A/N: Wade Scott here. I thought I might give a word of explanation about this "co-author" thing. The lovely and talented Danae will be penning the chapters told in Severus' point of view, while I am responsible for Hermione's. And although I tend to be quite bossy and have too much time on my hands, technically both Danae and I are equal partners in plotting. So a big round of applause for Danae, who puts up with me, let me in to play with her little plot bunny, and is most likely responsible for anything redeeming in this fic.

Disclaimer: What? You mean these people aren't real? They're just figments of JKR's phenomenal imagination? And I'm in no way getting any sort of payment for any of this? Oh, sod it all…

Hermione smoothed the parchment flat against the desk once more. Added stress was something she definitely did not need today. Maybe tomorrow, once a hot bath had relaxed her muscles and sleep had rested her tension headache. But not today, after a long night at the Ministry putting out fires ("Literally," she moaned) from the latest act of Wizard terrorism. Her gaze shifted to the Daily Prophet that lay open on her desk. The pictures were awful—crackling violent flames repeatedly devouring a grey block of flats in one of the poorest neighborhoods of Glasgow. But the pictures, and the horrors they implied, didn't even scratch the surface of the horrors that truly were. Hermione had fought to keep the harsher images suppressed, primarily for the sake of the victims. There were hundreds of them, too. The tenants, who lived so far below the poverty line that they could scarcely feed them selves, let alone own a smoke detector, were caught unawares in the dark night as the fire quickly spread. As sickening as it was finding remains of charred bodies, the real torture was finding the charred living. By the end of the night, close to a hundred children had been sent to St. Mungo's, where Healers were frantically trying to find a remedy for the magical burns. It made her stomach just thinking about it.

She had worked half of the night with Kingsley, inventing some plausible excuse for the Prime Minister to relate to the Muggle public and swearing to him, with all the reliability she had garnered over the past ten years, that yes, the Wizarding world was able to cope with this alone. After all, this was most definitely a magical fire, and only an incredibly competent witch or wizard could have been behind it. No, thank you for the offer, but the Auror force was quite able to investigate the crime scene and gather all necessary evidence. Yes, the culprit will be found and justly punished. Yes, we have everything under control.

And yet, after saying the same things for the third time in as many months, the words sounded hollow even to Hermione's ears. Attack after attack these words were harder and harder to say, let alone trust. Even she failed to believe them.

She studied the paper between her fingers once more, and noticed she was picking at a ragged edge. But this, she just knew, this inconspicuous little paper, was something. A clue. And Merlin knows, they've had precious little to go on so far. That alone made it worth investigating.

That was what she had to cling to. Reaching into her top drawer, she pulled out her compact and re-applied the concealer under her eyes and the familiar "I've got everything under control" smile. And if this new stranger was to be believed, that smile was one step closer to reality.

Upstairs, the Auror's office was a flurry of activity. Whether it was just the shift change or the previous night's activities, Hermione couldn't tell, but the usually lax atmosphere seemed quite thick. Every face that passed held a busy, serious look except for two people: an Auror with dreadlocks sacked out on the couch in the corner and a smiling Tonks.

"You look like you've had a rough night there, Hermione," she piped over the wall of her cubicle. "Come to think about it, I do believe I saw the Minister around here earlier. Looked a bit overworked, just like you."

"It wouldn't have anything to do with a large tenement fire last night, now would it?"

"Possibly," Tonks conceded as the younger witch stepped inside the "office." Tonks' cubicle was reminiscent of her personality: chaotic and cluttered. Papers were lumped into piles on her desk, and wadded bits of parchment littered the floor by the trash bin, obviously short of their mark. On the walls were tacked reminders of various committee meetings and due dates, next to crayon drawings of stick figure families, unicorns, and dragons. Above the desk was a photo of two little girls. Lily, five, was trying to hide behind her father's leg while her sister, Cassie, nearly two, was busy bumping around the picture trying to extricate herself from the frilly dress she was wearing. Turning back to her work, Tonks added with a cheeky smile, "Although I'd bet he'd rather be making fires rather than running around putting them out."

Hermione knew exactly where this was going. "I am not dating the Minister of Magic, Nymphadora," she answered firmly.

"Hey, now, no need to get testy. I was just sayin', that's all," she said. Then, turning in her swivel chair back towards Hermione, "And why not, exactly?"

Hermione sighed. "Why is it the aim of every happily married person to hook you up with the next available candidate?"

"He is not 'the next available candidate. For your information, Hermione, I happen to think very highly of Minister Longbottom. If he hadn't repealed Umbridge's Anti-Werewolf legislation…well, little Remus Junior here wouldn't be making me sit up straight, that's for sure," Tonks retorted, giving her expanding belly a gentle pat and readjusting herself in her seat.

"So you know for sure it's a boy?" Hermione asked hopefully.

"Well, Remus is sure hoping it's a boy. Some rubbish about 'carrying on the family name.' But you're changing the subject. What's wrong with dating the Minister of Magic?"

"Because, Tonks, it would be a 'conflict of interest.'"

That cheeky smile appeared again. "Well, now, it depends on the interest."

Hermione could only pinch the bridge of her nose in feigned exasperation. They had gone over this subject too many times to be truly annoyed. "Only you, Tonks, could place higher value on the poor Minister's dating life than the collapse of the Wizarding world as we know it."

The older witch simply laughed. "Just trying to keep things in perspective. Besides," at this point she sobered up slightly, "you look like you could use some wining and dining. And a good foot rub," she added, pointing at Hermione's feet, "those heels look miserable. Now come, sit, and tell Auntie Tonks just what's troubling you."

Hermione sat in the proffered chair, and took the parchment out of her pocket. "This," she said, tossing it on the desk in front of her. "Tell me what you make of it."

The Auror furrowed her brow in concentration. Immediately, she grabbed the calendar next to her and began thumbing through it, pausing between the months of November, January, and February and double-checking the paper before her. Turning back in triumph, she announced, "Congratulations, Hermione. You have a comprehensive list of dates, places, and incidents recording terrorist activities towards Muggles."

"On official Ministry letterhead."

"On official Ministry letterhead," Tonks repeated. "And this is relative…why?"

Hermione leaned forward. "Now let's pretend, just for a minute, that this morning I interviewed a taxi driver for the open position in the Department of Intercultural Affairs, and instead of a certificate of education, he presented me with this."

Tonks just studied the parchment skeptically. "So…does this make you think someone from the Ministry is involved in these attacks?"

"Tonks, you know as well as I do that nobody but a Ministry employee can write on it. There is a Restriction charm applied during production and trust me, it works."

"I'll take your word for it." Tonks winked at her. "And not just because you invented it." Leaning forward, she added, "But what exactly is your point?"

Hermione covered her face with her hands for a moment, trying desperately to find words to express what she could only feel as instinct. "Look, I know this is very circumstantial," she began, "but that fire was last night. If this was just some scrap piece of paper that my applicant picked up on his way to my office, then that's a damn fine coincidence. But…if he received it yesterday, or the day before, then that last date there is either a prophecy or a plan. Either way, it's down right fishy, if you ask me."

Tonks nodded in understanding. "And because this is official Ministry parchment, you're thinking it's an inside job," she concluded.

"Either an inside job," Hermione added quietly, "or at the very least, somebody here knows more than they are letting on. Think about it Tonks—everybody from the Ministry to the Prophet are pinning these attacks on underground Death Eaters or Death Eater sympathizers. Why? Simply because they're against Muggles. But I'm not buying it." She started counting off on her fingers. "For one, Muggles have been the only targets. No prominent witches or wizards have been murdered. For another, no Dark Mark. Now, maybe it's because they're killing Muggles instead of Wizards, but nobody has thrown the Mark into the sky to take credit. In fact, nobody has taken credit for these acts at all," Hermione paused to take a breath. "And finally, Death Eater activity only starts up once they know they can hide behind the biggest bully on the playground. They don't stand or operate alone. And with Voldemort gone…"

"…They don't have anybody to hide behind," Tonks finished. "Unless they have a new leader?"

Hermione considered this. "But who? All known Death Eaters are either dead or in Azkaban." Tonks sat back and picked up the parchment once again while Hermione continued, "Either way, Tonks, I think we're barking up the wrong tree."

Tonks tapped the paper against the desk while she contemplated Hermione's reasoning. Turning her focus back on the witch in front of her, she asked, "And what about the man who gave you this?"

"I hired him," Hermione smirked.

"You…you what?"

"I hired him," she repeated.

"Moody would have a fit, you know."

"Good thing Moody is neither in charge of this investigation, nor my office." Tonks raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge. "I look at it this way," Hermione explained, "if this man can get the information he says he can, then he's an asset to the investigation, right?" Tonks nodded. "Now, on the other hand, if he turns suspect, at least we can keep an eye on him. I wasn't about to let him disappear after handing me that," she pointed at the parchment, which was willingly handed back to her. "And," she continued with a sly smile as she stood, "as the trusting employer I am, I also plan to do as much research as I can into this Mr. Samuel Hawke."

Tonks couldn't help but return the smile. "And if there's anyone who can do research, it's Ms. Hermione Granger." Suddenly she flinched and put her hand on the belly. "Oh, I know you are there, Remie," she breathed out. "Calm down." Hermione felt an instant stab of excitement and jealousy. Damn biological clock. Its constant ticking and Tonks' happy family were both constant reminders that she should have had a family by now, too. She stood to go.

Tonks obeyed the fetal command and straightened up. Reaching out, she grabbed Hermione's hand as she turned to leave. "Seriously, Hermione," she said soberly, "Moody may have been a paranoid old bastard, but he knew what he was talking about. Please, be careful."

"I will," Hermione replied. Squeezing her hand, she added, "I'll let you know what I find out."

OoOoO

Hermione's feet cheered in relief as soon as she stepped out of her shoes. Dropping her purse and a stack of paperwork on her kitchen table, she flicked her wand in the direction of the stove. She was cold from her travels and in desperate need of tea.

Not to mention tired and incredibly frustrated, as well.

When she wasn't dodging reporters from the Daily Prophet, Qibbler, or Wizarding Wireless Network, she was trying to find out as much information as she could about this enigmatic Mr. Hawke. As expected, her search through Ministry databases gave her nothing. No birth records, no O.W.L. or N.E.W.T. scores, no Apparition license, nothing. Samuel Hawke simply did not exist in the Wizarding world. Plus, information on his Muggle life was sketchy, to say the least. Sure, his job references checked out, but she knew they would. Otherwise, all she could come up with was that he lived in a small flat just outside the city, owned his own taxi and worked for himself, and that he paid his bills on time. For all intents and purposes, he was a simple man who lived a quiet life on the fringe of society.

Yet Hermione couldn't shake a feeling of familiarity. Something about they way he held himself in her presence, something in the way he looked at her, said that they should know each other.

In the bathroom, she turned the taps and wet her face. Over the course of the day she had used the better portion of her tube of Witch's Wonder concealer, and instead of the refreshed feeling the packaging promised, all she could feel was the caking around her eyes. She pictured Mr. Hawke again in her mind as she gently lathered her face, trying to pinpoint what had her so unnerved. Come to think about it, he was familiar and comfortable through the entire interview…until she shook his hand. For a brief moment she could tell she had startled him. But she had no idea why.

Sighing, face dripping water in to the sink below, she reached for a towel. She could even hear his confidence reflected in his voice.

Hermione. He had called her by name.

Like a lover.

"Like a ghost," she said sternly, almost forcefully, to her reflection.

"Like a ghost," she repeated, this time in a whisper, as she dropped the towel in the hamper and answered the call of her whistling teapot. She poured the water into her cup, idly dipping the teabag up and down in the water as her thoughts wandered again.

The past few months had brought many ghosts to Hermione's door. Ghosts she had hoped would stay buried where she left them ten years ago. She had seen enough war and violence then—seen enough to what people are capable of doing to each other. She had avoided the Aurory for that very reason. She had seen enough death to avoid a career in medicine. She figured she would be safe enough in Intercultural Affairs—an enchanted plug here, maybe an inappropriate goat charm there…a safe job in public relations.

Then it all went to hell. In a hand basket made by some anti-Muggle extremist.

She stared at the tea in her hands, and decided it was a night for something stronger. In the last three months there was hardly a night that wasn't. Raising her wand again, she summoned good ol' Uncle Ogden and retired to the sofa.