Conversation with Professor Dumbledore was rarely illuminating for Hermione. She provided information, and he uttered sentence fragments as he hovered over his Pensieve.

Perhaps that was an unfair characterization, but ever since Draco had dragged her off to the moonlit glade, she had been getting bits of information that apparently made sense to everyone else but her. She was getting tired of it.

He had questioned her thoroughly about Draco, examined the Confatalis mark, and made her repeat every word of their conversations as accurately as she could. Summoned Moody through the Floo network as soon as was convenient, and drew a long vaporous thought from his snowy head, trailing it into the Pensieve.

There were occasions when Professor Dumbledore looked every one of his hundred-and-fifty some years, and this was one of them.

"The Eye," he said softly, eyes going from twinkling to penetrating as he examined Hermione. "Yes, that would be a weapon."

"What do you know about the Eye, Professor?"

Dumbledore spread his hands, rising to pace. "Not much more, I'm afraid, Miss Granger. It has been reported here and there by wizards from that region, but it has never been used, to my knowledge. There's no proof that it truly exists. At least," he said thoughtfully, "that I am aware of."

The look on Hermione's face must have been telling.

"I am old, but not that old," he said, laughing softly and shoving his spectacles up a crooked nose. "Even long study does not make me all-knowing."

"Bloody well should," she grumbled, and looked up to see Dumbledore smiling at her.

"You worry too much, Miss Granger," he said, sitting back down at his desk and folding his hands in his lap. "You wear a powerful spell of protection. Very old magic." His eyes twinkled as he added, "More surprising is he who gave it to you."

The man missed nothing.

"Am I that transparent?" She asked, with a sigh of resignation.

"No, Miss Granger, but permit me the joy of having redeemed at least one of the Death Eaters' offspring." A shadow crossed Dumbledore's face. "I failed with so many others."

"I doubt there was anything you could have done, Professor. For what it's worth."

"Soothing to think so," he said softly. "But nevertheless...I do detest watching my students take opposite sides in this war."

At this point, Hermione almost wished he would read her thoughts, and spare her the trouble of verbalizing her worry–nay, terror–over what lay ahead. It was war, after all, and whether it was on the front line or behind enemy lines, casualties occurred.

"I can watch, Hermione," Dumbledore said gently, using her given name for the first time in her life. "I can watch, and I can send help and hope it reaches you in time. But I am not omnipotent. The risks you children take..." He shook his head, looking old once more. "I have watched for years as you, Harry, and Mr. Weasley have risked your lives, and tried to protect you as best I could. I can do no more."

"I know." Hermione tried to smile, and knew it looked ill. "I chose this, didn't I?"

"And it was what you were meant to do," Dumbledore replied. "There's no more certainty than that."

Certainty, of course, was what she wanted. Knowledge that no more of her friends would die at the Death Eaters' hands; that she would not lose Draco, or Harry, or Ron. That she would never shiver through another funeral because someone had not been quick enough, or help had been too long in coming.

"Is there anything else you want me to do while I'm in Romania?" she asked, choking down the sudden lump in her throat.

"No. Do be careful, Miss Granger."

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It was odd how time moved when there was something to dread.

Ever since she had bidden Draco a hasty goodbye, time moved in galloping strides, or so slowly that she was certain she could feel every uptick of the sun. She wished again that Harry and Ron were there. She would confess all and be glad, just for the pleasure of Ron's awkward–and usually, amusing–attempts at comfort.

Shopping, packing, planning, research–it was an endless whirl that kept her busy from well before dawn until well after dusk, and that didn't include her duties with the Order. News that the Death Eaters had captured several members of the Order ran through headquarters like a shockwave.

And Hannah Abbot had resurfaced, closeted herself with Dumbledore for three and a half hours, and returned to Headquarters grim and standoffish. Owen Cauldwell, a Hufflepuff of Hermione's year, had not been seen since he walked home from the Ministry three nights ago.

It was war, and after a long lull, the Death Eaters were escalating it.

And Colin Creevey was following her. Again.

It was less than two days from her departure, and Hermione finally whirled on him in Diagon Alley, resisting the urge to shake the little prat until his eyes popped.

"Colin," she said through gritted teeth, "are you stalking me, or do you just happen to be visiting every shop I go to? Including Madame LeSoir's Lingerie?"

"Harry hasn't been seen for a while," Colin replied, injured at the charge of stalking. "Do you know what he's up to? The Daily Prophet–"

She supposed, given Colin's love for photography at Hogwarts, that journalism was a natural career path. Nonetheless, he was likely to get Harry killed one day.

She was about to tell him so when she realized how easily that could be turned into a front-page story. The Boy Who Lived, Risking His Life to Save Wizarding Community.

"No comment," she snapped. "Go away, Colin, I have things to do."

"Looking for the Eye?" Colin asked slyly. "Would you say that it could turn the tide of the war, Hermione? Is Harry–"

He squeaked as Hermione hauled him off down a nearby alley and pinned him to the wall. She was no heavyweight, but Colin had apparently reached his full height at the ripe age of fourteen.

"Who told you?" She growled, her wand against his throat. "Morgana help you, if you print anything..."

Colin glared back, unimpressed. "If you hex me, I'll have you on the front page so fast–"

Now she shook him, his little blond head bobbing like an inexpertly controlled marionette's. "I asked who told you, and I don't give a damn how fast you put me on the front page." First Rita Skeeter, and now this. Too bad she didn't have anything to blackmail Colin with.

His threat apparently worthless, Colin backpedaled.

"Come on, Hermione. The readers have a right to know."

The incredibly frustrating thing about the press was that any information was bad information, and could be twisted eight ways from Sunday. And whoever had told Colin about the Eye was going to be missing a layer of skin when she caught them.

"Who?" Hermione shook him again, his head smacking against the brick wall.

"It was Lavender Brown, but only because she doesn't want anyone to know–" Colin clamped his mouth shut and glared at her.

"Because you blackmailed her," Hermione said, disgusted.

"The readers have a r–"

"The readers do not have a right to know things that could get Aurors killed!" Hermione almost shouted, realizing belatedly that she had just given him a headline. "Look, Colin," she added, setting him back down. "You're going to get me killed. Or Harry. Or Lavender. Or any of the people that are out risking their necks so you can stalk them for exclusives without worrying that a Death Eater is going to pop out and avada kedavra you."

She wasn't getting through.

"So what does this Eye do?" He asked, and she seriously considered hexing him into a slug right there.

"No comment," she snarled, and shoved him down the alley behind her, flinging a quick curse over her shoulder. Hermione could give a good goddamn if an article appeared tomorrow: Former Head Girl of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Attacks Daily Prophet Reporter.

Actually, if there were an article, she hoped it included a picture of Colin, the words Readers Have A Right To Know marching across his forehead.

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"Not Lavender." Hermione said bluntly, two hours later.

Kingley's eyebrows went up, which was interesting, she thought distractedly. If he had hair, his eyebrows would currently be lost in it.

"Why?"

"She'll know why, sir. It could affect the mission."

As before, he gave her the benefit of the doubt, shrugging his broad shoulders. "She's almost as good as you are, Hermione. Who else do you want, then?"

"Susan." She can keep her mouth shut, Hermione added silently, still fuming. Aurors couldn't afford to have nasty secrets, especially with the Death Eaters watching for any weakness.

They were making final selections for Hermione's team, which included several Curse Breakers as well as Researchers. If only Harry and Ron hadn't been assigned elsewhere; they weren't the most experienced Dark Wizard catchers, but they were good, and she needed good. Romania would be swarming with the slimy gits.

"So we have you, Bones, Finch-Fletchley, Tonks, MacDougal, Finnegan, Ackerley, and Jones." Kingsley surveyed the list. "Not much experience here, Granger."

"Depends on the kind of experience you want, sir," she said soberly. After sixth and seventh year at Hogwarts, there were few students who hadn't passed their Defense Against the Dark Arts NEWTS with flying colors.

"True. Weasley's been contacted?"

Hermione nodded. Charlie Weasley was to be their unofficial guide in Romania, and as a member of the Order, another contact back to Dumbledore.

"Any word from our informant?"

Her heart contracted with the thought she'd been fighting to keep in the back of her mind for the past two days. "No."

"Your first command," Kingsley said, oblivious to her abject terror. "Don't screw it up, Granger." His smile took the sting out of his words, but her thoughts still on Draco, wherever he was, whatever he was doing. The dragon on her back stretched and yawned, a blast of hot air curling up the back of her neck.

"Try not to, sir," she replied, her smile weak around the edges.

She sent the memos out immediately, instructions to the members of her team who would meet the next morning to make last-minute plans. As the last of them fluttered into the elevator, she sat at her desk with her head in her hands, elbowing her stapler out of the way. Bewitching staplers had been a bad idea on somebody's part. Worse than the Monster Book of Monsters for biting

Hermione didn't know what she'd been expected, after...after what had happened when she followed Draco to his hotel room. Something should have changed. Draco hadn't asked her to clear his name, and in truth, it couldn't be cleared without endangering whatever it was he was doing. But Circe save her, she wanted him. She wanted to go to sleep next to him at least one more time before she went to Romania. She wanted him.

Focus on the job. She sighed gustily. There was still plenty to do between now and Thursday morning. Visit the library again, for one. Borrow the rest of the books she was planning to take with her.

She still had a little visit to pay to Lavender, for that matter. The girl wasn't in the Order, thank Morgana, but whatever it was Colin held over her head had to be resolved. She couldn't do her job if someone was blackmailing her. Hermione's lips twitched slightly. Lavender wouldn't be permitted to do her job, if Hermione had anything to say about it.

And she had to visit headquarters again tonight. And hope someone was there to let her in this time, Hermione grumbled mentally. However useful the Confatalis mark, having to knock at the door was becoming something of a standing joke to the other members of the Order. Fred and George had yet to make their move, which was nerve-wracking. Better to get it over with and be done. Which, she knew, was likely the point of the exercise.

Some things, she supposed, truly never changed.

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It was well past ten o'clock that night when Hermione Apparated into her flat, dropping her keys in the bowl by the door more out of habit than necessity and shrugging her robes off, hanging them in a nearby closet. No matter how tired she was, she just couldn't sleep if she knew there were clothes hanging about, lying on the floor, on a chair...

Evidence of obsessive-compulsive disorder, most likely, she thought, wandering into the kitchen for a glass of milk. It always put her to sleep faster, and even as tired as she was, her mind never could turn off before a mission. A mission. Hermione shook her head, lifting the glass to her lips. As she turned, she caught sight of a moving shadow in the darkened corner of her living room. The glass dropped from her hand and shattered on the floor.

The name Draco was on her lips, but it was Harry that stepped forward, grinning.

"Getting a little jumpy, Hermione? Reparo." He set the glass on the counter and enveloped her in a hug. "Merlin, I'm glad to see you."

Hermione was spluttering, but let herself be hugged until she caught a whiff of his robes. "Harry, what the hell have you been rolling in?"

"Not a word of welcome," said another voice, and Hermione was enveloped again, another set of robes that smelled differently from Harry's and were no less pungent for it.

"She's inconsiderate that way," said Harry soberly over Hermione's head.

"Both of you!" Hermione grinned up at them, tall Harry and taller, lankier Ron, who was so tan, his freckles were running together. "Where on earth have you be–my carpet!"

The white carpet was littered with dirt and grass stains, and Harry rolled his eyes. "Scourgify. Honestly, Hermione, you'd think we expected you to get down on your knees and scrub."

"You still haven't told me what both of you have been rolling in," she said scathingly. "Take your robes off and hang them out the window."

"Now she wants our robes off," Harry whispered to Ron as they walked to the window, just loudly enough for Hermione to hear. "What should we do?"

"We'd better do what she says, mate. She'll be offering us drinks next, and then what?"

"You two are starting to sound like Fred and George," Hermione called from the kitchen. "I'm sure you're not a good influence, Ron."

"Me?" Ron sounded highly insulted. "You and I would never be in trouble, if it weren't for this rule-breaker."

The bantering was so familiar, it didn't feel at all as if it had been nearly six months since she'd last seen them. Plates, glasses, food and drink flew from the cupboards and marched out to the coffee table in her living room. If there she was one thing she knew about Harry and Ron, it was that they would be hungry.

Thirty minutes later, she was seated next to Harry on the couch, laughing so hard that her sides ached with it.

"And then," Ron concluded, "the little git has the nerve to say that he'd never meant to hex us; that it was all a misunderstanding, and he'd be glad to offer us a spot of tea before we left." He snorted. "It took us three weeks to get Harry's ears even."

Hermione wiped the tears from her eyes.

"To think," she said, doing her best to sound injured, "that all this time I was up late, worrying about you, hoping and praying on bended knee that you were safe..."

"On bended knee, were you?" Harry cuffed her affectionately. "Now it's your turn, Constable. Tell all."

"Security is unbelievable," she groused, pleased nonetheless. "An hour back and you've already heard." From Lavender, I'll bet. Lavender had been less than overjoyed with Hermione's visit.

"It's our job to know," Harry replied airily. "Spill it, miss."

Which, though she'd longed to do so repeatedly over the last few weeks, was a lot more difficult to do with Harry and Ron actually sitting with her, she thought, chewing on her lower lip.

The boys exchanged glances. Well, men, she supposed, now.

"Or as much as you can," Ron said helpfully. For all that they'd told her, there was a great deal unsaid. It was the way it had to be.

With an inner sigh she cast a Silencing Charm on the room, windows and door especially, even though her flat was already unplottable and shrouded in so many spells that it would take years to remove them all.

And she told them.

Ron almost burst, and she hushed him swiftly.

"He's not the same," she said quietly. "If you ever get to meet him, Ron, you'll see that."

"He's–he's–Draco Malfoy!" Ron burst out in a furious whisper. "I know you're good at Legilimancy, but Merlin, Hermione...Malfoy?"

She supposed it was a good thing she hadn't mentioned sleeping with him.

"I know, Ron, but we're going to Romania on his information. Trust me." A blush crept on her face, hard as she tried to suppress it; predictably, the harder she tried, the worse it got. "That's why he left when his father escaped Azkaban sixth year. To help..." She trailed off.

"Why would the self-titled Heir of Slytherin want to help us?" Harry muttered thoughtfully. His eyes were piercing when he looked at Hermione.

If she blushed any harder, her head would explode. Morgana le Fay and all the Wizards and Witches of the past, why was she such a miserable liar? Why?

Given a few years, Ron had gotten over his thickness where matters of the heart were concerned, and now he stared at Hermione in horrified awe.

"Oh, Hermione, no."

"He's different," she mumbled, taking a gulp of hot tea.

Communication was flying back and forth between Harry and Ron, and wisely, they let it be. Hermione was a good Legilimens, and other than reminding her of the horrible Malfoy of years one through five at Hogwarts, they didn't have a leg to stand on.

"So," Harry said finally, a smile broadening on his face. "Draco Malfoy..."

"Spew," Ron said, and Hermione tried to scowl.

"It's not spew," she said with great dignity. "It was S-P-E-W. And that has nothing to do with it."

"Spew," Harry confirmed, nudging her with his elbow. "Laugh, Hermione. Are you going to make badges?"

"The Society for the Prevention of the Defamation of Draco Malfoy?" Ron suggested. "Spotdodm?"

"Not enough vowels," Harry said thoughtfully.

Hermione couldn't help grinning. "I missed you both."

Author's Notes

Loooong chapter tonight, so you only get one. And this is sort of the end of the fluffy stuff; as Hermione noted, the war is escalating. I've got some final tweaks in the next few chapters to make, and a couple new ones to be certain of before I post them, but you'll have them just as soon as I'm sure they're ready.

Thanks again to my reviewers, and please do review. Everyone asks for it, but a little word means a lot. Especially given the number of hours that go into writing these stories.