saluting to him as the higher authority.

"At ease." He said, entering the tent wholly and taking a seat opposite of her, the table between them. "Don't feel the need to salute to me, I'm much more comfortable not being saluted to." He offered his hand. "John Watson."

She took it, squeezing – a tight grip, but not overly volatile. "Hermione Granger." She said – a strong voice, unwavering. "I hope it's not too much inconvenience if I read up on the files."

He lifted a brow. "Please, do not feel disturbed. I'd much rather have you read up on them than not know how to proceed in moments of need." She nodded, returning to the files, while he poured them a cup of tea each – Moroccan Mint – and pushed hers over to her, starting to fill out his daily report.

That was the first day with Hermione Granger.

She had fallen asleep at the table, he could see it in the lines on her face, curiously matching the wrinkles on her arm – but she made no move to hide it. Instead, she sat, calmly, at the table again when he arrived, munching on a honeyed pita, a cup of coffee in front of her.

"Good morning." He greeted her, entering the tent.

Hermione swallowed, nodding and returning the greeting with a smile, putting down the pita and the patient file she'd been going through – from what he could tell it was the last of them.

"Want to accompany me on the round?"

None of the newbies ever did, but sooner or later they had to either way and he felt better offering them than ordering them. To his surprise, she stood, gulping down the last of her coffee – it would have been cold when she'd returned – and joined him.

Despite the fact that she'd only read the files the night before, she was very apt at dealing with the patients, not a move was out of place, not a word falsely intonated. She was considerate with the patients, but not overly soft in a manner that would make them feel patronized and he found that even easy banter was not out of her possibilities.

Hermione Granger fascinated him – there was no 'arriving' period for her, she was here and that seemed to be that; there was no homesickness, there were no stories of left-behind loves, she simply adapted to her situation and made the best of it – gave her best. Therefore, he rationalized, it was just natural that he felt like shadowing her in the cantina; after all he felt protective of the one capable medic he'd had in what felt like years.

She didn't like the stares of the men, but she also didn't like the looks the women were giving her – glares sharp as daggers in her back, but never out front, because as battle-hardened as these soldiers might be, they didn't have the guts to hate her outright.

Not the way the pure-bloods had; something that she missed for some reason – with them, at least, she'd known; they'd had an agreement to simply dislike each other and try to their best not to cross paths. But with these people she barely dared to go to sleep in her assigned tent.

The first night she'd spent in the medical tent – reading through the files, a task that, sooner or later, she would have had to complete either way and she'd rationalized that it would get done sooner this way; still she didn't have an excuse for the second night.

Her Lieutenant-Colonel had been amicable towards her and she could not detect any of the lecherous thoughts in his mind when she'd superficially scanned it – he was the highest ranking Surgeon in camp, but had only been here for some months himself; wasn't too comfortable ordering people around, but could do so with much conviction if need be. She liked him – John Watson, or Watson for short. He wasn't much of a ladies man but held himself alright with the troops. That and he'd made it clear she was under his protection by allowing her to follow him around; she was aware that nobody just got that kind of lucky.

It was, however, also her Lieutenant-Colonel who was the reason for the backstabbing-glares of the females around the camp. He was not bad looking, a little on the short side, but armed with charm and authority that others had to bellow to gain, while all he had to do was arch a brow.

When she appeared the next day he detected the faint limp on her right side and realized that she favoured her left arm too – he, however, also detected that she was ambidextrous, a very useful trait to have.

Once their round was done, she plopped down ungracefully in the chair and apparently miscalculated her momentum, wincing at the contact. He needn't ask to know what had happened, but one look at her and an answering shake of her head to know that it had been nothing too serious – he forgot a Paracetamol on her desk before he left.

Mike could tell him more, unfortunately confirming his assumptions. He wished he could do something for her, but knew that if he were to make a move it could get worse than it already was; plus newbies always got a hard time. Whether it was during the drill or by their comrades, they were certain to get a memorable welcome. Therefore he sat and watched in silence.

A month into her stay she was finally upgraded to do rounds in the night. Doing nothing aggravated her – as much as enduring the stupidity of the troops did. The females had started with tripping her, elbowing her but recently they had become more reckless; realizing that Hermione was made of other stuff entirely and would not easily be cowed.

Lookout gave her relief.

Throughout the day during drills or during her shifts she was relatively safe, knowing that she could outfight any opponent they partnered her with in hand-to-hand and knowing that she was capable of more than just running mile after mile after mile without getting thirsty. But during the times 'at ease' Hermione had learned to be anything but.

Food ratios seemed to get fewer and the mat-girl, Elaine Whats-Her-Name had decided to make up new rules just for Hermione. Not that the witch let that bother her much; she didn't have magic only to die in a land of sand and dunes.

Still… she could barely wait for the order to extract.

The guns woke him before she could storm into his tent – he was already dressed and in state of alarm, about to yell at her why she'd taken so long when he realized that the rifle in her hands was not secured and missing bullets. More likely than not she had fought her way over to him.

"How many?"

"Fourty-ish." She answered quickly, securing the entrance while he finished readying himself, grabbing his own rifle.

"Has the central been informed?"

"They are interfering with our messages – somehow they manage to block them. Probably a lucky guess with the channel."

He grit his teeth, settling down next to her. "Where's the rest?"

She looked at him from the corner of her eyes for only the split of a second before training them at the shadows in the night again. "Cantina."

Of course they were – he nodded shortly, that was, after all the contingency plan. "The wounded?"

"Shifters, Ground, Zapat and Hughes are with them – I don't think they will be attacked, however, considering they're taking out our command central, I think they're after something bigger."

His eyes slit to hers – he hated sitting and talking, they needed to do something, and by the looks of it she knew what needed to be done.

Shots were fired and he was mesmerized by her accuracy – the enemy going down before them, dying in an effort to free their captives. Behind them three of their comrades cleared the path they'd shot themselves, keeping them relatively save. He knew that normally the two of them should have been in the med-tent, but right now neither of their patients needed their aid, whereas the troops definitely did.

She stormed forwards, her rifle in front of her, steps careful and measured, none of the dead passed without ascertaining that they truly had left the realm of the living. He followed, securing her position.

Room by room they won back their prison, finding rebels in their wake, killing those hostile, taking the rest prisoner – it seemed miraculous to him, knowing the odds of such an outcome.

By dawn they had retaken their encampment.

"How could they even get in?"

Battered eyes looked up at him, eyes that hadn't slept for days and suffered from dehydration – still she trudged on as if nothing was happening.

"Mole." She answered slowly, peeling away dead skin from her arm – sunburnt and in want for sunblocker that was denied her by the mat-girl Elaine Whats-Her-Name – he'd have to procure some for her via other means then. "Think about it," her tired voice continued, "how else would they know where to find the prisoners."

Indeed – the small platoon had swiftly entered the encampment and made a bee-line (diversion excluded) to the war-prison, where they'd died trying to free a man that wouldn't talk.

"Hmph." He groaned, looking at the woman again and finally finding that his patience had run out.

"For god sakes, Granger, go to fucking sleep already. That is a direct order."

She did not protest.

(He kept wake at the cot she selected and jotted down the names of everyone who tried to come too close.)

Hermione wretched and he offered a cool towel.

She glared at him (and he knew why) but still accepted it, swiping her neck and her forehead before wiping her mouth with it.

But as she handed him back the towel she still did not talk – and she didn't for two days following her reluctant presence at the interrogation of prisoner A407.

Reaching up her hand in reflex, she flung the man away from her, skittering back into the corner, where she grabbed her torn shirt – better the torn shirt than the birthday-suit she was in.

Conner arrived, took one look at the scene and charged. Fed up, she flung her hand out again, Conner's head connected with the wall – a satisfying crack echoed through the abandoned home and Hermione staggered on.

Peller sat in the living room, rifle not too far away, but before she could even stand up from her sitting position, Hermione had knocked her out – two more steps and she was out of the hovel. The encampment was a few miles of sand away, but she could reach it.

Stepping out of the hut, she felt the burn of the hot sand on her wounded soles and grit her teeth in frustration – as if they didn't have enough enemies already the soldiers seemed to need a scapegoat, someone to vent their anger on, and she'd seemed like a good target. Well fucking bad luck, she seethed, trudging on – she had had enough of being a voodoo doll.

"Fuck!"

Ere his hands had wrapped around her fragile body, the first bullet embedded itself in his shoulder – ignoring the sting he slung her over his shoulder and made a dash for it. Blast but the sand was slipping beneath his boots and he had never loathed it the way he had now.

"Put me down." She groaned.

"No." he griped. "Not too far."

"Fucking PUT ME DOWN!" she yelled, struggling – his grip failed and she tumbled into the dunes, skin flashing, her torn shirt barely covering her. But to the medusa in the sand it did not matter, in a flash she darted towards their attackers and before he could truly understand, the four were floating high in the sky, suspended in sheer air and he was happy that the sun was setting, otherwise the lookout at the encampment might have gotten a clearer look of Hermione raising her hands.

"Bugger-blast slippery fuck-ended WHORE!" she yelled, trying to bite down the hurt, but even despite the skilled hands working their best on her, without the usual medication it burned like bitch. They were short on supply as it was but she swore he'd never again play the Good Samaritan and forgo anaesthesia.

"There we are." The man cooed, pulling a blanket over her body, covering her (finally). She shivered involuntarily, but gave her best to smile at the blonde man next to her, his shoulder patched up. "Come on, let's get some rest until they come storming the tent for answers."

She knew they would, but right now all she wanted to focus on were the strong, warm arms of John Watson wrapping around her in a protective hug – anything else, she decided, could definitely wait.

"What did you do to them?" he asked that night, his arms still wrapped around her, the cot underneath them fortified by a few choice spells. They had both been admitted to the medical tent – their reign – by their superiors and had not been bothered since. It was nice, she supposed, to feel the beating of somebody's heart when you put your ear to their chest – and John Watson had a nice chest.

"Magic." She answered without preamble. "It's a simple spell, really, but I wasn't coherent enough to do more harm."

He was silent at first, but his arms tightened momentarily, before loosening up again and she could feel the chuckle rumble in his chest before she heard it. "Does that mean you're a witch?" he mused.

Hermione sniffed primly. "Of course I am. Brightest witch of my age." It wasn't often that she pulled that particular trump, but John Watson seemed to enjoy it and for some reason it felt lighter after that. He pulled her close again, rocking her until her breathing evened out and she teetered on the edge of sleep.

"Did you put a spell on my heart?" he whispered into the nothingness.

A week later she left the encampment. Armed with only the slender stick he knew to be her wand (an object that could do magical things indeed), he watched her wander out the gates and into unchartered territory. Wrapped in only the blue cloth of nomads, no food, no water, nothing on her but faith and the information that she needed to extract her person of interest now, a few coordinates and that was that.

John watched his friend walk over the dunes, leaving not even foot-prints and hoped (prayed for the first time in ages) that she would make it back.

But for the next weeks he would do nothing but that – in his waking moments whenever he crossed through the flaps of the medical unit, whenever one of his (their) patients asked for her, whenever the women around camp hit on him, whenever Mike looked at him in a questioning way – and especially at night when he would reach into his chest pocket and pull out a lock of hair, carefully sealed in a tissue. It didn't smell of her, but the fact alone that he held something of her made his heart beat faster.

"Blast-ended, bugger-arsed, bug-infested bitch with fungi!"

He was out of his cot before the new arrivals reached his tent –he would have recognized the voice anywhere. A mixture of a smile and trepidation shot across his face, because she was back, but – much like him – she employed nasty language only when in pain.

The flaps opened and in wandered a dishevelled woman, the witch he knew as Hermione Granger, on her back rather than in her arms a half-dead man, covered in grime from head to toe – outside he heard the shooting.

"They got us just now. Tracking spells gave out." She ground – he didn't even ask; he heaved the man on the cot and routinely patched him up. She wouldn't even let him near her until her care was in the green.

And when she sat down, slowly unveiling the barely healed scars she had amassed over the last few weeks, he tutted at her, hit her with something much stronger than a Paracetamol and watched her drift into a fitful sleep, half-naked on her cot.

He wished, only for the split-second of the blink of his eye, he had the lecherous tendencies of his companions then, to simply take what he so direly desired – but then, he would only be half a man if he did, if only in his own eyes.

For some reason he could not find it in himself to abandon her cot that night, instead, like several weeks ago, he slid under the blanket with her, draping her body over his, smiling when she drowsily adjusted to his body beneath hers, breathing in the scent that was all her – no matter how dirty or unwashed she truly was.

Despite the fact that Mike nearly woke her in the middle of the night – and made a photo that was going to be good black-mail because John could not move – the night passed uneventfully otherwise.

Her charge slept restfully through a drug-induced night and didn't wake either of them. John, however, barely slept – he rested his eyes for a few hours but was attuned to every movement of the woman on top of him (too young for him but so sweet).

Morning dawned early and bright, rose and orange chasing away the indigo of the night and still Hermione slept. John pried out of her arms that had wound around his torso in the night (a fact that he still revelled in, still feeling the phantoms of her limbs as if they had touched his naked skin). About to leave her, his eyes fell on the naked skin that peeked out from underneath the blanket and he remembered that she'd taken off her blouse in order for him to treat her wounds – sighing, he took off his shirt (as dirty and unlaundered as it was) and put it next to her pillow.

At least then she wouldn't have to run around half-naked (plus it would be his shirt on her skin…)

With a smile he left the tent, ignorant of the bulging eyes of passer-by's.

"Thank you for the shirt." She said softly, fingering the too large material between her fingers. "I don't think I'll be able to give it back to you anytime soon, though, apparently my belongings suffered during the last sandstorm and nobody knows where they've been buried."

There hadn't been a sandstorm in months (thank the gods) but he knew precisely what she was saying and, therefore, only shrugged, playfully boxing her shoulder. "Fits you better either way." He japed, earning a fist to his own shoulder in return.

"It's way too large." She complained, falling in step with him on their way to the cantina. "And the whole camp thinks we're sleeping with each other."

He almost asked if that bothered her but stopped himself short of it – she could have a nasty temper when provoked, better not stoke it. Still, he couldn't help but catch her curious side-glance, almost wondering and mused on whether or not she would have minded the question.

"I don't…" she didn't know what to say to her superior and instead her eyes drifted to the ground.

"By all means, Granger, we do have facilities for women – please, do not hesitate to use them."

John glared at the few amongst their ranks that snickered; he was fully aware that a part of Hermione did not dare to walk into the showers alone. And since she was forbidden from using magic in front of or on muggles (non-magical people) she couldn't very well cast a protection charm over herself, or blast them to bits.

(That last time had been a matter of life and death and in those situations, he understood, everything was allowed – as per usual.)

It also meant that she was forbidden from using refreshing charms, she'd showed him what they felt like and he had to say that, despite the fact that they didn't even get close to a true shower, they were highly effective.

Such was to say, even to amicable noses Hermione Granger carried quite the scent around her, much as everyone around the camp did to be quite frank. Not even the prissiest female had managed to maintain a level of hygiene that would have them smell of roses and lavender all day, despite the fact that they tried hard and had even put up a special sign for the shower tent.

But a woman without respect or protection was exactly that – no matter where she went.

John decided to put his foot down and, with a little coaxing and promising Mike his stash of chocolate, managed to get the second entrance of the showering tent secured.

Hermione, he remembered, swung herself around his neck in thanks – and promised Mike her stash of coffee. (He thought she'd could have used that bribe for a few more showers, but Mike assured him that whenever they needed him he'd be there.)

She climbed into his cot that night.

He hadn't pushed himself on her (because damnit, she smelled nicer than he did at this moment and he wanted her to revel in it) but she padded over to his cot either way, zipped the mosquito net down and, enlarging the cot, lay down next to him, slowly cuddling closer.

(They both knew that this wasn't exactly ethical but then, it was consenting and not inebriated which was more than he could say for 80% of the rest of such encounters.)

Waking up next to John Watson had something she hadn't known before.

Before him there had only been Luna with her fragile arms and her tiny puffs of breath, but a grip as deadly as an manticore's. She wouldn't let go until she got her good-morning kiss brushed on her forehead and even though Hermione could never tell whether or not the blonde was awake for the ordeal or not, she had gotten used to the routine.

John Watson was different than Luna.

She woke up with her head beneath his chin, his arm protectively wrapped around her while the other one served as a pillow for himself. His leg was wedged between hers, a comfortable reminder that they were barely decently clothed – which she was very thankful for, considering that it meant she got to ogle his chest.

A very fine chest, one that was scarred here and there, most prominently by a shot that she knew he'd earned trying to save her from her 'days in the dunes' as he put it (he was always so very delicate when it came to those few days).

Besides him there hadn't been an awful lot of people willing to take a bullet for her and her hand, unconsciously, reached out, tracing the fleshy lines of it.

It tickled – he realized, blinking owlishly.

Hair obscured his sight, but the tickling sensation – on his left shoulder – would not subside and thinking it a gnat, he tried to shoo it away with his hand, only to find another hand already there.

…the hair made a lot more sense all of a sudden.

Still slightly blurry-eyed, he enclosed the hand in his own, bringing it to his lips. "Morning." He mumbled, delighted by the tiny snort that reached his ears.

"Not a morning person?" she asked and he grumbled again, pulling her form closer to his.

Hermione… he sighed contentedly in her embrace.

There had never been any question as to whether or not she was gay or straight, because to be frank, she enjoyed both. She found pleasure in the hard muscle-plains of a man as well as in the soft contours of a woman's body.

The only thing that, until now, seemed to be consistent with her loves were their blonde hair. Even though John's blonde was a lot dirtier than Luna's was.

Mike, John's best friend around the camp, seemed to get that there was something of an undercurrent between his friend and the female medic and – for some reason – wholeheartedly encouraged it. Which, to Hermione, didn't make sense at all, until she woke up with John's hard-on in her back for the third morning in a row and he moved away.

It was almost embarrassing how long it had taken her to realize that, despite the fact that John was undoubtedly an Alpha Male, he did not want to pressure a woman into sleeping with him.

He admitted to being nervous for some reason, despite the fact that now he already was in the situation and there was, probably, nothing else to do than to go along with it, but that didn't mean that he could feel the sweat dripping down his curt hair (or maybe it was just the water of the shower…)

Hermione, undressed by the looks of it, had crawled into his cot, assumed a rather… languid position and seemed to be reading. He didn't catch the title of the book, but to be somewhat frank he was not interested in it either.

His eyes were busy drinking in the silhouette beneath his woollen blanket, the propped up leg that was uncovered, the silky skin bared to him. Up his eyes went, following the line of the lamp that cut out her form, his blanket covered her torso and, much to his chagrin, her chest, but ended there, giving way to her creamy arms.

He swallowed.

"John?"

Her voice was gentle and, tearing his gaze away from her skin, he forced his eyes to meet hers, curious, soft as she patted the space next to her (he swore his legs moved without his conscious command). "It's okay, love…"

The way she said it blew doubts away and clouded his mind in a much more pleasant haze. He didn't know, in hindsight, if he stormed over to her, but he remembered uncovering her with shaky fingers, finding her bare and lovely and oh so wonderfully pliant beneath him.

He knew that learning the female physique in more than medical aspects would bear fruits some day – he just hadn't pegged it to be with a woman this supple, so young, so soft beneath him, around him.

She stole his breath with her kisses and gave hers to him, and he sustained her with the borrowed air, teetering on unconsciousness every time he entered, every time he left, until her keening must have woken the whole encampment and he dared, gripping her legs so sinfully wrapped around him, to release the pent up energy.

Whether she drained him of it or not he could not tell – all he knew was her, all he ever wanted to know was her.

(He was certain by then that she'd put a spell on him, but he didn't mind, not as long as he got to keep her lock in his chest-pocket.)

She wore his shirts more proudly after that and to Mike they might as well have exchanged wedding rings, because considering all the times he'd had to warn them of nearing passer-by's (and accordingly to him, burn images out of his retinas that wouldn't ever have been there if not for them) they might as well have jumped the broom.

Hermione made sure to leave a special treat in his cot for days like those, Speculoos one day, Jammie Dodgers the other day, Coffee, Moroccan Mint – she was hilariously apt at trading with the friendly Afghani women who had identified her as a witch from the get-go for some reason and would come to her asking for potions and poultices that Hermione would either give them instructions for or brew (not quite legal, she'd told him, but all was fair in love and war).

At night he would lose himself in the softness that was her, learn her body in ways that he hadn't imagined himself to learn another's body and she'd whisper words in Latin that he wouldn't have understood if not for his obligatory Latin Course during his years of studies.

He swore there were words that neither of them dared to utter in the bright light, but he never pressured her to translate them properly to him.

"You know I have to leave sooner or later…" she said softly, brushing her hand through his hair and he knew the reason she told him was because it was going to be sooner rather than later.

He simply nodded, stroking with a rough hand over her curves, desire to memorize her every part evident in his touches.

"Will you be angry at me?"

Opening his eyes, he gave her a look that Mike had dubbed his 'Honest Watson Stare' – if it could have the same impact on Hermione then that would be enough for him. "Not a second." He admitted. "I must say I probably won't be not heartbroken the first two weeks or so – but you came here on a mission and the fact alone that you're lying here speaks more volumes to me than anything you could do might."

"Does it?" she squinted her eyes and he put his finger to her nose, smiling.

"Of course it does, princess. Because despite the fact that you'd never say it out loud a part of you really, really likes me."

And that particular part rejoiced ten-fold when instead of arguing his point, she simply cuddled closer.

The jet-black Mohawk descended nearly soundlessly and if she hadn't woken him up to help her transport the patient he probably would not have gotten the chance to say goodbye.

Now though she stood in front of him, smiling softly, her youthful smile, the one he'd almost thought she'd lost in the dunes but it was there and he was happy that it was – was happy that she went home, away from the terrors in the sands that would reveal themselves in the coming years. He smiled at her as well, curling a finger in her hair and, tugging ever so softly, pressed a kiss to her lips.

It was unhurried, nice and soft and sweet and as much a goodbye as it was a promise and a blessing. She returned it in the same manner and when they parted, the hugest grin was plastered on his face.

Come hell or high water, he would see Hermione Granger again.

There's only one thing to know about this story: it's a fanfiction, any truths omitted or warped by this story (truly) should be covered by this admission.

That said: PLEASE REVIEW - I'd like to know how you liked it =)