[takes place immediately after the events of chapter 7; c/w for drinking in the second section, violence and graphic injuries in the third]

A/N: an extra long chapter to make up for the fact that you're all gonna want to murder me by the end of it 8) I make no claim to any of The Pointer Sisters' fabulous work; I'm only borrowing it. if you'd like to follow along to Hermione's jam session, the album referenced is "Black and White," and in my opinion, it's definitely something that Hermione would've grown up listening to.


Hermione stared down into the frying pan and nudged the pancakes with her trusty spatula, which wasn't so much being trusty as it was being conniving and evil. Things were bubbling, which she supposed was a good sign, though it had been ages since she'd last done this — she usually just walked to the greasy spoon around the corner if she wanted a decent fry-up. Maybe it was just because she was out of practice.

Practice, she thought, glancing at the screen of her tablet, where a very friendly YouTube personality was saying something about butter foaming in a hot pan. That's all you need, practice

Hermione took a sip of her coffee, then winced. She hadn't added enough sugar, but that was just par for the course this morning. Her mind, her whole body, was in a fog, and she couldn't seem to concentrate on anything, even the simple stuff. She wasn't sure why.

"Sorry, the call took longer than I thought." Harry appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He'd showered and changed into his usual slacks and button-down, but his glasses were smudged and his hair was a mess. She had a sudden pang of recollection — specifically, Harry fucking her from behind the night before, pulling her still-wet hair until her back curved and made her nearly blind with pleasure, then biting at her shoulder while she gasped and begged—

Maybe that was why her brain refused to work this morning. She fought the urge to scowl at him. Bloody men.

Harry took her in with a glance, his gaze fixing on the pan in front of her. "Kingsley will be here in an hour or two. He's bringing Malfoy with him as well, apparently there's something he has to tell us. What are you doing?"

"What does he want?" she said absently, flipping a pancake and only making it halfway. Batter spilled into the pan and smoked while she tried to poke at the now taco-like pancake. Sighing, she paused the video on her tablet.

"Just some updates." Harry approached her. "Are you cooking, Minister?"

Hermione stepped aside to let him see. She was too tired and too out of it to fight him on it. "In theory. The practical application is somewhat lagging."

"I see." She could hear so many things in his voice — restraint, humor, fear. He reached for the plate of finished pancakes, which didn't look like pancakes so much as they looked like lopsided hockey pucks. Harry picked one up and took a bite out of it.

Hermione watched his face as he chewed, slowly, and then swallowed, with great effort. His expression didn't change, but she saw the restrained shudder in his body.

"Here." Hermione handed him the spatula and headed for the coffee pot. She needed a fresh mug, a new brain, a different life.

"Cheers." Harry used it to scrape the pancakes into the bin, closely followed by the ones on the plate and the remaining batter.

Hermione watched all of this with the faintest sensation of floating above the earth. Harry Potter, in her kitchen, binning her attempt at pancakes and digging through her cupboards to remake the batter, dodging Casper's attempt to trip him. A month ago, the sight of this would have made her head explode into a thousand pieces. But now? She felt nothing.

Well, not nothing. Exasperation, definitely. Who did he think he was, knocking together a pancake batter, knowing the contents of her cupboards like the back of his hand and that she kept the flour in the freezer? Then there was nostalgia, which was unhelpful. She couldn't shake the ghost of a dozen mornings that were nothing like this one, where he'd shuffled into the tent's kitchen and fumbled his way through making a cup of tea while they brainstormed the different objects into which a psychopath would try to split his soul. He'd been so much smaller then, so much more gentle, in a way. This was a different Harry, now. Different and yet the same.

Alchemy, Hermione thought, and felt a horrible tremor low in her stomach. Horrible, because she knew what it meant, and had to take a glug of coffee to force the lump out of her throat.

"I've had some practice at this," Harry was saying as he wiped out the frying pan. "Got more than a few weekend fry-ups on my CV by now."

A beat passed, in which Hermione contemplated just hitting the floor and sliding out of the room, because surely he had to know how that sounded. "Oh?" she finally managed to say. They had never talked about that, not even back in their early Ministry days, never—

Harry seemed to catch on and he paused before hanging the towel up again. "Teddy was always a sucker for pancakes and French toast. It was the only method of bribery that ever really worked on him."

There, that funny tremor again, but this time, she was sure it was partly from relief at sidestepping that minefield. "How sweet."

Harry chuckled darkly, turning the burner back on. "It was something, all right."

And then he proceeded to make a stack of perfect, golden-brown pancakes that did not have a single strange lump of flour or raw batter in the middle. Hermione had to work very hard at not saying a word as she ate with minimal dignity, getting syrup on her thumb and butter in the corner of her mouth.

Harry, thankfully, seemed too interested in the morning's Prophet to pay her much attention. He was nose-deep in the Sports section, as usual, and she frowned at him, feeling an uncharacteristic flash of jealousy. How dare he make perfect pancakes and look fresh off a GQ cover, when here she was, feeling a bit lopsided and fuzzy, her hair refusing to budge, and apparently incapable of working a frying pan?

Almost as soon as that thought finished, Hermione blinked, coming back to herself a bit. What on earth was going through her head? She had to get out of here, to get herself sorted before Kingsley and Malfoy turned up.

She stood, somewhat abruptly, catching her hip on the corner of the island. Harry glanced at her, a crease between his brows. "I'm going to— get changed."

"All right," he said, his tone betraying none of the concern she saw in his eyes.

Hermione fled, shutting herself in her bathroom and turning on her news podcast as loud as it could go. She stared at herself in the mirror, her eyes huge and shining beneath the terrifying bird's nest of hair that was currently sitting in a huge tangle atop her head. It had been so long since her routine was interrupted that she'd forgotten what happened when she got her hair wet and didn't immediately dry or style it afterwards. Here she was, a thirty-nine year-old woman, with the hair of a mountain troll.

Muttering to herself, Hermione turned on the shower and stripped out of her pajamas. Time for her to return to the real world.

An hour and a half later, she emerged from her bedroom with dry hair and a fresh change of clothes. She'd also put on a bit of makeup, which she normally didn't do on weekends, but it was one more way to kill time. Now, Hermione sat down on the couch, flicking through her phone, combing one hand through her hair to refresh the Smoothing Charm. She desperately needed another treatment, and soon, or she wouldn't be able to control it any longer.

Harry appeared and took one of the armchairs. "They'll be here in a few minutes." He glanced at her. "Everything all right, Minister?"

"Yes." Not meeting his gaze, she reached for her notebook and pen. "I've been meaning to ask — if I want to visit a salon, a wizarding salon, what protocols must I follow?"

This seemed to take him by surprise. "I'm… not sure, ma'am. Is it… urgent?"

She sighed through her nose. "Yes, I'm afraid it is."

"Okay. We can ask Kingsley before he leaves."

Before Hermione could reply, the man in question appeared in a blaze of green flames, stepping out of her fireplace and brushing the loose ash from his shoulders. "Good morning, Minister. Auror Potter."

"Morning," Hermione said.

The fire blazed green again and out stepped Malfoy, barely a hair out of place, wearing a pair of grey slacks and a dark grey shirt. It was the equivalent of jeans and a t-shirt for him, and Hermione tried not to let her surprise show. He nodded to both of them and she noticed that he looked exhausted. "Morning."

She smiled at him. "Cup of tea, anyone?"

Once the tea was made and they were all settled down, Malfoy spoke up. "Kingsley's the one with the good news, so he should probably go first."

Kingsley reached into his briefcase and un-Shrunk a huge pile of parchment. "We have a possible location for Salvation's headquarters."

Hermione almost choked on her tea. "Really?!"

"That was…" Harry blinked, seemingly at a loss for words. "Quick."

"A couple of those leads from Octavius Crane were a little too good to be true," Kingsley replied. At their expressions, he added, "Don't worry, they've all been vetted. Nothing to give us much concern, at least not where our troubles lie at the moment. Plenty of questionable business dealings, but as far as their allegiances go, these people don't seem to give politics a second thought. Anarchy is bad for the economy, so there you have it." Kingsley waved his wand, and a few pieces of parchment lifted into the air. One of them unrolled to reveal a large, intricate map of Park Royal that combined modern and outdated architecture. As Hermione watched, the newer buildings, which were drawn in a heavy blue ink, faded away to be replaced by buildings drawn in red ink. Those then faded back into blue, and as this process continued, the roads remained much the same, thick black lines that did not waver while the rest of the map moved backwards and forwards through history.

"There's an abandoned warehouse down at the end of Coronation Road." Kingsley pointed to a small red rectangle that didn't change color, even as the buildings around it sprouted like blue weeds. "It hasn't been used for about fifty years, and the Council marked it for demolition ages ago. But someone must've put a delay on it, because it seems as if the Muggles have just forgotten to knock it down."

Harry snorted into his tea. "How convenient."

Kingsley flashed him a smirk. "Precisely." He waved his wand again, unfurling what looked to be several different interview transcripts.

Hermione recognized some of the names from Crane's list, and she blinked in surprise. Kingsley had clearly taken this tip seriously, if Aurors had already been dispatched to the Continent and had submitted their reports.

Kingsley caught her reaction. "I sent a few Aurors via Portkey directly after your meeting yesterday afternoon. Crane's intel was too strong of a lead to disregard. The Aurors were able to make contact yesterday evening and this morning."

"Good on them," said Harry. "Not wasting any time."

"The result of these interviews pointed to one key location — that abandoned warehouse." With another wave of his wand, a few sentences lifted off each of the transcripts and floated into the air, the letters expanding until they were the size of Hermione's palm. The sentences curled around the sitting area and began to scroll past them in a lazy circle. Some of the words glowed gold as Kingsley said, "The business contacts all claimed to have noticed certain shipments and invoices going to a new address. This address was registered to a few different false company names, of course, but it stuck out to these individuals because they knew this area of London to be predominantly Muggle, and they had never shipped anything there before."

Hermione watched the glowing words as they floated past her:

and I thought zat was a bit strange, all zat going to Park Royal? I've never even heard of it

No one told me there were wizards in that part of London, it's nowhere near Diagon Alley—

I asked a friend of mine from Knightsbridge, he says this area is known for Muggle industry, and so then I ask him, what would a wizard, Muggle-born or not, be doing there? He says he doesn't know—

"What was being sent to these false companies?" said Hermione.

"All kinds of things," Kingsley replied, nodding to Draco while yet another scroll unfurled. Draco pulled out his own wand and even more words began to glow in the air before her.

"We're looking at a wide variety of wizarding supplies," said Draco. "Everything from raw materials to potions ingredients. If you skim off the fat and ignore the more random purchases, you start seeing a pattern." Another wave of his wand and a few of the words grew in size, lifting off the parchment to join the others in the air. "Giant purple toad wart. Abraxan hair. Five hundred sheets of raw metal alloy. Moondew. Fairy wings. Gold flakes. Hellebore syrup."

Hermione shook her head. "What does any of that mean?"

"We think it means two things," said Draco, a bit more energy coming into his face. "One, that we've found the Potions Master. They're in that building, or at the very least, their workshop is. Two, Salvation is planning something big. You don't order metal and ingredients in these quantities if you're just brewing something one-off."

Her heart skipped a beat and she swallowed. "Something big, meaning?"

"We don't know," said Kingsley, and he sounded frustrated. "It's difficult to tell, at the moment. When Draco says something big, he sort of means that literally — either it's a singular object large in size, or it's many of the same small object marketed en masse."

"A weapon?" said Harry. His voice was sharp, even though his face was calm.

"Perhaps," Kingsley replied. "We really won't know until we raid the warehouse. If we have any luck, we'll find some useful answers, maybe enough evidence to get one step ahead."

"Raid?" Harry repeated. "When?"

"Tonight."

Harry and Hermione stared at Kingsley, who put up his hands in a placating gesture. "For what it's worth, it wasn't my idea. It was the High Council's."

"But surely it's a bad idea, nonetheless," said Hermione. "It's too soon! Have you even done a stakeout, reconnaissance, any of it?"

"Yes. That's all happening now, as we speak." Kingsley clapped his hands once, and the floating words melted out of the air. In spite of the situation, Hermione took a moment to be impressed. "The building seems to be moderately guarded, with a minimal amount of warding. They're taking it for granted that being in a Muggle area gives them an easy hiding spot."

"But aren't you automatically outnumbered when you step into the unknown?" said Harry, frowning. "And quite apart from that, Kingsley, this is sounding more and more like a trap."

"I have to agree," said Hermione. "And if this is where they're developing a weapon, it will be teeming with guards, no matter what appearances say. Are you certain it's worth the risk?"

"Yes." Kingsley was firm, his gaze burning. "Because we almost lost you twice in so many weeks, Minister. We can't afford to tread carefully anymore."

Something in Hermione's stomach twisted and burned. Her throat worked as she tried to swallow the emotions that were surging through her chest, and she stared at Kingsley, wondering how on earth she was supposed to respond to that.

"You're right," said Harry, "but that's no excuse for being reckless."

"We're not," Kingsley replied. "A calculated risk is still a risk, but we've put our best people on this. I have full confidence in this mission, and I wouldn't bring it to you if I didn't."

"What Kingsley isn't saying," Draco cut in, "or rather, what he's too kind to say, is that we need to do this if we're to have any hope of figuring out the whole Veritaserum mess."

Hermione stared at him. "Draco, don't—"

He waved an impatient hand at her. "No, it's true, and it's why I'm here. You deserved to hear it straight from me. I've been working at it day and night and I only have a handful of ideas. Ideas, mind you, not counter-cures. I don't have anything solid, and if there isn't a break, and soon, those two men in lockup will continue to be useless."

"So will anyone we arrest at the scene today," said Harry. "We can assume they've all been dosed with the cure, just as a precaution."

Draco frowned at him. "Really? You think?"

Harry nodded. "Absolutely. If Salvation has something that valuable, they aren't wasting it. Now that they're openly at war with the Ministry, they're probably expecting an offensive attack at any moment. What better way is there of ensuring that they won't have any snitches to worry about? If they dose everyone every day, or however often they need to keep their tolerance up, then that liability dissipates."

"Tolerance," Draco repeated, and a light went on in his eyes. "Now that's an idea."

"You could do basic blood panelling," Hermione said to him, a touch breathless, her mind spinning. "Test for any abnormalities, even in all the normal vital areas, and try to reverse-engineer the levels you find. If they've been taking something for a while, if it's still affecting their systems—"

"—and if they've built up a tolerance—" Draco stood up suddenly, almost knocking over his chair. "I have to go. Minister, Kingsley."

"Malfoy," said Kingsley, and there was a flare of green fire and Draco was gone, leaving only a smoldering piece of ash in the air. Kingsley glanced at Hermione. "That was a good idea, Minister."

Hermione shrugged, her heart still going a bit quick. "I thought about being a Healer, once. Read lots of books about it."

Kingsley's smile was bright, kind. "I see."

After that, the conversation turned to the details of the raid. Kingsley produced a floorplan of the building and talked them through the proposed attack, but Hermione sort of lost interest — a raid was a raid was a raid, and she'd authorized almost twenty of them by now. She found her attention pulled instead to the pile of interview transcripts, and she began sifting through them, skimming the paragraphs for more details. Harry and Kingsley continued talking, now guiding handwritten x's around the floorplan.

Kingsley hadn't been wrong, before — most of these people were stereotypical businessmen, not adverse to the occasional shady deal or cut price on supposedly high-quality goods. She noticed, with a spark of annoyance, that there weren't any women in the pile, but, of course, this was Crane — most women wouldn't want anything to do with him. She kept reading, skipping over the parts that didn't seem useful, and frowned when a particular section jumped out at her—

Auror Andrews: Can you recall when you received the first order from this company?

Mr. Bisset: Mon Dieu, no, I can check ze records—

Mr. Bisset, cont'd: Here, I believe — yes, January 2017, approximately two years ago, but zey were only intermittent at first, tu sais, a few unicorn hairs zere, a few elixirs zere, but zen six months later, it becomes like clockwork, vraiment, every four weeks, another order, and always ze same. Well, ze same, but wiz occasional variations, a smidge of this, a pinch of that—

Hermione stopped reading, her pulse rising to her throat. No, that couldn't be. She had to double check the others, had to make sure—

She thumbed through the other interviews, searching for the same question. It took her a few moments, but then:

Auror Greenspan: Can you recall when you received the first order from this company?

Mr. Černý: According to my invoices, I received a small order in January 2017. By November of that year, they were regular customers. My supply manager could tell you more.

Auror Reynolds: Can you recall when you received the first order from this company?

Mr. Baumgarten: No, my store manager would have to answer that. But they became regular customers within the past year, I believe.

Hermione stared down at the words, suddenly aware of everything around her. The clock ticking on the mantelpiece, the crackle of the fire, the smudges on Harry's lenses, the shine of Kingsley's single earring. She put the stack of parchment back on the coffee table, slowly stood up, and left the room.

When she returned a few minutes later, Harry and Kingsley didn't react. They were still deep in their own discussion, which had become some sort of friendly argument about entry points.

Hermione cleared her throat, clutching a huge binder to her chest. Kingsley and Harry finally looked up at her.

"According to the interviews, Salvation didn't start ordering supplies until about two years ago. The orders were irregular at first, but within six months, they became regular. We can assume that within that time frame, the Potions master went from casual to serious experimentation, and the group's leadership solidified their ideology as well as their long-term goals. And I think I know why." She stepped forward and dropped the binder on the coffee table with a loud thud.

Harry leaned forward. "Muggle-borns in Britain and Northern Ireland," he read aloud.

"Otherwise known as Article 1236 of the Wizarding Constitution." Hermione forced herself to take a breath. "Announced in the Wizengamot in January of 2017 and ratified in September of that same year." She met Kingsley's gaze. "This is what they're reacting to, I'm certain of it. Nothing else fits the timeline. Even if their anarchist movement began earlier, this was the call to action."

Kingsley's expression was shrewd, calculating. "It would certainly make sense."

"No, it doesn't." Harry frowned at both of them. "Why would Muggle-borns unite with Purebloods, of all people, against an amendment that gives them more legal rights than they've ever had before?"

"Because," said Hermione, "they've been told that by protecting Muggle-borns, the Ministry is actually making it easier to identify and potentially discriminate against them in the future." For a brief moment, she felt as if she'd stepped into the TARDIS and was back where her term as Minister started — talking about this amendment until she was blue in the face, debating it on the floor of the Wizengamot for hours at a time. "Or, that by guaranteeing Muggle-born rights in black and white, the government is further implying that these rights did not exist prior to the ratification of this amendment. In short, that the Constitution of the British Wizarding World inherently guarantees a particular set of personal rights, and enumerating the rights of certain groups is unnecessary, contradictory, and a further tool of state interference."

Harry was staring at her. "That… that…" He looked back down at the binder. "Clearly, I missed a lot while I was undercover."

"In this construction," Kingsley said to Hermione, "you're implying that Muggle-borns are capable of reaching this level of opposition on their own. Is it really best to assume that some sort of brainwashing wasn't a factor, here?"

"We don't have to discount it, but I do think it's possible for Muggle-borns to be persuaded by the political rhetoric on its own. You have to remember, Kingsley, that Muggle-borns are hearing this rhetoric after growing up with the shared memory of World War II, when minorities were slaughtered by the state without even a moment of hesitation. Add on top of that the anti-Muggle-born fervor that gripped the British Wizarding World for close to twenty years, and you have a ripe environment for governmental distrust." Hermione glanced down at the binder, hearing the distant echo of Umbridge's voice, feeling a burn in her left arm, where the scar from Bellatrix, though faint, was still present to this day. "I can understand wanting a little more privacy."

"But not at the cost of legal protection," said Harry, and Hermione met his gaze. "Surely not at the cost of that."

"You're trying to invoke logic in this situation," replied Kingsley, "and that never works when it comes to politics." He sat back in his chair, looking contemplative. "Well, now we have an idea of what they're after, apart from inciting chaos. Nullifying this amendment and imposing legislative safeguards that would make it nearly impossible for any law like this to pass again in the future."

"Exactly," Hermione replied. "And the only way they can do that is with a veto."

An uneasy silence fell. Harry was staring at her, his expression somehow blank and horrified all at once, and it was he who spoke first.

"But you can't do that, you can't veto something that passed—"

"Theoretically, I could. It's never been done before, but I could veto, if enough votes in Wizengamot brought the amendment back onto the floor. That could happen following an onslaught of bribes or threats." Hermione swallowed, her throat clogging up. "The Minister who takes over from me when I'm killed could also veto, under similar circumstances."

"Don't say that," Harry snapped, his temper boiling to the surface. "Don't you dare—"

"They'll keep trying," Hermione went on. "And they'll try again soon."

"Or," said Kingsley, looking thoughtful, "they'll attempt to force your hand."

Harry scoffed. "They can't Imperio her, she's too well-guarded. And surrounded by enough people that we'd know right away."

Something in Hermione's chest burned at his use of 'we.'.

"It wouldn't have to be an Imperio," Kingsley replied. "If we can't find them, if we can't stop them, they could continue to make her life and her term a living hell until she agrees to veto. It'll be even worse if they pivot their strategy and decide to become a legitimate political party."

Hermione nodded. She'd already reached this conclusion on her own.

Harry stared between the two of them, his outrage rendering him speechless. "Well, then," he finally said. "Let's make sure this raid is a success."

They worked through lunch, spending the next few hours going through every detail, reviewing all of the information that was coming in from the Aurors currently casing the building. Kingsley didn't waste any breath denying their suspicions that this entire thing was a set-up, a trap, because he agreed with them. But, he argued, it wasn't his call at this point, and all he could do was prepare the Aurors for any and every possible thing that might be lurking inside the ruined warehouse.

It was at this point that Hermione realized Harry was slipping away from her. She glanced at him, and noticed the way he leaned forward, staring down at the current diagram of the raid, his eyes boring into the parchment with an intensity that was all too familiar. He wanted to be there. He wanted to help.

She sat back in her chair, ignoring the hollow feeling in her stomach. She had no real claim to him or his time. This would play itself out, she was sure.

Once the meeting had finished, Hermione went about gathering the empty mugs and dirty plates. Just as she was heading for the kitchen, a hand caught her elbow and she stopped.

Harry's gaze was bright, sincere, and he was close enough that again, she could see the haze of his stubble, catch the faintest tinge of his aftershave. An involuntary shiver trickled down her back and she set her jaw, a part of her hating that he could still affect her like this with just a single look.

"Minister," he said, "I'm going with Kingsley for a few hours. I want to oversee the final preparations for this raid, we can't afford a single mistake." A pause, then he gave her arm a squeeze. "Is that all right with you? Rogers will take over for me while I'm gone."

Hermione found herself nodding and she tried for a smile. "Sure, that's fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Hermione carefully pulled her elbow out of his grip. "Go. Like you said, it's only a few hours."

Harry nodded, his hand dropping back to his side. "Thank you, Minister, I really do appreciate it."

"Of course."

Harry gave her a final look, then he turned and went over to Kingsley, walkie-talkie in hand. She heard Rogers' voice filter in over the comms as she left for the kitchen, her face burning.

Clearly, her body was betraying her. That was the only explanation for this behavior, for this… reluctance to part ways with Harry. For wanting him close, wanting his hands and his fingers on her body, his mouth on—

She slammed the dishes down on the counter, her heart pounding in her throat.

A drink. That's what she needed. A bottle of wine, and some peace and quiet.


Hermione swayed, spinning off the arm of her sofa, almost catching her leg on the coffee table. She giggled, the sound vibrating in her chest, and did another turn, shimmying to the beat.

Fill me with sweet desire, Fill me with love… If I'm with someone else, I'm still alone…

She hadn't listened to this album in ages, and the volume was loud enough that if it weren't for the wards, her neighbors would be listening to it as well. Hermione paused by the end table and had another glug of wine, ignoring Winnie's pointed look from his spot on an armchair. This song brought back so many memories that it was difficult for her to choose just one — her mum showing her how to drop the needle on a record; digging through the discount tape bins at the shop on the corner until she found a beaten-up second-hand copy for her Walkman; dancing in the sitting room of her childhood home, her mum's hands soft and warm as she spun Hermione around; running through St. James's park in the dim morning light before work, playing this album loud enough to forget that she was alone—

The next song came on, and Hermione paused to take a breath. She was flushed, a little sweaty, and having the best time she'd had in months.

Someday we'll be together… You played your part so well… You really had me fooled…

After a few moments she started humming along, swaying around the room. Her pajamas — an oversized t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that had seen better days — swayed with her, and she thrilled at the privacy of this moment. It had been so long since she'd been alone, actually alone, that she'd almost forgotten what it felt like. She could never do this in front of Harry, not even with him in the next room, and she was only doing it now because Rogers, after some fierce debate, was keeping his station on the upstairs landing.

Her turntable had an 'on' light that was throwing an eerie blue glow up on the wall of the semi-darkened upstairs lounge. That, too, conjured up a slew of memories that she couldn't bother stifling — unwrapping the turntable on her nineteenth Christmas, grinning at her dad until her face hurt and he laughed, delighted by her reaction; fumbling her way through setting it up in her first apartment, her fingers slipping on the cartridge and the latch out of nerves; wandering into a small shop on the north end of London when she needed to replace a piece of the motor. The turntable was almost twenty years old by now, but you'd never know to look at it, and it occurred to her now, as it had many times before, just how much history had happened in front of its eyes. Her first flat, her first boyfriend, her first lover, her first promotion, her engagement—

Hermione swayed and spun around again, not fighting those memories as she usually did. Perhaps it wasn't the best habit, trying to bury the past, but it did keep her focused. And what did focus matter now, when she was alone, under house arrest, and two-thirds of the way through a bottle of wine?

As the next song began, Hermione felt a sudden and keen stab of emotion. She could just picture her mum singing along in the kitchen as she made her signature spicy chicken, her delicate but strong fingers hovering in the air until they twitched, snapping along to the beat. According to her parents, when Hermione was a baby, she could watch her mum dancing for hours without a single complaint, sitting in her high chair with a huge smile on her chubby face. There were photos in albums somewhere, but nothing had changed, really — Hermione could still watch her mum dance all day, even with her greying hair and tricky knee. Even now, she imagined her mum's bright, clear voice weaving its way through the song, and she closed her eyes, opening her mouth and letting the music pull her along.

If my love looks good to you, Come and get it… Honey why don't you — Take my heart, take my soul… Take the wheel, take control… Take my life, in your hand… Make my world, wonderland…

She paused for a sip of wine, pushing her hair out of her face. Much of its earlier tameness had all but vanished, and it was beginning to snarl and tangle at the nape of her neck. Before he'd left, Kingsley had confirmed that she could visit her salon, she just had to make the appointment outside of usual business hours and warn her stylist, Danika, that she and the salon itself would have to go through an extensive security screening beforehand. Hermione had texted Danika as soon as Kingsley and Harry had left, getting a touch desperate to have her hair back under control again, and got an appointment for early Monday morning. She usually never let her hair go this long but, she supposed, she'd had more pressing concerns.

Her throat burned from the unfairness of it all. Why did Salvation have to be so determined to undo all the good work she'd done, was still trying to do?

Hermione took another sip of wine, trying to bury those thoughts as best she could, and started singing along again, dancing to the beat—

Come and get it… If my love looks good to you, Come and—

Behind her, someone cleared their throat, and Hermione lurched around with a gasp, nearly sending the remainder of her wine straight onto the carpet.

Harry was standing on the hearth, staring at her with an expression that contained way too many things for her to parse in her current state. He was in his Auror robes, fresh from the Ministry, and she suddenly realized that she must not have heard the Floo.

She swallowed thickly, mute with embarrassment, clinging to her wine glass. This was, without a doubt, the worst thing that had ever happened to her. And in the air around her, of course, the song continued to play.

And Harry just kept… looking at her. It was very unnerving, particularly when Hermione knew that there was no way for her to save face at this point. Maybe it was the wine, or her irregular heartbeat, but she couldn't read his expression. There was so much to it, and so much that she hadn't known or studied in years, so much that she'd forgotten, that even the idea of trying to guess what he was thinking made her want to faint. Or maybe that was just the embarrassment talking — she wasn't really sure.

They stood there, staring at each other, and just as Hermione began to wonder if there was a way for her to reverse time or sneak out of the room without him noticing, the song ended. The few seconds of silence hung between them like a cloud, then, the next song started to play, a bright, fluid melody that was so familiar she could hum it in her sleep.

It was Harry who moved first. He stepped out of the hearth and took off his robes, draping them across the loveseat. Then, he walked up to her, paused, and held out his hand.

Hermione's stomach dropped to her feet and she fought the urge to quiver. What right did he have to look and act like James Bond? It wasn't fair, especially not when he was looking at her like that, his eyes so warm and so full of something that it made her want to swoon, because it had been so long since anyone had looked at her like that, and this was Harry, they hadn't danced together in years, and she was in her ratty pajamas and her hair was a mess and it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that she could have this now and probably never again.

But something made her put down her glass and slide her hand into his. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close, and she rested her other hand on his shoulder, tucking her head against her chest. Hermione could barely hear the music over the pounding of her heart, but then Harry shifted, and they were dancing.

As the midnight moon, was drifting through… The lazy sway of the trees… I saw the look in your eyes, lookin' into mine, Seeing what you wanted to see…

His body was warm under her cheek, his palm was rough against her own, and Hermione's heart really was threatening to give up. But it kept beating, somehow, and even as she hated herself for giving in, for doing this when she knew she shouldn't, she closed her eyes, sinking into the music and the man holding her in his arms.

Darlin' don't say a word, cause I already heard, What your body's sayin' to mine… I'm tired of fast moves, I've got a slow groove… On my mind…

It wasn't like the first time they'd danced, back on that rainy, awful evening in that goddamn tent. It wasn't like the second or third time, at that one Wizarding club when they'd had a few too many shots, or — and this memory came with the faintest prickle of pain — like the time at his wedding, when it had taken far too much effort to keep herself from closing her eyes and imagining. It wasn't like the fifth time, at that weird Ministry Christmas party, after she'd lost that bet and had to grit her teeth through it, hating the way his hand just seemed to fit in the small of her back, while everyone had watched in poorly-concealed delight, taking photos and closing out side-bets.

Five times, Hermione realized, with a weird tremor low in her belly. They'd only danced together five times before this, and she remembered all of them with perfect clarity.

I want a man with a slow hand… I want a lover with an easy touch… I want somebody who will spend some time, Not come and go in a heated rush… I want somebody who will understand… When it comes to love, I want a slow hand…

They were only swaying back and forth, but Harry was in complete control, guiding her effortlessly so she didn't run into her furniture or Casper, who had turned up and was, as usual, trying to figure out the best way of tripping them. She gripped his shoulder, wondering if she should let herself build this memory at all.

On shadowed ground, with no one around, And a blanket of stars in our eyes… We are driftin' free, like two lost leaves, On the crazy wind of the night… Darlin' don't say a word, cause I already heard, What your body's sayin' to mine… If I want it all night, you say it's alright… Ooh, we got the time…

If she concentrated, Hermione could hear Harry's heartbeat through his shirt. It was steady, but a little faster than usual, and she wondered if he'd had a stressful evening at the Ministry. No doubt, the raid was either happening or about to happen, and she couldn't help but think that none of that mattered, because Harry had his hands on her body and neither of them was naked.

'Cause I got a man with a slow hand, I got a lover with an easy touch… I've got somebody who will spend some time, Not come and go in a heated rush… I found somebody who will understand… When it comes to love, I want a slow hand…

His grip was firm, but not uncomfortable, and he spun them in a gentle circle. Hermione let herself follow, far too many emotions beginning to cloud her mind. Stop it, she admonished herself. You can't do this to yourself.

'Cause I got a man with a slow hand, I've got a lover with an easy touch… I found somebody who will spend some time, Not come and go in a heated rush… I found somebody who will understand, I found a lover with a slow hand… Ooh, a lover with a slow hand…

The song was ending, and Hermione had no idea how they would walk away from this, what they would say when they parted. The mere thought of stepping out of his arms flattened her heart, stole the breath from her lungs.

And I get all excited with his easy touch… I found somebody who will spend the night, Not come and go in a heated rush… Ooh, lover with a slow hand…

The music began to fade, and Harry stilled, giving her hand a squeeze. Hermione opened her eyes, fighting a wave of disappointment as her dim sitting room came back into focus around her. The moment hung and stretched between them, that delicious moment in which he was still touching her, holding her, and then it broke. She stepped away, out of Harry's reach, and went to the record player, lifting the needle and stopping the motor.

After staring down at the shiny black plastic of the record, Hermione steeled herself and turned around. "I'm going to bed now."

Something in Harry's face shifted, and the warmth in his eyes faded a little. "All right," he said, putting his hands in his pockets.

Hermione swallowed, dropping her gaze to the floor. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Minister."

She brushed past him, then past Rogers, doing all she could to keep herself from going at a dead sprint. Only when her bedroom door was closed and locked behind her did Hermione allow herself to breathe, and to think.

She had to draw a veil over tonight, or she risked ruining everything. What they had right now was working, it was all she could handle at the moment. She couldn't handle questions, or arguments about what might have been, and she certainly couldn't handle feelings, regardless of whether they were hers or not. She couldn't keep doing this — letting him make pancakes, dance with her, none of it. It was too dangerous, too close to something that was always just out of reach.

Hermione could do it. She could act as if nothing had happened, as if Harry hadn't just turned back time. And she was sure that he would follow her lead on this.

It was a grim prospect, but it was necessary. And with that, Hermione set her jaw and went about pouring herself into bed.


The following afternoon, Hermione stepped out of her local Waitrose and squinted in the bright grey daylight. It was cold but dry, and she buried her nose in her scarf, then realized that her new nose was much bigger than her old one.

She was in disguise, as was Harry, who was currently sporting the guise of a portly elderly man with a funny walk. Hermione was posing as his middle-aged daughter, who apparently had a nose the size of a warship. It was precaution, of course, and the result of Alpha team's superb sneakiness in selecting a set of hairs. But they only had the one hour Polyjuice afforded them, and the shop had been so crowded that time was running short — and Harry had to be back in time to hand her off to Thistlewhit, who would take over until his return the following day.

"Come along now, Belinda," said Harry loudly, affecting a pompous and merry voice that suited his disguise all too well.

"Don't push it, Harry," she muttered, but followed him all the same.

The Waitrose opened on a small square that channeled the overflow from a spread of different shops, and Harry was leading her through the crowd of customers to the opposite end, where they would Apparate behind a pile of dumpsters. It wasn't the best scenario, by any means, but Hermione still insisted on doing her shopping herself, so it was the only option.

There was a large raised seating platform at the center of the square, coated in mosaics and currently occupied by what seemed to be half of the English public school system. Hermione rolled her eyes at the teenagers, because really, who hung around in freezing weather like that?!

"Harry," she hissed, after just barely dodging a trio of young girls squealing about something called Tickity Tock. "Harry, really, slow down—"

But she never heard his reply, because just then, gunfire exploded across the square.

Hermione dropped her bags and dove for a nearby bin, crouching behind it and covering her head, adrenaline flooding cool and hot through her veins. Her ears were ringing from the shots, and everyone around her was screaming, running for cover, more than one person tripped over her feet, but she didn't care, because—

"Harry!" she screamed, trying to spot him through the chaos, but it was useless, people were stampeding and ducking for cover, it was chaos, utter chaos—

A hand gripped her arm and she shrieked, whipping her wand out of her inner coat pocket, but then she realized—

"Minister," grunted Harry. He was on the ground a mere foot away from her, less than an arm's length from the bin. The Polyjuice had worn off — either from the time limit or the shock, she wasn't sure — and his face — what she could see of it — was pale and strained. "Are you—?"

"I'm fine," she said, breathless, and inched closer to him. As best as she could tell, the gunman had been on the opposite side of the square, directly across from them. She couldn't learn more without standing up, and she wasn't about to leave Harry. The chaos continued around them, but there hadn't been any more shots, so maybe— "You?"

Harry winced, then made a strange grunting sound. "I'm hit. But the rest of the team—"

She never got to find out what the rest of Alpha team was doing. Because just then, the platform at the center of the square exploded.

The impact threw Hermione back down to the ground, and it took her almost a minute to recover. Head throbbing, eyes blurry, ears ringing, she squinted in the direction of the blast, trying to figure out whether it had been magical or Muggle. The square was all but empty at this point, and any stragglers had been flattened by the explosion. None of them were moving, and Hermione's stomach lurched.

"—ter! Minister!" Harry bellowed.

Hermione frowned, turning her attention back to him. He'd recovered enough energy to move closer to her, and he was reaching for her, his hand pale with dust from the blast. She looked down and realized that dust was settling on her as well, along with chunks of broken concrete.

She reached for Harry, knowing that they only had to clasp hands to Apparate away, but then, when she tried to take a breath, she realized that she couldn't.

"Minister?!" Harry yelled, and suddenly he was above her, staring down at her, and she was on her back, chunks of concrete digging into her spine. "Minister!"

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. Her hands scrabbled at her chest and her neck, desperate to free herself from something that wasn't there, and her lungs were on fire, burning and bubbling in her chest—

"Hermione!" Harry's hands were on her face, and there were tears in his eyes, and he looked so angry and so scared and—

Her breath returned with an echoing rattle, and she lurched onto her side, violent coughs wracking her body. It blinded her, overwhelmed her, made her body seize and shake, and it was only in the briefest lucid moment between fits that she realized the ground below her was sprayed with dark, crimson blood, blood that was coming from her mouth.

Harry was speaking into his walkie-talkie: "Get Mungo's here now — Code Red, Code Red, the Minister is down, I repeat, the Minister is down—"

Black spots exploded across her vision and she slumped back down to the ground, her lungs threatening to rip themselves from her body. Liquid — what she now realized was blood — gurgled up her throat and she choked, too weak to fight it off. She stared up into the cool grey sky, the pain fading into the background, and she absently wondered what would happen to her shopping.

Harry's hands on her, his face just inches away. "Stay with me, Hermione, God, please stay with me—"

The grey sky was turning to black, and she reached for him, and—