A/N: Thanks so much for the lovely comments! :) Sorry this one was a while - I'm afraid the next one might be, too. Unfortunately I sometimes have to do stuff that isn't writing this story... lol. Incidentally, if anyone has any questions about the pairings or anything else, just mention it in a (signed-in) review and I'm happy to answer. I just don't want to put too much in these notes because not everyone might want "spoilers".

~oOo~

"Good morning," said Death, casually. Albus, after a beat, recovered enough to pretend that this situation were a regular occurrence.

"Good morning," he said. "I don't believe we've met." Death chuckled.

"No, I don't believe we have. But I've been watching you, Albus Dumbledore." This was admittedly one of the more disconcerting things he had ever been told, but he tried to stay calm and offer an attempt at a smile.

"A rather tedious hobby, I'm sure."

"Oh, Albus… you underestimate yourself." He had no reply for that; decided to change course.

"Forgive me, but to what do I owe this… pleasure?" Death laughed again, making him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"A purely social call, I assure you – unless you're feeling unwell?"

"Q-quite well, thank you."

"Excellent. I'd hate to have to pass you over, especially during my tea break."

Albus remembered silences longer, and tenser, and more awkward – but he couldn't recall one so utterly bizarre. He had absolutely no idea what to say. Eventually Death spoke again, although it seemed to be more to himself than anything.

"Fascinating place, Morgana's tomb. Accessible only for a short length of time around the midsummer solstice – not sure why she chose summer, actually; personally I would have preferred to make people trek up here in December." He didn't speak at first, because the list of questions in his mind was getting longer and he was desperately trying to make some sense out of it all.

"People have been inside before?"

"Pardon? Oh. Yes… Although not for some time." Albus wondered how long some time was, and wondered if he should try his luck with more questions, but Death didn't seem to be paying attention. When he spoke again the tone had changed entirely and Albus got the sense that they had reached the real reason behind the visit.

"He has it, you know."

It took him only a second to deduce the 'he' and the 'it' in question, owing to the fact that neither thing was ever very far from his mind. He considered feigning confusion, but didn't see any point.

"I suspected as much, yes."

"It has been keeping me busier than I would like."

He wished this conversation wasn't happening. He wished he was still at home, with the second slice of toast and the morning Prophet. He wished Gellert Grindelwald had never existed, or at least that he had never met him and could therefore not feel any guilt about recent events.

Perhaps because he was oblivious to his internal anguish, or perhaps in deference to it, Death continued speaking without waiting for a response.

"You're the only one… that could stop him, I mean. What's any government going to be able to do? He finds sympathisers among the powerful wherever he goes. I'm sure you haven't forgotten several of his more charming qualities."

Albus wasn't in the habit of blushing, but he knew he was doing it now – probably violently enough to set up a terrible clash with his hair. Nobody except the two of them had ever known about the more… personal… aspect of their relationship, and he was rather desperate to keep it that way.

"Relax, man… That's really not the part to be ashamed of, is it? Anyway, you understand my meaning."

"Y-yes. Although – the new minister is a good man –"

"Trying to find an excuse, Albus? Tut, tut. Where's that Gryffindor courage? No matter. You'll come around in time. It would be a shame, after all, if that wand were to fall into the wrong hands again."

Before he could open his mouth in protest Death had turned sharply as if to leave, cloak flaring around him dramatically. He took a step away but then turned back.

"Oh, and… Albus?" There was a pause, and he waited with increasing trepidation for the parting words. "Not that it makes any difference, but… it wasn't you."

~oOo~

When Death stepped silently over the threshold at 6pm, it took him approximately ten seconds of staring at his older self (sat at the long table, head in hands) to deduce several salient points.

Firstly, that he was completely gone on the Granger girl. Heavens above. He had been vaguely prepared to overlook what they had clearly done last night – while it was a pretty hideous betrayal of Rowena, it was not his betrayal. And he couldn't deny that the idea of getting laid was appealing… he had even fantasized about her himself, if he were brutally honest. But developing an emotion beyond lust? Unfathomable.

Secondly, judging by the dejectedness of his figure, she was not quite as interested as him. Since she didn't seem the type to jump into bed with just anyone, he was left to conclude that some new information had since come to light. He could only guess in horror, given the events of the morning, at what exactly that information might be.

Thirdly, that if he – Zorion, as he had reluctantly begun to refer to him, despite the comedy of it – was in love with her, there was no way he was as committed to passing over as he had once been.

There had been a moment, just after his conversation with Albus, when he had wondered if he was wrong to act behind the back of his older self. But coming home to these new conclusions simply reinforced what he had been thinking last night: at some point in the next half-century, he would finally lose it. He would go mad to a point where he would think that sending an eighteen-year-old girl sixty years back in time was the answer to uniting the Hallows.

Mental.

There was only one option, of course; he would have to gain his freedom quickly, before he became the idiot he was apparently going to turn into. Ordinarily he wouldn't wish the fate on Dumbledore – who was increasingly reminding him of Merlin – but needs must. There was no denying that the man was perfect for the job. Already isolated, even. Sure, Tom Riddle would probably be fine too. But he was currently a boy of thirteen! That seemed like a lot of time to wait, and he had had enough of waiting.

He crossed into the sitting room, resisting the urge to start an argument with his older self on the basis that he would rather keep the knowledge of his relationship secret for the time being. Knowledge was power, after all, and that power might come in useful later. A whiskey and a chocolate frog were in order, in celebration of today's events: the small stones he hoped would start the avalanche.

Felix Summerbee (1447-1508) was an English wizard remembered for inventing the Cheering Charm to make himself feel better after his wife eloped with his brother. Unfortunately, the charm's effects are only temporary.

Between them they must have eaten hundreds of frogs by now, so it was beginning to surprise him every time they found a new card – the manufacturers were sneaky, though, because a few seemed to outnumber the others by a long way. They had about thirty of Merlin. He went to put Summerbee in the correct alphabetical location on the wall, and did a double take when he saw his own illustration staring haughtily up at him.

The card was torn down the middle, and suddenly the events of the afternoon began to slide into place. Shit. His older self was even more of an idiot than he thought. Think. Think.

Sitting down again, suddenly exhausted, he began to ponder the potential fallout. He didn't remember a more momentous twenty-four hours since that midsummer night in 999 – there was a lot to think about. He was not a gambling man, and in his desperation to find a new Death he would be leaving nothing to chance.

~oOo~

Hermione sat at the desk in her bedroom, staring through the window into the garden although the light had faded hours ago. The house was quiet but for an occasional creak from the ancient timbers as they gave up the heat of the day; it was a quiet that still did not extend to the inside of her head.

A slight movement caught her eye, and turning her head she could just make out some parchment appearing through the small gap between the door and the floor. Despite the darkness, it was obvious what it was, and who it therefore must be. Should she open the door? A part of her – a large part – wanted to go to him. To forget, to end this horrible afternoon and just go back to yesterday. It was cold in here now, sat, as she was, in a very thin nightdress, and his arms were so warm, and so secure.

The letter lay fully on her side of the door now, and she imagined she heard a faint sigh crossing the metres (or was it miles, or perhaps years) between them, but still she did not move.

It was some time before she retrieved the envelope; hard to say whether that was out of a desire not to let him know she had been sat there all along, or purely from apprehension at the contents. She had a strange flashback to the letter containing her OWL results, which had sat on the kitchen table for almost an hour unopened. If only dropping an 'O' grade was all she had to worry about now.

She read the letter several times, because like everything that had come before it seemed to raise more questions than it answered. The academic in her – the part still capable of thought without emotional entanglement – was fascinated; how had so many things been missed out in the history books? Added to the revelations about Merlin earlier, and she was beginning to doubt just about everything she had ever read. It was an amazing opportunity to be able to talk to someone who was really there.

And yet… how could he write several feet of parchment about Hogwarts without mentioning the fifty-foot basilisk he had put there? What was he planning on saying – that it was an accident? That it wasn't him? He knew that she knew about it, didn't he?

It had nearly bloody killed her.

It had killed Myrtle. No, wait: it did – no – it… would kill Myrtle. Well, or rather, she would have to stop it from killing Myrtle.

A bloody giant lethal basilisk. In a school, with children. What the bloody hell was he playing at?

But he cared for her. He had called her… beautiful. And what else? Brave… Perfect.

I meant every word I ever said to you. If you doubt anything else, please do not doubt that.

Shit.

This was a mess. And it needed sorting out now.

She narrowly resisted the urge to slam the bedroom door on the basis that waking the other members of the household was not in her best interests.

She entered his room – without knocking – and found him sat cross-legged on the bed, looking the picture of surprised innocence with a chocolate frog halfway to his mouth. His frame, all angles and long limbs, was covered only with pyjama trousers; the juvenile scene reminded her sharply of Ron or Harry, which completely took the wind out of her sails. They stared at each other for a while, and he put the frog down on the nightstand somewhat guiltily. It hopped off with enthusiasm, scattering a small stack of cards in its wake. Evidently this had been something of a late-night chocolate binge.

"Well, it's better than whiskey, I suppose…" It was out of her mouth before she could stop herself, and that was maddening, because ten seconds ago she had been fired up to shout about the basilisk, and now the tone had been sort of softened. How did that happen every time she wanted to argue with him?

"Erm – yes – I mean… That's what I thought."

There was another substantial pause, in which she continued to fail to reconcile the figure in front of her with the green and silver caricature in her mind. It was draining, and she was already so tired.

"You came here to say something," he deduced. She thought about it for a moment; couldn't muster the energy. It would be so much easier to just forget.

"It… It doesn't matter. Maybe in the morning. I'm not thinking properly." His expression was unreadable – confused, perhaps, or surprised. It was becoming awkward, so she turned to go.

"Wait – wait. Um. Don't leave." There it was again – the same old insecurity. Well-founded, as it had turned out, but she remembered (had it really been only that same morning?) thinking I won't ever. It seemed a foolish thought, now, but the emotion lingered on nevertheless.

"I don't mean –" he continued, embarrassed, "I don't mean – I know you won't want… that… but… never mind."

She was torn and confused and worn out, and it was her Zorion who was looking at her with those sad eyes. Zorion who she trusted, not… Salazar, who she did not know and could not trust. And before she could overanalyse it she was climbing into the empty side of the bed, and he was getting under the covers too and settling tentatively beside her as if she might run away at any sudden movement. So she pressed herself backwards into him and pulled his arm around her as it had been the night before.

It was the same warm comfort as it had been then. The same perfect fit. And as she drifted off she found herself forgetting the ways that things had since changed.

~oOo~

He couldn't sleep.

In his arms she lay so peacefully, breathing evenly. He desperately wanted to turn over but didn't dare disturb her, instead allowing his limbs to become uncomfortable and then painful and finally, completely numb.

She was there with him, but not there; that much was clear from the way she had held herself stiffly in the several minutes it had taken her to fall asleep. He felt stupid for asking her to stay, as if it could ever have fixed everything. He needed to back off and get control of himself.

Despite the growing distance between them, now that most of his secrets were divulged he felt better than he had done that morning. It was strange; in his original life, he couldn't imagine himself taking any action that would decrease his chances of sleeping with someone half as attractive as Hermione. Yet that was exactly what he had done, possibly permanently – because he couldn't stand to hide things from her, and because he had come to want so much more than her friendship or her body, and because for that to be possible she had to know the real him. It was a gamble, and he had never been one for gambling, but there seemed to be no alternative.

It wasn't that easy to be patient now that he had been reminded just how good sex was. But he had waited centuries for one woman. He would just have to wait now – however long it might take.

She stretched slightly in her sleep and it had the effect of rubbing her body against him; he gritted his teeth and tried unsuccessfully to stop the blood rushing south. Get a grip. Why on earth had he put himself in such an impossible situation? His left hand – splayed over her stomach exactly where she had placed it perhaps an hour ago – itched to stroke her. Maybe he actually did, slightly, because she let out a breath that was oh-so-nearly a moan and he froze, terrified.

She was asleep, wasn't she? She must be, because if she was awake she wouldn't be – fuck – wouldn't be starting to grind her backside against his cock. The old version of himself wouldn't have interrupted, but the new version knew he probably should.

"H-Hermione?"

"Mmm," she said, still moving. He swallowed hard, and forced himself to continue speaking.

"Darling… are you awake?" There was a bit of a pause.

"Mm… yes, um, just. What happened?" She had stopped moving, now, and he was beginning to wish he hadn't done the honest thing.

"Ah… um… nothing. Sorry."

"You're hard…" It was a statement he could only imagine her making while half-asleep.

"Y-yes. Sorry," he said, again, and tried to shuffle his lower half away from her, but after the briefest of pauses she pressed back against him and a spike of adrenaline accelerated his heart into the back of his ribcage. For several seconds he kept perfectly still – didn't even breathe. Then her fingers crept between them and closed around him through the fabric of his trousers, and he gulped in a frantic lungful of air.

"Fuck – oh – please –" He didn't know what he was asking for until her hand was sliding the fabric aside and then it was her smooth skin against his. He could no longer stop his own fingers rubbing circles over the material of her nightdress. When this had gone on for a little while, she surprised him again by using her free hand to guide his fingers lower and lower.

He was confused, of course: she had spent most of the day avoiding him, and had come to him an hour ago ready to argue about… something. But he loved her and he needed her and she was stroking him so eagerly and there was no way he was going to be able to convince himself to stop and ask the reason for the change of heart.

She was already wet when he began to touch her: "I was dreaming of you," she said, and it was like music to his ears.

"What was I doing?" he asked, though it was hard to talk evenly because her grip had tightened on his cock. In response he curled his fingers up inside her and laughed when she gasped and then whimpered.

"I – um – that… and… more…"

"More?" He could almost hear the gears turning in her mind as she tried to form words while his fingers moved inside her and his lips brushed her shoulder, her neck, her earlobe.

"Please," was all she managed, and all he needed to hear when coupled with the way her hand moved to the waistband of his trousers. He shed them rapidly and then was pressed up behind her again, the nightdress pulled up to her waist now. "Please," she repeated.

The angle was awkward – for a second he felt fifteen again, but then he was buried inside her and she was moaning in satisfaction and the fear of ruining the moment was over.

At first he refused to move, teasing her – stroking her body with his free hand – but when he reached her breasts and ghosted his fingertips over her nipples she arched violently, burying him even deeper, and then he couldn't resist any longer.

The darkness was almost complete, but he could still see himself disappearing into her body with every stroke; was transfixed by it, and by the curve of her back and the line of her neck as she held herself rigid, allowing him in as deeply as possible. She was perfect, and he told her so – though it took all his concentration to do so in English.

It was much too good – soon he would be incapable of slowing down again, so instead he brought his fingers to her clit and pressed down gently, then a little more firmly, until her moans became jagged cries and she shook around him, and then he was sliding inside her for the final time, hard, and feeling her tightening muscles elicit his own release.

Later, just as he was finally falling asleep, it occurred to him that he had had to wait rather less time for her than he had been imagining. If only it would last.

~oOo~