***c/w for violence / injuries in the third section***

"Bugger." Harry scowled and shook out his foot, glaring at the icy puddle that had just made a valiant attempt to steal his shoe. He glanced up at Hermione. "Sorry, Minister."

"No need to apologize." Hermione waited for him to blast his foot with a series of heating and cleaning charms before she spoke again. "Would you like me to Disillusion you?"

"No, thank you, ma'am." Harry stuck a hand in the pocket of his suit jacket and produced a length of fabric she recognized at once. "This will do just as well."

"What about the rain?" Even Muggles would notice if droplets were collecting and hanging in midair.

"Notice-Me-Not does the trick." Harry tucked the Cloak under his arm and turned to look up the road. "Shall we continue?"

"Yes." Hermione set off up the street, adjusting the box of cookies tucked under her arm. The weather had eased up a bit, warming enough for rain rather than snow or sleet, but it was still grey, windy, and frosty. She kept an eye out for stray frozen puddles, and belatedly realized that they made quite a pair. A man and a woman strolling along in dark, nearly-formal clothing, scanning the surrounding buildings for immediate threats, with a box of cookies in tow. And, of course, half a dozen invisible law enforcement personnel not far behind them.

"You should put on the Cloak now," she said to Harry, as they approached the cluster of houses at the end of the street. "Before anyone has the chance to see."

"Right you are, Minister." Harry unraveled the garment and held it at the ready. "You remember the signal, correct?"

"I'm afraid I have to run, I think I left the oven on?" At Harry's nod, Hermione stepped aside. "Go ahead."

After checking there were no Muggles around to spot him, Harry swept the Cloak over his shoulders and put up the hood, disappearing entirely from view.

Hermione turned on her heel and continued walking. "Do keep up."

The door of number eighty-four was a cheerful royal blue in the sea of greys and whites, and when Hermione knocked, it opened to reveal a sunny face framed by blonde hair.

"Jean!" Sandra smiled at her. "You're just in time! And what's this?"

"Just a little something," Hermione replied, wiggling the box of cookies.

"Oh, you cheeky thing! Come in, come in, we're just about to settle down."

Hermione followed Sandra inside, and felt a distinct breeze at the back of her legs before the door closed. Good; Harry had managed to sneak in.

Sandra's home was refreshingly airy but warm after the cold closeness of the street. Her furnishings were simple and tidy, welcoming without being claustrophobic. At the first meeting she'd attended, Hermione had remarked upon how clean everything was, and Sandra had laughed and told her it was because she didn't have any children. Hermione had been surprised but refreshed by her frank honesty, and was still glad to have Sandra as a friend. It was always so helpful to talk to someone outside of the Wizarding world, who had no idea of the stresses and conflicts that Hermione faced day-to-day. They didn't have to talk about the Hinkypunk infestation reports coming out of Scotland, or about the current trade embargo with Belgium, or about the possibility that raw gold was becoming scarce. Instead, they could wax lyrical about Richard Madden. In Hermione's opinion, there was no contest.

She added her box of cookies to the table of "nibbles and bites," as Sandra called it, and started chatting to the other women. Everyone was in remarkably good spirits, and gradually, Hermione felt some of the tension in her body loosen. She helped herself to a glass of wine — it was four o'clock on a Saturday, after all — and settled in for a good, hearty gossip.

Friday, thankfully, had been close to average. After signing all of the necessary paperwork to approve Kingsley's plans for increased security, Hermione went back to her usual flood of meetings, court dates, and briefings, all without the threat of a bomb on her front doorstep. She'd even had a moment to eat lunch — a salad from the canteen that ended up being tastier than she'd expected — and send Draco a note with the answer to his riddle.

The memory made Hermione's cheeks burn, but only for a stupid reason. She'd come up with the answer shortly after getting to the kitchen on Friday morning—

"Fire," she said, in the middle of making her tea.

There was a pause, then Harry said, "Pardon, Minister?"

"The answer to Draco's riddle," she replied. "He included it with his report on the potion." She turned around, mug in hand, to find Harry watching her, his expression mostly inscrutable except for a certain tightening around his eyes. Hermione cleared her throat, trying not to go red. "It's, um. We've done it for years. Trade riddles wherever we write to each other."

Harry sat back on his barstool. "How…" He paused, trying to find the right word. "Friendly."

That only made her blush threaten more. "Yes," Hermione said, a touch breathless, before taking her own seat. "It is."

But anyway. Friday was comparatively quiet, quiet enough that it allowed her to think, which was always dangerous. She couldn't help but notice that she and Harry had fallen into a routine, because of course they had. After all, they had lived together for several months at one point in their lives, as much as Hermione wanted to forget it.

During the day, Harry was a constant and near-silent presence in the corner, behind her right shoulder, or just in front of her before she entered a new room. And through it all, he stayed much the same as he had been since her reprimand — stoic, efficient, professional to the nth degree — all of the fire and brimstone from the Probe incident seemingly put aside for the moment. She did find herself wondering more than once just how he spent the time. It seemed God-awful, standing or sitting in one spot for hours on end, rarely any entertainment beyond the newspaper or the colorful characters present in her meeting — Hermione wouldn't have been able to cope without a good book. But somehow, day in and day out, Harry did it. Vigilant, watchful, careful to check every room, every hallway, before she entered it.

She wondered what he thought about. If he ran through scenarios and conversations in his head, if he silently joked and carried on with an invisible Sirius. But it wasn't hers to know.

Logically, Hermione knew that his efficiency was born of duty to his job, to his proverbial calling, and not out of any attachment to her. But it was nice, if a little forbidden and dangerous, to imagine that maybe, just maybe, he did care about her, and not just in a this-person-is-my-boss's-boss-and-it-would-actually-be-quite-helpful-if-nothing-happened sort of way. They had been best friends for almost a decade, for Merlin's sake, and each other's closest confidants for nearly a year on the run, staring down certain death and sharing one too many desperate glances over a measly campfire or disappointing meal.

There had to be something there, something between them that even years of separation and arguing and head-butting couldn't erase. Wasn't there?

Oh, stop it, Hermione admonished herself, forcing her gaze away from the corner of the sitting room where she was positive she had just seen an end table wobble a little — Harry was off his game, clearly. No use in having thoughts like this. She was only feeling this way — sentimental, self-conscious, a touch desperate — because of the other night. None of this would have happened if she hadn't had that stupid nightmare.

"So, Jean," said Penny, settling in the corner of the sofa across from her. "How's work?"

Hermione plastered on a practiced smile. "Oh, you know, busy as usual. Can't seem to catch a break, even though tax season is many months away!"

Penny chuckled good-naturedly. "Ah, but that's the way it is, I'm afraid—"

And so it went. Another rehearsed conversation, a set of smiles and jokes that the others had all heard before but never seemed to forget, and then on to the book itself. But not before she heard all about number seventy-six's new Mercedes, and Eleanor's decision to take the marital issues to court. Hermione sighed and sank back into the couch cushions, more and more of the tension drifting out of her frame. Though that could be the wine.

"I just loved Bonnie's story, all the way through," Felicity was saying, her brown eyes nearly as earnest as her freshly-dyed blonde hair. "I could never have done it, let it sit on my conscience, no matter how much he might have deserved it."

"I know, me too," Jennifer chimed in. "We could get into the whole bit about a sin being a sin, but that seems a bit—"

"Well that's the problem, isn't it?" Sandra said. Hermione felt such a strong surge of affection for her in that moment — she was poised, sharper than she looked, her thoughts as clear as a bell. "We all know where eye for an eye leads us."

"Perhaps blindness isn't the problem," Hermione muttered into her glass. Thankfully, no one heard her.

The meeting broke up about half an hour later, once they'd decided that the next book was going to be Wild by Cheryl Strayed. Hermione wasn't too sure about that one, but it was Penny's week to pick, so she went along with it, shooting another glance at the corner by the end table before she left the room. A gentle breeze hit the back of her neck, telling her that Harry was closer than she'd thought. Suppressing a shiver, Hermione bid Sandra goodbye, promising to call. A moment later, the front door closed behind her, and she was back outside in the unforgiving — though thankfully dry — cold, pulling her coat tight against the wind.

She walked most of the way down the street in silence. Once she was a good distance away and no one was watching, Harry appeared, sweeping the Invisibility Cloak off and into his pocket.

"Shopping now, Minister?" he said, once again the consummate professional as he straightened his suit jacket. Navy blue, today, with a grey shirt. No tie, but instead a dark blue fine-knit scarf that Hermione kept wanting to drag her fingers through. To latch onto, to pull.

"Yes," she replied, even though the sky was rapidly darkening around them. "I'd like to buy that book as well. I'll make it quick, I know you all would rather I didn't run errands in the dark."

The corner of Harry's mouth twitched. He stepped closer, holding out his arm. "Whatever works for you, Minister."

Hermione's breath caught, though that could just be the wine. She tucked her hand into his elbow, trying to remember that it was absurd to feel unsettled, off-kilter, that this was Harry bleeding Potter, even if he was buttoned into a sharp suit. His arm was warm and solid beneath her touch, and she could almost count the threads in his scarf.

This was why she hated Side-Along, apart from the exposure to Harry's power. They hadn't been so close — so physically close — in years, and it seemed to be quite dangerous for Hermione's sanity. Because when she was standing this close to him, she wanted to forget all the times they'd fought, disagreed, traded barbs in front of their coworkers. She wanted to forget that Harry didn't like her, not anymore, that he wasn't her friend, or even an acquaintance.

And maybe, just a little, it made her want to think that he was here because he wanted to be, not because he was under orders.

Hermione took a shaky breath and tried to push all of those thoughts deep into the back of her mind, into a void where they couldn't be touched. But then, she looked up, and felt breathless all over again.

Harry was looking at her, and even though his expression was flat, his gaze was piercing, relentless. He looked at her, and she fought the urge to melt.

Harry took a quick breath and looked away. "Shall we, ma'am?"

"Yes," Hermione replied, and together, they spun into nothingness.


The door to Hermione's office opened, and she looked up from her work, feeling an unhelpful tremor in her stomach.

"Morning, Minister." Harry closed the door behind him and gave her a nod.

"Morning," she said, hoping she'd schooled her expression into something bland and intimidating. Really, it had only been twenty-four hours since she'd last seen him, there was no excuse for—

Harry approached her desk, his hands clasped behind his back. The action pulled her attention to his chest, which was looking rather nice in its dark blue button-up and slate grey tie. His suit was almost the same color as his shirt, and against the deep crimson of his robes, the whole thing gave off a rather intimidating air. "I've checked in with the team and all reports from the increased security measures are coming back favorable, ma'am. Operations will continue as normal, and the High Council has decided to meet again at the end of the week. They will be receiving Kingsley's report on the Probity Probe situation from last Thursday."

Hermione sighed through her teeth, ignoring the shiver that went down her spine. "Wonderful. I don't suppose—?"

"Some of our operatives on the Continent have turned in their reports. Kingsley will be meeting with you this afternoon to give you their findings." Harry's expression shifted slightly, a touch of real concern peeking out from beneath his professional facade. "I believe some of what he has to say is helpful, ma'am."

"Good." Hermione curled a finger into the corner of the parchment in front of her. "I trust your day off was restful?"

"Yes, thank you, ma'am." Again, a shift in his face, a little smile as he parroted her: "I trust my replacement performed adequately?"

"Yes." Hermione felt the corner of her mouth twitch and she stamped down that urge before it could blossom in full. Auror Thistlewhit — which really was her real name, not a code one — had been perfectly adequate, if stoic. Unlike Harry, Thistlewhit didn't take tea and dinner with Hermione, didn't really make conversation beyond the niceties, didn't pester the cats until they adored her from top to toe. She was the consummate professional, a shadow rather than a complete presence, everything that a personal security detail should have been. She was so many things that Harry wasn't, and Hermione couldn't help disliking her for it.

You're being ridiculous, Hermione told herself, rubbing her thumb along the edge of her quill. You can't live your life comparing everyone to Harry. And he shouldn't be considered a standard, anyway. "Busy day ahead," she found herself saying. "I hope you're prepared."

"Indeed." For a moment, Harry looked a bit more serious than usual. "Actually, I was wondering if we might review your schedule for the day?"

Hermione frowned. "Why should that be necessary? It's already been cleared by the security team, and—"

"Right, but." Harry cleared his throat in a quick cough. "This lunch you have planned with Octavius Crane. I'm not sure—"

"Majority Leader Taylor's idea, I'm afraid. I'm not looking forward to it, but she says it might be a good step towards reaching a cease-fire. The Wizengamot can't get much done if it's embroiled in petty bickering and name-calling—"

"Yes, but in a Muggle restaurant? Surely that's not the usual policy. Ma'am," he added, at the look on her face. "I definitely can't imagine Crane enjoying the idea."

"Neutral ground," Hermione replied, feeling a flush of heat rise in her cheeks. Good grief, he'd been back on duty for all of five minutes and here they were, arguing again. "Far less likely to turn to magical confrontation if there's a threat of cleanup duty."

Harry set his jaw, and she got the sense that he was digging his feet in. She certainly knew the signs well. "I don't see why you can't have the meeting here, in your chambers. With the security situation as it is—"

"We are meeting well within the requirements of the action plan. The restaurant is on the list of approved Tier 2 locations, and we'll be Apparating directly in and out of the stockroom. I can't see what problems there might be, especially when the restaurant is so close that I could walk back to work." She tapped the end of her quill on her palm. "I would prefer to not be under complete house arrest until it's absolutely necessary."

"I understand that," Harry said, "but it is my professional recommendation that the meeting be moved."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "On what grounds, Auror Potter?"

There were a few moments of silence, and she could hear the rain pattering against her office windows. She watched as the wheels turned in Harry's mind, as he evaluated the different things he could say to her. She doubted that at least half of them were worth hearing.

"Instinct," he finally settled on, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"So no concrete proof?" Hermione replied.

"I would argue that there is little proof more concrete than a gut instinct," he said, his eyes flashing. "That has certainly been my experience over the course of my lifetime."

"Unfortunately, political machinations cannot be held hostage by your personal instincts. If I cancel or relocate this lunch, it will look like I'm issuing a challenge. It's one thing to ask Crane to meet me on neutral territory, but it's another thing entirely to summon him to my chambers. One course of action appears amiable and non-threatening, but the other would only fuel his attempt to label me as a power-hungry leech who expects the Wizengamot to bend to her every whim." Hermione paused and forced herself to take a breath. Her face was livid with heat, and a small piece of hair fell out of her bun. "This may come as a surprise, but I'm inclined to discourage that assumption when I can."

Harry clenched his teeth, and she could see the frustration boiling under his skin. "So you're willing to risk your own personal safety for the sake of trying to make nice with a second-tier politician who has no respect for you or the office you hold?"

"Unlike you, Potter, I have to answer to the Wizengamot, and to the people they represent. I have to be an ally, to help where I can, and if the Majority Leader asks a favor of me, I do what I can to make it happen. And," she added, feeling a vindictive prickle shoot down her spine, "I'll consider my safety threatened when I see proof of it. Otherwise, it's a mere waste of time and energy."

"Proof?" Harry repeated, his voice getting a hard edge. "You want proof? I thought nearly catching an Avada Kedavra to the head less than a week ago might be enough proof. Not to mention a dozen poisonous bombs right outside your office door."

"You'll have to do better than that if you expect me to yield to your recommendation," Hermione fired back. "Having threats to my life is just part of the job. In case you hadn't noticed, we aren't exactly in the middle of a Wizarding Golden Age. Times are tumultuous, and our people require strong, steady leadership, not someone who backs down in the face of potential threats and gut feelings. I have a duty to perform, and I certainly don't have to ask permission to perform it. The lunch will continue as planned. If you take issue with it, I suggest going to Kingsley."

Harry's expression was a wild mix of emotions, chief among them anger and frustration, and for a moment, Hermione thought he was going to draw his wand on her. A part of her wanted him to — she was itching for a fight, hadn't had a real one in years, and she wanted to see if Harry still was as good a duelist as everyone said.

"I—" Harry bit off the word and seemed to swallow the rest of his thoughts. He schooled his expression into something just this edge of reasonable and made an aborted movement towards the door. "I'm going to get a cup of tea. Minister." He turned on his heel and stalked out, the door flying open before he reached it. Hermione caught just a glimpse of Jill's surprised face before the door slammed shut again, the wall vibrating until the thrum of security wards restored everything to peace.

Hermione sighed, dropping her quill and slumping forward against her desk. Now that was not the best way to start the week.


Hermione arrived at the restaurant at precisely the time of the meeting — one o'clock — and she didn't waste any time striding out of the stockroom, through the darkened hallway, and into the main area of the restaurant. Harry managed to keep up, but only just, and the rest of her security team fell into step, just a few paces behind him.

They'd booked the entire place — it was protocol, and the Muggle managers had been Confounded into thinking that she was the Minister of Defense meeting a foreign dignitary, which she supposed wasn't far from the truth — so the dining room was empty. The room itself was wide, but the ceilings were low, creating a rather sunken, secretive feel. Several of the rear walls were exposed brick, offset by warm yellow torch lights suspended from the ceiling, and the furnishings were in a rich brown wood. A long wall of slightly tinted windows looked out onto Great Scotland Yard, and the winter clouds cast a pale, dim light across the open space. It made the deep red tablecloths look even more ghastly, and Hermione got the feeling she was walking into Glamis Castle rather towards the end of the play.

Crane was already there, because of course he was. It was his style, and a matter of protocol. He was sharply dressed, in a three-piece suit that was well-made, but perhaps more appropriate to the fashions of the early twentieth century, rather than the twenty-first. He already had his long nose in a glass of wine, and Hermione hoped with everything she had that the officers had made his security screening unnecessarily thorough.

She plastered on a smile as she approached the table. "Octavius, thank you for meeting me."

"Minister." He bowed his sleek head but did not rise. She felt a spike of irritation as she sat down, draping her napkin across her lap. "I am glad you could make it. I would have suggested rescheduling had I known that the security situation was…" He trailed off, glancing first at Harry then at the MLEP officers guarding the exits. "So dire."

"Not at all," Hermione replied. "It's precaution, rather than reaction." There was no need for him to know about the close call with the Probes, not when the High Council didn't even know.

"I'm glad to hear it." And his smooth, snakish smile told her the exact opposite. "Have you dined here before?"

"No, I've not had the pleasure." Hermione flicked open the menu and scanned it. "What about you?"

Octavius sighed through his nose, tracing his finger across the bulb of his wine glass. "No. I make a habit of only frequenting the finest Wizarding restaurants. I don't see the point in trying the Muggle ones. What's the point in a good tableside flambé if the fire doesn't sprout wings and fly around one's table?"

"Yes, I always ask myself the same question whenever I'm selecting a place to have dinner. Does the fire have wings, and can it fly?" Hermione snapped her menu shut, relishing the brief look of surprise on Crane's face — he clearly wasn't expecting her to give as good as she got — when the waiter chose that perfect moment to appear. He was young, and looking a little dazed. That was the Confundus working its magic. "I'll have the trout, hold the radishes, thank you. And a bottle of sparkling water."

"Certainly, ma'am. Anything for you, sir?"

"The duck," said Crane, without so much a glance in the young man's direction. Hermione met his stare, unimpressed.

"Excellent choice, sir."

Once the waiter had left, silence fell. Hermione fought the urge to fidget. She'd been through some tough lunch meetings, but good grief, this was a very special kind of torture.

"So," Crane eventually said. "Given that this whole lunch was Taylor's idea, she must have had some idea of what we'd discuss."

"I believe her intention was for us to find some sort of common ground, perhaps an impasse. The Wizengamot can't get much done if it's distracted by politicians who resort to name-calling rather than frank, open debate. Personal squabbles between individuals aren't nearly as important as trying to find solutions to our current problems."

Crane's eyebrows flickered, and he leaned forward with a sly grin that made Hermione's skin crawl. "My, you don't mince your words."

"Why should I?" Hermione replied. "You don't."

"That is true." Crane dragged the tip of his thumb through the cleft of his chin, considering her. "But I don't see how finding common ground could be possible when we disagree on the most basic principle."

"Which is?"

"That of the two of us, you belong in the position of Minister."

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, well, I'm afraid that decision isn't up to the two of us. There was a popular vote, and I don't see much point in contesting it."

"Of course you don't." Crane was smirking now, and he took another sip of wine. "Fine, then. Putting that most basic principle aside for the moment, what should we talk about? The weather? The stock market? The most recent Gobstones tournament?"

"Gobstones," Hermione repeated, momentarily blindsided. "You follow Gobstones?"

Crane lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "A boyhood hobby, now an occasional distraction."

"How interesting," she said, hoping that none of the sarcasm was detectable. "We could discuss your most recent trip to the Continent. Didn't you just return a few weeks ago?"

"Indeed. I was meeting a few contacts in Germany and Poland. Going over supply orders for my new range of luxury brooms." His smirk returned. "Quality only hurts once."

What then followed was one of the most boring — though infuriating — conversations Hermione had ever sat through, and she'd been through a lot of boring conversations. Crane nattered his way through several different topics — Quidditch, rising wheat prices in Eastern Europe and what that was doing to the British economy, his thoughts on the House system at Hogwarts and whether it really fostered unity and cooperation.

Hermione actually couldn't fault him for that last one. It was something she'd wondered more than once, and now, she thought on it for a bit, chewing on her trout, which was quite good. If anything, her experience at Hogwarts — and the cause Harry had died for — had proved that arbitrary divides didn't do much good.

"You're very good at this, you know," Crane said, apropos of nothing. He took another sip from his glass of his wine, which was at its last gasp.

"At what, Octavius?" she replied.

"Having a conversation while not betraying an inch of your own personal thoughts and beliefs." His eyes glimmered as he watched her. "I will admit that is not a quality I share. Perhaps you are in fact well-suited to the office you hold. But only by that factor alone."

Hermione smiled, not betraying an ounce of the anger that was screaming beneath it. She imagined herself with skin of ice and salt — hardened, impervious, cold. "Perhaps."

"And there, again." Crane tapped the tines of his fork on his plate. "Expertly done."

She fought the urge to sigh. "Earlier, I mentioned an impasse."

"That you did. Would you say we've had enough idle chit-chat to call it so?"

"Depends." Hermione leaned back in her chair, abandoning her half-eaten meal. "Is that what an impasse would mean, between us? Would it keep you from derailing the Wizengamot?"

"Derailing," Crane repeated. "She comes seeking an impasse, and she accuses me of derailing." He brushed his napkin against the corner of his mouth, a burst of red against his pale skin. "What am I to make of that?"

Before Hermione could reply, before she could do much of anything other than clench her fist to keep herself from smacking him across the face, her eye caught a flash of movement. She followed it, looking up at the back wall of the restaurant, which wasn't really a wall at all, because there was a gap where she could see into the kitchen. One of the chefs was standing there, staring at them, and when Hermione met his gaze, a gaze that was black with fury, she realized what that sudden movement had been.

The supposedly Muggle chef had drawn his wand.

She turned to Crane, reaching to grip his arm, ignoring his look of surprise. "Down," she said, and pulled him down to the floor just as the room around them exploded.

Defensive spells flew above her head as Hermione shoved the full weight of her body against the legs of their table. It was made of heavy wood, and pain blossomed in her shoulder, but she gritted her teeth, ducked a flying shard of porcelain, and shoved again. This time, the table gave, crashing onto its side, sending the rest of her trout skittering across the floor. She ducked behind it, only pausing to yank Crane to relative safety. The man was stunned, white as a sheet, but he curled up behind the table all the same, his eyes huge with fear. There was butter on his suit jacket.

Behind her, Harry was yelling, but he was still too far away, she could tell. The spells were flying thick and fast above their heads, shattering the crockery on the tables around them, and she couldn't tell how many assailants there were. Enough to keep Harry and the others busy, so busy that none of them had flanked her, as protocol dictated.

Now on her knees, Hermione forced herself to take one breath, then another, and distantly wondered why she wasn't panicking. Though maybe this was what panicking felt like, these days. Not the hot, ceaseless rush of adrenaline she became accustomed to her in her youth — no, this felt like something completely different. This felt… like clarity.

She shoved a loose chunk of hair behind her ear and rounded on Crane. "Do you have your wand?"

He only blinked at her, wincing when a yell came from the direction of the kitchen.

"Wand?" she screamed at him. "Your wand?!"

Crane finally nodded, and pulled it out of his sleeve with trembling fingers.

"Good!" Hermione drew her own and cast the strongest Protego she could over him. "When you get a chance, Apparate out of here and get to the Ministry, tell them what's happened. Until then, stay down." And with that, she took a quick breath, then braced herself on the table's leg and looked over the edge of the table. She took in the scene before her in less than a second, momentarily grateful that she'd worn trousers instead of a skirt.

There were at least six of them, which was bad luck — there were only five officers with her, including Harry. Three were in the kitchen, half-hidden behind the wall, and the others that she could see were advancing from the rear entrance of the restaurant. They were talented fighters, giving as good as they got from the Aurors. One in particular — thickset, with ruddy hair — cast a mean-looking curse that Harry shattered with a swipe of his wand. In the same instant, Crane Disapparated, disappearing from behind the table.

Well, Hermione thought, nothing for it now. And with that, she stood up and fired off a series of jinxes, hitting one of the men in the leg. He collapsed with a yell, and everyone, both on her side and not, whirled around to stare at her. Clearly, they'd forgotten she was there.

"You," bellowed Harry, between firing spells and ducking behind a chair, "have—got—to—be—fucking—kidding me, Hermione!"

In spite of herself, Hermione smiled, spinning away from an Imperio and nailing one of the men in the kitchen with a Petrificus straight to the chest. He collapsed, and his partner rounded on her with a roar, firing off a series of familiar curses — Impedimenta, Crucio, Reducto. Hermione parried them all, the strength of her Shield Charm sending a shiver up her spine. Her opponent was relentless, but heavy-handed; she could see that speed would be the best way of beating him, or perhaps surprise.

Dodging another jinx, Hermione swept her wand in a complex curve, causing all of the dishes in the kitchen to rattle. The sound built, overwhelming, like a swift wind had pushed through a forest of porcelain leaves, as she spun her wand and pulled it back towards her. Her opponent only had time to look behind him before a huge wave of crockery swept over him, burying both the men in a mountain of bowls and plates.

The sound of it was deafening, but it barely seemed to affect the other fighters, who were still going at it like wild animals. But her attackers were now two down — they were outnumbered. The tide of the fight was changing, and Hermione only had a moment to take it in before a hand gripped her elbow and an angry voice hissed in her ear, "Enough!"

A spin, a whirl through time and space, then she landed in the middle of her office at the Ministry, barely able to keep standing as she lurched into her desk.

Heart pounding, head reeling, Hermione could only stare as Harry marched away from her, his shoulders a tense line of anger. His robes were singed from the battle, his hair was half-vertical, and he looked ready to throttle something.

"What," he growled, "the hell were you thinking, Hermione?!" He whirled on her, his back to the fire, and his expression was nothing short of terrifying. He was livid, seething, his chest heaving from the fight and the Apparation, from having to stop himself from strangling her, she was sure. "I mean really, what the hell?! You could have been killed, you could have been Imperio'd, tortured, taken prisoner— I mean, I can't even begin to tell you how stupid it was of you to do what you did!"

Anger, sudden and hot and relentless, mixed with the outrage seething from her belly, and Hermione pushed herself upright, facing him head-on. "Don't you dare presume to speak to me like that, Harry! How dare you!"

"How dare I?" he repeated, his voice rising, and Hermione bristled in reply. "How dare I? How dare you, Hermione! You put all of us at risk by doing what you did! You completely disregarded protocol, and you—!"

Hermione laughed a jeering, scornful laugh, and relished the way his eyes sparked with fury. "Oh, imagine that, Harry Potter giving me a lecture about breaking the rules! Don't ask me to apologize for my actions, given that they were completely warranted, given the situation—"

"And what situation was that, Hermione?! A lunch appointment at an unsecure location that I told you not to go to—"

"We followed every rule, Harry!" She was screaming now, she realized, and she also realized she didn't care. "We did everything we were supposed to do, and it still happened! Sometimes—"

"What, Hermione, what?!" he bellowed, stepping towards her. The fire surged behind him, licking at his ankles, rearing behind his head in a clear display of his power, and she fought the urge to step back. He cut an incredible figure, looming and dark against the burning light. "Please, enlighten me as to what, exactly, sometimes happens when you disobey a direct order from the person whose job it is to protect you!"

"I can protect myself!" She was trembling, but she forced herself forwards, closing the distance between them. Even with her heels on, Harry was still a head taller than her, and she had to look up at him as she stood her ground. "I refuse to be treated like nothing more than a petulant child, when you know, you know better than anyone, Harry, that I am perfectly capable of holding my own!"

"Good God, Hermione," he bit out, staring down at her. "What I would give for you to just listen for once."

A beat passed, and for a moment, the air around them seemed to stand still. All Hermione could think about, all she could feel, was the near warmth of his body, the relentless heat of the same emerald green gaze that she'd met across tables, battlefields, classrooms, offices, for most of her life. The same gaze that gripped her now, that had her spellbound, rooted, pinned.

Hermione swallowed, her heart giving another painful thud, but held her ground. After all the shouting, the room seemed to ring with silence, and she could hardly believe herself when she said, "Make me."

The space between them flickered again, suddenly becoming charged and humid, like the air before a thunderstorm. Harry was staring at her, his expression at once blazing and hidden, impossible to read. His face was close enough that Hermione could see the hint of his stubble, the sweat along his hairline. Close enough that she could feel his breath, could smell his soap, could find herself reflected in his glasses.

One of them moved first. It might have been her, but, later, she couldn't remember. All she knew was that one moment, they were staring at each other, on the brink of exploding, and the next, Harry's hand was on her neck, his thumb under her jaw. His skin was boiling hot to the touch and she gasped, pulling him down to meet her.

The kiss was less of a kiss and more of a battle. Harry's lips were soft and dry, relentless as he bent over her, his other hand falling to the dip of her back. Hermione gasped again when he bit down on the corner of her lip, and he surged forward with a groan, sliding his tongue along her teeth. She raked her fingers through his hair, satisfaction and fury and desire warring equally in her body as she sucked on his bottom lip.

It's just how I remember, some part of her still had the ability to think. It's the same, only—

Harry growled, deep in the back of his throat. His hands fell to her hips and he pushed her backwards, crowding her up against her desk. She grunted at the impact, then, following his momentum, hopped up onto the edge. He broke away to pull her blouse aside before ducking in to mouth at her neck. The wet, searing heat of his tongue made her dizzy, and she clung to him, her hands sliding under his suit jacket as she parted her legs. He slid against her with a grunt, lapping at a spot beneath her ear that made her entire body twitch.

She was panting, spellbound, on fire, half-numb. The feeling of his hands on her skin, the weight of his body against hers, was like a drug. She pressed her mouth to Harry's temple, his cheekbone, his forehead, any part of his body that she could reach. Hermione wanted nothing more than to tear off his clothes and hold him there for hours, and she shuddered as he mouthed his way along her jaw.

When Harry reached her lips, he kissed her like they were drowning, holding her head in place with one hand while the other slid up the back of her blouse. Heat flooded her face, and she fumbled with his button-down, working one hand under his shirt and clinging to the warm skin beneath it. He groaned again, letting even more of his weight fall into her, and this time, she felt his erection press into her inner thigh.

Hermione choked on a moan, pulling him even more tightly against her, her fingers digging into his arms as arousal flooded her veins. Everything in her wanted him, wanted him so badly that she forgot where they were, that they were in several layers of clothing, that this was Harry—

A sudden knock came at the door, disengaging the ever-present Silencing Charm, followed by Jill's voice, clear as a bell: "Minister? Are you in there?"

It was like a bolt of lightning. Before she knew what was happening, Harry was halfway across the room, hurriedly straightening his shirt, his tie, his glasses

Hermione cleared her throat, her face going hot as she yanked her blouse back into place, straightened the waistband of her trousers, and pushed a loose chunk of hair back into her French twist. "Yes, Jill," she called in reply, hoping her voice was suitably steady. "I'm here."

Her office door opened to reveal a harassed-looking Jill. Hermione went very still, trying not to look guilty. "Thank Morgana," said Jill. "I just heard what happened, Crane broke half the wards on the DMLE Apparating into Kingsley's office to tell him the news. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Hermione replied, trying to remember how to breathe. "Auror Potter managed to get us out in time. How's the rest of the team?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, ma'am," Jill said, clearly pained. "St. Mungo's already dispatched two Medi-Witches to the scene and Kingsley's there now with reinforcements. He wants you there, too, Auror Potter," she directed to Harry. "He wants to know what happened."

"Certainly," said Harry, doing the vocal equivalent of the color beige. His gaze flickered towards Hermione for a split second and her stomach swooped in reply. "That is, if you're comfortable with that, Minister—"

Hermione nodded. "Go. I can take care of myself for half an hour."

Harry nodded back and, a moment later, turned on the spot and disappeared with a crack! For a moment, Hermione was leveled by a wave of disappointment, but she tried to shrug it off.

"You're bleeding, Minister," said Jill, her voice going low and soft. Between that and the now obvious ticking of the clock, the room was beginning to feel larger and emptier. Hermione almost missed the battle.

Hermione glanced at her secretary. "Am I?"

Jill nodded, tapping her own temple as a reference. "Just a little. Would you like me to fix it for you?"

"No, that's all right." Hermione turned to her desk and picked up the compact mirror she so seldom used. She stared at herself, then angled her head to see a long, but shallow, scratch going from her temple back through her hairline. It surprised her — she couldn't feel a thing — but it must've happened when she tipped the table over, or during her duel. A glancing jinx or even a shard of broken dishware.

Hermione sighed, pulling out her wand as Jill watched, worry written plain as day across her face. She wondered when, or if, this day would ever end.