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

Summary: Hermione's hiding a secret, Ron's back, and Harry's assigned to do what Harry does best.

Midnight Blues

Part IV: The Flying Dutchwoman

14.) In Defense of the Realm
or,
Hessian Days are Over

July 7, 2005

The morning dawns as it always does in Birmingham: cold and overcast, reaching about 14 degrees in all at half-seven.

Even in July we find ourselves huddled under covers, casting warming charms over and over again, mostly to no avail. I pad out of Hermione's room which has quickly become my room and find her cuddled with Lauren in what used to be my bedroom, one arm draped over the little girl's shoulders with distinctly maternal protectiveness.

Hermione does have an early day today, but I believe I can let her rest for a few minutes more. After the morning toiletries, I find my way to our small kitchenette and set to work on breakfast. When I've sliced the bacon and sausage, diced the tomatoes and onions, hashed the potatoes, julienned the peppers, whisked the eggs, tamped the coffee, the sound of a girlish yawn breaks my first-meal trance:

"It smells good," says Lauren, yawning once more and moving to stand at my side; I slide a stool over to her with my foot so she can see what's cooking.

I pour out a cup of coffee: no cream or milk but with a dash of sugar, the way Hermione would want it. "Lauren," I begin, earning the child's attention. "Would you be a love and bring this to Hermione?" Lauren smiles widely and accepts the mug, carrying it with such care in her little hands that I can't help but smile when she disappears round the corner.

A few minutes later, when I'm frying up several gypsy omelettes, Hermione brushes by on her way to the sink; there she deposits her now-empty mug and turns back with a sleepy smile on her face.

"Alright?" I ask, laying out an omelette and setting to work on the next one.

Hermione slowly nods, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "You're up early. I didn't think I'd see you take to a job so quickly."

"Oh really?"

"It seems a little... domesticated for you, not that it's a bad thing, of course," she amends quickly. "I thought you didn't want to give up your freedom as a mercenary."

I shrug. "Part of me still doesn't, but a time comes when you have to make an adult decision. I mean, even Ron is staying on with those Aurors. Ron. I'd never live it down if I didn't get one myself."

"Speaking of which: where do you work? Kingsley keeps saying you're in his employ but you never come with me to the Ministry." Technically, according to my agreement with Boris, I'm not allowed to tell anyone where I'm working or what I do, so I'm legally obligated to come up with a lie:

"I work off-site, in an archive." I reply. What? It's not a complete lie: they do call the place 'The Archive'.

"Really?" Remarks Hermione, looking mildly surprised. "That seems rather pedestrian, especially for you."

Well... a dead man in Prague, a high-speed broom chase, and punching a batshit terrorist in the throat, all last week. Not really too boring. "Sometimes, pedestrian is good, Herms."

She gives my shoulder a short, soothing rub, and then heads for the window, where an impatient owl has begun tapping against the glass. Once Herms opens it, the owl preens his feathers like he's shaking a disease, drops the paper, and sticks his leg out, where a small pouch is attached. Hermione drops a few sickles in it as I lay the omelets out on the table and return to cut up an apple or two.

The owl leaves with an imperious air about it as Hermione returns to the table, scanning the front page of the Prophet and then setting it down with an unreadable expression. A faraway look steals over her as she looks out into the cold morning light. I may be many kinds of stupid, but I'm not stupid enough to fail to realize when something is weighing heavily on either Ron or Hermione's mind:

"What's wrong?" I ask, cleaving an apple in half. Hermione jumps, startled:

"W-what?" She eeps, obviously caught off-guard.

The suspicious mercenary in me immediately cottons onto that lapse. "You looked a million miles away. Anything you want to tell me?"

"Unbelievable," she scoffs incredulously, and falsely just as I've finished cutting up the apples and Lauren skips to her seat, dressed and ready for the day. I take my own seat and send Herms a questioning glance, trying to be a bit subtle in my prodding:

"What's up?"

"America and Russia have escalated their fight over Pacifica," she says, peevish, "they're even starting to move ships with Aurors on them. Aurors! This is going to be such a mess for the DMLE!"

Bullshit, Hermione. You're not a very good actress, you know? What's your real game?

"Obviously, we're going to have to clean it up," she mutters into silence, diving into her meal. I drop it; I'm hungry and I'll find out what Hermione's hiding in due time. In the meanwhile, imaginary audience in my head, you probably do not know what the bloody hell Hermione's on about. I shall endeavor to educate you:

Pacifica. That name's been coming up a lot these days with Russia and America back to the good old days of Capitalist-Communist dick-swaggering. Pacifica is an island halfway between Anchorage in Alaska and Vladivostok where Magical culture has thrived for the last five-hundred years, ever since the Statute of Secrecy was implemented by the ICW. At the time of its inception, Pacifica was a Russian Magical City, but when the muggles purchased Alaska in 1867 from the Russian Empire, the American Magical Congress worked out a way to purchase Pacifica as well and annexed it in the following years.

When the Soviet Union and United States began a period of Cold War in the late 1940s, a rising sentiment to retake Pacifica rose among the Soviets, but it fizzled with detente until the collapse of the USSR. Recently, the new Russian Premier has re-instilled a sense of Patriotism in his countrymen, or so I'm told by Tracey, that the notion has arisen again. In the months I've been gone, a war of words between the Russians and Americans has been escalating and leading to this inevitable stand-off.

And it's with great sadness that England, being an ally of both Russia and America, has to peaceably solve this... dispute. M.I.7. is going to get involved in this somehow, but I doubt we'll be forced to make any public appearances.

"Ah, my sympathies," I extend to Hermione and exchange smiles with Lauren as we set to work on breakfast.

After dropping off Lauren at Shell Cottage (Fleur had Teddy and Victoire for the day as well), I fingered the Portkey I'd been given which would take me to the Archive, a small Roman coin, and departed at exactly 9:26 A.M., four minutes before I'd be expected. That was typical, see Hermione off at nine, take Lauren to Fleur's at 9:15, shoot the breeze with the Veela for ten minutes before heading off myself.

What I didn't expect was absolute bedlam when I hit the designated Portkey Arrival Point in the Lobby of The Archive. Shouts and bodies crowded and strangled the normally peaceful white-tiled vestibule, and pushed me to and fro. I had never even known so many people worked at The Archive.

I pushed through the crowd, trying vainly to head to the lift that would take me to my floor (International Incidents, basement-floor 13), only to be buffeted by people with the same idea. Eventually I made it from the virtual human crush into one of the three lifts, that took me down to I.I., where I found Tracey frantically answering phone calls, owls, and the regular what-have-you.

"Jesus, Davis, what in the hell is going on out there? Did you know this many people worked here?"

Tracey looked up like I've just saved her life. "Oh, thank Merlin you're here! I've been running around like a chicken without a head!"

"What's going on?" I asked, sitting at my desk as a friend and colleague, Martin Solversen went careening by with a stack of papers in hand. Both of us ignored him as he fell, spilling papers everywhere.

"You didn't hear?" Tracey interrogated, utterly incredulous. "The bombings?"

"Bombings? What bombings?"

"In London, Harry," the brunette explained, tossing me a file. "There were at least six or so explosions on the Tube! It's received a Code Amber alert from the London Underground. It's already bad enough that we've got this Pacifica thing brewing, now the Muggles are all over us for any files, information, or monitoring devices we might have had on the London Underground!"

I'm no expert with Muggle denotations, but I was fairly sure that no matter where you go, 'Code Amber' is never a good thing. I make to open the file Tracey tossed over when a thunderous voice rings across the pitter-patter of coworkers' feet:

"Potter, Davis!" We both looked up to see Boris standing with our current boss: "In Greenwich's office. We need to speak."

And so that's how I find myself here, in the halls outside the Wizengamot's deliberation hall with Tracey, Boris, and a team of M.I.7. agents, waiting on an Auror Team and a representative from the DMLE. M.I.7. doesn't generally deal with diplomatic protection, we're usually intelligence gatherers, so it surprised us when Boris asked Tracey and I to help protect the Minister for the duration of the emergency ICW conference being set up in regards to Pacifica.

Boris is currently giving a muggleborn whose name escapes me at the moment a pep talk:

"I know your father takes the tube to work everyday, and you're scared, but you have to keep it together for the Minister..." and so he goes off into a consoling tangent as a group of black-robed Aurors turn the corner into the long hall we stand in, stopping by the doors leading into the deliberation room. Among them stands a not-really Auror with all-too-familiar red-verging-on-orange hair and a woman with purple, spiky hair. Ron notices me the second I notice him, and his face breaks out into a grin:

"You didn't," he laughs as he, Tonks, and Greengrass stroll up to me. "You did, didn't you?"

I shrug, sending a surreptitious glance at Boris and the muggleborn. "They made me an offer I just couldn't refuse."

"They made me one, too," says Ron. "I didn't take it."

"Ooh, a starving artist mercenary?" I joke.

"Nah, just like the fact that I'm allowed to tell people I'm an Auror," replies the redhead, which earns him a severe look from Greengrass:

"Consulting Auror," she stresses.

I snicker. "I've forgotten how much I missed you Daphne. Thanks for reminding me."

Greengrass whirls that look back at me. "So what are you here for?"

"Protecting the Minister with her," I point to Tracey, who looks up from her conversation with Greenwich with a smile that immediately turns into a scowl when she sees Daphne. That expression, of course, is mirrored on the blonde's face:

"Davis," she greets stiffly.

"Greengrass," Tracey returns with surprising acidity for someone who's usually mellow.

"Okay then," I begin, steering the conversation to Tonks. "Wotcher, Tonks. Why are you guys here?"

"Protecting the DMLE appointee," she replies, shrugging. "Shepard volunteered our detail. He said we needed to get off the Rigby Blood Mage murder, and I agree, we're getting nowhere with it."

I see. That sounds... needlessly bloated. I'd've thought two people would only need one detail, but then again, one of them is the Minister of Magic. I note that along Ron and Daphne, the rest of the old gang is there: Kenton, Barrett, Shepard, and one new guy I don't believe I've ever seen. Probably brought on to replace me once the Siberian sabbatical went overlong.

But, before I can make small-talk, the clicking of heels alerts us to a third party that has just arrived. And, of course, leading it in a pantsuit and robes looking like they were made for legal battle, Hermione heads a coterie of DMLE shills practically fawning over her. She notes Ron standing in his Ministry-appointed Auror robes and hides whatever surprise she might have felt quite admirably when she spots Tracey and I waiting with the redhead.

And suddenly it clicks in my head: Hermione in Legal, Ron in Enforcement, and me in Intelligence. Well-played, Shacklebolt.

Among the groups waiting in the hall stands a small pack of courtroom appointees and Wizengamot brown-nosers. Hermione immediately heads toward them, her lackeys following her like starving vultures after a particularly quarrelsome wildebeest. A protective urge to get Herms away from the sycophantic hyenas, but it strikes me that she's probably been dealing with these kinds of people far longer than I have. Still, my hand twitches with urge to punch someone; Ron exchanges a look with me that tells me he feels exactly the same way.

Despite her little posse, Hermione seems to be in 'take-charge' mode, stopping the oldest and perhaps most trusted of the Wizengamot secretaries and grilling her:

"Ida," the brunette begins, startling a little old lady with graying hair and a caring face. "Has the Minister returned?"

"No, Madame Granger," responds the elderly lady, smoothing out her robes. "Minister Shacklebolt, as well as the rest of the Wizengamot, are still in session. Please wait by your respective detail until session is ended."

"I have to discuss something important with him—" Hermione begins ineffectually, only to be interrupted by Ida:

"I understand that, Madame Granger, but you will still have to wait until the Wizengamot Session is finished regardless of the matter's importance."

Hermione shakes her head and makes her way over to us, shooting me a dark glare as she does. "Oh, yes, 'I work at an archive, Hermione'," she imitates my voice with a nasally edge.

"I literally have a magical contract binding me from saying that I do work for them," I reply, shrugging. "The Ministry probably would have sent someone to AK me on the spot if I told you."

"And, to be fair, they do call it The Archive," Tracey says.

"Who asked you, Davis?" Hermione snips, earning a long-suffering sigh from her fellow brunette and a supportive look from Daphne.

"See?" Tracey leans over to me, "bloody woman won't accept anything I do."

"What a shame," I reply with the least sympathetic tone I can muster.

Tracey scowls. "You're a twat, you know that, Potter?" The observation earns a choking laugh from an eavesdropping Ron.

"Hey, I try," I drawl.

Surprisingly, Boris, of all people, sidles up to Hermione and starts to whisper something in her ear, only to have Hermione shake her head vigorously: "No. The Minister called on me to join him for this conference, and I shall be there, hell or high water."

How very odd. What would Hermione and my boss have to discuss that matters in any capacity? And why would it affect Hermione's chances of going to this emergency summit?

"Say, Harry, if you're not allowed to tell anyone where you work, why are you standing out in the open?" Ron asks at the same time, affording me nearly no time to ponder the strangeness of Hermione's exchange with my boss.

"Well, it's not exactly out in the open, is it?" I question. "Besides, you'll probably be obliviated."

"Oh. Glad to see you're comfortable with tha—" he starts as the heavy oaken doors leading into the Wizengamot Deliberation Hall open, and Hermione slaps Ron's arm, telling him to shut up with her eyes. Kingsley emerges first, followed by a host of Magical bigwigs, he stops by Ida, the little old secretary that Hermione had been talking to and whispers something in his ear, before walking off.

Ida then speaks up up in a still-too-soft, creaky voice. "The Wizengamot Deliberation is finished. Madame Granger, follow the Minister to the train; you will be briefed during the ride to The Hague. All Agents are to report with the Minister and Madame Granger to the Circus Street Station in thirty minutes."

The Minister waves to Hermione and she shoots Boris a victorious look, which the M.I.7. spook returns sourly. Very odd, indeed. I may have to ask around during this train ride of ours, this is a niggling little question that deserves getting to the bottom of:

"The Hague?" Ron questions, interrupting my train of thought yet again. "I thought we'd be going to Russia. And why bloody trains?"

Tracey shrugs. "Neutral ground, probably. They all have anti-Portkey wards around the city, and for good reason. It'll give us more time to prepare what we'll say as well."

"Goodness, Harry," exclaims Hermione, "we have to make sure Fleur knows that we might be gone for some time. Can you see if she can keep Lauren for the night?"

Tonks groans. "I do too."

I get a nod from Boris and look to Ron and Tonks. "You coming?"

Ron looks surprised for a moment and then looks off to his own supervisor: "Go," says Shepard, and both are off like bullets. We sprint to the nearest fireplace and hurry through the floo to Shell Cottage:

"Fleur!" Ron calls almost immediately as we stumble into Shell Cottage's living room.

I, however, find myself face-to-face with Teddy, Lauren, and Victoire playing chopsticks.

"Mr. Potter?" Lauren questions, frowning. "What are you doing back so soon?"

Ah, Jesus. I really like the squirt, but being fully-employed and looking after her is turning to be a real pain in the arse. "Hey kiddo, Hermione, Ron, and I have to travel for a few days. We'll be back by tomorrow at the earliest, and no later than the end of the week. Are you okay with staying here with Victoire and Teddy for a few days? Because I'm about to ask Fleur."

Lauren exchanges happy glances with Victoire; they both nod ecstatically. "Good," I smile, and playfully ruffle Lauren's hair, which earns a little squeak of dismay, and then give both Teddy and Victoire kisses on the forehead.

Ron and Tonks are already explaining the situation to Fleur as I step into the kitchen.

"'Arry?" Fleur questions, looking only slightly confused. "Are you going with them?"

"Regrettably so, Fleur. Can you look after the squirt for Hermione and me? It probably won't be for more than a few days," I cast her a pouting look which never fails to work on women; it's like the anti-Veela charm.

"I would be more than 'appy to, 'Arry," she nods; I give her a rushed thank you and sprint back to the fireplace, sending another goodbye to the kids as we make to floo for Circus Station, the Ministry's own private underground tube.

Emerging from the green fire, I nearly run headlong into Ron and Tonks as we scramble to rejoin our groups. Tracey smirks when I find her, Boris, the muggleborn, and the Minister; Ron and Tonks rejoins Shepard and the rest of the Auror Team, now forming a protective shell around Hermione so tightly clustered that all I can make out of her are the tips of her wispy brown hair.

The station doesn't look all that different from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross. Perhaps smaller, and a bit more spartan in decoration (it is, first and foremost, a military station), but with the same stone tiles and high-vaulted ceilings. And on the tracks was a magnificent locomotive reminiscent of the Hogwarts Express, but loaded with modifications that don't look all that civilian.

Still, though, that presents a problem:

"Uh, Minister," I begin, earning an amused look from Kingsley for using the honorific. "According to my briefing, we're going to The Hague."

"Yes," said Shacklebolt, brows furrowing.

"There's a lot of water between here and there. How are we going to get across that in a train?"

Kingsley laughs. "Don't worry about that, Potter, just worry about watching over the car and everything should be fine: we'll get to Russia, settle the dispute, and be back as soon as possible. No trouble."

"If you say so, Minister," I return dubiously.

We waste little more time entering the carriage, one set aside for the Minister, and one set aside for Hermione and her guards. Hermione gives me a shy smile and Ron a jaunty wave when they enter their own carriage, and I simply sigh, following Tracey onto our own.

It's far more spacious in the cabin than it would look outside, but that's the beauty of magic, I suppose. Like the tent Ron, Hermione and I got so used to during that final year on the run from Voldemort and his Death Eaters, a whole living space was essentially laid out, antithetical to the relatively confined space it occupied.

Have I ever told you how much I love magic?

I end up collapsing onto one of the couches lining the far end of the large, circular room we find ourselves in, next to a doorway that I can only assume leads to barracks when we're off-shift, garnering a slight smile from the Minister. Soon enough, he disappears into another room, the door to which is guarded by Boris and the Muggleborn, whose name, I learn, is Shelby Catermall. Unfortunate name. Really.

Several of the Aurors from Hermione's carriage, including Greengrass, pile into our own, given the lower body count in our Carriage. I'm a patriot, I really am, but I'd rather be with Ron and Hermione than Shacklebolt right now. Does that make me a bad person? I certainly hope not.

Soon, the train begins to move, in that slow lumbering way they always do, like the slow rising of rollercoaster, waiting for the drop. The low rumble turns thunderous as Tracey plonks down next to me:

"We should be arriving in a day's time," she says, checking what appears to be a busted pocket watch. "That means someone's gotta take graveyard shift. Would you like to get some rest now and take watch with me later?"

Sure. Why not?

I awake sometime later at the sound of a door opening: Boris's hard face stares back at me, one sculpted eyebrow raised in amusement. He gives a short, rigid nod by way of greeting when I meet his eyes:

"Potter," he orders. "You're to leave for the other carriage. The Minister believes you would be better applied in helping with protecting Madame Granger. I'm inclined to agree. You will report to Auror-Commander Shepard in no less than five minutes."

I rub my eyes slowly, not letting on the fact that I'm chuffed to bits to be spending the ride with Ron and Hermione. "What's with the militant bossiness? Relax, mate, I've never let you down before."

"You're one of us now, you'd best learn to be a bit rigid, Potter," the elder man replies with a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Never one to linger, Boris immediately turns around and stalks out of the room after that quip, or he would have, if I didn't stop him:

"A question, before you leave," I say.

"Yes?" Boris asks, turning around with an expectant look.

"Is it... standard procedure to have M.I.7. agents so... visible? I always thought we were more shadow-games and cloak-and-dagger. I mean, you lot sure do seem to love your secrets," I start, hoping to see if Boris can confirm or deny a suspicion I've had since I saw Hermione strut down that hallway.

"No, not usually, but I'm to understand this is a special case, and we will relieve them of most of their memories involving us," Boris says, utterly unhelpful in every sense of the word. He turns again, and I interrupt again, hoping to satisfy another curiosity that has burned at me since we left England:

"Begging your pardon, but I have one more question."

Boris faces me once more. "And that is?"

"What were you and Hermione talking about in the Deliberation Hall? Why would Hermione not want to attend this summit?"

Boris stands rigidly, and makes an odd chewing movement with his mouth, as though tasting his words before saying them: "We have much to discuss once your shift with Madame Granger is finished. Wait until then." The middle-aged man is a cheeky bastard, keeping his poise, not a single twitch of the lips or odd movement of the eye to betray any of the man's thoughts. Then again, terrible liars never make it too far in the world of espionage.

Never one to linger, Boris leaves exactly when I expected him to: stalking out the compartment noiselessly. Wait until then, my arse. The more I ask about this, the more I'm actually wondering if I should kidnap Hermione and steal her back to England. Hopefully the 'Madame' herself can shed some light on this matter.

I rub my eyes and get ready to leave when I realize something important: I bloody forgot to pack clothes for this trip. Hopefully Boris has something on hand, but there's no time to worry about that considering my time limit.

Shepard offers me little more than a sneer and a jerked thumb toward the compartment I must assume Hermione's in when I enter the carriage through the emergency door. I reckon he's not exactly ecstatic about me in M.I.7. robes, but fuck him, the man's a prick anyway. Being careful not to give the doss cunt more than a passing glance, I glide by him to Hermione's compartment, looking for Ron all the way.

Deciding that I won't need to knock, I simply open the compartment door, stumbling upon Hermione and Ron, seated across from each other and speaking in low tones of what seem to gibberish. Hermione looks up and gives me a confused look:

"Harry?" She asks. "What are you doing here?"

"My boss just put me on guarding you. Apparently The Minister believes I am better serving you than him. Which is about the only time you'll see me agree that manipulative piece of sh—"

"Harry," she repeats with force, a tone I've taken to mean 'shut up if you know what's best'.

I fix a garish smile upon my face instead. "What are you two doing? Sounded like some odd sort of ritual."

Ron coughs. "I was helping Hermione with her Russian for some vapid conversation with the diplomats."

I try very hard not to laugh at the mental image of Ron teaching Hermione anything.

"You know they'll likely have a translator, right?" I reply, that only earns me a glare from Hermione. "Right then. So where are your lackeys?"

Hermione, caring woman that she is, shrugs disdainfully. "Oh, they're... somewhere..."

Receiving no more from the brunette, I take a seat next to her and give the compartment a nostalgic once-over:

"So... the three of us. Stuck in a train compartment. How very quaint," I drawl as Hermione smiles into a parchment file she's diligently scanning through. I would be content to relieve the halcyon days of going to Hogwarts excited and returning to King's Cross traumatized, if not for Ron's particular brand of wordplay:

"Quaint! Quaint enough to give me bloody nightmares," he snarks. "You know, I still haven't fully repressed McGonagall's essays on Applied Theory of Human-to-Avian Transfiguration."

"I think I just threw up a little," I grin.

"Oh, bloody stop it, you two. Honestly, those were of the easiest assignments we had," Hermione snips, flipping pages and making corrections to the file with a self-inking quill (or a pen, for those with muggle sensibilities. Scrivenshafts' front desk minder was mighty chuffed to have gotten his grubby hands on such an "invention", leave it to wizards to think they reinvented the bloody wheel with a pen).

"Because I've repressed the rest," I reply in a droll manner. "And now you've gone and reminded me."

"You monster," whispers Ron with staged disgust.

Hermione tries not to look cross at us, and it only serves to remind me of the bossy girl she once was: "Oh, shut it, you."

"So why were you chosen?" Asks Ron suddenly, and rather rudely, as Hermione's writing her second proposal to help alleviate this Pacifica conundrum. Hermione, naturally, doesn't even need to look up from her work to be disparaging of Ron:

"I am going to give you exactly three seconds to change your tone, Ronald, or we won't be speaking at all."

"Merlin, Hermione, you know I didn't mean it like that," Ron backtracks quickly. "It's just... you're very young. I didn't think they'd be sending you to represent England yet, is all."

The brunette seems to be more accepting of that. "Well, I do have some experience with negotiating, and I'm not representing England, The Minister is. I'm only providing counsel."

Oh, come on. We all know why we've been brought on this little 'trip':

"Oh please, Granger," I interrupt finally, "you know why they sent us, don't even try to deny it. It's the same reason why they sent Ron for the Aurors and myself for the SIS: Shacklebolt and the Wizengamot are showing us off. They're deliberately breaking protocol and involving M.I.7. in a role none of us have ever played before, and bringing a Consulting Auror along? Do you really think if our names weren't Potter, Weasley, and Granger, they would even dream of this?"

Hermione looks troubled. "That would be very dishonest of the Ministry if they were doing so. We haven't been in the public eye at all in the past five years, and I very much like it that way."

"Dishonest, but understandably clever," I reply. "We'd make waves. The Golden Trio, heroes of Europe, defeaters of the Once-and-Future-Knob Lord Voldemort, reunited in their resolve to keep the world from all-out war. Our position would be the overwhelmingly popular one."

"We'd take over the conference entirely," Ron throws in his two cents, looking impressed at the underhandedness. "The press will be so in love with us out in the public again that whoever takes the opposing opinion to ours will be committing political suicide. No one would dare go any further; it's a good plan. I miss when Kingsley was just a stand-up Auror."

"Well..." begins Hermione, looking understandably dubious, "if it averts war, I suppose it's alright."

"Speak for yourself, this is horrible for British Intelligence," I say.

Ron looks as though that is that. "Well, there's nothing do to do but wait now until they tell us what do, I reckon."

"No way your Aunt thought Hermione was your wife," Ron says, awed. We've been discussing the little white lie Hermione and I told the Dursleys about our marital status.

"Nope, she did," I reply. "Bought every bleedin' word of it. Hermione had her eating out of the palm of her hand; Lauren even got in on it by the end. It was a real bonding experience, you know?"

Ron laughs. "No. No I don't know. How did you do it?"

"With a bit of talented story-telling," Hermione breaks into the conversation, looking terribly pleased with herself.

"Story-telling? How?"

"Oh, she killed you. Said you died somehow," I say, "probably of venereal disease."

"Wait a mo'," Ron begins, looking slightly offended. "You killed me? You killed me off? You two are arseholes!"

"Oh you didn't just die, you were an untreated Syphilitic, Ronniekins: Some fates are worse than death." Hermione gives me a 'you're awful' look as I nod sagely to Ron. "Hey, I didn't even know what she was going to do, I just smiled and looked pretty."

Hermione shrugs, returning to her papers. "It happens, Ronald, no need to get yourself into a tizzy."

"So what did you do next?"

"Nothing," says Hermione, "I made up some story about how you, our best friend, tragically died before your time and in our shared grief, we fell passionately in love. I believe we checked into a hotel and didn't leave the bedroom for a week."

"Her words, not mine," I clarify.

"And that's how little Lauren was conceived. A year later, after Lauren's birth, we were married and attending school. I'd become a lawyer, and Harry wanted to do something in Political Science."

"Again, her words, not mine."

Ron snorts. "You two are mental, really. And you arseholes should've invited me. I'd have made the old ponce rue the day he was born if I'd been given some warning."

"Please, Hermione said the same and did piss-all. I may as well have told the truth because all she did was sit around and talk. No ruing of the day going on there. Just Hermione having a conversation with my shitty relatives."

Hermione shrugged. "Oh, they might have regretted having me over. Have you talked to them since?"

"No, why would I?"

"Make sure to give your poor Aunt a call when you return, she must be ever so swamped!"

The way Hermione says that (deadpan with a plastered, fake smile) is oddly unnerving. So unnerving, in fact, that it almost makes me consider calling my Aunt when I do find the time, but let's be honest: I may work in intelligence and spend most of my life in some form of pain, but I'm not a masochist. Words to live by: Don't invite danger into your life. A Potterized (yes, that's a word I just made up) corollary to that idea is: Don't invite annoyance into your life. And what is annoyance but any sort of sustained contact with Vernon Dursley or any of his ilk?

Yeah, I knew you'd see it my way.

Of course, Hermione as stubborn as she is, would never do so, so I wisely shut up about this particular topic and wait for Ron to start a new one. And Ron, a predictable fellow for one so good chess, invariably brings up Quidditch. Since Hermione hates sports and any Quidditch match I attempt to attend ends up being more about me than the match itself, Ron finds himself rather alone in his waxing poetic of the perennial losers and his particular favorite Chudley Cannons. If there was more than one English Quidditch League, I'm sure the Cannons would have been relegated at least four times over.

While Ron is getting teary-eyed about the good old days when the Cannons were a mid-table side, I find a natural segue to ask Hermione about her conversation with Boris:

"I didn't know you and Boris knew each other that well," I say off-handedly, examining my fingernails like I don't even care. Hermione, however, tenses. And that's just too easy.

"We don't," replies Hermione primly. "He was just concerned about someone so young attending the summit."

"Because he has a problem taking Tracey and I? And younger Aurors like Greengrass are banned, too?" I ask quietly, derailing her argument. Hermione, for all her rational might, isn't used to me pushing back when she gives an excuse, because she usually tells the truth. And it's the fact that she usually tells the truth that makes Hermione such an utterly shite at the times she does lie. So, she sits, jaw working wordlessly, straining for her next words:

"I—"

"Are you two even listening to me?" Ron exclaims.

Hermione uses that ill-timed interruption to end the conversation. "Yes, Ronald. We were listening."

Ron gives her a dubious look, and she ignores every one of my glances, and even goes so far as to listen to Ron for a whole hour going on about Quidditch. And by then, even I'm sick of listening to Ron's orange-lust and leave Hermione alone; I'll find out the truth from Boris, if nothing else.

So, eventually, Hermione takes pity on us and breaks away from the conversation, steering us into lighter topics concerning family and friends late into the night, when Auror Greengrass steps into the threshold of the compartment and relieves Ron and I of our duties:

"Your superior wishes to speak with you, Agent Potter," she says stiffly, not quite looking me in the eye as I nod:

"Thank you, Auror Greengrass," I reply, heading out the compartment with Ron, who looks amused as bollocks:

"Ooh, Agent Potter! How very official! When are you going to get your double-oh designation?"

"Sod off, wanker," I reply, making for Shacklebolt's carriage where, doubtless, Boris waits with some kind of order that I'll hate myself for saying yes to.

Surprisingly, however, it isn't something I'd hate myself for. In fact, it's something I'd say 'yes' to over and over again and do to the end of eternity as some sort of happy purgatory if I had to. I'd cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war, but I want to be sure I've heard the old Russian correctly:

"Please repeat what you said," I say, taking a short look at the empty room we stand in, the one I'd been sleeping in earlier.

Boris seems to think I'm taking the news poorly. "Do not take this the wrong way, Potter. Getting angry is not what you want to do, preventing it is."

"You're telling me that someone put a hit out on Hermione and I'm supposed to remain calm?"

So that's what Herms was so close-lipped about! Oh, Miss Granger, we are going to have a conversation when this is all over.

"That's exactly what I'm telling you," Boris replies. "I recommended not bringing Madame Granger along on this particular trip, but the Minister claimed he needed her and her skills in negotiation."

"Tell me exactly what happened. Who is threatening Hermione and why?

"We don't particularly know that part," the old man says honestly. "It's developing by the minute, but a Dutch assassin who goes by Hilde Arbeid has snapped up a contract to eliminate Madame Granger before she can reach the summit in The Hague. She's dangerous, and is known to be a long-range killer. We don't know who the fixer or the employer is, meaning we'd have to locate the middle-man before finding just who it is that wants your friend dead."

"So, what then? Am I supposed to jump at every shadow, wondering if a flying Dutchwoman is going to spring from it?"

"No, that would be reactive," Boris smiles. "You are in espionage now, Mr. Potter; we fight preventative wars."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you're going to hunt her down. And you will find who fixed the contract, and from the fixer, you will find the client. Madame Granger, despite her age and idealism, may be the future of this country's foreign policy according to the Minister. Any threat to her is a threat to the Realm."

"You don't need to mention the Realm; I don't need that much motivation to keep my friends safe."

Boris nods. "You will be absent during the summit. I don't much care if Shacklebolt wants to parade you around, M.I.7. operatives are spies, not celebrities. Do you understand?"

"Loud and clear; I've no ambitions to be a celebrity anyway."

"Good. Now, there's one more thing we have to discuss."

"And what's that?"

"A psychological evaluation," he says, waving a hand toward the corner of the room, next to the unused beds, where a table and two stiff chairs appear, reminding me, not for the first time, of Dumbledore and his habit of conjuring chintz chairs.

I blink. "You're kidding."

Boris does not smile. "I am most certainly not kidding. You may have played the hitman before when you were a wand-for-hire, but no more. If you want to be sent on an Assassination Assignment like this, I have to clear you for it."

"You know I'm not crazy, Boris," I sneer.

"Don't care. Here, we do things properly. Face it, Potter, your Hessian days are over," he makes an entreating gesture toward the chairs and, grudgingly, I make to sit. It's to help protect Herms, after all. Boris sits across from me and conjures a file from thin air:

"So, Potter, let's start with word association. I will say a word, and you will tell me the first thing you think of."

Oh, God. Please kill me now. Does word association actually even work?

"Is that alright with you, Potter?"

Thinking of finding this Arbeid woman, and whoever she's working for, I swallow my pride and nod.

"Good. Now, we will begin," Boris says, clearing his throat. "Lily."

"Mother."

"Rose."

"Thorns."

"Wand."

"Tool."

The things I do for my friends.

"Well," begins Boris. "You passed."

"Was I not supposed to?" I ask.

"Don't be a pain in the arse. You are to meet Agent Davis at Café De Vrij no less than two hours after our arrival in The Hague. From there, you will be given your mission directives."

"Easy enough," I reply as I stand to leave. "I'll meet her there."

"One more thing, Potter," Boris says as I touch the door handle. Leaving it there, and feeling a slight role-reversal of our earlier conversation, I turn around and survey the man:

"And that is?"

"Do not bring Weasley along. He is not one of us. He cannot know the mission parameters."

Oh, Boris. How much you know. And how little you can do to stop it:

"Understood." I reply. And so I say, but we all know there's no Potter without Weasley.

I believe it's time to be reunited.

A/N: Next chapter, Harry tracks a lead, Ron makes money, and Hermione gets lectured.

Chapter Notes:

Birmingham did dawn pretty cool on July 7, 2005. The 7/7/05 L.U. bombings are mentioned because it was considered one of the most significant terrorist attacks since the American WTC 9/11 attacks, and I'd assume it would reverberate even in the Magical World.

There was actually supposed to be a full scene of the Dursley dinner, including everybody's least favorite Aunt Marge, but after getting halfway through it, I realized that scene didn't fit with the tone of this particular chapter. I may retroactively add that scene to Chapter 13 after having finished it, but for right now, this is it.

Yes, the 007 references are intentional. And yes, the next few chapters are supposed to be dedicated to my love of Bond films and Cold War history. It's up to you guys to decide if I come anywhere close.

Thanks for reading and be sure to leave a review if you can,
Geist.