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

Summary: Hips don't lie.

Midnight Blues

Part IV: The Flying Dutchwoman

16.) You Only Live Thrice
or,
Granger Danger

Hermione whimpers.

"I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I really, really, very truly hate you."

"God, woman, I heard you the first eighty times!" I grunt, expertly handling the haft of the broom and draping myself more closely over Hermione so as to better protect her from the three birds chasing our tail.

"Clearly," Hermione drawls, voice oozing hateful sarcasm, "you didn't. Or we wouldn't be on this bloody deathtrap right now."

"Oh, quit whinging," I snort, pulling off a complicated barrel roll that must have pulled a G or two. Which makes me grin. Because as much as I enjoy it, Hermione, the subject of my discontent for the past day-and-a-half, doesn't. And that's worth it, if nothing else.

"Oh, I think I'm going to be sick," she quails, shifting in her seat in front of me.

"Don't fidget," I say just as a howling wind and the rain picks up.

"What!?"

"I said 'don't fidget'!" Seriously, Hermione, don't fidget. It's not a big broom, any more wiggling and you'll literally crush my balls. That and I don't want to have to deal with an erection in the middle of a high-speed chase.

Don't judge me, this thing has a bloody mind of its own.

Grunting, I pull up and over, flying upside-down for all intents and purposes, eliciting a hoarse scream from my charge, and toward my enemies, three pairs of two on Skylark 12s, the new premier model of racing broom, and as such, more than a match for my Nimbus 2600 ("Nimbus 2600 Black Edition" the salesman snootily reminded me when I bought it), which is several years old now.

"Relax," I mutter soothingly into Hermione's ear, "the broom has sticking charms on it, you're not gonna fall-off from going upside-down."

Hermione whimpers again.

Jesus, be more pathetic.

The blokes chasing us finally take note of me flying above them, and all whip out their wands. In less than a moment, the dreary, rainy sky comes alive with a multi-colored plethora of spells. There are too many colors in the lightshow to really take note of what's being shot at us, but there's no sense in testing it, so I dive down, narrowly avoiding the onslaught.

In the dive, we pass right by the first broom, taking point in a triangle formation, and I'm able to reach out knock off the driver, who falls off with a feminine scream into a busy part of the city below. Oh boy, the Obliviators are going to be out in force tonight.

But I haven't the time to admire my handiwork, as the second man on the broom regains control of it and bursts away, to the left, prompting me into a spellfight with him. I throw a blasting hex his way, but I don't get the angle quite right and the would-be-assassin dips low, and, with his compatriots, sends a return volley of red and green.

Speeding upward once more, I attempt to coax Hermione into being more than queasy dead weight on the broom.

"Hermione?" I ask, pulling backward and in a half-circle to end up behind my quarry.

"Mmm?" She moans into her hands, hiccuping.

"Do you want to be a mother someday?"

Hermione eyes me distastefully over her shoulder, all traces of sickness gone but not entirely forgotten. "What kind of stupid question is that? Of course I do!"

"Then bloody help me fight these people off or the only thing you'll end up is a pile of mush half a kilometer below us!"

Thankfully, she doesn't fight me on the issue, and simply reaches between myself and her and produces her wand from her back pocket. "Tell me what to do," she murmurs shakily.

"Attagirl," I praise lightly, "See the one on the left?" She nods. "When he gets close, send a flash charm at him, the brightest you can think of."

"Okay," she replies. "But what about the other two? They're coming as well."

"One of the brooms with two people on it will hang back, just in case we manage to take the others out. As for the second one, don't worry, I'll take care of them." I wait until they get a little closer, and sure enough, one of the three pulls back, waiting, as the other two close down.

Hermione shoots off the flash charm, which momentarily blinds the man maneuvering the broom, and, in a fit of sheer brilliance, she lights the bristles on fire with a well-placed incendio. Words can't describe how proud I am right now. But, we still have more to deal with, and congratulations can come later.

"Great shot, Herms! Now I just need you to do one more thing," I say as the second broom comes close, slightly under us.

"What's that?" Hermione asks, still somewhat elated by the deadeye shot.

"Fly this thing!" I shout, jumping off the broom and aiming toward the Skylark below.

"Wait, what!?" Hermione's shout of fear fades into the distance as two spells fly up at me, one a reductor and the other a killing curse, but thankfully, whether by shit aim or amazing dodging, they both miss and I arrest my momentum just as I hit the rider at the back and watch him fly off the broom with some glee.

The other rider, a woman, tries to swivel in her seat, but I jab my wand into her back quickly and mutter the two words to end a life. She slumps over and the Skylark heads into a steep dive. She slides off just as I grab the wooden handle and pull up to right myself. Looking up, I spot a pale Hermione rocking the broom back-and-forth gingerly, as though the blasted thing will burst into flame at any moment.

Which would be okay if she was fucking eleven and Hooch was still around, but she's ridden a broomstick before, quite well actually. Now's no time to turn chickenshit again.

I fly up level with her, only to receive an earful. "You absolute, gigantic, complete pillock! How could you just leave me here with no bloody warning!?"

"Sorry, there wasn't time," I say back, noticing the broom Hermione had set smoking was now totally on fire and on crash course with one of the taller buildings in the city. It's times like these I'm glad there are anti-apparition and anti-portkey wards all over this city, because they have nowhere to go but down.

My attention is brought back to my companion by way of a swift punch in the arm. "THERE WASN'T TIME!?" Hermione rages, "You arsehole! You complete, fucking bastard!"

That's twice I've gotten Hermione to drop a 'fuck' at me this year. I suppose I should be proud, in a way, not Ron or Malfoy even can push her buttons like that.

And the flamers crashed into the building. And then there were two.

"You think you can hit one of them from here?" I ask Hermione, ignoring her complaints. God, what I wouldn't give for my sniper... something. Seriously, what is it if it isn't a rifle?

Hermione pauses her rant and looks off in the distance, toward the two men careening toward us. "I don't know, maybe," she answers, before cutting herself off and regarding me suspiciously. "Why don't you?"

I try not to show my annoyance, but I know I'm failing at it: "Have you ever heard of a something called 'depth perception'?"

"Yes?"

"Well I don't bloody have it!"

Hermione has the decency to look abashed, at least. "Right," she coughs awkwardly, "I apologize."

"Oh, don't you go and try and guilt-trip me now!"

"I am not trying to guilt-trip you!"

"Save it, I know how your twisted mind works, you get off on it, you... you... shame strumpet!"

Hermione gasps. "How dare you!?"

"How dare I? How dare I!? I am here in the worst bloody city in Holland to keep your arse from being murdered by a bunch a psychopaths trying to psycho-murder you! You don't get to say 'how dare you'!"

Hermione shifts, bringing her broom into mine in a light jostle. "Well, don't let me keep you here! Fly on, you miserable bastard! And, really, how on earth is this the worst city in The Netherlands? The ICC is here, the ICW is here, it hosts the UN!"

"Are there prostitutes here?"

"What!?"

"I asked: are there prostitutes here?"

"I don't know, I don't think so?"

Well, that bloody confirms it. "See!? Worst city in Holland!"

I don't think I've ever seen Hermione actually facepalm, so that makes this particularly moment a treat. "You are such—" her rant is cut off before it can even begin by a nasally, French-accented voice:

"Avada Kedavra!" One of the two men shouts, and both of us turn to see that the two men have crossed the entire distance between us in the time Hermione and I have been arguing. Right then, we dodge the incoming spell (me by way of barrel roll and Hermione by way of an unskilled zig-zag) and give each other knowing looks. I'll take the one in back, and she's got the front.

I speed ahead, right toward them, to keep attention off Hermione and on me. They send a cadre of spells at me, but it's hardly enough, as I push downward and underneath, coming up behind them and locking my arms around the throat of the second rider, and dragging him off the broom in a makeshift chokehold. I think the amount of torque on it snaps the guy's neck immediately.

But it's when I smell something smoking that I realize the first rider has set the Skylark alight, and quickly too, as the wood splinters and breaks, and the solid shaft is replaced like limitless air. And as I sail to what will inevitably be an ignominious death, I can only think one thing: The fucking arsehole. He burns it!? After all I did to get this one? It's practically a bloody collector's item! I swear if I survive this fall, I'm going tear his throat out.

If I survive this fall.

Which is pretty bloody unlikely.

Falling is an interesting thing, now I've never been skydiving, but I can see the appeal. Even if my parachute is solid concrete 500 meters below, there is something undeniably thrilling about it. Of course, it may just be my screwed-up brain taking pleasure in the thought of dying. What was it that Freud called it? Thanatos?

That, of course, is abruptly cut short by a soft impact that is most assuredly not concrete, especially, because I'm now moving sideways at blistering speed. I turn around, dreading to see... goddamn it, it's Hermione. Saving my life. How bloody typical. I'm supposed to be protecting her, and here she is, saving my life.

"Protecting me, huh?" She asks archly, with windblown hair, one eyebrow cocked and a superior smile upon her lips.

Fuck you, Hermione. Fuck you and your smug face. Fuck you and being better at everything than me. Fuck you and your fucking eyebrows, too.

"How'd you even do that?"

"Oh. It was simple. I flew."

"So you went from pants-shitting terror to world cup caliber flying in thirty seconds?" I ask as the Frenchman swivels around to make a second run at us.

Hermione pinkens, but chooses not to respond, and instead looks down at the haft of the broom and down at the city below, hundreds of meters downward. "Erm... Harry?" She asks with an especially innocent pout.

"Yes?"

"Can you fly us?"

Where's your bravado now?

I nod indulgently. "Of course I can Herms, of course I can."

We speed away, but the Skylark is a top-of-the-line broom and is quickly catching up with us. It's only then that I stop to wonder exactly how these people can afford the brooms. I was a pretty successful mercenary myself and it'd take me several months, if not a years worth, of contract money to buy the damn thing. Are they all really that rich?

Have I undercharging people for my services? God, that would be embarrassing.

Hermione screams right in my ear, and I look up to see what the fuss is about, only to realize we're sailing headfirst toward a rather ugly brown skyscraper. Yawning widely, I pull hard to the right and the broom curves just in time to avoid the monolithic building. Unfortunately, the Frenchman is still following us, and still attempting to tag us with hexes.

I corkscrew and push down, dropping just in time to avoid a blasting hex, prompting Hermione to shoot off a stunner of her own, which misses just by a hair as the wizard shoots by, vainly attempting to pull up and spin backward onto us. I don't blame her for the miss: there's a reason why most smart wizards don't have duels in the air; it is literally impossible to lead a shot at this speed.

Apparently, the Frenchman got sick of this too, turning and heading straight for us, wand safely in its holster:

"Shit! Hermione, he's going to try and ram us! His broom's too fast for me to get away from, so if you've got a wondershot in you, do it now!"

Hermione eeps in terror, clearly not used to this kind of pressure. She fumbles with her wand for a moment and aims westward toward the Skylark bearing down on us as I try vainly to escape it. "Oh, bollocks, bollocks, bollocks, bollocks," she murmurs in a mantra, trying to get the perfect angle on the attacker, "Bombarda!" She shouts, as a jet of light speeds toward the Skylark, to close for the would-be assassin to dodge it. The broom splinters and breaks in his hands but the sheer momentum of the broom carries him right into us.

For the second time today, I feel like a skydiver.

Except with Hermione no less than five feet below me. Screaming her bloody head off.

I open my arms wide and will myself to fall faster, and catch up to Hermione, wrapping her in them as soon as I slip low enough to make contact. She stops screaming once I've got her held tight. There's no way to speak when you're nearing terminal velocity, so we have to do this the hard way.

One look and both of us know what to do.

We sail by skyscrapers and luxury flats toward a date with the terra firma in a back alley about half the city away from the International Criminal Court, which rather inconveniently, is nearby the ICW's deliberation hall Hermione was meant to go to. Thankfully, both of us still have our wands from the high-flying skirmish and point it downward. Hermione wordlessly arrests our momentum and I throw the strongest cushioning charm I can at the point of impact.

That being said, it still hurts like a bitch when we hit solid ground.

I lay there for a few moments afterward, dazed. But, eventually, self-preservation kicks in and I make sure the Frenchman's nowhere in sight. I look to my left, look to my right, and find no one nearby. Hopefully he didn't think as far ahead and just cracked his bloody head on the pavement. Bloody French.

"Are we dead?" Hermione groans, rolling over slowly so that she's laying half on my chest, half off.

"It wouldn't be the first time, or the second; how many more lives can I use up?" I hack out a cough and remain still, hoping that lack of movement will somehow lessen the pain. "Still, if I'm dead, where's Shirley Manson and why isn't she giving me a blowjob?"

Hermione lets out one of her patented huffs, though it sounds more like a pained wheeze than an exasperated scoff: "Shirley Manson isn't dead, Harry."

"So?" I retort. "It's heaven. Aren't you supposed to get what you want there?"

"There are so many things wrong with this scenario. One: Why would heaven give you a living person for purposes of fellatio?"

"Fine, God! Audrey Hepburn, then! Happy?"

"No. Because, two: what on earth makes you think you're going to heaven?"

I pause.

"Touché, Granger. Touché."

Hermione beams weakly, struggling to lift herself off me. After a moment of a vain struggling, she collapses back on to me. Ow, by the way: I'm ninety-eight percent sure I broke a rib in that fall.

"That was..." she begins.

"Incredible?" I supply.

"No you immense prat, it was terrifying," she rebuffs me quickly, and suddenly, lifts her head from my chest: "How did you do it, Harry?" She asks.

"Do what?" I ask, feigning ignorance, though we both know exactly what she's talking about.

Given that she's been my go-to source of advice for going on fourteen years now, I find it supremely unnerving when Hermione fidgets nervously, obviously as uncomfortable with the topic as I am. "Kill those people. You didn't even hesitate."

"Protecting you is more important than saving them. It's my job."

"I know it's your job," Hermione emphasizes, grasping the lapels of my suit with two small fists. "Just... how do you bring yourself to do something like that?" She's not trying to insult, I can tell by the look in her eyes, lost and childlike for someone usually so unflappable. We used to operate on the same wavelength; that fight up there, seven years ago, Hermione and I would have made such quick work of the myriad aspiring killers of the world. Such quick work.

And no one would have died. She wouldn't have let me. I wouldn't have wanted to.

But two roads diverged in a snowy wood and here we are.

Hermione lets go of my suit and rolls over to the side, staring up at the sky with me as the rain slows to a drizzle.

Somehow, I doubt these musings would go over well if spoken aloud, and, well, the truth about me and killing would make me sound like a sociopath. Besides, the truth's never fun. Levity is fun, so I go for that instead:

"Oh," I warble dismissively, "well, that's easy enough: I just pretend, whoever it is, that he hates 'The Master and Margarita' and then I put him in the ground. Seriously, Hermione, there's no room for mercy against those artistic savages. Plus, it's great for decreased libido."

Hermione spears me with a sideways arch look. "Are you telling me you want to have sex because you killed a person?"

"I mean... do you not?"

"No, I don't, and certainly not with you," she shudders, like I'm mouldy bread or something.

Don't be so honest, you bint. There's being truthful and then there's being a fucking wanker about it.

"Not what I was implying, Squirrel, because believe me, the feeling's mutual. I'd go soft inside a minute from your idea of dirty talk."

"Merlin, you're never going to let me live that down, are you? Because I-and you're trying to distract me from the original question," Hermione huffs at my grin. "Will I ever get a serious answer out of you?"

"Maybe someday," I reply, snaking an arm underneath Hermione's head and around her shoulders to give the brunette a friendly pat. "But, today? We have so much more to worry about. Like bills, and the seven year-old we're somehow taking care, oh, and of course, who could forget the inevitable magi-technological apocalypse the Americans and Russians are sure to bring upon the world when this little conclave of ours goes sour?"

"When?" Hermione scoffs, but she appears to be fighting a ghost of a smile. "Not 'If'? Such faith you have in the Ministry."

"What can I say? Lauren's slowly but surely turning me into a Glaswegian."

"Jelly and ice cream," she returns laconically, sparking a short burst of laughter from both of us, which, given the circumstances, is nothing quite short of a miracle. I make to get up, but Hermione doesn't budge from above my arm.

"Just one more minute," she says, "I swear I'll be up in a moment, honestly."

"We haven't got that kind of time," I reply, lifting Hermione up with me and ignoring the sharp pain in my chest. "we shouldn't be out in the open like this." Hermione cries out in pain the second we're back on our feet and stumbles into me. "What is it?" I question hurriedly, holding her with both arms.

"My leg!" She cries and grits her teeth, hands immediately flying to her left thigh.

"Is it broken? Can you walk?"

"I—I think so," Hermione nods pulling hair back from the wispy disarray that was once a chignon into a hastily-made ponytail, as she moves slowly and gingerly as I shoot a numbing charm toward her leg.

"That should help with the pain," I say, "come on, we need to move, get to some place where we can stay until someone gives us an all-clear."

"There!" Hermione says, pointing to a small building some hundred yards and across a deserted street that appears to be a hotel. "We can stay there."

I don't like the look of the place: it's small, shoddy, and looks a less than savory place, but beggars can't be choosers. Besides, it's only muggles, worse comes to worse and we can just stun everyone and leave, right?

Right?

Of all the places to be: in glamour at a Dutch knobbing-shop with Hermione.

"I was wrong," I admit laughingly, "I guess there are prostitutes here."

Hermione's glare has lost some of its intensity underneath the glamour I placed over both of us: She's a pretty, brown-haired, green-eyed number reminiscent of one of Tracey's many metamorph disguises, and I've settled into my usual Granger-brown hair and Weasley-blue-eyed disguise as we totter into the brothel.

A man sits with two women so far out of his league that I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from laughing. Both women drape themselves over the man and reach down for his crotch, at which Hermione blushes. You'd think given the things she's done, Hermione would be less embarrassed by sex, but I guess not.

The madame herself, a plump, but not unattractively so, woman, gives Hermione and I an appraising look with a slight smile from behind the elegantly curved marble counter, as if she gets couples like us all the time. She speaks in Dutch, but thanks to a translator spell Hermione cast on both of us in the alley, we can understand her perfectly:

"Don't worry," she says with a lascivious grin, "I get couples wanting to take their relationship 'to the next level' all the time. There are lots of girls on hand. Or men, if you like them."

A threesome with Hermione? Well, I guess there's worse ways to spend an afternoon. Like execution by firing squad. Or rectal feeding at Abu Ghraib. Or listening to Ron talk about his toenail fungus.

We pay for a room, and by we, I mean Hermione, because I'm simply too cheap to admit that I've got an emergency stash on me. We don't pay for a shag buddy. A crying shame, I know, but there are, unfortunately, more important things to worry about. Like fixing Hermione's leg and my ribs. We head for the stairs, nestled into a corner of the brothel, but just at that moment, however, story of my goddamn life, that last assassin who destroyed the Skylark, and my Nimbus now, bursts through the door and Hermione's eyes fly to mine, knowing we need to make a decision quick. The glamours won't fool him for long unless we become unobtrusive. And so, we come full circle, to the original distraction I would have used had Tracey been in Hermione's place, all other options worn out by the tenacity of the hitman.

You know, I've spent so much time as the hitman, I never knew being the hit was so bloody stressful.

But never mind that, our would-be killer is closing in and I have to make a decision, so I back Hermione into the wall with more force and urgency than I would have liked, and lean into her ear.

"Whatever you do, please don't make any noise," I whisper. "And, I'm sorry," I add as the hitman rounds the corner and I seal my lips against hers. Her eyes remain forced open in something resembling shock, surprise, and what very well might be revulsion and I have to communicate with my own. Close your eyes goddamnit!

After a moment, she complies, closing her eyes and moving her lips in a facsimile of a natural kiss as our quarry passes by, taking no note of the snogging couple.

Hermione's tongue pokes my own, shocking both of us a little bit.

I can't even begin to describe how weird this feels.

As the hitman passes us, I run a hand up Hermione's leg and trail it up the curve of her bum, at which she makes a shocked little squeaking sound and I flash her an annoyed glare, and pat around, annoyed I can't find what I want. So I place a second hand on her bum, to another chitter from the brunette, trying vainly to find her wand in her back pocket.

You know, weird, creepy incest-y feelings aside, she really does have a nice arse.

Finally, I can feel the outline of a thin piece of wood in her pocket, it only took me a good fifteen seconds of molesting my best friend to find it.

Once the man has has cleared us, I grasp Hermione's wand and pull it from her pocket, sending the most powerful blasting hex I can think of at him. The man hears the curse and whirls around to see a jet of red light coming at him. Quicker than I expected him to, he sends up a shield charm, which my hex breaks, but otherwise does no damage, and disarms me easily:

"Harry Potter," he greets slowly with a French accent and an equally French sneer, apparently both seeing past my glamour and the prick who set my new Skylark on fire, "the Hero of England."

"God. I really wish people would stop calling me that. For the last bloody time, you band of continental fucks: I'm not English, I'm Welsh!"

"No you're not," Hermione interjects, incredulous.

"Am too."

"You were raised in Surrey!"

I won't be quick enough on the draw with my wand to get off a surprise attack.

"Was born in Godric's Hollow, like literally ten kilometers from Swansea. That makes me Welsh."

Maybe a stunner?

"You've never even been back to Wales since the Horcrux hunt."

I can do stunners wandless, and we can keep him alive long enough to question him.

"So? Still Welsh."

But do I really want to interrogate a bloke with Hermione in the room?

"You constantly say they're sheep-shaggers!"

And do I really even want to give him the opportunity to escape and become a nuisance later on?

"Aye, they probably are," I nod sagely.

No. No I don't.

"Then that would make you a sheep-shagger!"

I do have a gun.

"Hey, Herms, what's not to love about sheep?" I grin.

It's quicker than a wand.

"Ugh," Hermione cringes, "you disgust me."

And more permanent than a stunner.

"Amusing," the Frenchman says, "but it won't delay your death." He gives a rather fancy flourish of the wand.

All the while not noticing me reaching for the gun in the wasteband of my trousers.

"Oh, fuck off," I shoot him twice in the chest from the hip. He jerks at each bullet and falls over, twitching as the blood leaks out of him. The cocky ones are always the easiest to kill.

And yes, I am aware of the manifest irony in that statement.

I become slowly aware that everyone around Hermione and I is screaming. The ugly man and the two beautiful prostitutes, and the madame. I can't blame them I suppose, I did just gun down a man in their brothel.

Hermione seems to react faster than me, snatching her wand back from me and quickly uttering the memory charm four times, each striking the shellshocked patrons of the knobbing shop before they have the presence of mind to run. The screaming stops immediately and they all turn back to us with blank looks. She turns back to me with a supremely annoyed look:

"Harry James Potter," she scolds, "you will take your hand off my bum or so help me I will cut it off."

"I don't know if I want to," I return cheekily, "it's such a nice bum. I mean, seriously, how many squats do you do a day?"

"Zero," she replies, slapping my hand away from its perch on her rear. "I'm a counselor, Harry. I don't have time or the need to go to a fitness center. I suppose it has something to do with being a witch."

"Magic is such a wonderful thing," I shrug and throw a few cleaning charms here and there before levitating the dead man to hiding spot somewhere up the stairs. "Come on," I say, leading her up the same steps, "I need to get you away from prying eyes."

The walk to our door is silent, until Hermione, unfortunately, decides to break it:

"So, about... that..."

I set my lips in a thin line as I survey the brunette. "Can we just not talk about it?"

Surprisingly, Hermione nods. "That would suit me best, yes."

"Aces," I deadpan. As far as I'm concerned we can keep quiet about that till the rapture and it would suit me just fine. "Let's move."

I'm grateful for the silence, it allows us to avoid discussing such an awkward topic. And to be sure, it's an awkward topic. While I'm sure Hermione's reticence to discuss the brothel has much to do with the simple fact that she views me as the deeply unintelligent brother she never had, my fear is much simpler, much more primal: For close to fifteen years now, Hermione has had my six at all times (something I never thank her enough for), and the reason why I've staved off attraction to her even as she's grown into a woman is by pretending that it would be like shagging my mother and the Virgin Mary at the same time.

And we all know that's a lie. Sadly as it is, if it has two decent legs and a fanny, I'd probably shag it.

It's a problem, I admit it.

But, I digress. I fear that if I reason I consider Hermione a sexual creature in the slightest, I'll end up lost and undone, pining for her because I am the romantic analogue to a skag addict: I'm apparently very prone to falling in love, or more accurately, lust. And when I do, there's no stopping it. I turn into a complete arsehole. Whinging about the Yule Ball, Monsters in chests, and the like.

So it's with some trepidation that I unlock the door to our love suite and promptly cringe at the decor. God, it's like Norman Bates went on an LSD-fueled rampage in here. Red walls, red carpets, red drapes, a red lava lamp, dim lighting, faint sensual music in the background. And a bloody heart-shaped bed.

"Oh my," says Hermione awkwardly. "Right. Well, um... what now?"

"Now you get on the bed."

"What?"

"So I can check your leg," I drawl, causing Hermione to pinken in embarrassment.

"Right, erm well... right!" She exclaims, still a bit awkwardly, and points toward the bed.

"Take off your trousers," I say as she settles on the bed. Ugh. Even the sheets are red. And they're silk. I need to take a closer look at her leg and make sure it's not a fracture or a break. When I look up, however, Hermione is sitting there, arms crossed, spearing me with the most scandalized look:

"Come again?" She says, sounding a bit incredulous.

Not in the mood to deal with this bullshit right now, I opt for a simpler solution. I transfigure the pen I took from reception into a karambit, grab her trousers about the waist, and split down it with the knife.

"What the fresh bloody hell do you think you're doing!?" Hermione squeaks when I've cut down the length of her injured leg, exposing blue knickers and mostly cream colored skin, except for the growing patch of purple on her thigh.

"For Christ's sake, quit your whinging, you can fix it after I've checked your leg," I grouse, activating a diagnostic spell that isn't altogether too different from X-Ray technology, as Hermione looks away with an exasperated huff. "It's broken. You wouldn't have been able to take your trousers off even if you wanted to. I'll have to make a field repair, but it won't be permanent: I don't trust my healing spells enough to choose it over a doctor, so the moment we're safe, you need to go to a real hospital."

"I know. Just because I haven't been out there brutalizing terrorists with you, it doesn't mean I don't remember a simple healing spell." Hermione says testily.

"Of course," I reply with an indulgent smile, "how could I forget?"

Hermione huffs, able to read my sarcasm from a mile away. "Sod off," she crosses her arms moodily, waiting for me to fix her leg. I press both hands to her thigh and intone, "Ossidium instauro!" Hermione gasps in pain at the unexpected discomfort. "Sorry, Herms, it's going to hurt a bit."

"Oh, wow, you think!?"

"There. Done. You know, I think all these years behind a desk have softened you, and turned you into an insufferable whinger. What happened to the strong girl in the tent?"

"She was starving, angry, and any coward can be strong when half-delirious with fear of what might happen to them should Voldemort's side have won."

That sets my mouth into a thin line. "Death, at best, torture and slavery at pretty goddamn bad, and torture and another kind of slavery, at worst. I know how those people worked. I've seen the reports from MI-7."

"What did they say?"

"Let's just say some muggleborns had it rough and leave it at that."

Hermione catches the underlying meaning of my reticence to discuss it any further. "I never knew."

"You wouldn't. The Ministry immediately classified some of the things the Death Eaters did and tried them in secret. Better to have people wondering where certain purebloods went than knowing the extent of what the Death Eaters did."

"That's horrible."

"People are horrible. We can be immeasurably cruel when we want to be. And that's why we need people like you."

Hermione looks up, surprised. "Me? What does this have to do with me?"

I sigh. "I'm going to tell you something right now, and it's going to sound strange on account of how many times you've said it to me: but, out of three of us, you, me, and Ron, no one is important as you."

"What? That's a lie! You defeated Voldemort; God, Harry, sometimes I think you're completely oblivious to how important that actually was to us. To all of us!"

"Believe me, Hermione, I never forget," I answer seriously. "But I can't change much about our country, it doesn't matter if I kill one Dark Lord or one-thousand. You have the chance. You have the chance right here at this bloody stupid conference. Keep your head on straight and you might be able change the world, let alone England."

The brunette looks lost for words, as if she's unused to taking compliments.

Suddenly, there's a vibration in my pocket. As I lean in to find it, a sharp pain jabs at my chest and I double over, clutching at my side.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaims. "Are you alright? What is it?"

"Broken rib," I reply through gritted teeth. "I can fix it, but I think Tracey's trying to get in contact with me."

"How?"

"A Spanish galleon in my pocket, works as a two-way radio," Before I can do anything, she jabs a hand in my pocket and rifles around. I'd make a dirty joke right now, but my chest hurts too goddamn much to take a another swat from Hermione.

She bypasses my mokeskin pouch and fingers the gold coin, pulling the glowing object out. "How on earth do I activate this thing?"

"Let me just talk into it," I say, at which Hermione holds the coin a scant few inches from my mouth. "Miss Davis. How can I help you this fine morning?"

"Cut the shit, Potter; I've been trying to reach you all day. Where's Granger?" Tracey's exasperated and tired voice fills up the room.

"Standing next to me," I reply, somewhat taken aback at Tracey's rude hello. "Someone's in a mood."

"You would be too if you were anywhere near the ICW Headquarters."

Hermione cuts in before I can reply. "What's going on, Tracey? Have they reconvened?" Good, at least this gives me some time to patch myself up.

"Reconvened?" Tracey sounds amused. "Practically everyone wants to get the hell out of this city, let alone continue this conference. The Americans and the Russians are at each others' throats as well."

I sit down and unbutton my vest and shirt, looking for any bruising.

"But..." Hermione begins, "but negotiations were going so well yesterday." Oh. So negotiations were going well, then? I missed the whole bloody thing trying to unsuccessfully capture Arbeid.

"Ossidium instauro!" I whisper lowly with hands pressed on a blue patch of skin at my side, and by God it fucking hurts, like someone's jabbed a bleeding knife between my ribs.

"That was yesterday. Both of the American Secretary of Magic and the Russian Premier were caught in the crossfire, and for some bloody reason, they're blaming each other for the attack." My partner replies.

"Don't they know the attack was directed at me?" Hermione asks.

"Maybe, I couldn't possibly tell you. All I know is they're intent on pointing fingers at each other."

"My God, I have to get there!"

"Absolutely not," Tracey's tone brooks no argument. "You'll just get yourself killed trying to come to the Headquarters. It's where they'll be will be waiting for you. I'll come along to get you once I've tracked down Arbeid. After which, Harry, you know what needs to be done."

"Yes, ma'am," I reply disinterestedly as the connection on the coin cuts off and I begin re-knotting my tie. "How on earth does she get off giving me orders? Aren't we supposed to be partners?"

"Working as partners with you? I can certainly see why she'd do it," Hermione scoffs. "You only understand being bossed around. Merlin knows I had to rely on it like a whipping cane."

"That's only because I like being bossed around by you."

"Spare me the juvenile attempt at charm," Hermione drawls, "it doesn't work on me."

"You're no bloody fun," I say; Hermione arches an eyebrow in response. "Fine. Then I guess it's settled: we wait here until Tracey can get a fix on Arbeid."

"Davis mentioned her. Who is she?"

"Of course, you don't know," I reply. "Hilde Arbeid is a Dutch assassin renowned for her ability to kill at long-range. She's killed no less than fifty people already, and aims to make it fifty-one with you. She's very, very, good, from what I've seen."

"You sound admiring."

"Part of me does admire her. She's one of the best at what she does."

"Right," Hermione says pithily, "that's very comforting, Harry, thank you."

I grin easily back at her. "Relax, Herms, she's not going to hurt you."

"And how can you be so sure?"

"Because I've got license to kill her," I reply seriously, before breaking out into an exhilarated laugh, "God, that felt great to say."

"This isn't allaying any fears."

"It should," I answer soothingly, placing a friendly arm round her shoulders, "I eat Dark Lords for breakfast. What's one paltry assassin?" Sure, I killed both Dark Lords by complete accident and deus ex machina, respectively, but it still counts right?

Hermione observes me sourly. "Okay. Sure, Tracey tracks Arbeid. Then what?"

I shrug. "Tracey and Boris come here, I hand you over to the old man, who takes you someplace safer while Tracey and I hit Arbeid and hopefully take her down and come back a conquering hero."

"My knight in shining armor," Hermione intones sarcastically as we set to waiting.

Several hours later, we're still waiting, and Hermione's been pestering me with attempts to get into conversation, so I indulge her just this once:

"Okay then, Herms, since you've suddenly become interested in conversation and my childhood, what did you want to be?"

Hermione snorts, as if it's the simplest thing in the world: "Well I wanted to be an author, obviously."

In hindsight, that is actually rather obvious.

"You know you could still do it, right?" I say, "just get a pen or quill or whatever the fuck we're using these days and write about us, just change our names or something; I mean, it's not like we're lacking stories. My entire bloody life is one." I finish, gesturing vaguely at the air to symbolize the entire situation we're in at the moment.

"Are you suggesting we live in a novel?" Hermione quips with an unimpressed stare.

"No. But we could. Of course, it would have your dry, stale commentary. You'd need Ron and meself in it, if only to keep from boring your readers into a stroke."

"Ha-ha, Hermione is so unfunny, Hermione is so boring, Hermione is such a swot. Honestly, Harry, you need new material. And I've rather heard enough of you killing my childhood dreams; what was your great ambition, oh high-and-mighty king of everything?"

...Was that supposed to be a joke? God, Hermione, you suck.

"I wanted to go to Disneyland."

"Having a laugh?"

"No. I was just a very stupid child."

"Glad to see not much has changed."

"Right, come back to me when I lend you amateur pornography starring myself."

"This again?"

"Don't be so bothered by it, Herms, at least you and Ron had a sex life. Ginny just flopped about like a dying fish with a wide-set vagina, for some reason," I pause shortly, awkwardly, "Right. Bad analogy. However, I suppose it's true what they say about the bookish ones: swot by day, nympho by night."

"Lovely."

"Is what your arse is."

Hermione flushes, but covers it up with a furious glare. "Oh my God, Harry, honestly, can we just once have a serious conversation? Just once?"

"Calm down, calm down," I say in my best scouse imitation, "I didn't actually think much of my future. All I knew was my Aunt and Uncle took my cousin on expensive trips across the world to wherever he liked and left me a latchkey."

"And one of those places was Disneyland?"

"Oh yeah, come on, like you never wanted to go?," I ask, "I imagined flying cars and talking computers and Robocop on every street. Of course I got to see it a few years back and it was just bog-standard average. Like being stranded in Scunthorpe, or something."

Hermione just surveys me like this is some sort of psychological skeleton key that explains the numerous issues I have. I don't know why it took her so long, I diagnosed myself ages ago: PTSD and, more recently, an Oedipus Complex.

Seriously though, can you blame me? They're bloody redheads. Me ol' da' had some sense, it seems.

"Maybe it had to do with you finding out there's magic?"

"No, I think it's general cynicism. I mean, now it's all global warming and oil sheikhs instead flying cars, and people trying to censor the internet, and coppers beating up Pakistani teenagers in Manchester because of something people did half the world away. What would HAL and Robocop really do for us? When you think about it, Tomorrowland's just a load of shite."

"But that's not Tomorrowland, you just thought it was much better than it is."

"And that's exactly what I'm talking about. Even how we imagine the future is shit. Even our dreams lack imagination these days."

"Ugh. When did you become such a depressing sod?"

"We can keep on talking about your bum, instead. I like that topic a lot."

"I hate you."

"But honestly, it's like the Sistine Chapel of arses."

"Can you stop talking about my bum!?"

"Why would I? Especially when it annoys you this much?"

"Sweet Merlin, where in God's name is Davis?"

Tracey eventually arrives with Boris, and, surprisingly, Ron. They knocked on the door, and before I could even confirm who it was, Hermione wrenched it open. Boris gave me a disapproving glare for letting Hermione so close to the door, and I was fuming. But, of course, the bint doesn't even look the least bit apologetic:

"It's what you get for being such a gigantic plonker," she said snootily, with an equally smug grin.

Ron greets me with a typical smile and nod, and Tracey stands off to the side with a demure little smile upon her lips, observing the room as Boris makes to talk to Hermione.

"Nice digs," she says when I get close, "how many times did you and the great negotiator shag, then?"

"Oh, come off it, Miss Davis, you know you're the only woman for me," I return lowly.

"Don't I know it?"

"So," I begin seriously, "did you track down Arbeid?"

Tracey sighs, rubbing her forehead in frustration. "No, unfortunately. Boris will take Granger and keep her somewhere safe while we look for Arbeid. The Americans and the Russians are at each other's throats but Minister Shacklebolt along with the German Chancellor managed to get the talks pushed back several days while we deal with the clean up."

"How much time are we talking?"

"Three days. Tops."

I sigh. "Not a lot of time if Arbeid's half as good as Ron says she is."

"I know," empathizes Tracey, "but we'll manage."

"Two people? For an entire city? I'm not holding my breath."

"It won't just be us. Weasley's Auror team are donating a few to help us."

"Oh, great. Need to find a dangerous assassin? Get a team of the most incompetent Aurors in the world," I drawl.

Tracey swats at my shoulder lightly. "You take that back; Merlin knows you need supervision when working under time constraints."

"No I don't!" I exclaim, somewhat offended at Tracey's low opinion of me.

"Really?" Tracey arches an eyebrow. "Remember Istanbul?"

I open my mouth to argue, but then promptly close it when I remember Istanbul.

"Bloody football," she mutters underneath her breath, "you're a wizard; why can't you watch Quidditch like the rest of us?"

"Because football's a better sport," I reply.

"And you say you're not a hipster."

"Oi. Fuck you."

A/N: So, apparently, there's going to be another chapter in Holland. I should really stop trying to predict when arcs end and just write it. Not much to say for upcoming stuff, but I do have quite a bit with chapter notes.

Chapter Notes:

Wand-Rifle: Someone asked why not choose long-range casting instead of using a rifle last chapter. The easiest answer I can give is: if I allowed for long-range casting, that becomes the recommended strategy for any sort of engagement. If you're able to move around and cast while far away, you'll always do that, since it minimizes danger at the expense of some efficiency. If that happens, the fight turns into deadlocked, long-distance, symmetrical combat reminiscent of old-school trench warfare in the real world. That's neither interesting nor practical in single combat. So the wand is always the recommended weapon for an actual fight. But I don't want to make it effective at long-distance as well, because, given the type of person Harry is (who will take any shortcut available to down an enemy), he would abuse that and all duels would be boring as shit. And that's complicated enough as it is, even without getting into the science of depth perception in a monosighted person for either the two options. So, the simplest answer is the best: Wand-rifle it is.

Hermione saves Harry: I actually quite liked this idea. If these past two chapters have been analogous to a Bond film, and Tracey's pretty much Moneypenny, Hermione has to be the "Bond girl". So, I wanted to make Hermione the anti-Bond girl: while not unattractive, she doesn't ooze sex appeal; she's not infatuated with our Bond analogue, nor is she trying to trick him in any way; and finds herself in the reverse of the "Bond saves girl" trope. That and, frankly, I despise the idea of Hermione being a damsel in distress. So, that's pretty much why she suddenly channeled Senna to pluck Harry out of the sky.

Wales: I wonder, are all babies born to a wizarding family delivered at St. Mungo's? Because that might actually make Harry English. But, for the sake of comedy, he's going to be Welsh. Because being Welsh is kinda funny. Sorry Gareth Bale, you know it's true. Side-note: Godric's Hollow is a terrible name for a Welsh hamlet, it should be something like Wyvrnlwynnblyd.

The Master and Margarita: If you don't know what it is, or do know but haven't read it, why are you wasting your time reading the drivel I projectile-vomited onto a computer screen instead of that masterpiece?

Shirley Manson: Frontwoman for Garbage. Coincidentally a redhead, and the greatest thing Scotland has engineered since single-malt scotch and Kenny Dalglish, though I suppose the Mayberry-Cook-Doherty power trio is giving ol' Shirls a run for her money these days.

Bonus: Drunk Ideas

My brother thinks the best ideas for writing come when you're drunk, and that's why so many writers are alcoholics. I disagree. These are ideas I had while not completely sober that never made it into the story, and probably for good reason. I'll drop one every chapter:

1.) Hermione the Brummie

Since I don't believe it's ever mentioned exactly where Hermione's from in England (though it's most likely London), she and her parents were originally supposed to be from Birmingham, which is why she and Harry live there in the fic. Why, you ask? Because could you imagine ultra-intelligent Hermione with a brummie accent? This would factor into her need to be perceived as smart during the trio's school-years, because her accent would have made her sound like a rube. The idea was eventually scrapped because I assumed most readers would probably imagine anything Hermione said in Emma Watson's posh, somewhat scholarly accent, no matter what I said about it, so much of the comedy about it would have been lost.

I kept Birmingham, even though Hermione's parents live in Crawley, because literally every other post-Hogwarts fic takes place in London. Seriously guys, some originality, please? Just once, someone set a fic in Bristol, or Newcastle, or Liverpool, or Edinburgh, just some place in the UK other than London?

-/-/-/-/-

Thanks for reading,
Geist.