Birdwatcher
Chapter 7
Sunday, 1 May 2005
Hermione woke up with the rain gossiping against the windows around her, the inclement weather refusing to leave Lacock be. She tried to move but couldn't, her limbs detained in Harry's strong arms that held onto her like a lifeline. His morning glory poked and prodded her bottom as if it was searching for an entrance so they could resume their rabid lovemaking. Sex was a robust exercise routine as any, instigating her energetic doppelgänger that thrived as Harry drilled his massive erection inside of her over and over so much she experienced her very first orgasm. It was stimulating, the space between her legs a raging furnace that set her whole body on fire. Their voices were a melodic mix of fervour and passion as he fucked her like a wild animal, permanently marking his territory like a true Gryffindor lion.
A moaning mess, she was barely aware of Harry's baby batter wreaking havoc inside her uterus. It was lucky they thought to cast the Contraception Charm, or else there would've been a high likelihood one of his sperm cells was currently in the process of fertilising one of her eggs. It took about twenty-four hours, didn't it? But Hermione wasn't considering children yet, not even with her biological clock ticking ever closer to midnight. There was time for that later, perhaps with the same bespectacled, green-eyed wizard stirring awake behind her.
So here she was, an agent handler in bed with a counterintelligence officer. It would've been a more than admirable conquest if not for the general election approaching at breakneck speed. Before then, Tom Riddle was one of two obstacles that had to be taken care of. Rookwood, the other. The former was shrouded in duplicity, the magical community poorly prepared for the British Family Planning Initiative that was to be forced upon them. The latter was a birdwatcher that threatened to unveil the trove of secrets hidden in the Department of Mysteries for over three hundred years. Such dire consequences were motivation enough to target these rogue individuals, betraying democracy for the sake of bigotry and prejudice against Muggles. They had to be disposed of, no matter the cost.
"Fancy a spot of breakfast?" Harry asked, his long fingers like delicate spiders as they travelled across her hips.
"Not if Rookwood decides to drop by the betting shop first thing in the morning," Hermione replied. "I don't fancy having to finish him off at the Leaky Cauldron over a full English."
"Had a big night, did he?" said Harry. "Tell me, do you think Tom does the full whack?"
"The magic nine, you mean?" she asked, trying to ignore his assiduous erection under the duvet. She had since become well acquainted with the hulking beast, Harry's laboured panting a clear signal the blasted thing was seconds away from filling her with a sticky load of cum. Messy as it was, she was proud his body was under her command. "Never mind. The general election is on Thursday. There's little time left." She swung her legs around, ignoring the temperature that pricked her skin like small knives. Her bra and knickers on the floor were justifiably tangled with Harry's discarded boxer briefs already there.
"It's too bad the Sunday Trading Act only restricts the hours of larger establishments. If the betting shop was bigger than two hundred and eighty square metres, you'd be forced to wait with me until ten or so."
"Except that Sunday trading has never been regulated in Diagon Alley," she countered. "The Ministry of Magic doesn't concern itself with acts of Parliament."
"I'll let you go on top this time," Harry offered hopefully, hands pillowing his head. "What's another hour anyway with all this bloody rain?"
"Let's make a deal. If you go to Greggs and get sausage rolls, we'll stay and eat here."
Harry jumped out of bed, threw on his clothes, and Disapparated with frightening speed.
Hermione smiled, going down to the kitchen to prepare the tea. She filled a kettle with water, waving her wand to bring it to a boil. Unable to locate cups and saucers in the cupboard, she deposited English breakfast teabags from Twinings into mugs instead. Pouring the water, she let them steep for several minutes.
Rain speckled the windows as Hermione watched the dismal and sombre clouds drift by like a funeral procession, a sparrow in their midst. She picked up her jumper and put it on, crossing her arms over her chest to ward off the morning chill. As charming as Lacock was, her home in Abbotsbury Wizarding Village was difficult to beat. One of more than a dozen that slept in the side of the rolling hills so prevalent in the neighbouring county of Dorset, they were a stone's throw away from the old Muggle village that was the sight of a battle between the Cavaliers and Roundheads during the English Civil War in 1644. She had a terrific view of St Catherine's Chapel, miniscule against the much more noticeable Chesil Beach and the Fleet. Beyond was the Isle of Portland, extant on the waters of the English Channel.
"Had to go all the way to Devizes to find an open Greggs," came Harry's voice from behind her. "But I got you a sausage roll all the same. The steak bake's for me."
"You're just in time," Hermione said. "I'm almost done with the tea." She fished out the teabags, adding a splash of milk and two teaspoons of sugar.
"Cheers," he replied.
As they tucked into their breakfasts, Hermione became fully aware that she was still in a pair of knickers, her jeans long abandoned, wondering if Harry enjoyed the view of her backside when he returned seconds prior. It was a fair trade, wasn't it? She certainly enjoyed the view of his backside in the mirror as he shagged her during the long hours of night.
"Reckon the betting shop opens at half eight or nine," Harry said, attacking his food with abandon. "We'll get him right before he goes in."
"What about your dad? He knows we were asking around for Rookwood couple weeks back. Might he suspect us as the ones who took him to the gallows?"
"I wouldn't worry too much about it. It's not as if there's a lot of evidence we can leave behind, is there? Regardless, Dad's in Manchester at the moment."
"Manchester?" Hermione repeated. "Is he with that godfather of yours?"
Harry nodded, "My parents had another row. They both left and sought refuge in their own ivory towers, as per usual. Might be better for my own sanity if they kept away from each other moving forward. It's mad listening to them argue, no matter if they get a good buzzing out of it."
James and Lily's deteriorating relationship was antithetical to Hermione's own parents, Billy and Margaret. Coincidentally, they were all the same age. For this reason, it came as quite a surprise when Hermione was born during Billy and Margaret's Bachelor of Dental Surgery programme at University College London. Her dad was nineteen and her mum eighteen. They sacrificed a lot during Hermione's childhood, not exceeding their resource limit by having a second baby, even though discussions about such were rampant. After opening their own dental practice on the Broadway in Crouch End, they were content with what they had. That's why Hermione never received a brother or sister, no matter how tenacious she was asking Father Christmas for one or the other over the holiday. The most important thing was that Billy and Margaret were proud of their daughter, even if the details of her job as an agent handler for MI6 remained obscure. Was the matter of children so important to James that he was willing to surrender a once perfect relationship with Lily? It sounded strange when Billy and Margaret were happy with just one of their own.
In a related manner, what was to come of Harry and Hermione's potential relationship? They've spent much of it mapping out the murder of the next Minister for Magic and his Unspeakable spy. Was sex a retainer for all their troubles? She wondered if Harry was on a bit of a high, seeking pleasure as the threat of death prowled London's dreary corners. Assuming they survived the ordeal, would Harry continue to see her in the absence of saving the magical community from a ruthless dictator that Tom Riddle promised to be? Or would he believe the danger had passed, withdrawing back to his counterintelligence duties and leaving Hermione for a younger bird he found more intriguing? The thought sickened her. Simply put, she fancied Harry and wanted to know if he felt the same.
"Can I ask you something?" Hermione began, nervousness bubbling in the pit of her stomach. "Do you want to continue whatever we have between us when the general election is over?"
Surprised, Harry said, "Where's this coming from, all of a sudden?"
"I'm curious," she answered, unable to meet his gaze. "We've spent more time together in the past month than we've had in the last fourteen years since starting Hogwarts. You don't think this whole situation with Tom Riddle and Rookwood is an exaggeration of our feelings, do you?"
"Funny, I never found murder to be romantic."
"Are you interested in me?" Hermione asked, refusing to trapeze across the fence that separated fact from fiction. They were adults, weren't they? Having a conversation about such things was to be expected, no matter how awkward the discourse might be. The line separating him from her was vague, barely recognisable since they never labelled their affaire de cœur. Were they friends? Were they lovers? She hated the unknown, turning to books to cure her state of confusion. But what epic tome could be of assistance in this case?
"I thought sex was enough of an explanation," Harry said. "I take care of my John Thomas much more than those lecherous blokes who're getting their end way with the poor birds they happen to chat up at the pub."
"When did it start?" she questioned, ecstatic Harry decided against hedging his bets and playing coy. Her insides were going head over heels in a series of dizzying somersaults as she waited for his response.
"Same as you, I presume, that night at Rules. Your smile was what did me in. I found it very attractive," he explained, staring at her intently. "I don't remember much of it at Hogwarts, not even when you finally mastered the Patronus Charm."
"I was too busy studying," Hermione said, caressing one of the many love bites on her neck. "Wanted to get as many O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s as possible. It's silly, I know. I practically lived in the library-,"
"And I practically lived on the Quidditch pitch," Harry finished.
"Along with Cormac?"
He snorted, "Numpty if I ever saw one. Ron was a much better Keeper than that twat."
"Ron plays for the Chudley Cannons, doesn't he?"
"Doing alright for himself, I'd say. Lives near Teignbridge in Devon with his girlfriend, Lavender."
"How could I forget?" Hermione asked. "Caught them snogging behind the portrait of Timothy the Timid on the fifth-floor corridor more than I care to admit. Claim they were using a shortcut down to the greenhouses. Cost Gryffindor a shedload of points. And he was a prefect!"
"Sometimes, we can't help ourselves when we see someone we fancy."
Hermione was glad she was sitting down or else she might've fainted at the way Harry was looking at her. It was almost feral, a hungry predator daring anyone foolish enough to do her harm for he already staked his claim. For the first time in her life, she felt desirous, like she was longed for and wanted, that she was the sun who bested Icarus. And in a sky full of stars, she burned the brightest. Not even Seamus could compare to Harry's virility. They were at opposite ends of the spectrum, Harry a lot more dominant than Seamus's tranquil lovemaking. That was why she had her first orgasm with one and not the other. It was a relief to know Harry shared the same ideas about their newfound relationship, wanting to explore the unfamiliar terrain. They came together like a beautiful sunset over the English countryside. Life is funny sometimes, and feelings were even funnier. Nothing had to make sense for their relationship to work its own bit of magic.
"Should we get going then? Wouldn't want to miss Rookwood, would we?" Hermione asked, desperately wanting Harry to veto the idea. As it turned out, she wasn't disappointed. That was why they arrived at the entrance of Knockturn Alley almost an hour later, thoroughly shagged and thoroughly satisfied. They cast the Disillusionment Charm over themselves, Harry grabbing her hand so they wouldn't get separated.
The dreadful living conditions that plagued Knockturn Alley were most unsurprising, the hellish urban poverty seeping through the nooks and crannies until it was impossible to get rid of. The dystopian world was worse than the neighbourhoods in Hackney and Tower Hamlets, the harrowing squalor rampant in the dark and gloomy passages. The housing was poorly constructed and terribly overcrowded, rotten staircases leading to the upper landings. Apart from the tumbledown buildings, many broken windows were replaced with boards and rags to keep the rain at bay. Thieves and vagabonds slept in casks, their putrid body odour only adding to the stench of fish, rotten cabbages, and sewage.
"Harry, look at this," Hermione whispered, squeezing his hand in case he hadn't heard her. She led him over to a frayed tapestry fancied with a double-headed eagle. "It's similar to the one used by Al-Andalus, the Byzantine Empire, and Raška in the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth centuries," she told him quietly.
Beyond this was a dark alcove that served as the antechamber to the Red Serpent, the advert of men drinking snake tonic splashed against the wall.
"Did you hear the rumour going around that Malfoy's going to get seven years in Azkaban?" Harry asked.
"Serves him right," Hermione said. "Should've made an honest living as opposed to managing his own version of Harris's List of Covent Garden Ladies."
"Come again?"
"It was an annual directory of prostitutes working in Georgian London in the mid to late eighteenth century. Rubbish sold for two shillings."
They made their way down Knockturn Alley when a man stumbled in front of them, pushing down his trousers and defecating on someone's front doorstep.
"Me fuckin' trouble 'n' strife is sleepin' wi'h 'the bloody crimper!" he snarled, spittle flying from his mouth.
"D'you have any idea what he said?" Harry asked, ushering Hermione away. He wrapped an arm around her waist. Even though they were under the Disillusionment Charm, she appreciated the extra security she had at her disposal. You could never be too careful in Knockturn Alley with the people that barely survived in such decay and degradation.
"His wife's cheating on him with the local barber," Hermione replied, remembering that Harry grew up in West Country. Someone speaking Cockney was probably completely foreign to him.
Suddenly, one of the windows around them banged open and a plump woman screeched, "Chip i' in, old fridge and freezer! Bang ou' ov awder, you are, shi'in in public like 'ha'! Now, slin' yer 'ook!"
"Wazz off, you goppin' wench!" the man yelled back, leaving the area.
The woman fumbled with her wand but finally managed to banish the faeces out of existence, clicking her tongue whilst she did so.
"This way," Harry said, managing to sneak by a woman whose large breasts were on full display, no matter the group of boys playing a chaotic game of British bulldog nearby, hoping to attract her regular Sunday clientele.
They went down a meagre side street between Markus Scarr's Indelible Tattoos and Trackleshanks Locksmith. The wrought-iron lanterns illuminated the red bricks on either side, leading them around a sharp corner where a flight of stone steps descended towards a wall marked with graffiti.
"Is that the British and Irish Quidditch League emblem down there?" Hermione asked, squinting at what she mistakenly believed was street art.
"That's the betting shop," Harry answered. "My godfather's made a shedload off the goblin that runs the place."
"A goblin?"
"Silly bugger's been ostracised by his ilk at Gringotts, thinking the way he makes his money is dishonourable to their culture. The poor sod."
"Have you done any?" she asked.
"Not really my thing," he replied. "I only like to play Quidditch."
"Then how come you didn't join a professional team? You certainly were good enough. Even Cho Chang thought so."
"Talked about me, did she?" Harry said. "I had a chance with Puddlemere United. Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, vouched for my abilities as Seeker. But I soon realised there wasn't any privacy for those already part of the team. I like my personal space. It's something I value, which is why I chose a cottage in Lacock as opposed to a cramped flat somewhere in London. Now, I can't imagine life without MI6 to keep me busy."
He paused, his figure indiscernible because of the Disillusionment Charm. It was strange to carry on a conversation with someone she couldn't see.
"How about you?"
"What?" Hermione asked, confused.
"If I remember correctly, you were on about S.P.E.W. after one of the DA meetings. Even got Neville to ask around the Gryffindor common room."
"I'll give him points for trying as acting secretary," she said. "I couldn't find anyone in Ravenclaw who cared about the mistreatment of house-elves at all."
"Why not advocate for their rights in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?"
"Because I would've been a hypocrite if I had. When I first started as an agent handler, I was responsible for the SVR MRF double agent, REDHAT. He worked for the GRU, or the Main Directorate of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Magical Russian Federation. REDHAT defected when his request to bring his eldest son to London for adequate medical treatment with regards to polio was denied. In retaliation, REDHAT paid a visit to the British Embassy in Moscow. He offered MI6 intelligence the GRU had gathered on the Chinese and Vietnamese military. Unfortunately, REDHAT was soon outed and shot in the back of the head. His house-elf was distraught and wanted to avenge her master's death. Thus, she became an agent of mine and was able to obtain information on a mole within MI6 who passed classified documents to the SVR MRF whilst in Bonn, Germany. She was paid handsomely for her services, but I felt guilty asking her to do the things I did. It went against some of the statutes of S.P.E.W." Hermione wavered, hoping REDHAT and his son were together once again, wherever they were after both had met an early end. "Who knows? Maybe I'll have another go and campaign for their rights post MI6. It'll be my way to make amends."
Suddenly, they heard someone whistling from just around the bend. Their conversation ended at once. Seconds later, Augustus Rookwood appeared, wand in hand. He gambolled down the steps towards the betting shop, ignorant of the unwanted escorts just behind him. There was no signal they agreed upon, only to get the job done as quickly as possible and get out of there. That's why Harry and Hermione wasted little time snuffing out the birdwatcher, the streaks of purple flame bright and radiant in the back alley.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading.