Disclaimer: Yep, not mine. Like always. Enjoy anyway.

I'm laying here again, his arm draped around me. I've no idea what time it is. I wonder when the last time was I slept in my own bed. I realize I can't quite remember.

Was it sometime last week? Two weeks ago? Last month?

How long have I been involved with him?

I should go.

He shifts sleepily, holding me tighter. I feel a rush of sudden affection for him from somewhere. I smile a little half smile and hold him tighter as well.

I see him smile almost sweetly in his sleep, and the world fades out.

I'm pretty sure, as I wake up this morning, that I hadn't planned on staying last night. I even remember thinking, as I fell asleep, that I was going to be better tonight... well, last night. I was going to get up out of the bed. I was going to my own flat.

He brings out this part of me I wasn't completely sure I had. He doesn't do it on purpose, mind you. He just does.

"So what kinds of items do you procure exactly?"

I think I've asked so quietly that he won't possibly hear me, but he stirs and pulls me a little closer. "First you have to tell me if you really want to know," he mumbles sleepily.

I sigh.

Even as the sense of dread falls into my stomach, that ever-present peace I seem to feel with him joins right along with it.

"I'll have to know sooner or later, right?"

He shrugs, pulling himself a bit upright. "As you wish," he says, pulling me up with him and wrapping his arms around me.

I sigh into him, forgetting for only a split second the topic of our conversation.

A second later, I realize what I've done and prompt him to continue.

"Well," he says slowly, "like I said, it's not precisely illegal."

"How so."

"Well it's not like we're handing off horcruxes for the Dark Lord or anything." He says it with such a lack of emotion I shiver a little.

"You cold?" he asks softly.

"No, I'm fine," I mumble. "Continue."

"Essentially," he says, "We deal in heirlooms. Expensive, incredibly rare, heirlooms for those who are willing to pay considerably for their procurement."

"I see..." I say slowly.

"Now, the heirlooms themselves are clearly above bar, nothing illegal to speak of. The enchantments and charms on them, however, well... there's the grey area."

I wait for him to continue.

"And then, of course, there's the sticky matter of people getting in the way. Muggles, wizards, whoever believes they have the rights to the heirloom in question. They, of course, have to be dealt with accordingly."

I feel as though I should probably rinse out my ears. Or get my hearing checked. He can't possibly have said that.

"I try not to kill anyone, though," he says quickly. "And haven't had cause to, for a long while."

I'm fairly certain I'm unable to speak.

"For the most part, it's a simple memory modification, at the most a well-placed Crucio for effect." As I stiffen just a bit more, he adds, "But like I said, I do my best not to harm whenever possible."

I mutter another noise that feels slightly strangled in my throat.

A moment of utterly strange and almost incomprehensible silence passes.

He starts making small, delicate circles on my shoulders, in an exact spot that's been sore for a few days.

Against my better judgment, I relax into him just a little bit. Just enough to let him know it's working.

He continues massaging it slowly, then a little deeper, making me melt just a little more.

It's not long before I've forgotten all about questionable item procurement in the comfort of his arms.

This has never happened before. I'm cursing myself, virtually flying through corridors, quickening my pace all the more to make it to my desk.

"Granger," I hear from behind me just as my desk is within sight.

Slowly, wordlessly, I turn.

"You okay?" It's my boss, a balding and sweet-looking wizard with fading brown hair.

I straighten immediately. "Yes, Mr. Easton," I reply quickly. "Just running a little behind this morning."

"All right," he responds, giving me a small smile. "Just don't make a habit of it, hmm?"

"Of course not," I reply very confidently. "Won't happen again."

He nods, turning away.

I slow my pace, groaning again at myself.

I've no idea what happened this morning. I knew what time it was. I was perfectly and completely in control of what time it was and how long I had to arrive here. And then, suddenly, it was just past time.

It was those lips, and those hands, and... I shake my head to bring myself back to the present.

All the wizarding tricks in the world don't make you on time when you're late before you use them.

I suppose that's a lesson learned.

I'm on site today with a teenage witch whose parents are out of town.

When I read that on the paperwork, with all the little hearts over the i's and the curly cues everywhere in the writing, I almost burst out laughing immediately.

She's a tall, thin girl who might well be a model and I presume also must go to Hogwarts during the school year. She has dark brown hair that's short and straight and dark, almost piercing eyes. She wears a lot of make-up and very tight clothes.

This girl and I would not have been the closest of friends.

"Missy Parkinson," she says, extending a hand to me, bent perfectly at the wrist.

I take the offered hand, giving her the delicate shake she requests at the same time I fight cringing. I must not have looked over the name too carefully. How was I to know Pansy Parkinson had relatives? How was I to know anything at all about that wench?

"Hermione Granger," I respond, hoping she doesn't recognize the name.

I think I detect a slight lift in the delicate curve of her left eyebrow, but she says nothing about it. "You're here with the ministry, then?" she asks curtly.

"Yes I am," I respond, all business. "Can you explain to me exactly what happened?"

"It's on the paper," she says in a distinctly condescending tone.

"I realize that," I say, "but it's just procedure."

"Right then," she says quickly. "So last night, I decided to have a party." Could this get any more cliché? "It was one of the best parties any of my Hogwarts mates had ever seen," she added, clearly pleased with herself.

"Since we're all legal now, we decided to have a party to celebrate, and we definitely celebrated." I get the distinct feeling I really don't want to know.

I give her a mildly pointed look.

"So anyway," she says, "in order to make the whole thing a big success, we needed to, well, make some space."

She motions me into the front room, where I find an expanse of a room likely larger than the Great Hall. I can tell by the spaces between the furniture and the odd shapings of a few of the corners that this room was not designed to be this size.

"And exactly how large should this room be?" I ask.

"Oh, I don't know," she replies coyly. "About half this?" I ignore the conspiratorial look in her eyes. "You have to keep up appearances, you know," she says airily.

"Hm," I respond. "Is this all?"

"Oh, no," she replies with that same airiness. "There's also a Perma-Flow fountain installed in the kitchen that wasn't drained quite right," as I note the water seeping from one of the grandiose doors, "a beautiful array of live pixies that we apparated here but couldn't quite figure how to recapture without causing a stir," as I noted the curious flapping of wings from a room to my left, "a beautiful array of full-size palm trees in the sitting room that might just be stubborn about leaving..."

My mind fades out as she describes the rest in exact detail, but it comes back with the words,

"Oh, and I almost forgot. The exotic muggle dancer we tied in the closet."

At my look of shock, she smirks. "We were thinking maybe a memory charm?"