Author's Notes:

I just moved to a new apartment and literally JUST got my internet connected today. So here ya go, 3 new chapters. I hope that makes up for my lengthy absence!

Barnaby Richards was awake when Scrimgeour entered the room.

The Wizarding Senate agent was propped up against a tall stack of pillows. There was a fresh white bandage across his chest and right shoulder. He was already in a foul mood, having been told by Aisha Malik that there was no 'minimum quota' of bed-rest that could still qualify as bed-rest. To add insult to injury (a punctured lung, fractured sternum and hypothermia, if you wanted to get technical), he'd been handed a crossword puzzle to complete.

A crossword. From a newspaper. Like some kind of God-damned, ailing geriatric.

Localised nuclear Armageddon was nigh. Muggle and Wizarding undead had sent most of the civilised world back into the Stone Age. A murderous playboy billionaire had murdered one of their own and kidnapped half their team.

And yet here he was trying to work out 5-across (four letters—'sanctuary furniture').

Richards took his sweet time acknowledging Scrimgeour's presence. He wrote P-E-W-S, capped his pen and then regarded the Minister with all the warmth and affection of a tax audit. To say that Richards was angry was incorrect. He'd been angry three days ago when he'd first regained consciousness. He had worked through that anger. Now, he was just strategic. It was his job, after all.

"Was wondering when you'd come down here to pay me a visit."

"To be fair, I've come down here a few times," said the Minister. He pulled up a chair and sat. "You just haven't been lucid until now."

Scrimgeour appeared to be waiting for him to reply. Granted, Richards was still weak from blood loss and the aftereffects of hypothermia, but not even being moments away from death was enough to dull his acerbic nature.

"So you gonna come clean, now? Or do we keep dancin' around?" Richards smiled humourlessly. "It's a familiar old two-step. I know why some secrets need to be kept, but seeing as we're meant to be leading this group, you can imagine how pissed off I am to suspect you've been dancing fucking solo."

The Minister blinked, taking a moment to digest the rampant use of metaphor. He inhaled sharply through his long, thin nose. "What do you need to know, Agent Richards?"

Richards attempted to sit up against the pillows that Aisha dutifully fluffed for him twice a day. His normally tanned, leathery complexion had a distinct grey cast, but Scrimgeour seemed to know better than to offer assistance.

"You British wizards don't know understand what need to know means. I'm guessing the Senate needed to know quite a few things before the Project Christmas collaboration. What the blazing hell is Alexander Amarov's interest in the Project and its team members? Was Honoria Cloot working with him?"

"She may very well have been," Scrimgeour said. "What we do know is that Amarov has been a thorn in the side of the British Wizarding community for the last fifteen years."

"Pfft," said Richards. "You guys don't own the patent on nosy Muggles. We get those kinds in the States. Real persistent. Most are crackpot, conspiracy theorists—"

"Who happen to be correct regarding the conspiracy in question," Scrimgeour interjected.

"Yeah, but there are ways to handle these people that do not involve endangering the community you're trying to protect in the first place," Richards said. He scowled at the wall clock across the room. "Malik's gonna be in here in twenty minutes with my nighty-night meds. Get to point."

Scrimgeour met the agent's expectant stare with a look that was no less penetrating. "The Ministry was aware that a lethal pathogen had likely been developed in Voldemort's underground laboratories. We knew about those labs because Alexander Amarov had been conducting his own, privately funded investigations into Voldemort's operations in his continuing bid to gather evidence that would expose the magical world. But due to the seriousness of this discovery, he told the DMLE what he knew. I was asked by my colleagues to authorise a raid. I signed the paperwork and the raid was conducted three days later. Draco Malfoy was captured and Hendry Tan was found dead."

"Did Amarov have an inside man?"

"He claimed so," Scrimgeour said, "but he would not reveal his informant to the DMLE."

"It might have been Malfoy," Richards suggested. That would explain Amarov's interest in kidnapping him after Granger and Potter broke him out of jail."

"It might have been, though I suspect it wasn't. A more likely candidate was Dr Hendry Tan, Malfoy's erstwhile colleague. At the moment, we have no way of knowing."

Richards narrowed his eyes. "I get that you didn't want to share the DMLE's little cover up with the rest of the team, but I'm not part of your team. I'm the guy that represents the money and resources you needed to make this operation work in the first place. You screwed the Senate, you screwed your own people and you screwed me. If I didn't still have a hole in my lung and if you weren't a hundred years old, I'd get out this bed and punch you in the face, Minister."

"What is that you people say? Raincheck?" offered Scrimgeour, smoothly.

"You made bad calls, my friend. The DMLE needed to be reigned in."

"Yes. And I will readily concede to all of my and their mistakes," Scrimgeour said, with great weariness. "However, we did what we thought was best at the time. The Ministry has a long and complex tradition of secretive bureaucracy that predates me and many of the Ministers that came before. It was my hope to have those old traditions dismantled by the end of my term as Minister. I am not permitted to make unilateral decisions without consequences, Agent Richards. Sometimes, it is necessary to swim with the tide in order to find an eventual, safe harbour."

Now it was Richards turn to digest metaphors. "Do you know how the Infection got out? Obviously, the DMLE failed to keep it buried like they did with Malfoy."

"I have no idea. Perhaps Amarov knows? I was rather hoping Malfoy would know, but he gave no indication that he did. Although, I admit when it comes to that particular young man, it's frankly easier to read tea leaves…"

Richards snorted. "No arguments there. He's a survivor, which will come in handy for him if he's in Amarov's custody, willing or not."

Scrimgeour got to his feet. "Despite all that has transpired, it's imperative that you believe me when I tell you we had no reason to suspect that Amarov would harm the team that was sent to rescue him. On the contrary, given that Amarov is aware of who and what we are, I expected him to be cautious, but cooperative." He sighed. "You refer to them as Team Members, but you and I know they are more than that. To me, at least."

"I believe you."

"Thank you."

"Tell me something else. Why would Amarov be holding Granger, Wallen, Patil and Malfoy?"

Scrimgeour had been about to reply, when Aisha Malik opened the door to the room. She gave both men a breezy smile and reminded the Minister that Agent Richards needed his bed-rest.

"God damn it!" Richards boomed.

"Would you like another crossword?" Aisha asked, completely unperturbed by his outburst.

"Hell no," growled the agent. "What else you got?"

"My phone has Angry Birds."

Richards shut his eyes, looking pained. "Bring the crossword."

Scrimgeour waited until Malik had left before speaking. "My best guess is that Amarov has captured them so that they can be made to work on the cure in his own, private facility. Or just made to work, at any rate."

"That fits in with the rival team theory and might explain Honoria's role."

The Minister nodded. He gave Richards a commiserating, slightly melancholy smile. "It would also mean that the work on a cure may live on, even if we do not."

The room door opened again, but it was not Aisha Malik. Dr Kate McAlister stood at the threshold, looking alarmed. "Sorry to disturb, gents, but we have a bit of a situation!"

"What is it?" Scrimgeour asked the virologist, wand already in hand.

"You know that horde that's been building up outside? Well, they just doubled in size and are moving towards the house. Longbottom says this was what happened at Taransay Island shortly before they attacked. "

"What exactly are they doing?" the Minister demanded.

"I'm not sure, but they're sort of walking forward and deliberately feeling around the, er, barriers?"

"Wards," said Scrimgeour.

"Yes—the wards."

"Christ," Richards exclaimed, "They're testing our electric fencing. How many?"

"More than a hundred now. Potter and Longbottom are picking them off from the attic as discreetly as they can. They asked me to see if they can get a few more wands to assist. I already sent Professor Yoshida up there to help."

"I'm on it," said Richards, who whipped the sheets away from his bare legs.

"No," said Scrimgeour. "If you collapse, you will be completely useless to us in the event that horde does manage to get through."

"Can that actually happen?" McAlister asked. "What about the wards?"

Richards was also staring at Scrimgeour. "If those sons of bitches really are all magical, will the wards hold up?"

"We cannot be certain," said Scrimgeour. "Grimmauld Place's protective wards are ancient and complex," he explained, for McAlister's benefit. "They were originally designed to keep Muggles away, but over the years, the Black family added additional layers to the wards, never succeeding in fully dismantling the original enchantments in favour of a ground-up approach, so to speak. They are a patchwork of protective magic that has shielded us from the occasional, inquisitive Muggle or roaming zombie horde. But with any patchwork approach, there can be…gaps."

"What do you mean gaps?" asked McAlister.

Richards answered her. "He means that if enough magical beings attempt to gain entry all at the same time, the wards could falter. They were never built for any kind of sustained, coordinated attack."

All the colour drained from McAlister's face. "So we shore them up, right? Don't you have spells for that?"

"We have been doing just that on a regular basis, Dr McAlister," Scrimgeour told her, in a tone that was meant to reassure. "But reducing the risk of a coordinated attack is also paramount. If you excuse me, I'll join Potter, Longbottom and Professor Yoshida upstairs."

After the Minister left, McAlister sank into the chair her had previously occupied. "I didn't think I'd ever hear the words 'zombie' and 'coordinated' in the same conversation…"

"Don't worry, Doc," Richards said. "If we do lose the house, we won't stick around to defend it. People are easy enough to transport."

"But what about all the equipment? All the samples, data and records? We lost enough of that when Honoria destroyed most of the computers. Agent Richards, we simply cannot afford another disruption!"

Richards considered this. "If we do have to abandon ship in a hurry, can you make sure we have what we need?"

"Of course. How much can we take?"

"Think of what each of us would be able to carry out of here by hand, and then multiply that by ten. Get Malik to help you."

McAlister nodded. She stood and walked to the door.

"Kate," Richards called out.

"Yes?"

Richards opened a small, zippered case retrieved from a drawer at the bedside table. The case housed a service revolver, photographs of his daughters and a set of keys. He threw the keys to her.

"That opens our ammunition vault in Scrimgeour's office. Have you ever fired a gun?"

"Good lord, no."

He gave her a rare smile. "No sweat. I'll teach you and Malik. You gals can't be any worse than Mercer was."

McAlister smiled sadly. "I miss him. I miss all of them."

"Yeah, me too, Doc. But we're not quite giving up on finding them yet."

Alexander Amarov walked into her room just after six in the evening. After yet another mind-numbing day of being locked inside with no news of what was happening within the fleet, his decision to pay her a visit in person was slightly concerning.

The man was there on an errand, seemingly.

He carried a long, diaphanous, black lace and tulle dress on a hanger, a pair of strappy high-heeled shoes and a mist-grey, ankle-length fur coat that had probably been a hundred, separate chinchillas at one point. He was also flanked by two guards, whom he dismissed after laying the dress out on the bed. Clearly he did not deem her to be enough of a threat that he was unable to be alone in a room with her.

Good.

The door shut behind the guards and she was now locked inside with Amarov, who was dressed in a slim wool suit that was so densely black, it was borderline velvet. His hair was damp. Only just visible through the unbuttoned second button of an azure shirt, was the metal panel of his embedded, biofeedback device. The minute, red light flickered silently in time with his resting heart rate. To think that something so small could control a fleet that comprised thousands of people…

"Good evening," he said.

Hermione stood behind the breakfast bar of her room's kitchenette. Minutes earlier, she'd been looking through the cabinets for the umpteenth time, hoping to find a sliver of something she could use as a weapon—a large splinter, wire, perhaps a long, loose screw. It was a sign of how desperate she was. Alas, the stateroom furniture was all very sound. The physical barrier of the breakfast bar provided a false sense of security, but at this point she would take any boost to her confidence.

She cast a cursory glance at the outfit he had brought. "I thought we've established I'm not wearing your dresses."

He smiled a smile of perfect, gleaming white teeth. His blue gaze, a shade lighter than his shirt, dropped from her face to her body, in an assessing stare that was far more personal than any he had given her before. He observed the overkill of borrowed denim.

"It's cold topside and you can't go traipsing around in Belikov's castoffs indefinitely."

"Prisoners don't normally get to 'traipse'."

"You're not a prisoner."

"And yet there is a lock on the door." She tapped at her chin, her eyes bright. "How odd."

"Merely a precaution," he replied, amused.

She folded her arms. "From whom, you? If so, it's not working." She gave him a humourless smile. "Here you stand."

"I'll sit, if you prefer?" And he did so—along the edge of the bed. "You are a rare specimen, aren't you?" he asked, with what sounded like warm curiosity. "I find the reality of Hermione Granger more than meets my expectations."

"Don't tell me my reputation precedes me?" she inquired. "If your source is Honoria, I'd take whatever she says with a bag or two of salt."

He ran one long, manicured finger along the lace of the dress. "It may surprise you to know that I've read 'Hogwarts: A History', issues of The Daily Prophet as far back as they were written in modern English, and far too many copies of Witch Weekly, which I'm actually concerned may have atrophied my brain, somewhat."

"Yes, Witch Weekly will do that," she allowed.

He stood and walked towards her now. "I knew who you were before we met, Hermione. I knew you the moment I saw you on that fishing boat."

"What has this got to do with anything?" she asked, failing to fight the urge to retreat backwards.

"I'm not sure yet, but I'm hoping that answer will come to me in time." He sounded genuinely perplexed. "Suffice it to say, I have a fascination with that which is exceptional." He was close enough that she could smell his aftershave. Hermione felt the edge of the sink against her back. There was nowhere to go. No weapons in the room, no crockery to throw, cutlery to brandish, just a damnable mountain of European pillows, cushions and plastic bottles of water supplied by her minders. There wasn't even a plastic tray to use as a lethal weapon (ala Malfoy).

Curious. Despite the worrying similarities between the two men, on all the occasions Malfoy had crowded her and intimidated her, she had never felt physically repelled. The anxiety and concern she'd felt with Malfoy was very different, and that wasn't just to do with relative risk and danger. Frankly, Amarov was just as beautiful close up as he was from a distance, but there was something about him that made her want to pull on three Weasley jumpers and hide under the covers of her parent's bed.

And this was without him already being a murdering psychopath.

To her dismay, he raised a hand and touched one of the curls from her mop of wild, unbound hair. After so many days without a hairbrush, it had reverted to what Hermione liked to think of as its primal state—a halo of frizz. She inhaled sharply, more from nerves than anything else. The effect of this meant that her denim-clad chest grazed against him ever so slightly. She saw his pupils widen and then, almost on que, she saw the silent red beeping of his bio-feedback device quicken.

She blinked; the realisation of what that meant began to dawn on her.

He cleared his throat. "The black dress was an uninspired choice for your colouring, I think. I should have selected red. Or perhaps, gold? Next time."

She wrenched her head to the side and watched with relief as the lock of hair slipped through his fingers. He seemed to enjoy the sensation it made as it escaped his hand. "I'm not wearing your sodding dress, you maniac. Not now and not next time."

Amarov leaned in to whisper to her, "You will wear what I bring you, Hermione. If you don't, I will come in here and dress you myself. And I assure you, that will be infinitely more entertaining for me than for you. Pick your battles, my dear. This is something that will not cost you greatly to concede, yes?"

Blink-blink, blink-blink, blink-blink, went the little red light. Just as it had done on the trawler when he'd been suffocating. Only that time it had been flashing almost without intervals and there had been a beeping noise as well. She'd more or less pieced together how the device worked—it was obviously meant to deter anyone from harming Amarov. It registered distress based on real-time information from his body and perhaps would trigger the threatened explosion or explosions only at particular, serious levels of distress. What qualified as serious distress? Was there a threshold that had to be reached? Could it all be an elaborate ruse? So far, no one was calling Amarov's bluff. He obviously had the resources to have created such an insane device.

Hermione wondered how close the kidnappers and indeed, the rescue team, had come to inadvertently blowing up the entire fleet. The device was clearly sensitive enough to pick up on Amarov's….well, arousal. What would happen if he fell down a flight of stairs? Or stubbed his toe? Or cut himself shaving?

There simply had to be some kind of fail-safe. That had to be what the inverted number panel was for—an override code that only Amarov was capable of entering.

Momentarily lost in thought, her eyes travelled to the high heels he had brought for her to wear. Amarov would soon learn that she couldn't walk a straight line in heels above two inches. With any luck, she'd fall over, split the dress and ruin his evening. The heels looked to be four inches, at least. Of all the many things she was useful for…all Amarov seemed interested in doing was turning her into his freak show arm-candy.

She sighed.

Trust him to take this as a sign of her capitulation.

"Very good," he said. "You will be my companion this evening."

"At dinner with the other captains?"

"No. Tonight, we go to the Games."