Hey Readers!

My good lord, I am so, so sorry for leaving this story for so long. Life really got away from me and I do hope this chapter will suffice.

It is a bit of back story and the follow up should be posted within the next day or so! I had always intended for this fic to be a long fic, so I do hope I can manage to make these next bunch of months filled with updates!

For those of you that are willing to stick with me... I really, really appreciate it!

Yours Truly,

Scissors

Consequences of Falling

Ch. 7

One professor wasn't to be seen at dinner. Whilst the rest nibbled and drank, conversed and debated, green eyes passed glances of the cursory nature from face to face – all save for one. It was to be expected, really.

Once she had been left in her quarters and given the opportunity to feel all that she had needed to feel, Hermione didn't have the patience, nor the ambition, to look upon anyone else at the time. Long after pieces of ceramic had been mended back to their prior shape of a coffee mug, once her eyes had dried and her hands steadied from the tremble of furious passion, she found herself back in her bedroom, holding fast to that worn leather jacket. Her leather jacket. A gift of the most unbearable sort; a gift in passing.

Oh, how rude it was to be intruded upon as she had been. How insanely uncalled for. The attitude she had toward the Scottish witch was default, it was warranted, and, just as was anticipated, it had a certain effect upon the woman in question – although not the sort that had been hoped for. Rather than being left well alone, the woman could never just leave it alone. She couldn't stand the justice of it, the brunette guessed. Time heals all wounds, they say. It would be different if the wound wasn't consistently ripped open again and again, leaving only a faint membrane of new flesh to be repeatedly split to reveal that wound which never seemed to fully heal. Time granted minor comfort. Nothing more.

Cradling the leather in her arms, hugging the bunched jacket close, the professor buried her face against the stiff collar and took a deep inhalation. It no longer smelled of its old occupant, yet, it was still as comforting as it had been the first time she'd pulled it on. If only it were like a gateway, something she could use to communicate, or, better yet, something she could use to resurrect what she had lost those few years ago.

"You must be the woman I am looking for." Above the din of witches and wizards enjoying their late night meal and beverages, an accent that was far less crisp, far too relaxed, hovered questioningly above the other hushed voices. American. Unusual.

It was a casual meeting place, one of the few that she knew of, and one where she needn't worry too greatly about being interrupted or recognized to the degree that any other Inn closer to Diagon or Hogsmeade would undoubtedly inflict upon their introduction. Hermione turned to look over her shoulder and her digits crept into the pocket of her lengthy wool coat, feeling for the handle of her wand, instinctually. Dirty blond hair, a fair face with a peppering of light freckles, a crooked smile, a faded leather jacket in this cold weather... This must be the import.

"They told me to look for someone who doesn't look like she wants to talk, I have to say... You really do look like someone pissed in your Cheerios." Brown eyes narrowed. Without another syllable spoken from those slightly curled lips, those lips that held as much mischief in their lilt as a pixie, the blond sidled up beside her and slid onto the empty stool standing there, a gloved hand lifting to gain the attention of the innkeeper down the line.

"Very tactful," Hermione replied dryly, partially raising her half finished drink upward to finish. "You should remember, however, that you want me to like you. Or, at the very least, respect you." Before she could even finish, the woman beside her began to chuckle, quietly... It was infuriating.

"Ahh, well," The blond began, her hand gesturing for another round of what the elder witch, her new partner, was drinking. "I hope you'll understand that I'm not too worried about that, considering your file basically states that you don't really 'like' anyone. What chance do I have?" Manicured eyebrows raised and gaze turned back from the barman to peer sidelong at the brunette. Hermione began to feel as though she was going to have her work cut out for her – not only was she entirely inconvenienced by needing to bring this representative along for the ride, but the blond had a mouth on her too.

"Your president spoke highly of your department, as did your head of law enforcement did of you, Miss. Ryder, but I am not easily as convinced as my colleagues." A pointed glance and a sullen tone was the only reward, then the last remnants of scotch whiskey was thrown back and empty glass discarded. As it was replaced on the bar top, accompanied by one other, the woman beside her slid a piece of paper in Hermione's direction.

"Whether you learn to like me, to deal with me, or not, Miss Granger... The matter still stands that these fugitives are working their way south," That same hand lifted from paper and reached for a glass, leaving the brunette to peer downward at the notice of accompaniment and avoid her own freshly poured drink. "I can only guarantee that I will be of use to you, potentially in ways that may even surprise, if you give me the opportunity."

Chocolate brown eyes rose to meet those of rich blue and noted that the humor within was no longer the most prominent. The curl of lips vanished just as quickly, a seriousness replacing that more amiable look about face. Amelia wasn't making only a point, she was imposing. And like a Hippogriff accepting the proposal of a new acquaintance, though with caution, Hermione relented.

"Fine."

Hermione had not liked Amelia. Not one little bit. In fact, she was filled with such disdain for the woman, initially, and made it known so frequently that she was certain she would finally run the woman off. She never did.

Amelia Ryder was a leading inspector for the Magical Congress of the United States of America. Being that there had been some ties between America and the United Kingdom, in terms only of escapees immigrating from Britain and the surrounding area to the United States without the proper paper work – some even to France, as well -, it was only time before the governments formed an alliance and worked together to find, interrogate, and locate the rest of these undesirable witches and wizards to finally bring them to justice. Hermione was assigned one of these ambassadors... And she was none too happy to admit the change. Little did she know what fate had in store...

The women worked well. Together. Amelia with her charm and charismatic nature paired with Hermione's bookishness and willingness to adapt made for a force unlike any other. They were not fast friends. They were hard on one and other. Yet, with every intended mission embarked upon and fulfilled, they learned. Respect was not freely given, it was earned.

Two pairs of feet stumbled up a creaking flight of stairs, two pairs of hands slapped the others away and prodded – it was a chase, of sorts. It was normal. Expected. Rounding the corner and down the upper floor they raced to their joined rooms as their animated verbal spar, still hushed in volume, alerted only the old maid a few doors down. Quiet, though not quiet enough, giggles were heard despite. How she wished she hadn't left her door ajar this night. It was to be expected; every few weeks, at that.

The noise was only silenced when the women were hidden within the confines of their room. Wards and silencing charms were readily set in place their, strong ones, to ensure the safety of those living behind those doors. They had a routine and one which they stuck to. It was only appropriate considering the dangerous work which they had readily thrown themselves into over the course of the past year. When you spend enough time with a person, anyone could tell you, that you adapted to a certain way of living. Who took out the trash? Which was better at barging in wand drawn? What was it that irritated the other? What had begun as a simple work partnering grew to become far more than that... Above all, they had become friends.

"If I hadn't stepped in, you would have been completely obliterated by that memory charm! You would've been fucked!" The brunette tossed her comrade a glass from the table, empty and ready to be filled. A scoff was what she received in return. Amelia collapsed back on the bed with her legs dangling off the side and held her glass out, knowing that Hermione would be there in only a moment to pour her a serving of whiskey; their preferred drink.

"That sorry lump of shit could hardly cast a proper confundus, nevermind a fucking memory charm." She mumbled bitterly in response.

Three. Three fugitives, three wizards, three eager wands to be put down to rest. Three. They had been prepared and they knew the lay out of their little abandoned building, a manor, old and musty. Just the sort of place one would hope to avoid for a lifetime, filled with relics and dark artifacts... Clearly, some dark magic had been spilled there for the air was cold and unfeeling. There was no life there. No spark of home. It was just a building.

They had not left without a scratch. Hermione had taken her beating when she'd been thrown back off her feet and into a book case – ironic that that which she loved most and given her harm. Amelia? A nearly bone breaking curse causing the muscles to contract to their limit... They were not without scars. Not without pain. But, once all was said and done, they found what they were looking for; information. The numbers of these dark followers were beginning to lessen, but that didn't mean others wouldn't surface in their place. Still, they were a team. A good team. And they weren't going to be stopping anytime soon.

"Well, the fact that we didn't kill them gives me brownie points with the Ministry and, right now, that's all that matters." Stated the brunette as she rounded the bed with her own filled glass in hand, bottle outstretched to pour one out for her partner. Blue eyes rose to meet those of brown and a slight air of amusement took hold of Amelia's countenance.

"Just because we didn't doesn't mean you didn't want to. Don't think I didn't see that look on your face after you got yourself rag-dolled into the library," Amelia stated without skipping a beat, a statement that only garnered a faint scowl in return and a muttering of 'I still didn't do it, did I'. "Speaking of, take off your shirt, let's take a look at that back of yours.." The blond sat up in bed and beckoned her partner back over to where she sat, ready to inspect the damage that had been inflicted and to heal that damage, if necessary.

Grumbling all the while about how the blond mothered her too greatly, Hermione set down their bottle and returned to Amelia, leaning to place her glass on the bedside table, mightily trying not to flinch. Mortal wounds never stunted her too greatly. Scars were scars, she had many, and she didn't care. The only injuries Hermione tended to care about were those more internal, the truly dangerous wounds that, if left unattended, could kill or cause serious harm. Far more serious harm than a bruise or a cut.

"Come on now, I saw blood on your cloak... And it's soaking through the back. You got yourself a gash, Granger." Hermione tossed the blond a look and turned away, avoiding those hands which would have worked at her sore muscles. Rather she ventured toward a mirror and pulled her shirt over her head but not off, turning around to look over shoulder at the reflection she could see in that smokey, mirrored surface. A tear in the flesh, not terribly deep, just a bit longer than she would have preferred... But only around six inches. Her shoulder had seen worse. It was the bruise that looked nasty, even more so than the cut, but that could have also been due to the blood dried to the skin.

"Amelia, this is nothing. It'll heal." Resigned and fine with the outcome, Hermione pulled down her shirt and returned to collect her glass, a pair of blue eyes peering at her with some confusion and concern all that short way.

"Why do yo do this? Every time?" She heard the blond question as she passed in front of her jean clad knees. The brunette didn't answer. Not immediately. Not soon enough for that blond woman to stand close behind and reach for her elbow. "Why can't I just heal you?"

"Don't." Hermione cautioned as she pulled her arm from the light grip that had taken it, a look of warning casting back at that face she'd come to recognize as friend. Hesitation held fast to those muscles, that arm that hung in the air and in those fingers that hand tried, failed, to subdue. It did fall, however, and with it did those blue eyes to the place where that sickening bruise had become unseen beneath dirtied, reddened fabric.

"We have traveled now for ten months – ten months in rented rooms, ten months willingly waltzing into the most precarious situations, ten months drinking at the end of the day, ten months nearly getting to know one and other through these trials and yet... ," Amelia paused, almost for a lack of something to say, to question, never to assume, then she lowered herself back down to sit as she watched the brunette step further away to sit down in a chair in the corner of the room. Close, but not really. "I hardly know you. To trust you, I need to know you. I need to know that in every case, you have my back. We are partners, whether we wanted to be, like it, or not... So why is it that so often, so often that I've noticed, you have no problem throwing yourself in the path of something that we both know, you're not stupid, is going to get you hurt."

Harry had questioned her in this way. Ron had tried to question her in this way. Her friends... The ones she'd grown with, conquered with, tried to understand. Tried. They always fell short. The answer was simple, really. But never fully understood. Cradling her glass in her hands, peering down into that amber liquid that she'd come to use as a comfortable way of coping with long days, longer nights, she warred with what she knew to be a conscious choice. A safe choice. Secrecy was not a cage from which she begged to be freed, it was a necessary means. And now there was this person, a good and honest, understanding, person who was trying to find the key. The question was... Was she ready to explain one more time?

"Amelia, you have been nothing but... An absolute joy to work with," Hermione eventually stated, setting herself back against the cool, wooden chair and relaxing there. Her eyes rose, met those opposite, and saw the woman there looking back with a subtle curiosity. Curiosity and concern. "Admittedly, I didn't like it very much when I had to take someone along for the ride but, thank Merlin, I am so glad it has been you." Silence fell upon the pair. Whilst Hermione sorted through her thoughts, Amelia sat there on the edge of the bed and sipped her whiskey. Waiting.

"I don't care about scars, or these wounds, not at all," Hermione finally admittedly in a manner that was plain and unashamed, gaze drifting off to focus on something other than the other woman. Focusing, but not really seeing. "In fact, they make me feel... Like I'm living. Like being in pain helps me to remember that I'm still... Alive. Present. So, I don't mind them."

"Well, why do you feel 'dead'?" The blond asked forthright, nearly as though thinking aloud, and entirely unapologetic. Rarely did she question Hermione. Her motives, her plans of action, her past... Their conversations mostly revolved around the day, some childhood stories, work... Never so personal. Amelia talked about herself far more than Hermione, she wanted Hermione to know who she was. Why she was the way she was. What her work meant to her... The brunette was far less forthcoming. But tonight seemed to be the night. Or so she hoped.

Even though she could clearly see the brunette was on the verge of frustration, Amelia swelled with untapped patience. She didn't question further.

"When I was in school, I was a Know It All, an 'insufferable' Know It All, at that... I was...I am... A brilliant witch. Another brilliant witch took notice in me and we became very, very close friends," Hermione ventured to say even though the taste in her mouth was quickly growing sour. "After the war, a war which I had helped fight for nearly a decade, I returned to school to finish my last year and that brilliant witch and I got so much closer." Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd tried to explain... To whom she had tried to explain. It was like tearing off a band aid adhered with super glue – difficult and messy. Pressing on, she found herself leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees, shrinking beneath the weight of the topic as the blond only listened and stared – the latter being something she was highly unaware of.

"We began an affair for many months, our friendship flourished into much more, and she was my absolute everything – my dearest companion, my mentor, my professor, and my one great love all wrapped neatly into the package of one person..."

"Your professor?" Interjecting in surprise, somewhat caught off guard by such new information, information that clearly meant Hermione, in that case, had completely by-passed most rules and laws... Such a surprise from what she had heard of the woman when she was girl... Amelia couldn't help but voice her shock. "I thought that there would be rules against teacher-student relationships here in the UK..."

"There are rules against it, I didn't care," Hermione stated blankly whilst raising her line of vision to her comrade. "I didn't care." She repeated again, a bit more softly, as though it were an inward thought. "I was so deeply, deeply in love with who she was – kind, passionate, strong... Everything I had ever wanted to be, but I didn't want to be her... I wanted to be with her." Taking a deepened breath, Hermione then threw back her glass as added confidence to finish her story, explaining herself. Once settled, she resumed. "The day before my graduation, after a night of fucking and cuddling and great conversation, she told me in certain terms that the affair was over. That I had been an 'indulgence'. Naturally, with my heart positively broken, I left. I joined the Ministry and now I do this work. My future was... Shattered. My delusion of what love and partnership was... Well, it was dashed. If my dearest friend, my closest confident, could commit was atrocities upon me, what could someone else do?"

"You.. You're just extremely heartbroken."

"I 'was' extremely heartbroken," Hermione corrected, her tone gaining just that little bit of momentum as she tossed a pointed glance. "Now I am simply 'here'. Not heartbroken. Just 'here'. With you. I don't want to talk about this anymore and I don't want you to ask me any more questions about why I am the way I am, I just want you to understand that I have had things done to me and I have been hurt, and now this is me moving forward with my life in the way that suits me best, even if it's uncomfortable every once in a while. Can you just... Accept me? Like this?"

Hermione wasn't one to plead. Or beg. She didn't need to in most cases, although in this case there was something in her eyes that Amelia hadn't ever seen in that nearly year long stint together; she saw the hidden turmoil, the ignored pain, and the pleading that this was just the way it was to be. She couldn't deny that so much of what she'd learned made her understand the woman so much more. Her guarded nature, the way, even when she smiled, she still looked a little sad, her recklessness with her body... It made sense. Heartbreak does all sorts of things to people who never expect it. Sighing deeply, mirroring her friend in posture and resting her elbows on her knees, looking as though she was still processing this, the blond gave a faint, short nod.

"I accept you."

"I accept you." The young professor murmured against the cool leather her lips were pressed to, her mind whirring with memories of the past and present. Closed eyes, tightening fingers, Hermione rose of the edge of the end of her bed and slowly made her way to its side, her side of the bed... The side she'd grown accustomed to sleeping, anyway. Crawling under the heavy blanket, fully clothed, she pulled the jacket close and held tightly to it.

Hermione had experienced two great loves in her short life. Two more than many could ever hope to achieve. She didn't expect that there would be a third... Though, perhaps, teaching... Teaching could possibly suffice.

TBC...