A day at a time, Hermione told herself as she shuffled from the bathroom back into bed, wincing a little at the echoing pain in her chest.
A day at a time, Hermione told herself as she caught her gaze lingering on Harry's jaw, his mouth, his hands. He was hovering in the kitchen, movements quiet in the hollow rush of the nearby tide, close enough to hear her if something happened, if disaster struck between the sofa and the staircase, but not close enough for her to see his whole face, not close enough to be spending time with her. They ate separately now, since she was still on bedrest, and Hermione found herself hating it.
A day at a time, Hermione told herself as she swallowed yet another dose of potion, the night quiet and damp around her. Cornelia had brought in a blood magic specialist from Romania with a frightening intellect and troubling bedside manner. He'd prescribed a course of obscure, foul-tasting potions and a series of diagnostic tests that took hours. These tests showed only normal results, but Cornelia had assured her that they were necessary, important, vital, potentially the only chance of catching a mysterious side effect before it had devastating consequences. So Hermione relented, seething as she lost precious work hours to lying on her bed, trying to keep her mind quiet as Healer Balan loomed over her motionless body, murmuring under his breath in words beyond her understanding, the tip of his wand glowing blue, gold, red. "Are you sure we can trust him?" she heard Harry murmur to Cornelia, frowning where he stood in the doorway. "Of course," Cornelia whispered back, her voice steely. "He saved my life once. I wouldn't let him cross the threshold unless I trusted him to do the same for anybody else."
A day at a time, Hermione told herself as she sat in a private, heavily warded meeting between herself, Harry, and Kingsley, in the late hours of the night. "I just don't understand it," Harry was saying for the third time in as many days, "how do they keep getting to her? There has to be someone on the inside, someone on my team—" "I think the same," said Kingsley, his voice grim, "but show me proof, Harry. Everyone is tested for dark magic multiple times a day, and do you really want to fault yourself, or your team, when you trust them with your life?" Harry scowled at that, his stubble gleaming in the low light, and Hermione felt a weird flip in her stomach. She knew she had to be focusing on the topic at hand, but Merlin, his face was unhelpful.
"Let's take it as inevitable," she said the next morning, over a bowl of porridge with fresh apples and brown sugar. It was only her second day off of bed rest, and she was already desperate from cabin fever. Harry glanced at her from the morning's Prophet, which bore the headline "Where's Our Minister?", and she met his gaze without flinching. "Let's take it as a given that they're going to get to me, no matter what. What then?"
"This is a terrible idea," Harry said as they walked out onto the long stretch of land between the cottage and the beach. The weather had warmed slightly, a weak yellow sunshine spilling through the thin, scuttling clouds. Against the deep blue sea and its foaming edges, the sky was almost beautiful. The members of her security team circled her and Harry like low-flying crows, and Hermione felt her heart skip a beat as she looked at them. Any one of them could be betraying her, and she'd never know for sure.
"This is a great idea," she shot back, steeling herself against a shiver. They were both bundled up — Harry looking obnoxiously cool in his long black woolen coat — and dripping in Warming Charms. "Actually, I think we should've done this a long time ago."
"Why?" he countered, as he began to walk away from her. "I always thought we argued so beautifully."
Hermione slid her wand into her palm and felt her skin warm from its contact. "Words have their limits, Harry." And with that, she shot a Petrificus Totalus directly at his head.
It was everything and nothing like the DA. She'd known, obviously, and heard about his ever-growing prowess as a duelist — the best in the Ministry, even better than Kingsley — but it was one thing to see Harry's arrest record on paper and quite another to find herself on the other end of his wand. And, as he'd made a point of saying before they left the cottage, he was going easy on her, since she was still recovering. No deadly spells, either, what with her being such a stalwart public servant.
In less than a minute, she was on her knees and his wand was at her throat, its point hot enough to make her skin tingle but not close enough to burn. Hermione seethed.
"Dead," said Harry, sounding far too smug about it from where he stood behind her. Around them, the security team circled, keeping their perimeter wide and their Shield Charms constant.
She held out a little longer the second time. But then he got her with a Jelly-Legs Jinx and she hit the ground hard, letting out a wheeze. "Dead," said Harry, peering down at her with a smirk.
And so it went. On and on. A dreadful dance along the Cornish seaside, their spells flaring and singeing and burning. It took all of Hermione's effort to even break through the outer edge of Harry's defenses, and all she got in return was a hex that made her eyebrows sprout and grow like weeds. Within seconds, they were down to her nose. "Sorry," said Harry, undoing the hex with a wave of his wand, "personal favorite. Oh — and you're dead."
About an hour after they started, Hermione sat down where the grass met the sand and shook her head. "I'm done," she said, then gave a short, dry cough.
Harry sat down beside her, stowing his wand. The wind was tossing his hair all over the place, and it curled over his forehead, dancing along the edge of his nose. "Not too bad," he said, barely audible over the waves. "For a solicitor."
"Minister," Hermione corrected him, but she couldn't hold back a smile. "It has been a while since I found myself in a combat situation, I suppose."
Harry cocked his head to one side. "You mean other than that little interlude what, two weeks ago? Or did you already forget about that?"
She waved a lazy hand in the air, feigning apathy. "You've seen one attempt on your life, you've seen them all."
Harry grinned. "Come now, no need to be so jaded." His gaze shifted to the water, and he pulled a few blades of grass out of the ground. "You did well," he said, and the words seemed heavy on his tongue. "I don't think I ever said. But you did well that day."
Hermione couldn't keep herself from staring at him in surprise. She opened her mouth, trying to find the right words, but it seemed that she was speechless.
Harry glanced over his shoulder and stood up, leaning heavily on his left leg as he did so. "Looks like Cornelia just arrived. Come on, we shouldn't be late for my beheading." And with that, he offered her his hand.
Hermione blinked at it, then took it. His skin was hot and dry, and she wobbled a little as she stood up. She found herself just inches from his chest, his gaze bright and close, so close, then he squeezed her hand and stepped away.
A day at a time, Hermione told herself much, much later that day, or maybe a night. She frowned, her fingers getting caught in yet another monstrous snarl at the nape of her neck, then gave a shaky, frustrated sigh. Her hair was worse than it had been in ages, worse than it had been during her first few years at Hogwarts, when she was still getting used to managing it without her mother's help. Even the best Detangling and Smoothing Potions she'd had stowed away in her luggage — Jill really was a very diligent and thoughtful packer — hadn't done more than lightly tame the topmost layers, and she knew from experience that it would take hours and lots of conditioner to get out these rats' nests.
And it looked horrible. Her throat clogged even at the thought of someone else seeing her like this — pathetic, mournful, hair bigger than a stormcloud. Every time she caught a glimpse of it in the mirror, her ears would ring with the taunts of a thousand schoolchildren, everyone who'd ever had something to say, something to sneer at, something they wanted to touch—
Almost unaware that she was doing it, Hermione slid out of bed, then crept out of her bedroom and into the darkened upstairs hall. It was well past midnight, and the downstairs — where Harry was supposedly asleep on the couch — was quiet. She tiptoed across the landing, wincing when a floorboard creaked, and slid into the bathroom, switching on the light only when she was sure the door was shut.
And there.
Hermione stared at herself, hardly able to recognize the woman staring back at her. In-between, she thought, because it was the first thought she had, and it was how she looked — in between living and dead, in between old and young, in between happy and devastated, in between stress and relief. She paused, her hand hovering in midair, then began to touch all of the places that her body had changed since that night in her bathroom, when all of this had started. Even with the handful of days she had spent as an invalid, her body had filled out, curving slightly in places that hadn't curved in years. In spite of herself, Hermione smiled, squeezing the skin above her hips, below her bum, around her stomach. She looked, she looked—
But her hair. It dwarfed her. Swallowed her. Made her look young. Small. Scared.
Her smile melted into a scowl, and she couldn't stop herself from tugging at her hair, getting her fingers stuck in those tangles again, and that only made anger, violent, devastating anger, rear hot and bloody in her stomach, and she snarled, tears stinging at her eyes, because why, why did this have to happen to her? What had she done? Why her? Why did she deserve—
Hermione felt as if she was moving through a fog. She was only dimly aware of digging through the cupboard under the sink, finding what had to be Harry's toiletry bag, pulling out an old set of clippers. Her hands were numb as she straightened up, staring down her eleven year-old self in the mirror, and turned on the clippers.
It took longer than she'd thought. After the second cut, tears began streaming down her face, but she ignored them, swallowing thickly as another clump of her hair drifted to the floor. Even with a blurry gaze, she could see what she was doing, and her hands remained steady.
When it was done, she stared down at the clouds of hair on the floor, the cool evening air on her scalp making her break out into goosebumps. Ignoring her pounding heart, she pulled out her wand and Vanished all of the cut hair, then adjusted the guidecomb on the clippers — as she'd watched her father do so many times growing up — and got to work.
By the time Hermione crept back to her room, cocooned in the light, clean scent of the castor oil she'd used on what remained of her hair, she was exhausted, but her anger had dissolved. She turned off the light and slid into bed, pulling Winnie close to her chest, and closed her eyes, feeling more at peace than she had in a long time.
The next morning, however, was a different story.
"Minister?" came Harry's voice, and Hermione buried herself even further under the covers, her face flooding with heat. "Minister, is everything—?" A knock, then, when she didn't answer, she heard the door to her bedroom open. A beat. Then: "Minister?"
Hermione sighed, her breath puffing hot and stuffy under the covers. Casper shot her an unimpressed look from where he lay curled up just a few inches away. "I'm here."
His sigh of relief was audible. "Is everything—?"
"Yes," she said, too quickly. "Everything's fine."
Another beat. "You know," Harry began, "I can't help but remember—"
Her eyes widened. "Harry, don't—"
"—a certain morning after a particularly fun night out—"
"Harry—"
"—I think you actually hexed Ron's buttock out of place when he tried to—"
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. "Harry!"
"But this is a much more impressive pile of blankets," Harry went on.
That's it. Hermione popped her head out from under the covers to glare at him. "Shut up, Harry, shut up. You know very well I have no desire to relive that particular morning, so you would do well to stop talking about it."
Another beat. And then she realized that Harry was staring at her, a slow smile spreading across his features.
Hermione cringed, fighting the urge to bury herself back under the covers, because that was what cowards did. She ran a hand over her short, fuzzy hair, shivering a little from the contact. "Yeah. I know." God, her campaign manager was going to murder her.
Harry was grinning now, his eyes impossibly bright and his expression full of so many things that she had to look away. "So," he said, "I thought I heard you get up last night. Now I know why."
She sighed, sinking back into the covers. Casper popped his head out, unamused.
"It looks incredible, 'Mione. Really, really good."
She risked a glance at his face, too surprised to bother hiding it. He hadn't called her 'Mione since that first night—
"I mean it." Harry shifted, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was still grinning, wide and bright in the midmorning sunshine. "It suits you."
Hermione could only blink at him, surprise once again rendering her speechless. And then, Harry's walkie-talkie burbled to life, and saved her from saying anything.
Later, she was on the couch, resting after another so-called training session out on the grass. She'd held out longer this time, put up more of a fight. Thrice, she'd managed to crack Harry's defenses, and once, she'd managed to disarm him entirely and knock him onto his back. Harry had grinned, sharp and deadly, then given a shout of delight before launching himself off the ground, the air around him crackling with blue, electric magic, before he landed on his feet and blasted a shockwave that sent her flying through the air, only to land on a fresh Cushioning Charm. The sand settled around her as she gasped for breath, before she saw Harry striding toward her, wand back in his hand, his face glowing with energy and alive with glee.
He'd looked incredible. Frightening. Devastating.
It didn't help that Hermione was enormously jealous of his wandless capabilities. Before this, she'd thought he had mastered all the smaller stuff, the extent of throwing open doors or heating up a kettle, but no — Harry had abilities she'd only read about, had never thought she'd see in real life. And it was clear that it was the result of careful, methodical practice — the very thing she'd once doubted him to be fully capable of.
Questions burned at the back of her throat with a shocking persistence, but Hermione held her tongue, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Under normal circumstances, the Aurors trained together on a daily, or weekly, basis, and she was sure that he already got enough stammering praise and envy from his peers. Besides, she could just picture his reaction to her questions — a smug grin, an arrogant raised eyebrow — and wanted to do all she could to avoid it.
But it didn't stop her from trying. When Harry wasn't looking, or wasn't in the room, she tried doing the smallest bits of wandless magic, things she hadn't bothered trying in years — turning on the burner, stirring her tea, picking up a dropped pen or her pajama top — all with mingling success. A few things worked, a few things didn't, but every time Hermione reached deep into her well of magic, into the veiled river of burnt gold and deep ocher sitting just below her consciousness, it became easier and easier to let it flow free. Her magic felt warm, comforting, familiar and alien all at once, a powerful feeling she hadn't had in years — since Hogwarts, maybe — and, when she thought about it, she realized just how long she'd been stifling her magic, pushing it out of her daily life, forcing it into a slumber that did neither of them any good.
She'd been worried, Hermione realized, about dimming it. Or forgetting it. Or entertaining a freedom that she no longer had access to.
But with Harry, it didn't feel like that. Her magic never felt restrained, humbled, borrowed. Instead, it felt wild, captivating — powerful.
Harry sat down at the other end of the couch, nudging her out of her reverie. He took a very inelegant slurp of tea from his mug before putting it down on the coffee table, shaking out the evening's Prophet. She glanced at the headline — "Minister Remains Out Of Sight, DMLE Assures All Is Well" — then looked back down at the open file in her lap. A cruel, angry face glowered up at her, and she sighed.
"I have to admit," Hermione said, "the updated suspect list is nothing short of thorough. I think this is everyone from the Ministry's Most Wanted for the past five years."
"Blame Malfoy," Harry replied. He sifted through the sections and plucked out the Sports, then handed her the page with the crossword on it. Hermione was so surprised by this that it took her a moment to convince her hand to move and take it from him. Their fingers brushed, sending a shiver down to her stomach. "His little potion works almost too well," Harry went on, oblivious. "The detainees are naming everyone under the sun."
Hermione nodded, slipping the crossword under the stack of folders. It helped if she didn't have to look at it. "What do you think of this Numod character?" She tapped the photo at the top of the file. "He certainly looks the part."
Harry glanced at it and frowned. "Kingsley likes him for it, but I'm not convinced. I don't think he's smart enough for the level of Potion work we've seen so far, or to lead such a large group of operatives. We're looking for someone clever, someone hell-bent on revenge. Besides—" He leaned in and pointed to the blood status field. "He's a Half-Blood, and we're definitely looking for a Pureblood."
"Really?" said Hermione, hoping her surprise wasn't too obvious. She'd been thinking the exact same thing, but she wasn't about to say— "Why?"
Harry snorted, shifting back to his seat. "Several reasons. First, you've got the resources. Salvation's leaders needed serious cash, real estate, and social pull to get this thing off the ground. The only people in the Wizarding world with all that and more are the Purebloods. And, you've got the advanced level of secrecy and subterfuge — they've had operatives planted in the Ministry for ages, and we're only just finding out about it. I'm not saying that Muggle-borns can't be sneaky, because they can, but this type of infiltration and disguise is high-risk, high-reward, and that means we need to look at the group who's going to profit the most if these terrorists succeed. And that's the Purebloods."
"So you don't think the Muggle-borns are running the show," Hermione countered, raising an eyebrow.
Harry shook his head. "No. This is definitely a brainwashing, puppeteering situation. The moment you were elected — the first Muggle-born Minister in history, not to mention the first woman in however many decades — the Purebloods realized that things really were changing. They needed to act quickly, but not obviously. They knew if they came out against you in the Wizengamot they would be shouted down by your allies, by the people who got you onto the floor in the first place. No, they had to act in secret, and they needed to appeal to the very people they hated — the Muggle-borns.
"They realized that if they could convince the Muggle-borns that more freedom somehow meant less freedom, you would lose your base and the support for your reform bill could be undone. Once they had the plan, all they had to do was target certain individuals — outcasts, near-Squibs, people without support networks, those who had felt betrayed or unsatisfied with the way things are." Harry sighed, hitching his bad knee up onto the couch, barely an inch from Hermione's own leg. "If you haven't noticed, a lot of the members we've identified are quite young. They didn't live through the War, they didn't see how bad things were before Kingsley changed everything."
Hermione considered him, then nodded. "You make a good point."
"Anyway. After they figured out who they could target, the leaders needed to get themselves some muscle. So they got the Potions-master, or the Potions-master came to them — or maybe the Potions-master was involved from the very beginning. Then they delegated their leadership roles, started a propaganda machine, and came up with a plan to assassinate you and incite civil unrest, priming the Wizengamot for full overthrow of your bill." He flashed her a sheepish smile. "At least, as far as I can figure it."
Hermione sighed a little, suddenly wishing she still had a curtain of hair to hide behind. Harry had just strung together and voiced so many of the thoughts she'd had over the past few days, and had filled in the few details she hadn't accounted for. And, he'd done it seamlessly, without even a whisper of arrogance. "You've certainly thought this through."
His smile softened, as did his gaze. "I've had some time on my hands."
Of course. Hermione dropped her gaze, and her attention snagged on the front page of the Prophet. "They're getting more and more creative with the headlines, I see."
"It's all gossip, Minister." Harry picked up the paper again and looked down at the photo on the front page, which was a rather dramatic, staged affair of reporters clustering outside the closed door to Hermione's offices. "They're running out of lines to spin. And they can't really prove there's anything wrong because you maintain the work ethic of a house elf with a bee in its bonnet."
She sat up and thwacked him in the arm with the Numod file.
"Ow!" Harry winced theatrically and drew his arm to his chest like it was an injured wing. "You wound me, Minister!"
"Shut up." Too late, she realized how fond the words sounded. Now that she was closer to Harry — less than a foot away — she couldn't seem to tear her gaze from the corner of his mouth, the corner where his cheeky grin always seemed ready to break to the surface. And he was giving her that look, the one full of challenge, of slumbering heat, one she knew well by now, knew to mean that he was deciding whether or not she should have her way. Hermione sighed, gathered the remaining files, and dropped them onto the floor. "I'm not sure how long we can keep this up." She leaned into the cushions, wrapping her arms around her legs. "I have to appear in public at some point, or there are going to be rumors that I've been killed and someone has set up a shadow government."
Harry frowned a little, putting down the paper. "I think you underestimate your support," he replied, resting his arm along the top of the cushions. Now, his hand was just inches away from her cheek, and she felt her face heat at their proximity. "They can only say a certain amount before it becomes libellous, and you have plenty of friends in the Wizengamot who will put their feet down before it goes too far."
"Libellous," she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Good word."
"One of my favorites," Harry replied, dry as the winter wind.
Silence fell, and Hermione wasn't sure how much time passed as they just looked at each other, that small, impossible smile playing around on Harry's face. The clock ticked, the refrigerator hummed, the waves rolled into shore.
Harry broke first. He shifted, reaching for his mug, and his other hand — the one on the sofa — accidentally brushed the nape of her neck.
Her responding shiver was immediate, involuntary. She'd always known that her neck and her scalp were sensitive areas, but now that her hair wasn't there to protect them, the sensitivity had increased tenfold. Hermione slid her eyes shut, wishing that the earth would open up and swallow her whole, because that was the last thing she'd wanted Harry to find out.
For a moment, nothing happened. It was enough for Hermione to risk opening her eyes again, her heart in her throat, praying that Harry hadn't noticed.
But of course he had. He'd frozen in his seat, staring at her with those bright, bottomless green eyes. Hermione met his gaze without flinching, her face on fire, wondering what on earth would happen next, if she could make some excuse and flee to her room—
It was Harry who moved first, of course. He leaned forward a little, then his hand shifted closer to her body. His fingers traced a burning line from her collarbone to her jaw, his touch as light as a feather, and she shivered again, her eyes slipping shut.
Harry let out a shaky breath, and he repeated the movement, but this time, his hand cupped the back of her head, his nails grazing her scalp, and Hermione gave a full-body shudder, feeling goosebumps erupt on every inch of her skin. Idiot, some hazy corner of her mind protested, you can't let him—
He shifted, leaning back against the arm of the sofa, and then his hands were on her elbow, her waist, his gaze burning into hers, and she realized what he wanted. Hermione gave in, sliding into Harry's lap, a low-burning fire seething in her belly, and moaned aloud when his hands found their way back to her neck, her scalp, his mouth pressing to her chin, her collarbone, her chest—
It was torture, sheer, exquisite torture. His hands, his fingers, traced an infinite number of patterns across her skin, through her hair, and it was all she could do to cling to him, to tangle her fingers in his hair and pull him closer, always closer, but not close enough—
"Hermione," he bit out into her chest, and his fingers flexed against her scalp. Her body shook in reply, and his moan was deep, stifled.
She could feel him, could feel all of him, the heat of his skin, the tense line of his back, his shoulders, through the layers of their clothing. His attentions, his body, all of it was intoxicating, building a burning line of sensation that dangled her above an empty abyss, held her in the space between reality and—
His hand slid from the back of her head to her jaw, and the feeling of his thumb against her temple made her eyes slip open again.
Harry was staring at her with a half-lidded gaze. His glasses were gone, and without them, she trembled under the weight of his scrutiny, under the weight of everything she saw in his eyes —
And then he leaned in, and her brain shut down. He paused just a hair's breadth away from her mouth, glancing up at her, seeking permission. Her heart squeezed tight as she nodded, and he closed the distance between them, pressing his mouth to hers.
It was everything and nothing like the other kisses they'd shared. It was slow, supple, infinitely sweet and simple. Hermione lost herself in it, leaning into Harry's chest with a sigh, loving the way he hummed into her mouth, his thumb stroking her cheek while his other hand slid down to her bum, her thigh, then up to her hip, which he squeezed so tightly it made her wonder if he thought she was going to disappear.
She wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, kissing and kissing and kissing as if they'd never get enough, drinking each other in with such a steady yearning that it almost felt impossible. At some point, Harry broke away to pull her jumper off, then let her do the same to him, huffing a chuckle against her collarbone. The feeling of his hands on the skin of her back, her belly, had Hermione shivering again, grinding against the rigid length in his jeans. For a long while, it was enough just to have his skin on hers, to dig her nails into his back as he made her shiver and shake with only his touch, and then, suddenly, it wasn't.
"Upstairs," she gasped into his shoulder, squeezing the back of his neck. "Please."
He was on her the moment her bedroom door closed, pressing her down into the bed with his mouth at her ear, her neck, the edge of her bra. It was hurried and slow all at once, and Hermione couldn't hold back a smile as she held him close, delighted by the feeling of his body on top of hers. Harry seemed to sense this, and he pressed his answering smile into her skin, making quick work of her bra before his hand found its way to the waistband of her leggings.
He pulled them down her body with excruciating slowness, kissing and squeezing her legs as he went, his mouth hot and supple and teasing as he lapped at the crease between her thigh and her crotch, behind her knee, above her ankle. Her smile was almost painful now, even as she shivered and shook below him, pleasure sending tingling waves up and down the length of her body.
When he reached her feet, Harry looked up at her with a bright, teasing expression, squeezing her toes in one hand. "I didn't realize you'd forgone underwear today," he murmured. "Had I known, we would've gotten here a lot sooner."
"Shut up," she managed to wheeze out, and to her surprise, he did.
When Harry made his way back up her body, his mouth tracing yet another damp, heated line up her skin, she realized he was naked, and shuddered from the feeling of his erection pressing into her thigh, her hip. She wanted him so badly she thought she might explode, and she reached for him, her fingers tangling in his hair and squeezing his arse.
And then he was there, his face only an inch from hers, his body a languid line of energy against hers. He was staring at her with that same look of heat and wonder, so full of tenderness that it was all she could do to meet his gaze without any hesitation. When she did, he smiled, and something in her heart squeezed tight.
"Beautiful," he murmured, once again sliding his thumb along the edge of her jaw. And then he kissed her, simple and brief and so sweet it made her ache with longing.
Harry's fingers were gentle, practiced, slipping into her and pressing her open. His mouth sucked and teased at her neck, her breasts, her nipples, making her squirm and shake and gasp into the cool, salty air. He groaned into her skin, shuddering from restraint, grinding his cock against her stomach. And then, after a short eternity, he pulled away, and she instantly missed him, though he wasn't gone for long.
Harry paused as he hovered above her, one of his hands braced on the underside of her thigh, holding her leg up and open. He said nothing, but his hand stroked the line of her neck again, pressing into the skin with something akin to wonder. Hermione met his piercing gaze, swallowing thickly, then choked on a gasp as he slid slowly into her, his mouth falling open on a moan.
It was luscious, unhurried, plush and warm and silken. Every moment blurred together, and all Hermione could think, all she could feel, was Harry's mouth, his hands, his chest, his— They kissed, again and again, and Harry kept sliding his hand along the line of her neck, moving with her when she bucked and shuddered, trailing kisses along her temple, over her forehead, breathing against the thin hair curling against her scalp, and she wanted to weep with adoration, with longing, with the feeling that this, surely, would be the last—
But no. She couldn't think about that. She forced herself to focus only on the richness of this moment, on the surety of pleasure, and she glanced up at Harry's face. He was watching her as he moved inside her, his eyes half-lidded and glazed, reverent and happy all at once.
It was then, with Harry's eyes on her, and his body above her, that Hermione took a shuddering breath and did something she'd never done before, something she knew she would never regret, regardless of how this all ended.
Hermione closed her eyes, and let her magic flow out to meet him.
She was tentative, at first, feeling but not seeing the warm, rich ochre spill out of her skin and wrap around Harry's body like tendrils of burning water. She both heard and felt him gasp and shudder, then something deeply blue and richly purple met the edges of her magic, tangling with it, creating a web of energy in the sparse air between them. A white-hot rush of pleasure blinded Hermione, and she choked on it, on the sheer, quaking electricity snaking along her skin, snapping and biting like a thousand tiny bolts of lightning.
Their magic wove together in a warm, velvety tapestry that seethed and ebbed with every movement of their bodies. It set Hermione on fire, made her tingle and shiver like an earthquake. She sighed with it, rocking up against Harry, combing her fingers through his hair until he shuddered and moaned and tensed above her. She mouthed at his chest, his clavicle, and all the places where their bodies met went hot and cold all at once.
It was beautiful. Heart-wrenching. Through her magic, Hermione could feel all of Harry, and she knew he could feel all of her. Their magic pushed past every boundary, both physical and mental, ignoring every possible restraint, every insecurity, every excuse she might have made to spare herself heartache. Because none of it mattered, she now understood. None of it mattered, because nothing had ever felt so right.
Suddenly, she realized neither of them was going to last much longer. Harry was curling into her, clinging to her like she was the most important thing in the world, and Hermione smiled, holding him close, letting love flow out of every inch of her body, and not regretting it one bit.
Nine days, eighteen hours, and thirty-five minutes after Hermione woke up in St. Mungo's, she blinked awake on a freezing, damp stone floor. The air was so cold her body ached with it, and she began to shiver as she squinted at her pitch-black surroundings, trying to understand where she was, what was happening.
"Hermione?" came a low grunt from several feet in front of her.
She shifted, wincing at the responding ache in her muscles, like they were waking up after a long, unwanted rest. "H—Harry?"
Another grunt, then the sound of him moving around. Hermione could see a little more now, enough to make out the shape of his huddled body amongst several other dark, hulking objects. They were clearly in a cellar of some kind, and a window set high in the wall cast a sparse beam of moonlight onto the floor.
"Harry?" she tried again, grimacing when it made her head throb with pain. "What happened? Where are we?"
"I—" Another grunt, and she realized he'd forced himself to sit up. "I'm still trying to get that straight." The moonlight caught the ridge of his nose as he glanced around. "Clearly, we're not in Kansas anymore."
Hermione rolled her eyes, then instantly regretted it when it spiked a pain in her temple. She used her arms to force herself up into a seated position, her hand brushing something cold and metallic. Harry's glasses. She held them out. "Here, this might help."
"Cheers." He gave them a brief clean on the corner of his jumper before putting them on, their lenses flashing white in the moonlight. "Ah." He looked at her. "You all right?"
Hermione checked herself for any breaks or sprains or bruises, her fingers prodding and searching through the fabric of her jeans and her jumper. "Other than what feels like one of the worst hangovers I've ever had, yes, I think so."
Harry gave a humorless chuckle. "I feel the same. They must've given us something."
She stopped, staring at him. "They?"
"Yes, they." Harry sat forward, looking down the length of the room at what she now realized was a cellar door. "They got to us, somehow. Do you remember anything?"
Hermione frowned, sifting through her headache to try to collect her thoughts. "It's Friday," she said. "Has to be. Friday night. They must've grabbed us—"
"At sunset," Harry finished for her. He was looking at the ceiling now, at something she couldn't see. "We've only been unconscious for a few hours, then." She caught the glow of the hands on his wristwatch, and knew that he had to be right.
"But we should remember something." Hermione was still frowning, rubbing her forehead, trying to stop shivering. "Why don't we remember anything?"
"Who knows." Harry stood up, then, with a huge effort. He braced himself on a nearby stone pillar, panting a little. "Any number of reasons." He looked at her. "Wand?"
Hermione's heart seized, and she patted down her pockets, the shaft of her boots with trembling hands. "No. You?"
Harry shook his head. "No," he replied, his voice grim. "Not that I'm surprised."
Hermione bit her tongue, forcing back the tears that threatened to spring to her eyes. Instead, she looked around the room, what little of it she could see in the relative dark. It was a wide, open, disused space, made from old brick and stone — which accounted for the damp and the grime — intercut by pillars and occasional piles of what looked to be rubbish. The ceiling didn't clear more than eight or nine feet, and the whole thing gave off an overwhelmingly depressive, gloomy air. Which, she supposed, was rather the point.
Then, Hermione's heart catapulted to the roof of her mouth, because somebody not three feet away from her let out a low, pained groan.
Harry got there in an instant, kneeling beside what she'd mistaken for a pile of old, sodden clothing. "Malfoy?" said Harry, surprise overtaking him for a split second before he composed himself and gripped Draco's arm. "Draco, it's all right, it's Harry and Hermione."
"What." Draco coughed as he squinted at both of them. "What the hell's going on?"
"We're trapped," Harry said, and it sounded so simple when he put it like that. "We've got no idea where we are, but it's someplace foul, and we're definitely someone's prisoners. Can you sit up?"
"Give him a moment, Harry," Hermione said, then forced herself to move and kneel at Draco's other side. He looked awful, dark circles staining the skin under his eyes, his hair mussed, his robes creased and in all kinds of disarray. "They knocked us out," she told him, squeezing his shoulder. "It feels rotten, I know."
"Valerian," Draco spat out, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "And a few other things, by the feel of it. Poppy. Saffron. Maybe a couple other heavy-hitters."
"Do you remember what happened?" Harry said. "When they took you?"
Draco frowned, then shook his head. "I was working in my lab at home," he said, then his expression went flat with panic. "Blaise— he'll have come home and I'm not—"
"Don't think about that," Hermione said, her voice firm even as it shook. "They took our wands, Draco. We can't afford to be distracted."
"Right." With a loud groan and shaking arms, he forced himself into a seated position, glancing at their surroundings. A moment later, he frowned. "We're in the Cotswolds."
"Pardon?" said Harry, and Hermione could practically hear his raised eyebrows.
"I recognize the stone." Suddenly, Draco was on his feet, going over to the nearest wall. "This looks just like—" He stopped, then turned to face them with an expression of mingling horror and shock. "I know where we are."
But they didn't have a chance to press him any further. A pair of footsteps sounded on the stairs outside the cellar door, and they all froze, staring at the door, awaiting whatever awful surprise was coming for them.
A second later, Hermione realized that Draco was staring at something else. Something on the ground, just a few feet away from him. "Harry," said Draco, his voice hushed.
Harry was there in an instant, then froze beside Draco, staring down at whatever it was.
"What is it?" Hermione asked, and when neither of them answered she went over there herself, her mouth falling open in shock when she saw what lay before her on the floor.
It was Rogers. His mouth slightly open, his gaze wide and empty. His body stiff and pallid.
Hermione put her hand to her mouth, too surprised to keep the tears from trickling out of her eyes. He was still in his Auror robes, looking like he was fresh off patrol—
Draco moved first, crouching beside the body. He pressed carefully at Rogers' chest, then his neck, then bent to inspect his head. All the while, the echoing footsteps grew louder and louder, closer and closer. Draco looked up at them. "Dead at least two weeks. There's a Preserving Spell on him. And…" He hesitated, as if he couldn't bear to say it. "Some chunks of his hair are missing."
Before Hermione could process this, could begin to do anything other than reach for Harry's hand, Harry, who stood still and unmoving, staring down at the body of the same person they'd seen just that afternoon, the person who'd been dead and alive all at the same time, the cellar door opened, and a hooded, shadowy figure stood waiting for them in the doorway.
"Come on, then," they barked in a rough, male voice. "Can't wait all night." And with a flick of a wand, Hermione, Harry, and Draco were all bound with silvery metal rope, put under a Silencing Spell, and ushered up out of the cellar.
Gradually, the rough stone of the cellar steps turned into ceramic tile, then into marble. Hermione looked around her as grand, austere hallways blossomed and grew like weeds, grey and dim in the dark blue night, seething with cruel, bony portraits that turned up their noses at the cluster of prisoners. They were clearly in a massive manor home, but an old one, one that was disused, falling to ruin. It reminded her all too well of Malfoy Manor, and she shuddered, wincing when it made the ropes dig even more into her skin. Harry glanced back at her, and she could tell he was thinking the same thing.
Finally, they stopped at a pair of large, white doors, and the figure pushed them inside, slamming the doors shut behind them.
They were in a massive dining room, with two huge fireplaces smoldering at either end. The walls were black, the fixtures were grey, and standing at the head of the table, sneering at her prisoners, her face grim with delight, was Bellatrix Lestrange.
[inspiration for Hermione's "hair moment" came from "Nappily Ever After," a beautiful and delightful film that I cannot recommend enough]
