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

Summary: I mean, Potter's a pretty good Seeker, yes, but could he do it on a cold, wet, Tuesday night at the Britannia?

Midnight Blues

Part IV: The Flying Dutchwoman

15.) Highway to the Granger Zone
or,
Superior Firepower

July 8, 2005

We enter The Hague by way of a dual-carriageway that no one in Holland knows exists but for the few wizards living here, where I break away from the detail protecting Herms and head into town. Boris, the old bastard, has cleared me for this operation, as we all knew I'd be. He even gave me five-hundred pounds to buy some clothes and blend into the muggle world while trying to locate our friend the Dutchwoman. I assume he meant for me to buy several pairs of clothes, but I ended up spending it on something more useful.

"Nice suit, Potter," says Tracey, her appearance morphed back into the black-haired, blue-eyed witch I met all those months ago at The Lodge, as she meets me in a quaint little café with directive and a possible location for our assassin. "Very Bond-like."

I raise an eyebrow, and in my most Malfoy-esque drawl, reply: "How very hip, Miss Davis."

"Shut up," the brunette says, suddenly all business. "Arbeid should be arriving at the Kurhaus at approximately nine-o'clock this evening, returning from a hit in America. We've booked you a room one floor down under the name Nils Berger."

"Don't you need a reservation months in advance? The Kurhaus isn't exactly a run-of-the-mill motel."

Tracey fixes me a disdainful look. "We're magical, Potter. I assume the confundus charm was applied liberally. Now, you are to approach her and determine who her fixer is. As this is a muggle hotel and a delicate operation, you are not allowed to use magic. You are a muggle in every sense of the word."

"Even in a life-or-death situation?"

"We will leave that to your discretion, but you should be adequately equipped to deal with anything should you remain quiet and careful."

"Equipped with what?"

As if to answer, Tracey pulls out a medium-sized metal box from a briefcase she's carrying, which must have been shrunken, and slides it across the table to me. I nudge it open and find myself staring at a gun. Which seems rather limited compared to a more versatile wand. But, I suppose appearances must be kept.

"So, your idea of less obvious than magic is a gun," I deadpan. "Do you realize how loud gunfire is?"

"It's modified with a silencing charm, so you don't have to worry about sound. We don't know how to deal with the fire that comes out of it with every shot, however."

"Fire? You mean muzzle flash?"

"Sure. That."

"'Sure'," I mock. "Cretin." My dismay is amplified with a second look in the box, I groan. "Of course it's a Walther PPK."

"Why is that unsurprising?"

"Oh, it's only the most cliché spy gun in history. Goddamn wizard-spies, don't even have the decency to get me a Mark 23 or a Five-Seven. 'No, no a Walther will do because we're that fucking unimaginative'," I grumble, snatch the box, shrink it, and shove it into the pocket of my suit jacket. "And you bloody call yourself a spy."

Tracey merely shrugs. "Once you have determined from who Arbeid received her contract, you are to eliminate her and make your way to the roof of the hotel for extraction."

"Extraction?" I ask, "I thought this was a full-protection deal."

"No, Harry, it isn't. Once you deal with the problem, you don't need to be on-site anymore, especially since we know the Minister intends to throw you to the wolves."

"Can't say I appreciate his train of thought."

"He thinks showing you, Weasley, and Granger together will somehow galvanize the ICW into action; we tend to err on the side of caution and not to give out the information of our agents so easily. After you deal with Arbeid, protection of Counselor Granger transfers to me. I will make sure she is adequately protected and will perform the memory charm once we are safely on our way back to England."

"Are you sure that's best for her?" I ask, leaning in. I'm conflicted: I know standard operating procedure means we have to wipe our existence clean post-op, but I don't like the idea of performing memory charms on my best friends.

Tracey shoots me a penetrating look, easily sussing out my source of distress. "Harry, you're a spy now, and even someone like Granger or even Weasley retaining knowledge of your identity is dangerous. Granger is your protective target right now, not your friend. Don't think of it like she is."

"Understood."

I nod at the ravenette, stand up from the table and head out back into the cool Friday afternoon, on my way to the beach and my new hotel.

Ron whistles low, taking a long look at the beachgoers through the large windows of my hotel room. "Nice digs. Planning on a beach day?"

"Unfortunately no. Here to assassinate an assassin."

"You always get the good jobs," Ron remarks, completely unfazed by the admission.

"Nah, it's actually kind of shite."

"You know, Harry, pessimism is your one great blight. It just makes you such an utterly unattractive person," Ron chides. " Besides, you shouldn't complain: I'm stuck watching over Kingsley's decrepit arse. Total bellend. And you know what? I don't whinge on about it like Hermione on sleeping early on a school night. Even though he's a knob."

"My sympathies."

"And you know what the worst part is?"

"Yeah?"

"It's like he doesn't even want me there. He keeps shooing me off like a fly and telling me to take a personal day, and I'm like: 'look mate, I don't want to be the guy responsible for letting the Minister of Magic get a knife in his back', but he just laughs. Laughs! Like it's fucking inconceivable that someone would want the bloke dead."

"Ron."

"Yeah?"

"You're whinging."

"Bloody hell, he's got in my head now, hasn't he?"

I shrug, obsessively checking and rechecking the PPK's magazine. "Kingsley's a bastard. A shrewd one, but still a bastard. He won't want you around until he needs you."

"You can say that again. Politicians, bah! Promise me you'll slap some sense into me if I ever end up like him."

"I'll do you one better, mate," I reply, "I'll probably kill you."

"It frightens me that I believe you," Ron begins, "but, see, that should prove it! You're here trying to off an assassin who's bound to be after the Minister, and what does he do? Tells me to leave, that's what."

"Assassin's not here for Shacklebolt, mate. She's trying to off Hermione."

The room goes quiet.

"What?" Ron asks lowly, deathly serious.

"Exactly what I said.. Did you think I brought you here just for stimulating discussion? The target has a room here in the building, one floor below me, and I need to interrogate her. Thing is, intel has it that she's got a few mates to call on. I'll be outnumbered if she catches me before I can suitably spirit her away for interrogation."

Ron sits up a bit straighter in his chair. "Alright, mate. First question: is the mercenary someone we know? Maybe we can convince them to lay off?"

"Hilde Arbeid," I say, "I mean, if you know her... doesn't ring any bells for me, though."

Ron's face darkens. "I know her. Not personally, of course, but by reputation."

"I read the file M.I.7 has on her," I say, "Fifty confirmed kills, usually from long-range. Leads a group of approximately fifteen people. Besides that, she's a ghost."

Ron nods. "I've heard about her. Single-minded about a kill, doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, she devotes her entire time to learning about her target. Probably an exaggeration but I'd wager sickles to galleons, if she's after Hermione, Arbeid knows more about her than even Hermione does. As for the kills, nobody knows how she does it. They're all spell kills, but she's never within range to properly cast a spell with any certainty."

"I think I know how she does it. But I need you on overwatch before I can explain."

"And there's your other great flaw: saying things that make no sense, what the fresh bloody hell isoverwatch?"

"Right. Muggle term." I sigh. "I need you near enough to have my six if I need you but far away enough to be unobtrusive if I don't. A nearby building would be good enough."

"And how in the name of Merlin's right testicle am I supposed to see you from there?"

"With this," I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a small bauble.

"And what's that, an eggo brick?"

"It's lego, you mong. And no, it's my insurance policy," I answer as I enlarge the box to it's natural size, which is a relatively large briefcase. "If I ever need to leave in a hurry, I have everything I need in here: alternate wands, magical boosters, portkeys, amulets, muggle weapons, money, and passports to blend into the mundane world if need be."

"I thought you said you didn't bring anything with you?"

"Oh, no, that was just to con Boris out of money. I mean, take one look at this suit and tell me it wasn't worth it."

Ron sighs. "It was worth it. But how does this help me?"

"Keep your trousers on," I reach into the case and pull out the shrunken stock of a sniper rifle. "You're going to use this."

"A fireleg," Ron deadpans as I hand it to him, unimpressed.

"No, not a gun. It just looks like one. I'm nearly sure this, or something like it, is what Arbeid used to kill all those people. This beauty was made by a crazy Southerner I met in America who, I'm pretty sure, was a hitman in a previous life."

"And this guy just gave this thing to you?"

"I won it off him an a game of hangman, if you catch my drift. See that inset there?" I ask and point to a long, half-cylindrical groove at the bottom of the rifle, where the magazine should have been loaded had it been a proper muggle weapon.

Ron gives an affirmative: "Yeah, I see it."

"Slot your wand in there, will you?"

Looking dubious, the redhead does so, and is immediately surprised to see the wood of the rifle morph around the wand and set it in place. "That's interesting," he remarks, giving the now fused wood an experimental poke.

"Now just aim and shoot, any spell you can think of."

Ron, being an idiot, then decides to point at me and say "Stupefy." And the red jet of light that comes rocketing forth is simply too quick for me to dodge, causing the world to crash into the black all too quickly.

And just as quickly, I return to the land of the living, sprawled at least ten feet back from where I stood prior to the stunner, when Ron decides to wake me with the counterspell.

"By God," he nearly shouts, "what the hell was that!?"

"I don't quite rightly know, it's a sniper-something. Can't really call it a rifle since the barrel's not rifled, to maintain spell power I s'pose, but..." I trail off as I stand and dust myself off, observing Ron's nonplussed expression. "Never mind. Just know it will get the job done."

"Well yeah, you can fucking say that again. That stupefy was bloody super-charged."

"Americans," I shrug as if it explains everything. "Say what you will, they do know how to make things go boom."

"Oh, I'll make things go boom alright," he grins, "don't you worry."

Night falls and I make my last minute checks. The Walther is loaded and ready; I might have given Tracey shit for it, but a gun is a useful thing to have, even for a wizard. I would prefer my wand, of course, but I suppose it's better than going in there barehanded if I'm to pretend to be a muggle. I slide the gun into the inside pocket of my jacket and tap my ear:

"Ron, can you hear me?" I ask.

"Loud and clear," Ron's voice crackles to life over the small, flesh-colored earpiece. "I'm watching you from the nearest building I can find. This thing is amazing; the twins must be making a killing off this!"

"What a tender world this is that you can make a fortune off a two-way radio." I say, looking around the room for something relatively sturdy, and find it in the bedpost that is more heavy pillar than anything else.

"What?"

"Muggles invented this over fifty years ago, mate."

"All that brainpower but as dumb as it gets, magically speaking. Clever little retards, aren't they?"

I had been levitating the bed to the window, but even I have to pause at that statement. There are many times I'm glad Hermione isn't around to hear some of the things that come out of Ron's mouth. This is one of those times.

"Erm, right, then; I'm not going to even touch that. 'Sides, I've wasted enough time, Tracey's already informed me target's entered the building."

"Where's she?"

"Lobby," I reply automatically, fishing through my emergency bag for the long, coiled rope, which I immediately set to tying about the bedpost. "She's relaying orders and providing analysis."

"Analysis of what?"

"The floor layout, Arbeid's cronies and their positions, shite like that. All useless, though."

"And why's that?"

"Because I'm doing it the better way," I tighten the rope and cinch at around my waist, throwing the windows wide open. I make a smart gesture in the direction I think Ron is looking at me from and jump.

"Well, shit, Harry, just what are you doing?"

The rappelling rope snags a bit just above the window of the floor below. "Tracey gave me guard patterns, and whatnot, but why even bother with that, is what I say? She wants me to be a muggle? I can get into this room with a bit of muggle ingenuity." I hop the last bit down and reach into my pocket for a charmed set of lockpicks I won against the magical bareknuckle boxing champion in Liverpool.

Figures a Scouser would have a pair of charmed lockpicks.

I set to work finding the lock on the window and slip the pick into the keyhole as Tracey's voice crackles to life in my ear. "Potter, how's getting into that room? I'm not seeing any of your targets going down."

"Chose a better way, darling," I reply shortly as the latch unhooks and the window opens before me. "And we are go."

"Good, you've approximately a minute before the assassin makes it to that room; make sure she doesn't escape."

"Aye-aye, ma'am."

I slip into the room once I'm sure she hasn't cast any spells or wards to keep me out, and shut the window behind me, throwing as many wards as possible onto that door so that she can enter, but once she does, Arbeid won't be able to escape. Once I'm satisfied, I cast a disillusionment charm on myself and wait.

The door clicks open soon enough, and two men walk in with her, burly apes that I'm inevitably going to have to kill. Pointless waste of life. What a shame.

I decide to do the merciful thing and take them down quickly. Two bullets, two dead men; God, it really is a whole lot easier than continuously shouting Avada Kedavra down a hallway like some bloody spastic who just missed the short bus. Arbeid, however, looks hardly surprised as the two men crumple to the ground.

She's pretty enough, blonde hair, blue eyes; has a bit of Bond-girl element to her, though I can't get an exact read on what it is. It honestly feels like I recognize her from somewhere. Where is it?

"So, M.I.7., yes?" She asks with raised eyebrow, with a smoky voice like cigars on Christmas. "You're the one they sent to kill me, no?"

"That depends," I reply shortly, letting the disillusionment charm to fall away but covering it with a well-placed glamour.

"On what?"

"How much you're willing to tell me."

"Like what? What could I possibly tell you that you don't already know?" She asks rhetorically, bringing a manicured hand to her darkened chin. "Hmmm... you must already know that Madame Granger is in very grave danger," she pauses and looks at me searchingly, before a slow smile spreads on her face. "Yes. You do know. So, what shall I tell you? Oh, yes. You want to know who hired me, do you not?"

I remain silent, she already knows that's what I want to know.

"Such a quiet man," she bemoans, though a tinge of sarcasm shines through the complaint. When I don't answer, she doesn't either, choosing instead to step closer to me. Obviously, the woman is wants me to ask the information from her. Why she wants me to, however, is utterly beyond me.

"I'll bite," I eventually respond through the thick silence, "who hired you?"

"That," she says, placing a finger of her lips and drawing close enough that the barrel of the Walther rests against her sternum, in the valley between her breasts, "I cannot tell you. I do not know myself."

"Then what can you tell me?"

"That I am not the only one sent to kill her," Arbeid says, a hint of a sneer on her plump lips. I take it she doesn't like sharing commissions if she doesn't have to. "Such a shame, really. I like to be alone with my prey. To study them; to admire them. I watch them. I see many things, draw many things from them: strength, conviction, intelligence. Sometimes..." she pulls in very close, though still unarmed, close enough that her hot breath mingles with my own. "...I can even find love in them."

"I doubt Madame Granger would return your affection."

Arbeid pulls away. "You misunderstand me. Do not worry, men always do."

Tracey's voice crackles in my ear. "Potter, mission parameters changed. We don't have much time: try and get her to come with you. We'll... debrief her at another site."

"Hm..." I intone. "Well, you have a choice. Come with me, and we won't have a problem. Resist..."

"You would deny me my freedom?" A tinge of surprise laces that dulcet tone.

"I would deny you the chance to murder. And offer you the chance to save someone."

Arbeid smiles. "Salvation? That does not sound like the Harry Potter I remember."

What?

"Roll with it, Potter. If she knows who you are, then she must have been briefed by someone."

"What?" She says, still grinning seductively. "Do you not remember me?"

"Harry!" Ron's voice registers in the earpiece. "She knows your name! This is a trap! Should I shoot?"

I try to smooth my expression, not give away any sense of surprise. "Should I?"

"Oh, yes. We've influenced each other's lives more than you could ever imagine."

"Do you want me to take the shot or not?"

"Try me."

"That wouldn't be any fun, would it? Not for you, or your sniper."

That shuts Ron up cold.

"It takes one to know one," Arbeid says, her wand suddenly twirling around graceful fingers, "but he's not very adept at using it yet, is he? Such good little boys, protecting their girl from danger."

"The last thing Granger needs is protection. This is more for my own health than hers."

"Well, a bit of friendly advice then: I will be coming last."

"Subdue her!" Tracey whispers.

"I'm taking a shot," Ron says resolutely. Arbeid smiles, and steps back just as a red spell rockets into the room, shattering the glass but strikes off one of the dead men harmlessly. Shit, he missed. I look up, and the assassin is no longer where she stood. Her reflection casts off the mirror in the room, sitting on the ledge of the window. As another one of Ron's spells, this time pale yellow, is sidestepped by the woman, she sits on the railing, blows a kiss my way and drops off.

I rush to the edge of the window, but she's nowhere to be found.

"Ron, did you see her?"

"I did, but she used a disillusioning charm halfway down. She could be anywhere by now."

"Shit!" I growl, striking the windowsill.

"Potter," Tracey says neutrally, "What happened?"

"She got away," I say, struggling to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

"Right, mission failed, then," she says, sounding oddly cheery, "don't worry, it happens to us all. Clean up the mess and meet me in the lobby, we can discuss our next move."

Ron speaks next, as though afraid Tracey could hear him, even though I specifically charmed the earpieces so only I could hear Ron. "So, what do we do now?"

"You go back to looking after Kingsley; I've got to see what Smiley's people want to do next."

"What?"

"Never mind, it's a muggle thing."

"Alright, if that's what you think is best."

"Unfortunately, it is what's best right now. We'll get it done. Get some sleep. And take that rifle with you. Practice. You can't aim for shit."

"Thanks, mate. You know just how to me feel all fuzzy inside."

Ron's connection cuts off, leaving me overlooking the terrace, leaving me mulling over the myriad questions running amok through my thoughts. Who is this woman and how does she know me? Does it have something to do with why she seems so familiar?

The questions aren't answered by the time I've cleaned up the destroyed hotel flat and make to enter the lobby, a fancy gold and heavy-chandeliers sort of affair, construction that would have been considered fashionable in the late nineteenth century. I spot Tracey sitting at a white-draped table overlooking the lobby floor, next to one of those particular chandeliers. She flashes me a reassuring smile:

"First failure," she says easily. "How does it feel to be human like the rest of us?"

"I preferred the terrorists. Particularly the ones who don't know me."

"You and Arbeid are acquainted?"

"Apparently. I don't remember from where, but I've definitely met her. She seems... very familiar."

Tracey regards me with a cross look. "Potter, if you're about to tell me you shagged a Dutch assassin, I'm going to slap you."

"While I wish that was the case," I drawl, "I don't think that's what it was. But it buoys me that you think so highly of my virility."

The ravenette rolls her startlingly blue eyes. "Well, we haven't any time to devote to that right now. What we have to do, however, is protect Hermione from an attack, which, if the assassin is to be believed, will be multiples of the word."

"So, what are we to do then?"

"Boris and I just discussed it," she taps her ear surreptitiously. "You are Madame Granger's new guard dog. Starting tomorrow morning and until the threat is dealt with, you are to follow her everywhere. You will be in the same room as her when she eats, sleeps, even when she shits."

"Did not need that picture."

Tracey grins wolfishly. "Get some sleep, you'll need your rest for tomorrow. I hear an ambassador's schedule can be quite hectic."

With that, she gets up and leaves.

God, I hate this job.

The next morning, after packing a whole bunch of knick-knacks into Hermione's old bottomless beaded bag, from weaponized Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder (the twins have no idea how many times they've saved my life with this), to a compacted broomstick and the Walther, all shrunken where necessary and placed in my suit jacket's inside pocket, I head to the floor of Hermione's magical hotel, where breakfast for all the ambassadors are to be served.

I spot my charge bright and early in a professional-looking slate business pantsuit, pouring over some file or another; I couldn't possibly explain it to you because, frankly, I'm too stupid. I just kill things. I don't try to negotiate with countries.

Without much preamble, and in a brown-haired, blue-eyed glamour, I plonk down next to her and observe her quietly, and hopefully not too creepily.

Hermione looks up within a minute, annoyed, "May I help you, Harry?"

"Harry?" I ask, feigning ignorance, "who the bloody hell's Harry? My name's John. John... C... Candles."

She lets out an unladylike snort. "Candles? That was the best you could think of?"

"Hey, I'm not a very good liar," I defend, at which Hermione eyes me with the dirtiest, most disbelieving look. "Oi, I don't lie that much! Alright, maybe I do. What gave me away?"

"Your eye," she replies in a whisper. "It's difficult to notice if you aren't really looking at it, but I can tell it's just a glamour. That, and you told us you used the exact same glamour in China."

Before I can sarcastically praise her excellent skills of deduction, five other suits plonk themselves down at the table. One of them, an imperious-looking fat man with a German accent a salt-and-pepper, walrus-like moustache, appraises me like he would an exceptionally poor cut of steak:

"And who might this be, Madame Granger?" He asks, all smiles, but with a clear tone of confusion and more than a little dislike. The others, a reedy-looking woman and a plump one, as well two nondescript, but ultimately well-dressed men, seem to give off the same unwelcoming aura.

Politicians, eh? All cut from the same bastard-y cloth, this lot. They're the cosmic equivalent of snake-oil salesmen, violently prideful and obsessively elitist, so full of empty promises and so out of touch with the common man they might as well be in a different solar system altogether. You hear about all the atrocities people have done to each other in the name of freedom, and the natural instinct is to wonder why they didn't stick what they had. I'll tell you: it's because people like these exist, looking down their noses at you as they trample you underfoot.

Fucking hell, I hate politicians.

So involved am I in my personal railing against the government like some sort of third estate jihadist that Hermione nearly gets a response out to the suits before I cut her off smoothly: "John Wolf, I'm just obsessive paparazzi, really. It's really very nice of Madame Granger to allow me to follow her everywhere. I even manage to get pictures of her showering sometimes. You'd hardly believe what some people would pay for. Saucy."

Hermione laughs nervously. "He's joking, of course," she then shoots me a vindictive glare. "John is my secretary; he has an odd sense of humor."

"Right," I agree. "Secretary."

Fuck you, Hermione.

The snobs, who already viewed me as a nuisance, suddenly seem to accept me, begrudging as it is.

"Well," one of the women says, having regained her bearings (and her painfully fake smile) first, "it's very nice to meet you, Mister Wolf."

"Feeling's mutual, love," I reply without any sort of propriety or reverence, and allow Hermione to conduct her business with the politicians as I simultaneously zone out from the conversation and focus on all possible points of entry or execution, eyes peeled for any disturbances.

That is, of course, until Hermione nudges me with her arm.

"Yes, ma'am?" I ask, polite, but with enough venom that Hermione should know how I feel about this whole 'secretary' situation.

"Ambassador Danzer was just speaking about his days as a Seeker for Durmstrang and asked about Harry Potter when he played for Gryffindor."

I give her a blank look. What? Am I supposed to just break cover so I can relive the glory days of thrashing Ravenclaw second year? "And?" I ask without interest.

"And..." Hermione begins, expecting me to continue. "Well, John. And you the know the sport much better than I do, are less biased, and would be more qualified to judge Harry's abilities as an athlete."

"Oh. Okay," I take one look at the Ambassador, a plain, but muscular man in deep navy blue robes. "Overrated."

"Really?" The Ambassador looks intrigued, "I've always heard he was quite good."

"I mean, yeah, at Hogwarts. Schools aren't exactly known for their ultra-competitive play, though. Most of the people he played were probably too distracted by the fame, or just weren't up to snuff, but believe you me, Harry Potter wasn't good enough to go professional. Plus, have you seen Viktor Krum? I doubt Potter could take him in a battle for a snitch," I turn to Hermione with a mock-apologetic look. "Sorry ma'am, but it's the truth. Hope I didn't offend too much."

"No, no," Hermione replies, looking completely befuddled, as though she expected me to extol myself in front of these people I couldn't give less of shit about. I may be a selfish cunt, but no one's that much of an arsehole. "No offense taken at all."

The fat man, who thought I was scum before, lets out a booming, appreciative laugh. "Oh, this one has quite the mouth! I can see why you keep him around, Madame Granger!"

"Yes, yes, silver tongue on him," she gibes in return with only mild sarcasm.

"In more ways than one, I'm sure," one of the women, French by her accent, says with a scandalous wink at Hermione, whose eyebrows shoot up in shock at the statement.

My, that was forward.

I mean, I'm not completely naïve, I know politicians often shag their secretaries, but to talk about it so openly? The French are strange. And poor Hermione, accused of being one of those people. Anna Holloway, Hermione's actual secretary, would be mortified. Though to be fair, Anna's fit, half of Hermione's friends would shag her had we got half a chance. I wouldn't even be surprised if Hermione has.

Now there's a mental picture. Please do excuse me while I go to la-la land.

Hermione smiles thinly, falsely. "I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean, Ambassador."

The Ambassador seems to realize she's made a mistake and coughs primly, disengaging from the conversation politely. A long moment of awkward silence is broken and soon another serious conversation I don't pay attention to is brought up until something pokes me in the side, and breaks me from my reverie.

Hermione eyes me disapprovingly. Ugh. I hate clothed, disapproving Hermione. Naked, lesbian Hermione is so much better. Christ, Anna's fit.

"Huh, what?"

"You know, you never told me why you were here," she says lowly as the other occupants of the table speak amongst themselves.

I exhale through my nose, annoyed. "You know why I'm here."

"No, I don't?"

"One. I'm not the only one around here who can lie," I accuse, before having one look at the door to the restaurant and quailing in my seat. "And two, because of that!"

"What?" Hermione interrogates, before looking in the direction I am.

Five heavily robed men stand in the doorway and one tosses something small and circular, not unlike a muggle hand-grenade. "Duck!" I shout, grabbing Hermione by the shoulders and dragging her down below the table.

There's a loud bang and a sudden, earsplitting howl reverberates through the air, ringing throughout my entire body and rooting me to the spot. We've dealt with harpies before, and if there's any sound that's comparable to the sound of this grenade, it's a harpy's screech. It bloody hurts, and leaves most paralyzed with a strong, altered form of an immobilization charm; thankfully, I know a counterspell, and I'm half decent enough at it to be able to use it wordlessly and wandlessly.

But I can't do anything about it at the moment; Hermione and and I have to get out of here before they find us.

Three men in dark robes filter into the room as I turn to Hermione, on hands and knees, face scrunched with silent intent, though whatever she's doing doesn't seem to be working. It's likely that, given the fact that she is much more diligent than I am at practically everything, Hermione also knows the counterspell. Unfortunately, she doesn't deal with this on the day-to-day, so she probably can't do it wandlessly.

"None of that now," I whisper at her inspired but ultimately fruitless endeavor and wave my wand at my friend. Once dispelled, Hermione pulls in close:

"Who are these people? Why are they here?"

I give her my best impression of her own 'are you dense' look: "What do you think they're here for?"

Hermione glowers. "Look, Harry, you don't get to lecture me about safety when you go charging off to hunt Dark Lords in Russia, or join the Secret Service, or..."

I stop listening to her, peek out from underneath the table just in time to see three men in heavy, dark robes file into the room whilst the last two remain nearby the doors, perhaps surveying the perimeter. One of the first three steps forward, and, in an exuberant and American-accented voice, shouts:

"Greetings, citizens of the world!" He throws his arms wide with disgusting showmanship. "Now we're not here to disturb your fancy lunch, no! Not at all. We want you to enjoy your crab bisque or whatever it is you're shoveling into your fat, useless faces."

He eyes a whale of a man frozen in his seat at a table nearby the door of the room.

"And you can have your soup," he says, "once you tell us where Madame Hermione Granger of England is."

Well, obviously, these are the people Arbeid mentioned last night.

"Well, fuck me," I whisper to Hermione, "are you still wondering why they're here?"

She glares. Not in the mood for a row right now, I fish through my pockets for the modified Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder I packed earlier and hand it to Hermione as I look for the emergency stairwell in the dining hall.

"What's this?" Hermione whispers as I find the emergency stairwell and vaguely orient myself in that direction.

"The twins' instant darkness powder," I reply. "I've made a few... seamless improvements. When I tell you, I want you to throw it down as hard as you can."

"Right, so we're going through the stairwell and downstairs," Hermione says, seeming to sense my plan.

"That's right. It's the best option we've got right now; I'm not willing to start trading spells in a room this crowded, even if all the people in here are mongs."

"You realize you're in here as well, right?"

"Who said I wasn't a mong?"

Laughing a bit at that, Hermione replies: "At least you admit it."

"That makes you one, too."

She stops laughing.

I chance another peek out from underneath the table as I notice one of the men has begun making his way to our table, I duck back underneath the table to make sure the merc doesn't spot me form underneath the tablecloth. His boots inch ever closer with loud, dramatic thuds and stopping only where the fat politician sits, looking rather like he's going to shit himself. The man we're dealing with is, of course, a trained professional, and zones in on the nervous ambassador, choosing him as his particular guinea pig.

"So, Mr..." The voice (the same American one from before) pauses, "Hazell, care to tell us where the guest of honor is?"

There's a bit of scuffling and the sound of skin slapping on skin, though without a proper look, I don't know exactly what's going on. That is, until the assassin bends low and peers beneath the tablecloth, catching sight of both Hermione and I:

"There you are!" He exclaims exuberantly, and I know it's time to act.

"Now, Hermione," I whisper, and she immediately complies, throwing down the instant darkness powder. The room suddenly turns pitch dark, like all the light from the world has been completely sucked out. Perhaps this is what it's like past an event horizon.

Without all of the "turn-me-inside-out" pressure, of course.

Hermione's hand fumbles through the dark and eventually grasps my own as we hurry out from under the table and head vaguely in the direction I recall the emergency stairwell being as a string of curses and valiant but fruitless lighting and counterspells are uttered by the men hunting down dear Herms.

Trying to find anything in pitch darkness without even a point of reference is among one of the most surreal experiences a person can go through. It's what I imagine a blind man must stumble through every day, shuffling in the shadows, scampering in the dark, never to see the light of it sounds like a depressing way to live.

A smile involuntarily spreads across my face when I hit the emergency stairwell door and pass through it to the sweet, sweet bliss of sight, even if the view isn't particularly astonishing. It's a small, concrete stairwell, and I can hear footsteps coming up the stairwell, so the original plan of heading downwards is a giant fucking no-go.

And so, I'm left with a conundrum, and few particularly good answers for them.

Now in a situation like this, what I would normally do is go for the charming James Bond "Distraction Kiss", appearing to be so taken up with one another that our quarry simply passes us by thinking us a couple overly-exuberant in our PDA. It works with Tracey, and better yet, there's no awkwardness afterward because she's asexual, apparently. However, that plan's a bit naff in this case:

Problem One. It's Hermione. Snogging her is right up there with using the Shroud of Turin as a spunk rag on the sacrilege scale. Besides, I'm not into psuedo-incest. "But Ginny," an acidic, useless part of my brain supplies unhelpfully. Okay, maybe I'm a little bit into psuedo-incest, but not with Hermione.

Seriously though, me having an Oedipus Complex... that would really explain loads wouldn't it?

Pardon me, I'm having a bit of a revelation here.

Problem Two. It's Hermione. She wouldn't get the reason behind it and would kill me if the merc doesn't do it first.

Problem Three. They know who we are. The guy who catches us snogging in the stairwell would just shrug before stunning me and AKing Hermione. So, that's why, when the first man comes up the stairwell to the landing below us, I opt for the quicker, physical solution, which involves sprinting toward him, a punch to the kidneys and a hip toss, that somehow ends with both of us on the ground and the hitman firmly in the grip of a gogoplata.

The man crumples in an unconscious heap as I lift my shin off his throat and let him drop. "Relax, Hermione," I say to the shocked brunette, "you can change your knickers in a minute."

"Oh, do shut up," the woman in question growls before stalking ahead, nearly headlong into a purple spell that I have to pull her back from. I look up the stairwell to find another dark robed man in full dragonhide armor, which makes him look more like an extra from The Road Warrior than a legitimate threat, but when he charges down the stairs and fires off a green spell, I know he's serious and push Hermione behind me.

Shit, so upwards looks pretty bad, too. How fucking shite is the security at this goddamn hotel that these people have been able to infiltrate it top to bottom, for an attempted assassination!? Christ, whoever the security expert is here, that person should be bloody crucified.

The dragonhide-wearing wizard reaches the landing above us and aims his wand at me. "I don't know who you are, but this will be much easier for all of us if you step out of the way."

"What can I say?" I ask no one in particular, before moving, grabbing his wand arm with my right hand and jamming left palm as hard as I can into his elbow as he tries to fire of some spell. It never materializes, not with the sick crack that reverberates somewhere in his arm. "I don't like easy."

Howling in pain, the man drops his wand into my outstretched palm and tries to clutch at his broken arm, which I maintain hold of and twist further.

"Harry!" Hermione screams, but I take no notice of her.

"Who is Arbeid working for; who are you working for!?" I shout and lift the limp arm over the railing of the stairs before smashing it down painfully.

"I-I!" The man begins, but stops and clamps his mouth shut. Growling, I punch him:

"All the fancy dragonskin ain't gonna protect you from a physical beating," I aim for the kneecap and give him a cracker of a kick, grasp him by the other shoulder and toss him to the ground. "Now, I'm going to repeat myself: Who. Is. Your. Employer?"

"I don't know," the beaten man splutters. "We just took a contr-!"

"Avada Kedavra!" Someone shouts from above, and a green light strikes the man. Hermione returns some fire with a few wildly cast stunners. I love Hermione, I really do, but she's been out of dueling practice for seven years, so she should sit the fuck down and let me handle the spell-happy knob.

"Stay down," I order, dragging her behind the railing of stairs for some cover. "Let me handle this."

"But he's firing out killing curses! You can't deal with that alone!"

"Oh, you people..." I groan, "you think magic is the be-all-end-all of combat. It's why you're all so unbelievably easy to kill."

"What?"

"Wizards and witches are so reliant on their wands that they never think of other ways to win a fight: they just mindlessly cast; like the idiot over there," I say. "They don't realize that magic is a liability in a stairwell, and that a sufficient practitioner of muggle martial arts can overpower them in a second. And, what's more problematic, you don't give muggles the respect they're due for their ingenuity. Because when someone tries to outcast you," I reach into the pocket of my suit jacket, remove the Walther, peek over the railing, aim, and fire twice, "use superior firepower."

A body thuds against the ground, as if to punctuate my statement.

Magical people and their fans are too obsessed with their magic that they don't see the obvious glaring flaws of it. I don't care about how connected to the magical world I am; living is far more important than staying loyal to an inferior strategy.

"Enlightening," Hermione says insincerely, "but how are we going to get to the court? AP wards are set around the city and the nearest apparition point isn't for quite a ways, and I don't think these people are just going to stop looking for us."

"Well, that's a shame," I say, "because we're going to risk it and go for the apparition point anyway. Now, let's us get out of this stairwell before any more get the bright idea to come this way."

"And how, exactly, are we supposed to get there?"

"Speed, Hermione," I say as though it's the simplest thing in the world. "Lots and lots of speed."

"HARRY!" Hermione screams as the flightfoot charm takes effect and we are sprinting through the pouring rain across the roof of Hermione's hotel at jungle-cat going on DeLorean speed. "I can't keep up!"

Of course she can't, I can already feel her slick hand slipping from my own. "Of course you can't," I groan, still moving at breakneck pace regardless.

"I don't know how to do this charm!"

"Of course you don't!" I repeat over the buffeting winds as though speaking to an idiot. "It's because I made it up; you're not gonna find it in a book!"

"Well then teach it to me, you bloody moron!" The brunette shouts once more. You know what? Women, that's what. It's all a load of shite anyway: you try and save a woman's life, and she calls you a bloody moron. I mean, what's up with that? Where's the goddamn justice in that? That's a right sin, is what it is. I should just bloody leave her here.

But that would be wrong, wouldn't it?

"What!?" I choose to exclaim in utter disbelief instead. "I can't bloody well teach it to you!" And I can't, so I improvise. "C'mere!" I entreat, using the last of our grip to yank Hermione toward me and pick her up mid-stride, one hand under the knees and the other about the waist for a momentary bridal style carry before I toss her over my shoulder like a caveman and book it faster than any of the assassins can catch me.

All through this, of course, I feel small fists beating at my back:

"Harry James Potter, you put me down right now or I'll-!" Hermione shouts as the room with which I have to run is quickly running out. I'm not particularly worried, since at this speed, I can jump the gap between the hotel and the building next over. What I am worried about, is how much of a nuisance Hermione is trying to be right at this moment:

"Would you please shut up!?"

"What are people going to think!?" She screams right back. "They'll think you're trying to run off and rape me!"

"One. We're on a roof, do you see any people here but for the blokes trying to kill us?" As if to punctuate my statement, a green spell goes whizzing past us, inches away from murdering Hermione's hair, which has fallen away from it's coiffed chignon. "Also, Two: Who would want to rape you?" A solid thwack hits my back, much stronger than the past few. I think she infused a bit of magic into it. "Ow! What the hell was that for!?"

"You know exactly what it was for!"

Stunned, I shout in disbelief: "Are you serious? You're mad because no wants to rape you!?"

"It wasn't what you said, it was how you said it!"

You know, I once told Ron (even if it was a good-natured insult, at the time) that if I wanted someone competent to bring on a job, I'd bring along Hermione.

I regret saying that.

"That... that doesn't even make sense!" I shout back as we are moments away from jumping the gap.

And just as I'm saying that, something heavy and solid blindsides me at ridiculous speeds as well. I lose grip of Hermione, who goes sailing over the edge of the building with a scream, and for a second, my heart fucking drops:

"Hermione!" I shout, regretting all the times I've called her Herms against her will and made fun of her cooking, before I scramble over to look over the edge and sigh in heart-starting, joyous relief:

Thankfully, Hermione's about fifty times smarter than I am and quickly applied a sticking charm to the railing, though at her angle, she can't really hoist herself up. At the moment, she's left dangling, and I have to deal with whatever it was that hit me.

"Help me up, Harry!" She pleads, eyes scrunched shut and desperately avoiding looking down. I forgot, Hermione doesn't like heights, doesn't she? I want to reach out to her, but when I try, a relatively weak stinging charm smarts at my hand, more to grab my attention than do any serious harm.

I turn back to find the American smiling easily at me. Goddamn Americans. Always so goddamn smug.

"Ah, ah, ah!" He chides with a wag of his finger. "You have to deal with me first, mate." He says 'mate' in that horribly obnoxious way only Americans mocking our lot can.

"Can't help right now!" I shout to Hermione. "Try levitating yourself up!"

"Merlin, Harry, do you think I haven't already tried that!?" She snarks as I dodge the first of the American's blasting spells and send out a volley of stunners myself, just so I can keep him on the backfoot until I get situated as well.

Grunting, I transfigure a loose bit of concrete from my opponent's spells into sharp stakes and send them flying toward the wizard, who conjures up a giant slab of stone, made up of the millions of scattered pebbles around the rooftop.

"Well I'm bloody so-rry, Hermione," I growl snidely, "not all of us are as brilliant as you are!"

I don't like being passive-aggressive; it's for sore losers and cunts. But given the circumstances, can you really blame me?

"Oh don't be passive-aggressive!" Says Hermione. "It makes you sound like a prat!"

The American laughs at that, shooting off another spell that I'm fairly sure is the one Dolohov hit Hermione with all those years ago at the Department of Mysteries, as he remarks to Hermione: "I almost wish I didn't have to kill you two! You and your boyfriend are priceless!"

"Me? Relationship? It's like you don't even know me!" I answer with a mock-scandalized gasp just as Hermione shouts:

"He's my secretary and he's a bloody idiot!"

"Right, that. Secretary."

Goddamnit Hermione.

"Secretary, eh?" The American asks. "He don't fight like no secretary I've ever seen. In fact, I don't even think that's his real face. It's a good glamour, but I can tell that eye ain't real. And you know something? I heard Harry Potter got his eye cut out by Gawain Robards' bastard son."

I send the strongest Bombarda I can think of at him. "Oh, would you fuck right off!?" Without even waiting to see if the spell connects, I charge at him, which, in turn, forces me to dolphin dive onto the gravel (ow, by the way) when the uncreative fuck sends another killing curse my way and I attempt to spear him with a lancing spell I learned from an old Grecian textbook.

Rolling twice over, I dodge several more spells sent from the merc's wand and close the distance enough to grasp the man by his shoulder and suplex him over me.

Crashing to the ground, he lets his wand clatter to the ground and I make sure I'm the first to grab it, aiming the weapon back at him as he attempts to stand:

"What the hell was that?"

"Don't worry about it; just stay down, mate," I indicate his wand in my left hand.

The American doesn't stay down, instead, like a moron, he tries to jump on me, and succeeds in latching himself onto my back. Apparently, when wandless, wizards become human-sized leeches. Goddamn useless, the lot of them. No wonder Dark Lords come, challenge governments, and take over countries at a time, because we're fucking stupid as shite. But, I digress: my problem is that this arsehole is holding on for dear life and attempting to bite my arm to me to drop his wand; his problem is that I'm still physically stronger than him.

So, with a grunt, I lift the weighty fucker off my back and hip toss him in front of me, which just so happens to be the edge of the building, he goes sailing over it and I keep canceling his attempts to arrest his momentum by spell until I'm sure he's not walking away from this one.

It's at that point I turn my attention to Hermione, who has been dangling off the side of the building, eyes shut and praying to whatever God she may or may not believe in that her hands don't get too wet from the rain and she slips off herself.

Call me crazy but I think her feelings concerning heights might be a bit more than simple dislike. Phobia might be a better word. Intense hatred, maybe. It's for exactly that reason that I reckon it's best to tease darling Hermione. Well, that, and because I'm a douchebag.

I step up to her with a mocking smile, looking down upon the brunette imperiously: "Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it?" Hermione stops praying at the odd statement. "That's what it is to be a slave."

With supreme irritation, she replies, eyes still shut: "I hate you. So much. So, so much."

She doesn't realize I've already levitated her beside me, using my uncanny ability to rattle off irritating pop culture references to keep her mind off the height. Ungrateful bint.

"Alright then, Hermione?" I ask mockingly as she seems to realize she's on solid ground and peeks open one eye.

The brunette in question glares, it seems she's been doing that a lot today. "Not a word, Potter. Not. A. Word."

I smirk. "So... nothing to say about how I just saved your life?"

Silence.

"Nothing at all, Hermione?"

She elects to grace me with the evil eye.

"Oh, okay then I guess just pout."

Finally, Hermione has enough of it. "Can you at least pretend not to be a complete and utter prat?"

"For you, darling? No."

"Pillock," the brunette mutters, rolling her eyes.

More spells fly toward us, and Hermione, noticing them first, pushes me out of the way of a particularly nasty-looking bile-colored curse. Disemboweling hex, if I'm not mistaken.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I groan at the sight of one last wizard, firing spell after spell at Hermione, who ducks behind some sort of control panel. I can't possibly identify what it is because I can't imagine any wizarding hotel uses electricity, but hey, I'm apparently an idiot, what do I know? As long as she's protected behind it, I can fire some curses of my own off, hopefully drawing the fire off Herms for the time being.

"Sanguinis!" I mutter lowly, unleashing a powerful blood-curdling spell at the wizard, apparently another American, who dodges out of the way and eyes me in shock. Good, at least he knows I'm serious; now he can't afford to focus only on drawing Hermione out.

Obviously, he starts attacking me then. Because he's an idiot.

Again, for mercenaries and hit-men, they aren't particularly creative, relying mostly on the Avada Kedavra like a baby relies on mother's milk. And here I am sending fire spells and spears and magical swords after the guy, all to no avail, because, despite his lack of offensive nous, he seems to know how to cancel every spell in book. Fortunately, I don't have to deal with him much longer, because Hermione has disappeared from behind the dummy generator, likely having disillusioned herself and made away from the battle. Sensible, right? Because that's what Hermione is, sensible.

Which is why it surprises me when Hermione appears seemingly out of thin air next to our mutual enemy, who hasn't noticed her due to all his spellcasting, and decks him right in the temple. His head sort of rockets from left to right and his body follows suit to the ground with a wet whump, limbs splayed, leaving me half expecting Michael Buffer determining Hermione winner by knock out.

She turns back to me, seemingly shocked by her own strength: "You did say 'superior firepower', did you not?" She calls out, biting her lip and looking oddly concerned for the man who, just two minutes ago, was attempting to kill her.

That was... unexpected. And my reaction is as well. On one hand, this is Hermione, about the least sexy thing since bloomers, and on the other, that was, perhaps, the sexiest thing I've ever seen a woman do.

I reckon I'm nursing the world's most confused semi right now.

"That was brilliant," I remark, sprinting up to Hermione.

"Is... is he dead?" She asks haltingly.

"No, and even if he was, who cares?" I grab her by the arm, not paying attention to her look of incredulity at my lack of care for the man trying to kill my best friend. "I'll buy you lunch once we get back home for that, but right now, we need to get off this roof before more people come after us."

"Who are they?" She asks again. "Are they... the people Boris mentioned?"

I nod. "That's why we have to go," I fish into my pocket, pulling out a shrunken trinket that I show to my charge. "And I've got just the thing."

Hermione's eyes spark alive with mortal fear. "Oh, no," she pleads.

I can't help but grin, holding up a now-fully-sized broomstick. "Oh, yes."

God, I love this job.

A/N: Sorry for being late as fuck with an update. Next chapter will finish up the Dutchwoman storyline, then we get a whole lot of Lauren (we're finally getting into the meat of the fic).

Chapter Notes:

Sorry if there's been too much Harry and Hermione and not enough Harry and Ron for your liking these past few chapters, but they've easily got my favorite character dynamic at the moment. Mainly for the whole sexless marriage angle and the fact that they're raising a child. Understandably, I've gotten several questions as to why they don't just bump uglies. One: Mainly because my one great pleasure is trolling die-hard shippers, and two: because they're incredibly different people who would grate on each other's nerves completely if they were in a romantic relationship. Canon Harry and Hermione are actually remarkably similar when you cut away all the fluffy bullshit, which makes them work either as the "she's like my sister" angle in canon or a sexual relationship in fanfiction. MB Harry and Hermione are like if James Hunt and Hilary Clinton met in the '70s and decided to cohabitate. Polar opposites, there.

Walther PPK: James Bond's preferred handgun. Harry makes mention of the Mark 23 SOCOM and Five-SeveN, Solid Snake's and Sam Fisher's preferred handguns, respectively.

Oh, okay then I guess just pout: Given the Bond references, I'd be remiss for not including an Archer reference.

Hermione's Falcon Punch: It makes a certain sort of sense, since she practically broke Malfoy's nose in canon and hit Harry, a professional killer, mind, hard enough to stagger him in Chapter 5.

If I wanted someone competent... I would have brought Hermione: Not exact words, but Harry says something similar to Ron in Chapter 8.

Sniper-Wand: Harry gives Ron the rifle for an alternate reason, no matter what Big Boss may tell you, shit depth perception makes an even shittier sniper.

My uncanny ability to rattle off irritating pop-culture references: And now we've gone meta

Thanks for reading,
Geist.