The next few days passed in a strange sort of limbo. Working mostly from home was a difficult adjustment for Hermione to make, but not because she was unprepared — her dining room made an excellent second office, and going to the Ministry once a day meant she could collect her mail and memos in due course. She had no shortage of quills and ink and parchment, and Jill settled in as well, alternating between her laptop and her paperwork with ease.

But it was no comparison. Hermione found herself reaching for more casual clothing — which she changed out of anyway for the few meetings on her calendar — and ending her days earlier than she normally would have done. Should have done. She let herself get distracted by the cats, by the occasional flurry of security personnel stopping in to receive a briefing from Harry, by the overwhelming lack of scrutiny.

For all that her occasional trips to the Ministry helped to maintain her equilibrium, they also reminded her of the world she was missing. There were no more daily trips to the coffee shop, or drop-ins at Alonzo's — she'd already sent them a note letting them know she was going on assignment abroad and wouldn't be back for a while — or the book club. Hermione had decided that she wouldn't cancel on that ahead of time, to avoid suspicion. She would just call in sick, and in the meantime, settle for chatting to Sandra over the phone instead of their usual brunch.

Hermione had never claimed to lead much of a social life, but even this was making her feel lonely. Isolated.

Kingsley's reports both helped and worsened the issue. He stopped by on Thursday morning with a thick stack of parchment and asked Jill to leave the sitting room, then cast triple-thick Silencing Charms as well as a Muffliato.

"Well, Kingsley," said Hermione, watching him with a raised eyebrow, "this had better be good news."

"Of a sort," he replied, then sat down in the other armchair while Harry took a spot on the sofa. He dropped the stack of parchment on the coffee table and looked her in the eye. "We've had some reports come in from the Aurors we sent undercover to infiltrate Salvation's lower ranks."

Both of Hermione's eyebrows went up this time. "They were successful?"

"One of them, yes." Kingsley shuffled through the parchment and produced three documents that looked familiar — information forms, the sort they usually used for criminal files. Once, there had been files like these with Hermione and Harry's names on them, and each time Hermione saw them, she felt a shiver of fear. She felt it now, even if she didn't recognize the three glowering faces staring up at her from the photographs. "We've had three suspects identified. Two male, one female."

"Good," Hermione said, as Harry leaned forward for a better look. "What do we know?"

"Two of these individuals—" Kingsley gestured to the younger of the men and the woman— "are at the lowest rank of the organization. They are foot soldiers, delegated a small set of tasks and responsibilities that they carry out on a daily or weekly schedule. The man, Lance Jenkins, age twenty-five, is a Muggle-born wizard of moderate ability, and he appears to be in charge of targeting new members. If he identifies a like-minded individual, he sends their information to his captain, Leo Marchbanks—" here Kingsley tapped the photograph of the second man, who appeared to be slightly older than the other two— "and Marchbanks' captain then gives him the order to pursue or disregard."

"Kingsley," said Harry, his eyes burning a hole in the piece of parchment, "where does Lance Jenkins work?"

Kingsley paused, and Hermione closed her eyes, because they'd all seen it on the form, plain as day, under the prompt of 'Occupation.' "He's a clerk for the European Trade Committee, in the Department of International Magical Cooperation."

It was silent for a moment. Hermione forced herself to take a breath and reopen her eyes. Then, Harry clasped his hands together and met Kingsley's gaze. "Continue."

"The woman, Christine Thompson, is another Muggle-born whose sole purpose appears to be intelligence gathering. She is a twenty-two year-old witch of low-level ability, and perhaps it would be best to think of her as a magpie. She steals pieces of information wherever she can get them, then passes them along a series of channels to her captain, who deems them useful or not. That information is then compiled by higher-ranking members and passed around accordingly."

"And where does she work?" said Harry, anger edging into his voice.

Kingsley took a breath, then said, "The mail room at the Ministry."

Hermione swallowed, trying not to imagine this woman touching the mail that found its way to her office every day, the mail that was sitting on her dining table at this very moment—

"Please tell me," said Harry, scrubbing a hand along his jaw, "that this Captain Marchbanks of theirs does not work at the Ministry as well."

"Private sector. An agricultural consulting firm based down south." Kingsley sighed a little, and they were all silent for a moment.

Even if Marchbanks didn't work at the Ministry, the fact that there were already two Salvation operatives hidden in the organization was nothing short of devastating. Probability suggested that there were a dozen more just like them. At least, Hermione realized, now they knew how the Probity Probes had ended up in DMLE storage, and how Salvation had managed to corner her at the Muggle restaurant. Even if all the group had were low-level Ministerial functionaries, it was enough access for them to snatch fragments of her security detail, her movements, her plans. Given enough pieces, they could form a complete picture.

Hermione felt a sudden jolt of fear, directly to her stomach. This was getting serious.

Kingsley cleared his throat and continued. "At this stage, it's difficult for us to tell where the group's headquarters are, or if they even have them. That's the next assignment."

"What about the members you arrested at the restaurant?" Hermione said, flipping over the captain's information sheet so that his photograph was hidden from view. She couldn't stand the way he sneered at her. "Have they offered any useful information?"

"No. Actually, I've been meaning to speak to you both about that." Kingsley glanced at Harry, then back at her. "We've run into a bit of trouble, regarding the interrogation. They haven't answered any of our questions. They're using stolen wands, and they had no identification on them. We can't figure out who they are, much less the particulars of who they work for."

Harry frowned. "Haven't you dosed them with Veritaserum?"

Kingsley sighed again, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Yes, we have."

Harry stared at him, uncomprehending. Hermione felt much the same way, because Veritaserum was foolproof, unless—

"Kingsley," she said, her heart thumping painfully, "are they unresponsive to Veritaserum?"

"Yes."

Harry blinked at him, his expression shifting from confusion to outrage. "Are you telling me that they have a cure—?"

"It appears so, yes." Kingsley raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Now, we're still working on diagnostics. Mr. Malfoy has been—"

"And not just any cure, a cure that works long-term. They've been in custody for three days, and you haven't even—" Harry broke off and stood up. He began to pace behind the sofa, frustration coming off him in waves. "Brilliant, bloody brilliant."

"Harry." Kingsley's voice was sharp. "Calm down."

"I am calm," Harry spat, his eyes flashing. "I'm incredibly calm, considering that we can't seem to get a win against these people. We change protocol, they find out. We move the Minister, they find out. We get two of their own into custody, and we can't even squeeze out an inch of information because they found a bloody cure for bloody Veritaserum—"

"We must focus on what we do have, Harry. We have good information, and we'll have even more in the next few days, maybe enough to launch an offensive." Kingsley took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. "If we keep our heads, if we take small, calculated steps, we just might beat them. But we'll never get there if we focus on everything we don't have."

He was making good sense; even Hermione could see that. For a brief moment, she was hurtled back into the war, and she remembered all of the hushed meetings and secret conversations that she, Ron, and Harry had never been allowed to access. Was this what it had been like for the Order, back then? Guessing and checking until someone on the other side eventually slipped up?

"Everything we know about them so far indicates that they are clever, and they are dangerous. We thought the usual parameters would be enough to stymie them, but they weren't. We have to be ready for anything, Harry, and getting upset certainly won't help you there." Kingsley was firm: "You're doing good work, Harry. Don't forget that, even with everything else going on."

For a fleeting moment, in the split second that Hermione glanced at him, Harry looked stricken, something in his face flashing so desolate, so empty, that it was sort of frightening. But then it was gone, and he nodded. "I'll bring you up to speed on the security teams, Kingsley. There have been a few low-level disturbances and…"

Later, as Harry licked his way up her thigh, pausing to bite the skin next to her hip, Hermione thought of that moment, of the split second in which she'd glimpsed a version of Harry she'd not seen in years. She couldn't forget the way he'd looked — haunted and vulnerable all at once — and it clung to the back of her mind, even as she moaned at the feeling of his stubble against her inner thigh and tangled her fingers in his hair, urging him deeper.

Forget about it, she told herself as she circled her hips and fucked herself on his tongue, that's not what this is, and you know it.

Working from home had done wonders for… whatever this was between her and Harry. The moment they were alone in the house, it was like someone flicked a switch. He would be on her in an instant, and she would follow his lead with relish, the worries and stresses of the day dropping away from her like a second skin. For those sumptuous moments, all she had to think about was his mouth, his body, his hands — not the terrorists, not her own safety, none of it.

Hermione was learning him, she realized, albeit slowly. She was learning to read the signs of his body, his eyes. Spinning a pen between her fingers; bending over to pick up a fallen piece of parchment; laughing when Jill muttered a dirty joke — all of these were things that got his attention, made his gaze simmer as it raked across her body. Not that it ever showed on his face, at least not when there were other people present, no — even when they were alone, his face was so often inscrutable that she had to take her cues from other parts of his body. She catalogued his tells with enthusiasm, filing them away in a precise, measured way that had nothing to do with how desperate she was to keep this separate from the rest of who they were.

Friends, colleagues, enemies. None of that mattered when his hands were on her body, in her hair. It made everything else so easy to forget.

Just that morning, before the sun had even properly risen, he'd fucked her raw on the kitchen island, clothes on, his hand braced under her knee, cracking her open and holding her tight, fast and ruthless and messy, barely giving her time to get her breath back before he dropped to his knees and sucked her clit until she screamed. Hermione hadn't even remembered her own name after that, much less that Harry Potter was the reason she'd nearly fallen asleep slumped against the kitchen island. Because that was impossible. Of course it was.

When he wasn't ruthless, he humored her. Now, he was supple, lithe, moving with her as she lurched on the bed, in no kind of hurry. He was in control, but so was she — setting the pace, putting him where she wanted him.

When he finally slid into her after making her come twice on his mouth, Harry buried his face in the pillow beside her head, his expression hidden from view. Hermione found she didn't care — she was too busy rolling against him, shuddering when the action sent tingles down her legs. She felt like she was floating on water, her stomach like jelly as he drove deeper and deeper, his breath coming in pants. A part of her relished this more than anything — the fact that her body could unravel him in moments, could shatter his composure and leave him reeling, breathless.

Hermione had never had this kind of control over Harry. It was heady, and it made her feel sort of drunk, addicted. And when his breath caught in his throat and he stilled, choking out a moan as he came inside her, a part of her wondered how they could ever go back to normal. How she could carry on without having this every single day.

Afterwards, they lay there next to each other in her bed, staring at the ceiling as they caught their breath. It was only the second time they'd done this in her bed at all, and Hermione still wasn't sure about it. For some reason, it felt far more personal than any of the other parts of her house. Lying there, she felt exposed in a way she hadn't before, in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that she was naked.

Not for the first time since beginning this, she didn't know what to say.

It helped that they never talked, during. Very little before. Not much after. They had yet to do anything other than bite off a word or two here or there, maybe an occasional complete sentence, but never an actual conversation. That only happened after one of them left the room and came back in, a moment that Hermione had begun to think of as their 'reset.' And she wasn't about to break that streak.

Thankfully, Casper chose that moment to be completely inappropriate and jump up onto the bed. He froze, staring at them, and Hermione expected him to jump back down, but he didn't. He made his way over to Harry and got comfy, putting his paws up on Harry's chest.

"Hey." Harry's protest was sleepy, hoarse. "What's he— ow!"

Hermione slid off the bed. Casper continued to knead at Harry's chest, his claws grazing the skin. "That's his way of showing affection."

"Lunatic," Harry hissed, squirming. This did nothing to deter Casper, who only dug his claws in further.

Hermione turned away and went into her bathroom. She used the toilet, then was distracted by her reflection. Peering at the purplish love-bites across her chest and neck — and even her bottom — some of them fading, some of them fresh, she felt a little surprised. She never would've guessed that Harry had such territorial convictions as a lover, but she wasn't about to complain. Either by coincidence or keen observation, he'd worked out exactly what she wanted — Hermione hated being handled with kid gloves in the bedroom.

The cool air of the bathroom made her shiver, and Hermione put her hand to her neck, using a healing charm to fade the few marks that would be visible above her clothing. The others, she left where they were, and pulled on her bathrobe. It's laziness, she told herself as she splashed water onto her face. It's laziness, not sentiment.

"Ow!" Harry bit out, then came the sound of a scuffle. "That's right, see how you like it—"

Bemused, Hermione dried her face and went back out into the bedroom, where she found Harry in the middle of the bed, still naked, pinning Casper belly-up to the mattress, overwhelming him with attention. Casper's tail was thrashing, but Hermione could tell he was delighted — his rumbling purrs were loud enough to hear from across the room. Harry was making sounds that went beyond description, he kept rubbing his face on Casper's head, and something about the whole scene was so ridiculous and so sweet that—

Hermione cleared her throat. "Dinner?"

"Yes." Harry didn't look up. "I already ordered a pizza. It'll be here in twenty minutes."

She choked on her reply, her face flooding with heat, because that was presumptuous, arrogant, and bloody right on the money. "I— all right."

Harry flashed her a smile and play-shoved Casper under the duvet, tunneling in after him. Feeling a blush threaten again, Hermione swallowed and went into her closet. After tonight, her room was definitely off limits.


It was three o'clock in the morning, and Hermione couldn't sleep.

It was hours since they'd finished their late pizza, tidied the house (which was steadily becoming a waystation for half of the DMLE), and gone to bed. But something — maybe the sex, maybe the food, maybe even bloody Mercury in retrograde — refused to leave her be. Sleep had taunted her, washing over the soles of her feet and the backs of her legs only to recede a few minutes later, over and over again until Hermione decided she'd had enough. She sat up, put on the lights, and got out of bed.

Ten minutes later, cup of tea in hand, she sat down at the dining room table and pulled the files Kingsley had left behind towards her. They only had so much information about the inner workings of Salvation at this point, but it was possible that what they needed lay in the mundanity, in the details that the Aurors had so painstakingly catalogued — it was worth rereading, worth sinking in and burying herself until she couldn't even think straight.

Maybe, she thought, doing this would settle her, would get her to the point of not feeling like she was on the run for the second time in her life. Something about knowing thine enemy or whatever. Clichés were often clichés because they were true.

So that's what she did. She opened the file, took a sip of tea, and started reading.

The reports really were meticulous. Auror 151C — identity obscured for safety reasons, of course — had pinpointed the Salvation contact after only a handful of trips to a certain pub halfway down the dodgier end of Knockturn. Hermione recognized the name of the pub at once, having seen it on at least a dozen memos and reports compiled by the DMLE, and felt a prickle of irritation. These people really could be predictable, when it came down to the obvious. Knockturn? Really? Stupid Death Eater wannabes.

But they were selective wannabes; that much, she had to admit. It had taken this Auror several attempts to even get Lance to speak to him, let alone begin something referred to as the 'initiation process.' Hermione stared at those words, momentarily humbled by the seriousness of this situation, and Winnie chose that moment to hop up onto her lap. She stroked him as he settled down, purring, and continued reading.

A few minutes later, one of the sitting room lights went on and Harry appeared in the doorway of the dining room. He was in his pajamas, his hair half-vertical, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek, but his eyes were open, bright, and alert — she realized that he was worried, and felt a pang of guilt that sort of horrified her.

Good God, she thought, am I actually concerned about causing Harry Potter undue stress?

They stared at each other, mute in the dark and empty house. Hermione began to play out the conversation in her head —

Why are you out of bed, Minister? It's half past three in the morning.

I couldn't sleep, and I don't see what concern it is of yours.

It is my concern, because I'm the one who has to protect you.

Don't be ridiculous, I'm only reading, what sort of—

You can't just sit here on your own, you know that—

But then, Harry did the most surprising thing of all: he didn't say anything. Instead, he came over to the table and sat down across from her, pulling the second pile of reports in front of him. He put his head down and began to read.

Hermione ducked her head, trying to refocus on the words in front of her. Out of everything she'd expected him to do, she certainly hadn't expected that.


The back door opened, and Hermione tilted her head at the sound, listening to the footfall that accompanied it. The stone patio outside her kitchen had iced over during the night, and each movement created a gentle, cracking crunch that echoed around her miniscule, disused garden. She exhaled slowly, watching her breath pool in the air.

"Minister."

It was Harry, because of course it was. "Yes?"

He didn't reply, but he came closer, shuffling across the slick stones. Something nudged at her elbow, and she looked down to see a steaming mug of white coffee.

Hermione blinked at it, momentarily thrown. Did he really remember how she liked her coffee? No, he must've asked Jill or somebody else. It had been too long. She took the mug, just avoiding brushing his fingers with her own. It was scorching hot. Another detail he must've—

"All right, Minister?" So he was staying, then.

"Yes, thank you." She took a sip. In addition to the heat and the milk, the coffee was tooth-achingly sweet. Another tick in the column. It had to have been Jill.

Silence. Then, "May I ask why you're—"

"I needed some air." Hermione took another sip, then risked shooting him a glance. Harry was standing just a few inches to her right, copying her pose exactly — back towards the house, eyes front. Except he was wearing a coat, the collar turned up against the frigid breeze. It was stupidly attractive. "I often need a shock to stay awake."

"Ah." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Feeling it, Minister?"

She sighed into her mug. "A little. I haven't pulled an all-nighter in—"

"Me either," said Harry. "Perk of rising in the ranks. I can delegate the night stakeouts."

"What a leader." Hermione tried to hide her smile when Harry gave a low chuckle, then they lapsed into silence once again.

Hermione drank her coffee, relishing it. It was a smooth, delicious blend, and the sugar made it taste like dessert. She thought briefly of all the people still in her house, waiting on her or Harry or Kingsley, and fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"June third," said Harry, out of nowhere.

Hermione turned, frowning at him. "I beg your—?"

"The last all-nighter I remember you pulling." Harry wasn't looking at her. "Our seventh year, the second-to-last review day before NEWTs. Transfiguration. I thought you'd finally cracked, you tried to pour tea on your eggs at breakfast."

"Oh." She fought off a shiver and silently refreshed her warming charm. Of all the things for him to remember, let alone bring up— "Anything going on in there?"

He accepted her redirection without comment. "Not really. I think Thistlewhit is giving Kingsley her reports from this morning's screenings at the Ministry."

"Well," Hermione mused, "I picked the right time to duck out."

"Indeed. Will you be ready to go soon?"

She nodded. It was getting on for three o'clock, and she had a meeting with the French Minister for Magic in her office at the Ministry. "D'Argent is always late, but I don't suppose the situation will force him to be punctual?"

"It's possible." He seemed to hesitate, then said, "What about your four o'clock?"

"You mean with Crane?" Hermione shook her head. "I know, I'm mystified as well."

"But you feel safe?"

Hermione turned to look at him properly then, letting her confusion show on her face. "What on earth do you mean?"

Harry's reply was calm, measured: "The last time you were with him, you were attacked. It's natural to—"

"Don't be ridiculous." She turned away again, irritation overtaking the confusion in a heartbeat. "I'm sure he just wants to complain about getting ambushed in broad daylight."

"Well—" Harry started, then he was interrupted by his walkie-talkie gurgling to life in his pocket. He fumbled with it, but not before she caught Rogers' voice—

"Come in, Boggart, come in. A lorry stopped in the road and it's blocking my visual of the garden. Confirming that you are still outside with Otter, repeat, still—"

"Boggart to Mandrake, I'm still with Otter, and we are coming back inside, over." Harry switched off the walkie-talkie, studiously avoiding her gaze.

Hermione was staring at him again, her stomach doing something very ugly and unhelpful. "Otter?" she repeated, the word getting stuck on her tongue.

"Your code name," Harry replied. He turned away and opened the back door. Warm, humid air spilled out onto the patio. "Shall we?"

"My code name is Eagle," she said. She was clinging to the mug like it was a lifeline. "Eagle."

"We switch it every ten days or so." His gaze was fixed on her back fence, and his expression was blank. "There was a memo."

And, for the first time in a while, Hermione was speechless. She stared at Harry, uncomprehending. What on earth was she supposed to say to that? How was she supposed to feel? Of all the things they could've called her, that Harry could've called her—

"Minister!" Jill appeared in the doorway, looking a touch harried. "They've just sent over a new briefing packet for your meeting with Minister D'Argent, there's been some policy edits—"

"I'm coming in," Hermione said. She steeled herself and marched right past Harry, not looking at him even once as she went into the house. Enough, she told herself, slugging down another gulp of coffee, it's time to get back to work.


The meeting with D'Argent was practically routine. They discussed trade, the current Continental threat level (medium), and pending changes to French stock market policies. It was so blithely normal that Hermione almost wanted to cry with relief.

"Well." She went over to her desk once D'Argent had left, sifting through the different documents from her briefing packet. "That was a nice change of pace."

"Indeed, ma'am." Harry was standing near the door in parade rest.

Hermione glanced at him. "Should I be surprised that he knew about the current security situation? I mean, those details about the incident at the rally, then at the restaurant—"

"Not at all, Minister." Harry looked at her with a frown. "It's standard procedure for Continental Ministers to be briefed on any and all serious threats to your life, and vice versa. In fact, you may have noticed that his security detail has doubled in size. If the situation here were to worsen, he would be put under lockdown — all his travel would be restricted to certain parts of Paris, and his residence would be put under twenty-four hour surveillance. It's comparable to Stage One of your current Action Plan."

"Oh." Hermione stared down at the papers, her mind whirling. She'd known that, of course she had. It was all part of the international security protocols that had crossed her desk and her mind at least once a month. "Of course. It just slipped my mind." This is what you get for staying up all night, she admonished herself. At least it's Friday.

Before Harry could reply, there came a knock at the door. Jill poked her head in, her quirked eyebrow telling Hermione everything she needed to know. "Minister, Warlock Crane here for you."

"Right." Hermione cleared her throat and straightened her suit jacket. "Send him in."

Jill nodded and opened the door, stepping aside as Octavius Crane walked into the office.

He looked much the same as he had the other day — instead of a suit, his Wizengamot robes pressed to immaculate perfection, slick hair, shiny shoes — but something about his expression was different. His eyes were wide, and his face was warm, almost friendly. Harry glared daggers at the back of Crane's head, though none of his disapproval showed on his face.

She stepped forward to meet Crane with an outstretched hand. "Octavius, how are you?"

"Minister," he replied, shaking her hand, and Hermione blinked in surprise. That was the first time he'd addressed her by title and actually sounded sincere. "I'm well, thanks to you."

Something clogged in her throat. "Yes, ah. I'm glad to hear it." She turned, gesturing to her sofa and armchairs. "Shall we sit down?"

"Certainly." Octavius made himself comfortable on the sofa while she did the same in her usual armchair. Harry shifted closer, moving from his spot by the door to lean against the mantelpiece, close enough to Octavius to seem intimidating but not threatening. Hermione almost told him to calm down. It didn't seem like Octavius was spoiling for a fight.

"So," Hermione said. She adjusted her notepad and pen on the end table beside her, just to be ready. "You didn't really give Jill much of an indication as to what this meeting was about. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yes," said Octavius, then seemed to reconsider. "Well, uh, no, actually." He cleared his throat, then, to Hermione's continued surprise, he actually looked nervous. "Really, I, I wanted to come here to thank you for what you did the other day."

Hermione blinked at him some more, at a loss for words. She had no idea what to say to that, to the last thing she'd ever expected to come out of his mouth. "Okay," she finally settled on, but even that wasn't quite right.

But Crane didn't seem to care. "Minister, I can't thank you enough. You protected me, at your own risk, and it is because of you that I'm here in one piece today. I have to admit, had I been in your position, I'm not sure if I would have been able to do the same."

Heat flooded Hermione's chest and neck. This was embarrassing and somehow delightful all at once. Of all the things she'd expected him to say, this was near the very bottom of her list. "Really, Octavius, that's a bit of an exaggeration—"

"Not at all," he insisted. "And, really, Minister, I ought to apologize. I had no idea— I mean, I didn't know you could fight like that—"

Hermione gave him a brief, pained smile. "Well, I've had lots of practice—"

"—the way you just whipped out your wand and knew what to do— I have to applaud your reflexes, you didn't even train in the DMLE, how did you—?"

"Mr. Crane," she said loudly. "How can I help you?"

Octavius cleared his throat, sitting back in his chair. He clearly hadn't meant to go on the way he had and was trying to recover ground. "Well, I've heard some whispers about the people who are targeting you. Is it true that they have some sort of connection on the Continent? Contacts in Germany, Belgium, and the Czech Republic?"

"Maybe." Harry stepped forward with a frown, crossing his arms. "Where did you hear about this?"
Octavius blinked. "I have contacts in the DMLE as well as in other departments, Auror Potter, I assure you this was all behind closed doors—"

"It's fine," Hermione interrupted, shooting Harry a look. "If you could continue—"

"Well, I simply wanted to offer my services." When she didn't react, Octavius hurriedly tacked on, "I mean my contacts, of course. I know wizarding suppliers and manufacturers in most major European cities, and half of them owe me a favor. I'm sure at least some of them have heard whispers that members of your task force might find interesting."

Hermione felt like she was split down the middle, and she didn't know what to say. It seemed too good to be true; out of everybody in the Ministry, for Octavius Crane to be offering her help— But what he was saying was accurate. He had a vast network, borne not only of his Pureblood status but also his political life and his business ventures, and it seemed ludicrous for her to even think of turning down that kind of help.

Harry clearly felt along the same lines. He'd pulled out his notebook and pen, and they were now hovering next to his elbow, the pen working furiously across the paper. "The DMLE is grateful for any information that might bring us closer to apprehending a suspect," said Harry. "But I must admit I'm surprised to hear you offer it, Warlock Crane."

"Naturally," Crane replied, so smoothly that Hermione wondered if he'd been expecting this response. He reached into the breast pocket of his robes and produced a folded slip of parchment, which he held out to Harry. "Here is a complete list of everybody I thought might be of use to your investigation. Feel free to contact any of them, and you need only mention my name for them to cooperate in full."

A brittle smile flickered across Harry's expression, and Hermione shot him a frown. That look of his terrified everyone except for her and Ron. He put the parchment into his pocket. "I'll check into it."


Hermione looked down at her fingers and absently wondered if this would be a good time to paint her nails. She normally didn't bother with it, but now that she was at home seven days a week…

She sighed, sticking her arms under the spray from the showerhead. The suds from her body wash melted beneath the water, trickling down her hands and torso. It tingled slightly against her skin, and her body began to relax, her fatigue finally catching up to her. Midnight would soon strike, closing the chapter of her first week working at home, and she couldn't wait to crawl into bed. She might actually get to sleep in tomorrow, if there were no emergencies to tend to—

Suddenly, there came a sharp knock at the glass door, and Hermione startled, her eyes flying open, but it was only Harry. Naked, no glasses, towel around his hips.

A beat. Then, "Can I join you?" he said.

A thousand different replies flew through Hermione's head, chief among them, What the fuck and Yes, please. They hadn't done anything like this yet, and Harry usually let her push the boundaries first — she was the one who'd gone to his room, shoved him down onto the sofa, yanked him into her bed. He let her make those kinds of decisions, and it was sort of sweet of him, but she wasn't thinking about that because he was standing outside her shower, naked and inviting and just a bit smug.

Hermione nodded, stepping back. Her heart was pounding from the shock as well as his proximity — she still wasn't used to being naked around him, except when they were having sex, which she supposed was kind of weird, but then again, maybe it wasn't. Because it's meant to be physical, she thought as he dropped the towel and stepped into the shower, not personal.

The water sprayed across his chest in a rather breathtaking way, and Hermione was so busy staring at the droplets beading on his neck that she almost missed his smile. His face really did look different without the glasses — softer, maybe kinder, or younger — and it made this smile, this warm, careful, smile of his, all the more endearing.

Hermione's heart stuttered and her mouth went dry. "What?"

Harry blinked, then dunked his head under the water. It sprayed everywhere, and Hermione turned her face away with a startled laugh. But before she could do anything else, Harry's hands were on her, pulling her body flush with his and flattening her to the tiled wall. She gasped at the shock of cold and he licked into her mouth, filthy and hot, sending a jolt of heat straight to her belly.

It only built from there. Their kisses were wet, languid, and Harry's hands mapped her body, sliding across her skin, grazing her nipples, squeezing her ass. He wasn't in any hurry, but Hermione could barely keep up, and her grip on his torso, his thighs, was the only thing keeping her tethered. She was floating, tingling, burning beneath him, hot and cold all at once, and when he finally, finally, brought his hand to her crotch, she let out a moan that barely sounded human.

Harry smirked, pressing a kiss to her jaw, then dug his teeth into her pulse point as he stroked her. He was slow about it, leisurely, lifting her leg and wrapping it around his hips so he could get a better angle, pressing his erection against her stomach. His fingers were gentle, but clever, and within minutes, Hermione was shuddering against him, covered in goosebumps and close, so close—

His hand slid from her clit up her stomach just as his mouth brushed against her ear. "Let's take this to a more comfortable venue."

And with that, he Apparated them to her bed.

Hermione let out a violent shiver — the cool air against her wet skin was pure electricity, and in the half-darkness of the room she could only watch as Harry settled beside her, his hand drifting southward again. He nuzzled her breasts as he continued to tease her, pressing her down into the pillows, into the sheets that clung to her like a second skin, and it was overwhelming, dizzying—

"Do you like that?" Harry asked her, his voice low and husky in her ear. A whimper crawled up her throat and she felt the ghost of his grin on her collarbone, sharp and pleased. "I think you do," he continued, his stubble like sandpaper on her skin, and her whole body twitched in reply, aching for something, anything—

"You like it when I play with you?" he whispered. His hot, liquid mouth traced the line of her neck. "You want me to fuck you until you forget your own name?"

Her orgasm hit like a train, sudden out of the blinding dark, and she let out a guttural moan, clenching against something that wasn't there. Her body flooded with warmth and energy, and Hermione was so overcome she didn't notice the dampness spreading between her thighs.

Harry froze, and his stillness pulled her back into reality. He was looking at her in the dim light, his face flushed and somehow reverent. "Did you just—?" he breathed, his wet fingers brushing the lowest edge of her sex, where the thin, curly hair was soaked through. "Was that—?"

Hermione blushed, violently. That had only happened with one other partner before, and he could never find out. "I, I think so," she mumbled, rolling on top of him. She sighed, pressing her damp cunt down onto his thigh, taking his cock in hand. "Not a word."

His smile was cheeky, impertinent. "Never." Harry pulled her down into a sloppy, filthy kiss, and Hermione let herself go, only stopping to think that, at all costs, she had to make sure he didn't fall asleep in her bed.