Ramble On

Each caress set her nerves on fire. Calloused fingers blazed a trail over her soft supple skin, burning a path down her body. One large hand wrapped around her tender breast, pulling at her sensitive nipple, while another went between her legs lightly teasing her entrance. She saw a flash of forest green eyes, hooded with desire. The sensation of plump lips on her throat had shivers course down her spine. She delighted as she felt the hand at her core gently parting her wet folds and pressing in first one finger, then a second. Her body arched, meeting the tormentingly lazy rhythm. The other hand moved from one breast to the other so as not to neglect attention. Her body sang when she felt the pace of the fingers inside her increase and a thumb brush lightly against her bundle of nerves. She writhed under the ministrations, edging nearer and nearer to her climax. She climbed higher, ready to fall from heaven into the pits of hell.

Knock, knock.

Hermione's dark brown eyes shot open. Her hand buried inside herself. Growling in frustration she slammed her lids shut again, willing the images of the tall, broad man with sandy hair and soulful green eyes back to her. She curled her fingers to hit the sweet spot, rubbing her thumb furiously against her clit. Hoping to spark the flames that had dimmed to a smoulder. She arched into her hand, hips rocking, lips parted.

Knock, knock.

"Come on, Granger!"

With an exasperated snarl, she slumped back onto her bed. Unsatisfied. She looked down the length of her body. She debated ignoring the fact that her superior, Hank Malone, was outside the door to finish what she had started. Then she remembered that Malone would have no problem with barging into her studio apartment. Instead, she removed her hand slowly from her core and the other from beneath her t-shirt. She kicked the covers that were tangled around her legs to the side and swung herself from the bed. Blearily searching the floor, she grabbed a pair of pyjama shorts. Just as she debated washing her hands of her juices another knock echoed through her flat.

"Granger! What are you doin' in there?"

She swung the door to her flat open and glared at the man standing in front of her. The tall man looked down at her in surprise but the shocked look on his face morphed to one of amusement. That made her glare deepen. Hermione had to concede that it was likely she did not look overly intimidating. Dark curls piled on the top of her head, an old Chudley Cannons shirt that she had refused to return to Ron after their break up, pyjama shorts with Kermit the frog printed on them, and bare feet.

The older man was cleverer than he looked, however, and chose not to comment. Instead, he pushed his grey hair from his face before crossing his arms over his chest and casually leaned against her door frame. "Not like you to be late getting up, Granger," he drawled. "Hurry up, we've got a King of Hell to catch." Hermione inwardly groaned at the memory of the previous day when they had captured a demon and they learned that all Hell had broken loose. Literally.

She did not say a word, just grimaced and opened her door wider in invitation. Once Malone had stepped across her threshold, she poked her head out to check that no one else was lurking in the hallway. Her flat was in an area of Muggle Harlem that was particularly notorious for petty crime. While the immediate neighbours she had met upon moving in were not unpleasant, she would not trust them to look after Crookshanks when she travelled back to London. Even with only six months of experience in this area under her belt and she was nothing less than cautious. Satisfied that there were no lurking Muggles she turned, shutting the door behind her.

"Cosy place," Malone said, looking around her tiny flat.

"That's one word for it," she deadpanned. The comment did not improve her already sour mood. She was well aware that the apartment was a shoebox, but it was all she could afford on her salary at MACUSA. The single room was used as both a living room and bedroom. Calling the food preparation area a kitchenette would be generous, as it was simply a gas cooker, a sink and two cupboards. In a door off the room was a shower room that proved difficult to navigate, especially given her curvy frame. The best part, heating came through the floorboard heaters along the circumference of the space rather than a traditional fireplace, meaning that it had taken a while for her to establish a proper way to call home. With a flick of her wand, the sheets on her bed folded themselves into a neat pile and the bed collapsed into a comfortable sofa. She gestured for Malone to take a seat, "I need to shower so you better make yourself at home."

After summoning a towel she walked to the bathroom. She took a cold shower, hoping to take the edge off the morning's frustration and washed the stickiness of her arousal away. Once she had managed to awkwardly pat herself dry, she summoned underwear, a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt. She was grateful that Malone was the type of man that would choose to ignore a pair of knickers flying past their head. After banging her elbows and knees on the wall, sink and toilet several times, Hermione stepped out dressed for the day.

She turned to where Malone was sitting on her sofa and smirked at the sight. The gruff older man, one of the toughest people Hermione had ever met, was resting comfortably on the couch with a large ball of ginger fluff in his lap. Crookshanks, for his part, looked perplexed by the large man cooing over him, though he accepted the scratches behind his ears willingly. She coughed to gain her superior's attention. The grey haired man lifted his head, eyes as wide as a deer in headlights. She raised an eyebrow and looked between his face and the cat as she grabbed her jacket from the hook on the back of the door. "Ready?" she asked, stuffing her wand into her arm holster.

Malone nodded. "We'd oughta go get Singer before heading back to the office," he instructed as he cautiously lifted Crookshanks from his lap before joining her in two easy strides. Hermione's mind flashed to the tough Muggle hunter. They had met the older man just under a week ago when they had sought him out for advice. It had not been long before they had been dragged along to hunt down a demon with him. A demon that was now tied up in a MACUSA interrogation room.

With a shake of her head, Hermione yanked the door open. "Let's go, then," she said before walking past him to reach the apparition point.

"Why do people keep looking at me with that face today?" Hank asked.

"Prob'ly 'cause you're an idjit." Bobby Singer groused back from the door frame of his motel room. "I can't help with that demon from yesterday," he said, moving away from the door. "I got a situation that needs dealing with."

"Something to do with that phone call you got last night when you left the offices?" Hermione asked, not having any patience for either man. She remembered the voice at the other end of the phone. "How does a soul go missing anyway?"

The scruffy hunter looked at her, small green eyes narrowed. "Evesdroppin' ain't polite, Missy," he grumbled. At the look of no-nonsense on her face, however, he nodded. "Yeah. Seems the boys are up to their old crap," he shrugged. "Like I said, I got a situation, so I need to be gettin'."

"But what about Purgatory, and Crowley, and the other stuff," Malone asked.

Bobby shrugged again, "Not my problem right now. These boys are family, and I need to be sure they're not going to run off with some half-brained scheme." With that, he moved to close the door on the two MACUSA workers. Before the door could slam in their faces, Malone wedged his heavily booted foot in the way to stop him.

"Do you have any ideas on how to restore a soul?" he asked, arms crossing over his chest.

The hunter's mouth was set in a straight line. "Do you?" he volleyed back.

Hermione huffed at the two men. "Mr Singer, if you would like, you can use the resources back at the Department for Angelic and Demonic Activity. While I know you have extensive literature on lore," she added, remembering the bookshelves at the man's house from her trip there a few days before, "there may be some things of use at our offices that you may not have considered." Bobby looked at her incredulously.

"Stop callin' me Mr Singer, would ya? Bobby's fine. Why do you want to help?" he asked suspiciously.

Hermione paused. She was not sure why she was willing to help. Then she remembered the tale the hunter had told about the brothers at his house a few days before. And how similar their tale was to Harry's. "If what you told us back at your house is true, Bobby, then those boys deserve as much help as they can get," she finished.

"You're not wrong," he said in a tone somewhere between exasperation and affection. "I know you folks deal with some weird stuff sometimes," he conceded.

"Sounds like a fucking plan. We'll head back to MACUSA, sort this soul shit out, and then get that bastard Crowley," Malone said.

"You know," Hermione said, "I really hate how many curse words were in that sentence."

Malone shrugged, "I know," he said, "but what the fuck are you going to do about it."

Hermione rolled her eyes and started walking away, muttering under her breath about men being impossible. She was not in the mood for this today.

"Who pissed in your Cheerios?" Malone asked as he sidled up to Hermione. She just glared at him.

She was about to give him a snappy retort just as Bobby joined them. "I ain't doing that zapping thing your lot do," he started. Hermione pursed her lips at the comment. The hunter had made it abundantly clear over the last few days how he felt about side-along Apparition. The fuss he had made when they had travelled from Champlin to New York was enough to convince her that it was an experience neither of them wanted to repeat. She was about to suggest they walk, as the offices were not far from the motel when the man's mobile phone rang. "What?" he answered.

"Bobby, are you home? I know you took a case for Garth in Minnesota. We're about to head out and need to know which direction to head in."

The hunter looked over his shoulder, "I'm in New York City," he said. "Might have a lead on something for Sam's situation."

"Really? That was quick. What's in New York that can help?"

Green eyes looked over at the witch and wizard beside him, "Never you mind," he said.

"Bobby, if it can help Sammy I wanna know."

"Just get here. My cell might go out of reception so if you can't get through check into the Windsor Hotel on Forsyth and wait for me there."

"Bobby, wait, what-" but the older man snapped the flip phone he was using shut, effectively silencing whomever was on the other line. "Idjits."

Hermione's mood had not improved throughout the day. On the twenty-minute walk to the Woolworth Building from Bobby's hotel, she had been subjected to both men complaining about the need to walk. Hank was moaning that he could have been at the office an hour ago if he had not needed to wait on women and stupid old men. She had chosen not to retort that she had never asked him to come to her apartment, nor that he was the same age as the 'old man'. Bobby was protesting that he needed to walk at all, muttering that he had a truck back at the motel. She knew the man was choosing to ignore the fact that New York was not a city that should be driven in. By the time they entered the DADA offices of the MACUSA building, she was irritable and debating sending Harry a note to say she would be staying with him for a couple of days. She begrudgingly dismissed the thought.

As soon as they had walked through the door of the building, Malone had made a beeline for the interrogation room. The demon they had captured the day before was still tied up. He beckoned for one of Hermione's colleagues to follow him into the room. David Kowalski was a short, fair haired man from Brooklyn who was especially skilled in interrogation of otherworldly creatures. After the previous day's interrogation, she knew that Hank was hoping to extract information from the demon about Crowley. It seemed that the new King of Hell had his sights set on Purgatory for a reason that was not entirely clear. While it seemed that the DADA had not been up to speed with all of the goings on with Heaven and Hell over the last few years, this would certainly be something that they would want to get a handle on. When they both left the room five hours later, Kowalski with his shirt sleeves rolled up and Malone with jeans covered in black viscose, Hermione grimaced. The six months she had worked here had equipped Hermione with the wherewithal to not ask what happened behind the iron door.

Meanwhile, Hermione became more frustrated as she and Bobby dived into research. After she had asked Bobby for more details on Sam's condition, she was sure that it was not something she had ever come across before. She was surprised, and disturbed, to learn that the man was still a functioning human. For the most part. It seemed that the symptoms were nothing like those felt after a Dementor's kiss. Which made her question if the information was entirely accurate. Unfortunately, there was very little material on methods of returning a soul to a body. Which was something that Hermione was not overly surprised by. There was even less about how to free a soul from hell.

"Balls!" Bobby exclaimed, hours later. He slammed the book he was reading shut in a way that made Hermione flinch. "This is all useless."

Hermione brushed an errant curl from her face and looked at the two men. "We've been at this for hours," she said. "And we're getting nowhere," she waved her wand and cast a silent Tempus. She frowned when a glowing 19:01 appeared and she suddenly realised the only thing she had eaten that day was half a chicken wrap from the staff cafe. "Why don't we head back to the motel. We can take the books that we think will be useful and then head out for some food."

The two men looked at each other before shrugging in agreement. Hermione waved her wand over the desks, summoning the relevant books and shrinking them to fit into her trusty beaded bag. She had made a habit since the war of carrying it around with her, often stocked with a change of clothes. Once everything was gathered, she walked towards the door and looked over her shoulder. "Come on, then." As if they were well-trained puppies, they followed at her command.

When she stepped outside the building she remembered that she had promised to speak to Harry after she finished work. Searching through her bag, Hermione saw that she had left her means of communication at her flat. She looked up at both men slightly sheepishly, "Er, I'll meet you both at the motel, there's something I need to do at my flat."

Malone nodded, "Apparate into Singer's room. It'll make things easier."

She agreed, and walked to the apparition point next to the building spinning on her heel, only to reappear in a seedy alleyway next to her apartment building. Rushing up the flight of stairs to the third floor where her flat was located, she fumbled with her keys and stepped into the tiny place. She slumped against her door and let out a breath. Hermione peeked down when she felt something warm wind in and out of her legs. Reaching down, she scratched behind the ears of the fuzzy, orange half-kneazle.

"Hey, Crooks," she said. "You're hungry, huh?" The cat gazed up at her as if the statement was an obvious one. He then leapt up onto the small kitchen counter to emphasise the point. She hung her jacket and bag on the back of her door before moving to the kitchenette and pouring a can of jellied food into a bowl for the feline. Once Crookshanks was happily munching on his food, she moved into the living space and over to the single console table that she used as a bedside cum coffee table. Opening the draw, she pulled out a mirror and pen.

When Hermione had moved out to the States, Harry had gifted her a mirror similar to the one that Sirius had given him in their Fifth year. They had developed a system to leave messages to one another that would easily work around the time differences and their mutually busy schedules. On the glass of the mirror she used the pen to scrawl a note.

Harry,
I can't talk tonight, something big has come up at work. I will fill you in when I have a free moment.
Send my love to everyone.
I'll call you soon.
Promise.
Hermione

Satisfied, she tapped the mirror once before saying, "Intromitto." Her message dissolved from the glass before the mirror glowed blue. Hoping she would be forgiven, Hermione replaced the mirror in its drawer before grabbing her coat and bag and leaving the flat for Bobby's motel.

Dean Winchester was pissed.

The last year and a half had been a shitstorm. After turning up on Lisa's doorstep, broken over losing Sam they had tried to make it work. The first few months had been fine, she was patient and kind with him while he healed. He loved spending time with Ben. But that soon faded. Dean had too many paranoias and demons for her to handle and after six months of trying he had arrived on Bobby's doorstep. The man had chewed him out for leaving a good thing behind.

"You got out, Dean!" he yelled. "Why are you back on my doorstep?"

After several hours, and a few whiskies later, Bobby agreed to give him a case. And then, a year after watching his brother fall into the pit, Dean was sitting in a crappy motel room in Lordsburg, Arizona when he had a knock on his door. What he saw when he glimpsed through the peephole had him stunned. Sammy. He had lived out the last year with a quiet understanding that he would return to Lisa one day; the moment he set eyes on his younger brother again he knew that could never happen. When he found out that Sam had been back for a year, that Bobby had known? He was furious.

Then it was as if the last year's pain and loneliness had never happened. They hit the ground running, brothers together again in the good fight, case after case. But, something was bugging him about the younger man and then Limestone, Illinois happened. That gut feeling he had been ignoring in favor of existing with his brother once again just kept nagging until it had all come to a head in the hotel room a few weeks ago. When Cas had explained that Sam's soul was missing, it was like the last six months clicked into place.

And while the recent win where Crowley was concerned was something that had lifted his spirits, there was still a lot to deal with. Samuel's betrayal, Cas's sketchy behaviour, and Robo-Sam. Add to that, driving all day to meet with the man he saw as a father to try and sort Sammy's little problem out. Dean felt about ready to shoot something. It did not help that New York City was not meant for cars. He hated that the only spot he could find for Baby was 5 blocks away in on-street parking.

"What's taking him so long?" he asked Sam impatiently.

"Dunno," he said in a noncommittal tone. Looking over at his brother, or rather the strange soulless version of him.

The tall man stood casually, hands in his pockets and gaping across the street. Dean followed his line of sight to see that he was checking out a dark haired chick that was just his brother's type. The man had seriously lost sight of his priorities. Dean raised his eyebrows and shook his head, unsure what else he was expecting. Just as he was about to walk back to the Impala and wait for Bobby there, the older hunter rounded the corner. Walking next to him was a man that Dean did not recognise. Bobby seemed to be irritated that the other man was there, judging by the scowl on his face. The man was around the same age as Bobby but he was taller, closer to Dean's height. The way he was walking reminded him of his father, suggesting that he was a military man. His broad shoulders squared and head up. He had a head full of thick silver hair and was dressed in what Dean thought of as a hunter's uniform: shirt, dark jeans and sturdy leather boots. However, he was cleaner than any hunter Dean had ever met. His shirt was cotton, not flannel, and while his jeans were stained his boots did not seem like they had kicked in a lot of doors lately.

"What the hell, Bobby?" he asked when the other hunter caught his eye, arms outstretched.

"Nice to see you too, asshat," he replied. "You got a room like I told you?"

"Yes," he replied. "Now are you gunna explain why we're in the middle of freakin' Manhattan?"

"I hate it as much as you do," Bobby groused. "Come up. Got a few things to talk to you about." The brothers followed the gruff hunter into the lobby while the other man brought up the rear. "Oh," Bobby paused before turning and gesturing at the man he had been walking with. "That's Hank Malone."

Dean waved and smiled awkwardly at the man before they all headed to Bobby's motel room. He was still seething, but he hoped that there would be an explanation when they were safely tucked away. It transpired that the brothers' room was only down the corridor from the other hunter, which would make doing research much easier for all of them.

"Come on, Bobby, spill," he said impatiently once the door was closed. "Why are we here? You said you might have a lead on Sammy's… situation," he glanced sideways at the fourth man in the room, unwilling to discuss things in front of a stranger.

"Yeah. Malone here and one of his colleagues are gunna help us," Bobby said. "They got access to some stuff we don't that might be useful. Been with 'em today at their offices doin' some research."

"Offices? Bobby, what are you talking about? Are they Feds?"

"Sorta, they-" Bobby was cut off by an almighty crack echoing around the room. Instinctively, both Dean and Sam drew their guns as a woman appeared in the centre of the room.

"Sorry about that," the woman said, brushing her jeans, oblivious of the two guns pointed in her direction. She had a British accent, which only confused and maddened Dean more. "I needed to message someone at home -" she cut herself off when she turned to see the brothers.

"What the actual fuck is going on here?!" Dean exclaimed.

At the same time, the woman threw her hands up in the air in exasperation, "Oh, for fudge snake!" With a flick of her wrist, she had a long wooden stick pointed at the brothers.

"Er, boys this is Hermione," Bobby said calmly.

"Hermione," the other man, Hank, who had been quiet until that point said in a similar tone. "This is Sam and Dean."

"Oh, cool, nice to meet you," Dean said sarcastically. "Now who the hell are you and what the fuck are you?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, sighing and shaking her head at the ground. "Are all American's potty mouths or is it just the company I keep?" she growled. "Dean was it? I'm Hermione Granger, natural born witch, and your answer to returning your brother's soul to his body. Now if you don't mind, I would prefer if you were no longer pointing that wretched thing at me." As she said the last statement she raised her hands in surrender, wooden stick pointed skyward.

Dean lowered his weapon, though he did not reholster it immediately. She had admitted to being a witch, after all. "Will someone please explain?"

"Why don't we all take a seat," Hank suggested, moving over to a chair in the room. "And introduce ourselves properly?"

"Great idea," Sam said, speaking for the first time. Dean reluctantly moved over to one of the twin beds. He watched the woman, Hermione, closely, still unsure whether or not to trust her. She had described herself as a witch and pointed a stick at him as though it were a weapon. She was about his age if he had to guess. Like Malone, she moved like a soldier. Constantly alert. Her dark, chocolate brown eyes were scanning the room instinctively, searching for weaknesses and escape routes. They held something 'other' in them too, something that he had seen in his reflection since his Dad had died and he wondered what she had faced in her life. She was short and curvy, but he could see through her snugly fitting jeans and her leather jacket that it was all muscle. Her hair was a mass of dark, wild curls. He had to admit that the woman was attractive, and were circumstances different, he may have tried to pick her up.

"Okay," Bobby started once everyone was more relaxed. "Like I said before, this is Hank Malone and his colleague, Hermione Granger. I've known Malone here a few years. Helped me out a couple times back in the day. They're magical folk. As Granger said, she's a witch and this motherfucker would call himself a wizard, but natural born. They didn't sell their soul to no demon. They hunt things, like us, but they know stuff we don't. They offered to help with Sam over here."

"And you trust 'em?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. I do," Bobby replied, a finality in his tone that brokered no room for argument.

"And how are they gunna do that?" Sam asked. "I mean, no offence, but we have angels who have told us it's basically impossible. What're Glinda and Oz going to be able to do they can't."

"We're not sure exactly," Hermione said. "But, I do have a theory."

"Oh, great, a theory," Dean snapped sarcastically.

"Watch your mouth, boy," Malone snapped. "This woman's theories save lives, so you'd be wise to listen to them."

Dean blanched. The only person to talk to him like that, alive at least, was Bobby. He glanced over at the woman on the opposite bed to see she was blushing shyly. It was not a reaction he had expected given his earlier evaluation. Unbidden, images of the woman with a similar blush on her cheeks, wild hair spread on a pillow, came to him. God what had happened to him.

"Well," she started, taking Malone's words as her cue to continue, "we have never come across anyone like you in the magical world," she said, looking directly at Sam. "In our world, losing a soul is… it…" she shuddered as if remembering something unpleasant. "Until very recently, it was considered the highest conviction of criminals in the UK."

"Conviction?" Dean asked, "Like prison?"

"Worse," she replied. "And those who were condemned to the fate, they became a prisoner in their own mind. It was…" she shuddered again, "... the practise was barbaric. And could only be inflicted by one Magical being."

"O… kay," Sam said slowly. "That's unhelpful."

Dean coughed, "Sammy!"

"Oh, right, was that the wrong thing to say?" he asked.

Hermione ignored the comment, however, and pressed on, "What exactly do you know about Sam's soul?"

Dean regarded her in confusion, "What do you mean?"

"Bobby mentioned something about hell and a cage?" Malone interjected.

"Oh, he told you about that?" He glared at the older man.

"Yes, that was why we met him actually," Hermione said haughtily. "We work in a department for the Magical Congress of the United States of America that monitors and controls Demon and Angel activity."

"Great job you've been doing the last few years," he shot at Malone.

Hermione glared at Dean, "You know when Bobby told us about you boys I felt empathy for you. I know a thing or two about saving the world when you aren't given a choice. I thought that if it were my brother who was in the same position, after everything he has gone through, I would take all the help I could get. But if you don't want our help, that is no skin off our nose."

"They want your help, Missy," Bobby said. "This idjit just needs to get his head out of his ass."

"Okay," she said, turning to Dean. "I'll ask again, what exactly do you know about Sam's soul?"

He sighed. "Not much. We know it's in hell. We know it's been trapped in the cage with Michael and Lucifer for a while now. We know that we will have to break into the cage to let it out, but we don't want Michael and Lucifer to hop the train."

"Interesting," she said thoughtfully. "How did you get them in the 'cage' in the first place?"

Dean considered her, puzzled. "Er, it's kinda a long story."

"Okay," she said, a slight impatience in her tone. "How did you open it?"

"We used the rings of the four horsemen. Famine, War, Pestilence and…"

"Death," she said, her eyes lighting up. She leapt off the bed in excitement. "That's it!"

"Wait," Dean said. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Shoot, I told Harry I couldn't speak to him tonight," she continued, ignoring Dean.

"Who's Harry?" he asked. "Does he know Death too?" Once again, she did not answer his questions. Instead, she disappeared from where she stood with a loud crack. "Where did she go?"

Adrenaline was coursing through Hermione's veins. Finally, after six months of being buried beneath paperwork, she finally had a proper case. A lead. Not only that, but she knew the only person in the universe who could help her pull this off. She rushed up the stairs of her apartment building, slammed her door open and dashed over to the console table. Taking the communication mirror out of the drawer she saw a message in Harry's scruffy handwriting.

Hermione,
I'll hold you to that promise.
Harry

She cringed. She knew that the first time she called her best friend in months should not be work related. But she did need to talk to him about this, even to get his advice. She tapped her wand to the mirror to clear the writing before saying, "Harry." The glass fogged, and while it did so, she cast a Tempus charm. 21:18. She winced. It would have passed two am in London.

"Hermione? Are you okay?" the freckled face of Ginny Potter came into frame. "I woke up and the mirror was glowing. Harry said he got a message from you just before we headed to bed that you couldn't talk tonight."

"Sorry, Ginny, I forgot the time difference," she replied, blushing. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

Just as she was about to say she would call Harry back in the morning, she heard a masculine groan. "Is that Hermione?" she heard her best friend reaching for his glasses and saw his face appear, bleary-eyed, in the mirror. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, yes, Harry," she said dismissively. "Go back to sleep. It can wait until morning, I forgot how late it would be over there."

"No," he said, shaking his shaggy head. "I'm awake now and I haven't spoken to you in weeks."

Hermione sighed, "I know. I'm sorry, work has been busy and -"

She cut off at Harry's incredulous expression. "Because running an Auror department at the age of thirty is super relaxing," he deadpanned.

"Touche," she conceded. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know I left in a hurry and-"

Harry's sigh cut her off mid-sentence again. Confused when his face disappeared and she was gazing at a ceiling, she waited while she heard him mutter something to his wife. She heard the shuffling of sheets before her friend's face reappeared. "I'm going downstairs and you're going to watch me make a cup of tea while we catch up." The smile he gave her melted her heart. She missed him, Ginny, and the kids. All of the day's frustrations dissipated and she slumped down on her sofa.

"Okay," she said gently. And true to his word, Harry propped her on a kitchen counter in Grimmauld Place while he set about making tea. Realising she still had yet to eat she made her way over to her tiny kitchenette, levitated the mirror and set to cooking. Due to the limited space of her flat, she had needed to get creative with her cooking. She had never been so grateful for stasis charms and tinned food. She plucked a can of five beans and chopped tomatoes as well as collecting a variety of spices from her cupboard.

Her training in the DADA was rigorous as she was expected to be fully educated in hand to hand combat as well as defensive magic. It was more intense than even the Auror programme as some hell and heaven made beings were resistant to magic. The late nights in the office had leant themselves to creating unhealthy habits that she did not want to pick up. She had worked hard to recover from the period they were on the run and immediately after the war when she was malnourished and in shock.

"How are the children?" she asked as she started frying up her spices with a fresh onion she managed to find.

"They're good," Harry replied. "James is living up to his namesake and Lily is going through the terrible twos worse than either of the boys ever did. But Ginny said that growing up with the twins meant that she can guess James's moves before he makes them and that Lily has nothing on her at the same age."

"Your wife is a saint," Hermione said, glancing up from her cooking to peek over her shoulder at the floating mirror. She grinned at the sight of her best friend. His permanently untidy hair was standing on end and there was a days' worth of scruff on his jaw. His emerald eyes were tired but the gentle smile on his lips was genuine. He was clutching his mug with both hands, hunched over as though the tea would warm his bones. She peeked back at the saucepan. "I could not juggle three kids under five, a husband and a Quidditch career."

Harry shrugged, "She learned from the best." Hermione could not disagree. If there was anyone to learn how to multitask from it was Molly Weasley. "She's quitting Quidditch."

Hermione almost dropped her wooden spoon as she whipped back to the mirror. "She's what? But she loves Quidditch."

"This is why we need to do this more often," he admonished, gently. "She's taking a job at the Prophet as their sports editor. She feels like she's missing out on the kids, being away from them with games. Between my work and hers, I don't really blame her for feeling that way. Albus asked the other day when he was moving in with Nana Moll."

"Ooh. that's tough," Hermione grimaced. "I know I should call more, but I honestly have been busy with work."

"I know, Hermione, but we worry, y'know?" She turned back to the hob and added the tin of tomatoes. "When you left… it was so soon after Ron and Luna…"

She did not look back when she talked this time, "I know. That wasn't the reason though. Ron and I… I love him, Harry, I do, but the last year… it was like we were trying so hard to make it work that we forgot why we were trying to make it work."

"Yeah, I know," he sighed. "Do you at least get out and meet people?" She still refused to acknowledge the man she considered a brother. "Hermione. For fuck's sake."

"Language," she admonished. "I know," she said. She waved her wand and a pan filled itself with water to boil before a packet of brown rice floated over and poured the right amount into the bubbling water.

"So," Harry said. "What's the case?" Hermione peered up at the mirror and blushed. During school Harry was not the best at picking up on clues, however, over a decade as an Auror had honed his detective skills. His emerald eyes twinkled in the infuriating way Dumbledore's were known to as he sipped his tea.

"Who said there was a case?"

"You did," he quipped. "You admitted to not having a social life, and we weren't even supposed to have this chat tonight because of work."

"Fine," she huffed, shifted back to her cooking for a moment to lower down the heat on the tomatoes. "There may be a case. You know I told you that over here there are Muggles that hunt the same stuff I do? Well, I met one about a week ago. Between him, Malone and Moody I'm not sure who would win the scowling competition. Anyway, he told me about two other hunters. Brothers, about our age."

"Okay, I'm not sure I see a case…"

"I'm getting there," she scolded. "The brothers, Dean and Sam, were involved in some stuff last year. Stuff that would have put our school days to shame," at this Harry's brows almost disappeared beneath his mop of messy black hair, but she continued. "Yeah. They reminded me of us, Fighting the good fight. And Sam, he's… well it seems… to have lost… his soul… in hell…"

Harry's eyes widened, mouth agape. "You… What… Did you just say… soul? In hell?" She nodded. Harry ran one large hand through his mop of black hair, a sign he was taking a beat before responding. "How is he functioning?"

"It's not like a Dementor's kiss. It wasn't that it was removed, he just left it behind. He's a shell but not in the same way."

"Okay. What do you need?"

"The Master of Death."