Written for Hogwarts' Muggle History Assignment: Task 5 - Hercules Mulligan: Write about a spy.

Also for the Auction Challenge: Pairing: Edgar/Fabian, the Writing Club: Natasha Romanoff: write about a spy.

Word count: 1234

Chapter 1

While Edgar is perfectly aware that Hogwarts is a terrible name for a secret ops center, he's also equally aware that it's actually kind of perfect.

Nobody would ever suspect a place called Hogwarts of being the base of operations of an elite group of spies.

Or at least, that's what Fabian keeps telling him, and believing his husband helps the name feel less stupid.

Still, he can't help an eyeroll when he receives the summon telling him that he's expected back at Hogwarts in two hours for a mission briefing.

Beside him, Fabian groans and tries to bury himself deeper into the bed, and Edgar feels a twinge of pity at the sight, though it's overshadowed by love. Unlike Edgar, who had been back on British soil for a couple of weeks now, Fabian had only returned less than a day ago, and though he's fine, it's also clear his last mission is still affecting him.

Jetlag's a bitch. Edgar would know, suffering from it often enough as well.

"Get up, you lazybones," Edgar says, his gentle smile contradicting his harsh words. When Fabian doesn't reply, he takes to poking Fabian's arm. "Albus' expecting us both at 9 am sharp."

Fabian groans again, but this time he raises his head off his pillow to glare at Edgar. With the fluffy mess of red hair on his head and the blurry look in his eyes, though, it's hard to take that look seriously.

Even when Edgar's seen his husband kill half a dozen people in under two minutes before.

Because he can't resist when Fabian looks like that, Edgar bends down and presses a kiss against his husband lips before pulling back with a soft hum.

Fabian pulls a disgusted face. "Ugh, morning breath."

Edgar chuckles and gets up from the bed properly. "Get up, I'll get the coffee going."

"I love you," Fabian replies fervently.

Edgar is still chuckling as he enters their kitchen — small, but functional, and starts up the coffee machine. He always likes to prepare everything the night before, so he only has to press a couple of buttons and add water in the mornings.

Fabian may be the worst of the two of them, but Edgar isn't exactly a morning person either.

Soon, the strong smell of coffee starts to fill the room, and Edgar feels more and more awake.

He's scrolling down the newsfeed on his phone, half trying to see if what Albus is summoning them for might have something to do with something he'd see there, half keeping an eye on the coffee pot.

A pair of arms snake around his waist and Edgar leans back. Fabian rests his head on his shoulder, and his hair tickles against Edgar's neck, but this is a ritual they're both used to.

He's missed it the past few weeks too. They don't often end up on separate assignments, even though them being married breaks at least a dozen non-fraternization rules, but every time they do, Edgar counts the days until they're reunited.

(In the secrecy of his own mind, unlike Fabian, who likes to complain to everyone about it.

Especially his handler Marlene, which would be fine if not for the fact that Marlene complains to Dorcas, who is Edgar's handler and is always delighted to relay everything his husband says or does.)

"Coffee's ready," Edgar says with a hum, though he doesn't move.

Fabian doesn't move either, just tightens his hold and presses a kiss against his neck. "It'll be too hot anyway. It can wait." He peppers soft kisses down the side of Edgar's neck, but as much as Edgar enjoys this (and he does) and wants nothing more than to arch his neck and let Fabian continue, they do actually have to leave soon.

"We don't have the time for this," Edgar says, voice soft and amused. He twists in Fabian's hold so they're face to face. He smirks as he leans forward, just close enough that their breath mix and their lips graze as he whispers, "But maybe tonight…"

And then he jerks back, freeing himself from Fabian's hold and grabbing the coffee pot and some toast and fruit for the two of them.

Fabian's eyes are still darkened with lust when Edgar passes him his mug. "I'll hold you to that," he replies, and his tone is a promise.

"I'm counting on it," Edgar retorts, feeling the start of a grin pulling at his lips.

Unfortunately, despite this auspicious start to their day, things don't get better from here on out.

They do, in fact, get worse.

.

Albus Dumbledore is an old man, as can attest both his wrinkles and long white beard and hair. He looks harmless, if intelligent — but not the kind of man who could still drop trainee agents in less than thirty seconds at his age, whatever that is.

And yet, Edgar saw him do that very thing not two weeks ago.

So when Albus starts to look grave, the sparkle in his blue eyes dimmed, it means that things are very grave indeed.

He guides them to a meeting room and locks the door behind them. He checks the room twice, gesturing at Edgar and Fabian to help and stay silent as they do so, before he finally deigns to start speaking.

He pulls up a series of pictures on the screens behind him — shots of a man, his face always unrecognizable in all the pictures but one.

The man in that picture is unfamiliar, but the setting, the lighting is.

Edgar feels his blood freeze in his veins, and beside him Fabian goes tense, having no doubt noticed the same thing Edgar has.

"Ah," Albus states, voice tired and old, "I see you aren't some of my best agents for nothing." The smile that he puts on is feeble and trembling, and on any other day Edgar would feel honored at the trust Albus is showing by letting them see this momentary weakness.

But not today.

"Yes," Albus continues to say. "You would be right. This," he points at the picture, "is Tom Marvolo Riddle. One of our — one of my brightest pupils. Disappeared in action fifteen years ago, presumed dead for nearly ten. He has been on our watch list since he resurfaced, but we believe that he now has something planned. Something big, and it's happening soon."

"Let me guess," Fabian drawls, nonchalant in the way he only ever gets on missions, "you don't know what that something is, and you want us to find out."

"Need," Albus corrects, his piercing blue eyes staring first at Fabian, then at Edgar. "Need, not want. We have every reason to believe that whatever Riddle has planned, whatever this 'something' is," he adds, nodding at Fabian, "could very well threaten the entire world.

"So you need to find out what his plans are, and then stop him. By any means necessary."

Edgar can see Fabian starts to grin, an expression he knows is mirrored on his own face as adrenaline starts to fill their systems.

This — hunting down threats, saving the world — this is what they love doing. They look at each other and nod — because even if this is their job, on missions this dangerous Albus only ever sends volunteers — and turn back to Albus.

"So, where do we start?"