Disclaimer: Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you.

Summary: And, boy, does she love good.

Midnight Blues

Zeitgeist84

Part I: Punch-Clock Hero

3.) Lucky
or,
Hermione Lovegood

She sighs next to me. "Sorry, Harry. I'd love to laze about all day but I have work, something you apparently don't understand."

"No, apparently not," I muse, smiling softly at her. Our hands brush together, the diamond of her engagement ring lightly scraping against my skin. She extricates herself from our tangle of limbs and emerges from under the covers bare, a nude valkyrie. She saunters away, toward the master bath. I watch every second of it.

She's going to be my wife. After Voldemort, Gringotts and the Ministry, after all of that, I'm going to have a wife.

Lucky. That's what it is.

I feel my luck a'changing.

"Hermione, do you know what this is?" I ask, rubbing my thumb and middle finger together. "This is the world's smallest violin, and it's playing just for the goblins."

Hermione huffs and crosses her arms. "Don't insult me, Harry. All I'm saying is, yes, the goblins were beastly to you, but they are not all bad!"

"I know that. But you're the only one who's naïve enough to believe they're all good."

"Ron?" Hermione calls to her boyfriend sweetly, who looks up from the Daily Prophet with a blank expression. "What do you think about all this?"

Ron looks back and forth between Hermione and I, stuck between choosing his girlfriend and his best mate. A trap if there ever was one; Ron, however, is not an idiot (though he may look it) and chooses correctly:

"Man, I don't even have an opinion."

I love Hermione, I really do, but sometimes she really makes me want to slap her. You see, I've never someone so quintessentially American. Now, wait, let me explain, as Hermione would be incredibly offended at being compared to an American (the government of said country is not exactly her favorite what with those two useless wars).

I've witnessed a lot of typically American traits: morbid obesity, spouting on about the freedom they don't really have, the "Prison Bitch" phenomena, and their innate ability to be loud and crass everywhere they go. Yes, these things are incredibly annoying, but there is one trait they share with Hermione, a trait that I find highly illogical and flat-out stupid: optimism.

Hermione's very annoying habit of always thinking the best in people is one I used to find endearing; now it makes me homicidal.

But that's Hermione for you: she can't be cynical; the universe would likely implode if she ever lost her nurturing spirit. She'll defend the Goblins to the death (even though, just between us, we both know they're twats), because that's what she is: doe-eyed even when watching a backstabbing, an ingenue.

I tell Ron that later in the day, as we are leaving for the Scots Tower. The bastard smirks like he's got some cosmic secret that I can't be let in on:

"Even if I knew what 'ingenue' meant," he says, playing the idiot, "Hermione isn't one. She's not so naïve, and she's not so innocent."

"I'll take your word for it."

I don't take his word for it. Ron could tell me that Hermione delights in molesting animals and I would reply: "Sweet, innocent Hermione? My arse". Honestly, I really don't think there's anything Hermione could do that would make me reevaluate her saintliness. Whatever it is that Ron thinks is so raunchy, back of the shag-van dirty about her will have to wait, however, because we find ourselves at the Scots Tower.

We are rather thoroughly checked by two grim-faced Aurors standing outside an impressive cross-shaped building that looks like the lovechild of a gothic church and a neoclassical mansion. The one checking me reaches into my coat and pulls out a simple, rosewood ring box. He eyes it oddly before returning it to me and continuing his search. He finally steps back just short of giving me a rectal exam:

"Auror-Commander Shepard is waiting for you on the third floor."

Ron and I acknowledge the Auror and head into the tower. The first floor is littered with Aurors in battle robes and dragonhide armor, all bustling about, reading files and decrypting codices and whatnot. I don't bother with them, they're all just noise. Ron and I continue past them, our footwear clacking against the stone floor; we walk until we find a staircase nestled in the corner of the building and start climbing up.

"Not really handicapped accessible, is it?" Ron mutters halfway up.

I stop and turn. "Why would a handicapped person be in the Auror Headquarters?"

"I don't know, to file a case?"

"Aurors handle national security; they're not the police. That's what Hit-Wizards do." I swivel back and start climbing the stairs once more.

"But that's the thing," Ron says, dropping a seeming non-sequitur. When I look to him for clarification, he continues: "They're national security, and yet..."

"And yet they're hiring two mooks from off the street," I reply, "I have thought of it, yes. And it is a little worrying, but I have a feeling I know who's behind this."

Ron groans. "Bugger if he is."

"I'm not doing it for him," I shrug. Ron goes quiet and takes point on the stairs.

The third floor is closed off by two glass doors; a placard on the center of the right door reads: Special Operations 13.

"Looks like we found the place," Ron remarks unnecessarily. The redhead makes to open the door, but they swing open on their own. Nodding to each other, Ron and I make our way into a cavernous, vault-like office. The floor is lined up like a long corridor, with the cubicles off to the side, placards denoting which Auror the cubicle belonged to; as I peak into them, I notice a plethora of sneakoscopes and other such dark-detecting devices cluttering up their desks.

At the far end of the corridor is several larger cubicles and one office. A flash of gold catches my eye and I find Greengrass off to the side, leaning against her cubicle wall while she talks to a tall black man. She casts an askance glance at Ron and I but I don't give her the pleasure of seeing me react to her. We're here for two reasons, to find out who put the Auror-Commander up to hiring two mercenaries for an Auror problem, and for the job itself.

"Greengrass is giving you the stink-eye," Ron says low.

"I noticed," I whisper back. "She really must not like me. Why, though, is the question. I've never said more than two words to her before Saturday."

"Whatever, fuck her," Ron brushes her off blithely as we walk up to another glass door, a placard on it reading: Auror-Commander Jonathan Shepard. Before Ron or I even knock, we hear a low: "Come in!"

Shrugging at each other, we enter.

Auror-Commander Shepard looks different from when we first saw him. Sporting a buzzed, military-style haircut, a few-days growth of stubble, and piercing blue eyes, Shepard looks, if anything, even more brutal than when we first saw him. The combat robes does nothing but heighten my unease. If he wanted to, he could have the entire Auror Department on our asses, and assuming we could even beat this guy in a duel, we'd have no chance against everyone outside.

"Gentlemen," he greets, which sounds more like a sibilant growl than anything else.

"Auror-Commander," I return. Ron remains silent, glaring at the man.

The Commander, for the most part, seems amused at Ron's antics. "What's wrong with your friend, here?"

"I think he's angry that you shot him. Just a guess."

"Well tell him that any time he's willing to stop being a whingeing bitch, we can start discussing our business."

"Oh, har har," Ron sneers. "Get to your business; I hate Aurors."

"And I hate you, but Kingsley Shacklebolt was absolutely sure that you two would be the best for this job. And you don't exactly deny the Minister of Magic what he wants."

"That basso motherfucker," Ron remarks.

I groan. "How did we know Kingsley would be behind this?"

"Don't know why he wants you with me, don't care. As long as you don't fuck with my Aurors, and they don't fuck with you, we will be peachy."

Ron smirks. "Easy enough."

"Oh, wonderful. Now, go out to Auror-Captain Lupin's desk. She and Greengrass can brief you. Now, I have other things to work on. Please leave."

Confused at the abrupt ending to the meeting, Ron and I are steered out of Shepard's office and are greeted by two familiar faces: a bemused Greengrass and a very angry Nymphadora Lupin, blood-red hair and all.

"Uh... hi, Tonks?" I greet, hoping my smile is charming enough to disarm her.

It is not.

"What the bloody hell is this!?" She shouts, placing her fists firmly on her hips.

"Now, I might be wrong, but your body language tells me you're displeased," Ron deadpans.

"Oh, just the tiniest bit!" Tonks steps up to me, slightly shocked that I now stand taller than her. "So this is where you got all the money for Teddy's toys! By killing and stealing, Harry."

I shrug. "We don't kill that often. And when we do, they're usually very bad people. Not so different from you, Tonksie."

Tonks' glare is actually frigid. "Don't compare us, Harry. You're the closest thing Teddy has to a father and that's only reason I'm not going to murder you right here and now. Now, follow me, I'll take you two to your workstations."

Tonks marches away, leaving behind a thoroughly confused Greengrass, who just shakes her head and follows, and both Ron and I, who stare at both women's backsides. Ron notices I'm looking and snickers:

"Pervert."

"Like you weren't doing the same thing?" I snort. "Besides, I was thinking: if I'm the closest thing Teddy has to Daddy, when do I get to shag Mummy?"

Ron stares. "Mate, that's fucked up. Just stop talking."

"Oh, blow it out your arse, you prude." I stop. "Wait... did she say 'workstations'?"

Ron pauses, scrunches his face up in thought, and then looks back at me. "Yeah. Yeah she did."

"Desk jobs? What the fuck did we sign up for? Because it sure as shite wasn't a desk job at the Auror Headquarters!"

A soft cough breaks through our little pow-wow and we turn to see an amused Auror Greengrass and an impatient Tonks. Ron sighs:

"Better bite the bollocks, mate."

Ew. Of all the ways for Ron to mess up a muggle idiom.

"Bullet, Ron, Bullet! Not bollocks."

Ron has the decency to blush.

Tonks huffs and crosses her arms. "Move it, Potter!"

"Yes, ma'am," I reply, hastening to where the resident metamorphmagus stands. Her hair turns from the angry red to a more demure pale pink as she takes up point while Ron and I follow, with Greengrass taking up the rear. Ron exchanges a nervous glance with me, both of us noting that this formation is the standard procedure for escorting prisoners.

Soon, however, Tonks finds a dual cubicle with two desks inside it. Both desks house a typewriter, sneakoscope, and stack of files each. On the each side of the cubicle is a placard; the one on the left says 'Ronald Weasley' and the one on the right, 'Harry Potter'.

Underneath our names on both placards is written: 'Consultant'.

"Consultant?" I question, resisting the urge to guffaw like an idiot.

Tonks nods. "Those files will bring you up to speed. You will meet the rest of the team in two days time."

"So..." Ron begins, "can we take these files and leave?"

"Yes, you can."

Ron and I grab six or seven files from the stack and make a bum-rush for the corridor leading to the staircase when a hand grabs my crooked elbow. I stop; Ron does, too. Tonks gives me a once-over:

"Ron can go, I'll leave him to Hermione. You, on the other hand, are coming with me to visit your godson."

"Is this visit... for pleasure?" I ask hopefully.

Tonks glowers. "Not. At. All."

"Well, it was worth a shot."

"So," Tonks looks down at me, arms crossed and in quite a huff. "How long have you and Ron been playing mercenaries?" We are in the house she has bought for herself and Teddy, and I am sitting on the couch, which as may as well be a prison cell with the way Tonks is eyeing me.

I shrug, counting back the years. "About seven years, or so?"

Two hands cover a heart-shaped face as Tonks lets out an exasperated scream. "Seven bloody years!? And you have no qualms with what you do!?"

"Yeah," I say seriously, "I find I have to be the sad clown."

Tonks stops abruptly. "What do you mean?"

"You know, putting up a happy front for everyone, but crying on the inside."

"Oh... well, I, uh..." Tonks looks taken aback at my display of candidness. Of course, her being flustered causes me to lose all control and I burst out laughing. Realizing she's been had-on, Tonks punches me in the shoulder:

"Twat!"

"Ow! Well, what did you expect?" I ask, still chuckling as I rub the offended shoulder. "Me to start spilling about how alienated I am and whatnot? Look, I just do the things you can't because I'm not limited by law. I'm just like you Aurors, Tonks; I'm just a more effective you."

Tonks sighs and takes a seat on the couch. "I don't like it, Harry."

"You don't have to, mum," I assure her.

Tonks snorts. "Your mum was much better suited to motherhood than I am."

I laugh hollowly. "I doubt we'll ever truly know. But really, don't worry about Ron and me, we know how to be careful and take care of ourselves. And I wouldn't have to if Kingsley would just give me my bloody money! But enough about me; how are you and Teddy doing?"

"Teddy's doing good," Tonks smiles fondly. "Tied for top of his class at Redalia."

Redalia School is one of several preparatory schools that feed into Hogwarts. It's one of the less selective schools on the list, which is an insult to how brilliant Teddy will be when he's older, but it's hard to find a suitable place willing to accept the son of a werewolf and a metamorphmagus.

"Tied? With who?"

"Some girl that he absolutely despises. Give them a few years and they'll be all over each other; I swear they're like Ron and Hermione reborn."

I make a face. "The world's still recovering from the first." A pause. "So, Teddy's good; what about you?"

"Same as always, Harry. It's going; I'm keeping afloat; so-so; so on."

We both let out a single laugh, finding the idea of loneliness morbidly funny. "So I don't have to worry about a new daddy replacing me?"

"No, no you don't," Tonks sighs. "Remus was it for me. There's no one else quite like him. I don't think there ever will be. No one else can compare. It's hard to explain... but, do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

A flash of blonde hair and green eyes, along with tanned skin and toned legs. There is a painful tightening in my chest:

"Yes. I understand." Tonks just doesn't know how much I understand.

There is another pause: I think of Hannah, and no doubt Tonks is thinking of Remus. "So I guess we're working together, now?"

"I guess," I reply.

"But, why?" Tonks asks. "We have nothing on you, and Kingsley would never force you to help us with a case. So why are you helping out?"

I finger the rosewood box in the pocket of my coat. "Let's just say: we're all looking for that special someone."

I wrap the tweed coat around me as the rain begins to pour harder, still holding the rosewood box in my left hand, and a bouquet of white roses in my right. All around me there is green, and white marble slabs are embedded in the landscape, water dripping, dripping, down on them.

Hannah Abbott
12 March, 1980 - 23 November, 2003
"Blessed are the Peacemakers,
For they will be called the children of God."

"Blessed are the peacemakers," I whisper to myself.

"So this is where you've been hiding!" Ron's familiar voice breaks through my quiet-time. I turn to see the redhead in a duffle jacket fleet-footing it toward me.

"Where else would I be?" I ask with a half-smile.

Ron shrugs. "Out with Ginny, still at Tonks, at a bar, with a prostitute?"

I cringe. "Not in front of Hannah, Ron."

"Right," Ron says, looking bashful. "Now's not the time and here's not the place for jokes."

"Thanks." I say; we both stare down the white-washed slab. "Why are you here anyway?"

Ron shrugs. "Tonks told Hermione exactly how we've been making money since graduating. Hermione got on her high-whore—"

"—Horse."

"—high horse and started screaming about how she knew what we were doing wasn't ethical but she didn't know we were killing people and stuff. Short out of long, I'm gonna be bunking with you tonight."

"No, not happening."

Ron groans. "Look, we're not going to be spooning or anything, I'll be sleeping at the other end of the bed. The only things that'll be nearby your face are my feet."

I shoot him a sideways glance. "And that makes it better? Sleep on the couch, or apologize to Hermione."

"One: the couch is lumpy and you know it; two: I've already tried apologizing. Fifty-seven times over the course of thirty minutes. That's nearly two apologies per minute. Face it: we're bunking."

"Fine," I growl. Why do I have to suffer because Hermione's pissed at Ron? "Fruitcake."

"I'll take a few insults if I can sleep in an actual bed tonight."

There's a lull in the conversation, and I advantage of the momentary silence to discuss our 'case'.

"Did you read the file?"

Ron nods.

"Think the threat's real?"

Ron shrugs. "Can't say for sure. Anyone else and I'd've laughed this off. But these are Blood Mages we're dealing with, and the world's a very strange place."

I inspect the rosewood box for a long while before speaking again: "But why now, why here? The file said that these were extremists looking for a sort of utopia for all creatures: elves, werewolves, vampires, goblins, humans... why England? Why plan an attack on a country that will never change its views on magical creatures?"

"Bloody hell, that's probably the point!" Ron muses loudly. "England has been seen as a holdout for racism and hatred for magical creatures for years now. Our obsession with blood purity doesn't exactly make all the countries come flocking to our aid. They give us the runaround: sow chaos, destroy a few buildings and whatnot, and they show they're capable of getting things done to whoever's backing them."

I laugh, destroy a few buildings? "Yeah, but it's not just any building. It's the building."

"So?" Ron questions lightly. "They want to blow the Ministry up. They want to kill our esteemed leaders. We're being paid a tidy sum to make sure they don't. And we'll do it. After all, I am the best and you are... something, so we'll figure it out."

"You know what I like most about you, Ron? Your humility."

"Well, you know, I do what I do."

Right. That made sense. I crouch and leave the bouquet of white roses at the base of Hannah's grave and make for the cemetery gates.

"Where are you going?" Ron calls after me.

"To get the car!"

"What? Hermione's car?"

Duh. "Yeah, what other car? Neither of us have enough money to buy one."

"You think she'll let you borrow it?"

"I don't really care at this point."

Ron grumbles. "Trying to get me into deeper shite... are you at least going to tell me where you're going?"

"Shopping."

I enter the flat much later that night, when it's well past Hermione's bedtime and Ron has probably taken over my bed as well. In my hand is an inflatable air mattress a purchased from a muggle sporting goods store. A well-placed spell later and I'm bringing the inflated mattress to my room, where Ron has sprawled out on my bed and is snoring like a jackhammer, the arsehole. I make a quick trip to the linen closet for a blanket and a pillow but then decide: why can't I sleep on a regular bed; why do I have to sleep on the shitty air mattress while Ron and Hermione have a good night's sleep?

I know I'll never get Ron off my bed, the twat's too heavy, but he's not the cause of all of this to begin with, is he? Hermione is.

So, whilst whistling softly to myself, I enter Ron and Hermione's room and stare at the king-sized bed Hermione is currently curled up in, her back to me and at the edge of the bed. Perfect. I cast a quick silencing charm on the door so I don't wake up Ron while doing this, pass the shelf filled with movies, books, and an old camcorder. I nearly trip over a tripod leaning against the shelf, but am able to get by without any issue and smile as I get to work. I set up the mattress on the ground next to Hermione's end of the bed and throw the linens and pillow over it in attempt to make it look somewhat appealing to sleep in. I check if Hermione's awoken, and I'm glad to see she's still asleep.

Satisfied with my handiwork, I zip around the other side of the bed so I'm facing Hermione's backside; I step up on top of the bed, plant one foot firmly on her arse (at which she makes this sleepy, annoyed moaning sound and grumbles something about Ron needing to give her space), and heave a terrific push.

I delight in the sound of the feminine scream as Hermione falls off the king-sized bed and lands with an 'oomph' on the plush air-mattress. I quickly drop down to the bedspread and cover myself up, pretending to sleep.

"Who the—Harry!?" Hermione's outraged shriek fills my ears. "You... you!"

She launches herself atop me, trying to push me off the bed.

"Stop it!" I yell, trying hard not to laugh. "I'm trying to sleep here!"

"What the... why are you in my bed!?"

"Why is Ron in mine? You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?" I counter; Hermione has the decency to blush a bit, but nevertheless insists on being annoying:

"So? Ron could sleep on the couch if he wanted, if he takes your bed, that's not my problem," she huffs.

"And it's not my problem if you want your bed back, so be a good little girl and take the air-mattress before you hurt yourself."

This, if anything, makes Hermione angrier, so instead of just trying to push me off the bed, she starts hitting me in the shoulder as well. Her punches are pitifully weak (I'd be surprised if Hermione actually meant me any serious harm), and I have no trouble pinning her arms to the sides and picking her up. Stepping off the bed, I pull the struggling woman flush against me (effectively ensnaring her about the waist), and walk around the bed:

"Let go of me, you oaf!" She shrieks, probably angry to have been woken up to face this, but nevertheless, I persevere and deposit her on the air mattress once again. Hermione huffs and crosses her arms, eerily reminiscent of a child throwing a temper tantrum.

"Stay," I order, before returning to Ron and Hermione's bed and plopping down in it, trying to get some sleep.

Three minutes later, there's a shifting in the mattress to my side. "Hermione, if you try to push me off again I will make you regret it."

"Relax," she sighs, sounding tired. "You can have that side; I'll take this side. But I'll be hexed if I'm sleeping on that cheap excuse for bedding."

"This is ridiculous, Hermione, why don't you just call Ron over and let me sleep in my own bed?"

Hermione grunts. "I refuse to apologize when he's the one who has done something wrong. Besides, are you afraid of sleeping by me or something? You won't have to worry about me jumping you, if that's what you're afraid of."

"Of course not," I answer. "I would be surprised if you did it, even if you wanted to. Gentle, innocent ickle Hermione: wouldn't hurt a fly, wouldn't unzip one, either."

Hermione does her best to look offended. "I'll have you know that I am not that innocent!"

I make a show of guffawing and she punches me in the arm:

"I'm serious! I'm not."

I laugh and turn on my side, away from her: "'Night, Hermione."

"I'm mad at you too for enabling Ron, you know?" She tries unsuccessfully to curb my amusement.

"Goodnight Hermione."

She laughs, too, now. "Goodnight, Harry."

I speed through the day, half-way unaware of what's going on and only barely listening to the new contract Ron and I are up for. What the fuck do I care; I'm getting married! She calls me twenty-three minutes after one o'clock, apologizing and saying that she'll be coming home late tonight because she can't get out of her regimented Auror shift.

What we'll do after she gets home, however, is all spontaneous.

When my eyes blink open, I feel something rubbing against my chest. I ignore it. It's still relatively early in the morning... 7:22 AM... long before Ron will wake up. Hermione might already be up.

There's that rubbing again. I look down and find myself staring at Hermione, fast asleep and clutching at me, burrowing into my chest as if to get warmer. The rubbing feeling was her nose nuzzling against me. I blink several times, wondering why Hermione is in bed with me, before I remember kicking her out of her own bed last night.

Apparently my sudden movement in looking down awakens her, too. She looks up and we lock eyes. She blinks sleepily for a few seconds, and then we both register what has just occurred and spring apart like scalded cats. Hermione scoots back so far (and I see it in slow motion like train-wreck waiting to happen) her bottom dips off the bed and the rest of her follows shortly.

Another feminine scream pierces the air, followed by a short 'oomph' as she hits the air mattress again.

I spring out of bed as the brunette scrambles to her feet, trying to explain. "I, uh, um, well... I-I-I thought you were Ron."

"Let's just... not talk about it."

"Yeah, I'd like that," Hermione returns shortly as we (awkwardly) slide past each other out the doorway, where Hermione goes for a shower and I leave the flat for the muggle newspaper.

I rejoin her in the kitchen twenty minutes later as she puts on the kettle and I try not to be disappointed in the latest Liverpool-United fixture. After she's finished that, Hermione sits across from me and gives me a levels a serious look at me.

"Yes?" I query, looking up from the paper.

"So when are you doing it?"

I try not to look too confused. "When am I doing what?"

"Proposing to Ginny?" She asks as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh. And why would I be proposing to her?"

Hermione shakes her head. "Don't play dumb with me, I saw the ring."

Right. Well, Ron did warn me about this. "We'll discuss your lack of regard for privacy later, for now, I think it's best we just leave it at 'that ring isn't for Ginny'."

"What do you mean it isn't—it's an engagement ring!"

I nod. "That it is. And it's not for Ginny."

"Are you dating someone else on the side?"

"Are you being purposefully dense right now?"

Hermione sighs, before giving a good-natured (but exasperated) little smile. "And you're being purposefully skittish. Fine, I won't bother you about it for now."

"Thank you."

"So what are you and Ron doing today?"

I shrug. "Well, Tonks told me that we don't have to go back to the Scots Tower until tomorrow, so I guess we'll kick back today. Maybe I'll pay Luna a visit; Ginny says she's been working too hard on The Quibbler."

Hermione laughs, a trilling sound. "It's probably just Ginny's editor trying to soften up the next issue of The Quibbler so The Prophet will bring in better figures."

"Yeah, and Ginny would castrate him if he even thought of using her friendship with Luna against The Quibbler. Merlin knows she would for less." I reply, Hermione nods, remembering the fiasco between Ginny and her editor, Edmund Marbury.

As you probably already know, Ginny is the literal definition of sexpot, so it makes it hard for a beautiful woman to be taken seriously in a historically male-dominated profession. And it also seemed as though the males in the profession had minds dominated by historical and outdated thoughts and practices. Marbury, the current editor at The Daily Prophet, was keen on bedding Ginny like one of those secretary affairs you hear about in trashy romance novels and made several passes at her.

Given that Marbury is literally twice Gin-Gin's age and a right ugly bastard at that, she wasn't having any of it. When Ginny (rightly so, I reckon) told him to sod off, Marbury took it as personal insult and made April through June of 2002 absolute hell for our fiery little redhead. When she finally told someone, Hermione and Tonks were so furious that they stormed off to Marbury's office and threatened all sorts of legal action (as well as hinting that the Auror Corps would be making sure Marbury's life wouldn't be easy).

Marbury, of course, scoffed and came down even harder on Ginny.

So, he got a visit at 2:30 in the morning, in his house, from big brother Ron and dragged-along Harry. Needless to say, he never dared bothering Gin again.

Hermione stands up. "Would you like some eggs, Harry?"

"Oh, no!" I shout way louder than necessary; Hermione looks somewhat shocked at my outburst. "I—I'll make breakfast." I finish in a quieter tone.

Hermione's eyes narrow. "And why would you want to make breakfast when I offered?"

"I feel bad about kicking you out of your bed last night," I lie, because God I can't take anymore of Hermione's cooking. "So let me make breakfast... you know, to make up for it."

Hermione's eyes remain narrowed, but she relents: "Nice excuse. Is my cooking really that bad?"

I wince. "It's... not the greatest."

"Well, you deserve credit for being gentle about it, at least."

"Mmhmm, the picture of tenderness, I am!"

Ron walks out from the hallway and into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes blearily. "By whatever deity, tell me you're cooking, Harry."

"Wotcher, Luna," I greet, knocking on the open door to her office.

The blonde looks up, her permanently surprised expression matching with her mood for once. "Oh, hullo Harry. Ginny told me you might stop by today. I didn't believe her, though."

"Why not?"

"She was surrounded by Cracksnaps; those affected by them have the propensity to lie," Luna states, completely serious. "Have you two been fighting lately? Cracksnaps only affect unhappy lovers."

"We haven't been fighting," I shake my head as I walk into Luna's office and take a seat on the vinyl couch in one corner of the room.

Luna nods sagely. "Ah. I understand. Not big enough for her, then?"

"No," I growl. "It's just missing something. We're not fighting, and I'm plenty big."

"Hmm... I'll bet," Luna muses academically, and I flash her a disgusted look. "She must be very fussy, then."

I groan. "Can we leave the Ginny topic alone? I came here to see you. Do you want to get lunch?"

Luna's eyes widen. "Are you asking me on a date, Harry Potter?"

"All friendly, I assure you."

Luna gives me a Mona Lisa smile and shuts her notebook. "Certainly Harry. I'd like a few minutes to prepare before we go, however."

"I can do that," I reply as Luna stands, straightening out her clothes, and I have to bite back a laugh at her.

Even at 23, Luna's style still verges on eyesore, combining the strangest fashions from both the muggle and wizarding world. She wears a colorful crimson business suit with purple pinstripes, red stockings and shoes that look far too uncomfortable to wear. Placed on her neck is Luna's trademark butterbeer cork necklace, and on her arms are all sorts of trinkets and knick-knacks that I can't even begin to describe.

But the best part of it all is her jacket.

A gaudy rainbow of colors, Hermione has taken to calling it the 'technicolor dreamcoat', and it's rare to see Luna out in public without it. What's even better, that this clash of colors and fabrics just work on Luna; she's constantly on Witch Weekly's 'Best Dressed' List, to Ron's eternal amusement ("If there was ever proof that women are completely mental, that's it!"). The magazine, however, has printed an asterisk next to Luna's name, often stating that what works on the dreamy blonde won't work on their readers.

But I have to agree with them, somehow Luna evolved from a diminutive, batty Ravenclaw to a genuinely beautiful woman. Being a the editor of a successful newspaper, having a close group of friends, and being widely admired in magical Britain has done wonders for Luna's self esteem. But, at the same time, they have deepened her eccentricities and scared off some potential friends, but I still find Luna's refined lunacy refreshing.

Luna throws on the technicolor dreamcoat and windmills several times, grabbing my hand in the process and running full sprint through The Quibbler newsroom. The reporters do not even regard the blonde sprinting at full speed dragging Harry Potter along behind her with surprise. One journalist, a political journalist named Steve Cindabair, merely smirks in our direction:

"Morning, boss," he says, sipping from his tea, "Hullo, Mr. Potter."

I hurriedly tip an imaginary hat to him. "Wotcher, Cindabair."

Luna doesn't wait for an answer, dragging me through the glass front doors and out into muggle London, where she windmills once more and grabs my other hand before settling into an impromptu tango only she can hear.

We both laugh as we dance in front of a muggle crowd who just stare at us as if we're the stangest people in the world. Two or three of them throw a couple of pound notes at us (no doubt thinking we're entertainers), and Luna picks them up once she's decided we're done embarrassing ourselves.

"Look," she says, collecting about 20 quid from the ground, "now we can eat a muggle restaurant, too."

I level an amused look at her. "You know I have pound notes, right?"

"Mmhmm, but I like to pay for myself," she says playfully, looping her right arm through my left and proceeds to practically skip down the street.

Luna's one of those people who never has a plan when she starts a day, making it up as she goes along. It's one of the best and most annoying qualities about her, because her laissez-faire approach to everything has left her incredibly changeable. In the past five minutes, she has decided on a Chinese Restaurant, Indian, Japanese, Italian, and a German pub she went to a year ago.

I stop her before the blonde can choose another place and half-an-hour later, I'm swigging German Ale and eating schnitzel with her. She goes for the more trendy and daring foods like blood sausages, but after seeing the nearly blackened meat, I find myself quite happy with my choice.

"What are you doing tonight, Luna?" I ask casually.

Just as casually, she responds: "Hoping you'll be asking Ginny on a date instead of me."

"Should I?"

Luna gives me a deadpan look. "She is in France covering the Marseille-Lyon fixture, Harry."

I try to look abashed, but I'm afraid my apologetic shrug looks more nonchalant than humble. "Right. I should have known that."

"Yes. You should have," Luna delicately dabs at her mouth with a napkin, "but since Ginny is out of the country, and I am typically unattached, I am free for tonight."

"Great," I grin, "what would you like to do?"

"I would like to watch one of those muggle films you and Ron love so much," she states seriously, "or perhaps, something you and Hermione would watch. The things you and Ron prefer simply have far too many explosions for my liking."

"Well, Ron is a simple fellow."

Luna nods sagely. "What a terribly complex life he lives for such a simple man."

"I'll drink to that," I say, tipping my water as I would a glass of champagne.

"You do not have alcohol, Harry."

I snort at Luna's nonchalant observation. Sometimes I'm torn between whether I'm so deeply in love with Luna or have been driven so insane that she seems like the most sensible person in the world.

Later that day, I find myself in Ron and Hermione's room trying to pick out a movie from the shelf. Ron walks in with a bored look:

"Hey mate," he says.

"Wotcher."

"What're you up to?"

I shrug. "Looking for a film to watch with Luna later tonight."

"What are you thinking?"

"She wanted me to take a movie that I would watch with Hermione," I say, pausing to stroke my chin thoughtfully. "So... likely something sensible, with a strong moral message."

"Okay," Ron replies, sitting on the bed and looking like a sadsack.

I groan. "What is it? You're giving me that 'you kicked my puppy' look."

"Hermione's being really frosty."

"That's the earth-shattering matter you came here for? Go apologize," I reply, "and have a make-up shag or something—oh, God, horrible mental image—just stop pestering me with it."

"But... why is she so mad? She knew we our jobs weren't exactly legal."

I laugh, incredulous. "Ron, do you think that's the point? It's not about laws, or anything... Hermione believes in an absolute moral order of things; killing things for money is not only reprehensible but a two-finger salute to everything we fought for in the war to her. Frankly, you should count your blessings and be glad she hasn't thrown us out on our arses."

"Really," Ron begins, equally incredulous. "You mean to tell me that Hermione's in a snit over a philosophical principle?"

"If you didn't know that, I'm not entirely sure how right you two are for each other."

Ron gives me a challenging glare. "You don't think we are?"

I notice Hermione coming down the hallway toward the bedroom and change the topic slightly.

"Mate," I give Ron my best charming smile. "I don't think you're good for anyone. Anyone but me, that is. Forget Hermione, I'm your partner. Your life partner. We could make each other so happy."

"I'm going to pretend I never heard that," Hermione says, walking into the bedroom, apparently not having heard the conversation Ron and I had just been having as she moves to her closet.

Ron snorts. "Yeah right, Hermione. You'd love it."

Hermione glares.

Wow. She really is being frosty.

I decide it's best I don't get involved. "Hermione, what's your favorite film?"

Hermione looks up at me, surprised by my non-sequitur. "Erm... Schindler's List, why?

"Thanks," I smile sweetly, leaving the room before these two explode at one another.

And given the slam of their bedroom door and muffled shouts behind it, I think it's safe to say I assessed the situation correctly.

Well, Ron buggered it up proper this time; I don't think I've ever seen Hermione so angry as when she stormed out the flat (nearly frothing at the mouth) an hour ago. Ron also looked relatively brassed and left a few minutes later. Being the best friend of both parties, I suppose it would be smart to talk Hermione down or commiserate with Ron, but I decide against it.

Why?

Because this is one of those things I refuse to get involved in. If Hermione can't see past the inherent amorality of our line of work and remains blind to the fact that Ron does a lot of good despite his 'lawless' profession, she doesn't deserve him. And if Ron can't see why Hermione hates the idea of him being a sellwand ' to whoever pays the most, then he doesn't deserve her.

Besides, Luna's coming over, and she'll no doubt be much more pleasant company than Ron or Hermione at the moment.

It turns out Schindler's List was on Ron and Hermione's bedroom shelf of movies; it's VHS but I doubt Luna will care much. Thirty minutes to eight, the blonde shows up at the doorstep in another strange get-up that I couldn't even begin to describe. It's colorful clash of fabrics that would, as per usual, look absolutely horrid on anyone else. She crosses the threshold and shrugs off her technicolor dreamcoat with a far-off smile:

"I suppose Ron and Hermione are fighting again, aren't they? There are far too many Cracksnaps in here."

I shrug. "Yeah... yeah, they're idiots."

"They must love each other very much," Luna observes as she walks into the kitchen and casually raids the icebox, ignoring the takeaway I bought, "to remain together for so long even though they get on each other's nerves that much."

"I know I'll never understand those two, so I don't bother."

Luna just flutters about the kitchen, having recovered a tub of ice cream from the icebox, and sets out two bowls for both of us. With a faraway smile on her face, she begins scooping out the ice cream and depositing it into either plate, handing one to me once she finishes.

"Ice cream before dinner?" I ask.

"Good for the soul," is her cryptic response. "What's the film?"

"Something about the muggle second World War," I shrug, reading the back of the box. "Apparently it's Hermione's favorite."

"Well, I suppose it can't have all that many explosions in it if Hermione likes it. Let's watch it," Luna says, continuing to scoop out an outrageous amount of ice cream into both our bowls.

I nod and usher Luna to the sitting room, where she begins to eat huge spoonfuls of her ice cream. When I open the box, I notice the videotape is curiously unmarked and I curse myself for not checking the box earlier; it might not even be the right movie. But, well, there's only one way to find out.

Placing the videotape inside the player, I sit back with Luna and watch as the opening scene to the movie plays, only to suddenly be cut off by an awkward shot of Ron and Hermione's room. Luna and I exchange confused glances as the door to the videotaped version of Ron and Hermione's room opens, revealing a serenely smiling Hermione and a nervous Ron:

"Are you sure we should be doing this?" Video-Ron asks. "I mean, it's not exactly normal."

Video-Hermione raises an eyebrow. "Why? It's not like anyone else will be watching it, just you and I."

Luna's eyes widen comically as we both realize what's about to happen.

"Well..." Ron trails off. "Alright, alright. Just this once."

And then they kiss. Which is disgusting enough as it is, made even worse when the two start scrabbling at each other's clothes. Luna watches the whole trainwreck with great gusto while I try to turn the horrible thing off and get those images out of my head. However, when I try to get up, Luna drags me back down and says she wants to see this.

She's curiously strong for such a slight woman.

"Oh my, and here I thought Hermione would be a sensible, utilitarian lover... is that angle even possible?" She says through a mouthful of ice cream while I shut my eyes and contemplate a way to cast a silencing charm on the telly without breaking it or killing myself without getting blood on the carpet:

"I'm not listening; I'm not listening!" I yell; Luna laughs, a soft trilling laugh that is nearly lost in the horrifying cacophony that are Hermione's moans and Ron's grunts:

"Come on, Harry," she snickers. "You must have expected these two to do these things. I mean, think of how Ron must feel knowing you and his sister are—"

"—Not helping, Luna," I growl.

"Just open your eyes; you'll live, I swear."

I do open my eyes. But nothing can truly prepare you for a situation like this. As I find myself subjected to the highly personal and deeply scarring recording of my two best friends shagging on what was apparently supposed to be a videotape of a holocaust film, I am forced to admit two things. One: I will never, ever be clean again. Two: Hermione has a really nice arse.

Luna, for her part, agrees when I tell her:

"I'd kill for a bum like hers," she says, slurping up the last of her ice cream. "I wonder why she always wears such unflattering clothes when she clearly has the assets."

I give her a sickly smile. "Never change, Luna."

The call comes at two-twenty in the morning from Susan Bones, long after I've gone to sleep. There was a midnight bombing on Birmingham's Pinafore Place, a luxury shopping district for magicals. Thirty Aurors dead, including her.

My heart stops and sinks.

When I get to the hospital, the only thing I find that they've recovered is the ring that was on her finger.

I feel my luck a'changing.

I thrust the videotape box at Ron at breakfast the next morning, trying very hard not to look too disturbed by the contents of said box:

"Mate," I begin, "whatever I've said about Hermione being naïve and you being a prude, I take it all back."

Ron suddenly seems to realize what's actually in 'Schindler's List' and gives me a look comparable to a deer's in the headlights. Hermione looks at the box, and then at me, and then her hands move up to her mouth in complete horror.

"Oh, Merlin," she says, her voice tinny behind her hands.

"Well, look on the bright side, Herms," I joke weakly, "Luna thinks you have a nice arse. I concur."

Hermione turns beet red and I head toward the door, fingering the rosewood ring box in the pocket of my tweed coat.

"Where are you going?" Ron asks, once he regains his voice.

I shrug nonchalantly. "A quiet place to AK myself."

"So this is where you're always going," Hermione's voice disturbs the facade of peace I've built up around myself whilst standing in front of Hannah's grave. I turn and give Hermione a quizzical look. "Ron told me you'd be here. Wouldn't say why, though."

It is raining again.

"Loyal man," I grunt, grateful for Ron's discretion, even if it was utterly unnecessary.

"Yeah," she begins. "If only he wasn't so quick to anger."

"Fighting again?" I ask, turning the rosewood box over and over in my jacket pocket.

Hermione cringes, bringing a hand up to her forehead. "About the... about the video."

"Seriously, Hermione... what were you two thinking? Filming that and then recording it over Schindler's List? That almost seems insulting to holocaust victims." I ask, being unserious, but Hermione gives me a serious look:

"That's what the fight was about. Yes, Ron was careless with where he put the tape but I was stupid for wanting to do it in the first place! But I didn't say that in the flat. I just yelled at him."

I blink. "And this differs from regular Hermione-Ron interactions, how?"

Hermione ignores me. "I don't know what to do, Harry; every time I see Ron I want slap him or beat some sense into his thick skull. Tell him what he's doing is unethical and dangerous. But what's strange is that I don't want to do the same thing to you."

I shrug, smiling. "He's your boyfriend. You obviously care about him more than you do me."

"I do not," is Hermione's scandalized reproach.

"Ah... I reckon that was a bad way of saying it," I correct myself, scratching my forehead. "You see more fit to tell him your opinions of things than you do me because he plays a larger role in your life."

"No, he doesn't."

"Really? Have I ever bent you over a dresser and hammered you like, and I quote, 'a spike nail'?" I deadpan, recalling some of Hermione's entirely unerotic pillow talk. Said woman blushes:

"Okay. Maybe a little more important. But that's not it. It's not just because we're platonic and he and I are romantic."

"Then what is it?"

"I... I..." Hermione trails off, looking uncertain.

I turn away from Hannah's grave to face Hermione. "Straight answer, Hermione: Do you love him?"

"What?"

"Exactly what I said."

Hermione looks incredulous. "Of course I love him, why would I have stayed if I didn't!?"

"Anyone can stick around for a couple of years in an on-off relationship. Do you love him? Do you love Ron enough to spend the rest of your life with him? And does Ron love you enough to spend the rest of his life with you?"

The silence that ensues speaks volumes.

And when Hermione speaks again, she's changed the subject. "Do you come here often?"

"Usually once a week, sometimes two or even three times a week."

Hermione nods. "Hannah Abbott. I remember her. She died in the bombings a year and a half ago, right?" I nod. "What's with the hole in it?" Hermione indicates the tiny foxhole I've dug into the ground in front of Hannah's gravestone.

"I have something to give her."

"Why her grave? Were you friends with her?"

Another nod. I steel myself, knowing this moment has been a long time coming. I have pictured it in many ways, sometimes somber, sometimes joyous, but always alone. It's strange to go through with this having Hermione at my side, completely unaware of this entire relationship I had with another person. But that's what life is: secrets held together by a stroke of luck, and as changeable as the wind or the flip of a coin.

So I pull out the rosewood box, noting Hermione's eyes widen as I do so, check the damaged ring inside, and place the box in the foxhole. Hermione watches in silence as I cover the box with dirt and grass.

When I stand again, a little shaky on my feet, I repeat Hermione's question: "Were we friends?"

She looks shell-shocked.

"Do you know why we make a good couple? It's because we're friends. I think a lot of couples forget they were once friends."

"Yeah," I find myself saying more to myself than to Hermione. "You could say we were."

A/N: I'm really quite shit at estimating chapter lengths, aren't I? I won't make a guess at how long the next one will be. :P

Next chapter we'll see more of Daphne and Tonks. The slightly modified Weasley family will come into play, and the Blood Mages, which I only briefly alluded to in this chapter, will start to take center-stage in the next 2-3 chapters.

Thank you all for the reviews and being patient with my updating times. I came into this fic expecting boos all-around (as it was originally an exercise to see if I could write a black comedy, which I haven't been too successful with in the past), but with the reviews and the favs and follows, I'm feeling good about this fic. Thank you all, and keep 'em coming!

Chapter Notes:

The Title: The title of this chapter has changed many times over the course of writing it. At the beginning it was Bad Dreams (The Hannah portions), then Ingenue (after what Harry calls Hermione), then The Valkyries (As it seems female characters take a precedence to the Harry-Ron dynamic in this chapter), then videotape (speaks for itself), and finally I settled on Lucky. Hermione Lovegood references the 'videotape' as well as Luna's prominence in this chapter.

Pairing: I've had several PMs asking me about pairings for this fic, and I know I'll get more after this chapter, so I'm going to head this off before it starts: right now, I'm not sure what the pairing will be or if there will be one. It could be a Harry/Daphne, it could be (and rather believably, too) Harry/Luna, or Harry/Tonks. Hell, I could go nuts and make this an HHr, or go completely balls to the wall and make it Harry/Ron (just kidding. That would be waay too awkward for me to write, not that there's anything wrong with that).

Ingenue: This chapter has been, in many ways, a Harry/Hermione-centric one centered around her loss of innocence (or, more accurately, the loss of Harry's perception of her being innocent), as opposed to the two Harry/Ron-centric chapters prior. Luna steals a sizable chunk of the show because I love Luna's character and she didn't get enough love in TKoL. Srsly.

Blood Mages: I'm being purposefully vague. You'll learn more about them over the coming chapters, this is more of a reflective chapter in which the briefing for the mission would seem... out of place.

Ron and Hermione: They're gonna clash with each other even more than they do in my other Potter fic, mainly because I think a relationship like Romione needs a lot of effort from both parties to make it work. Whether they stand the test of faith or crumble in the wind remains to be seen.

The Videotape: Seems tasteless, I know, but the entire point of the chapter was to disprove Harry's claim at the beginning that Hermione's an 'ingenue'. Short of cold-blooded murder, this was the easiest and most fitting way for Harry to reevaluate his thoughts. And it will come back again, rest assured.

End notes.

'Til next time,
Geist.

P.S. There are several Tarantino references in the first scene.