The next morning, Hermione walked into her kitchen fully dressed, heels already on and hair up, with a decision ringing clear but new in her mind. Harry, of course, was sitting at the island, skimming the Prophet, sipping at a cup of tea.

Milk, no sugar, she suddenly remembered, and felt a swooping sensation in her stomach.

Harry looked up when she came in, and his eyebrows flickered. "Morning."

"Good morning," she replied, going to the fridge and pulling out the milk. She could feel his gaze on her as she moved about, switching on the kettle, digging out the bag of muesli and a bowl. After a minute, she fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Is there something on my suit?"

"No." Harry cleared his throat. "It's seven in the morning."

"Indeed." Hermione slid the bowl of cold cereal onto the island and went about fixing a cup of tea. The water was still hot. "What of it?"

"Nothing." She heard him take a sip of tea before he continued. "You're dressed."

Mug of tea in hand, Hermione turned and sat at the island. "If you think the position of Minister is a bread-and-butter nine-to-five, prepare for a rude awakening."

"That's not what I—" Harry shook his head. "Never mind."

Hermione felt a spike of irritation, but she pushed it away and tried to focus on her food. Even though it was a nice muesli, one of her favorites, it felt like sand in her mouth, and she forced herself to swallow. The silence hung between them like a fog, and she cataloged Harry's appearance. No less rumpled than yesterday, still in jeans, but today he'd paired it with a black wool jumper that had definitely seen better days. Fitting, considering the sleet that had been pounding at her windows since dawn.

She made a mental note to have a word with Kingsley about matters of personal appearance within the DMLE. No point in having regulations if the boss was going to break all of them.

"Sleep well?" Harry asked, out of nowhere. He was looking right at her, and for a moment, all she could think about was how green and bright his eyes were.

"Yes," she said, a bit stiffly. "Was everything upstairs satisfactory?"

"Very comfy, thanks." His gaze dropped back to the Prophet and he smiled. "Casper followed me around when I did my walk-through. He's very talkative."

Hermione tried not to smile at the mental image that conjured up. Casper had probably batted at his ankles and tried to trip him on corners. "Yes, he is."

They lapsed back into silence, save for the clink of Hermione's spoon on the bowl and the rustle of the newspaper. For a moment, absurdly, she was reminded of one of the hundreds of breakfasts they'd shared at Gryffindor table. Tea, toast, eggs, bacon. Morning post. Watching Harry watch Ginny. A different lifetime.

"You're on the front page," Harry said, out of nowhere. Thankfully, he was in the middle of the paper, so the front page was hidden from view. "Great big drama about the incident yesterday."

"That's hardly news," Hermione replied. "I was on the front page yesterday, as well. One does get used to it, after a while."

"Indeed." He glanced at her. "You don't read it?"

"Not usually. Sometimes the financials, and sometimes, the crossword."

"Then why get it at all?"

Hermione got up to clear her bowl. "I've been meaning to ask. I was planning on going to the gym tomorrow morning and—"

"Off-limits," Harry said. "Sorry," he added, when she turned to frown at him. "Since it's a public space, there are too many uncontrollable factors. We can't guarantee that you'd be protected the whole time you're in there."

"I see." Hermione went back to the dishes. "So if I want to exercise—"

"You've got to do it at home."

"Right." She did a quick mental catalog of her closet. Her running shoes were probably a bit dusty, but she could make that work. She had a sudden mental image of jogging through the nearby park, Harry puffing and panting as he tried to keep pace, and fought off a grin.

It was almost enough to take her mind off how invasive this all was. Harry was more in her life now than he'd been since Hogwarts. Maybe even then he hadn't had this much of a presence, of a selective, glaring perspective into her day-to-day mundanity. His having access to the little, boring things was somehow much worse than him being there for the big events. That, of course, was unavoidable — collateral damage from his high-level position and their admitted shared history — but this, this nonstop needling into her private world, almost certainly was worse. Which brought her back to the decision she'd made almost immediately upon waking.

But that could wait. It wasn't a conversation she could have here. Not in her home.

Hermione finished the dishes and glanced at the cats' bowls, refreshing them with a wave of her hand. "Ready?"

Harry blinked. His mug of tea was still half-full, which she'd known before she asked. "You want to head in now? It's barely quarter-past seven. The cleaning witches won't even be—"

"Yes and no." Hermione strode out of the room, not bothering to check if he was following. "Do keep up."

"'Mione— Minister—" Harry hurried to catch up, nearly hitting the dining table on his way. "You haven't got anything on your calendar." And he pointedly waggled his mobile at her.

Hermione gritted her teeth. The Ministry was still catching up when it came to advancements in Muggle technology — only the high-ranking employees, including Hermione, had laptops, wifi, and email accounts — but all Muggle-borns and mixed-bloods had mobiles and routinely used them, even at work. And since Muggle-borns and mixed-bloods made up most of the Ministry these days, Ministerial life revolved around the benevolent force of Google Calendars. Hermione already knew that all the Aurors on her personal team had been given access to her own calendar, along with all of her secretary's files. But to have it literally waved in her face — "I can assure you that I can have a life outside of those grey lines." She pulled on her wool overcoat and shouldered her briefcase. "Coming?"

"Coming? Jesus, Hermione." Harry crossed to the coat stand and grabbed his robes. "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere by Floo. So I suggest you cast your mind back to fifth year and recall the basics of clothing transfiguration. It's quite cold outside."

She could practically see the anger coming off him in waves. "I'll have to inform the team about the schedule change."

"You can do that on the way." Hermione opened the front door and stepped out into the wind and sleet. Thank Merlin for her coat's built-in Shield and Heat charms.

For a brief moment, she could see the itch for rebellion crawling underneath Harry's skin. It wasn't as obvious now as it had been at Hogwarts, but she could still read him quite well. He Transfigured his robes into a heavy wool overcoat not unlike her own, shrugged it on, then stepped out and closed the door behind them. Her front awning gave them brief respite from the weather, and she heard him mutter into his walkie-talkie — "Gamma team, the Eagle is on the move. Shift into triangle formation and double-check domestic wards. Over."

Hermione set off at a march, heading southwest, and Harry hastened to follow. The road was practically empty, thanks to the weather, and she kept her arms close to her body, wincing at the force of the wind. Even if she couldn't feel it, she was aware of it. Bloody February.

"Where are you going?" Harry said to her, his voice raised above the elements.

Hermione ignored him and continued on. Marylebone had some traffic, a lazy river of people heading to work, and she turned right at the intersection, continuing up the main road. A block and a half later, she came to a tiny coffee shop, and she pushed in the door with a sigh of relief. The air in here was warm, sweet, chocolatey, and it buffeted her like a hug.

"Morning, Cassie," she said to the barista with a smile. "Usual, please."

Cassie nodded and smiled, her fingers darting across the screen of the computer. "Anything for your… friend?"

Merlin's balls. She'd forgotten Harry was lurking behind her like an ogre. "Nothing for my colleague," Hermione quickly replied. "Thank you."

Cassie looked skeptical but nodded anyway, her gaze lingering on Harry. He did look foreboding in that trench coat, sort of dark and mysterious—

Hermione squished the rest of that thought before it could form and stepped aside to wait. Mentally, she began to count. Behind the counter, the espresso machine fired up and Cassie got to work, her blonde bun bobbing above the metal machinery.

"You didn't pay."

Fifteen seconds, he'd lasted. Hermione hid her smile and glanced at Harry. "I have a tab. We settle monthly."

She could feel him staring at her. It was a prickle in the back of her neck. "You must come here often, then."

"Yes." Hermione pulled out her mobile and flipped through it. A few messages in her book club chat — theories about Jane, a snarky joke about Renata — and a couple calendar alerts for new meetings Jill had already added to her day. The Gringotts liaison after lunch, then some transport executives after that. She sighed a little. Welcome to Wednesday.

Her coffees were soon done, along with a bag of half a dozen pain du chocolat, and Hermione whisked them away, giving Cassie a wave goodbye as she left. Harry followed her out of the shop and around a corner, into a little-used alleyway. There, finally, she stopped, and turned to face him.

He spoke first. "Minister. Before we go any further, I require an explanation. I need to know where we are going and how long you intend to stay there." He was frustrated, that much was obvious.

"Covent Garden," she replied, offering her free elbow. Harry glanced at it with distrust. "Around the corner from St. Paul's. For approximately half an hour. Then straight to the Ministry, my chambers."

Harry pulled out his walkie-talkie, looked at her for a moment. "Covent Garden?"

"Tell the team," she replied.

It took a moment, a long moment in which they just stared at each other, but finally, Harry gave in and pressed the button on his walkie-talkie. "Apparating to Covent Garden, half-hour detour. I will accompany the Eagle solo, rendezvous at the office in forty minutes. Over and out."

Feeling a small glow of triumph, Hermione offered her elbow again. Harry stepped closer, took her arm, and she pulled.

A tight squeeze later, they landed around the corner of an old white brick building. Hermione nearly stumbled as she stepped away from Harry, a touch dizzy from his magic. That would definitely take some getting used to.

Harry frowned at her. "All right?"

"Never better," she replied. She turned on her heel and headed for the street, Harry right behind her.

The little side road was just beginning to wake up, shops and houses stirring in the grey morning fog. A few lights glowed here and there, signalling cups of tea being poured, toasters popping up, cash registers trundling open. Hermione smiled in spite of herself, and headed for a nondescript dark blue storefront, with a fading golden script painted next to the door. "Alonzo's Fine Books" greeted them from windows over a century old, and Hermione pushed open the door, relishing the familiar scent of old books and the warm rush of heat. She almost forgot Harry was with her, especially once he gritted his teeth and pulled out his wand, tapping himself on the head. The Disillusionment Charm took immediate effect, and a moment later, she was looking at a stretch of cobblestones instead of his horrid trainers.

"Al?" She went into the shop and wove between cluttered shelves and stacks of books. Some of the towers were taller than her, and were standing from the combination of sheer willpower and a prayer. And a little magic, but only Hermione knew about that.

"Back 'ere, darlin'!"

Hermione headed to the back of the shop, where, sure enough, Al was up on a ladder behind the register, book in hand, trying to find a space that didn't exist (yet). He grinned down at her, his wizened face golden and creased in the light, and tipped his tweed cap. "Top of the mornin', my dear! Though what a gloomy mornin' it is, can't hardly walk for damp. I told June to keep the fire goin', this sort of cold always sticks to your bones and settles in for the day."

"Good morning," she replied, sliding the food and drinks onto the counter. "Up early?"

"As always, my dear, as always!" He made his way down the ladder and caught sight of the coffee. "Ah! You've brought breakfast."

"As always," Hermione parroted. She turned and pulled a wooden stool out from under a nearby table, where it always was, then pushed it up to the counter and sat down. "Shall we invite June?"

"Of course, my dear, of course!" Al poked his head into the doorway that led to the back of the shop and, she knew, the ground floor of his flat. "June! Miss Hermione's here, and she's brought some sweeties!"

Hermione smiled at him, delighted to find him in such a good mood. She began doling out the coffees and pastries, and tried to ignore the prickle at the back of her neck that told her she was being watched.


Harry, for all his faults, could keep his head when necessary. So he waited until they were at the Ministry, in her office, alone, with the door shut.

He rounded on her. He'd turned his coat back into robes, and they fluttered at his ankles. "I demand an explanation. Changing your movements at the last minute—"

"It was hardly last minute," Hermione replied. She took off her own coat and brushed a hand across her hair, tucking in a few flyaway strands. "I go to Al's every Tuesday, and no, it doesn't show up on my work calendar. You would know that if you had approached this assignment with the bare minimum of professionalism."

Harry's eyebrows disappeared into his hair. "Professionalism?" he repeated, his voice getting dangerously sharp.

"Yes, Auror Potter. It appears to be a concept of which you have only the most basic and tenuous grasp." She rounded on him, fortified by the fact that she was in home territory — this was her space, her desk, her domain, and she'd faced worse than Harry Potter. "You and I both know that, according to DMLE practices, any Auror assigned as a personal security detail is responsible for establishing the routines and movements of their asset, through personal interview or, if necessary, investigation. That should have been your first task, not flopping across my sofa or passing comments on what I should have for dinner." She paused for breath. "You made a rookie mistake, Auror Potter, and that was to assume that you knew the first thing about my life.

"I'm guessing that this mistake was borne of arrogance, a result of thinking that our ever-dwindling personal history would give you a degree of insight that does not, in reality, exist. Thankfully, you're competent enough to have handled the situation adequately, and you adapted, but as a result of your oversight, I was at greater personal risk than I should have been. And that is a scenario I do not wish to repeat, especially given the current circumstances. Am I making myself clear?"

A beat passed. Then two. Harry was staring at her, his jaw clenched. A short eternity later, he nodded and straightened, shifting into a stance she realized was parade rest. "Yes, Minister."

"Good." In spite of herself, Hermione's cheeks heated. She hadn't expected him to give in that easily. "I am nothing other than another assignment, Auror Potter, and you would do well to remember it. Making conversation with me and passing comments on my life, home, or appearance are in no way part of your job description. The time that you are with me is time that you are on the clock. I would recommend you behave accordingly.

"On a related note, it seems that while you have forgotten departmental regulations pertaining to personal appearance, I have not. I do not want to see you in another pair of jeans unless it's for undercover purposes. In the course of this assignment, you will be with me at all times, occasionally in public and at formal events, often in the company of high-ranking officials, and I will not tolerate the presence of a man dressed as an overgrown teenager who cannot remember to get a haircut. That is not the message that this government wants to send to its own dignitaries or to those from other countries." Hermione unlocked her mobile and sent a quick text to Jill. "Since I'm back at the Ministry and only have internal meetings today, I suggest taking a few hours of personal time to make the required changes. You can send along a temporary replacement if you feel it necessary." Her office door opened to show Jill, with her hand on the handle, holding it open for Harry's exit. One of her MLEP security team — Rogers, she thought — gave the room a cursory glance, having the grace to hide most of his surprise. "That will be all."

Harry gave a nod. His face was flat, expressionless, and his gaze bore a hole into her own. It was almost like he was a different person from the man who'd walked her into the Ministry just a few minutes before — a negative version of the full-color Harry, a few shades off from normal. "Ma'am." He turned and left her office, his pace measured and grim, and so wholly opposite from what she'd been expecting that Hermione felt a bit lightheaded.

She wobbled a bit on her heels as Jill closed the door behind him, and caught herself on the edge of her desk. "Right," she said aloud. "Time to work."

Thank goodness there was a lot of that. She wasn't sure much else could distract her from one of the most disturbing things she'd ever witnessed — Harry Potter giving in without a fight.


The day passed, because of course it did. She sat in on a few judicial hearings — only listening, not voting, since Ministers had forfeited that privilege under Kingsley's reforms — and spent the rest of the morning reading through briefings on the trade situation — fairly strong — the house-elf situation — improving with every year — and on Brexit.

Hermione would be voting in the Muggle election, of course, as all Muggle-borns would. She stared down at the transcript of Boris Johnson's latest speech and shook her head. She'd only met with him once since he'd taken office, and it had been enough to make her blood boil. What was the world coming to?

All day, the Ministry had buzzed around her like a hive. She was aware of the whispers, the gazes, the smirks as she walked across the Atrium, through court, down a hall. True, the MLEP took her along slightly less public routes now that she was semi-sequestered, but it was pervasive all the same. The gossip, the snark, the rumors, were all things she'd gotten used to in the run-up to the election — you don't get to be a Department Head and then Minister before age forty without growing a very thick skin — but it somehow felt different now that her life had actually been threatened. Did none of these people care that she had come within inches of death? If anything, it had made them more ruthless, more biting. It was difficult to feel like the popular choice when everyone still seemed so ready to cut you down.

But she couldn't waste time dwelling on it, even if it was almost poetic. She knew, now, how Harry had felt at Hogwarts — always on the defensive. It was an exhausting way to be, to live, even if someone always had to be at the center of the target.

At some point, morning turned into afternoon, and Hermione dimly recalled eating an apple or something, but she was nose-deep in a report on wand core stocks when her office door opened and Harry walked in.

At least, she thought it was Harry. But it could have been his deeply elegant and slightly evil twin. It was enough of a difference that her stomach flipped and her mouth went dry, because of all the things she'd expected, she hadn't expected this.

He'd had his robes freshly pressed, and they gleamed in deep, rich crimson, parted to reveal a dark grey suit tailored to within an inch of its life. He'd paired it with a pale blue shirt and a deep blue tie, along with sharp dark brown leather shoes. The contrast between his clothes and his robes was distinctive, bold and bright in the pale light of her office. And the lines of the suit showed her something she hadn't noticed before — Harry Potter had muscles, and his shoulders were broad, sloping into a sleek torso that she almost never would have expected from a man who was nearly forty. And that was to say nothing of his hair. He'd had it trimmed then combed back and to the side, and the part showcased the gleam of silver among the black. Now that it was out of his face, she could see his jawline, the sharp jut of his chin, the ridge of his nose.

He looked, for the split second that Hermione allowed herself to think it, like James Bond.

Like a knife. A weapon.

And when he met her gaze, his face was so placid, so enigmatic, that she felt an odd ripple of fear. But she supposed this was what she'd glimpsed before — Harry, not putting up a fight.

"Anderson," Harry said, stepping out of the doorway. He turned to the Auror who'd taken his place and was currently standing by the mantelpiece. "You may return to your office."

Anderson — she was quite a bit younger than them, Hermione now noticed — nodded and made to leave. "Minister," she said, and Hermione nodded in reply.

Then Anderson was gone, the door shut, and Harry turned to Hermione once again. Hermione felt a distinct flutter in the region of her stomach, which was deeply unhelpful, given—

"Kingsley will be reporting at four o'clock with a situation update on the suspect at large," Harry said. "I understand before that, you have Gringotts and the transportation officials, correct?" At her nod, he pulled out a small notebook. "So you have no commitments until two?"

Hermione blinked at him. "Well, nothing official—"

"May I impose upon you for a few minutes then, Minister?"

She exhaled. Of course he'd decided to make up for lost time as quickly as possible. Typical Seeker behavior. "I suppose so." She pushed her trade briefing to the side and capped her fountain pen. "What do you need?"

"An overview of your personal habits, so I can plan adequately. We might be in this stage of lockdown for an extended period, so it's better to be prepared for every eventuality." Harry took a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk, and she caught a whiff of his delicately spicy aftershave. Unhelpful, some corner of her brain thought. Very unhelpful.

"Let's begin with Alonzo's Books." Harry held his pen at the ready on the new page of his notebook. "You visit once a week?"

"Yes. Tuesday mornings before work."

"And you are aware that it is an unregistered magical space?"

Hermione gritted her teeth. She'd wondered if Harry had noticed, even though they hadn't stayed longer than twenty minutes. "The only magic on the property consists of the wards used on their personal flat and a few simple spells to keep the books preserved and shelved properly. Otherwise, the space is frequented almost exclusively by Muggles, and the Riccis haven't lived in the Wizarding world since the first war. They are completely out of touch with the Wizarding community — they use Muggle money, and haven't set foot in Diagon Alley or even read the Prophet for almost fifty years."

That got a reaction. One of Harry's eyebrows twitched. "You mean they have no idea—?"

"—who I am? Correct." Hermione cleared her throat. "I stumbled upon the shop several years ago and quickly became friends with them. They know I'm a witch, but they think I'm a low-level Ministry functionary. And we're going to keep it that way."

"That is not the recommendation I would make," Harry replied.

"I don't care." Hermione sat back in her chair. "I've been friends with them for years and I can't stop visiting them out of the blue. We can come back to this topic if the security threat increases, but in the meantime, the visits will continue as usual. Next item."

Harry looked at her for another moment, still inscrutable, then nodded. "Tell me about your weekly errands and personal commitments."

"I go to the coffee shop every day on the way to work. And as I mentioned this morning, I like to exercise a few times a week. If I can't go to the gym, then I will figure out something else. I usually go to the shops first thing on Saturday morning — there's a Waitrose I like on Marylebone, so I walk there and back."

Harry was writing very quickly. "Do you keep most of your shopping in your neighborhood, or do you go to other parts of London?"

"I usually stay in that area, unless I need something specific. I might go to Diagon Alley once in a while, but I try to avoid it if I can."

Harry gave her a sharp glance, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "I understand," he said, and with a jolt, she realized that of course he did. Diagon had always been tricky for him, even back in school. Trying to do errands while people bombarded you with questions and gratitude and veiled insults was practically impossible. "We'll have to restrict shopping trips to a half-hour maximum, and you will have to travel everywhere by Apparition. No more walking," he clarified at her frown. "You can go out for recreational exercise for one hour three times a week."

Hermione stared at him as that sunk in. "This is sounding more and more like house arrest."

"I know." Harry glanced at her again. "I'm sorry."

Those two words hung there between them like a net. A trap. Hermione wondered what would happen if she fell into it.

"Moving on," said Harry, going back to his notebook. "Any other commitments?"

"My book club," Hermione said. "We meet twice a month. It's a dozen women, and they all know me as Jean the corporate tax accountant. Sandra hosts, and she lives out in Chiswick. I take the Tube," she added, "but Apparating won't be a problem." At Harry's nod, she continued. "Sometimes, I visit my parents. They're living out near Guildford. I set them up for the Floo, so that's how I usually get there." She shrugged.

"How often?"

Hermione took a quick breath. "Once a month. But recently it's been less often."

There was another pause, until Harry said, "Okay." He glanced at her again, and it was different this time. He seemed edgy. "What about your personal life?"

Something in Hermione came screeching to a halt, and she forced herself not to fidget. "I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate."

Harry cleared his throat with a cough. "Any other relationships, standing commitments? Do you have dinner with anybody? The Weasleys?" he added, at her look of confusion.


"No." Hermione fought the urge to laugh like a maniac. Molly had never forgiven her for breaking Ron's heart, so that was certainly out of the question.

"Do you…" Harry trailed off and glanced at her again. "Do you date?"

Hermione inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the way her heart fluttered. "No," she said, hoping that they would be done with this soon. "No, I don't."

Silence fell once more, except for Harry capping his pen, the clock on the mantelpiece ticking away like it always would. For one blinding instant, Hermione wanted to tear open the windows and scream at the top of her lungs.

"Is that all?" she asked him.

"Yes, thank you." Harry stood up, giving her a fresh whiff of that aftershave, and now Hermione wanted to punch something as well as scream. "For now, we won't have to make that many other changes. Everything can continue much as it did before." He tapped the chair with his wand, creating a duplicate out of thin air, and he levitated it beside him. "I'll be over there—" he pointed to the back corner of the room— "while you have your meetings. You won't even notice me."

Hermione nodded, but before she could say anything, her intercom buzzed and Jill's voice came filtering out. "Minister, the Gringotts team is here. Shall I bring them in or do you need a few more minutes?"

Hermione exhaled, trying not to watch Harry as he settled into his chair, crossing his legs in a way that was practically indecent. His dark blue socks had tiny golden dragons on them. She pressed the button on the intercom and resolved not to so much as look at him for the rest of the afternoon. "Send them in."


Hermione stepped into the lift, Harry close behind her. As usual, they were alone, since most of the Ministry had cleared out by that point, and the majority of the offices with night shifts were on another floor. She hit the button for the Atrium, and the lift swept them away.

"I didn't know you spoke Gobbledygook," she said.

There was a pause, then Harry gave a dry chuckle. "'Speak' is a generous term, Minister, I only know a little. Enough to get by in conversation."

Hermione glanced at him. Even now, at the end of this long day, in the somewhat unflattering light of the lift, he still looked like MI-6's newest and coolest recruit. An image only sharpened by the way he'd chatted to the goblins earlier, friendly and at ease in a way that was deeply ironic, given that it had taken years of apologies and formalities for the Golden Trio to regain admittance to Gringotts. "Did you learn it for an assignment?"

Harry shook his head. "Teddy."

They came to a stop, and the lift doors opened with a ding! Hermione stepped out and started for the Floo bank. "Teddy taught you?"

"He taught himself, first, so it was only a matter of time before I got caught in the fray." Harry gave that chuckle again as they passed the fountain. "Summer between his third and fourth year, I would've eaten my hat if it meant he'd ask for his breakfast in English."

Now that— Hermione stopped mid-stride and turned to him. "He learned Gobbledygook when he was thirteen?"

Harry stopped as well and nodded. "He inherited all of his parents' brains as well as their independent streak. Whatever Hogwarts couldn't teach him, he taught himself." Harry almost smiled. "Sort of like you."

Hermione turned away and continued towards the nearest fireplace. "Why Gobbledygook?"

"It was always his dream to have a job at Gringotts, which, of course, he's now done. Curse-Breaker," he added, at her questioning look. "He's in South Africa at the moment."

"Oh." Hermione felt her pulse in her throat, and she wasn't sure why. There was no reason for her to have kept tabs on Teddy, or on what he'd decided to do with his life. The image of Harry trying to get a petulant thirteen-year old to speak English at the breakfast table made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. She'd known, logically, that Harry had looked after Teddy once Andromeda had gotten too old, and had become Teddy's legal guardian when she'd passed away several years before.

But knowing something and feeling something were two very different things.

Side-Along with Harry was getting easier. They landed in her living room and she immediately stepped away from him.

Winnie perked up from his spot on the couch and meowed, blinking as the lights came on around him.

Harry let out a laugh, a short, sharp sound. "I didn't realize you had a welcoming committee."

"Most days, yes." Hermione rubbed Winnie on the head before putting down her briefcase and unbuttoning her coat. "Anything to get their dinner faster."

"Cheeky beggars," Harry said, and Hermione almost did a double-take. It was the closest he'd sounded to his old self that whole day. "I'll do the sweep, now, if you don't mind."

It took the last of Hermione's patience to wait for him to get back, and when he did, she avoided his gaze and made a beeline for her room, Winnie hot on her heels. "I'll be out soon."

Once she was in her shower a few minutes later, Hermione sank onto the bench seat, hugged her knees to her chest, and closed her eyes. She tried to lose herself in the sensation of the hot water spiralling down her body. It tingled as it trickled through the crevices of her joints, between her fingers and toes, at the nape of her neck and under her eyes.

Breathe, she reminded herself, so she did. In and out. Gardenia and honey.

As bad as the previous day had been — this one, somehow, had been much worse.

Her evening in the office had ended with the transcript of a speech given that day by her main opposition leader, Octavius Crane. He'd been her most vocal opponent in the Wizengamot, and he was still sore over losing the most recent election for Minister. A sleek, trim tyrant who wanted to undo most of Kingsley's good work, and who seemed determined to restore several bulwarks of traditional wizarding life, but in untraditional ways. He would put forward a bill challenging public voting protocols that would appear to be righting many wrongs, but would in fact make voting more difficult for Muggle-borns. Or, he would try to contest revisions to Wizarding inheritance law to make it possible to put house elves back into indentured servitude — slavery, really, Hermione thought — when such practices had been outlawed for almost a decade.

Crane was an unconventional sort of opponent as well. He was a businessman first, politician second — he owned one of the largest broomstick manufacturing companies in the world. Anyone who'd heard him speak for more than five minutes would swear up and down that he made the best brooms around, but Ron had given her the insider perspective just the year before —

"They're run-of-the-mill, average brooms that have been stuffed into tutus and three-piece suits." He'd given a one-shoulder shrug, halfway out the door of the conference room. "Dressed up and made to dance, but no real power. He might get some rare materials from his contacts on the Continent, but they don't make a lick of difference when it comes to substance. It's all window-dressings, 'Mione. Just window-dressings and a price tag to match."

Not that it was much consolation when it seemed that Crane was trying to turn the whole Wizengamot against her. But perhaps that was just the paranoia talking, even if that was the message Hermione could see in his speech, clear as glass.

The rest of her day had been almost typical, if it weren't for all of her guests ending their meetings with some sort of comment about the events the day before:

"— surprised you're in the office today, given the circumstances—"

"—an absolutely shocking display, Minister, you might want to have a word with your security team, it seems they're not entirely—"

"—we were very glad that the unfortunate criminal didn't have better aim, Minister—"

"—does this change your position on the Punitive Relief Bill, Minister?"

"—bloody hell, Minister, when I tell you that I've had a Probity Probe stuck in many places, but I've never—"

"—what are your plans for when you do catch the bugger? Friend of a friend's been doing some interesting potionwork in Italy and—"

"—do you really feel safe?"

Hermione stifled a sob, burying her face in her knees. She was trembling, though not from cold, and she hugged her knees even more tightly, trying to draw into herself. No, she wanted to scream, no, I don't feel safe. Even here, now, what was to stop a powerful and determined witch or wizard from breaking through the wards, disabling her security team, getting past Harry—

"No," Hermione muttered, forcing herself to pull away and lean her head back against the tiles. "Stop it. Not going to happen."

She supposed it was Kingsley's fault, if it was anyone's. His briefing had been succinct, candid, not very helpful.

"This is what we know," he said, his face smooth and grim in the fading afternoon light. "We believe we're dealing with an offshoot anarchist group called Salvation."

Hermione frowned. "That's fairly religious for—"

"It's a pureblood and Muggle-born coalition," Kingsley replied, and nodded when both Harry and Hermione gaped at him in surprise. "I know. The first of its kind, as far as we can tell. So we're assuming the religion-based fervor came from the Muggle-borns, and the purebloods hopped on the train, as it were.

"Their movement appears to be organized around the quintessential anarchist notion of inciting upheaval at any cost, meaning that they are no strangers to violence. This explains their decision to attempt a political assassination at a public event in full daylight. As far as we can tell, this determination to unseat the Minister is part of a larger plan to unravel the entire system as we know it, starting from the top down. It seems that they are unsatisfied with how the Ministry endured, though in its different form, in the wake of Voldemort's demise. They want to wipe the slate clean." He swept a hand through the air, and Hermione felt her magic crackle in reply.

"We're still working to determine the specifics of their organization. They appear to have a single leader, and a series of lower-ranking captains that the leader delegates certain tasks to. The captains, in turn, delegate to foot soldiers. We believe that it was one of these captains who made the attempt on your life yesterday — it seems that soldiers are only responsible for very mundane or everyday duties."

"How many?" Hermione cleared her throat and tried again. "How many of them are there? And have you identified any of them?"

"We estimate their numbers to be anywhere from fifty to five hundred. The trouble is, Minister…" Kingsley paused and took a breath. "The trouble is, Salvation is a secret society. Its members are private, highly guarded, and because the group prides itself on its exclusivity as well as its inclusivity—"

"It's almost impossible for you to identify its members," Harry finished for him.

"Precisely." Kingsley shot a glance at Hermione. She was gripping the arm of her chair, willing her stomach to stop falling through the floor. "The trouble is, its members appear to be, for all intents and purposes, fully-fledged members of everyday society. They are everywhere."

Those words had echoed in Hermione's mind, and she still heard them now. "Everywhere," she mumbled, watching the water droplets slide down the glass door.

"What all this means," Kingsley continued, "is that we have to assume that some of its members are here in the Ministry. It's far more likely than not."

"Right," Hermione said. "So what does that mean, in terms of—?"

Kingsley paused, looking at her again. Something in his gaze made her want to cry. "For now, I will not be increasing security measures within the Ministry."

Hermione nodded, part of her going numb. "If you did, it would show your hand."

"Precisely."

Kingsley's plan was simple. He'd sent two of his best Aurors undercover to try to work their way into Salvation's lower-rankings, to find out whatever they could about the group's beliefs and, more importantly, their plans. In the meantime, the team of underground informants working for the Aurors would make information-gathering on Salvation their top priority.

"Right now, we need whatever intel we can get. We have to learn everything we can before launching a counter-offensive. In the meantime, we will continue the security plan as is. We will stay on the defensive."

"And you really believe that is the best course of action?" Harry said, looking Kingsley in the eye. "Rather than moving to Stage Two of Action Plan Delta?"

Kingsley sighed. "Harry, you and I both know that those decisions are made by the High Council and the High Council alone. Just because I'm a sitting member doesn't mean I can activate policy on my own."

Harry nodded, his jaw clenched.

"So we stay the course, for now," Hermione said to Kingsley, and he nodded. "That makes sense. As much as I would prefer to lock everything down and isolate this office from all outsiders, I understand that a degree of danger is necessary for the sake of identifying the enemy."

"Well said," Kingsley told her, with one of his rare reassuring smiles. It had little effect on her, and Hermione's gaze shifted to the window, where the sky was already growing dark.

Now, hours later, her gaze slid along the tiles, finding miniscule cracks in the grout, tiny chips in the tile. She'd have to have a contractor in at some point.

A sudden, bleating meow shook her out of her thoughts, and she turned to see Winnie using the glass door to prop himself up on his hind legs. She could count the pads of his paws through the glass, and his eyes were wide as he meowed at her again.

Taking a shaky breath, Hermione stood up. No use to anyone cowering in fear. And with that thought held firmly in her mind, she went about her shower.

When she emerged from her bedroom, still feeling shaky but determined not to show it, she found Harry right outside her door, leaning against the wall.

"Sorry," was the first thing he said, when he saw her expression. "Protocol."

That explained how he'd heard her speaking to the cats the night before. "I see." She continued past him, heading for the kitchen, and she didn't need to turn around to know that he was following.

Once the cats were fed, Hermione wandered over to the fridge. Harry was seated at the island again, and while she was in the shower, he'd taken off his suit jacket as well as his shoes, loosened his tie, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. It was practically casual, compared to how he'd looked the rest of the day, and she absently wondered if it was because he felt more comfortable here, more at ease. That thought, like the sight of his muscular forearms, was sort of terrifying, so she shook it off and stared at her mostly-bare shelves.

"One thing we never covered," she found herself saying, "was if I'm meant to feed you or not."

There was a deadly pause, then Harry gave a dry cough. "Pardon?"

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, willing the earth to open up and swallow her. That wasn't how she meant for it to sound. "Am I making you any meals or are you—?"

"Oh, I see," Harry said in a rush. "Well, it's up to you. If you're comfortable cooking for both of us, that's fine, or I can get one of the team to bring me something—"

"I think," Hermione said, to the inside of her fridge, "that that would be the best option for now."

"Okay," Harry said, and she heard him pull out his walkie-talkie.

Some twenty minutes later, she sat down at the island with a bowl of pasta and willed her stomach to stop rolling. It didn't help that across from her, Harry was unwrapping something that smelled heavenly. One of the other Aurors had dropped it off just a few minutes before, and Hermione was doing everything she could not to stare.

She poked at her pasta, then took a reluctant bite. It was nothing special, just farfalle tossed with sauce from a jar. Nothing compared to the grilled chicken in green curry that Harry was tucking into.

"I didn't know you liked Thai food," Hermione said.

Harry nodded, swiping at his mouth with a napkin. "It's my bread and butter." He looked at her as he chewed. "When you go to the shops this week, I'll get some stuff for myself. That way you won't have to worry, so long as it's all right for me to take up space in your tiny fridge." There, for just a moment, was a twinkle in his eye.

Dammit. Hermione shoved another forkful of pasta in her mouth. "Of course. It's no trouble at all."

"Good."

They finished eating in silence, save for the cats, who had apparently decided that Harry was their new favorite guest. Casper sat and stared up at him while Winnie rubbed against his ankles, purring loudly, and Harry chuckled. Hermione stared daggers at Winnie's brindled backside. Traitors, she thought, standing up to clear her bowl.

It was getting close to nine o'clock by the time she finished the dishes, and she glanced at Harry as he stuffed his containers in the bin.

"I'm going to work in the living room," she told him, wrapping her arms around her middle. It was nothing but nervous reflex, a by-product of her thought-spiral in the shower, but he noticed all the same, his bright green gaze darting up and down her body.

"All right," he replied, and she turned away from him, her cheeks burning.

It was almost worse now than it had been before. She found herself longing for their easy, if brittle, banter from the previous night, and fought the urge to kick herself. All that insistence on professionalism and detachment seemed to have made for a very awkward situation in the home. But there was nothing she could do about that now. So Hermione resolved to do as she had done for years, and throw herself so completely into her work that the rest of the world — even Harry Potter and his stupid forearms — disappeared.