This chapter is intense. Originally it went together with the next one, but it became too long. That scene with which the raid begins is a tribute to lorien829. My respects. Another author that has demonstrated –thoroughly– that there's talent in the fandom, even more, sometimes, than in the original writing.

My English is rather rusty since I started French again. I'm working on that. In fact, I took extra care and it would be even less noticeable than it was in previous chapters.

About the color of magic

"In this line of work," Hermione began, walking among the tables where the recruits sat, staring at the book in her left hand as the right one held the wand, "you'll often be exposed to what you seek to destroy, that is, dark magic".

Duham sat in the front row, a spot of ink on her nose; her pen was a blur, noting the lesson to its every word. Two apprentices at the back were still talking and laughing discreetly, or so they thought. Hermione released a nonverbal "Silence" to them both. She couldn't be upset with them: they reminded her too much of her own friends; but she seriously doubted that they could complete the training with that amount of discipline. She made no comment.

"It takes many different forms," s he continued. "A few are easy to recognize: death, pain, loss of autonomy" the spell for the three Unforgivables wrote itself in green fog in front of her "but the really dark magic is the one that takes what you most desire and turns it against you... the one you can't or won't fight against... no matter what you lose..."

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Harry looks away from the wake that Percy seems to have left at his exit, and towards the open door. Through it he can see Ron's back, shoulders sunk, head so low –in his hands, judging by the position of his arms– that he seems not to have one right now. His own brother, in every way that really counts. Stepping soundlessly, he finds himself standing by the redhead. His hand hovers over the man's back without touching it, the air in between wears the thickness of Hermione's skin. It's Ron's shoulder what makes contact, when the redhead straightens. Blue eyes find green ones. Ironically, it's not the friendly warmth what bears the recognition, but the bitterness behind, like the distant glow of a fang.

Ron's hand shudders, then it comes to pat his, pressing it against his shoulder.

"You okay, mate?" the auror finally asks.

"Ministry affairs" the politician replies, elusive. He stands up with the deliberate slowness of the elders.

Harry turns back his head, remembering the cautious, masked expression of the other Weasley. How on earth he ended up missing his pomposity? Ron's shrug didn't fool him in the least, but he doesn't push. There are issues that a whole lifetime of talking won't solve, and they have stumbled upon some of those too many times in recent years. They are men now. Ron deflects the subject:

"Raid, tonight, huh?"

"Two nights of hard work in a row. Sometimes it would seem as if aurors didn't have a right to sleep", he jokes. "We are no longer twelve years old" a pause, and then. "I wish you were there with me".

"Sometimes, me too," his colleague replies, in all honesty.

They look at each other, and it's almost a relief that sometimes death is so close, because things are rarely as clear as they are right now. Friendship, as unconditional. There's no place for mean rivalry when the possibility of losing half of the original duo is this obvious. Green eyes meet blue ones, as they did in the Hogwarts Express, even before Harry knew of Gryffindor's existence. Ron reaches for Harry's hand and leaves something in it: a pair of necklaces, removed from his pocket so recently that part of the chain is still in it.

"In case things get ugly…" he comments "Portkeys…"

"We can't have a way out if nobody else has," Harry protests; Ron freezes as they both recognize Hermione's morality behind her partner's words. The answer remains the same.

"I can't make more portkeys without further explanation. Take as many with you as you can. Save as many as you can, if things get ugly" and there's a pause until Ron adds, wholeheartedly: "Take care of her".

She would be furious if she knew about this male, protective agreement they seem to have settled long ago and without as many words. Or she might not be. She would understand. Knowing them as she did, she'd just recognize this as the only thing about their partnership that Ron accepts without reserve.

"Take care of yourself," the Weasley adds, without no less sincerity.

And they hug, patting each other's shoulders in a masculine gesture that attempts to relieve the discomfort. They really love each other, and sometimes they forget it. Harry wonders confusedly when this became so twisted, what have they done to deserve this –the friendship, or the distance.

He doesn't contemplate the part Hermione must have played in it, because if he did, if he as much as thought: "I haven't touched her, in any way remotely inappropriate ", wouldn't it be a confession in itself?

And then, suddenly, a younger expression is back in the prematurely greyish but still red eyebrows.

"And if you die, you'd better leave me your card collection."

"Nah, bury me with it."

"Your broom, then," the redhead negotiates.

They both hear the snort, then.

"Honestly ..." Hermione protests, arms crossed, rolling her eyes.

Something in Harry's chest swells, and he finds hard to keep his eyes dry. He's getting old, perhaps. He's just glad they can all still be friends, even if just one last time.

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John is so massive that the world map, hanging on the wall beside him, actually looks small. Legs spread, he seems to cover a whole side of the table on which the diagram lies; on the other side, the rest of the aurors (everyone available tonight) squeeze, following the instructions. Triangles represent the enemies, and large crosses, the objects to be confiscated. There are many triangles and many crosses: trafficking dark magic on portable format has always been a good source of income.

"The goods are here, here and here" he points at three squares. "Most of you will be a distraction. The teams I'm about to call are the ones in charge of recovering the merchandise. Evade, do not fight. We split here. Beyond this point, you are all by yourself; if caught, you are on your own. Fight with everything you have. Unforgivables, if necessary. Merlin knows they'll be. Minotaur" the youngest auror, Thad, raises his head proudly, while the man next to him follows his response with a frown "is in charge of room A, with Nail Clippers..."

A chuckle, and John looks up only for a moment; Edgard seems puzzled but doesn't dare ask. Obviously, it's the intended reaction. Before going out on a suicide mission, some laugh can't hurt.

Hermione ignores them as she looks up, at his partner, who's still exploring the map. A distracted hand scratches his forehead and continues to his hair where he tangles fingers distractedly. The witch looks around. No one else has noticed.

Her gaze falters on Thad and Vince. Three years ago they were all here: Harry and herself, Vince and Melissa; hours later Vince had been left without partner or any desire to go on fighting, and with the added stress of Thad joining the Force, like his parents before him. She doesn't know how the veteran had the courage to drink that potion again, with his son no less. Harry's heat radiates towards her, and Hermione focuses on this: on the physical evidence that he's alive; with that hole in her stomach of not knowing how much longer he'll be. Thad wears his mother's bracelet.

"… Buckbeack" she turns her attention to the lead just in time, "room C. Alone. Will it be a problem?"

The witch shakes her head. Harry stares at John, then turns to her, eyes bright. She's left breathless. All the coldness of recent times is gone, a temporary truce. Suddenly, she knows he's also recalling Melissa's last night. She forces herself to look forward, to listen to the rest of the assignment –vital information if she wants to be able to protect him– and yet she doesn't think she has understood a single detail.

Blue light jumps from one electronic device to another, synchronizing them automatically. Six minutes left, and twenty, nineteen, eighteen...

"Hermione..." his voice vibrates spreading like fingers on the woman's back.

The forearm carrying her watch descends, forgotten, as she turns. The wizard wears that naked expression of the last moments –hair messed up, eyes narrowed, mouth parted, still deciding what to emit. The golden chain watch hanging from his pocket stands out against his black cloak.

The rest of the squad goes ahead. The tide drags them through the narrow room. It pushes them apart. It drives them together. Their hands meet, fingers rub against each other's, his lips are thrust a little too close to her cheek. They are almost –and paradoxically– anonymous in the middle of the crowd. It's incredible how much noise those few aurors could make just before a mission in which they all were virtually inaudible.

"Hermione..." he breathes, again, this time in her ear.

The enchantress shudders, a reflect –warm breath on her icy neck–; she stares at him. Waits. Harry himself doesn't seem to know what to say. He knows, too well, what he can't say. Each vigorous push of their brothers and sisters make them breathe in each other's breath. No contact. Two friends, just two friends, alone? Colleagues, saying goodbye, just in case. "Promise me..." It's Vince's voice, desperate, some of what might be his last words to his son. Half of the wands are at the ready.

Finally, Harry's lips form a bitter line. He seems a beggar staring at a feast through a window.

"It has been a privilege... to have you as my partner."

And Hermione chuckles, an edge of hunger and resignation barely there. And he smiles back.

"Who says that kind of thing nowadays? Seriously..." he had protested, picking up another card. They had been watching a suspect, that night. (In such occasions, muggle games whose charm other sorcerers couldn't fathom kept the tedium away.) Hermione had stared at him, wondering why Harry occasionally acted like an idiot, what kind of attention he thought he earned with it, especially knowing how many times solemn honest words had been simply a part of his schedule. Finally, somehow, she had ended up asleep on his shoulder while he took the first watch. "A privilege".

Someone walks past Harry, inadvertently shoving him aside, and his lips, near her ear, brush against her cheek. The woman shudders, looks back at him, eyes veiled. The wizard's fingers twitch on his wand, and the other hand –his left – rises to grasp the bracelet, barely touching skin. Hermione mirrors the gesture. Their left arms become bond and barrier, while the magic of the bracelets is recharged in a whirlwind of colours. Harry's hand stays an extra second.

The apparition disorients them both. Trees all around. The shadows of the disillusioned aurors move, barely visible waves in the still air. Hermione's step is almost soundless, but Harry recognizes it among the others, and follows it. Invisible hands rub. 'I'm here'.

They hear the explosions from afar. Harry stares at where he expects her to be, and he can almost see her: wide eyes, lips in an anguished line, hands twisting each other; maybe it's just his mind, drawing the gestures he has seen so many times, under these circumstances.

Despite all precautions –last minute reports, apparition relatively far from the target, reconnaissance patrol– the smugglers knew. Nothing strange, in these cases, with so many galleons at stake.

They dive into the battle bending under multi-coloured rays that bring immobility and death. Hermione shrieks a warning. The green light would have touched him, if not for it. He no longer wonders how she knows exactly where he is, despite his invisibility. Suddenly he feels her to his back, and he knows that the usual shield is raised around them. He forces himself to remain silent, not to attack. The disillusioning spell doesn't help much if you go emitting sounds and lights like a Christmas tree. The enemy cast spells, but randomly, and Harry and Hermione have no problem leaving them behind.

Here's the goal: a crack in the ground. Harry hears her muttered protests: it'll be almost unapproachable. Now that the smugglers were notified, the hole releases magic every few seconds: defenders cast random spells, and being invisible is useless since, in the narrow space, those are almost impossible to avoid. He can almost hear the well–oiled machinery of his partner's brain, checking the strategy for such cases –something based entirely on the Weasleys' fascination for muggle devices, and on some of those impossible ideas of Luna's. Near the stairs, Hermione produces an ancient airplane toy and she splits a candy in two.

"I do hate shrinking" Harry sighs and tries not to choke with the sweet as it sticks to his teeth.

The witch whispers a relieving spell as his bones start changing sizes, then she places both of their wands in the proper hangers of the airplane, all before biting her own half of the candy. He's already mouse-sized and braced on the airplane, by the time she starts changing. Unashamedly, he watches her hold her clothes against her breasts –they take an extra second to adjust to her new size–; her cheeks turn rose, but she makes no comment.

Just then, the team watches the plane apprehensively. Even Harry doesn't like it not being a broom or even a sensible creature. He'll have no control over it.

"Come on" she finally sighs, "it won't spontaneously turn into a pumpkin."

A hand on the closest wing, he jumps right into the second seat.

"Belt and helmet" the muggle–born reminds him, securing herself.

The surrounding noise deafens them. Earth itself shakes with the steps of naturally tall friends and foes. The droning of the mechanical device isn't that reassuring, either. Cursing the magical interaction that forbids shrinking good old brooms, Harry buckles his helmet while Hermione begins to manipulate the control.

Rising creates a vacuum in their stomachs. The darkness beneath the surface engulfs them before they have time to get used to it. Flying very low, almost at the level of the steps, it's not hard to avoid curses for a good stretch. No one is looking for toy-sized aurors. As soon as possible, they deviate from the stairs and take refuge in the shadows. The plan is to stay that way for as long as possible. Hermione shakes cobwebs incessantly while keeping the plane in the angle between wall and ceiling, following a very long zigzagging masonry that looks like a strange snake. Harry scratches his scar angrily; on top of everything, he's beginning to feel useless.

"Let's go down?" he finally asks in a scream muffled by his size and the plane's engine, "I wouldn't like to be here when the battery… or whatever keeps this flying… runs out."

They're already in the corridor. The witch frowns, hesitant.

"Please," Harry insists. "There's no one here, and this is driving me crazy."

They realize their mistake a second too late: while already recovering their natural size; some furniture explodes and Hermione stifles a shriek. Harry turns around; he's behind her now, covering her. His gaze hesitates over his various opponents. He can't see how many there are on his partner's side.

"Go ahead!" John orders, raising his voice –mighty as his size– to cover the noise.

The chief stands before Harry as Hermione grabs his arm and drags him away from danger. The survivor sees a flash of green light from the corner of his eye.

"John's fine," Hermione comforts him.

She has turned so he and the battle are both in her line of sight, but he doesn't know whether to believe it. Eye contact was too short. There has been a while since others used to die for him. Air refuses to enter his lungs, and running have nothing to do with it.

By the time they find the next group of enemies – in another corridor that should be empty – Harry's mind has taken refuge in Azkaban. In the reflection of the dim grey light on honeyed hair. In the variety of tones of her voice, when she talks about books, elves, dark wizards they've caught together, or when scolding Ron. In the smell of treacle that engulfed him in that party. Back in her smile, when he told her she was beautiful. In her expression when she spoke of him finding a new love. And with Ron in that office.

"Harry, focus!" he hears the actual Hermione whisper, at his back.

The woman has just summoned another magical shield in front of him, turning her wand under her arm in a moment stolen from her own protection. Delicate but firm shoulders brush against his back as he fights the cloaked wizard in front of him, whose accent reminds him of Krum's. Hermione levitates a plant and drops it on one of the foe's head; green tentacles grasp his neck and make him drop his wand while she finishes the other attacker and turns to help Harry.

In comparison, it's almost too easy.

"You OK?" she gasps in his direction.

"The green light..."

Hermione holds his head, turning it gently towards her, so he can look into her eyes.

"Last time I saw him, he was beating someone's arse."

And this time, Harry breathes, as she fixes his glasses, once again.

"You know he's one of the capable ones" she adds, and repeats. "You're fine?"

He nods, feeling so light he might actually levitate himself. The objects must be right on the other side of the door, and it's open. He mutters standard identification spells and quickly disassembles the guards around the door. There's a trickier one; Hermione steps forth and mutters something in Latin that he doesn't identify; the protection shines and disappears. "Brilliant" he thinks; she smiles, as if having heard. Her back is now against the wall aside he door; Harry moves to the other side of it, scrutinizing through the opening. He nods towards Hermione and moves forward.

"Harry, come back!" his partner's frantic whisper brushes against his ear.

Harry shrinks, but no light hits him, no object grabs him, so he turns and smiles, letting her know that everything is fine.

Then it starts.

He feels himself being shoved against the wall and raised. He desperately tries to fight, but his fists have also been pushed to his side, the wand lost, and he can't raise his knees. "It's a trap," his frantic heartbeat says, too late. He cries for Hermione to leave, but when he looks at her, he knows she isn't listening; her expression is totally serene, eyes half closed. She's like a ghost, floating at his level, without being tied, like he is, by invisible cords. No, she's not far, but she's indeed unreachable. Even being so close that the man has started to react as he did during training.

"Hermione, wake up!"

He thinks he has seen a response, but her hands aren't the ones he saw move. Large male hands come from the sides of the female body, meet up front, and a head appears behind the sorceress's shoulder, mouth resting on her neck, so all he can see, is hair. The anger, the jealousy, the wish to destroy, are all the same when the phantom hands possessively lean on one of the breasts and between the appetizing thighs of the woman, and the soft moan that his mate emits in response, stabs him as the worst of betrayals. Possessive. That's exactly how he feels. She's his. She's supposed to be his. He's painfully aroused, wishing, craving, longing to touch her that way. The soft clinging of his belt makes him look down, at another spirit that kneels before him, with her warm hair and her silky skin and her softness of moves, and he doesn't know what to feel when his maleness is engulfed by something warm and wet.

Then he feels the ground and gasps, and knows that the illusion has been broken when he sees Hermione, very much awake, reaching for their objective and lifting it. He almost smiles, full of pride. His partner. His. But then it's she who drops to the floor, and everything around him seems to collapse. Not literally, this time. The magician crawls frantically to her side, not knowing nor caring for the wand he doesn't have anymore, his twisted glasses, or the magic winding around him, whose shade no longer matters.

Hermione lies on something soft. The air is cold, but she's warm, hotter than she has ever been. Harry's left hand fondles her left nipple, as his mouth sucks her right, making noises as obscene as arousing under the circumstances; his other hand crawls to the place where she craves him the most. The touch is electrifying; the tension builds fast in her belly. A tension, a desire, a longing for that part of him now pressed to the exterior of her right thigh. A part of her knows it to be an illusion, since she knows she's a teenager and, at the same time, she retains forty years of memories. It's Auror 101. She doesn't care. It's the weak point of Auror training. What if you don't want to wake up?

The enchantress reaches for her partner's thighs and upwards, caressing him, and she hears him, feels him, growl against her sensitive skin. Warmth spills between her own thighs – the vibration readying her instantly –, purrs. The male growl gets louder this time, coarser, almost split in two. Her bracelet burns and Hermione also begins to feel his confusion, his desire. Trembling arms hold his broad back, nape, and she half sits until her lips reach his neck, where she places them in an almost chaste kiss that slips all the way to his mouth. There she pauses, briefly. Chocolate eyes open and meet green ones.

"I love you," she whispers coarsely. "And I want you so much..."

Harry lets her guide him to her lips; he dazedly allows them to claim his –a ludicrous part, in fact, of everything he is, of everything she and only she possesses in him–, breathing in her scent of treacle and pumpkin and leather and something unique to her. He feels her lips tremble, barely, at some point, but it's only when she parts and there is not the shock he would have expected, that he knows the illusion ended back then, if she was fooled by it at all.

The witch stands and helps him up, eyes sad and all masks useless before the other half of her soul.

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Preview:

Hermione walks down the stairs slowly. An old tunic shields her body from the chill, but not so much from his eyes. Still hidden in the shadows, he ravenously watches her descent, the gentle swaying of her hips, her graceful legs and the cloth drawing the space between her thighs. Pure rage makes hard for him to breathe. Impulsively, he steps forth and waits for her to spot him. She would have felt his pressence anyway, if she were alert.

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Author's note: I still don't get why the fandom in English is so shy. With my Spanish version of this story I've made lots of friends. Come on, folks, let me know how you feel. I don't bite, I trully don't.