*** c/w for minor discussions of unwanted weight loss / irregular eating habits / body image issues ***

Hermione was pacing the length of her chambers when the door opened and Kingsley appeared. He had this look on his face that she immediately hated.

"What?" she said, stopping in the middle of the room. She could hear the antique clock on the mantelpiece ticking. "What is it?"

Kingsley sighed and closed the door behind him. Even for a man who was nearing sixty, he still moved in a sure, leonine manner. "The High Council has reached its decision."

Hermione balled her hands into fists, wishing she had something to cling onto. "And?"

"They've moved to enact Action Plan Delta, ma'am." He was watching her closely, his dark eyes hooded and impenetrable. "Effective immediately."

Hermione felt herself sway a little, and she made for one of the high-backed upholstered armchairs that usually seemed so intimidating. She sat down, gripping the armrests. "Right. I suppose that makes sense."

"It does," Kingsley agreed. He came over and sat down in the chair across from her, crossing his legs. He was so at ease, so casual about the whole thing. "Do you remember the particulars of Action Plan Delta?"

"No," said Hermione, then, "Yes. Stage One is a marked decrease in public appearances. Heightened security, personal detail, all of my correspondence subjected to even more diagnostic spellwork, my residence put on twenty-four hour surveillance. Stage Two is essentially the same, but with no public appearances and even more security. Stage Three is—"

"Hermione," said Kingsley, his voice gentle. "We won't get to Stage Three."

"You can't know that," she bit out, before she could stop herself. She closed her eyes and swallowed. "Sorry."

"It's all right," he assured her, and he even smiled. For some absurd reason, the creases in the corners of his eyes gave her a sense of strength — he had made it through this job once, too. "I would be pretty tense if someone had just made an attempt on my life, too."

"When you put it like that," Hermione said, sinking back and pushing a hand through her hair, "it all sounds so reasonable."

Kingsley chuckled then. The sound was rich, warm, and it actually calmed her. "I don't believe you know how to be unreasonable, Minister."

Hermione glanced at the clock. God, it was already past six. "Walk me through it, then."

"We've canceled approximately half of your speaking engagements for the next two weeks, and all out-of-office meetings will be moved to Tier 2 approved locations only, so you'll be within Apparating distance of the Ministry. Travel will be restricted to Apparation and Floo only, no Portkeys. Your internal meetings and courtroom appointments will continue as scheduled, no real changes there.

"In terms of security, you'll have half a dozen special-forces MLEP at your disposal. They will travel with you to any and all locations outside of the Ministry, including your residence, where they will be stationed at key entry points and will conduct surveillance sweeps every half hour. While you are at the Ministry, these officers will have rotating shifts where they will be stationed outside your office, and they will accompany you to all meetings. You will also have two of our best Aurors present at all non-Ministry events, along with an Auror as your own personal detail. This Auror will run the entire security team, and will be with you at all hours of the day, except for one off-day per week, when another Auror will rotate in."

Hermione felt several different things at once. Frustration, unease, exasperation. Fear. Well, she had nearly taken an Avada Kedavra to the head just a few hours before.

"When you are entering and exiting the Ministry, you will use a communal Floo that will take you directly to and from your own residence. You will reach your office in the usual manner, though you may change the route you take, just to keep things unpredictable. And, the wards on your office will be changed — you will be able to Apparate in and out, and use the fireplace as a Floo, but I would advise doing so only in moments of serious danger. If there is an incident, the department offices will be a rendezvous point, and you will receive direction from your personal security detail on any of the other smaller matters.

"Your personnel will likewise have to undergo an increased set of security parameters to ensure that none of them have been subject to an Imperio or a dose of Polyjuice. These screenings will take place twice daily, and some will be unannounced. Higher-ranking members of the Wizengamot and the High Council will have to do the same." Kingsley's gaze softened a bit. "It's the best chance we have of making sure the threat isn't internal."

Hermione immediately thought of Jill, her secretary, and winced at the thought of the mother of three going through all those tests every day. "Isn't all this a bit much?"

Kingsley's eyebrows flickered upwards. "With all due respect, I would say it's almost not enough. You're the toughest Minister we've had in decades. To say your loss would be a shame… it's an understatement."

"Kingsley." Hermione almost smiled at him. "You don't do yourself enough justice."

He shook his head and grinned properly. "I could say the same to you."

"Perhaps." Hermione put a hand to her hair again, fighting the urge to pull it out of its bun. The long-term Sleek-Eazy was wearing off, so it was getting more and more difficult to tame. She supposed that if she wanted it done soon she would have to ask her hairdresser to consent to questioning, too. The new normal. Merlin, she thought, what a nightmare. "Kingsley," she said, letting her hand fall to her lap. "Which Auror has been assigned as my protection detail?"

Kingsley shifted in his seat, and for a moment, she could see through his usual inscrutable expression — he was uncomfortable. "Head Auror Potter," he said finally.

Once again, Hermione felt several different things at once, and it took a lot of her remaining energy not to let any of it show on her face. "Naturally," she said, keeping her voice flat.

"He'll be reporting soon. He just needs to finish up some paperwork."

Of course. He would have to submit a statement about that afternoon. The crowd, the banners, how everything seemed completely normal until it wasn't. She'd barely seen him, but she'd known he was there. He'd probably given chase to the suspect, not that it would've done any good.

Hermione stood up, ignoring the way her stomach rolled. "I believe you've covered all of the necessary details." She looked Kingsley in the eye. "I trust the investigation is underway?"

He stood up as well. "We've got our best on it. Well, apart from Potter."

Hermione felt a prickle of annoyance, but she nodded. "I expect an update in no less than forty-eight hours. I'll be damned if I'm going to live the rest of my life in lockdown."

"Well said." Kingsley had a sparkle in his eye, then, to her surprise, he reached out and gripped her shoulder. His hand was warm, firm, and he produced a sheaf of parchment. "Here's a copy of the security protocol, in case you'd like to know the details. Chin up," he added.

Hermione nodded again, feeling a rush of gratitude for him. She watched him go, and her office door closed behind him with a thud of formality. Alone again.

She let out a sigh, her shoulders sagging, threw the bundle of parchment onto the couch, and kicked off her heels. Merlin's balls. Hermione wandered over to one of the windows — these ones were much larger than those in her old office, stretching almost floor-to-ceiling — and the carpet was warm and plush beneath her toes. It was one of her simple pleasures, walking barefoot in her office when she was alone. She'd never felt such expensive carpet in her life, and the Ministry cleaning charms kept it like silk.

Her office view was of Parliament, Westminster, Big Ben. Everything was cloaked in a misty, dark rain; it was early February, and winter still had the city firmly in its prickly, icy grip.

Hermione watched as a few drops congealed and ran down the glass, trying to sort through everything Kingsley had told her, and everything he hadn't. "Head Auror Potter," she murmured, then shook her head, reaching for her hair pin.

Her hair tumbled out in coarse, thick waves, falling to the ends of her shoulder blades. It was longer now than it had been in years — good public image, someone had told her at the beginning of her campaign. It felt like a lifetime ago, when in reality, it had only been three years.

"Three years," she mumbled now. Almost halfway done with her first term, and people were already telling her that she ought to stay in the running for a second. It didn't matter that she had a handful of grey hairs, that a second term definitely meant abandoning the idea of marriage, a family. Not that she was anywhere close to that now. It had seemed, as the years passed, that sacrifices had to be made to get where she wanted to be, and Hermione had made them without so much as a second thought. She didn't have any regrets, but in moments like this, when she was facing the prospect of lockdown in a house that only had one occupant, she began to wonder if it was really worth it.

Three years, seven years, twenty years. It was almost twenty-one years now since she'd seen Voldemort fall, collapsing to the stone like any other human, any other man, any other murderer. His death had seemed too simple, too kind then, and it seemed so small now. The lengths they had gone to in order to stop him felt almost ridiculous. Almost.

It wasn't really a question of forgetting. That, of course, was impossible, especially since there were all those statues everywhere, not to mention the plaques and the anniversaries and the annual moment of silence. Harry had been forced to make speeches for years before he'd put his foot down. Not that she could blame him — gratitude is only tolerable for so long, and Harry hated attention. Even if his most recent actions would indicate otherwise…

He'd been Head Auror for five years now, and showed absolutely zero interest in moving any further up the Ministerial ladder. Logically, Harry would take over from Kingsley as head of the DMLE when Kingsley retired, but even that seemed like a long-shot. He was arrogant, comfortable. Well-seated, well-liked, far too powerful for his own good, pig-headed to boot, and—

Hermione clenched her jaw and closed her eyes. This train of thought never ended well. She could feel a migraine beginning to blossom behind her right temple.

And then, because this just really wasn't her day, the door opened, and Harry Potter walked into her office.

She turned to look at him, momentarily forgetting that her shoes were off, her hair was down, she probably had the complexion of a ghost in winter — because Harry Potter looked at her and fucking grinned.

" 'Mione," he said, low and jovial, closing the door behind him. He was in his dark crimson Head Auror robes, but they were open down the front, revealing a pair of jeans with a torn knee and a Led Zeppelin shirt that had seen better days.

"Harry," she replied. Bastard, she thought.

He mirrored her, going to stand in front of the windows on the other side of the mantelpiece. The bridge reflected in his glasses — still round, but wire-rimmed — and the grey light brought out the salt in his salt and pepper hair. "Fun day," he said.

Hermione inhaled, reminded herself that she couldn't hex the Head Auror without very due cause, then exhaled. "You could say that."

Harry turned away from the window and leaned against the sill. "I like your hair."

She scowled before she could catch herself, pinning her glare on Parliament instead. "We don't need to talk."

"You should wear it like that more often. Intimidate the High Council into submission." He put his hands in the pockets of his robes, and cocked his head when she didn't reply. "You're right," he said, "we could not talk, but that would make this whole thing pretty awkward, wouldn't it?"

Hermione couldn't agree with him, so instead, she turned around as well, heading for her desk. She grabbed the security protocol and her shoes on the way. "I have work to do."

"You're joking." He watched her sit down at her desk. "You're not joking."

"You may recall that my day was quite rudely interrupted," she told him, reaching for the stack of memos she'd been reviewing before she left for the rally. "There's quite a bit I need to finish before I can go."

Harry stood there for a moment. Indignation and surprise were warring in his face, and Hermione fought the urge to smile. It's the little things, she thought, tapping the nib of her quill on the parchment in front of her.

"Okay," he said at last. He swiped the Prophet from one of her end tables and flopped down onto the couch, sprawling out like the pain-in-the-arse teenager he wasn't. "Take your time."

"I intend to," she replied, gathering and twisting her hair, putting it back into a bun. Then, she had the thought that if she was going to make it through this situation with even a shred of sanity left, she would need to learn how to ignore Harry Potter.

Some things were easier said than done. Much, much, easier.


The clock on the mantelpiece chimed 8:30, and Hermione looked up from the weekly judicial review. She'd been so absorbed in the catalog of new laws coming before the Wizengamot that she'd lost track of time. There was a crick in her neck, a pinch in her fingers, and her eyes itched.

Nothing on Harry, though. He'd given up on the Prophet an hour before and had taken to pacing, fidgeting, conjuring, and performing diagnostic spellwork on her wards that was completely unnecessary. Now, he was back on her couch, twiddling his wand through the air, producing streams of multicolored ribbon. Thank Merlin for her ability to focus, otherwise she'd have shut him in a jam jar and left him there overnight.

"Thank Christ," Harry said when she stood up, paperwork in hand. "I was worried I was in for another OWL year. Finding you collapsed in front of the fire at two A.M."

"That's a bit of an exaggeration," she told him. She shuffled the papers together and clipped them into her briefcase. "I'll be ready in a moment."

Harry Vanished the ribbons and stood up with a groan. She couldn't help but notice the way he favored his left leg. He'd taken a Bombarda close to his right knee several years before, and it hadn't been the same since. You'd never know, on an average day — he hardly ever limped. Hermione realized he must only show it when he was tired, or off his guard, or both.

She cleared her throat, looking away. "Do you need to stop at home?"

"Nope," he said, spinning on the spot. His robes flapped, oddly playful. "Took care of that before I came here. Got everything I need for the rest of the week."

A week. Damn. The full reality of the situation sunk in as Hermione locked her briefcase and activated the security charms. She stared down at the leather, the corners already getting worn from use, and swallowed a wave of panic. Harry Potter. Living in her home. Shadowing her. Going with her from meeting to event to trial to meeting. Seeing her in the morning, late at night, after a long day of work. They'd hardly spent any time together in the past ten, fifteen, years, apart from the occasional work event or chance encounter in Diagon. And now, they would be spending all their time together.

The panic was rapidly turning to nausea. Hermione swallowed again and switched off her desk lamp. A nervous mistake — it was pitch black outside, she hadn't bothered to re-light her fire today, and there were no other lights on in her office. She heard a chuckle through the darkness, followed by a thin crackle.

A golden orb appeared by Harry's ear, casting a warm light across the room. The space was almost brighter than it had been before, and the light made his hair look even more silver. He was grinning again. "Didn't think that through, did you, 'Mione?"

Hermione barely held back a scowl and stepped into her shoes.

In spite of her best efforts, it seemed that Harry noticed. "Cheer up," he told her as she crossed the room. He followed her to the door, the orb bobbing behind him. "It could be worse. You could be dead."

"Yes, thank you for the delightful reminder." Hermione opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, which was still partially lit. She didn't bother to turn or wait for Harry, knowing that he would be right behind her. "In fact, I'd almost forgotten."

"So what's for dinner?" Harry said next. The glowing orb had disappeared, and she almost missed it before she could stop herself. He had his hands in the pockets of his robes again, and he was sauntering alongside her without a care in the world. "You must be famished after all that."

Right. Another wave of nausea threatened to overtake her. Famished. "Didn't realize I would be taking on catering duties." She nodded to a passing cleaning witch and turned the corner, heading for the lifts. "I'm afraid you'll find my abilities rather remiss."

Harry snorted. "Don't need to tell me twice. I'll never be able to forget those stewed mushrooms." He affected a shudder. "Not what I meant, though. So, what's the plan?"

"To go home," she replied, wondering if there was always going to be this much talking. "Or did you miss the part where we were leaving?" The lift bank appeared and she stepped into the closest one, punching the button for the Atrium.

Harry was right behind her, of course, and he grabbed one of the handles dangling from the ceiling. "I caught on. Italian? Thai? Vietnamese? Ethiopian?"

The lift lurched, sweeping them up and away. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment and willed herself to remember what patience felt like.

"Don't hold out on me," Harry said. "I want to know what Hermione Granger, Minister of Magic, eats on a Tuesday night."

"Dinner," said Hermione. The lift hurtled to a stop in the Atrium and the doors popped open. Hermione set out for the departure grates, only turning a few heads as she went. This was part of the reason she'd decided to stay late — fewer people to gawp at her when she left.

"Hold on!" Harry tried to step in front of her, getting between her and the fireplace. His glasses flashed in the low overhead light. "You know the rules."

Hermione stopped short, just two feet away from the Floo. Of course. Side-Along only. Gritting her teeth, she held out her arm to Harry. He took it, and together, they stepped into the Floo.

A short squeeze and a spin later, she stumbled into her living room. Hermione blinked, momentarily disoriented, because she'd forgotten what it was like to share in Harry's magic. It was rather like being tethered to a small comet.

Harry stepped away — she'd almost forgotten he was there — and cleared his throat. "Nice place."

Hermione ignored this and waved a hand, turning on a few lamps. They illuminated a large — well, for London, anyway — but cozy space, with neat furniture and lots of bookshelves. The view from her front windows, when it was day, looked out on a small road and tidy neighborhood just two blocks away from Marylebone High Street. She tried, for a moment, to see her home through the eyes of an outsider. Inviting, but without much personality — Hermione wasn't one for photographs, or decor.

Not that it mattered much.

"Give me a minute," Harry said. "I need to do a sweep."

Hermione frowned at him. "Didn't the team already do that earlier this evening?"

"Yes." He shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. "I have to do one upon entry as well. I don't write policy, 'Mione, I just follow it."

Hermione sighed, pulling out her mobile. "Very well. Be quick."

He was, thankfully. He did her bedroom first, then the dining room, the kitchen, and the water closet before going upstairs. When he reappeared a few minutes later and gave her a nod, Hermione pulled off her coat.

"I'm going to change," she said to Harry. "Make yourself comfortable, I suppose." She turned and left without waiting for a reply.

Her bedroom, much like the rest of the house, was fairly utilitarian, save for the luscious, even decadent, King-sized four-poster bed that had a massive billowy white comforter and eons of fluffy pillows. She closed the door behind her and smiled properly for the first time that day. "You two seem comfortable."

Casper and Winnie popped their heads up from behind one of her pillows. One of them — she guessed Casper — let out a meow.

"Busy day, was it?" She crossed to her closet, kicked off her shoes, and began to strip. Ever since the incident that afternoon, she'd been crawling out of her own body, her clothes sticking to her like an unwanted second skin. Peeling it all off flooded her with relief. "Looks like you haven't even moved since this morning."

Winnie chirped and stood up, stretching his long, lean legs. Casper followed suit, shaking his head until his ears flapped.

Hermione bent and gave each of them a kiss, then went to the bathroom and put on the shower. She pulled the pin out of her hair again, letting it fall, then caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She stared for a moment while the water began to heat up.

She looked the same, because of course she did. She'd dodged an AK, not one of a wide number of disfiguration spells. But still, she couldn't help but look at her face, at the faint dark circles that never seemed to fully go away, at the thin lines in her forehead, in the outer corners of her eyes, around her mouth. Those seemed to be getting more pronounced these days, but it wasn't any wonder. To say her job was stressful would be a vast understatement.

And she'd gotten even thinner. Hermione turned to the side and sighed at the sight of her figure, rueful. It wasn't intentional. It certainly wasn't that. But it was the stress again, she supposed. Stress and the inability to remember to eat more than the odd biscuit and the occasional sandwich or Chinese takeaway. She missed the way her waist used to curve into her hips, the way her back would crease and fold when she turned to the side, the way her stomach would roll when she bent over.

She'd looked so vibrant before. So bold, so bright. Now, she looked sort of pinched. Unhealthy.

For one wild, absurd moment, she missed being taken care of. Someone telling her to eat, or else she'd wither away. "But that's beside the point," Hermione muttered, shaking her head and stepping into her shower. Nothing to gain from lamenting the unlikely.

Hermione took her time, not something she usually did. Thanks to the Sleek-Eazy, she could get her hair wet whenever she wanted, even shampoo it, so she did. Warm, fruity tendrils of honey and gardenia snaked around her, turning her water pale green and sudsy. She forced herself to breathe slowly, inhaling the calming, delightful scent, poking at the bubbles hanging in the air. The day, the stress, the fear, the old adrenaline, was melting off of her, spiralling down the drain.

She could handle Harry Potter. Logically, she knew this, but it didn't seem to be sinking in. He was doing the same thing he'd always done. Playing with her, dancing circles around her, making her feel like an idiot.

His friendliness was unsettling. Disconcerting. They'd barely said ten words to each other in the past six months — outside of official meetings, of course — and less than half of those words had been genial. It wasn't a secret that Head Auror Potter and Minister Granger didn't see eye-to-eye, and they had no trouble letting everyone know it. Though Hermione liked to think that she handled a healthy argument with more dignity than some, especially since she'd never stormed out of Conference Room B in the Department of Mysteries swearing at the top of her lungs.

Growing up. Something that was better in theory rather than practice. At age eighteen, in the middle of their make-up NEWTs year, she never would've guessed that one day she and Harry would barely be on speaking terms. Or that she and Ron would part ways not six months after she began her apprenticeship at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and he began his at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. She still saw him, of course, in the Atrium and the occasional meeting, even in Diagon Alley. He'd long since fallen in love with a Muggle named Sally, and they had four bouncing children at their home in Surrey. Ron was happy. Blissful, even.

Harry, though. A much more complicated question. And, she guessed, a much more complicated answer.

An answer not worth trying to find, she told herself, switching off the shower and wrapping herself in a warm towel. Hermione shook out her hair, half-drying it with a brush of her hand, and went back into her bedroom.

When she went out into the living room, wearing her poshest loungewear and with her hair in a plait, she couldn't help feeling nervous. It was odd, having a near-stranger in her house, a space that so rarely held anyone other than herself. She was putting on a bit of a performance, and she knew it.

Harry was standing in front of one of the bookshelves, scanning the titles. He'd taken off his robes and his shoes, and if she squinted, the jeans and t-shirt made him look like a twenty-something instead of a thirty-something. He looked up when she came in, and she realized — or perhaps remembered — that without her heels on, he was quite a bit taller than her.

Just like the old days, she thought, not at all bitter.

"Who were you talking to in there?" he said.

That stopped her short. "I—"

Thankfully, Casper and Winnie chose that moment to appear, strolling into the living room with their eyes fixed on the newcomer.

"I should've guessed." Harry smirked down at them. "Cats."

Hermione felt a blush threatening to break free so she started talking. "Would you like me to show you where you're staying? I suppose you've already seen the upstairs, but you could put your things away."

He cocked his head. "You haven't had dinner yet."

"No," Hermione conceded. "I haven't."

Harry just stood there looking at her for another moment, then he shook his head. "You can show me before you go to bed."

Hermione blinked. "All right." A second later, she realized why he was delaying it. Stairs. "I'll feed the boys, then."

She turned and headed for the kitchen, Harry and the cats not far behind. Hermione passed through the dining room, which she hardly ever used to its true purpose, and turned the corner, switching on the light in the kitchen.

Harry leaned against the counter. "You've certainly done all right, 'Mione. I think I can see my reflection in the fridge."

Hermione chose not to reply to that. She pulled out a fresh tin of Whiskas and split it between two dishes. The cats were clustering at her feet, meowing something ridiculous.

"What are their names?" said Harry.

"Casper is the white one, and Winnie is the tabby." She dropped the spoon in the dishwasher and brought the dishes to their feeding area, where the cats went after their food like beasts. With a wave of her hand, she refilled their dry food and water. "Both boys."

Harry gave her a funny look. "You named a boy 'Winnie.' What cruel and unusual punishment."

"Nickname for Irwin," she told him, going back to the fridge. It was nearly empty, save for the usual jars of sauces, some milk, a bar of chocolate she kept forgetting to eat. And, thankfully, a glass dish full of leftovers. "Here," Hermione said, sliding the container across the island. "You can have that, if you like."

"What is it?"

"Gnocchi in Bolognese. From the Italian place a few streets down." What she didn't say was that it was the by-product of a bad date with a Muggle named Thomas who had horrible table manners and the inability to ask personal questions.

Harry seemed surprised. He tapped the lid. "All right. What about you?"

Hermione was already in the freezer, pulling out two pieces of bread. "Don't worry," she said as she popped them into the toaster. "I'm not that hungry." She held out a hand. "Want that warmed up?"

Harry got that funny look again. "That's all right." He took off the lid, produced his wand — hip holster, she guessed — and gave the container a tap. The pasta sprang back to life with a sizzle, and the smell of warm, rich sauce and fresh basil wafted over to her. Before she could do anything else, Harry conjured a fork.

He sat down on one of the barstools at the island and dug in, shoveling several gnocchi into his mouth at once, and she realized that his eating habits hadn't changed at all since school. "You don't use magic," he said, and, well, that threw her.

"Pardon?"

"To do any of this stuff," he clarified, waving a hand at the kitchen. "To make toast, serve cat food, heat up leftovers."

She shrugged, wishing now that she had used it on her toast. It would've meant a swifter exit. "Old habits."

"I suppose." Harry was still looking at her. Thankfully, the toast chose that moment to pop up, and Hermione busied herself fixing her food.

Every part of Hermione wanted to take her toast and go back to her room, anything to escape having to do this now, here, in front of Harry. But he would just follow her, so she gritted her teeth and sat down across from him.

They ate in a blissful silence for about a minute, then Harry was smirking again. "Toast with peanut butter. How gourmet."

Hermione chewed carefully, and began to catalog the different hexes she would dearly love to hit him with. Ten seconds in, she realized she needed categories and subcategories, particularly if this situation was going to last for a while. "Have you checked in with the other Aurors?"

Harry nodded. "Everything's quiet and running smoothly."

Of course it was. "Good." Then, curiosity got the better of her. "How do you all stay in touch? Patronuses can't be quick enough, surely."

"You'll like this one." He reached into his back pocket and produced a sleek black square, hardly half an inch thick and no bigger than his palm, with a short antenna. Hermione blinked at the familiar object. There was no way —

"Latest thing out of R&D," Harry said, smug. "Little interdepartmental cooperation between the Unspeakables and Misuse of Muggle Artifacts."

"A… walkie-talkie?"

"Enchanted walkie-talkie," Harry corrected her, flipping it over. The small screen briefly flared blue, and she was reminded of her new mobile, which glowed every time a new text came in. "That means it's connected and all in good order. Mine's off at the moment, except for urgent calls, but we can page each other at any time. The device uses a nuanced form of Accio, so we only come in on the radios we want to reach. If you want everyone to hear you, you just flip the switch on the side." He pointed to a small button. "Got lots of other features, too. Emergency contacts that get you straight to the DMLE, a siren in case you get lost or buried, a button for sending Morse code, and a live tracking beacon that never turns off."

"Ingenious," Hermione breathed, before she could stop herself. "Whose idea was it?"

"Mine."

Harry was grinning, she knew it without looking. Hermione withdrew her hand from the walkie-talkie and picked up her second slice. The toast had turned to lead in her stomach, but she couldn't stop now. "Good work."

A beat passed. Then, Harry said, "Was that as painful to say as it was to watch?"

Hermione stared down at her plate, willing herself not to cave. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Right." Harry pocketed the walkie-talkie and went back to his food. They fell into silence, which Hermione was stupidly grateful for. It was easier to choke down her toast without trying to talk at the same time.

A few moments later, the cats clearly had enough of their dinner, because Casper jumped up onto the island and sniffed his way to Hermione's plate. She nudged it out of his reach.

Harry watched, chewing. "You let them on the island?"

"Not much I can do to stop them, short of a curse." Hermione looked at Casper, who stared back at her and meowed. "No," she told him, "come on, you've had your supper."

Harry, thankfully, said nothing, and Casper hopped back down to the ground. She waited for Harry to finish his food before she stood up and cleared their dishes. "Anything else you need before—?"

Harry looked at her. "You're going to bed?"

Hermione fought the urge to fidget. "For all intents and purposes. Why?"

He looked at her some more. The overhead lights were thin white orbs reflected in his glasses. "Nothing, it's just…" He cleared his throat and stood up. "Nothing."

Hermione nodded and left the kitchen, taking him back through the living and dining rooms to the staircase on the side of the house. She turned on the hall light and went up, glancing behind her to make sure Harry followed. He did, and he kept pace with her on the stairs.

"Rare to find a house with the main bedroom on the ground floor," he said.

"Yes," Hermione replied. She reached the landing and headed left, turning on lights as she went. The open space was a lounge-slash-library; this was where she kept the majority of her books, and where she usually sat to read them. There was a set of large, squishy armchairs beside another fireplace, and a nice music system along the opposite wall.

"This is the guest bedroom." Hermione led Harry around the corner into a small but airy bedroom. She flicked on the lights as well and held the door open for him. "The ensuite bathroom has a fresh set of towels and the fireplace out in the lounge is connected to the Floo." She headed for the closet and pulled the doors open. Thank goodness she'd cleared it out a few months earlier. "You can keep your things in here and in the dresser."

"Thanks." Harry swept a hand across the top of the duvet. "Are you sure you want me up here and not downstairs? I'd be fine on the couch, and I'd be closer to you, in case." He paused, looking at her, then swallowed. "In case something happened."

Hermione's heart throbbed in her throat — just once, and painfully. "I'm sure. And I believe Kingsley gave you permission to Apparate within my wards, in any case."

Harry exhaled, a touch rueful. "Well, all right." He pulled something out of his pocket and gave it a rough shake. The something was a canvas duffel, and it sprang back to its original size as he dropped it on the floor. Hermione tried not to stare. She was reminded of the tent they'd stolen and secreted into her beaded handbag all those years ago — the duffel was crumpled, a touch dirty, and had definitely seen better days.

"I would advise you to keep your door shut if you don't want midnight visitors," she told him. "The cats aren't very good at respecting personal space."

"Right, of course." Harry gave her a quick smile. "I'll be sleeping in shifts. Just to make sure everything stays quiet."

The thought of him being awake and wandering around her house without her there was mildly infuriating, but Hermione nodded, heading for the door. "Whatever you need to do."

Harry turned to look at her as she left, and before she could say anything else, he said, "Sleep well." His voice was low, sincere.

Heat flooded towards her face, and she had to get out of here, now. "Thanks." She turned and fled, making it downstairs in record time, but the image of Harry bloody Potter standing in her guest bedroom was burned into her mind, likely for good.

When she got back downstairs, she went through her usual habit of closing off the Floo, turning off the lights, double-checking the wards and locks, making sure the curtains were closed. She'd once felt sort of self-conscious about doing this every night — maybe it was too paranoid — but she certainly didn't feel that way now. Next were the dishes, which she cleaned by magic, too strung-out to do them the Muggle way.

Her bed, when she fell into it, was fluffy and warmed by the fire she'd left crackling in the grate. Winnie was already dozing on a pillow, and he got up to snuggle into her side, purring loudly. In spite of herself, in spite of everything, Hermione smiled for the second time that day. She hugged him close and pulled out her current book, a juicy, sort-of-trashy novel that she never told anyone about reading, except for her twice-monthly Muggle book club. Sandra had picked this one — the title was something about big lies — and Hermione couldn't wait to hear what the others had to say on Saturday.

Once her bedside lamp was off and her mind was elsewhere, Hermione let herself give in to the soft, ebbing glow of the fire, feeling a strong rush of contentment and peace that never came to her during the day. It was like that, finally thinking that perhaps this would all be okay, that exhaustion finally overcame her and she fell asleep.