Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

This is a WIP, all comments and opinions are welcome. It will be updated as regularly as possible and will cover as canon as possible from after Sherlock's death, covering the months we did not see, until HLV.

Note 14/12/2018: Edited, unbeta'd

Chapter 1: The Fake Flatmate

The stench of old pipes was still in her nostrils when she emerged from the underground. Hermione adjusted her scarf tighter around her neck. Cold and commuting, the only two things she missed from apparating. She took Marylebone road towards Baker Street, her mind on her prospective flatmate, John Watson. John had been part of London's pop culture while he wrote about his partner's - and according to some, lover - Sherlock Holmes. After Sherlock's suicide, the tabloids had focused on his life and lies, and eventually, forgot about John.

She stopped close to the end of the street and looked across the road, to number 221. The advertisement was an old-fashioned one, on paper. It might have gone unnoticed in these times of apps and websites, but she had known where to look.

It was her job.

Their first conversation, the day before, had gone smoothly. A ten minutes phone call, with the usual questions and answers to arrange a viewing. It had been pleasant and easy enough although she could hear in his voice the surprise of receiving the call. Today she had to tread carefully. She had too much information for someone that only knew John Watson as a blog writer.

Hermione looked to her right and crossed the road. In front of the chromed numbers of 221, she rearranged her clothes and her hair. She needed to make a good first impression, everything depended on her walking out with a signed lease contract. With a glance at her watch, she saw it was five minutes away from the agreed time and climbed the two steps. She barely got hold of the knocker when the door opened revealing a petite woman with a kind smile on her face.

"Oh dear, you are Hermione right? You are here to see the room, John told me you'd come today."

"Yes, Madam. That's me."

"Oh, but get inside darling, this wind will get to your bones if you stand up there any longer."

The woman gripped Hermione by the arm and gently but firmly guided her to the back of the house, complaining about the weather and how it made her hips worse. Hermione took off her coat while the old lady got the purple teapot from the stove and put it next to a sugar bowl and two cups on the table.

"… Luckily for me, John is a doctor. Tea?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs…"

"Oh, how rude of me. I am Mrs Hudson, the landlady. I told John to put the add somewhere, I am hopeless with these things. So nice to meet you."

"I am Hermione, Hermione Black. A pleasure to meet you." Hermione took the cup Mrs Hudson was offering with a smile and took a sip, letting the beverage warm her body. She then turned to the empty door and hall. "Do you know when Doctor Watson will be here, Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh, he is upstairs. He is just, you know…" She lowered her voice. "After Sherlock and everything... He rarely goes out except for his meetings with his therapist and grocery shopping. He doesn't even have a job."

"I heard about it. Well, it was everywhere, it must've been awful." She drank from her cup glimpsing Mrs Hudson, whose eyes had gone glassy at the mention of the deceased detective. "Especially given their relationship."

"Oh, they never admitted it. I told them thousands of times I didn't care. Men."

Hermione chuckled. From what she had read on John's blog, and despite his problems in finding women he liked; he was a healthy, convinced heterosexual. He had a weird fascination with Sherlock, but there were no signs it went further than just admiration. Sherlock? Not enough data points to draw a conclusion. The noise of footsteps coming from the staircase interrupted her thoughts. Seconds after a man entered the kitchen and stood next to the doorway. His hands clenched hanging by his sides and imperceptibly shifting on his feet.

So this is Dr John H. Watson.

He was clean shaven and the shirt and trousers he was wearing were of good quality, but full of creases. He had tried his best, but months of voluntary confinement were difficult to miss. Hermione had seen the John of six months ago in articles and photos she had found during her research. The man she had seen in those, while not typically handsome, had been attractive. She could see how his military acquired posture was alluring for women, intriguing even. Fairer strands were starting to decorate his dirty blonde hair around the temples, adding to the appeal. But the person before her was a mere shadow. He was far too thin, the clothes baggy around him. His eyes too sad, the mark under them of a deep purple contrasting with the pale of his skin. Hermione drew her gaze discretely away from his form to his face.

"Hi, sorry, it's ridiculous I'm late in my own house." He walked the few steps that separated him from Hermione and offered her his hand. Hermione took it, with a firm but cordial handshake. "John Watson."

Hermione smiled at him, dismissive. "Hermione Black, pleasure to meet you at last."

"Same here." He made a small gesture with his hands in the general direction of the hall. "Shall we?"

Hermione nodded and got up while Mrs Hudson offered to get them some tea. John thanks the woman and gestured for Hermione to follow him across the small hall and up the stairs.

"Mrs Hudson seems a lovely person."

"She is. A force of nature." He reached the small landing and opened one of the doors. "Here, please come in."

The room she entered to was cramped and cluttered. Papers, laptops and books stacked in precarious equilibrium were strewn around. A thick layer of dust covered every surface but the brown armchair: John had touched nothing else in a very long time.

Hermione went pass John and strolled around the living room, inspecting the wall and the shelves, while her hand roamed every surface she could reach without bending. While her fingers touched the leather material of the couch on her right, she heard John's nervous babble.

"This is the common area. I swear it is bigger than it looks. I haven't got around cleaning it yet..."

She was half-listening, as a broad, yellow smile on the wall had caught her attention. At first, it looked like some sort of modern art. After a closer look, she saw the small cavities around the paint.

"Are those bullet holes?" Hermione turned her head to John, apparently lost in his own thoughts, startling him.

"Em, yes, they are." John cleared his throat. "I suppose you know who used to live here."

"I do, Doctor. I read your blog." He looked surprised at her, and Hermione realised how tactless she might have sounded. "I promise I'm not a crazy fan-girl and that I'm not stalking you. Really. I just want a place to live."

He stared at her, blankly. She could almost hear how the wheels in his head were working to answer her. Hermione was holding her breath. She may had ruined her chances.

"You are an improvement then."

Hermione saw him giving her a small grin and felt herself returning it. She could still see the pain in his eyes, but his demeanour was calmer. I might stay after all. John motioned her to accompany him to the next room. "Here we have the kitchen…" John explained. He extended his hand to the back of the room. "And there's the bathroom and what would be… your… bedroom."

Hermione looked at the kitchen without actual interest. She never cooked. She only needed a few things to survive: a kettle, a microwave, a fridge, and menus of nearby restaurants. She left John where he was and wandered through the space, looking at the dusty microscope on the table.

"I don't really cook, so the kitchen is pretty much unused. It's equipped with the usual."

"Is a microscope a kitchen appliance?" She muttered, looking through the lens and turning the right wheel. She heard a noise and raised her head to John. The look on his face made her let go of the microscope and took a step back. John cleared his throat as if he were trying to keep the tears at bay and sighed.

"It was Sherlock's. The kitchen table was... his lab." His hand touched an empty Petri dish, longingly.

"Look, if you are not sure about this, I can just leave. No hurt feelings."

The man shook his head, with slightly bright eyes she guessed he did not want her to see.

"It seems a lifetime away, but he's been gone for just six months. And…" His voice broke. She saw him inhaling deeply and blinking. He bowed his head even further down while his left hand went to his eyes to bat some treacherous tears away. "I am sorry, Miss Black."

"No, please, Hermione." She went around the table and squeezed his arm lightly, as a comforting gesture.

He gave her a tiny smile, and she turned her back to him, giving him some space to gather himself. How could she explain to him how much she understood him, how much she had lost? That her nights were plagued with nightmares that never ceased. Or that the names of those she left behind were branded in her heart as much as 'mudblood' was in her skin. Now it was her turn to open her eyes to dry their corners, from where fresh tears were about to spill, and she opened the fridge only to close it again. A foul odour had come from inside, and she had to repress her nausea.

"Why does the fridge smell like if there were dead animals inside?"

"Probably there were at some point. I hadn't notice."

"How can you not? It smells awful!"

"Well, that fridge has seen heads, thumbs, livers..." His voice died. "Having second thoughts?"

"Well, bullet holes, lab kit instead of a bouquet, and a fridge with a dead animal and-slash-or human parts." She smiled at him. "I must be crazy, but I am in."

"Don't you want to see the rest?"

"Do you have corpses in any of the other rooms?"

"I haven't checked." John gave the first real smile since she knew him.

"I'll try my luck."

"Ooh-ooh!"

Mrs Hudson appeared with a tray full of butter biscuits, tea, and cups.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson. I think you have a new tenant."

The woman left the tray on the coffee table, and her hands found head other in a gesture that could only be defined as delighted.

"That's lovely dear. It would be so nice to see a woman's touch around here. But we might need to clean; John wouldn't let me touch a thing."

"I thought you weren't our housekeeper."

"Nonsense John. Pour her a nice cuppa while I go to fetch the key of the other flat to store all of this"

The old woman darted out of the room while John served the tea.

"No milk for me Doctor."

"Just John. Now we're flatmates, Hermione."

The trip back to her old apartment was as dreadful as it could be for someone that hated small, closed, underground spaces. She gripped the overhead bar in the overcrowded car while revisiting her afternoon at Baker street. She was curious about the carelessness of her new flatmate. The conversation over tea had covered politics, gossip about the royals, the roadworks that were causing havoc in the traffic and the new policies on immigration. However, neither of them had asked about her job. She knew that at some point, Mrs Hudson had wanted to ask about her financial situation, but she guessed that seeing John relaxed, she had let it slip. The mechanical tube voice announced her stop, and she got out of the car and the station immersed in her thoughts. So much, she did not notice the black car parked in front of her address. Hermione dialled the number of the Chinese place two streets down and ordered her usual Kung pao chicken and spring rolls while climbing the flight of stairs to her flat. She hung up and reached for her keys when she saw her door ajar.

She pocketed her phone and grabbed her wand from its holster. Pushing the door quietly, she entered the room wand first with her back against the wood and turned to the living room. In silence, Hermione advanced until she saw a familiar umbrella resting against one of her cabinets. She groaned lowering her wand and turned on the lights.

"I could have killed you, you know. You have to stop trespassing other people's homes. Your power complex is just ridiculous sometimes, Mycroft."

She slammed the door and left her wand next to her gun on the chest next to it. She went to the pantry and took two glasses and a bottle of red wine and filled them. The man on the armchair was wearing an impeccable three-piece suit and a sardonic smile matching. The chain of his old-fashioned pocket watch glinted under the light when he checked the time.

"I wouldn't be me if I didn't."

"True. You've always been a drama queen."

She handed him one of the glasses and sat on the couch facing him. Mycroft smiled slightly before raising his glass in a silent toast and took a sip. She imitated him, waiting for him to talk, as usual. It was a soft way to establish the hierarchy in their relationship: he speaks; she listens.

"How was the meeting?"

"As planned. You should have seen him, Mycroft. John is a mess, and the flat is as Sherlock left it."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Sighing, he stared at the movements of the wine when he twirled the glass. "I never thought my brother would leave such a lasting impression."

Hermione did not answer. Despite having worked for Mycroft for years, she knew little about the younger Holmes. She knew about their strained relationship, but Mycroft had always been fiery protective of his privacy, and his brother's. Despite that, it was no secret the lengths he had gone to protect him. That's why Sherlock's death and Mycroft's stoically even in her presence had always bothered her. But she owed Mycroft too much as to doubt his grief and coping mechanisms.

"I wonder, how someone like my brother was able to overlook the so obvious defects of good, old doctor. Sherlock was never fond of people, I never imagined he would choose someone so..." His tone, condescending, made her clench her jaw.

"Ordinary?" Mycroft looked at her. "Well, maybe it was time that one of the Holmes brothers did it."

"Touché." He raised his wine in a mock toast and drowned the rest of it.

"He could've asked you the same thing. The great Mycroft burdened himself with someone belonging to the fairer sex."

"Oh please, Hermione, don't you compare yourself with John Watson."

"A compliment? I am flattered. "

He poured himself another glass while she eyed at him over the rim of hers, studying him. She had become colder and impassive with the years, but she would never reach Mycroft's disregard for feelings, in general. However, when it came to Sherlock, sometimes she could see through his facade. Sending her, an MI-7 field agent to watch over John, was one of them.

"What do you want me to do next, Mycroft?"

He left the glass on the table and massaged his temple with middle and index finger of both hands, closing his eyes, as if having all of Great Britain's secrets in his head was actually physical pain. Hermione left her glass only to round the table and position herself at the back of the armchair. Her small hands found Mycroft's shoulders and massaged the tense notches in the muscles there, feeling the man relax under her pressure.

"Monitor him. Make sure he moves on."

"You care about John Watson now?"

He huffed, incredulous. "Even if I've tried to get rid of banalities such as sentiment, human nature is still my nature, and Sherlock was still my brother. He would never forgive me if something were to happen to John."

She gave him a friendly last squeeze and steadied her hands, and she he could see that he had closed his eyes. With the dim light, she could distinguish the lines on his forehead and around the eyes. He looked much older than he was, and she could not help feel bad for him. Even if he had chosen this power-driven life, he looked more and more drained with each passing day. The part of her that looked up to this man as the good person she knew he was, ached for him. Especially now he had lost the person he had cared about the most in the world.

"Do you want to stay the night? My spare bedroom is available."

He smiled and opened his eyes. He touched one of Hermione's hand in his shoulders still, before rising from his seat.

"Although tantalising, I am afraid I have to decline. Important business tomorrow, outside in the mainland. I'll stay there for a week or two. Can I count on you to give me a full report when I am back?"

"Sure. Shall I record John's bowel movements?" She smiled, but she let him know with an arched brow that she was serious. "I won't disappoint you."

"I know. You are the best agent I have."

He went to the front door, gathering his coat from the arm of the couch and his umbrella.

"You realise which day is in a couple of months, don't you?"

Hermione tensed. "Regrettably, yes. I do."

"They have asked for confirmation, again."

"And you've said no, like every year, right?"

"This time is different. I know Sirius is going."

"I don't see how would that affect me."

She had never gone to the second of May celebrations, so she saw no need to change that. Sirius had never attended either, but for some reason, he had been required to this year. And she understood, him being the liaison between the MI-7, MI-6 and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and still a very much active wizard in the community. Hermione, on the other hand, had lived a perfectly comfortable existence in the most muggle-like way. Magic was something to be used during missions, and even there, she liked to relay in muggle equipment.

"I told Sirius. I am not going, no matter what he does. That's his choice, not mine."

"We'll talk about it once I am back." he said taking a look to his pocket watch. "I am utterly irritated of that Minister of yours, pestering about you not going every single year."

"I thought he might have grasped the message after the first five non-answered invitations."

Mycroft looked at her and then smiled. He opened the door, and before disappearing, he promised he would to get her a safeguard. With that, Hermione was left alone with many thoughts and a half-full bottle of wine. She dropped herself on the couch and had another glass of wine while waiting for the dinner. She hated these first months of the year, only because they led to May, and May meant dealing with the stupid invitations to the Commemoration Ball. A cynical laugh escaped her lips. Fancy to remember the dead once a year with a spectacular feast while all they had fought for was not even close to becoming true.

Hermione sipped on her wine while she thought about her nineteen-year-old self. Would she be as astonished about her as she was about that naïve schoolgirl that thought she knew everything? Memories of resentment, hate, love and pain came flooding, as every time she remembered the post-war days. How her perfectly crafted world had crumbled around her when the world gave her a taste of reality. How her ideal future had dissolved as a bath bomb in water. Disappointment after disappointment, Hermione Granger, the war heroine, the brains behind the Chosen-One, started to withdraw until one day she disappeared into thin air.

She took her phone and scrolled down her contact list until she reached the 'S'.

'Hi, there! This is the personal number of the best thing that could happen to London's nightlife, Sirius Black. I probably won't hear this message, so keep calling. Cheers.'

Of course, he would not answer. Hermione let a sigh before speaking.

"Hi, it's me. Um..." The exhaustion of the day weighed on her, and the hand that was not occupied with the phone went to her eyes, blinding her momentary and letting her sight rest. "I was wondering if you were free to have dinner one of these days? I haven't seen you in a while, and… Well, give me a ring. Okay. Bye"

Hanging the call, Hermione dropped the phone to the couch, and let her head slid to the back of her seat, closing her eyes. The doorbell rang, and she got up to take the warm food from the delivery man. With the plastic fork, she ate directly from the box. While she chewed the perfectly cooked chicken, she realised that she needed to compartmentalise, she could not let the situation get to her. The most important thing now was to appear as ordinary as John thought she was and made sure she completed this mission. May was still a few months away, and as soon as the second was done, they would leave her alone until the following year. The only thing she felt guilty for, was Sirius. He had been shielding her from everyone since she left, at the expense of lying to Harry. He had taken care of her and helped her as a father would do. He had been the one to introduce her to Mycroft, hired her for the MI-7 and kept everything related to the war in the past. He had even worked out a protection scheme for her, so the MInistry could only contact her through him and Mycroft.

Everything had worked perfectly, but apparently, the deal had an expiration date.