Innocence
Lupin had once said that the best thing about being a teacher was when that student surpassed you. Harry remembered it as he leaned against the desk, his gaze fixated on the girl whose theory seemed increasingly less insane and more brilliant.
"I suppose there are cases where it would be useful," he replied slowly, inviting her to elaborate.
"It wouldn't be that difficult." Duham shrugged minutely while hugging a monstrously sized book. "It's basically the same as when you asked that ghost about the diadem. Look…"
She burst forth, not really caring for Harry's personal space; he backed away without complaint. The book fell to the wood with a thud. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear in a swift, pragmatic gesture, before reaching for one of the marked pages with both hands. The smell of leather was strong. The mentor shook his head before leaning over the book, following the girl's explanation. He had seldom had such an experience before, and was gradually realizing that no apprentice had ever been as clever as Duham was. He had a feeling it was going to be as intoxicating as treacle.
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The helicopter is way too loud, and Harry was wondering what the choosing of it by wizards was all about when he got his first peek at the city.
It took his breath away.
Harry Potter has never had time to develop a taste for classic beauty, and he does not recall watching another city from the skies, so he has no point of comparison. Yet his first instinctive impulse has been to open the spectrum of his magic to his partner, to share what he feels.
He turns to Hermione's silhouette, cut against the American sunset. Orange sunbeams extend her brown hair in unusual curls. She doesn't even seem to be breathing, but her magic listens to his. The emotions of one echo in the other and he almost closes his eyes, it feels like rain in the desert after those weeks of imposed distance she has been keeping, with a firm wall standing in the middle of the empathic bond between them.
Just then he remembers there's a reason for it and looks away, ashamed.
The words reach him, dimmed: "Magnificent," she thought. "Terrible".
Yes, that pretty much describes it.
His trip to America has been comfortable and quiet: a portkey, a couple of journalists, a brief meeting, all very diplomatic. They have not been given more information, what little they have is what the Minister has received and shared -and Harry suspects he is not sharing everything. Ron, who is now sitting between them, pretending to sleep. Ron, who is getting paler and quieter.
"Shouldn't we be at the scene?" Harry asked the redhead as he left the confidential meeting. "US aurors were supposed to be at their limit controlling the crisis, that's why they called us as reinforcements…"
With a grimace, Ron threw up what he had been fed:
"'The United States will not be made responsible for material or human loses to foreign visitors.'" He suddenly changed his tone: "If they don't need us, then why...?"
Hermione's hand squeezed his forearm, silencing him, as she stared eloquently at the service personnel around them, placed at their disposal and undoubtedly trained to spy. "Hostages", the word glistened fleetingly in Harry's head -an intentional message-. Hermione couldn't elaborate telepathically, and the word itself simplified the situation so much that it sacrificed accuracy almost to the point of fiction; but many years of being a celebrity, albeit reluctantly, has taught him to read between lines: they are safe as long as the incident that brought them here does not seriously threaten the safety of the American wizarding community. The auror pursed his lips and furrowed his eyebrows slightly, allowing the shine of his green eyes to convey what he could not keep, not even at the demand of diplomacy. Even if they are not held permanently, forcing them to travel here personally was a show of strength: they couldn't refuse when their own country was suspected to be the source of the attack, not without triggering a major diplomatic incident. Their lives aren't worth that much. But blackmail doesn't sit well with Harry.
Unknown to him, his partner is agonizing over the same. Luna did take her apart before they left and made it very clear that she is to go back and give her report in a few days. It should have been unnecessary, Hermione knows protocol and is used to following it, the very fact that Luna went out of her way to meet her validated what Hermione knew from the beginning: this trip is highly irregular and probably dangerous. Ron's words simply confirmed it once again. But the eerie auror seemed to have a feeling, a bad one, and her gut is usually accurate. Hermione hopes the eagle isn't trying to cut her losses, because the lioness is most definitely not leaving her partner alone in a war zone, even if it is to be doomed with him.
"So we're going as tourists," Harry asked wryly.
"Perhaps they will allow us into their auror department. Don't ask for more. They say the best brains in the world are working on dismantling the remaining devices" added Ron at last.
"They won't be the best unless they include Hermione."
She blushed slightly, but none of the three made another comment.
So now the UK's very best aurors sit hand-over-hand in a helicopter, hundreds of miles away from their own land, enjoying the view, as, below, the city burns.
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"Who said I ordered it."
It's a question, by way of affirmation. On the other side, the subordinate babbles, terrified. The person on this side of the line is staring straight ahead.
The only one who's not afraid sits there, a half smile lighting up his features.
"I'll be there in person soon, to clear up ... misunderstandings."
The handset is carefully returned to its place. Their gazes meet, passionately cold, for what seems like forever.
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"The blood of Merlin, Morgana, the Peverells also runs through our veins..." the American auror claims.
"It's the perpetrators of this crime who consider it important, not me," Hermione interrupts.
The difference in jargon and accent only contributes to the difference in criteria. A little less diplomacy, and they'd be accusing each other of incompetence.
"Right, I'm just emphasizing that we were not supposed to be counted among the countries… in difficulty."
Through the empathic connection, however blocked, Harry can clearly hear Hermione's response. Or is it just that he knows her so well that he could swear she's thinking: 'So you knew this was happening to them, and you weren't warning them?'
"Perhaps, if you had intervened before, you would not find yourselves in this situation now."
"You should thank us for the tact" the auror smirks. "You wouldn't want the whole of Europe… posing these kinds of… diplomatic… difficulties."
The matter is serious. In pieces, because no one has the patience or the desire or the permission to give them full disclosure, they have learned of the situation in Germany, under the new tyranny; of the civil war in Italy, the neutrality of Switzerland and Japan and the flourishing smuggling of black magic to each of those countries. When the concentration camps in France were mentioned Hermione's wall collapsed, their empathy opening enough for him to take a peek at a black tattoo on wrinkled skin. He hadn't known her grandfather had been in Natzweiler. It felt as if he had plunged headfirst into an icy puddle in the harshest of Scottish winter. This time, without the promise of a sword that would solve everything.
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"Do you understand now?"
Michael stares back at Duham with stars in his eyes. It's clear that he'd like to say no, just for her to explain all over again; but she looks at him sternly, and it's time to relieve someone from duty, so he swallows his protest and gets up with a shy, hurried 'thanks'. After all, with the auror shortage after the raid, there are only the five of them here in the US, and only the two of them are apprentices. They have in common being the brightest. And they are almost alone. Other opportunities will arise. He sets out to dream about her throughout his shift.
The door barely hisses as it closes.
Harry doesn't perceive any of this. Leaning over his desk, his thoughts are anywhere but in the problem to be solved. His mind is dull. He briefly wonders if it has to do with the magic in his bracelet, which hasn't been recharged in so long. Hermione never touches him anymore.
Don't think about her.
He attempts to focus, lifts one of the documents he's supposed to be studying. The desk is littered with diagrams, pictures and hurried notes. There are post-its everywhere, and post-its on the post-its, holding minute details of the terrorist attack. Whatever little order there is, is thanks to the auror herself. The general scheme of the mass distribution weapon is drawn in Hermione's tiny, flawless streak and calligraphy. Her firm hand is reflected everywhere.
Hands caressing his back, his nape.
Harry closes his eyes and swallows hard.
His heart keeps weighing on his stomach, and that part of his mind connected to her, reserved - to her fears, to her desires - remains terribly empty.
It takes him a moment to realize that he's alone with his apprentice, but then he feels the weight of her eyes in the silence, for so long that he has to turn around. He wonders if she can legilimens him without eye contact.
"Look, Auror Potter" she begins, attracting the wizard's attention with her sudden formality, "I don't know what's going on between you and my sister…"
"I beg your pardon?" he snaps, narrow eyes shining at her in warning.
"… but you're both working yourselves to death" she continues without a hint of withdrawing. "I mean… even for her this is beyond her habit. I mean beyond. And you (excuse me) have your head anywhere but on your shoulders. Even if you pretend to work."
Harry suddenly feels a lot of things - pride, worry, anguish - but none of those are the girl's problem.
"You are way out of your league, apprentice. If –and I mean if- something was happening" he pointedly ignores her snort, "it would be between partners, and to be solved in duet."
"You should know me better than that, Master. When it comes to my sister that answer is not going to suffice."
Harry stares at her. Traditionally, it makes everyone –even foreign ministers-cower and babble, but not her. Damn lionesses. At an impasse, he ends up messing up his hair, his gaze drifting around, somewhere between lost and exasperated. They'll end up driving him crazy. But her loyalty moves something in him that has been starving for a while. A sort of companionship. She's trying to protect Hermione. As he is.
"The raid was very hard on everyone," he resolves to confess, his lips dry.
The girl's eyes narrow as her lips form a thin line that brings back too many memories. Of the dream, even.
"But you well know that's no excuse. This terrorist attack cost enough deaths, the leaders of the cell are on the loose, and for as long as the Americans blame us, this international diplomatic incident could still go way worse. There is no time for personal problems."
Duham approaches him, resolute, and Harry puts aside the job description that she knows as well as he, to watch her curiously.
She's brave, the girl. She stands next to him looking directly into his eyes, turns, sits on the desk. Harry smirks, imagining the look Hermione would have when she saw her precious scrolls crumpled.
Don't go there.
It smells of treacle and leather, and pumpkin.
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Charlie finds them lying on the softest grass. Their heads are at the same height, with Luna kneeling as Firenze lies down. Astonishingly blue eyes meet not-so-different, bulging eyes. Except for the occasional blink, less frequent in the centaur than in the auror, they have been perfectly immobile for longer than the redhead has been watching them, which must have been for around fifteen minutes. The girl has turned her head slightly. Firenze remains impassive as time itself. Lazily, the redhead walks away from the tree and towards the blue-gold vision, without either of the two characters showing signs of noticing. He spends no less than fifteen more minutes in front of them, before getting impatient.
"Let's see if I guess. You are studying the functioning of the eyes."
Unable to ignore him any longer without looking unbearably snobby, they both turn to him, like mirror images.
"Exactly," Luna answers as she does so. "The functioning of the soul of witches interests him."
The redhead nods gravely.
"Nice to see you here again, Luna."
"It's always good to come when the golden automnimuli nest."
Firenze turns to her, and it seems to Charlie as if he was going to ask her about the golden automnimules, so he interrupts.
"I came to offer Firenze to participate in my next lesson."
"As a teacher, I presume," Luna states, a shadow behind her words.
Firenze turns his extraordinarily blue eyes to the redhead once more, and he is quick to reply.
"It goes without saying. I am already lecturing on the physiology of magicians and creatures that cannot express themselves. Nothing more suitable than each species talking about itself."
"It doesn't bother me," the creature finally speaks. "As long as you serve as a model for my next lesson for the youngsters of my pack."
"Fair," the wizard shrugs. "I'd love to have Lupin back for that class on werewolves."
There is a moment of silence, until Luna suddenly points past the Weasley.
"Look, a Blibbering Humdinger!"
The girl runs off towards the alleged location of the non-existent being, while Firenze follows her with his gaze. Both males make a curious picture, watching the big girl jump over and over again until she reaches the intended branch.
"Do you keep asking about each species she makes up?"
"In this world there is nothing impossible," the blond replies, not blinking.
And the redhead turns to the centaur, hoping no pity shows. There are impossible things in this world. A centaur and a sorceress are one of them.
"Anything new? Regarding what I asked last time?"
"Not even the science of centaurs is that old, Charles Weasley."
"And the stars?"
The centaur's intensely blue eyes seem to cloud over.
"It is proper when the great wolf attacks the hare. The wolf has a litter to feed, and the hare has not moved fast enough. However, it is not proper for the harpy to attack a human youngster. It is not proper for one human to attack another. The stars don't know much about good or evil. Nature is wise and cruel."
"You're talking like Bane."
"You asked me about the stars," the centaur comments impassively. "Mars is shining."
The redhead waits, but the blond doesn't elaborate, and Luna is back, animated as ever, although without any Blibbering Humdinger to show for her efforts. Acknowledging defeat, the redhead decides to leave.
"Well, I guess I should..."
And the centaur suddenly stands up, looking towards the castle, right before breaking into a gallop.
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Harry flops down heavily on the corner sofa, and sinks; he jumps, struggles, feeling as if drowning, until the movement stops and he finds himself lying down and wrapped up. He blinks. His heart beats like crazy in his throat. The auror gets up with poorly concealed anxiety, and the furniture slowly returns to its position. Looking suspiciously at the excessive decor in the room, he cautiously sits in the corner of a more conventional armchair, waits a second, sighs. It takes a while for him to relax again. He hates diplomacy, he hates turning his face into a mask, whether to politely smile or to hide something. Rubbing his now numb face behind his glasses, and insisting on the scar (that keeps itching) he wonders fleetingly what need is there for these luxuries not only in the wing of the residence designed for princes and ministers, but even in this place, reserved for aurors used to Spartan resources.
His now paranoid ears trick him into hearing journalists that simply can't be there, outside; it is not possible, the residence is under special magical protections. Like a movie, his exhausted mind projects almost disjointed scenes: a bureau in the American auror department, full of self-writing files; a dark wall; nylon covered but empty plates that fill in your hand; an auror so covered in glamour that you might wonder if he was there at all. Fragments of official, public, political presentations, with all eyes fixated on him even if it's Ron who gives the discourse. Secret encounters with beings whose accent he hardly understands, as they speak in alien jargon about spell bombs whose mechanism even Hermione finds difficult to comprehend.
And Hermione, distant. Hermione, from whom he should distance himself. About whom he really shouldn't even be thinking.
But he finds it hard not to smile at the memory of her frown when she spotted the rooms. Of her whispered protest, regarding one or other developing country, and how many vaccines could have been bought with this.
But he shouldn't, he mustn't think about any of that.
In his mind, Hermione in beige sitting on an intensely red armchair, putting the book away as she smiles at him.
Harry shakes his head.
He tries to turn his thoughts to the auror shortage, so serious this time that they have had to bring in apprentices.
The best.
Those who won't stop harassing them with questions.
He's extenuated.
He thinks of the house he left behind. Not his, full of shadows, lonely; but the lit, book-filled home where he spent the last few weeks. It does not occur to him that it should be strange.
He doesn't even notice when he falls asleep.
A teenage back, revealing itself. Hypnosis. Vodka flavored fire going down his throat. Musical sounding spells. A warm body crushed against his stomach, and cloth over both of them, isolating them from terrible cold, from terrible fear, from the world. Skin under his lips. It smelled of treacle. His neck, in the red-hot ring of the girl-woman's arms. Or not. Breasts danced in front of him, nipples evident through beige fabric. Silk texture against his lips. The warm, soft channel of the woman, surrounding him, at last. Skin under his fingers, no less smooth than the fabric on them; silk, everywhere. A groan, and clenching around him, throwing him to the abyss.
"I love you", drowned in a kiss.
He wakes up gasping, disoriented, his neck twisted from the couch. It's hard to straighten up; his legs are bent over the opposite arm of the seat. He doesn't remember putting them there, or having covered himself with this blanket; when he puts his feet on the ground he looks at it as if it could give him answers (and honestly, what's the use of being a wizard if you can't ask the objects what they do here). He pushes it aside and examines his pants, uncomfortable, physically and emotionally, at the moisture in them.
"I don't like this place at all." The sound travels up and down his spine, and Harry mutters the cleansing spell as he hastily covers himself.
It sounds exactly as in his dream.
Except for the tone.
"It's cold and impersonal," Duham keeps arguing as she enters his vision. "I know it's impressive, and that's the goal, but come on, is it necessary to use all the annual income of a small country for that?"
It's hard to ignore the golden glow of the chandelier on the chestnut loops. He turns his head and closes his eyes, wondering since when he has that kind of dreams with teenagers… or almost. Apprentices, on top of it. And Hermione's sister, no less.
Hermione, about whom he must not think.
He turns his head to the girl's back; she's staring at the map, fingering some of the pins marking places of interest. He doesn't have to study her to know that there are the exact same curves as in his dream. 'Why not?' He thinks (desperately). The terms 'distraction' and 'just in time' don't cross his mind, but they're there somewhere.
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Author's Note: The outline of a Harry / Duham has been announced from the beginning. Most of you know why it's a scandal. Some have been alarmed by the scenes that announced this ever from the first chapters, and I have promised not to overdo it. Still, I'll be true to the characters, and the fact is that Harry, who doesn't know what we do, needs to deflect his wishes, and (grant it to him) he has the perfect target in front of him. So for those of you who are sensible to this, let's do as follows: either you pretend it's Hermione (lots of Obliviate references, here), or you skip some parts (but you'll miss some of the intrigue). To others: I hope I'm not so shocked myself as to not to be fair to the potential. I've never preferred OC, but I really like Duham. And Harry as a mentor is a magnet.