Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic belong to 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.

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter. I hope you like it J

Chapter 2: The ephemeral bliss

When the cab pulled in front of 221 the next afternoon, the first thing she noticed was that the windows were open and the curtains nowhere to be seen. She paid the trip and the chauffeur helped her unload all the boxes and suitcases she had done the night before with clothes and whatnot, to at least make her room seem like home, and some spare boxes to store Sherlock's belongings. Later during her visit, the day before, John had unlocked the door of her future bedroom only to excuse himself to the loo, without looking inside or offering for a cleaning, as he had done before. She understood it would probably take some time for John to get used to seeing the door ajar again. The room behind it was eclectic. The furniture was old but well taken care of, so she guessed that it had come with the flat. The decorations, however, seemed to be all the detective's prerogative. The sword hanging on the wall next to the window, the element table with a fairly expensive frame, a judo certificate above the bed: the room had screamed Holmes in every corner. There was something oddly intimate in the sight of his dressing gown carelessly discarded over the armchair at the back, in the faint scent that lingered in the air, even after months of him not being in that space. Later, in her way out, her thoughts had wondered inevitably to John, broken and depressed John; and to Mycroft, that had continued with his life as if the corpse that lied on the pavement was not his own brother.

She approached the door still eyeing her things on the street and knocked. Mrs Hudson opened the door with that everlasting smile on her face and carrying with her the smell of carpet cleaner while calling John for help.

"Good afternoon dear. We were tiding up."

"Good afternoon Mrs Hudson. You shouldn't have."

"Oh, nonsense. I couldn't leave you there with all that dust. John wouldn't leave me before." She saw how the older woman shifted almost imperceptibly "The bedroom is still untidied, though…"

"That's perfectly fine," Said Hermione, taking Mrs Hudson's hand in her right one, seeing John coming down the stairs with a box in his hands, watching carefully his steps "I'll do it myself. Afternoon John"

The man lifted his gaze and cracked a smile. He came closer to the door and eyed to the boxes on the street, where more than half of them had the word "Books" written across the lid, lifting his eyebrows.

"Hi. Is that all? Books?"

"I have clothes too, somewhere."

"I'll leave this and carry them upstairs"

"I can do it, John, there's no need to …"

"It's nothing, so please, let me help" Hermione saw how he left the box in front of a door that she guessed led to another room, probably storage. He stood there for a few seconds, looking at the inside and letting a long sigh, and she was so focused on him that she barely registered Mrs Hudson talking to her.

"Sorry, I got distracted for a moment"

"I was saying, that you take off your coat and start bringing everything in while I make you a cuppa."

"That'd be lovely, thank you"

After clearing the sidewalk and a warm tea with biscuits, Hermione and John started carrying everything upstairs. He took some stacked boxes and made his way up, while she took the largest suitcase and trailed after John. When she entered into the living room, she discovered that the walls were not as dark as she had thought and that all the surfaces in the room were brighter without the thick layer of dust upon them. Gone were the microscope and the largest part of the papers that the night before had been strewn across the floor, the main table and the hideous chairs coming with it were clean and placed, and there was an empty space in those shelves of the bookcase that she presumed, had been filled with Sherlock's belongings. As a final touch, there were some plants complementing with their tones to the wine colour of the painted paper and, to her amusement, the skull, the bullet holes, and the yellow smiley face were still there, making her smile her smile.

"I've emptied the table in the living room, just in case you need it," Said John leaving a box in said table.

"That's so thoughtful of you John. Thank you" She started taking books out of the boxes and stacked them in different piles depending on how often she would be using them. The box with her magic books, however, was tucked inside the beaded bag in her room, safely stored in one of her drawers. Being her reading the spine of the books and occasionally opening them by the index, she wasn't paying attention to John, who was standing awkwardly next to his armchair, looking at her. She heard how he cleared his throat and lifted her gaze, finding him taking off invisible fluffs from the fabric.

"I looked you up online last night"

She let go a laugh. She left the book she had in her hand in the pile for storage in the living room, and took another one, only to drop it in another pile "And what did you find? Nothing too embarrassing I hope."

"'Magic and Myths during the Norman England' came often."

"Oh, that. It is a boring thesis I did some years ago, for a specialised publishing company. There are way better public friendly history books out there."

"I also saw 'Runic influence in modern language: Futhorc as case example'. Five stars in good reads."

"I am quite proud of that one."

"So you are what? A historian?"

"Yeah… I studied linguistics at uni, then I did some research in history."

"Sounds interesting."

Hermione, that was browsing through the index of the last book, only hummed in response, and heard the heels of John's shoes against the wooden floor while he went down for the last suitcases. She had to remember to thank Anthea for the help, the IT people really had outdone them this time. When she proposed 'freelance writer' as a job option, the main problem was finding titles John would not be interested in. Apparently, history had been a good choice.

Well into the evening, and with the kitchen, bathroom and living room sorted out, John announced that he would be going to the shops to buy some dinner for both, and Hermione knew that at least half of the motivation behind the offering was that she might be needing to start moving things to the bedroom. Wanting to spare John from unnecessary pain, she moved all the boxes as quickly as she could inside the room and closed behind her. And there she stood, for a good fifteen minutes, because even if she had faced threats and situations of all kinds, cleaning the belongings of a dead man proved to be something entirely different. She didn't know where to start. She emptied one of her own suitcases untidily on the bed, and left it open on the floor, in the middle of the room, and started with the expensive suits hanging in the wardrobe, to continue with the chest of drawers near the bed, emptying them: from t-shirts that appeared to be unworn (some of them with the price tag on. Sherlock was such a posh.) to perfectly folded ties, handkerchiefs, socks. It was in the last one where her hand found a small space between the end of the drawer and what was supposed to be the bottom. She took it out and sat on the floor, taking a letter opener in her hand and inserting it in the crack, lifting the wooden layer. She had never met Sherlock, but she knew Mycroft and she had read John's blog, so she had created this picture of a reserved, hyper-rational man, that prided himself in the safety of unattachment. And yet, there, in a false bottom in his underwear drawer, were a bunch of photos, barely twenty of them, some old, some fairly new, perfectly dated and conserved. She scrambled through her boxes, looking for the stationery leftovers she was sure she had brought, took everything out from an antique flowery green folder and placed the photos inside, carefully. John's voice from the kitchen startled her, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest, as she would have been doing something forbidden just by seeing those photos that so evidently Sherlock wanted to keep secret. She opened the drawer again and left the folder there, safe. It was not in her to betray someone's wishes, even after death.

John and Hermione settled into an easy routine in the dying days of January. Hermione, having been cleared from all kinds of immediate duty with the MI-7 until further notice by Mycroft, spent her days reading and writing about whatever she found interesting, and her nights documenting John's day and his progress. Although he appeared to be relaxed in her presence, she could see his body language change every time that she did something in a Sherlock-like way. The first time, the same night she moved in, knackered from a moving day, she had let herself drowned in the inviting black leather sofa in front of the fire, grasping a book in her hands. She had closed her eyes, resting her head in the back of the armchair, but was forced to open them again when she heard a deep intake of breath. In front of her, with eyes slightly brilliant, was John. She had smiled at him and stand up immediately, wishing him a good night only to disappear into her room and spend a sleepless night looking at her surroundings, suddenly feeling as in intruder. And although the next morning, a weary-eyed John had told her that he was sorry for making her feel uncomfortable and that this was her house as much as his, she had refrained from sitting in the leather chair again.

From that moment on, they had been trying to work around each other. John, because he had too many memories in that flat with someone totally different. Hermione, because was trying to avoid anything that could mean John wanted her out. So he would try not to flinch every time she saw her at the kitchen table in the same spot the microscope used to be, and she'd try not to leave the door of her room open.

She had been enjoying one of the perks of Baker Street, jogging in Regent´s Park, when she got the first call from Sirius in what looked like ages. She came to a halt near the lake, breathless, and pressed the button of her headphones for answering.

"Who is this?"

"Hello to you too darling"

"I am not the one that has gone missing for weeks without a call, daddy dear"

"'The lady doth protest too much, methinks'. And you are spending way too much time with Mycroft"

"Not at all. He is in some kind of 'rule the world' summit or something of sorts. What about you?"

"Do you really want to know who am I spending my time with?"

"Gross" She came near the exit of the park, in front of Clarence terrace. She could not help but smile when she heard the man's laugh at the other end of the line. She took Baker Street only to see John getting in number 221.

"Anyway, are you free tomorrow night? I want to invite my favourite girl to a nice, ridiculously expensive dinner. And then you can tell me everything about this John Watson you are taking care of"

"It is not that! It's field work. Surveillance. And yes, tomorrow sounds great."

"Perfect. I have to go, love. I am supposed to meet with Kingsley for some stupid paperwork"

"It's everything alright?"

"Don't worry about it, Hermione. I'll see you tomorrow. Love you"

"Love you too"

That same afternoon, her plans for a nice bath and a tea went downhill when John informed her that, calling through her phone in the countertop, was someone called 'Mike'. She had gone with her dressing gown and her hair in a towel to the kitchen and had started the kettle before picking up, smirking.

"Hello there Mike. Long time, how is everything?"

"Can't you go elsewhere? I despise that name" Mycroft's voice sounded tired and bothered. Exactly the kind of Mycroft she liked when she was bored, and how she loved to hear him squirm. She poured the hot water into two cups, holding her laugh.

"I am so glad. I was just making some tea for John and me"

"For the love of God, Hermione"

"I told you about John, didn't I? The doctor and my new flatmate?" She handed John his cup of tea, that he took. She could almost see the exasperated look, the fingers over closed eyes. She took the terminal away from her ear.

"I am going to talk in my room so you can continue your reading, John"

"It's fine if you want to stay"

"Worry not. See you later." She spoke to the speaker while walking to her room, and locking the door. "You were saying, Mike?"

"Could you behave like a grown-up?"

"You are no fun, Mike," she said with special emphasis in his name. The sigh on the other side told her that Mycroft was most likely rolling his eyes and that particular way he had of doing everything: overdramatic, and she let go a giggle.

"Oh come one. This is the most exciting thing I've done in two weeks"

"I take that everything is quiet then."

"I am bored. How was the trip?"

"Deliciously uneventful. Anything to report?"

"Not much. I was going to drop by yours."

"No need. I've heard you are having dinner with Sirius tomorrow" His voice was casual, but there was some heaviness in it, the tone he always used to speak about business.

"True. How do you know that? I barely spoke with him this morning."

"I'll be joining you if it is not inconvenient. There are a couple of things we need to discuss." She frowned at that and she could feel herself tensing up. Normally, Sirius and Mycroft in the same room meant nothing good.

"Is it...delicate?"

"In the extreme. But is in the difficulties that we strive dear"

"That doesn't answer me"

"Anyhow, in other order of things," She closed her eyes and let a sigh. In moments like this is when she wanted to punch him for being so him "Anthea informed me of John's precarious financial status."

"Oh. I thought you were at it. That's what you said"

"We are. I'll have news for you in the dinner. See you tomorrow"

And with that, with hundreds of questions running through her head, she knew that the next twenty-four hours were bound to be very long.

The next night she put on some classic jeans with a burgundy cashmere jumper and black heels. She was finishing her makeup when John arrived home from the grocery store. He left the bags on the table and looked to the open bathroom door.

"You look fantastic."

Hermione looked at him in the mirror and gave him a smile.

"Thank you, John. I am going to have dinner with my father and he has this stupid habit of taking me to the weirdest places where I am either overdressed or underdressed, so I thought this was a good middle ground." She took a black scrunchie from the first drawer and went to her room to retrieve her trench coat and handbag, twisting her hair in a messy bun. "I won't be late though, and I promise not to wake you up."

"No worries, it is not like if I slept that much to begging with."

She arrived at the kitchen and stood next to him. When she was so close, she could see the tiredness in his features, and the pain and sadness behind his eyes. In days like this, she understood Sherlock a bit better: there were very few things in this world that you hated more than a vulnerable John Watson. She took the oats from one of the bags and stored in the cabinet above her head.

"I could lend you one of my books. The treatise about medieval languages was our go-to sleeping pill at uni"

He chuckled slightly, while moving around storing the groceries, and only the sound made her heart flip. She wished him good night and while she hailed a cab, she thought that maybe things were really going to be alright.

The cab left her in front of the Zuma restaurant. She descended and approached the maître, asking for the private room booked under "Black". He gestured her towards a narrow hallway to her left and she walked the few meter until she was facing a metal door. Opening it, she came to find probably the two most important men in her life, waiting for her, each one nursing a glass. Sirius got up in all his height when he saw her, and in a split of a second was hugging her, stretching her against his body. She felt the familiar aroma that she had learnt to love in all those years and kissed him on the cheek.

"I swear you look more and more beautiful every time I see you."

"You are just fishing for compliments. But I'll indulge you: you look very handsome as well." She moved to Mycroft, still sat in the chair and kissed his cheek, something she only dared when alone "I am glad to see you are alive and well."

"I am glad to see that your sense of style has remained intact after living with Dr Watson."

She went to the other side of the table while taking off her coat and ordering wine. She sat down and smiled at them, while the waiter poured Mycroft's white choice in a stemmed glass.

"For your information, John is the perfect gentleman. And Mrs Hudson is lovely. She always has a cup of tea warm for me in the afternoons. So…" She pushed the sleeves of his jumper up, and looked at the older men "How are we going to do this?"

The reaction in her interlocutors was almost immediate. Sirius stood straight in his chair, while Mycroft left his glass on the table and went to his business stance, but still reclined in his chair, legs crossed.

"As you might remember, I told you about a certain invitation that arrived at my office."

"Yes, and I told you that it wasn't happening. Is that really why I am here?" She turned to Sirius

"Actually, the situation has suffered a turn of events"

"Before we tell you this, Hermione…" Sirius took her hand over the table, prompting her to take her gaze out of Mycroft to focus it on the him "…I need you to know, we have tried to avoid it."

Hermione felt a shiver running down her spine. She saw, confused, the look the men shared before Mycroft took out of his suitcase a black folder and pushed it towards her. In the lid of the folder, in red printed letters, was her real name, Granger, and the "top secret" label.

"Things there haven't been going well in the magic world. Even after all these years the politics haven't changed as drastically as we might have thought after the war"

"Figures."

"The problem is; the people are becoming restless. Neither of the respondents in the Government thought about the consequences of some rash decisions they made, now there are some parts of the society which are afraid of being under a corrupt Government. Their image is completely damaged, but yours… You are The Hermione Granger, the brains of the golden trio, the muggle-born that risked her life. You leaving, has practically given them the ammunition to criticize the Ministry. So they thought that if you were to come back and if you showed your support, it might give them a bit of time."

"Why would I want to come back?"

"I told them you wouldn't"

"So?"

"They do have learned a couple of things along the way, as it seems." Mycroft opened the folder and there was a magical photo of her. It was blurry as if had been taken out of a security footage, but it was clear that the person in the image was her. "They have evidence that you have revealed to a muggle about your condition. Not only that, they are also pushing aggression charges"

She felt all her blood leaving her face, and Sirius put in her hand his own whiskey, that she drowned without too much thinking. Dismissing the waiter that had come for them to order the food with a gesture, Mycroft pointed to a part of the report she was holding.

"In one of your missions, a couple of months back, you were cleared to use magic. As the typical protocol, you also had to erase the memory of the ones you found along your way as always. And in a very unlike you fashion, you forgot one." She almost recoiled in her seat to his tone, reproachful and full of disdain. With unsteady hands, she turned the page to come face to face with a mug shot of a teenager "Luca Ricci. He was the closest to the explosion, he barely had pulse when you found him and you did a rookie mistake and thought that he was dead"

"Mycroft" Interjected Sirius, who then stood beside Hermione with a protective hand on her shoulder

"Sirius, I know it, she knows it. She is not stupid; she knows when she has made a mistake." Mycroft punctuated his statement with a strong coup with his umbrella in the floor. He came forward and looked directly into Sirius' eyes, only to shift them to Hermione, that felt tiny and embarrassed under his gaze. "The problem is not that he was left alive, the problem is that he saw her. All that it took was the gibberish of a dying man to the carabinieri talking about a woman with English accent for the Interpol engines to move. We found the CCTV footage but not even me could avoid the Aurors to get the images. So as it stands, the alternative to going to the ball is a trip to Azkaban"

He grasped his tumbler and took a long sip of it. Meanwhile, Hermione turned herself to Sirius, who looked down at her and gave her a reassuring smile. Her brain, filled with regret, soon started to process Mycroft´s words. Someone that knew her, probably one of her former friends that knew she would not come back by her own accord, had tried to force her hand. With Azkaban no less. The magic twirling in her veins became restless, and her anger started to burn in her fingertips, hoping for a release. She took Sirius' hand out of her, and stood up to pace around the room, furious.

"I cannot believe they are blackmailing me. Whose idea was this?"

"It was Malfoy's, but Kingsley backed it up immediately. He called me yesterday for my opinion. He made a beautiful speech of how 'Hermione would be like the balsam that would heal the wounds of the society, even if she doesn´t know it yet'. I told him that I couldn't believe he had stooped so low"

"Politicians do it all the time, Mr Black. Only this time it has been directed to us"

"Joke is on them. Now they have a new enemy. No one messes up with my girl."

"Agreed"

Hermione, that was still pacing, suddenly felt a rush of gratitude for them. She came to Sirius and let him embrace her, whispering in her ear that everything was going to be fine. She separated from him and went to Mycroft, that was eying her. She came to her chair in from of him and looked at him.

"Your mistake could have cost us one of our better agents. I expect more from you in the future"

"I know. It won't happen again"

He gave a nod and pressed a button on the table to call the waiter, who brought with him several dishes of food. And even if they have assured her that nothing would happen to her, she had her doubts. Her hyperactive mind was already imagining different outcomes and positions where she might be "invited" to participate, and not even the fact that Mycroft had given her the address and time for an interview for John had lifted her spirits. If they have gone to these lengths only for having her in a ball, Merlin knows what they would do if they needed something else from her. And suddenly, she was not hungry anymore.

Hi everyone. I know it has been a long time, but I've been looking for a meta (without luck). This has been very difficult to write because even if I've seen Sherlock several times, I can't yet get John's character in a way that is realistic. I was hoping to get a beta before publishing this, so I could give you something worth reading, but as things are, this the best I could do after weeks of re-reading and editing. So I hope you like it. If you think that something could be better, suggestions, rotten tomatoes, anything, review or PM me, I am always happy to answer and make this story better.

In case someone is interested in being my beta for this story, just drop me a PM.

Beth