Umbrage

Disclaimers: JK Rowling owns any character or situation from the Harry Potter books. The rest come from my crazed imagination (with help from my betas).

Author’s notes: What started out as a one-shot story assignment for the Smutty_Claus community on Livejournal turned into this fic, for which I wrote 7 full chapters and most of another as part of National Novel Writing Month in November 2004. Many, many thanks to my wonderful friends mione1977 (who actually worked out the germ of the story idea with me), mollymoon and abigail89, all of whom are great beta-readers. I really suck at titles, especially chapter titles, so I’m just going to number my chapters.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Prologue

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,

Who’s the cleverest one of all?

Not you, dearie.

Chapter 1

July 31, 2002

I saw them again today. I can’t seem to go anywhere in Diagon Alley without seeing them. This time they were at Florean Fortescue’s. I just wanted some ice cream, just a bit of dessert after my sack lunch. As I walked up to the counter and placed my order, I spotted them sitting at the back of the shop, snuggling (or something else disgusting, I can’t believe they do that in public) at a tiny table. He had his arm around her and was feeding her a cherry from the top of his chocolate sundae. She looked up at him and made a disgusting doe-eyed moon face like he was the greatest thing she’d ever seen. She’s been making moon-eyes at him for at least eight years now. It took him a long time to catch on but he finally did and now she’s with him and they look disgustingly happy. I don’t understand why she should be so happy while I’m not. It’s not fair, none of it. Not like I want him; I don’t. He’s so full of himself. But why should she be so happy? It sickens me. When they left the shop they practically ran over me, they were in such a hurry. What’s the big deal? Couldn’t they even say hello to me? Both of them just make me so angry.

I must get back to work now. Damn and blast, they even have better jobs than I do. They make me sick.

^*^*^*^*

When the young couple arrived at the ice cream shop for lunch, Florean Fortescue showed them to a small table at the back of the shop. Leaving a pair of menus on the table, he smiled at them, his eyes twinkling with amusement and perhaps a bit of nostalgia. In all his years of selling ice cream and lighter dining fare to the witches and wizards of England, he couldn’t remember a young couple who seemed more in love than Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. Nor could he remember another young couple whose affection for each other had grown so naturally out of friendship and shared experiences. In the Muggle world they were unknown, but in the Wizarding world they were not just celebrities but actual heroes. Along with their friend Ron Weasley, Harry and Hermione had done more to rid the world of You-Know-Who – well, now he could think it and say it, the dreaded Lord Voldemort – than anyone else in the Wizarding World. Slightly less than four years ago, on Halloween of 1998, Harry had engaged the evil wizard in a battle so fierce and terrible that when he finally killed the old bastard, he was left comatose, then unable to remember anything of the battle – or his former life – for several weeks. Thanks to the ministrations of the staff at St. Mungo’s – and the love of his best friend of seven years – Harry Potter not only regained his strength and his mind, but also eventually admitted the inescapable fact that Hermione Granger meant more to him than just his best friend. At least that was what the many articles in the Daily Prophet and The Quibbler said. But Florean Fortescue didn’t need to read any magazine articles to know that. All he had to do was observe the way they looked at each other.

"You see anything you like on the menu?" Fortescue asked Harry and Hermione as they sat with their chairs close together at the back of the ice cream shop.

Harry glanced down at Hermione and smiled as she continued to peruse the menu. "I’ll have the ploughman’s lunch and Hermione will have…"

"The spinach salad, please," Hermione said brightly. Nodding, Fortescue took their menus and left.

Hermione pursed her lips and furrowed her brow when she noticed the amusement on Harry’s face. "Oh honestly, Harry, what’s that look for? Is there something wrong with the spinach salad here?"

"I wouldn’t know, Hermione. I’ve never eaten it. But that’s what you order every time we eat here."

"Do I?" A bemused look crossed her face. "You’ve kept track?"

Harry grinned, stroking her arm through the soft fabric of her summer robes. "Not consciously, no. I guess I just notice everything you do."

A light blush rose in Hermione’s cheeks. "When did you start doing that?"

"Oh…back in sixth year…," Harry said, memories of that fateful year welling up in him. "When I started thinking about why it was that your voice was the one I heard so often in my head." As Hermione’s blush deepened, she nevertheless looked Harry straight in the eyes with the look that had finally stolen his heart five years earlier.

"That long ago? I…had no idea…so when I wasn’t stealing glances at you, you were stealing glances at me," she said, her matter-of-fact tone betrayed by a tiny smirk.

"I guess so," Harry answered. Hermione seemed quite impish, as though she could barely contain some happy surprise for him. Before Harry could ask what was on her mind, their lunches arrived and Harry decided to tuck in; he could pursue that thought later. Hermione ate her salad daintily, pausing every so often to look at Harry through her long, dark lashes, not speaking but just looking at him as though she couldn’t quite believe he was really in love with her.

As they were about to finish their meals, Mr. Fortescue appeared with a smaller menu. "Can I interest you in some dessert?"

"It’s Harry’s birthday," Hermione piped up. "Do you have anything really special today?"

Mr. Fortescue raised an eyebrow. "All of our ice creams and other desserts are special, Miss Granger."

Hermione looked stricken. "I didn’t mean—"

"Of course you didn’t," Harry cut in. "I don’t want a fancy dessert today, Hermione. I’d just like a chocolate sundae. Would you like something too or do you want to share mine with me?"

"I’ll just have a bit of yours," Hermione smiled.

"One large chocolate sundae, please, with several cherries and two spoons," Harry said. Mr. Fortescue disappeared then reappeared a few minutes later with their order.

Harry and Hermione took their spoons then took turns feeding each other from the sundae. There was a playful, almost lustful glint in Hermione’s eyes, which suggested that Harry had only begun to taste his after-lunch treat.

"Mmmm, you saved the cherry for last," she teased as she snuggled next to him. Plucking the cherry from the remains of his sundae, Harry dangled it just above Hermione’s luscious lips, forcing her to open her mouth wide and reach for the cherry with her tongue. Long ago Harry realized that he never tired of seeing her tongue, especially when she used it for tasks other than speaking. She finally snatched the cherry from his fingers with a look of triumph, then swirled it around in her mouth for almost a minute. Then she parted her lips and stuck out her tongue. The cherry was licked clean and the stem was tied in a knot.

Harry gulped.

"I think we’re done here," he muttered. Without waiting to see the bill, he slapped a couple of Galleons on the table, grabbed Hermione’s hand and hustled her out of the ice cream shop. He pulled her into a nearby alleyway, took her in his arms and crushed his lips to hers.

"What was that for?" Hermione asked breathlessly when Harry’s lips finally left hers.

"Oh…just checking…I was thinking of what a talented tongue you have and wondering what else I might get for my birthday." He clutched her tightly enough so she couldn’t miss his meaning or his arousal.

"But I thought you liked my gift," Hermione pouted with mock-seriousness, one arm around his neck as the fingers of her other hand played with his hair.

Harry placed a tender kiss on her lips. "It’s hard to beat a pair of seats in the top box at the Quidditch World Cup. But that’s not till next month. I was thinking of something a bit more immediate…"

Hermione didn’t miss his meaning. She wrapped both arms around his neck, nuzzled his ear and said, "You mean, now?"

One of his hands slipped down from Hermione’s waist to cup her bottom and pull her even closer to him. "No…not here…our place," he whispered urgently. Wrapping his other arm more tightly around her, Harry closed his eyes and Apparated himself and Hermione into the bedroom of their flat in Muggle London. They landed, wobbling, so that they fell onto their king-sized bed, Hermione beneath him, laughing breathlessly. Harry cut her off with an urgent kiss then began tugging at her skirt, pushing it up over her hips.

"Harry…we have to…go back…to work," she panted as he pulled at the elastic waistband of her knickers. Despite the objection in her words, her fingers moved deftly, unbuttoning his trousers while he kissed her again more deeply than before. Without breaking the kiss, Hermione pulled down the zipper on his fly, reached inside and began stroking him, then giggled against his lips when she discovered his body was way ahead of her. He was ready to claim the birthday gift he needed most, and he could tell Hermione was ready to give it to him.

"Happy birthday to me," Harry smiled as he nuzzled her neck.

^*^*^*^*^*^

Fifteen minutes later, their bodies sated, Harry and Hermione straightened their clothing and Apparated to the entrance to the Ministry of Magic. Unwilling to stray far from Hermione just yet, Harry pulled her into the telephone booth with him. There they stood, bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip, as the lift descended slowly toward the Atrium. When the doors opened, Harry and Hermione sprang apart quickly. Months of practice enabled them to snog happily right up to the moment the lift doors opened, then appear as though they’d merely been deep in conversation. When they reached level two, home of the Auror Division, Harry squeezed Hermione’s hand, then left her in the lift and moved quickly to his cubicle on the opposite end of the level.

As he approached his cubicle, Harry noticed a flurry of inter-departmental memos hovering above his desk. It dawned on him that this might be Ron’s way of getting his attention and wishing him happy birthday. Snatching the memos from the air, he pulled them open and discovered Ron’s scratchy script on each of them. They all bore the same message.

Come to level five

You’ll get your birthday present

It’s the best I could contrive

Harry crumpled one of the memos, stuffed it in his pocket and turned back toward the lifts. Once he’d reached level five, home of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, he had no trouble spotting Ron Weasley’s ginger head. Ron leaned back in his office chair, his long legs stretched in front of him, ankles crossed on his desk, his hands behind his head. Harry retrieved the memo from his pocket and whispered a smoothing charm. Then he pulled out his quill, scribbled the words Show me what you contrived on the memo and sent it sailing toward Ron. When the memo poked the back of his head, Ron finally turned around and noticed Harry standing a few cubicles down.

"Happy birthday, mate!" Ron bellowed across the office. "C’mon over here, I’ve got something for you."

Harry raised an eyebrow. For the past year Ron had been living with his twin brothers, Fred and George, in a flat above Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley. He was saving his money to get his own flat because, as he told Harry several times, living with the twins was "cramping his style." Though Ron’s financial situation as an adult was dramatically better than when he was a teenager, he still rarely seemed to have more than two sickles to rub together. So Harry wondered what Ron might have got him.

"Okay," Harry said, walking over to Ron’s desk. "What’s up, mate?"

Ron bent down and pulled a large, square box wrapped in bright green paper from under his desk. "Well, like the memo said, I’ve got a birthday present for you. Happy birthday, Harry. Go on, open it." He flashed a blinding smile and winked at Harry, who started pulling the paper off the box with abandon. Opening the top of the box, Harry sucked in a breath. Inside was a Quaffle, but not just any Quaffle. It was an autographed Quaffle, with the names Padraic Troy, Moira Mullet and Siobhan Moran signed on it. Harry did a double take. These were the infamous "Troy, Mullet and Moran," the Chasers from the Irish team that defeated Bulgaria in the 1994 Quidditch World Cup game that he, Ron and Hermione had attended.

"Bloody hell, Ron!" Harry marveled. "This is amazing. How the hell did you manage to get this? It must have cost a small fortune. I hope you didn’t spend your life savings on this."

Ron smirked. "No, not my life savings. I just had to mortgage a bit of capital equipment." Harry frowned. What the hell was Ron talking about?

"Siobhan Moran works in the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters. She and I have been seeing each other for a few weeks now but up till a couple days ago we hadn’t done anything too…interesting," Ron hedged. "I was at her flat and discovered she had a collection of memorabilia from her playing days. I asked her what she wanted for this Quaffle. I thought she’d say something like ‘a hundred Galleons’. But instead, she wanted a shag."

Harry felt his mouth fall open.

"A shag? You shagged her in exchange for an autographed Quaffle?"

Ron shrugged. "It was her idea, mate. And she’s a brilliant shag. Of course I know you won’t want to verify that. You’ve got Hermione and it’s obvious you don’t want to check out any of the other merchandise."

Before pulling his jaw up off the ground, Harry coughed, clearing his throat to hide his embarrassment. He and Ron hadn’t really talked this way about women in several years, not since before Hermione had made the transition from Harry’s best friend to his lover. Hermione had once called Ron a "serial dater," which was highly ironic considering how shy Ron had been at school. Something about helping vanquish Voldemort had given him a burst of much-needed self-confidence, so that in the past couple of years Ron had turned into quite the ladies’ man. Harry knew that Ron had loosened up around witches in the past few years but he hadn’t seen this cavalier attitude toward the fairer sex before.

"Uh…right…I mean, you’re right, I’m not interested in any other women," Harry finally answered. "You know that, Ron. There hasn’t been anyone for me except Hermione for the past two years. Actually, it’s more like the past five years, but I was too blind to see it back then." He paused, searching for the right words. "I’m just a bit surprised at you, that’s all. Trading sex for memorabilia…it just doesn’t seem like you, mate."

Ron’s eyes narrowed. and his mouth set in a thin line. "My sex life is none of your business, Harry."

"Then why did you tell me what you did to get the Quaffle for me?"

Ron’s ears went red. "Maybe I wanted to impress you. You’ve always done better than me with the witches. Now I’ve finally discovered something they really like about me."

Harry snorted. "Give me a break, Ron. I know what your dick looks like. We used to shower in the same locker room. Your dick is no better or worse than anyone else’s. If the birds like you better now, it’s because of what’s in here" – he tapped Ron’s chest – "and not what’s in your pants."

The redness in Ron’s ears spread to the rest of his face and the veins in his neck stood out. "Get out, Harry. Just get out and take the damn Quaffle with you before I decide to take it back."

"Ron, I" – Harry sputtered – "I’m sorry, mate. You give me an amazing birthday gift and I dump on you…"

"Bugger, Harry. Like I said, just take the thing and go back to your office."

Harry’s ears were starting to burn now; from the corner of his eyes he could see some of Ron’s coworkers staring at them. "Sure…okay…I’ll see you later," he muttered, grabbing the Quaffle and tucking it under his arm as he backed away from his best friend. He turned on his heel and shuffled back to the lift, pondering his conversation with his best mate, then stood mutely in the lift as it returned him to level two. Sitting at his desk, shuffling papers for the rest of the afternoon, Harry sighed heavily, wanting to kick himself for the way he’d buggered up his own birthday. The only bright spot was that he knew Hermione would understand and do just the right thing to make him feel better.

^*^*^*^*^*^

Author’s note: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. I wanted to explain the title a bit before chapter 1 but somehow I managed to leave the explanation off my author’s note. So here is what the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary has to say about umbrage:

Pronunciation: UM-brij

Function: noun

Etymology: Middle English, from Middle French, from Latin umbraticum, neuter of umbraticus of shade, from umbratus, past participle of umbrare to shade, from umbra shade, shadow; akin to Lithuanian unksme shadow

Definitions:

1 : SHADE, SHADOW

2 : shady branches : FOLIAGE

3 a : an indistinct indication : vague suggestion : HINT

3 b : a reason for doubt : SUSPICION

4 : a feeling of pique or resentment at some often fancied slight or insult <took umbrage at the speaker's remarks>

synonym see OFFENSE

Also, I wrote seven complete chapters of this story during November 2004 as part of National Novel Writing Month, plus another later chapter that is mostly complete. I hope to post the first few chapters approximately once every 7-10 days. I hope to write at least 3 more chapters by the time the first 7 are posted. But basically I don’t think I’ll finish this fic until sometime between late March and early June. So if you plan to come along for the whole ride, thank you in advance for your patience. Thanks also to my wonderful betas, MollyMoon, MPotter77 and abigail89. I love them to pieces. Also you might notice a little nod to the wonderful parkergray in this chapter; she’s my favorite ficlet writer and I just couldn’t resist. ~ Anne U

^*^*^*^*

Chapter 2

August 5, 2002

They make me sick. I almost caught them snogging in the lift at work today. They think people don’t know what they’ve been doing, but it’s written all over their faces. I can always tell when they’ve been doing it. His ears always look pink and his hair is even messier than usual, like she’s been running her grimy little hands through it. She usually seems a bit out of breath; maybe he’s been inspecting her tonsils, or trying to suck her soul out, like a Dementor. I’ve always thought she was a rather soulless little creature. Little Miss Perfect. Teachers’ Pet. Even when she did something wrong, she never got punished for it. I don’t remember hearing that she’d ever served detention. I can’t even catch her snogging him. They’ve been practicing it for months, that little jump away from each other just as the doors open and people pour into the lift. I almost caught them a few days ago. It was about half an hour after I saw them at Fortescue’s. I swear they were both glowing; I bet they went home and had a quickie after lunch. Just once I’d like to catch them in flagrante delicto in the lift. I bet he moves his hand up under her skirt and slips his finger inside her knickers while he’s kissing her. And the little harlot lets him do that. She wanted everyone to think she was so prim and proper at school. But I could tell she wanted to shag him senseless, even though he didn’t have a clue about what she wanted. Everyone talked about what great friends Granger and Potter were, how he needed her brains and she needed his bravery. And of course Weasley was always with them back then Maybe that’s why she never made a move on him until after You-Know-Who was killed; she couldn’t get Potter away from that bumbling ginger-headed fool. No matter. Once You-Know-Who was out of the way she had no problems sinking her hooks into him.

The more I think about it the more I’m willing to bet they do it everywhere in their flat…not just in bed, in the dark, like normal people do. I bet if I got into their flat and checked around I could find evidence of them shagging on the kitchen counter, in the pantry, in the shower, in the coat closet in the front hall, on the coffee table…I bet they rut like animals and don’t even take their clothes off, he just pushes her knickers aside and she opens his flies and takes him in her hand. And he bites her neck and rubs his thumbs against her breasts through her blouse while he has his way with her. That’s what I think they do. I bet they don’t even have the decency to take their clothes off and do it in the dark like normal people. Why should they get to do that with each other, when I don’t get to do it with anybody? I’m not ugly. I take care of my body. It’s not fair. None of it. They’re rich and famous (well, he’s rich and they’re both famous) and I’m a nobody. I shouldn’t be a nobody. I come from a pureblood family that has served the Wizarding world for centuries. He’s a half-blood and she’s a Mudblood. Malfoy was right. They should never have let her into Hogwarts. And stupid Potter should never have gotten his letter. He never would have gone to Hogwarts and met her and she never would have gotten all those ideas in her head.

She’s not anyone’s better.

I’m going to take a shower now. I hope the water is very cold.

^*^*^*^*^*^

August 6, 2002

Work was boring, as usual. Went in, shuffled papers, talked to people through their fireplaces, shuffled into the lift (fortunately not encountering Potter and Granger pretending they weren’t about to shag), went to the archives, breathed in too much dust from all those ancient files. Same as I do every day. However…I did have an interesting lunch today. I went to Fortescue’s and had a small salad and an ice cream soda. No one interesting was there. Probably just as well, as I had another errand to attend to. Now there’s an owl sitting in a cage in my living room. I’ve never had an owl before. I’ve always had a cat as my familiar. Godfrey is a lovely cat but he can’t fly, so I had to get an owl. I’ve decided to name him Salazar. I’ve often wondered why I wasn’t sorted into Slytherin. I’ve read Hogwarts, A History (only once, of course, and that was for Binns), and it seemed to me that Salazar Slytherin got a bit of a raw deal.

Regardless, now I have a lovely owl. I think I’ll give him a few easy tasks before I send him out to do anything important.

^*^*^*^*^*^

Harry awoke when a patch of sunlight drifted across his face. Turning onto his side, he snuggled up to Hermione’s soft, bare bottom, which felt particularly delectable against his naked skin that morning. His hand drifted down her left arm, then slid underneath until it located the silky skin of her breast. Circling her nipple with his thumb and forefinger, Harry squeezed gently while placing butterfly kisses from Hermione’s shoulder up to her ear. The space between her buttocks proved irresistible and he found himself rubbing his hard length between her cheeks, squeezing her nipple a bit more firmly and suckling the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder. If this doesn’t wake her up, I don’t know what will, he thought as his rubbing became firmer and faster.

Before he could think on it more, Hermione’s eyes fluttered open and she turned her head toward him and caught his lips with her own. "Mmmm," she sighed, rocking her bottom against Harry’s arousal. "You really know how to wake a girl up properly."

"You like this?" he asked, tweaking her nipple and licking the shell of her ear while he pushed against her more firmly.

"I like any part of you on or in me," she breathed. As she rocked harder against him, she took his hand off her breast and placed it between her legs.

Harry didn’t need an engraved invitation to know what Hermione wanted. In a split-second he flipped her onto her back and slid on top of her body, his hand remaining where she’d guided it.

"Just tell me what part of me you like best right now and where I should put it."

^*^*^*^*^*^

Hermione loved making love with Harry. When their friendship of nine years had finally turned to romance, she’d breathed a sigh of relief and uttered a silent thank-you to whatever gods finally took the blinders off Harry’s eyes. Now, two years after that first fateful night of passion, she could barely remember a time when she hadn’t awakened next to him. She loved waking up to his strong arms around her, his soft, sensuous lips feathering kisses on her skin, his arousal pressed between her buttocks (something he did often and that gave her a special thrill), the way he kissed his way up her inner thighs until his tongue found its favorite target. Best of all she loved the way he filled her up till she thought her body would burst with sensation and her brain would melt out from between her ears. Like most other couples, their lovemaking had been clumsy at first, but they soon learned the nuances of each other’s bodies and exactly where to kiss, lick, touch and push to make the other’s body thrum with ecstasy. She didn’t care how badly his hair stuck up from his head, or that he didn’t have much hair on his chest, or that his fingers were calloused from years of clutching his Quidditch broom. There was nothing she loved more than making love with Harry – nothing except Harry himself.

She did love Harry. More than anything in the world, she’d finally admitted to herself when he went out to face Voldemort alone on Halloween almost four years ago. The thought that she might actually lose him – that he might not return from the battle – had struck her like a sword twisted into her heart. When the smoke of the battle cleared and the medi-wizards took Harry off to St. Mungo’s, Hermione had been beside herself with fear and worry. She vowed then that she would do whatever it took to nurse him back to health. As a result she practically lived at St. Mungo’s for four weeks while Harry first drifted in and out of a coma, then awoke with amnesia, then finally regained his memory and his strength. When Harry couldn’t remember who he was, much less who she was, Hermione left his hospital room, went out into the corridor and cried. Ron came after her and offered a strong shoulder to cry on, for which she thanked him many times over the next few weeks. But what she really wanted was for Harry to return. Her Harry. The man who made her heart stand still whenever she saw him. Two weeks later, when he finally asked for her by name, Hermione knew that Harry was really, truly back.

The road to wellness was a long haul for Harry. Once he was able to recognize his friends and get out of bed on his own, he needed several weeks of Wizarding therapy to regain his strength and his ability to cast proper spells. Hermione was with him every step of the way. She even took a leave of absence from her training at the Ministry of Magic so she could be with Harry whenever he reached a significant milestone in his recovery. Throughout that time, she never once told him that she loved him. Part of her hoped he knew, but another part of her was terrified of saying it for fear that he couldn’t or wouldn’t say the same words to her.

When Harry was finally ready to leave St. Mungo’s, Hermione insisted he move in with her so she could take care of him until he was fully recovered. She was pleasantly surprised when he agreed to this without any debate or discussion. A year and a half later, she stood in their kitchen washing dishes the Muggle way while Harry chatted with her, drinking a butterbeer, just as they’d done on many other nights. Suddenly his lips were upon hers, the butterbeer was sliding down the drain, and Hermione’s hips were on the kitchen counter – which gave Harry a better angle from which to suckle her breasts. Ten minutes later she was sliding beneath him in his bed, her skin on fire, blood roaring through her body like lava erupting from a volcano. Neither of them was quite sure what to do with the other’s bits but that was okay. She was naked, he was naked, and they were doing naked things together, things she’d dreamed of doing with him but never dared hoped for. She felt like she’d died and gone to heaven.

Now, two years after first giving herself to him completely, Hermione knew she would always love making love with Harry and waking up next to him. As she lay beneath him yet again, panting from their mutual workout, a tiny tear fell from her eye and rolled down her cheek.

Harry noticed.

"Hey… hey…what’s up? Don’t cry! Was it that bad?" His lips gently kissed the tear away.

"Bugger, Harry…no, it was so not bad I could hardly believe it," she laughed softly. "I’m just amazed that after two years, I’m still lying here doing this with you –"

"Over and over and over again," he smirked.

"Well, yes, over and over and over again. Sometimes on the same morning."

"Like today."

"If they were all like today I’d never be able to walk again."

"Well, we can’t have that, can we? I guess I’m going to have to stop shagging you."

Hermione finally smiled. He certainly could be cheeky. It was definitely part of his charm. "Don’t you dare!" she squealed and walloped him with one of the loose pillows on the bed.

"Mercy!" Harry laughed, raising his arms in front of his face to ward off her blows.

"Okay," she gave in, deciding she was too hungry to toy with him anymore. "Let’s get cleaned up and have something to eat."

Harry nodded and rolled off the bed, then pulled Hermione up to join him. The room was full of sunlight now, which enabled her to fully appreciate the sight of his naked body. His lean chest and Quidditch arse set her blood roaring again, and before she could stop herself she said something she knew she would regret later that day.

"Last one in the shower is a rotten egg," she giggled, racing ahead of him into the bathroom.

^*^*^*^*^

Breakfast was a leisurely affair. Hermione puttered around the kitchen in her red silk dressing gown, making bacon and eggs, while Harry fixed the coffee. She whistled a cheerful tune he didn’t recognize, probably some Muggle song she’d learned while growing up. He often envied her normal upbringing, how she grew up in a family that loved her and didn’t deprive her of food, lock her in a cupboard or treat her like a servant. Her dressing gown clung to the curves of her hips and ended midway down her thighs, the same thighs that had held his own hips in a vise grip less than an hour ago, tightening around him and urging him toward his goal. Before he could slip further into his erotic reverie, Hermione’s voice brought him back to the present.

"How much do you want?"

"Hmm?" Why couldn’t he just have her for breakfast?

"How much bacon, Harry?"

"Mmmm… three slices, the usual." She resumed her whistling and he resumed looking her up and down.

"What’s that you’re humming?" he asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

"Oh, don’t you know this? It’s a song from the sixties. My Love, by Petula Clark. She was very popular while my parents were growing up. Not like the Beatles of course –"

"Of course not," Harry agreed, relieved that he knew who the Beatles were.

"No, but fairly popular anyway. Mum used to sing this to me at bedtime when I was little. It was part of our routine. I would lean up against her while she read a chapter of a book like Winnie The Pooh or Charlotte’s Web, then she’d lean back with me against the pillows and she’d sing this song to me."

She placed a plate full of bacon and eggs at Harry’s place at the table. Before he tucked in, Harry looked at his breakfast then looked to Hermione. "Your mum sounds like a wonderful mother," he said quietly.

Hermione said nothing for a moment but stared at her own breakfast. Her eyes were moist and her chest heaved slightly. "Yes, she was quite wonderful. Dad too. I couldn’t have had better parents." She looked down at her plate, her eyes clouded in pain.

Harry placed his hand over hers and rubbed his thumb gently on the back of her hand. "I’m sorry, sweetheart."

"It’s okay, really," she replied, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "At least I knew my parents. I can’t imagine how you survived with those horrible Dursleys."

Harry nodded silently, relieved that he didn’t have to explain himself to her. That was one of the best things about his relationship with Hermione. She knew him so deeply and so well that he didn’t have to explain his childhood and adolescence to her. With her he could just be. He leaned toward her, intending to kiss her gently, but before he could a loud rap on the kitchen window interrupted him.

"I’ll see what it is," he said, getting up from his chair and walking across the kitchen. At the window ledge he discovered a tawny owl carrying a small scroll. Harry took the scroll from the owl’s leg, patted the bird’s back and shooed it gently off the window ledge. The owl quickly flew off in the direction of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

"What’s that?" Hermione asked, wiping a bit of egg off the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

"Dunno," Harry said as he opened the scroll. What he found inside disturbed and confused him. Someone had cut letters out of publications and assembled them into words, then glued them to the parchment with a sticking charm. The message was not pleasant.

I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DO.

YOU MAKE ME SICK.

"What does it say?" Hermione asked brightly, unaware of the vein now throbbing in Harry’s temple.

"It seems to be a threat," he said dully, passing the scroll to her so she could read it. Although Voldemort had been dead almost four years, there were still pockets of his followers across the British Isles and Europe. Harry knew all too well that the remaining Death Eaters would love the opportunity to avenge their master’s death. But the wording was odd; it didn’t sound like anything a Death Eater would say, especially not to Harry Potter. Death Eaters would definitely mention Voldemort; they might talk about successors to the "Dark Lord". The words on this scroll seemed to be not political, but personal, as though written by someone who didn’t like Harry but also didn’t give a flip about Voldemort.

"If it is a threat, it’s the most vaguely worded threat I’ve ever seen," Hermione remarked, her eyes narrowing as she seemed to be puzzling out the meaning of the message. "I don’t think this is from any Death Eater," she said as though reading Harry’s mind. "It’s just not on. Definitely not Death Eaters."

"I agree," Harry said. "Not Death Eaters. I’ve received enough threats from them the past six years to know their style. This is not their style at all."

Hermione pursed her lips and stared at the parchment again. "The cut-out letters are the strangest part. It’s like the person doesn’t want us to be able to trace where it came from, but he or she doesn’t know enough advanced magic to be able to put anti-tracing charms on the parchment. So whoever did this is not exactly an expert at charms and probably didn’t take the NEWT-level charms class."

"Probably not. And maybe they watched too many bad Muggle telly shows."

She smiled, then looked at him questioningly. "So are you really worried about this?"

Harry gathered his thoughts for a moment then tossed the parchment in the waste bin under the sink. "No, not really. I’m a public figure – not that I ever wanted to be – but people know who I am. It’s probably just some nutter." The tension in his stomach uncoiled enough to allow him to nibble at his bacon. His eggs were already cold so he muttered a warming charm to make them edible.

Hermione finished her bacon, drank the last sip of her coffee and rose from her seat. "You’re probably right, sweetheart. I’ll try not to worry about it either." With that she kissed him on the cheek and went to get dressed. Harry followed her with his eyes as she left the room, wondering if there would ever be a time when he and Hermione could feel totally safe.

^*^*^*^*^

On Monday morning Harry and Hermione Apparated to the Ministry to begin a new work week. Hermione kissed him goodbye in the lift when he got off at Level 2 then continued down to the Department of Mysteries. Despite being her lover and designated next-of-kin, Harry knew next to nothing about what Hermione did at the DoM because she never talked specifically about anything she was working on. She did tell him she had been sworn to secrecy – literally – when she started working there, so Harry assumed her superiors placed a hex on new employees that would activate only if they revealed any of the secrets they learned. Fortunately he knew Hermione could keep any secret, no matter how dark or deep, if she felt properly motivated, and she certainly had adequate motivation now. She had wanted to work in the Department of Mysteries since her sixth year at Hogwarts. The "Harry Potter Rescue Mission" (as the Ministry badges called it) at the end of fifth year had left an indelible mark on Hermione, who spoke often of the mysterious place during their final years at school. When Harry returned, near death, after he’d vanquished Voldemort, Hermione took a leave of absence from her DoM training to nurse him back to health. While he often wondered what she was working on – especially when she traveled outside Great Britain – Harry never questioned Hermione because he knew she would simply say, "I can’t talk about it. Really."

Near noon that day Harry felt a poke on the back of his neck. He knew there were no Doxies in the Ministry building, and a swat on his neck confirmed that the pointy end of a Ministry memo had struck him. He opened the parchment airplane and found Hermione’s flowing script:

Dear Harry,

Please meet me at the Leaky Cauldron at half past twelve. I’ve got orders to go to France for a few days and I’ll be leaving this afternoon, so we really must have lunch together today.

Yours,

Hermione

Harry smiled at the idea of having a quiet, intimate lunch with Hermione. He hoped she was able to get one of the small private rooms off the main room. It would be easy enough to cast a silencing charm, a door-locking charm and some cushioning charms once he’d shoved their lunch dishes off the table…. At 12:25 p.m. he left his desk, made his way out of the Ministry, then Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron to meet Hermione. He entered the pub and learned from Tom the barkeep that Hermione was waiting for him in a small room at the back of the pub. As he approached the room, he started to feel light-headed as his blood began to rush below his belt. He couldn’t help but smile at what he thought he might find beyond that door.

When he entered the side room, Harry’s heart fell a bit. Hermione sat at the table with her hands crossed primly in front of her. Her summer cloak hung from a peg behind the table, which was set with plates, goblets and cutlery for two.

"Hello, sweetheart," she smiled at him. "Close the door, would you?"

"Of course," he replied.

"And lock it with a good strong charm."

He raised his eyebrows at her, wondering if her meaning was what he’d hoped for, but did as she’d asked. "Won’t that make it difficult for the waiter to bring our food?" he smirked.

"We can eat food later," she replied huskily, remaining seated as Harry crossed the room slowly, his muscles coiled with tension like a tiger waiting to strike.

He stopped about two feet from the table. Hermione leaned forward slightly, revealing more cleavage than Harry remembered from when he’d left her that morning. She’d unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse…

"Before I come any closer," he asked, his voice suddenly rough and dry, "how long are you going to be gone this time?"

"I think three days."

"Three long, lonely days."

Hermione’s tongue circled her lips slowly and deliberately. Then she pushed the table aside and Harry discovered why she had remained seated—she was naked from the waist down. She leaned back, pushing her bottom forward to the edge of the chair, then extended her hand to him. Harry took her hand and dropped to his knees between her legs.

"How did you know what I wanted for lunch?" he smiled as he undid his flies.

"Witch’s intuition," Hermione smirked, pushing his head between her legs with one hand. "Evanesco, table settings!" she panted a few moments later. "I’ll just…transfigure something else…to replace them later."

"Thanks for doing that," Harry rasped, lifting her up from the chair and laying her back on the table. He leaned over and kissed her deeply, twining his tongue with hers. "We might be shagging on Tom’s table but let’s not break his dishes!"

"Breaking his dishes would be very rude," she squealed as Harry’s pants fell down to his ankles and he unbuttoned the last few buttons on her blouse.

"I could never –" he sucked her left nipple –"be rude to Tom" – he moved to her right nipple – "He’s done so much for me"— he sucked her collarbone and kissed a trail up to her lips. "After we’re done here I’ll be sure to thank him –"

"Shut up about Tom. I’m leaving in two hours and I need to eat before I go."

"Good thing you don’t need to eat before you come."

"Not food anyway," she giggled.

^*^*^*^*^

I’d like to give many thanks again to my betas MPotter77, MollyMoon and Abigail89, for all their help polishing this chapter and for feedback on the overall structure of the story. I especially want to thank every who has left comments on the previous chapters. I’m always thrilled by any feedback, even as brief as "Thanks for sharing" or "I liked it".

^*^*^*^*^

August 12, 2002

They were at the Leaky Cauldron today. I saw her come in around twenty past twelve, while I was eating lunch at the bar. She didn’t acknowledge me, of course. She talked with Tom the bartender for a moment, then he nodded toward one of the back rooms and she marched over there and shut the door after she went in. Five minutes later, Potter walked in and did the same thing. They were in that back room at least 20 minutes before the waiter even knocked on the door with their food. I can only imagine what they were doing in there. Probably shagging each other’s brains out. They’re so disgusting. They even do it in a pub! Ten points to Gryffindor for not doing it right at the bar, I suppose, but still. Shagging in a public house. It’s just nauseating. I took rather a long time finishing my lunch because I wanted to see them when they left that room. They were both red in the face, like they’d been exercising. I don’t want to think about what or how they were exerting themselves in a back room of the Leaky Cauldron. Did he take her on top of the table? Under it? Up against the wall? Did she bend over for him or did she make him lie on top of her and shove it in? I bet she didn’t even wear knickers under her robes today. She’s a nauseating little hussy and he’s just as bad. Mr. Stud-Wizard. Probably goes commando and lets Little Mr. Potter hang free and stand up straight whenever the mood takes him.

They both infuriate me. And they didn’t even respond to that note I sent with Salazar on Saturday morning. He came back to me with empty talons. I just don’t think Potter and Granger are paying attention. I specifically said I know where they live, I know what they do and they disgust me. I would have thought that would make them restrain themselves a bit in public. But no, they’re still going at it like bunnies, even in a public house at midday. They probably placed silencing charms on the room but I could still imagine what they sounded like. I’ve heard people doing that. It’s loud and embarrassing and disgusting. She was probably moaning while he pounded her, then he probably grit his teeth and pushed as hard as he could and she probably screamed his name or "Sweet mother of Merlin" or some other exclamation people make in the throes of passion. Don’t they KNOW that people can tell what they’ve been doing? Nobody cares about them shagging each other twice a day. Or more. They should keep their hands and lips and bodies to themselves and not subject the rest of us to their tawdry displays of excessive sexuality.

I’ll give them one more chance to behave themselves. Then if they haven’t promised to mend their ways, I might have to teach them a lesson.

^*^*^*^*^

After his little lunchtime tryst with Hermione, Harry went back to the Auror Division and did his best to get some work done. Checking the assignment board, he was relieved to find no new cases were assigned to him while he was out of the building, so he spent the remainder of the day plowing through several thick files full of parchments devoted to cases he was already working on. With Hermione abroad, he reckoned he would have time to get some work done at home that night, so at half past five in the evening he stacked up a couple of files, performed a shrinking charm on them and packed them into his slender briefcase. Then he Apparated back to the flat, heated up some leftover takeaway food and spent the evening catching up on his paperwork. Many people in the Wizarding world, including his own friends, seemed to think that being an Auror was all glamour and danger, the wizard’s version of the Muggle character James Bond, but that was far from the truth. There was certainly plenty of danger, but it only came in spurts. The rest of the time the job involved a lot of tedium, ranging from interviewing witnesses to staking out suspects to writing reports. The times when Hermione was away on business, not around to distract him, were tailor-made for getting work done. When he went to bed that evening, he felt like he’d accomplished a lot. Hermione would be proud of me, he thought. I’ll tell her about this when she gets back.

As he slowly came to consciousness the next morning, he reached to his right reflexively, then remembered that Hermione wasn’t there. She was off in France somewhere, doing something he couldn’t know about with people he could never meet. Instead of her soft, warm, curvy body he found a large, furry lump on the bed.

"Crookshanks," he mused, petting the cat behind the ears, "she’s off in France for a few days. So I guess we’ll have to miss her together." The ginger cat purred loudly; apparently he didn’t miss Hermione nearly as much as Harry did. Crookshanks rubbed the side of his face against Harry’s hand, his purrs getting louder. "Can you smell her on me, mate?" He pulled his hand away and leaned his face on his palm, inhaling the scent of his own fingers. "So can I. Damn but I miss her. She won’t be back till Thursday though. Better make the best of it."

Swinging his legs out of the bed, Harry got up and took a shower. The warm water streamed over his body, working out a few of the kinks in his muscles that Hermione would usually work out with her talented hands. He missed all of her right now but her hands had special talents. She did something with her thumb and forefinger that drove him wild. Whenever she went away he missed that special treatment, and this morning was no exception. He turned to face the shower head, warm water sluicing down the front of his body, washing over the most sensitive parts of him, and tried to use his own thumb and forefinger exactly the same way Hermione used hers…His attempt at imitation was clumsy but eventually effective. He realized that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to do that. Since they’d cross the line from friends to lovers two years ago, she had done her very best to satisfy his physical needs, which were fairly typical for a young man his age. Whenever she wasn’t there to help him meet those needs, he realized just how good she was at what she did for him.

Two more long, lonely days, he thought as he dressed and grabbed a piece of toast for breakfast, then Apparated to work.

Hermione’s first full day away went very slowly for Harry. Around ten o’clock Remus Lupin approached him to go out with Nymphadora Tonks and re-interview several witnesses in a robbery in Bury St. Edmunds. Harry and Tonks conducted the interviews in a very thorough and professional fashion and returned to the Ministry of Magic around four o’clock. Tonks walked Harry to his cubicle, then proceeded the ten remaining feet to Lupin’s office, where she knocked twice on the door before entering. Harry noticed a twinkle in Lupin’s eye as he opened the door and silently let Tonks in. The voices of the two older Aurors mingled and blended through the office wall so that eventually Harry stopped trying to hear what they were saying, which was all about the robbery investigation anyway and not terribly interesting. What he did notice was that Lupin’s office suddenly went completely silent, even though Tonks hadn’t yet left the room. The silence lasted about fifteen minutes, during which Harry fumbled with the papers on his desk in a vain attempt to appear to be working while he trained his ear toward his supervisor’s office, hoping to hear…something…

All he could hear was an occasional "thud".

Suddenly Harry heard scuffling noises coming from Lupin’s office, then the door opened and Tonks reappeared, her hair and clothing completely different than they’d been when she returned to headquarters, a wicked grin on her impish face. As she left the office, Tonks and Lupin shook hands, but something about the handshake was not on. Lupin’s fingers slid up to Tonks’ wrist and lingered there a few seconds, and there was a glint in his eyes that Harry hadn’t seen before.

In fact Harry found the whole scene quite confusing. Unless…NO! It can’t be…it’s not… his supervisor and surrogate godfather couldn’t possibly be involved that way with Tonks… Could he? But she’s only about seven years older than I am, and Lupin’s over forty… And she’s a very attractive woman and he’s a very unattached werewolf… I mean, man… Oh bugger. He reached an inescapable conclusion. Tonks and Remus are together.

In the few seconds it took for Harry to make this realization, Tonks sidled over to his cubicle and plopped her bum on the edge of his desk.

"Wotcher, Harry," she smiled brightly at him, crossing her legs so that a long expanse of inner thigh showed below her denim mini-skirt. Harry glanced up toward Tonks, trying not to think about what was under her mini-skirt. Intellectually he knew it was probably pretty much the same equipment Hermione had under her skirt, but Harry did not want to think about how Tonks might have been using her equipment in Lupin’s office just a few minutes earlier.

"Shouldn’t you be going home about now?" he blurted out. Bugger, he did NOT want to be this close to any attractive woman in a mini-skirt right now. Not that he had any interest in Tonks that way. She was definitely an attractive woman but she just wasn’t his type. Besides, he just wished it were Hermione wearing that skirt.

"I will, soon enough," Tonks replied, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at him. "Somebody’s a bit tetchy today. Sounds to me like you need a diversion, something to keep your mind off Hermione being gone."

"And what would you suggest?"

"How about Ron?"

Harry almost spat out the water he’d just sipped from his mug. Tonks immediately struck an apologetic note.

"Not that way, you daft git! I just meant he’s been your best mate for a long time. With your lady away, now’s a great time for the two of you to do some male bonding."

Harry looked up at her over his glasses. "Well, we had a falling out almost two weeks ago. I haven’t talked to him since then…but I sure do miss him. Maybe tonight is the right time to get in touch with him and mend fences."

"Bloody well right about that," Tonks insisted. "You should go home, clean up and give Ron a Floo call, see if he’s up for some bloke time tonight." She slid down from the edge of Harry’s desk and made to leave.

"Thanks, Tonks," Harry said. "You’re a pretty good friend yourself."

"Ah, I’m just a bit older and more experienced, that’s all. And that’s what friends and partners are for, innit? You’ve got my back and I’ve got yours."

"Right. Well…I’m off then. And Tonks" – Harry couldn’t resist winking at her – "tell Remus he’s a cruel surrogate godfather, shagging his girlfriend not fifteen feet away from me while mine is out of the country."

Tonks turned three shades of red, none of them by choice.

^*^*^*^*^

Harry went to a Chinese takeout place and brought home some General Tso’s chicken for dinner. Although she had spicy tastes in other areas of their life, Hermione didn’t like seriously spicy food and Harry did, so he indulged his taste for the really hot stuff only when she was away on business. After dinner he tossed the leftovers in the fridge and went into the living room to get comfortable. He moved his wizard chess set from the top of the armoire to the coffee table and set up the pieces. Then he screwed up his courage and approached the fireplace so he could invite Ron over. Several opening lines went through his mind.

"Ron, about that spat we had on my birthday…"

"Ron, I don’t really think you’re a slut…"

"Ron, Hermione really loved what you gave me for my birthday, and so do I… I miss you…"

The last sounded best, so Harry grabbed some Floo powder, tossed it into the fireplace and called out "Ron Weasley!" As green flames sprang up, amid them floated the ginger head of Harry’s best friend of eleven years.

"Hey, Harry…long time no see," Ron began with a quizzical look.

"Hey, Ron…look…" - he stammered -- "about my birthday present…and all that."

"Yeah."

Harry rolled his eyes; he and Ron still were as inarticulate about their friendship as they’d ever been. "I mean, I’m sorry about what I said. I’ve been really busy with work lately, and I should’ve come by to say hello and, well, I just didn’t."

"Yeah. Well, I’ve been pretty busy too. So…"

"So anyway," Harry took a deep breath, "I was wondering if you were busy tonight. If you’re not, would you like to come over and play some wizard chess?"

Ron eyed him appraisingly and tried to look around the flat. "Won’t Hermione mind? She’s probably got plans for the two of you tonight."

Harry shook his head. "She won’t mind. Actually she’s off in France on assignment for the DoM. And…I miss you…we haven’t hung out together in ages. Please?"

Ron thought for a moment. "You got any firewhisky?"

Harry smiled. "Absolutely. And the chess board is already set up the way you like it."

"Pretty confident I’d say yes, were you?" Ron laughed.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "No…not confident…just wanted to give you enough of an incentive, was all."

"Just hanging out with you isn’t enough incentive? Don’t underestimate yourself, Harry. Besides," Ron sighed, "I don’t have anything interesting to do tonight."

"Oh?"

"Really, I don’t. Siobhan and I broke it off last weekend. Or more accurately, she broke it off with me. First she comes on to me like a hag in heat, then she gets all shirty with me because I happened to notice some other bird in the Leaky Cauldron. Women!" he snorted. "Honestly, it’s easier being unattached."

Harry waited until he thought Ron had finished venting. "So…you want to come over or not? I’ll set up a bottle of firewhisky and two glasses for us."

A wide grin crossed Ron’s face. "You bet. Just let me grab my wand and I’ll be there in two shakes." Ron’s head left the fireplace and thirty seconds later, he stepped out of the fireplace and into Harry and Hermione’s living room, dusting soot off his jeans. Harry walked up and clapped Ron on the back, then pulled him into a bear hug. The heat coming off Ron’s face hinted at his embarrassment.

"What’s the big deal, Harry?"

"Just don’t let me go two weeks without talking to you ever again. You know you mean the most to me of anyone in the world…well, maybe except Hermione…You’re still my oldest and best friend," Harry finished, giving Ron a mock-punch on the arm.

A smile crept across Ron’s face and he mock-punched Harry back. "I know, Harry. And you’re still my best mate too. Now where’s the firewhisky? Get ready to have your nuts busted on the chess board."

"Yes, master. Whatever you say," Harry chortled like an obedient house elf as he poured two small glasses of firewhisky while Ron settled down on the sofa.

Half an hour later Ron was about to put Harry’s king in check, and Harry knew it. Sitting in a chintz armchair at the corner of the coffee table, he wracked his brain for another move that might keep Ron at bay. Apparently he took too much time deciding because Ron called him on it.

"I’d like to finish this game before tomorrow," Ron said snidely. "Are you going to move again or not?"

Harry pursed his lips in concentration. "Yeah…sure… just a min—" As he bent over the chessboard to move his knight, he heard a rapping sound at the living room window.

"Owl post at this time of night?" Ron wondered aloud.

"Hmm… wonder what it’s about?" Harry said, opening the window. It was another tawny owl, this time with a larger parchment scroll than the last time a tawny owl had appeared outside the flat a few days earlier. Harry took the scroll from the owl, patted its back and shooed it off the window ledge. As he unrolled the scroll and examined it, an uneasy sense of déjà vu settled in his stomach. The message on this scroll was identical to the one from Saturday, but with a chilling coda:

I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DO.

YOU MAKE ME SICK.

WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?

"Bloody hell," he muttered as the parchment shook in his hands.

Ron looked from the parchment to Harry’s face and back again. "Something wrong?"

Harry frowned, trying to make sense of what he was reading. "Maybe so. We got an owl post like this a few days ago, on Saturday morning. The wording was identical to this one but it stopped with the third line." He showed the parchment to Ron, who lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

"You’re right. This is not on. Do you have any idea who sent this to you?"

"No, neither message was signed, but it’s obvious to me that they came from the same person. That last line is new and that’s what worries me." He sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair as he started pacing the room. "It sounds like I have a stalker."

"Bloody hell."

"Yeah, my feelings exactly."

"Does Hermione know about this?"

"She was here when the first message arrived. We talked about it and decided we would try not to worry about it."

Ron sat back and chewed on his upper lip, deep in thought. "Well, it seems like you might really have something to worry about. Too bad you let that owl go so quickly just now. Don’t suppose you saw which way it headed off?"

Harry shook his head and sighed with exasperation. "No…not tonight…" – his face brightened – "but now that you mention it, that’s probably the same owl that brought the message on Saturday. I remember noticing that it flew off toward St. Paul’s Cathedral – you can see the dome from our kitchen window…"

Leaning back on the sofa, Ron continued to think. "It’s not much to go on," he admitted a moment later, "but at least it’s something. One tiny clue. You’re an Auror, Harry. You’re trained to investigate suspicious occurrences. This could be nothing at all, just a prank by someone… well, I don’t know who would play a prank like this but I’d rather think it’s a prank than something worse…"

Ron’s words sank in, giving Harry another chill. Someone was stalking him. Whoever it was seemed upset. Harry had ignored the first message, which made the stalker angry. Now he’d just inadvertently ignored the second message, which would probably increase the stalker’s anger and frustration. Not good, Potter. Definitely not good. "I’m going to get my notebook and write this down," he told Ron as he left the living room and went into the study. Returning a few minutes later with the notebook and the eagle feather quill Hermione had given him at school, he found a fresh leaf of parchment and jotted down the words from the latest message.

"You gonna tell Hermione when she gets back?" Ron asked.

"I suppose I’ll have to."

"What about Lupin?"

Harry frowned. "No…not yet. No sense bringing him in when I’m not sure there’s even a real problem."

Ron looked skeptical. "So how will you know when it’s a real problem?"

"That’s a good question. Probably not until something worse happens."

"You’re not going to sit around and wait for something worse to happen, are you?" Ron asked, sounding worried.

Harry chuckled grimly. "I’ve never had to sit around and wait for bad things, Ron – they always seem to find me pretty well on their own. As long as we’ve known each other, have you ever known me to just sit back and take the shit that comes my way?"

"Course not."

"And I won’t do that now, either. But I don’t really have any idea what or who I’m dealing with, and I need a clear, logical mind to help me with this."

Ron smiled. "You need Hermione."

"Well…that would’ve been true a couple years ago – certainly before we ended up in bed together." Ron snorted. "Seriously, Ron…she’s not nearly as clear-headed and logical as she used to be, at least not where I’m concerned. Not that I can complain much about how things have changed between us." Harry smiled to himself, his mind drifting to how Hermione gave 100 percent to all sides of their relationship.

Ron’s ears turned red. "Erm, that’s okay, Harry. No need to say any more. I’ve already figured out that you two shag like bunnies," he muttered, suddenly seeming very interested in the carpet next to the coffee table.

Blushing, Harry decided he was very lucky that Hermione’s sex drive was so well-matched to his own. Then a pained expression settled on his face. "And now she’s gone until Thursday and I really, really miss her," he said morosely, hoping Ron caught his draft as the familiar tightness increased below his belt.

Ron nodded and continued staring at the carpet. "I see…You know, I might have something that could help you with that. Let me go back to my flat for a minute," he offered. Before Harry could ask what he was talking about, Ron crossed over to the fireplace, grabbed some Floo powder and stood inside the fireplace, then tossed the Floo powder around himself and announced, "Fred and George Weasley’s flat!" Since Ron had said he would be back soon, Harry decided to stay put. He started examining the chess board, trying to puzzle out -- again -- what his next move should be. Before he could think on it much, Ron appeared from the fireplace again. Approaching Harry, he opened up his clenched right hand to reveal a small blue vial.

"What’ve you got there?"

"Something Fred and George gave me. They’re branching out a bit, trying to add a line of adult products" -- Ron coughed -- "some are funny, some are just useful. I’m not sure which this is supposed to be. It’s called Pintle Popper." Ron read the label to Harry, who started blankly at him. "Ingredients: Verbena oil, verbena flowers, purified water from Hogwarts Lake, witch hazel. Reduces lust when no appropriate outlet is available. Splash Pintle Popper on one hand, rub both hands together, then gently rub hands exactly once up and down the length of your pe--"

Harry could feel a flash of heat emanating from his face; apparently all the blood below his waist had risen to his head. "That’s enough, Ron. I get the picture."

"No, there’s more. ‘When used according to instructions, this potion will prevent erections for up to six days.’ " Ron’s face fell almost as much as Harry’s did. "Six days?"

"SIX DAYS?" Harry bellowed. "Why the hell would I want to do that? Especially when Hermione is coming back in two days?"

Ron blushed. "Bugger, I don’t know. That sounds pretty…boring."

Harry cocked an eyebrow at him. "Especially since I was hoping to spend a few hours …erm…alone with her Thursday night before we go to sleep. Sorry, Ron, I know you meant well, but I am not using this Pintle Popper stuff now. I guess I’ll just have to deal with being randy the old-fashioned way."

"Well, at least I know you excelled at that," Ron laughed. Harry shot him a murderous look. "You weren’t that good at Silencio in school, mate, not to mention it doesn’t work very well on bed hangings. I could hear you buggering your pillow at least every other night during fifth, sixth and seventh years."

"And all that time I thought I was the smart one for figuring out what you were doing behind your bed hangings," Harry snickered. "We were pretty pathetic back then, weren’t we?"

Ron’s smile left his face. "Yeah, we were. We were kind of distracted by other things. Look…don’t throw the stuff out. Just save it for a rainy day. Who knows, maybe Hermione will get sent away for a week or two and you’ll need to use it…"

"God, you know how to wound a bloke. I think two weeks away from Hermione would kill me."

"Sorry, mate. It’s not my fault you’re whipped. You are whipped, aren’t you?"

Harry smiled. "Totally and completely, and loving just about every minute of it. But if you say one more word about Hermione being away I’ll have to forget to invite you to come with me—"

Ron perked up. "Come with you where?"

Harry reached into the armoire, pulled out a green envelope and opened it for Ron to see. "To the Quidditch World Cup. Hermione gave me a pair of tickets for my birthday. Top Box, too. Isn’t she brilliant?"

"Always has been and always will be," Ron laughed. "And she definitely knows how to make you happy."

"In every way," Harry snickered

"I’m glad for you, mate. Really. I don’t know what took you and Hermione so long to figure it out. Everyone else had you pegged as a couple ages ago. Now stop mooning over her and let’s finish this game. I’d like to get out of here before she comes home and starts jumping your bones."

Harry blushed. "Err, right. And Ron – finish your firewhisky."

"Sure, Harry." He moved his queen. "Checkmate."

"Whipped again," Harry sighed, draining his glass of firewhisky. Then he realized he didn’t want Ron to go. The evening was still young and there was still half a bottle of firewhisky and a lot more to talk about. "How about best two out of three?"

"You are a glutton for punishment, my man."

"I vanquished Voldemort. I ought to be able to beat you at chess…at least once in my life."

"Guess you can’t be great at everything…"

^*^*^*^

Author’s Note: I’d like to thank everyone who’s taken the time to leave a review for chapters 1-3. It really does mean a lot to me, even if it’s just a single sentence. Thanks again to my wonderful betas, MPotter77, MollyMoon and Abigail, for their highly constructive criticism. I’m sorry this is a little bit behind schedule; my computer was down for almost a week and we’ve had some illness in my family. But that’s all done now so I hope to get back to the schedule I’d initially posted. Anyway, the plot really begins to thicken in this chapter, which is rated hard-R (don’t worry, we will get to the NC-17 stuff eventually). – Anne U

^*^*^*^*^*^

Chapter 4

August 14, 2004

Still no response from Potter and the Mudblood. I sent the second note to them on Tuesday night, but Salazar came back with empty talons once again. What is wrong with those two? Aren’t they listening to me? Wasn’t my message clear enough? What in Merlin’s name do I have to do to get their attention—stand in front of them naked and wank Potter? Actually that might be over the top. I wouldn’t want to do anything that Granger would enjoy, or Potter either for that matter. Well, he might enjoy it but I wonder how she would feel watching someone else’s hand milking his bone. Would it make her knickers wet or would she want to vomit? What if I dropped to my knees in front of him? Would he push me away, or would he let me do it? Does he really want her filthy lips and tongue on him or is he just using her? He’s not a Mudblood like her. Some people even think he’s the heir of Godric Gryffindor. I always wondered, after reading Hogwarts, A History, whether old Godric was poking Rowena in the kitchens behind Salazar’s back. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if the big row that broke up the Founders was about who was going to shag Rowena. I’ve read that Rowena Ravenclaw was the cleverest witch of her age, but if she picked a goody two-shoes like Gryffindor over someone with ambition, like Slytherin, she couldn’t have been all that clever. I don’t actually want to take Potter’s…thing…in my mouth. To be honest, that would be disgusting. I mean, why would I want any dick that’s been inside a Mudblood? I can do so much better than St. Potter the Great. He’s been moping around town the past few days, looking like a lost puppy dog. That must mean Granger is out of town and he has no one to bone. I will keep a close eye on him the next day or two. I believe I now have the means necessary to convince them to listen to my words. I just need to make sure the timing is right. But when it is…they will be very sorry they’ve ignored me.

^*^*^*^

Hermione Granger stood in the foyer of the Hotel Diane in Carnac, on the coast of Brittany in southwestern France, waiting to settle her account. The hotel was in the wizarding section of Carnac, a town made famous by the hundreds of megaliths, most of them at least five thousand years old, that dotted the neighboring countryside. Hermione had spent the past three days studying a specific group of megaliths, hoping to find some clues to the ancient and as-yet undeciphered carvings on them. The megaliths at Carnac had interested the Department of Mysteries for several centuries, and Hermione was the latest in a long string of Unspeakables who’d spent untold hours trying to figure out the meaning of the carvings. After three days of staring at the same six stones for ten hours a day, Hermione didn’t know any more than she did Monday afternoon, when she first arrived. The experience left her feeling intellectually frustrated. But that was nothing compared to the frustration her body felt after three days away from Harry. She missed him down to her bones, in their marrow, in the fibers of her muscles, in the corpuscles in her blood. She loved her career, she enjoyed traveling, but she hated every moment spent away from Harry. Now all she could think of was that she would be leaving Carnac soon and going back to the man she’d loved since she was seventeen years old.

The concierge, a middle-aged Frenchmen, walked up to Hermione and addressed her in heavily accented English. "Mademoiselle, are you leaving zoon?"

"Yes, very soon," Hermione replied absently. "I’d like to settle my bill now, please."

"Certainement. If you weesh to pay in British wizard money, zhat will be one hundred feefty Galleons."

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. "One hundred fifty seems rather expensive for a bed and breakfast like this. How about one hundred Galleons for the three nights?"

The concierge’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Very well, mademoiselle. You drive a ‘ard bargain. Are you zhure you don’t work for Gringotts Bank?"

Hermione smiled softly. "No, I’m afraid not. I’m just a researcher for the Ministry of Magic." She pulled a velvet moneybag out of her satchel and carefully counted out one hundred Galleons under the concierge’s watchful eye. "There, we’re squared away now. Thank you for your wonderful hospitality. This is a lovely hotel and I’ll be happy to recommend it to my friends in Britain."

"Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle Granger. ‘Ave a safe trip," the concierge said, tipping his hat as she left the building.

Walking slowly away from the hotel, Hermione continued until she reached the first ring of megaliths beyond the hotel. Then she pulled a small stone from her pocket and checked her watch. Only two minutes until the Portkey activates and takes me home, she thought longingly. Clutching her bags tightly in the early afternoon sunshine, she breathed the humid Breton air for what she hoped would be the last time for several months. She’d never liked traveling by Portkey, but for long distances it was easier on the body than Apparating. Moments later, a familiar tug pulled her from behind her navel, she fell into a swirl of darkness, and next thing she knew, she landed – amazingly, on her feet – on the cobblestone sidewalk of Diagon Alley.

Not stopping for even a moment, Hermione Apparated into the apartment block near the Barbican Centre where she shared a twelfth-storey flat with Harry…who was still at work, if his day had gone the way it should have. Noting that the usual wards were in place, she performed the counterspell to keep from setting the wards off and summoning Hit Wizards from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Finally, she put her key in the thoroughly Muggle lock, opened the door and stepped inside.

The scene inside surprised her. Instead of an empty living room, she found Harry lying on his back on the sofa, his glasses thrown haphazardly on the coffee table, left forearm over his eyes. Crookshanks nestled between Harry’s legs while Hedwig hooted softly in her cage near the window. Harry was sound asleep, snoring slightly but not loud enough to mask the freight-train sound of Crookshanks’ purring. Hermione had no idea why he was home in the middle of an August afternoon, but he looked so tired she decided not to wake him. Instead she carried her bags quietly into their bedroom and slipped out of the long, loose shift she’d worn for traveling. Then she pulled on a sleep-shirt and lay down on their bed to take a brief nap.

At least she’d planned to take a brief nap. She dozed fitfully for about an hour, then fell into a deep sleep during which she dreamed she was in a cabana-style room on a tropical island, wearing only a diaphanous baby-doll nightgown and lying on a king-sized bed with Harry at her side. As a warm summer breeze wafted in through the open window, she looked up at him longingly and tried to speak, but couldn’t. Harry didn’t seem to care; he put one finger to his lips as if to shush her then began planting feathery kisses along her jaw line, down one side of her neck then along her collarbone. He continued kissing further down her chest until he came to her right breast, which he licked through the flimsy nightgown. With a wicked smirk, he took her nipple in his mouth, flicking his tongue across it. A shock of pleasure coiled southward, making Hermione roll her hips against him. His lips slid slowly across her skin until she thought she would scream with anticipation. Just as he was honing in on his favorite target, Hermione awoke and discovered the cause of her dream.

Harry’s legs were entwined with her own and his lips were kissing their way down her torso, one excruciating inch at a time…

Hermione knew what she was awakening to would be even better than her dream. Twining her fingers in his messy black hair, she gently pulled his head upwards so she could see his face.

"Miss me?" she smirked.

Harry pushed her sleep shirt up to her waist and began licking a lazy circle ever so slowly around her navel. "Just a little," he mumbled into her belly while his hands roamed up and down the sides of her torso. Hermione spread her arms limply to each side and basked in the attentions of Harry’s expert tongue for a few moments before her brain engaged again.

"I got home about half past one and found you asleep on the sofa. You looked so tired I didn’t have the heart to wake you up," she explained. By this time her sleep shirt was bunched up under her arms and Harry was cuddled up to her right side, his mouth firmly attached to her right breast while his right hand slid under her knickers. "So I… ohhhh…ummm…just let you…ohhhh…sleep and I…ohhhhh, yesssss…came in here and laid down for a nap. Yesssss…oh… that’s what I did…and I dreamed you were doing…ohhhh… something very much like this…ahhhhh…" – his hand and tongue began moving faster as she talked – "and that’s when I woke up and you’d better not stop…ohhhh…. Though I’d really like a kiss hello…yessssss…ohhhh… Harry…"

Keeping his hand firmly in place, Harry dragged his lips off her breast, planting squelching kisses up her throat to her lips. "Like this?" he sighed into her lips as he began exploring every inch of her mouth with his tongue.

"That’s good," she smiled as he finished the kiss and his dear face hovered but an inch above hers. "All of it. Just…ohhh…yes…keep doing that…nice welcome home, oh my…what are you…oh yessss…doing home at this time of day…ohhhh…don’t stop, just tell me… yesssss…" They were merely in the preliminary round but already Harry had made her slick with desire. As he knelt on the bed and fumbled with his flies it was obvious he felt the same urgent need she did. Hermione pushed herself up on her elbows and watched him shove down first his trousers then his pants.

"I was up all night last night working on a case," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed as she slipped down onto the floor close to him. "We got a lead… ummmm yeah…on that robbery case so Tonks and I went…ohhhh mmmm… went to Bury St. Edmunds and …mmmm yeah yeah do that…and we did a stakeout and it didn’t…mmmm ohhhh ahhhh…we didn’t catch them till about eight this morning… oh God, OH GOD… Hermione…oh…and then by the time we got the paperwork…oh oh oh sweet mother of Merlin…got the paperwork done at the Ministry…ohhhhh please please yesss ohhh…it was almost noon…yesss oohhhhh please baby… yeah…and Remus said to go home and sleep. So I did…I was too tired to get past the sofa…" -- he pushed her head down with both hands -- "and…OHHHHHHHHHHH…"

She looked up at him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "And?"

"Oh …right…well, that’s where I collapsed," he panted, a dreamy expression on his face as he leaned back wearily.

Hermione grinned and winked at him while she pushed her knickers off. "Don’t you dare collapse now. I’m not done with you, Mr. Potter." With that she pulled his tee-shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor, then pushed him onto his back and straddled his waist. Harry lay back on the bed, his eyes glazed with pleasure and the dreamy expression still plastered on his face.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked huskily. As Hermione leaned over him, he pulled the sleep shirt over her head and tossed it down near his own tee-shirt. Then she slid down on top of his body, past his firm chest, down his abdomen with its trail of fine black hair and soft hint of a belly, stopping just short of what she really wanted. Harry’s hands slid up and down her bum then up her back until he pulled her into a searing kiss. She would be happy to just lie there and kiss him forever, but she wanted much more and she knew that he did too. Just as she was about to show him exactly what else she wanted, Hermione heard a loud THUD against the bedroom window, loud enough to make her and Harry sit up and almost forget what they’d been doing.

"What in the bloody blue blazes is it this time?" Harry swore, jumping up from the bed stark naked and opening the window. On the window ledge was a tawny owl with a red envelope lashed to its leg. Harry jerked the envelope from the owl’s leg, shooed the owl grumpily off the ledge (rather more gruffly than was necessary, Hermione thought) then followed the owl with his eyes as it flew away.

"Is there a problem?" Hermione asked, genuinely curious about his reaction.

Harry sat on the bed next to her, put the envelope down and sighed. "We’ve just received a lot of owls recently. It’s been kind of weird. Remember the owl that arrived last Saturday during breakfast? The one with the bizarre note?" Hermione nodded. "Tuesday night I invited Ron over to play chess. While he was here, another tawny owl arrived. And it was carrying a message just like the one from Saturday, except—"

"Except what?"

"Except that it had one extra line at the end – ‘Why are you ignoring me?’"

Hermione pondered this for a moment. "You think the same person sent both messages?"

Harry looked glum. "I would bet twenty Galleons on it. Tawny owls are very common. I guess it’s not impossible that I could get owls from two or three different people who all live near St. Paul’s Cathedral, but I don’t think it’s very likely. The real giveaway was the message, though. Exact same wording on the first three lines. I suppose there could be more than one person involved, but that doesn’t seem likely either."

Now that Harry’s body was no longer pressed against hers, Hermione felt chilled and pulled the duvet over her lap. "So…are you going to open this envelope or not?"

"Let’s examine it before we do," Harry said, finding his boxers on the floor and pulling them on. Much to Hermione’s chagrin, he had abandoned their foreplay in an instant and gone into his investigative Auror mode.

"Okay," she sighed in frustration, getting up and pulling on her dressing gown. She picked the envelope up off the bed and turned it over and over. "Very ordinary-looking parchment, probably bought at Flourish & Blotts or Scribbulus Inks in Diagon Alley." She sniffed the writing on the front. "I believe this is a normal Wizarding ink, probably from Scribbulus. It doesn’t smell unusual so it’s probably not homemade."

Harry grinned. "Very good, Miss Granger. Do continue."

Hermione stared at the writing on the front of the envelope, which said only Harry Potter. "The script is very poorly written, as though it was done by a small child just learning cursive writing. So I would guess the writer used the hand she doesn’t usually write with."

"Interesting theory. So you think this came from a woman?"

She paused to gather her thoughts. "Yes, I think so. There’s something about the handwriting, even though it’s obviously written with the wrong hand. It just seems feminine."

Harry’s eyebrows went up as he considered this information. "Hmmm. Could be. So you think some woman I don’t actually know is keen on me and she’s upset that I don’t know who she is?" He sighed heavily and picked up Hermione’s hand in his own. "What the hell am I supposed to do about that?"

"I don’t know, Harry." She hated the way people seemed to concentrate their neuroses and psychoses on him. He never asked for any of this. Why couldn’t he just have a few years of peace? A prickle behind her eyes made her turn away from Harry for a moment. She wished they could live a normal life like any other couple, Wizard or Muggle, instead of having to watch their backs every minute of every day. Perhaps she was being paranoid. Perhaps there was nothing wrong with the envelope. Maybe it was worth taking a chance on this mysterious delivery.

"Listen," she said hesitantly. "Maybe this isn’t related to the other messages. I’m no handwriting expert and I’m certainly not an Auror. I could be completely wrong about this. Maybe it’s an invitation to someone’s birthday party and their child wrote the invitations." She smiled and kissed his cheek. That seemed to convince him to take a chance.

Harry picked up the envelope and tapped it with his finger, apparently expecting it to glow or emit dangerous fumes or provide some other reason not to open it. Then he took his wand and passed it over the front and back of the envelope as well as along all four edges. Nothing out of the ordinary happened then either. He couldn’t seem to find any more reasons not to open the envelope, so he did. Harry slowly peeled up the flap on the back, then just as slowly pulled out a sheet of equally ordinary parchment that was folded inside. As he opened the parchment, a smattering of pale yellow dust the consistency of pollen floated out into the room. Visions of the recent anthrax scare in the United States filled Hermione’s mind, and she immediately wished she hadn’t convinced Harry to open the envelope. He stared at the parchment for a moment then closed his eyes and shook his head. Anxiety overtook Hermione and she grabbed the parchment from Harry’s hand and read it aloud. The letter contained the same poorly written script as the envelope.

You ignored my last two letters, Potter. You should not have ignored them. I know what you and Granger do. I’ve seen you nuzzling in public places. I’m surprised I haven’t come across you shagging in public. You should stop engaging in public displays of lust. And why are you with that Mudblood when you could be involved with a proper witch?

You should stop these disgusting displays immediately. This is your last warning. And for Merlin’s sake break off with Hermione Granger. She doesn’t belong in the Wizarding world and you should find a real witch to service your physical needs.

A Friend

Tears leaked down Hermione’s face while the parchment shook in her hand. Harry leaned toward her, wiped the tears off with his thumbs and pulled her close to him. He stroked her hair with one hand while his other arm circled her shoulders.

"Fucking son of a bitch," he muttered. "Who the hell is this anyway?"

The yellow dust continued to float around the room. A small amount of the dust landed on Hermione’s forearm, but most of it landed on Harry’s bare chest and back. Suddenly Hermione’s arm felt like it was on fire where the pollen had touched it and she started scratching her arm as hard as she could. The scratching only made her arm feel worse, though, and just as suddenly several large boils broke out on her forearm. She looked over to Harry and her eyes went wide in shock. His back and chest were covered with fierce red pustules and the more he scratched, the more they spread.

"Don’t scratch, Harry! You’ll just make it worse!" she cautioned, running into the bathroom and throwing open the medicine cabinet. "Oh bugger!" she called out, "we don’t have any boil-cure potion. I guess we’ll need to get to St. Mungo’s to get fixed up." She stopped only long enough to put on some knickers and the shift she’d removed earlier.

Harry stood in the bedroom clenching his fists to keep from scratching the outbreak on his skin. After helping him into his jeans, Hermione led him out to the living room, where she stuck her wand out one of the windows. Moments later a large yellow vehicle with a white cross on the roof appeared out of nowhere, pulling up to the kerb outside the building. Harry and Hermione Apparated down to the lobby, where they were met by two mediwizards. Less than a minute later, they found themselves in the lobby of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

Still holding Harry’s hand, Hermione looked around the reception area on the ground floor. Healers in lime green robes strode through the corridors carrying clipboards or pushing carts full of magical medicines. About five metres ahead Hermione noticed a tall, slender older witch staffing the reception desk and pulled Harry in that direction. She was surprised no one had said anything about either of them so far, because Harry was now covered with huge ugly boils from his neck to his waist.

The clerk began addressing them without taking her eyes off the parchments on the counter. "Welcome to St. Mungo’s. How may I help you? What is the nature of your--" She stopped cold when she realized whom she was addressing and tried not to look too closely at them.

"Hermione Granger and Harry Potter. We’ve both broken out in boils -- Harry’s are much worse than mine - and we’re not entirely sure why," Hermione said matter-of-factly.

The clerk looked skeptical. "You’re not sure why you have boils, or you’re not sure why his are worse than yours?"

Harry shot a murderous look at the clerk. "We’re not sure why we have them at all, you silly bint!" He took a breath and blew it out slowly, trying to calm himself. "I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to be rude, but my skin feels like it’s being flayed, and I’m sure Hermione isn’t very comfortable either. Any chance we can see a healer before tomorrow?"

Before the startled clerk could answer, a plump blonde witch appeared next to the counter. Hermione recognized her as the Welcome Witch who had been so solicitous to her while Harry was hospitalized after the final battle with Voldemort. "Hello Miss Granger," the blond witch said kindly. "And Mr. Potter! I’d say it’s wonderful to see you looking so well, but you don’t look very well, do you?"

Harry rolled his eyes and gnashed his teeth in pain.

"We seem to have come in contact with something that causes boils," Hermione said. "Where should we go to be examined?"

The Welcome Witch frowned. "Oh dear, you’ll need to go to the third floor, where we handle poisonings due to plants and potions. Did you bring a sample of the offending material with you?"

Hermione opened the hand that clutched the envelope and the note. Her other hand squeezed Harry’s, trying to comfort him. Harry leaned his head on top of hers briefly, then sighed loudly. The Welcome Witch nodded for them to proceed upstairs to the third floor, where a healer-in-training would be waiting for them. The magical lift was similar to the lifts at the Ministry but much larger and less ornate. Inside the lift, a young healer with brown hair and a round, pleasant face passed an elaborate wand back and forth over the torso of an unconscious patient whose cot floated in mid-air. Suddenly the young healer’s eyes left his patient. When he looked at Harry and Hermione, recognition dawned on his face.

"Harry…Hermione…it’s me, Neville Longbottom."

"Neville!" Harry grinned.

Hermione considered hugging her old friend but decided against it. "It’s wonderful to see you again, Neville. I’d hug you but, well, I don’t think you’d want to touch either of us right now," she apologized, waving her pustular arm in his direction.

Neville looked from Hermione to Harry with outright shock on his face. "What happened to you two?" When the lift doors opened at the third floor Neville muttered "Mobilicorpus!" and the unconscious patient floated out into the corridor. Neville then reiterated the Hover Charm to keep the patient stationary while he spoke with his old classmates. Harry and Hermione followed him out into the third-floor reception area.

"We opened a letter that turned out to have some kind of strange yellow powder in it," Hermione said. She began to hand the envelope to Neville but he backed away, putting his hands up as if to protect himself.

"No offense, Hermione, but I’d rather not touch that. Just tell me what it looked and smelled like; that should be enough for me to make a diagnosis." He guided them into a small room that contained two examination tables as well as a sideboard bearing a variety of scales, vials and silver instruments. Harry’s face was beginning to contort with pain, so Hermione helped him get seated on one of the examining tables, then shimmied up onto the other table while Neville fished under the sideboard. There he found a large pouch marked "Laboratory" and opened it up. Stiff-armed, he stuck it out in front of Hermione, who dropped the letter and envelope inside. After Neville muttered a sealing charm, he wrote something on the pouch then watched it float out the room.

"Well, the powder was pale yellow, like buttercups, and very fine. It looked like pollen," she explained while Neville took notes on a parchpad.

"The stuff kind of floated or hung in the air for a minute or so before it settled on our skin," Harry added through gritted teeth.

By this time Neville had put on a pair of dragon-hide gloves and was examining the boils on Harry’s back. Using a thin silver instrument, he popped one of the boils; a stream of slimy, bright-orange pus oozed out of it. "Well, now I know what caused this. It was Bulbadox Powder."

Harry’s mouth dropped open. "Bulbadox Powder? But…that’s..."

"Something you can buy at a joke shop," Hermione cut in. She had a vague memory of some kerfuffle in Gryffindor that was caused by Bulbadox Powder. Harry apparently had not forgotten it.

"Do you remember Kenneth Towler? He was in Fred and George’s year." Hermione nodded. "When you and Ron and I were in third year, the twins pranked him with Bulbadox Powder. They put it in his pyjamas—"

"--And he broke out in boils," Hermione muttered, shaking her head. Fred and George had thought they were terribly clever, but she’d thought it was one of their meaner pranks. "So what’s the treatment?"

Neville looked at her over Harry’s shoulder and smiled weakly. "Actually, it’s ridiculously simple. If you don’t have any boil-cure potion, you just wash the affected area with soap and water."

At this Harry slumped in his perch on the examining table. "Are you taking the mickey on me, Neville? Because that’s really not funny."

Neville sighed and looked sheepish. "No, Harry, I’m not. Bulbadox boils really are easy to cure. They’re just a short-lived annoyance, but it’s hard to recognize them without having a healer look at them – well, unless you want to lance them yourself, which I don’t recommend. If you don’t wash them with soap and water, they start suppurating – popping and oozing – all on their own within about two hours, which leaves you with a disgusting orange mess on your body. So…if it’s been less than two hours since the boils came out, I’d better start washing both of you up. Hermione, come here by the sink and I’ll take care of you first."

Hermione did as she was told and allowed Neville to clean her arm. When he’d finished washing and gently patting it dry, Neville filled a small basin with soap and water and began sponging the warm soapy water over Harry’s back, neck and chest. Hermione was happy to help by patting Harry dry; it also gave her a chance to sneak a kiss on his cheek and offer a few words of comfort.

"Not as bad as we’d thought, is it?" she whispered.

"Maybe not," he whispered back but his lack of conviction was written on his face. Hermione knew this look well. It was his "Why must I go through all this shite?" look, which she’s seen innumerable times over the past eleven years. Wanting to reassure him, she cradled his cheek in her hand; Harry caught her wrist and placed a kiss on her palm. Neville puttered around the examining room, apparently looking for something, but Hermione suspected he was just trying to give them a few moments to themselves.

"So how are you both feeling now?" Neville asked, getting back to business.

Hermione shrugged. "Okay, I guess. My arm is a bit sore but that doesn’t surprise me much. What about you, Harry?"

Wincing at the effort, Harry rolled his shoulders. "Not so well. I feel like I fell off my broom from fifty feet up."

Neville scowled and wrote something else on Harry’s chart. "I was afraid of that. Sometimes a widespread outbreak of Bulbadox boils can make a person feel like they have a bad case of the flu, or worse. I’m also concerned because your boils seemed to be deeper and more pustulent than Hermione’s. I’m going to have the lab analyze the pus I drained from one boil to find out if this is garden-variety Bulbadox, the kind you can get at Gambol & Japes or Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, or something more exotic. While we wait for the results, Harry, I’d like to admit you to hospital for observation."

Harry sighed heavily then shrugged as if to admit defeat.

"And while we’re waiting," Neville continued, "I’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible." Waving his wand he conjured a loose-fitting pale-blue medical coat with the initials HJP embroidered on it. "Don’t want you catching a chill sitting here for hours with no shirt on."

Harry smiled weakly as he put the shirt on and buttoned it up. "Fits pretty well. Thanks, Neville. Once again you come to the rescue."

Blushing, Neville poured a pink liquid into two tiny cups, then handed them to Harry and Hermione. "Here you go. It’s an analgesic potion. I’ve given Harry three times as much as you, Hermione, because he’s bigger and he appears to be in a lot more pain. Now let’s get Harry set up in a room where we can keep an eye on him." He led them out of the examining room then down a long corridor. Seated along the walls were several witches and wizards, both young and old, who were waiting to be treated. Hermione furrowed her brow, trying not to think about the fact that she and Harry had seen a healer much sooner than these poor folks simply because of who Harry was. Once they’d reached the room and Harry was settled on the bed, he spoke up again.

"Neville, can you do us a favor?"

"Sure, Harry, what do you need?"

Harry looked at Hermione knowingly. "We need to contact Remus Lupin at the Ministry of Magic. I believe this…incident…was the result of foul play and I want to get an investigation started."

Neville seemed puzzled. "You’re going to investigate a Bulbadox prank?"

If only Neville knew what we do, Hermione mused, realizing immediately that for his own safety, it was best to tell him as little as possible.

"Trust us, Neville," Harry insisted. "We’re pretty certain it’s not just a prank. Please show Hermione to a fireplace so she can call Lupin as soon as possible."

Neville crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. Hermione nodded to Harry as Neville led her out of the room to a nearby waiting area, where she poked her head into an empty fireplace and initiated a Floo call.

"The office of Remus Lupin at the Ministry of Magic!" she stated clearly. Green flames shot up in the fireplace and soon Hermione found herself looking into Lupin’s office.

"Hermione! You’re back from France!" Lupin said, smiling. "I’m sure Harry is thrilled about that."

Hermione sighed. "Oh, he would be if we hadn’t ended up at St. Mungo’s…"

"Merlin’s beard! What happened?" Lupin scowled.

"We both broke out in Bulbadox boils," she frowned. "Please just come here as quickly as you can. We’ll explain when you get here."

A few moments after Hermione pulled her head out of the fireplace, Lupin stepped into the waiting area, accompanied by Nymphadora Tonks. Her short blue hair, tattered jeans and tight-fitting Rolling Stones shirt contrasted with Lupin’s threadbare robes, which made him look more disheveled than usual. Hermione led the two Aurors to Harry’s room, where they found him sitting straight up, apparently trying to keep his torso from touching the bed.

"So what’s going on, Harry?" Lupin prodded. "Hermione told us you came here with an outbreak of Bulbadox Boils."

Harry and Hermione sighed and looked each other in the eye. They knew they could trust Lupin and Tonks to be discreet about the situation. The fewer people knew about it, Hermione thought, the easier it would be to track down the person who was threatening them.

"Someone seems to be stalking me," Harry said slowly. He then recounted the contents of the three messages he’d received by owl. After he finished Lupin stood silent for a minute, considering Harry’s words. He cast a significant look at Tonks, who nodded in silent agreement.

"It sounds as though we do need to open an investigation," Lupin said finally. "Do you still have the latest letter and the envelope it came in?"

"No, Neville sent them to the hospital laboratory for testing," Hermione explained. "He didn’t even want to touch them before he discovered it was just Bulbadox Powder."

Lupin gave a half-smile. "Quite understandable. He didn’t know what he was dealing with. That’s just good common sense. Well, I’m sure he’ll tell us if it turns out to be anything worse."

Hermione’s throat went dry and she put her hand to her mouth. What if it was something worse? What if Neville didn’t notice something he should have?

Noticing her distress, Harry quickly tried to reassure her. "Don’t go spare about this, Hermione. Neville was always aces at Herbology. He seems to know what he’s doing now and I’m sure he’s a wonderful healer." Harry reached out and grabbed her hand to comfort her. "So stop worrying about me and let’s help Remus get started on his investigation."

A sigh of resignation escaped Hermione’s lips. "You’re right, Harry. Going spare won’t help anything." Fierce determination welled up in her as she turned to Lupin and Tonks. "What else do you need to know? What can I do to help?"

Lupin smiled kindly at her. "Well, first and foremost, take care of Harry as well as you always do. Obviously he needs the rest of today off work, and he shouldn’t come in tomorrow either, even once he’s been released from hospital." Harry frowned and tried to object but Lupin cut him short. "I do want him rested up and ready to come back on Monday morning."

"Aye, Captain Lupin," Hermione laughed, giving him a mock-salute.

Harry fidgeted with the hem of his blue hospital jacket. "What else?"

Lupin stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Did you keep the first two messages?"

Hermione frowned. She remembered Harry binning the first note because they thought it was a prank by a nutter. Harry seemed to read her mind. "We didn’t keep the first note because we thought it was a crazy prank," he said morosely. "I did keep the second note though – the one that arrived while Hermione was away. That’s in the middle drawer of my desk in our study."

"That’s good," Lupin said. "If you don’t mind, I’ll send Tonks over to retrieve it."

"No! Don’t go to that much trouble," Hermione interjected, feeling anxious about accident-prone Tonks tromping around their flat. "I’ll go. It will only take a few minutes." She made to leave the room but Harry stopped her.

"Actually, Hermione, they do need to go to our flat," he sighed. "If someone really is stalking me, then our bedroom might be a crime scene because that’s where we opened the letter."

Tonks and Lupin tried to hide their smirks behind their hands. "I did wonder how you managed to get Bulbadox Powder all over your torso," she sniggered toward Harry. Hermione wanted to say, "It’s none of your bloody business," but realized she couldn’t; she blushed while Harry looked very uncomfortable. Their bedroom was a crime scene – which meant that Aurors would be all over the flat, especially the bedroom, examining everything for evidence. They would see the bed where she and Harry had been playing just moments before the whole thing happened. They would get a very good idea of what had transpired in that room right before the owl arrived.

Hermione wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there for a very long time.

If anyone had any doubts about her and Harry being a couple, a look around their bedroom would dispel those doubts very quickly. Not that she was ashamed of being with Harry; quite the contrary, nothing made her happier than being his lover as well as his best friend. She just hadn’t reckoned with the possibility of Ministry staff (and worse yet, friends and coworkers) combing her own flat for evidence of a crime and thereby discovering evidence of all aspects of her relationship with Harry. She leaned back against his shoulder and sighed, which prompted him to kiss her neck.

"It’ll be okay," he whispered, circling her waist with his arm. "Really. I’m sure the Aurors have seen much worse…" She hadn’t said a word to him about her misgivings; he just knew. She looked up into his green eyes and thanked him wordlessly.

"Remus, Tonks – go do what you need to do," Hermione said, finally admitting the obvious. "I’ll stay here with Harry and see what I can do to help him get better quickly."

Lupin nodded and left the room. On her way out, Tonks stopped and patted Hermione’s hand. "Don’t worry, love. Rem – Lupin and I will respect your privacy as much as we’re allowed to. And try not to worry about these owls you’ve been getting. We’ll do our damnedest to find out who’s been doing this and to make them stop." Tonks then kissed Hermione on the cheek and departed.

For the first time that evening, Hermione let herself believe that Tonks could be right.

^*^*^*^

Author's Note: I apologize for taking 3 weeks to update. Real Life and the RL's of my betas keeps intruding, darn it. I will try to update every 2 weeks (at least) from now on. Many thanks again to my betas, whose constructive criticism has definitely improved the story. This is the last relatively happy chapter for a long time, so I hope you enjoy it. Again, I'd like to thank all of you who have taken the time to read and review.

Chapter 5

August 19, 2002

Good news and bad news. The good news first. Salazar delivered the letter last Thursday afternoon. I had to take a few hours off work to accomplish my endeavor but I’m sure my plan worked. I left around one o'clock and saw Potter stumbling out of the Ministry like he'd been up all night. It dawned on me then I might be able to set my plan in motion a bit earlier than I'd expected. So I took a leisurely stroll over to Diagon Alley, and wonder of wonders, I actually saw Granger Portkey into Diagon Alley then Apparate out again. I assumed she was going directly home, straight into Potter's arms and, presumably, his bed. I hurried, I could get the ball rolling that afternoon. So I obtained my supplies then did what I needed to do. I’m glad I kept my gloves from Herbology. They certainly came in handy.

Around half-past three I sent Salazar off with the letter then Apparated to a place where I could keep an eye on Potter and Granger.. Suddenly around four o’clock the St. Mungo’s Rambulance appeared and two mediwizards headed into the building where they live. When they came out a few minutes later Potter and Granger were with them. Potter was wearing only trousers and his torso was covered with lovely huge boils. I was quite disappointed about Granger, though. From what I could tell she hardly had any boils at all! That was NOT what I wanted. I had wanted her entire ugly body to be covered with them. Why didn’t that happen? I saw Potter leave the Ministry when I did. I'm sure he went home. I assume Granger hadn’t seen him in several days. Being the disgusting sort they are, he probably nailed her the minute she walked in. She was wearing a long loose dress, like Muggles wear in summer. NOT proper witch’s robes. I bet the minute she walked in he ripped that dress off her, tore off her knickers and pounded her before she even put her bags down. He’s such an animal. I can tell that about him. I see that lump that grows in his trousers whenever she gives him those mooneyes at the Ministry. They think nobody can tell but I know. I KNOW. And she’s such a Mudblood slut, she lets him rip off her clothes and shag her blind. He should not be shagging a Mudblood like that. He should be shagging a proper witch, someone who has access to centuries of magical sex techniques. He should be pushing that rod into someone who appreciates a good set of magical equipment. Do they even bother using any magical enhancements when they fuck? Or do they just go at it like a couple of Muggles? They make me sick. I can’t stand the thought of them using their tongues and teeth and fingers and other body parts on each other. They’re like rutting animals.

And now the bad news – they’re STILL together! They did NOT listen to my latest letter! He came back to work today and didn’t look much worse than last week. And – AND! – He was holding her by the waist and whispering into her ear in the Atrium! Don’t they know by now that I’m serious about this? You’d think the Bulbadox powder would have shown them I’m not joking about this. I can't believe they didn’t take me seriously. Of course they didn’t reply to the letter; I didn’t expect them to. But once they saw the boils, they should have known that I meant business. I hope the boils were really painful for them. I hope she couldn’t touch his back or his chest for days. Though if he didn’t get any on his dick, she probably just concentrated on that even more. Bloody bitch. She probably batted her eyelashes at him and said, "Oh, poor Harry. You can’t slide that firm chest against my tits now because you’re all scarred from those nasty boils. I’ll have to give your dick a good tongue-lashing instead." Then she got on her knees and did it. That bloody bint has always had a big mouth. I wonder if it’s big enough to take him in from top to bottom. And does she swallow when he’s done, or does she spit it out on his thigh and lick it off? Disgusting bitch. She makes me sick. They both do. They’re still together. I’m sick about that. No matter what I’ve done so far they’re still together. I have to find some other way to break them up.


^*^*^*^

Harry was released from St. Mungo’s at noon Friday after a relatively restless night. The laboratory didn’t find anything too suspicious in the mysterious envelope, the note or the sample of pus Neville sent down. Neville did mention that the Bulbadox Powder was a much purer strain than he usually saw at St. Mungo’s. This didn’t do much for Harry’s state of mind; now he had to wonder where his stalker had bought the powder and whether she -- Hermione had convinced him it was a woman -- would strike again any time soon. Harry was convinced the stalker would strike again and that the next strike would take place sooner rather than later. The question was how soon and in what fashion – and of course, who the hell was doing this. As Harry and Hermione left the hospital, Neville gave them a potion to use for three days to minimize scarring from the boils. Hermione tucked the potion inside her bag and promised she would spritz it all over her own arm and on Harry’s chest and back twice daily through the weekend.

Arriving home, Harry and Hermione found Tonks and a tall young Auror recruit named Stewart Ackerley padding around the flat looking for evidence. Tonks had already found and bagged the stalker’s second note. Hermione reassured her that there was nothing else to be found as evidence in the house, as they’d only received three notes and the trash bin had destroyed the first note. Returning to their bedroom – the scene of the crime – Harry and Hermione found Ackerley putting the clothes they’d torn off in the heat of passion into another evidence bag. Hermione blushed deeply as Ackerley levitated a pink lace bra from a chair and attached an evidence tag to it with a sticking charm. Ackerley smirked, as though he was enjoying what he was doing rather too much.

"Is that really necessary?" Harry snapped. He should not be smirking about this; can’t he tell he’s embarrassing Hermione?

Ackerley looked down at Harry through a pair of thick eyeglasses. "Sorry, Mr. Potter. Chief Lupin told us to bring in anything that has any yellow powder on it."

"Does that mean our duvet too?" Hermione asked. "And the rest of our bed linens?"

"Yes, ma’am. If they have any yellow powder on them we have to take them in. Don’t worry, we won’t take anything that doesn’t have yellow powder on it. I’m sorry about your – thing, Miss Granger," Ackerley smiled. "We have to take it with us."

Harry glanced at Hermione, whose face was almost beet-red. Bloody tosser, Harry seethed, his fists clenched at his side. There’s something about this bloke that’s definitely not on. It was all he could do to restrain himself from hexing the fellow. Harry made a mental note to talk to Lupin about this.

After the Aurors finally cleared out, Harry and Hermione spent a couple of hours discussing the situation, trying to find every possible angle that might help them figure out who was doing this and why. The only conclusion they reached was that they’d be damned if they'd walk away from this relationship just to satisfy some nutter’s desire to separate them. They'd been part of each other's life since Harry was eleven years old and Hermione was twelve, and it had taken them nine years to recognize that what existed between them went much deeper than friendship. Neither of them would let some maniac they didn’t know force them into something they didn’t want. Once that was settled, Hermione began fussing over Harry, trying to make him more comfortable.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked when Hermione began rummaging around his side of the clothes cupboard in their bedroom.

"I'm going to fix some of your shirts so they won't aggravate your condition," she answered, pulling out half a dozen of Harry's shirts and hanging them up around the room.

Harry frowned. Sometimes Hermione had all the subtlety of Molly Weasley. "Don't go to any trouble, Hermione. It's really not that bad" -- he winced -- "well, okay, it is that bad, but I'm not a baby. I mean, it's not like the way my scar used to burn."

"Well, thank Merlin for that!" she chided him. "Honestly, Harry, I just want you to be comfortable and not spend the next week wincing every few minutes." Picking up a blue and white striped shirt, she pointed her wand at it and intoned, "Engorgio interiori!" then handed it to him for his inspection. "Well, try it on. Let's see if that charm worked."

As he slipped the shirt on slowly, Harry noticed that while the outside appeared to cling to his body, the inside didn't touch his skin at all. In fact it practically floated on him. "Nice work," he admitted, cocking an eyebrow at her.

"Oh, that was nothing too special," she smirked. "Just the same charm that makes the inside of a Wizarding tent seem like the TARDIS on Doctor Who. Now take that shirt off and sit down so I can apply that lotion Neville prescribed for us."

"Yeah, sure, okay," Harry sighed, finally resigned to letting her take care of him. After Hermione spritzed the potion on his torso, she found some aloe vera lotion in their bathroom and began to rub it on his back and chest.

"Mmmm, thanks," Harry muttered as her small, warm hands fluttered gently across his bare skin, her palms smoothing the healing lotions into his pores while her fingertips made his muscles (and other parts further south) tingle. As he sat on the edge of the bed, his blood began to rush to the usual location, reminding him of the moment he and Hermione were interrupted the previous afternoon.

"Hermione," he breathed, grabbing her wrist and tugging her head over his shoulder so he could kiss her more easily, "we didn't quite finish what we'd started yesterday." His eyes pleaded with her and she seemed to catch his meaning immediately.

"No, I guess we didn't," she replied with a wicked smirk as her eyes raked over the bulge in his trousers. "I wonder how you could make that up to me?" In a voice low and rough with desire, she whispered, "You know, we don't have to use the bed, and we don't have to do it face to face."

That was all Harry needed to hear. "Let's get out of these clothes," he rasped, pulling Hermione's dress over her head and tossing it across the room. Standing before him in just a pair of lacy knickers, she extended her hand to him, pulling him up from the bed as she backed slowly across the bedroom toward a leather chair and matching ottoman. She stopped at the ottoman and sat on the edge, her legs parted, waiting for Harry to join her. He didn't need a verbal invitation. Kneeling between her legs, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and fondled her breast with his free hand. While his lips and tongue pried her mouth open gently, Hermione's hands began undoing his belt and his flies. Finishing the kiss, Harry took one soft, silky breast in his mouth while his fingers circled the tender flesh of her other nipple. Hermione sighed and arched toward him as his erection rubbed against her thigh.

"So we're settled on this stalker business?" she panted while Harry's tongue ghosted over the shell of her ear.

He nibbled her ear lobe as he tugged her knickers down her legs. "Yes, settled. We'll go on with our lives the same as ever. And that means snogging in the lift if we want to and shagging every day, or more often, if that pleases us" -- she slipped down to the floor, turned around, raised up on her knees and rested her chest on the ottoman -- "and…UHHH, yeah…that definitely pleases me right now." Her back and hips were firm and smooth under his hands, and her tiny sighs escalated into moans as he moved against and inside her. While he preferred to look her in the eyes and feel her breasts against his chest, he couldn't fault her ingenuity, and he pushed harder and faster until her moans turned to gasps of ecstasy.

Their ingenuity was tested a few more times that weekend as they found new ways to make love without skin-on-skin contact above the waist. They showered together on Saturday morning, which led to some interesting gymnastics against the cool glass-and-tile walls of the shower. After lunch on Sunday, Hermione's arse got rather soapy when Harry accidentally pushed her into a sink full of suds before they washed up the dishes. They promptly forgot about that chore and used the lather for other things.

By the time they went to bed that evening, Harry’s skin no longer felt like it was being peppered by tiny pebbles. This was both good and bad. Good because he would no longer need to cast cushioning charms on the bed just to be able to get some sleep. Bad because it meant Hermione would probably stop rubbing his back and chest with aloe vera, which had led her hands to rub other parts of his body with equal enthusiasm. The rubbing led to kissing, licking and sucking, which he returned with just as much enthusiasm. Going to work meant being away from Hermione for hours at a time, and he knew he would miss the extra attention she'd lavished on him the past few days.

On Monday morning, finally able to return to work, Harry felt a rush of determination to show the world that he and Hermione were not only still together but also very, very happy. They picked up some scones at a Muggle bakery, then Apparated to the Ministry entrance. As the phone booth lift descended, Harry pulled Hermione tight to him. By the time the door opened at the Atrium they were snogging happily, her hands playing in his hair while his roamed her backside. As they broke the kiss Harry heard more than a few snickers and even a catcall. He didn’t care; in fact he reveled in it. Grabbing Hermione’s hand he led her out of the lift and across the Atrium.

"Oh honestly, Harry, we don’t have to snog in front of everyone, do we?" she blushed as they strode over to the bank of lifts that led to the various Ministry offices.

He wrapped his arm tightly around her waist and whispered in her ear, "Why not? I want everyone to know I’m with the prettiest, most brilliant witch who ever attended Hogwarts, works in the Department of Mysteries and helped defeat Voldemort."

Hermione just rolled her eyes then leaned up and kissed the tip of his nose. When the next lift came, they got on along with a handful of other employees. As the doors opened at the second level, Hermione seemed reluctant to let Harry go. "Be safe, sweetheart," she whispered, kissing him tenderly before he backed off the lift. Harry blew her a kiss, then turned and walked briskly to his cubicle, where he discovered Lupin perched on the edge of his desk.

"Welcome back, Harry," Lupin greeted him. "I’d act avuncular and clap you on the back but I suspect you’d rather I didn’t."

"Avuncuwhat?"

"Avuncular. Like an uncle. Or in my case, a surrogate godfather, but I don’t think there’s a single word for that," Lupin winked.

"Ah… right…" Harry didn’t always get Lupin’s sense of humor, but he appreciated the effort.

Lupin removed his posterior from the edge of the desk while Harry got himself settled. "So, how was your weekend, once you got back from hospital?"

Harry suppressed a grin. "Just horrible. I had to use cushioning charms on the bed just to be able to sleep." Lupin nodded sympathetically. "Hermione had to rub Neville’s potion all over my chest and back twice a day. I also had to let her rub aloe vera lotion on me too. All that… rubbing…was really awful," he smirked. She was willing to rub a lot more than just my back and chest, Harry reminisced, grinning as he remembered what she’d done with her thumb and forefinger after rubbing the various healing agents on him.

"Yes...well...I can imagine...actually I'd rather not," Lupin interjected, clearing his throat.

Harry grinned and raised his eyebrows in reply. Hermione's attunement to his physical needs was just a small part of her charm, of course, not that he minded in the least. His eyes began to prickle and he suddenly felt hoarse. "She’s really the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known, and I’d be a bloody fool if I let some nutter come between us," he said quietly.

Lupin sighed. "Speaking of that nutter, Harry...I’m sorry to say we don’t know any more about him or her than we did on Thursday evening when I saw you at St. Mungo’s. And I’m sorry that Tonks and Ackerley had to take so much…stuff…out of your bedroom. That’s just standard operating procedure."

"I know, Remus, but Ackerley seemed a little too enthusiastic about it. You should’ve seen him levitating Hermione’s bra into that evidence bag." Lupin blushed. "I thought he was going to start drooling. Very unprofessional, if you ask me."

Lupin shrugged. "He’s a young bloke, Harry. Didn’t even have a chance to finish at Hogwarts with all the troubles of the war."

"What else do you know about him?" Harry prodded.

Lupin bit his lip in thought. "Actually, that’s in his personnel folder, so I can’t show it to you. I think he was in Ravenclaw. Fairly bright bloke but without a lot of social graces. What Muggles call a ‘geek’." Lupin paused and narrowed his eyes.

Harry remembered the young recruit’s Coke-bottle glasses and goofy demeanor and agreed with his boss’s assessment. "Now that you mention it, I guess I remember him vaguely from school. He was three or four years behind us at Hogwarts and I don’t recall ever interacting with him. He really did make Hermione uncomfortable while he and Tonks were at our flat," Harry explained. "I just wanted to know what you knew about him, that’s all. You’re probably right. He’s probably an okay bloke, just doesn’t have any people skills. Still…keep an eye on him, would you? He just makes me kind of nervous."

"Okay, Harry. Now that you’re back, are you ready for a real assignment or should I keep you on desk detail for a day or two?"

Harry groaned. "If you need someone on the outside, Remus, send me. I need to get back in the game. I’m okay, really. Just as long as you don’t make me stake out a Bulbadox powder factory, I think I’ll be fine."

^*^*^*^

On Wednesday night, while Harry and Hermione ate dinner in their dining room, Ron’s head appeared in their fireplace.

"Oi, Harry!" Ron asked in an urgent tone. "Are you ready for the Quidditch World Cup?"

"That’s not for two days, Ron. Besides, all I need to bring is a bag with some extra clothes. You are bringing your dad’s tent, aren’t you?" Harry had fond memories of Mr. Weasley’s wizard tent, which was much bigger on the inside than on the outside. He assumed this year’s QWC encampment would be a lot different than the one in England in 1994, and he was looking forward to camping in Bulgaria with Ron.

"Will you have to sleep in bunk beds again or will the accommodations be less spartan this time?" Hermione asked as she levitated some of the dirty dishes off the table.

Ron laughed. "This time it’ll just be me and Harry. I reckon each of us could have a king-size bed if we wanted."

Hermione cocked an eyebrow at him. "Well, since I won’t be there, I can’t imagine why Harry would need a king-sized bed." While Ron blushed, Harry smirked at her cheekiness. She certainly knew how to cut to the chase.

"So Ron," Harry continued, "should we leave work right after lunch on Friday?"

Ron thought for a moment. "Yeah, that sounds right. One o’clock. My dad’s getting a Portkey for us. Kind of ironic, isn’t it? Eight years ago we could’ve just Apparated to the QWC from Ottery St. Catchpole but most of us were too young to Apparate. Now we’re old enough to Apparate but the bloody championship is all the way in Bulgaria."

"You know, of course, that Viktor Krum is still playing Seeker for Bulgaria," said Hermione.

Now Ron raised an eyebrow. "You’re still in contact with Vicky?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron. "You’re still calling him Vicky?" she fumed. "Honestly Ron, give it up. That was eight years ago. Viktor and I always were and always have been nothing but friends. Period. There’s nobody for me but Harry, not since fifth— I mean…" Biting her lip, Hermione suddenly left the dining room, levitating the remaining dishes back into the kitchen.

"Since fifth what?" Ron asked.

"Since fifth year?" Harry wondered aloud. Oh my God, Hermione has fancied me since fifth year? Well, that certainly explains a lot. It hadn’t occurred to Harry that Hermione had begun to fancy him long before he admitted his own romantic feelings for her. If this were true, she had carried a torch for him for five years before that fateful night two years ago when they’d started snogging in the kitchen and ended up in bed. Harry suddenly felt breathless and weak in the knees. She’d known what he meant to her by the time she was fifteen and was willing to wait five years for him to reciprocate that affection. She truly was one witch in a million.

As Hermione remained in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner, Harry felt a surge of courage. "Ron, can you meet me for lunch tomorrow? Half-twelve at Fortescue’s? I need your help with something."

"Sure, Harry, what’s up?"

Harry felt himself grin like the Cheshire cat. "I need to visit the jeweller’s shop in Diagon Alley. I’d like you to help me pick something out. Something for Hermione."

Ron’s freckled face was blank for a moment, then he grinned, too. "Really? And you want me to help?"

"You’ve been with both of us since the beginning, mate," Harry smiled at his best friend. "I can’t think of anyone whose assistance I’d rather have. See you tomorrow, okay? Right now, I need to help Hermione with the dishes."

"Okay, Harry, if that’s what you’re calling it these days," Ron sniggered. "Helping with the dishes. Whatever you say." Harry rolled his eyes toward Ron's vanishing face. Entering the kitchen, he found Hermione levitating the clean dishes back into the cupboards as the magical chamois made short work of the pots and pans. Slipping stealthily behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist, molded his body to her back and pressed a line of feathery kisses from her neck up to her ear. Hermione melted into his embrace, sighing as his lips ghosted over her skin, then uttered a tiny "Oh!" as he took her earlobe in his teeth and nipped it gently. Harry then turned her around in his arms and placed a sweet, almost chaste kiss on her lips, then looked deeply into her eyes.

"Have I" – a lump grew in his throat – "have I told you lately how very much you mean to me, Hermione Jane Granger?"

Hermione’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then a smile reached from her eyes down to her mouth. "No, Harry James Potter, I don’t believe you have. Feel free to elaborate."

Harry kissed her again. This kiss was deeper than the last but not particularly urgent. With the tip of his tongue he coaxed her lips apart, then slid his tongue inside and slowly explored her mouth. He knew he had kissed her more than a thousand times in the past two years, but rarely had he put more feeling into a kiss. One of his hands remained on her waist, splayed along her spine, while the other gently grabbed a handful of her hair and tipped her head back so he could kiss her more deeply. After a minute in this liplock, Hermione pulled away and stared at him.

"Wow."

"Yeah...and that kiss said only half of what I feel for you. I love you, Hermione."

She dropped her eyes and blushed. "I know, Harry. I love you too. I have for a long time."

He pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I know. I just didn’t know how long. Since fifth year?"

She kept her eyes on the floor, examining the kitchen tiles. "Well...not quite that long…but at least since the end of sixth year." She looked at him carefully. "You didn’t know?"

Harry picked up her left hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. "I – I could tell something was going on with you, I was just too dumb to ask. Or maybe too scared."

"Scared of me?"

"Never scared of you, Hermione. Scared of fucking up the best friendship I’ve ever had."

Hermione sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. "It’s okay, Harry. I knew you weren’t ready then. I didn’t know if you would ever be ready. But I knew I had to wait for you, because I hoped that one day you would be ready. And the past two years have made all the waiting worthwhile."

Once again Harry marveled at how he’d ever managed to end up with this wonderful woman sharing his life and his bed. "For me too, sweetheart. I’m glad I stopped being so blind. All those years you were right in front of me and I couldn’t see." He kissed her again, passionately this time, pouring his whole self into it. When they broke apart, Hermione pulled away from him slightly, grabbed his hand and led him toward the bedroom.

"It’s been a long couple of days, sweetheart, and I'm really tired. For once, I’d really just like to go to sleep tonight and not make love."

"That actually sounds like a good idea," Harry said, surprised at how much those few days back at work had taken out of him. "Let’s go to bed and get some sleep."

"Yes, let’s do that. I love you, Harry."

"I love you too."

^*^*^

The next day, at a quarter past twelve, Harry Apparated into Diagon Alley and went directly to his vault in Gringotts Bank, then met Ron at Fortescue’s ice cream parlour at half past twelve. Ron wanted to have some ice cream before they went to the jeweller’s shop but Harry insisted they take care of business first then celebrate afterwards. Moonstone Jewellers was located between Madam Malkin’s Robes and Gringotts Bank, in the most prestigious section of Diagon Alley. Twenty minutes after entering, Harry and Ron left the jewelry store with their mission accomplished. Seated with Ron at a table outside Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlour, Harry dug into his cloak pocket and retrieved a small box covered with midnight-blue velvet. He opened the box and admired its contents - a sapphire and diamond engagement ring that was worth every Knut of the 1,750 Galleons he paid for it.

"Bloody hell, Harry," Ron marveled as he dug into his Knickerbocker Glory. "That ring is worth three months' salary, at least for me. That’s not a problem for you?

"No, Ron," Harry shrugged. "I’ve always been pretty conservative about the money in my vault. My parents left me piles of Galleons; even with what I spent for school the gold just kept compounding over the past twenty-one years. Plus, Sirius left me half the contents of his vault. I’ve got more money than anyone could possibly know what to do with--"

"Well, maybe not that bloke Donald Frump on the telly!"

Harry laughed. "Donald Trump, Ron. And he’s a multi-billionaire. I’m just...very well off. Not a billionaire. Probably not even a millionaire. I’ve never paid much attention to the statements Gringotts owls me each month. Hermione manages my money as well as hers; she’s just always been better with numbers than I am. Anyway, I decided last night to ask her to marry me and I reckoned I would look for the most beautiful ring I could afford to buy. This is what I want to give her. I’m just lucky I don’t have to mortgage our flat to buy it for her. You think she’ll like it?"

"She’d have to be raving mad not to," Ron gurgled through a mouthful of ice cream. "Are you going to give it to her tonight?"

Harry shook his head. "No, I want to wait for a special occasion. I’m going to give it to her September nineteenth, on her birthday." With Ron nodding in agreement, Harry put the ring box back into his cloak pocket and tucked into his chocolate sundae.

As the midday crowd of Wizard folk surged back and forth through Diagon Alley, Harry noticed and acknowledged a handful of people he recognized as former Hogwarts students. Stewart Ackerley, the young Auror recruit, lumbered past and gave Harry a wink and a smirk; the bugger was probably still thinking of Hermione’s pink bra and wondering how easy it was to get it off. Marietta Edgecombe, Cho Chang’s friend, strolled past Flourish & Blotts. Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis, two witches from Slytherin who’d been in several of Harry's classes, looked at him cautiously as they barged through the street carrying large shopping bags from Madam Malkin’s. Tracey and Daphne were among a group of Slytherins who stayed with the Light Side during the war; Harry was glad to see they’d made it through. As he and Ron finished their ice creams, a pair of younger Gryffindor girls, Vicky Frobisher and Natalie MacDonald, strolled past hand in hand. He would tell Hermione he’d seen them; she might know whether Vicky and Natalie had paired up during school.

Harry stood up and made to leave. "I’ve got to get back to work, Ron. I’ll meet you outside the Ministry a little before one tomorrow afternoon." He pulled Ron to him in a bear hug and could feel him blushing as he patted Harry’s back clumsily. "Thank you, mate. I appreciate your coming with me to buy the ring. When Hermione and I get married--I mean if we get married--"

"No ifs about it, Harry. She’ll jump out of her skin with joy when you ask her!"

Harry chuckled at Ron’s enthusiasm and hoped he was right. "When we get married, would you do me the honour of serving as best man?"

Ron broke into a grin as wide as the Whomping Willow was tall. "I’d love to -- as long as Hermione doesn’t expect me to give her away!"

"If she asks, tell her I have dibs on you - I’ve known you longer!" Harry laughed then Disapparated from Diagon Alley. Returning to his cubicle he found atop his desk a paper-airplane letter bearing the phrase "From the Desk of Remus J. Lupin." Inside, in Lupin’s loopy script, was this message:

Harry,
I know you’re going to the Quidditch World Cup this weekend. Just wanted you to know we’ve got a little bit of information on your case. The Bulbadox powder came from Agate & Propps, a shop in Knockturn Alley that primarily sells items used in hexes and offensive potions. We were not able to trace the sample to a specific buyer; not surprisingly, the shop does most of its business in Wizard coin.. I’ve concluded that whoever sent that letter to you was not taking the mickey out of you. That letter and its contents were definitely meant as a threat to you and Hermione. When you get back from Bulgaria, let’s talk more about what you should do if you receive any more threats.
- Remus

Harry ran his hand through his hair and sighed. Lupin’s note had just doubled his anxiety about being away from Hermione all weekend. He considered giving Ron both tickets and telling him to have fun without him, but he’d been looking forward to the QWC all month. At the end of the day, he shoved the note into his cloak pocket and took the lift to the Atrium, where he and Hermione usually met on their way home. When they reached their flat, he discovered the memo was not in his cloak after all.

^*^*^*^

Thanks again to my beta-readers for their invaluable assistance. Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed any of the previous chapters; I really value your comments. I've been saying for awhile that the sh** would hit the fan soon. Right about now, you should be putting on your anti-sh** gear and battening down the hatches. I hope you're willing to ride out the storm with me. - Anne U

^*^*^*^*

Chapter 6

August 22, 2002

THEY ARE NOT LISTENING!!!! THEY ARE NOT LISTENING!! THEY ARE IGNORING ME!!!!!!!!

It was bad enough that the boils didn’t make them keep their hands off each other. Even worse that they’re still together. But today, today was the worst. Potter plans to ask Granger to marry him!!!!!! I thought I was going to vomit when I heard the news. He went to Moonstone Jewellers in Diagon Alley and bought her an obscene ring. It’s got a huge sapphire in the middle. I know it cost him more than 1,500 Galleons. I’d heard he was rich – independently wealthy – but I had no idea he had money to throw around like that. More like throwing it away, if he spent that kind of money on a Mudblood bitch like her. That just sickens me. They’re supposed to be breaking up, not getting married!!!!!!!!

I don’t know what I’ve done wrong up to now, but my plan is not working the way it should. I’ll need to figure something else out to make them stay away from each other. I’ve got to get him out of her clutches. I just bet he’ll drop down on one knee to propose to her; he’s just maudlin and sappy enough to do that. And she’ll accept and he’ll pick her up and carry her off someplace and toss her on a bed and shag her senseless again while she lies back and gloats over her ring. Maybe she’ll take the back of her hand and scratch that sapphire over one of his nipples and lick the other one until he’s standing at attention like Gibraltar. I bet they tie each other up with their Gryffindor ties when they fuck. They’ll do that and work the ring into the shag somehow. A human body has all kinds of places to put a ring… They’ll take that obscenely huge and beautiful ring and turn it into a sex toy. Maybe they’ll transfigure it into a real sex toy and take turns using it on each other. They are just disgusting enough to do that. I can’t stand that he’s bought a ring like that for her. She doesn’t deserve anything like that. All she deserves is pain, and so does he if he doesn’t recognize that.

But perhaps...perhaps all is not lost here. Interestingly enough, I've learned that Potter will be away from his beloved Mudblood this weekend. He’s going to Bulgaria to watch the Quidditch World Cup with that ginger-headed fool, Ron Weasley. Now I have another chance to drive a wedge between Potter and Granger. I must make sure that Potter regrets going to Bulgaria and leaving Granger alone in London. I must also make sure that Granger regrets letting him out of her sight and staying home alone. They will not be pleased when the weekend is over. They will wish they’d never ignored my other letters. Maybe they’ll wish they’d never met each other. I can think of a lot of ways to make them suffer. They’ll find out they can’t fuck with me and get away with it. I don’t really give a rat’s arse about Quidditch, but let the games begin.

^*^*^*^

"Hermione, I need to tell something you."

"What, Harry?"

Harry cast his eyes down, afraid of meeting Hermione's. "Lupin left a note for me today about our case. I shoved it into my cloak pocked on my way out of work, but now I can't find it. So I…I guess I lost it somewhere between my desk and here."

He waited for her to bristle at him. No bristling was immediately forthcoming.

"Really?" A small frown creased Hermione's brow. "I see." She sounded calm, perhaps too calm. When her voice got this low and soft, it usually meant the calm before the storm.

"You don't sound too concerned about it," he offered, hoping he was right.

She looked up at him from where she stood, marshaling the cleaned-up dinner dishes back into the kitchen cupboard. "Should I be?" Harry was such a worrier, always assuming the worst in any situation. Of course she couldn't really blame him; until he defeated Voldemort his life had been a series of crises for which he always felt responsible.

Harry put a finger on her chin and lifted her face toward his. "I'm leaving for Bulgaria in less than twenty-four hours and I'll be gone until Sunday evening. You'll be all alone here for two whole days. I'm just afraid something might happen while I'm gone." Hermione's refusal to be pissed off at him was almost as scary as the scenarios that ran through his mind.

She cocked her head and gave him an appraising look. "Well, unless you tell me what was in the note, I'm not sure I have anything to be concerned about."

Now Harry frowned. "Bugger, I can't remember all of it. I think Lupin said that the Bulbadox powder came from Agate and Propps in Knockturn Alley."

"Really? Don't they deal mostly with Dark wizards and shady characters?"

"Yes. That means their business is coin-and-carry. So the Aurors couldn't trace the sale to anyone in particular."

Hermione pursed her lips in thought. "Go on."

Harry gave a thin smile. "Well, Remus said that means the letters and the Bulbadox powder weren't pranks. The stalker is definitely threatening us."

"I've always thought the stalker was serious," Hermione answered with an edge of impatience in her voice. "Why else would she go to the lengths she's gone to? Anyway, you'll be gone only two days. Honestly, Harry, I'm a big girl and a fully competent witch. I can take care of myself this weekend."

Harry shook his head; perhaps she didn't want to recognize how serious their situation had become. "Hermione, listen. Remus's note said he knew I was going to Bulgaria for the World Cup and that he would talk to me when I got back. Now whoever found the note knows that I'll be away, which means that he--okay, she--knows that you'll be alone here."

Eyes narrowed, Hermione crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Why are you so sure the stalker found the note?"

Harry threw up his hands. "How can we be sure she didn't?"

"We can't, Harry. We can't be certain of anything."

He was leaning against the fridge, shoulders a bit slumped, eyes cast down at the tile floor. He looked …defeated. She knew in her bones that Harry would always put her safety above his own. That was one reason she never confessed her feelings to him in sixth or seventh year; he would have countered that loving him would put her in even more danger than she was already in as his best friend. But she couldn't let him sacrifice attending the Quidditch World Cup finals. She would be damned if some crazy bitch kept Harry from doing what he'd looked forward to for almost a month.

"Please, Harry. Everything will be all right. I'll be okay. Don't you dare say you're going to stay home this weekend. I insist you go to Bulgaria with Ron." Crossing the meter that separated them, she slid her arms up to his shoulders and kissed the crook of his neck.

As she'd hoped he would, Harry relaxed in her embrace, wrapping his own arms around her waist and nipping her earlobe. "Okay, okay, I'll go. I'll still be worried about you, but I'll go. Only because you're making me. I'm sure I'll be so worried I won't pay a moment's attention to the games. What sport will I be seeing, anyway?" he finished with an impish grin.

"Some ridiculous sport called Quidditch," she deadpanned, rolling her eyes then winking at him. "Silliest sport I've ever heard of. Did you know a bunch of people get onto brooms, fly around, and chase some balls through the air?"

"Sounds ruddy insane to me! Who the deuce would want to do that?" Now he was walking her backward out of the kitchen, his hands still firmly planted around her waist, his lips nibbling on her neck as he guided her toward their bedroom.

"Well, I can see how the female players might enjoy it," Hermione giggled as his tongue laved her ear. "But the male players must be trying to overcompensate. Honestly, what could be more phallic than riding a broom?"

As they bumped into their bedroom door, Harry dragged his lips down to her breast. Hermione couldn't be certain but she thought he said something like, "…what you're going to be riding soon…"

^*^*^*^*^

"Ron! Over here!"

Harry stood outside the call box near the entrance to the Ministry of Magic and waited for Ron to catch up with him. Slung over Harry's shoulder was a small satchel containing three changes of clothing, a spare set of robes, a Macintosh and a pair of wellington boots, all of which he’d shrunk that morning so they would fit in his bag. He hated having to pack so much clothing but the forecast for Bulgaria hinted at possible rough weather, ranging from scattered showers to thunderstorms. He shivered, remembering more than one storm he’d played in at Hogwarts, and hoped the forecast was wrong.

Ron trudged over, carrying his own satchel plus a small, lumpy green bag.

"Is that your dad’s wizard tent?"

"Yup. When we get there, let me know what kind of furnishings you want. Dad wrote the charm down for me so I wouldn’t have to try to memorize it. I’ve got it right here in my pocket," Ron said, patting the back of his trousers.

"Just don’t lose it or we might end up sleeping under the stars – or worse yet, in the rain," Harry glowered. As excited as he was about attending the Cup, he was already missing Hermione terribly and he hoped that decent accommodations (as decent as one could get in a tent) might take the edge off his longing for her.

Ron pulled a small shiny object out of his rucksack and handed it to Harry. "Here’s the Portkey."

Harry snorted. "A teaspoon? Hermione would love this."

Ron gave him the evil eye. "Well, she would have in fifth year. That was before I became the suave, mature wizard you see now."

Harry snorted even louder. "Riiiight. So, are we ready to go?"

"In about twenty seconds," Ron said, checking his watch. "Grab hold of the other end." He counted down from ten, then the familiar tug behind the navel grabbed Harry and hurled him, along with Ron, almost thirteen hundred miles to the countryside south of Sofia, Bulgaria. The Bulgarian Ministry of Magic had chosen the Vitosha Plateau in Vitosha National Park as the site for the 2002 Quidditch World Cup and its related encampment of thousands of Wizarding families. Nodding to Ron to follow him, Harry approached the gateway into the park and paid a camping fee of fifty Galleons to the gatekeeper, who gave him a parchment map showing where to pitch their tent. Inside the park thousands of tents of varying sizes and colors dotted the park all the way to the horizon.

"Which way to our campsite?" Ron asked as he fumbled with his satchels.

Harry scanned the map then looked across the broad expanse of tents and pointed to his left. "Over that way, about a quarter mile I think," he said, squinting at a tall pole bearing a Union Jack at the top. "That’s the British camp." He pulled his rucksack higher on his shoulder and began hiking toward the campsite with Ron following a few yards behind. After picking their way past a large number of tents and an even larger number of excited little witches and wizards, Harry and Ron found their campsite (No. 549, British Section) and started pitching their tent. Ron had almost as much trouble handling the stakes and tie-downs as he’d had eight years earlier, but eventually the two of them got the tent set up. They decided on their furnishings -- two double beds, a pair of reclining chairs, a two-burner stovetop, an icebox, a tiny loo, and a table with four chairs in case they had visitors. Ron fished his father’s instructions out of his pocket and muttered Fournisso. He and Harry then crawled inside to see if the charm had worked.

"Wow!" Harry gave Ron the okay sign and dropped his belongings on one of the beds.

"Hmmm. Not bad," Ron agreed, claiming the other bed. "I’ll have to thank Dad for the spell. Bugger, I’m thirsty after that hike. I’m going to find us some water." He pulled a small vial out of his pocket, then tapped his wand to it; the vial expanded to a two-liter container.

"Okay, I’m going to stay here and get settled," Harry said, laying back on the pillows on his bed. He stayed there for a few minutes, just resting, glad to be in a place where he could relax and have fun, where no one needed him and no one would be looking for him except his friends. The recent war had disrupted the Wizarding world so much that the 1998 Quidditch World Cup was canceled for fear of terrorist activity by the Death Eaters. The 2002 World Cup was the first since the one held the summer before Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts, and he’d be damned if anyone or anything ruined it for him. At least that was what he kept telling himself as he struggled to keep his anxieties about the stalker -- and Hermione's safety -- from creeping into his conscious mind.

Harry continued to lie in the cool darkness, listening to the sounds of the campers bustling around him. He considered trying to change his appearance in order to avoid the celebrity that dogged him at every turn but decided not to bother. After all, here he wasn’t a Quidditch player or anyone important; he was just Harry, a bloke who enjoyed watching Quidditch as much as he loved playing it. He sat up and was just about to take his shoes off so he could have more of a lie-down when the tent flap opened and Ron crawled in.

"Harry! Come out and see who I ran into!"

"I was just about to take a nap," Harry balked.

Ron scowled at him. "Oh come on…it'll only take a few minutes. Besides, I promised them you’d come out."

Harry shot a questioning look at his best friend. When he realized Ron wouldn’t take no for an answer, he rose from the bed and crawled out of the tent. As Harry stood up he was surprised to see his old flame, Cho Chang, and her friend Marietta Edgecombe.

"Hello, Harry," Cho smiled at him. "I had a feeling I’d see you here." She was wearing a sleeveless yellow jumper and a short black skirt and, he had to admit, looked very good. Not that he fancied her or anyone else these days; he was committed to Hermione and planned to propose to her in a few weeks. But Cho was still a very pretty woman, and her coquettish smile made Harry wonder if perhaps she was flirting with him, at least a little.

"Hi, Cho. Small world, isn't it?" He blushed, feeling like he was thirteen again. Cho always seemed to have that effect on him even though he hadn’t fancied her in years. Perhaps it was because she was his first crush, but he just never seemed to be able to say the right thing to her. "How’d you know I would be here?"

Cho gave a Mona Lisa smile. "You’ve been much too busy chasing bad guys, Harry. I’ve been working in the Department of Magical Games and Sports the past few months. I helped Hermione get these tickets for your birthday."

"Oh. Well then, thanks very much. I was so happy to get the tickets I didn’t bother to ask Hermione how she finagled them."

Cho laughed quietly. "Hermione has always been very…resourceful. It's always seemed to me that whatever she wants, she gets." Something about the way Cho looked at Harry over her high-fashion sunglasses made the hair on his arms stand up. She still had an indefinable something that called to him on a primal level. His ears went pink and he looked down at his feet.

"She’s always been very determined," Ron chimed in, much to Harry’s relief.

"You remember Marietta Edgecombe too, I’m sure," Cho added, nodding toward her friend, who stood behind Cho and glanced around morosely.

Harry smiled but his eyes were cold and hard. "Of course I do." Ron merely nodded.

"So who are you girls rooting for?" Ron asked. The British and Irish teams had gone down in flames in earlier rounds, so the semi-finals consisted of Bulgaria versus Belgium and Spain versus Peru.

"Bulgaria, of course! Krum is still the best seeker in the world," Cho grinned, again looking Harry straight in the eye in a disquieting way. "Does darling Hermione know that Krum is playing here this weekend? Why didn’t you bring her with you instead of Weasley?" she smirked.

Harry’s jaw tightened as he looked Cho up and down. They had been getting along famously, but now he remembered how much her incessant whinging had annoyed him -- not to mention she’d just insulted both of his best friends. "Darling Hermione isn’t here because she’s not a huge Quidditch fan and she wanted me to bring my other best friend with me. And yes, she does know that Viktor Krum is here. She and Viktor are friends and they still owl each other, not that it’s any business of yours."

Cho scowled, her dark eyes flashing. "No need to get your knickers in a twist about it. Let’s go, Marietta," she huffed loudly, turning to her friend. "Maybe I’ll see you later, Harry." The two young women turned and walked toward their own tent, which was several rows over.

"Well, that was brilliant," Ron snorted derisively after he and Harry crawled back into the tent. "You and Cho sure know how to push each other’s buttons."

"Yeah, we do," Harry sighed. "I never actually found that very enjoyable. Probably why my so-called relationship with her never got off the ground."

"Yeah, well, maybe…Listen, Harry, forget about Cho. We’ve got seats in the Top Box! For both games! And I happen to have with me" – Ron opened up his rucksack – "a brand new bottle of firewhisky. Between our amazing seats and this booze, we are going to have a wicked time this weekend." He set the bottle on the camp table and conjured a pair of drinking glasses, then poured firewhisky two fingers deep in each glass. "To best mates and the Quidditch World Cup," he said, raising his glass in a toast.

Harry found himself sucked into Ron’s enthusiasm. "To best mates and the Quidditch World Cup," he agreed, clinking his glass against Ron’s and draining it in a few seconds. As the firewhisky slid down Harry’s throat, he felt its warmth begin to relax him. With everything that had happened lately and Hermione being almost thirteen hundred miles away, he would take whatever relaxation he could get.

^*^*^*^

Harry had hoped to sleep in a bit on Saturday, the morning of the semi-finals. Those hopes were dashed, however, around six a.m. by a gaggle of little witches and wizards who decided to imitate a herd of Erumpents right next to his and Ron’s tent. Harry tried rolling over and covering his head with his pillow but to no avail. He conjured some earplugs, but those didn’t help either. He attempted a reverse silencing charm, but discovered that Silencio worked only to keep sound from getting out of a room; it did nothing to prevent sound from getting in. Finally around half-past six he gave up trying to sleep, put on some fresh clothes, and went out to survey the grounds.

As far as the eye could see, the Vitosha Plateau was awash in a sea of tents. Temporary lodgings of all sizes, shapes and descriptions were lined up for a mile in every direction, forming avenues in which children played, teenagers flirted, and adults chatted and placed friendly and not-so-friendly wagers on their favourite teams. Harry strolled around for close to an hour, checking out the various encampments and looking for familiar faces. Not that he really expected to see many people he knew; those folks would almost certainly all be staying in the British/Irish encampment, which apparently contained over two thousand tents. At last, stomach growling, he found his way back to his own tent, where he was greeted by the smell of bacon and eggs frying. Crawling inside, he found the table set for two and Ron wrestling their breakfast onto a couple of plates.

"Mmmm, smells great," Harry said enthusiastically. "Where’d you get the bacon and eggs?"

"Food cart came round about seven o'clock. Thank goodness, since I didn’t actually remember to pack any food," Ron replied with a sheepish grin. "You got up early. What have you been up to?"

"Nothing much. Wandering around, checking out the encampments, hoping to run into people we know."

"Like...?"

"Well...Seamus and Dean, or maybe Oliver Wood or Angelina Johnson or …well, not really…"

"I know what you're thinking. Katie Bell…"

Harry looked away from Ron; he'd always felt guilty about surviving when so many others had not. Katie was Gryffindor's Quidditch captain during Harry's sixth year. She died a year later in the war. "We lost so many good people," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Bloody fucking Voldemort...Fucking Death Eaters..." Harry’s throat felt tight and his eyes started to burn. "Those bags of shit better not try anything here. Not now. They’d just – better not."

Ron leaned across the table and grabbed Harry’s arm. "Don’t worry, mate. The British Ministry of Magic has been coordinating security for these games and they’ve brought in extra muscle – magical law enforcement officers from practically every country. About the only place we’d be safer this weekend is in our own homes."

Harry put one hand over Ron’s and blew out a hard breath. "You’re probably right. Let’s finish up here so we can go out and enjoy the day. This is the kind of day Quidditch players live for."

^*^*^*^*^

Harry and Ron soon set out for the World Cup Stadium on the other end of the park. After a half-hour walk, they sighted the stadium looming ahead of them. Erected at the far end of the moor, this stadium appeared to be at least as large as the one built in England for the 1994 Quidditch World Cup. The semi-final game between Bulgaria and Belgium was scheduled to start at ten o’clock. With two hours left until game time, the queues of fans stretched half a mile from the stadium. Harry checked his trouser pocket to make sure he had the tickets, which Hermione had shrunk for convenience.

"How soon do you think we’ll get in?" Ron asked impatiently.

"Dunno. It must take quite a while for this many people to get in and take their seats safely. I’m more worried about how easy it is to get out if anything…weird…does happen in there," Harry answered. "I reckon there’s probably three underaged witches and wizards for every two adults. It would be an awful mess to try to get everyone out in an emergency." Harry hated to sound pessimistic, but his life of running up against people who were out to get him, coupled with his career as an Auror, made him worry more about possible pitfalls than the average twenty-two-year-old wizard would.

Ron raised his eyebrows. "Blimey, Harry, I think you’ll enjoy yourself more if you stop expecting to see boggarts everywhere."

"Not boggarts, Ron. Death Eaters. They don’t care that Voldemort is dead; they still want the same things he did," Harry lamented as he flashed their tickets at the ticket taker.

"I suppose you’re right," Ron admitted as they filed into the stadium amid the jostling crowd, "but I just want to watch the Cup matches with my best mate and not worry whether there are any bogeymen here. Humour me, Harry. Let’s forget about the bad guys this weekend. You know Hermione would want you to; she gave you those tickets so you’d come here and have fun."

Once inside the stadium, Harry and Ron were directed to a special lift that went directly to the Top Box, which was empty except for a dark-haired older man with a slouched posture and a hooked nose. When Harry stopped staring at the man, he realized why he looked so familiar: he was almost certainly the father of Viktor Krum.

"Pardon me, but are these seats already taken?" Harry asked a bit loudly, hoping to be heard above the crowd.

The older man looked up at Harry past his long nose. "No, zey are not taken yet. Vould you care to seet viss me?" Harry nodded, then he and Ron seated themselves on two high-backed mahogany chairs upholstered with gold brocade. Harry’s fringe fluttered back off his face and the older man took in a breath.

"You are Harry Potter, yes?" Mr. Krum extended his right hand.

"Yes, sir," Harry said as he shook the older man's hand.

"I am Artur Krum. My son has told me about you. I zink you know him. Viktor Krum? He hass talked about you and your osser friends since he played in ze lahst Vorld Cup."

"Yes, sir, I knew Viktor back then. This is my friend Ron Weasley." Mr. Krum leaned over to shake Ron’s hand. "I assume Viktor has mentioned our other friend, Hermione Granger."

Mr. Krum’s eyes narrowed. "Ah yes, Herm-own-ninny. Viktor fell in loff with her back zen" -- Harry’s eyes widened and he struggled not to react --"but zey ver bohs so very young zen. He asked her to come to Bulgaria zat summer but she said no."

Ron looked cagily from Harry to Mr. Krum and back again. "So, did she give Viktor any reason why?"

Mr. Krum eyed Ron warily before he replied. "Yes, she told him she vass not in loff viss him. She tot she vass in loff viss someone else," he said, looking directly at Harry.

"Yes…well…umm," Harry stammered, blushing. "That's very interesting."

"And how is Herm-own-ninny now? Do you zee much of her zees days?"

"He sees all of her these days," Ron muttered under his breath. Harry elbowed him in the ribs.

"Actually I see her every day," Harry declared. "We share a flat in London and I’m planning to ask her to marry me."

Krum eyed Harry over his half-moon spectacles. "Zo, vaht Viktor told me vass right. Zer vass somezink special between you and Herm-own-ninny."

"No, not back then! Really...we...were just friends back then," Harry objected, then added almost to himself, "at least I thought we were." He really wanted to change the subject. "So...how soon do you think Viktor will catch the Snitch today, Mr. Krum?"

Artur Krum smiled. "Vissin ze first haff-hour of ze game. Belgium is not nearly as good as Bulgaria, I think." The stadium was close to full now, and Harry checked his watch to see when the game would start. Only ten minutes to go.

Suddenly a roar went up as the players from the Bulgarian and Belgian teams arose from the pitch and began to fly around the stadium, warming up and saluting the fans. The announcer pointed his wand at his throat, said "Sonorus!" and then began announcing the teams in a voice that could be heard throughout the stadium."

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the first semi-final match of the 2002 Quidditch World Cup. Now we present, in sky-blue robes, the Belgian National Team. The Chasers – Jan Gaus, Henrik Vermeer and Eduard Theroux." Three burly young men flew around in circles to the cheers of their countrymen. "The Beaters – Maria Bourgainville and Herve Chretien." A blonde woman and a red-haired man flew out. "The Keeper, Louis Cletholde" – a tall, powerfully built young man flew in a double-eight loop around the Belgian goals. "And the Seeker, Lucy Visser." A slender brunette, Visser warmed up by doing the starfish-and-stick maneuver to avoid her teammates’ Bludgers. Harry and Ron applauded politely; Artur Krum merely nodded.

"And now," the announcer continued, "in scarlet robes, the team that almost won the 1994 World Cup – the Bulgarian National Team!" The heavily partisan crowd erupted in deafening cheers as their favorite players took to the air. The announcer went on: "The Chasers – Alexandr Levski, Igor Dimitrov and Iulia Ivanova. The Beaters – Vasily Volkov and Petr Vulchanov. The Keeper, Grigor Zograf. And the Seeker, Viktor Krum!"

As Harry and Ron applauded more loudly, Artur Krum jumped up from his seat, his broad smile contrasting sharply with the guarded expression he’d worn a few minutes earlier. Suddenly Viktor Krum swept up to the Top Box, hovered near the railing, reached in and hugged his father. Releasing him, Viktor nodded to Harry and Ron.

"Potter! Veasley! It is good to see you again," Viktor said earnestly as his broom floated a few feet outside the box. "Herm-own-ninny told me you verr coming."

Harry managed a half-smile. Intellectually he knew he really had no reason to be jealous of Viktor Krum. But a very adolescent part of him resented that Krum was the first boy -- almost a man, really -- who took a shine to Hermione. "Yeah, I know. She gave me the tickets for my birthday last month."

"Herm-own-ninny is a good friend to you," Krum replied.

A surge of possessiveness overtook Harry. "She’s more than my best friend. She’s been my lover for almost two years," he said defiantly.

Viktor scowled, still hovering outside the box. "I know zat too. Herm-own-ninny has told me this long ago." A half-smirk curled his lips. "You do not haff to fear me, Harry Potter. It is you she loves." Nodding to the box’s occupants, Viktor flew down to the pitch for the start of the game.

"Well, that was extremely weird," Ron said as he and Harry took their seats again. Harry said nothing but agreed. In addition to Harry, Ron and the elder Krum, the Top Box was now full of dignitaries from the Bulgarian and Belgian Ministries of Magic. Below them, one hundred thousand witches and wizards of all ages roared as the referee prepared to release the Quaffle and the Golden Snitch. Harry sat on the edge of his seat, happy to be a spectator. He listened intently as the announcer called the game’s action play by play.

"And now the referee’s whistle blows, the Quaffle and Snitch are tossed and the game begins. It’s Gaus catching the Quaffle for Belgium. Reverse pass to Vermeer, who passes to Theroux who – NO!! Volkov beats it away, it’s caught by Levski. Now it’s Levski, Ivanova and Dimitrov in a Hawkshead attacking formation, going at the Belgian goal. The Bulgarian team is very aggressive today; you don’t usually see the Hawkshead so early in the game. Levski passes to Dimitrov, who reverse passes to Ivanova, she’s in the scoring area now...Krum is circling above her looking for the Snitch, and now Ivanova SCORES! It’s ten-zero to Bulgaria."

Artur Krum jumped from his seat again, clapping his hands heartily and pounding on the railing in front of him. He turned and beamed at Harry and Ron, who were elbowing each other happily. As much as Harry enjoyed watching this championship game, though, his heart was really above the pitch, waiting with Krum, wondering where the Snitch might be. As he sat in his seat, barely containing the energy that urged him to jump on the nearest broom and fly out to join his old rival, Harry had to admit that he envied Viktor Krum, whose worst problem at the moment was finding the Snitch.

The game was very much a back-and-forth affair, with each team scoring quickly and often in the first hour while – to Harry’s keen disappointment – the Snitch was nowhere to be seen. With the score 70-50 in favor of Belgium, Harry felt himself starting to doze off in his seat when a whizzing sound caught his ear. Not ten feet in front of him, the Snitch bobbed and weaved, then zoomed down toward the pitch. Without thinking Harry jumped up and waved Krum in the direction the Snitch had gone. As Krum went into a steep dive, Harry recognized that he was executing the Wronski Feint in an effort to distract Visser, the Belgian Seeker, who promptly followed Krum and stayed close on his broom’s tail. As the two Seekers dove toward the pitch at a dizzying speed, Krum suddenly pulled up and away, barely missing the ground. Visser, too close on Krum’s tail, was unable to pull out of the dive and crashed into the pitch with a thud that made Harry’s stomach turn. While mediwizards removed Visser from the pitch, the remaining players on both teams attempted to score; Krum circled the pitch like a hawk zoning in on its prey. Harry had to admit that Krum was still the best Seeker he’d ever seen.

About fifteen minutes later, with the score 100-90 for Belgium, the Snitch zipped back into Harry’s consciousness, hovering behind Krum’s back then zooming around the Bulgarian's head like a bee circling a flower. Before Krum could reach out and grab it, the Snitch rocketed away. The Bulgarian fans went wild as Krum stood up on his broom then leaned forward until his body was parallel to and just a few inches above the broomstick. As Krum and his broom hurtled toward the Snitch, a lump rose in Harry’s throat as he remembered executing exactly the same move in his first year at Hogwarts. As usual, when Krum reached the Snitch and grabbed it, giving Bulgaria a 240-100 victory, he looked as cool as a cucumber. Meanwhile Harry sat in his seat dripping with sweat and exhausted from merely watching.

"Bloody hell, what a great game!" Ron crowed as the throng went wild around them. Beaming, Artur Krum stood up and waved expansively in Viktor’s direction, saying "My son! My son!" and clapping Harry and Ron on the back.

"And now, ladies and gentleman, we will have a two-hour break before the next semi-final game," the announcer's voice boomed. "So please, feel free to mingle with fans from other countries. Or you might wish to eat lunch or visit the concession stands. Remember, our next game begins in two hours."

A nudge from Ron was Harry's cue that they should find a concession stand and get some lunch. In a bustling concourse below the stands, they found a British vendor selling sausage rolls, chips and butterbeer in a pub-style setting. The morning's hike to the stadium, plus the excitement of the game, left Harry famished, and he was happy for a chance to tuck in and chat with his best mate.

"So Ron, do you wish you still had your Viktor Krum action figure from the last World Cup?" Harry teased as he drained his second glass of butterbeer in less than an hour.

"Very funny, Harry. Actually, yeah, I do wish I hadn’t managed to trash it in a fit of –"

"Jealousy," Harry reminded him. "You were jealous of Viktor then."

Ron looked confused. "Jealous of Viktor? No, I was upset because –"

"Because he was interested in Hermione then. And she seemed very interested in him."

It was easier for Harry to admit this than Ron because at the time Ron’s crush on Hermione was fairly obvious (to everyone except Ron).

Ron sighed. "You got me, mate." He eyed Harry carefully. "So why didn’t you fancy her too back then?"

Harry sat back and thought before answering. "I was too busy mooning after Cho, I guess, and trying not to notice that Hermione had grown into a pretty girl. Besides, I could tell you fancied her. I would have been a bad friend if I’d let myself think about her that way while I thought you did. I don’t want to imagine what that could have done to our friendship."

Ron didn’t have an answer to that. "How long till the second game starts?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Half an hour maybe?"

"Let’s go find buy some Bulgarian rosettes. And I’ll buy a Viktor Krum action doll for each of us."

"That’s the best plan you’ve had all day," Harry said as they wandered over to the souvenir concourse. The first semi-final game had been brilliant. If he was lucky, the second game would be just as good. When he got back to London, he would have to find a really special way to thank Hermione for buying the tickets for him.

^*^*^*^*^

The afternoon match was a blowout. Peru defeated Spain, 610-50, in a long, harrowing game that lasted until sundown and left the crowd exhausted. By Harry's count Gonzales, the Peruvian Seeker, dove for the Snitch at least fifteen times before finally catching it. When the match ended, Harry and Ron made their way slowly through the retreating throng and headed for their tent, where they collapsed on their beds.

After dozing for an hour or two Harry woke up, needing to relieve himself. Grabbing his wand, he muttered "Lumos!" and made his way past Ron, who was lying spread-eagled on his bed, snoring loudly. Once inside the loo, Harry undid his zip and took a leak. Holding his cock loosely in his hand, he thought about where he wished he could put it right that moment.

Hermione…. Those breasts, that luscious bottom just waiting for me to--

That one stray thought was all it took to make his cock spring to attention. Harry kicked off his shoes and stepped into the tiny shower stall to get some privacy in case Ron came in unexpectedly. Leaning back against the wall, he thought about Hermione’s thumb-and-forefinger trick and pumped into his fist for a few minutes until his release spilled over his hand. He muttered a quick scouring charm, then put on his shoes and went back into the bedroom.

Ron was sleeping on his side now, curled into a fetal position and snoring less loudly; he sounded less like a Muggle lawn mower and more like a very happy Crookshanks. Harry sat down at the table, poured himself a shot of firewhisky and drank it quickly. The firewhisky burned his throat, as it always did, but Harry didn’t mind. He enjoyed the sensation, enjoyed feeling his nerves on edge from it. A warm glow spread from his throat into his chest, working its way down through his abdomen until it pooled in his groin. Not again, he thought.

Suddenly Ron began to stir a bit, talking in his sleep.

"Eh so…'at's a good… Siobhan….oh, Siobhan…mmmm," he moaned.

That was enough for Harry. Trying to get away from his own thoughts of sex and Ron’s dreams about it, he crawled out of the tent to get some fresh air.

The air outside was thick with the threat of rain. The weather had been sultry for Saturday’s matches, and humidity hung in the night air. Harry's Macintosh and wellingtons were still in the tent, so he cast an Impervius charm on his clothes and shoes in case it started raining. Now that he was outside, he didn’t know what he wanted to do. He didn’t really know anyone at the games except Cho Chang and the Krums. His chat with Cho the previous day had left him with a sour taste in his mouth and he didn’t want to run into her, because it would just end up the same way it always did. He wished Cho would go away and not always find some way to nibble at the margins of his life. Even when he’d not seen her for months, she managed to get a rise out of him. When he was fifteen, and even a few years later, he didn’t necessarily mind that rise, but now it just complicated things. He had a wonderful life now, doing a job he was damned good at and living with a wonderful woman who meant more to him than life itself. He was going to ask Hermione to marry him soon and he didn’t want to be distracted by Cho Chang getting a rise out of him emotionally or physically.

Standing alone in the dark avenue running through the British encampment, Harry lit his wand and looked around. A stand of tall trees rose from the edge of the moor just west of the campsite.

Maybe a change of scenery will help me clear my head, he thought.

Striding past a line of tents, he made his way out to a verge of scrubby grass near the edge of the woods. About ten meters back in the verge, he saw a large conifer tree with bifurcated roots that formed a shallow sheltered area. He strolled over and slid down the trunk until his backside met the cool earth, then leaned back and closed his eyes. By now the campsite was mostly quiet, though Harry could still hear scattered conversations.

"That Krum was amazing! Did you see his Wronski Feint in the game against Belgium?"

"He’s bloody insane, that one. Completely fearless on a broom. No wonder he wins Most Valuable Player year after year…."

"Okay, Scarborough, pay up. One hundred Galleons."

"But Krum caught the Snitch!"

"He didn’t catch it until more than an hour into the game…."

"Bugger, I thought that second game would never end."

"Good thing Gonzales caught the Snitch or we’d probably be sleeping in the stadium…."

The voices began fading, and suddenly Harry found himself standing in the master bedroom of his flat in London, watching Hermione sleep. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting lacy patterns on her face. Hermione looked so peaceful sleeping there by herself…no, not by herself. A male arm snaked around her waist, pulling her closer. Hermione’s eyes fluttered open and she turned her head toward the man sharing her bed – who was Viktor Krum. Suddenly Harry heard a loud rapping noise on the window near the bed. Viktor pushed himself up on his elbow, then got out of bed and walked over to the window. He was stark naked with an erection the size of a Beater’s bat. Harry felt his throat go dry. Don’t open the window, Viktor...don’t open the window. Owls at the window are always bad news. And what are you doing in my fucking bed? Oh wait… you and Hermione must have been sha—...

THWAP! A flurry of beating wings woke Harry from his dream. A brown owl dug its talons into his shoulder while it waited for him to notice the scroll tied to its leg. Harry dug two Knuts out of his pocket, stuck them in the owl’s pouch and pulled the scroll off its leg. As the owl flew off, Harry realized that the sun was rising. He’d fallen asleep next to the tree and spent the night sleeping outside. As his eyes adjusted to the dawn’s light, he unrolled the parchment and read it.

Potter,

Did you enjoy the Bulbadox powder? Did it make you and your Mudblood bitch scratch yourselves raw for days? I saw you leaving your flat when the ambulance came from St. Mungo’s. You were covered with boils on your back and your chest. Why was that? Were you naked before you opened that letter? Were you shagging that Mudblood till she screamed your name before you opened the letter? Did you get any powder on your dick? You can’t fuck when you’ve got boils on your dick. I bet that kept you out of the slut's box for a couple days.. When are you going to stop dipping your dick in that dirty water? Both of you disgust me. You and that bitch are still fucking each other. I already said you’d had your last chance. Now I’m going to make you wish you’d never crossed me.

Come to the players’ entrance of the Quidditch stadium at nine o’clock this morning. Do not be late and do not ignore this letter. You can’t protect yourself and you can’t protect her.

By the time he finished reading the letter, Harry was pale and shaking. Somehow he managed to push himself up from the ground and start running toward his and Ron’s tent. As he ran, he tried to focus on the contents of the note. The scrawling penmanship looked very familiar, and the last line sent a shiver through him. You can’t protect yourself and you can’t protect her. Bloody hell…the stalker was right. Sending an owl was useless; it wouldn't reach Hermione for days. She was thirteen hundred miles away, and even if he could get a Portkey and go back to London that morning to warn her, he probably couldn’t get back before nine o’clock. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. As he reached the tent, he bent down to crawl in – and almost conked heads with Ron, who was coming out.

"Where’ve you been, mate? I woke up and you weren’t here." Ron's voice was full of concern.

"I got up to get some air last night. I walked around a bit and ended up over there." Harry pointed toward the copse to the west. "Then I sat down at the base of a tree and fell asleep and had a weird dream. I woke up a few minutes ago when an owl landed on my shoulder with this note."

Ron looked puzzled. "You got an owl here? What does the note say?"

Harry’s jaw clenched almost as hard as his fists. "The stalker is here at the World Cup and I have to meet him or her in less than two hours."

"Bloody hell."

^*^*^*^*

Author's Note: Well, if I had to name this chapter, I would name it "The Shit Hits the Fan" because…well, that's pretty much what happens. This was a very difficult chapter to write, and I hope you don't hate me when it's over…{{wibbles}} Many thanks to my betas, who once again saved my ass with their astute comments on this chapter.

Also, there's a strong possibility that I will change my author name in the near future. So if you start seeing this story published under a different author name beginning with Oh_ , please don't immediately think the story has been plagiarized J

Thanks again, dear readers, for your patience and your support. I apologize for what probably seems like slow updating to you. I may not write quickly, but I hope my writing is worth waiting for. Thank you for all your support. Your reviews mean a lot to me.

^*^*^*^

Chapter 7

August 25, 2002

Well, well, well, Potter went off to Bulgaria with that foolish ginger-haired friend of his and left his Mudblood slag back in London, all by herself, unprotected. We’ll see if that was a good idea. Actually, I don’t think so. I think they will both regret it. He’s at the Quidditch World Cup all alone, with no Mudblood tart to bang whenever he needs to bleed the dragon. I wonder how he deals with those times when she’s not there to bend over for him. Does he do it to Weasley?? No – no, Potter is very straight; I’ve seen the way his eyes lit up when he used to fancy Cho Chang. He definitely fancies women. He just fancies the wrong woman. I don’t even want to call Granger a woman. She’s more like a mongrel bitch. Not a proper witch at all. If Potter is going take his dick in his hand and pump it until he runs dry, he should be thinking about a proper witch when he does it, not Granger. I wonder what she was doing the past few nights while he’s been gone? Running around cheating on him perhaps? I wasn’t keeping a close eye on her. I should have paid more attention to her routine this weekend but – well, it just couldn’t be helped. It’s not like I’m He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and have minions all over the world ready to do my bidding. Sometimes I think he had the right idea, except that he wanted to get rid of all the Mudbloods and their sympathisers. I’m not quite that undiscriminating. I don’t care about 99 percent of them. Justin Finch-Fletchley? A boring nobody. Colin and Dennis Creevy? Just a couple of annoying little gnats. I can’t waste my valuable time and energy on the likes of them. Actually I’ve never had anything against them. I barely know who they are. Potter and Granger, though – they’re hard to get away from. Mr. Saviour of the Wizarding World and his trusty sidekick and whore. Everyone makes such a big fucking deal about them. It’s been this way for years. They don’t deserve any of the attention. And now they’re acting as though they never got any of my letters. Their behavior is still outrageous. They should have replied to me and said they've seen the error of their ways. Now I’m moving forward on the next part of my plan. I will turn up the heat on both of them very, very soon. In fact in a few hours they will wish they’d never crossed me.

They make me sick.

^*^*^*^*^

Ron ran his hand through his ginger hair, a blank look on his face. "What did you say?"

"I said the person who’s been stalking me and Hermione is here at the World Cup," Harry explained, trying not to look as freaked out as he felt. "This person wants to meet me at nine o’clock at the players’ entrance to the stadium. At least that’s what I got from the note."

Staring ahead, Ron started pacing. "Fucking hell, Harry. Here? Let me see that." He grabbed the parchment from Harry’s hand and read it silently. When he’d finished his eyes were full of worry.

"Does Hermione know about this note?"

"No, of course not. I just got it less than fifteen minutes ago," Harry said. "She's thirteen hundred miles away. There’s no way I can contact her through magical means that quickly – not without going back to London – and it’s not like we’ll find any telephones here...well, maybe we could but we’d probably have to go to the ranger office, which we’d have to find…Bugger, this is all so complicated." He threw his head back and sighed. "Besides, what would I say to Hermione even if I could contact her? We have no idea what the stalker is planning to do, or when she plans to do it. How can Hermione protect herself when she doesn’t know what the threat is or who's threatening her?"

Ron nodded sympathetically. Harry’s jaw tightened and his fists clenched until his knuckles hurt. "Who the hell is doing this, Ron? Why does this person hate us so much?"

"Hell if I know," Ron said as he blew out a breath. "But forget about that for now. What are you going to do right now? Who else knows about the stalker?"

A hot late-August sun was climbing in the sky, making the humid morning seem even warmer. Leaning back against the tent, Harry pulled his shirt off over his head and wiped the sweat off his forehead, chest and back. "Well, Hermione and you, of course. Remus and Tonks too, and the blokes in the Auror Division who are working the case."

Ron stood there staring at Harry’s skin. "What’s that all over your chest and back, mate?"

Harry looked down to see what Ron was talking about. The excitement of being at the World Cup had almost made Harry forget about the tiny, light scars the Bulbadox boils had left on him. Realizing that he’d accidentally left Ron in the dark about a major development, Harry sighed and tucked his shirt into the waistband of his trousers.

"I guess I forgot to tell you something." Ron looked puzzled. "On August fifteenth, when Hermione got back from France, the stalker sent another letter. It arrived in the middle of the afternoon while Hermione and I were – occupied." Ron rolled his eyes and looked away. "I made the mistake of opening it while I was mostly naked. It was full of Bulbadox powder." Ron winced. "That crap got all over my back and chest. Fortunately Hermione only got some on one arm. We had to go to St. Mungo’s to get treated for it. It was actually easy to treat but we’ll probably both have some light scarring from it for a while to come."

Ron put a hand on Harry’s back and rubbed his index finger over one of the larger scars. "Whoever did this to you is either evil or a complete nutter," he proclaimed in a husky voice that Harry hadn’t heard in ages. "All the more reason for you to try to do something now, Harry. Listen, mate – I can help. Really! I know people who know people in the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic. Since the last war the European ministries of magic have been working together much more closely, especially in international cooperation and magical law enforcement. Let’s go find the local magical constabulary and tell them what's up."

Harry shook his head violently. "No – I don’t want anyone else to know about this! The stalker knows about our sex life, Ron – or at least that’s what she’s implied. She’s trying to tear Hermione and me apart. It’s bad enough that Remus and Tonks and other Aurors know about it. I just don’t need anyone else reading that note and looking at me like I’m a satyr or something."

"Harry, mate," Ron pleaded, "maybe the Bulgarian ministry could help. They could stake out the players’ entrance before you go there and maybe they’d nab this person when she comes to meet you."

"NO!" Harry exclaimed. "No! I’m not going to turn this into some kind of international incident. I’m just – we’re wasting time here, Ron. I need to be outside the players’ entrance in a little over an hour. Will you come with me? I feel like I need some backup. " Dropping his eyes, his voice shaking slightly, he added, "And if anything bad happens, I’d want you to break the news to Hermione."

Ron looked at Harry with steely determination in his eyes. "Nothing is going to happen to you, Harry. Not if I have anything to say about it. I’ll be right behind you. I still think we should tell someone else what’s going on--"

"Don’t have time. I need to change my clothes and grab a quick nosh. I’ll be back out in five minutes."

Harry crawled into the tent, found his satchel and pulled out his last set of clean clothes. It was a bit ridiculous, he knew, but if something happened to him when he met the stalker, he didn’t want to be found wearing dirty underpants, a spotted shirt and jeans full of dirt, leaves and twigs from the tree he’d slept under. Must be all those years of living with Aunt Petunia, he smirked. She’d be jarred off if she thought I was going anywhere in yesterday’s dirty clothes. Actually Hermione would be proud too. Living with Hermione had cured him of some of his more disgusting teenage habits, like not changing his clothes for days whenever he got depressed (which happened with increasing frequency after Sirius died).

Hermione – the thought of her alone in London and possibly in danger that very moment sent a chill down Harry's spine. No matter what happened at nine o’clock, he had to let Hermione know that he’d done what he’d done out of love for her. Nine o’clock Bulgarian time was seven o’clock London time, and Harry imagined what Hermione might be doing at the moment he went to meet the stalker. They usually slept in a bit on the weekends so she would probably be in bed, still asleep or else waking up slowly, her voluminous hair fanned out on her pillow. He imagined her stretching her arms slowly over her head, then reaching toward him and sighing unhappily because he wasn’t there to kiss and caress her the way he always did when they woke up.

In that instant Harry decided that no matter what happened at nine o’clock, he would find some way to get back to Hermione. If it meant Ron carrying him on his back by Portkey, so be it. He and Ron had planned to leave that night anyway, as soon as the championship game between Bulgaria and Peru was over. If he had to miss the finals, it was a small price to pay to make sure Hermione was safe.

He crawled out of the tent and found Ron standing warily in the avenue between the rows of tents. "Ready, Ron?"

"Let’s do it. And Harry, when we get back to England, for the love of Merlin make sure to give that note to Lupin and tell him everything that’s happened here."

"Okay, Ron. I'm convinced now. That’ll be the very first thing I do when I get back – after I make sure Hermione is okay". And after I spend a few hours letting her know how much I’ve missed her, he thought, envisioning just how he might accomplish that….

^*^*^*^

Shortly before half-past eight, Harry and Ron began the trek from their tent to the World Cup stadium. The championship game didn’t start until two o’clock so there were no queues yet of fans trying to get into the stadium. At five minutes of nine they arrived at the players’ entrance to the stadium. Harry leaned up against the wall alone. His attempt to appear nonchalant and casual was almost ruined by the butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Ron stood about twenty yards away, hidden in a small grove of oak trees, his wand at the ready. If Harry felt he needed any help or got into any trouble, he would signal Ron by sending up green sparks from his wand.

They stood and waited for the stalker to arrive.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then another five. By now it was quarter past nine and no one had approached Harry. Apparently the players would arrive later for their final practice. Not even a single fan had wandered by on his way to start or join a queue. Harry looked over toward where Ron was hidden in the trees. Spotting Ron's ginger hair, Harry tilted his own head and shrugged. Ron frowned and shrugged back. Perhaps the note had been an empty threat after all.

Harry spread his hands out, palms up, in a "What now?" sign to Ron, and continued leaning up against the wall next to the players’ entrance to the stadium. He noticed the laces of his trainers were coming undone, so he bent down to tighten them. As he knelt with one knee up, fixing his shoes, a brown owl flew in carrying a parchment tied to its legs. Harry was almost afraid to open it, given the contents of the notes he’d received the past few weeks, but he tore the note off the owl’s leg and opened it anyway. It was written in the same scrawling handwriting as the note from earlier in the day, but the first few words were emphasized.

"Bloody fucking hell!" Harry screamed in frustration, crumpling the note in one hand while he spun around, looking every which way, wondering where the stalker could be. As Harry clomped around trying to figure out what was going on, Ron started running toward him from the woods.

"Ron! Go back! You’ll break your cover!" Harry yelled at him.

"No, Harry! Look up! LOOK UP!" Ron screamed, still running.

Leaning back, Harry looked up to see what Ron was on about it. Something large and dark was hurtling toward him from what seemed to be high in the sky. In the few seconds it took to figure out what was coming toward him, the object seemed to speed up. When Harry finally realized what was descending rapidly toward him, it was too late to get completely out of the way. Dropping to his knees he tried to roll away.

"Arresto momentum!" Ron yelled, pointing his wand twenty feet above Harry's head. The spell slowed the object's descent and prevented it from hitting Harry at full force. Nevertheless, Harry felt like a small meteorite had struck him. As Ron pushed the object off him, Harry lay crumpled on the ground. The back of his head throbbed and his right shoulder hurt, but at least he was still alive and mostly in one piece.

"What the...bloody fuck...was that?" he sputtered as Ron helped him sit up.

Leaning over, Ron picked up the object and looked at it closely. He showed Harry a length of painted wooden plank, almost two inches thick by ten inches high and more than three feet long. "Looks like it might be a section of railing from around the top of the stadium."

"From the top of the stadium?" Harry’s mind kicked into Auror mode. "That’s at least a hundred feet up."

"Yeah, whoever did this might have been trying to kill you," Ron said seriously. "A chunk of wood that size could’ve seriously injured you."

Standing up, Harry shook his head in disbelief. "This stalker -- Hermione thinks it’s a woman – she really wanted to hurt me." A lump grew in his throat as he looked up at his best friend of eleven years. "You saved my life, Ron."

Ron’s face went almost as red as his hair. "No… no, I didn’t – I just – I just kept it from hitting you, is all – same as you would’ve done for me."

The lump in Harry’s throat made his voice crack. "You’re right – but you’ve also saved my life more times than I can count." He flung one arm around Ron’s neck and hugged him tightly. "I’m so glad you’re here with me. I don’t think I could get through all this shit right now if you weren’t here."

Ron patted Harry on the back gingerly, then pulled away and looked him in the eye. "I’m glad to be with you, mate. I’ve been your second for eleven years; nothing’s going to change that. Now that we’ve prevented your untimely demise, what do we do next?"

Harry ran his hand through his hair, checking for blood, and found none. He rolled his right shoulder; while it was a bit stiff, he didn’t think anything was broken. "I don’t think I need to see a mediwizard. But I do need to get back to London as fast as I can. You’re welcome to stay here and watch the finals, of course; I wouldn’t expect you to miss that just for this."

"Come on, Harry! You can’t be serious," Ron sputtered indignantly. "What the sod kind of best mate would I be if you went back and I stayed here? You’re out of your bloody mind if you think I’m going to stay here while you go back by yourself to see about –"

"Hermione! Look at what the stalker said about her!" Harry fretted, pacing again.

Ron found the crumpled note on the ground, picked it up and started reading. His face was ashen when he finished. "We have to get back right away. Let’s pack up our stuff and get out of here as fast as we can. I can’t cast the Portus spell; I don’t have clearance from the Ministry. Do you?"

Harry’s face brightened slightly. "Yes! I can do that. Aurors have special clearance to cast Portus. We can't use your spoon, though. It's charmed to take us back to London tonight, isn’t it?"

Ron bit his lip in thought. "Yeah, we’ll need something different." He sighed and fell silent for a moment. "How about one of your wellingtons? You’ve still got them in your satchel, don’t you?"

"Yeah. Let’s get back to the tent right now."

With a POP Harry Disapparated from the verge near the stadium and landed next to his bed inside the tent. Ron arrived a second later, almost knocking him over. Harry found one of his wellingtons, tapped his wand on it and muttered, "Portus!" The rain boot briefly trembled and glowed blue then resumed its normal appearance.

"Pack!" Ron commanded. All their personal possessions flew into their respective satchels, neatly folded and sorted. Harry and Ron crawled out of the tent, almost ready to leave. Ron scratched his stubbled chin thoughtfully.

"So Harry… if the furnishing charm is Fournisso, d’you think the unfurnishing charm would be Defournisso?"

"I dunno, mate, but it’s worth a shot. And let's do it soon. I’m afraid I’m gonna shit myself worrying about Hermione if we stay here much longer."

Ron grimaced. "Point taken. Defournisso! Pack!" he commanded toward the tent, which promptly collapsed, folded itself and stuffed itself into Arthur Weasley’s tent bag.

"I’ve charmed this Portkey to take us directly into my flat. Okay, grab on tight," Harry cautioned. "The Portkey activates --- NOW!"

^*^*^*^

Hermione’s eyes opened slowly as sunlight streamed through the curtains, making dappled patterns on the wall above the dresser. It must be fairly early, she thought, rolling to her right reflexively – then remembering that Harry wasn’t there for her to snuggle. He and Ron were at the Quidditch World Cup in Bulgaria. She was glad they would return that night; she had missed Harry terribly the past two days. With him away, though, she could laze in bed as long as she wanted, which was a luxury she rarely indulged in. This morning she pushed herself up in the bed, let the duvet slip down to her waist, and began reading a Muggle suspense novel she’d bought recently.

Suddenly she heard the sound of beating wings, followed by a thud, outside the bedroom window. She found two Knuts on the bedside table then padded over to the window in her nightgown and opened it. A brown owl hopped in from the ledge with The Sunday Prophet strapped to its leg. Hermione put the coins in the owl’s pouch, took the newspaper and sent the owl away. Entering the master bathroom, she unfurled the paper and read the headlines. Streaking across the front page was her friend Viktor Krum, chasing the Snitch during Bulgaria’s defeat of Belgium the previous day. Viktor looked every bit as intent and serious as he’d done when she first met him eight years earlier. Hermione’s face lit up when she recognized Harry and Ron in the background, cheering heartily. She was glad to see that Ron had got past his adolescent jealousy toward Viktor. Hermione was especially glad that Harry seemed happy for Krum; she and Viktor had remained friends during the war, and it pleased her that Harry understood that she didn’t fancy Viktor and was merely his friend.

As she left the bathroom she heard another thud, this time from inside the flat. Perhaps Crookshanks had got up on top of the armoire in the living room and jumped down. She was, however, wrong. Crookshanks was curled up on the leather chair in the corner of the bedroom. Hermione stood still, listening intently, trying to hear whatever was going on. Shuffling noises were followed by various rattles and thuds, then the flapping of wings and the squawking hoots of an owl. Hermione knew immediately that Hedwig, atop her perch in the living room, was upset.

"Petrificus totalus!" a male voice hissed. As Hedwig's squawking ended abruptly, Hermione heard the owl's rigid body fall to the floor.

Now Hermione really began to worry. She looked around the bedroom for her wand – then remembered she'd left it in the kitchen last night when she was cleaning up after dinner. Her throat went dry and her pulse began to race. She was alone in the flat, separated from her wand, and might encounter someone she didn’t want to meet if she left the bedroom. She tried to remember exactly where she’d left her wand. It was probably on the counter near the sink, but it could be on the kitchen table.

Oh bugger. I can’t summon my wand if I don’t know exactly where it is...

There was nothing else for it. She would have to leave the bedroom, creep into the kitchen as quietly as she could and retrieve her wand without being noticed. Gathering her Gryffindor courage, Hermione opened the bedroom door and peeked out. The hallway was dark and empty. Relieved, she inched out into the hallway, her back to the wall. Still seeing no sign of anyone, she ventured another three feet down the hall. Still nothing. Feeling slightly less worried, Hermione continued sliding along the wall, her left hand feeling ahead for any danger. As her hand reached the frame of the kitchen door she glanced past the opposite wall, where she could see into the corner of the living room. Shadows played on the long wall, shadows of people moving around the room. Hermione’s stomach dropped like a lead balloon. Whoever was out there was going to find her. Sliding past the doorframe, she turned to her left and tried to slide into the kitchen undetected.

She never saw the fist that reached out and struck her in the face.

"Oi, Matty, we got us a witch here," crowed a tall gangly hoodlum who grabbed Hermione's hair and pushed her roughly out of the kitchen. She could still feel the imprint of his knuckles on her cheek, could feel the skin over her cheekbone fill with blood rushing to heal the injury. She tried to put her hand to her face to see how badly she was hurt, but the young hoodlum who’d punched her grabbed her arm and jerked it behind her back so hard she thought he was trying to break it.

"So this is the Mudblood slag," an older man snarled. He was shorter and heavier than the first man, and even from a few feet away, he smelled like he hadn’t bathed in several days. Hermione tried to turn her head away but a third man, blond hair sticking out from under his mask, grabbed her jaw and pushed it back toward the smelly older man.

"You listen when Matty talks to you, bitch," the blond yelled at her, his snarling lips just a few inches from her own.

Despite surviving many worse situations, Hermione was terrified. She was alone and unarmed, in her nightgown, with three hoodlums who had somehow got into her flat and, she was sure, had already broken her cheekbone. Beads of sweat formed on her chest as she realized that whatever these men wanted, they were probably willing to hurt her even worse than they’d already done to get it. Still she wouldn’t go down without a fight. Struggling to break free, she leaned forward and kicked her heel upward until she felt it make contact with the skinny man’s groin.

"Yeeooowww!" the skinny man yelled, loosening his grip on her. Seeing her chance, Hermione bolted toward the living room. But the smelly man was quicker than he looked. Long, slender cords shot out from his wand, wrapping Hermione’s arms tightly around her middle. More cords shot out from the sleazy blond’s wand and wrapped around her ankles. As she tottered forward, her other cheek struck the sideboard before she fell to the floor. Despite the pain in her face, she didn’t pass out. But her stomach clenched and her mouth went dry again as she worried about what the intruders wanted and what else they planned to do to her.

"Oi, Mudblood!" the smelly man sneered at her. "Where’s your bedroom? Where is it that Potter the Great bones you?"

Hermione said nothing. She would not reply. But the fact that they knew she lived here with Harry terrified her even more. This was not some random home invasion. This was a planned attack on her and, by extension, on Harry. Perhaps she was merely paranoid, but she was sure that the stalker had orchestrated this.

"Not sayin’ nothin’, are yeh, bitch?" the blond hooligan smirked. "No matter, we’ll find what we need without yeh flappin’ yer gums." His bony paws rolled her onto her back. Then the smelly one pointed his wand and said, "Mobilicorpus!" Still bound around her waist and ankles, Hermione felt herself float up about three feet off the floor. From the corner of her eye she saw the smelly bloke point his wand toward the hallway. Against her will, her body followed where his wand pointed and she found herself floating down the hallway toward the master bedroom. Someone kicked the door open. Then two of the thugs grabbed the ropes binding her feet and pulled her into the bedroom, where they set her down on the floor at the end of the bed.

"Posh room you got here. Looks like you just got out of bed," the smelly one said, eyeing the unmade bed with a lascivious grin.

Hermione just glared at him.

"WIPE THAT HIGH AND MIGHTY LOOK OFF YOUR FACE!" the smelly thug screamed into her ear, then kicked her behind the knees. As her body crumpled, her chin caught the edge of the bed, preventing her face from smashing on the floor. Hermione could feel blood trickling from the cut on her left cheek while the other cheek was beginning to puff up like a black eye. Her arms and shoulders ached as she tried to wriggle out of the magical bonds on her wrists.

"Okay, Mudblood slag, where do yeh keep yer mementos?" the blond hoodlum demanded.

Hermione stared blankly at him for a moment. "Mementos? Don’t you want jewellery or Galleons?"

"Only if they mean somethin’ to you," the gangly thug sneered. "We’re here to take the stuff you care about. If some of that is worth some money, we’ll be ahead o' the game. Now tell us where you keep your mementos." He shoved the tip of his wand between her shoulder blades.

Her kneeling position and the tightness of the ropes were beginning to make Hermione dizzy. "On top of the dresser. In the top drawers too. On the sideboard" – she coughed – "and the bookshelves in the living room."

"Okay, clean ‘em out, boys," the smelly one said, nodding to his cohorts. "Don’t take anything that can be easily identified. No photographs and so on, nothing engraved. But anything else is fair game." The blond thug started pilfering the dresser while the tall one went out to the living room, where he poked around noisily. Hermione continued to kneel beside the bed while the smelly thug pointed his wand at her menacingly. The gangly fellow returned to the bedroom with a pillowcase bulging with items, which seemed to please the smelly one. The blond hoodlum continued gathering items from the bedroom, tossing them into another pillowcase. When the smelly thug was satisfied with their haul, he pointed his wand at both pillowcases, shrank them down to the size of beanbags and stuffed them into the pockets of his greasy robes.

Suddenly Crookshanks stirred, stretching on the chair. As his yellow eyes opened, his body tensed as though he sensed something was amiss in his mistress's world. Almost before Hermione realized it, Crookshanks launched himself off the chair and onto the back of the smelly thug's robes, yowling and clawing at the intruder.

"Geroff, you stupid cat!" the smelly man shouted, whirling around with Crookshanks hanging from his robes. Unable to shake him off, the wizard pointed his wand behind his back and said, "Stupefy!" Crookshanks went limp, sliding off the man's robes and onto the floor.

"Blooding fucking cats, I hate them," the smelly wizard snarled. "But not as much as I hate Mudbloods." Then he leered at Hermione and poked his hand between her breasts through her nightgown. "We’re almost done here. Jester, why don’t you do what you’ve been wantin’ to do?"

Hermione looked warily from one man to another. Her instincts, honed by years of fighting Voldemort and the Death Eaters, told her that something even worse than robbery was about to happen. As usual, her instincts were right. The blond thug, the one called Jester, strode up to where she knelt, undid his flies, pulled out his penis and shoved it toward her face.

"Suck it, you Mudblood slut," he sneered at her, trying to shove his member between her lips. "Suck my dick. I want to shove it down your Mudblood throat and make you choke." He pushed his penis closer to her face, close enough so that the tip grazed her lips. Hermione vowed she would never willingly put her mouth to the penis of any of these disgusting excuses for wizards. Her failure to respond immediately angered Jester, who then tried to shove the head of his penis between her lips. Trying not to choke, Hermione defending herself the only way she could – she bit him hard.

"BLOODY FUCKING HELL!" Jester screamed, then slapped Hermione across the face. Her head snapped back and she tottered, almost falling backward to the floor. "She bit my dick, boss!"

Through the one eye that wasn’t yet closed in pain, Hermione saw Matty, the ringleader, push Jester out of the way.

"C'mon, Bobbin, let’s show this bitch who’s boss," Matty ordered the gangly one. Before Bobbin could cross the room, Matty pushed his right foot forward and kicked Hermione in the stomach with the heel of his boot. Nodding, Bobbin followed with another swift kick to Hermione’s gut. Jester’s snarling face was the last thing she saw before losing consciousness.

^*^*^*^

Holding onto their Portkey, Harry and Ron hurtled back from Bulgaria, landing with a thud in Harry and Hermione’s living room. The first thing Harry noticed was that the front door was unlocked and ajar. The stalker wasn’t joking, Harry thought; Hermione is in trouble.

"Be careful, Ron," Harry cautioned as he stood up and listened intently. "See the front door? Someone either just came in or just left. Either way, it’s not on. Wands at the ready?"

Ron nodded, pointing his wand ahead of him. "Ready when you are, mate."

Scanning the room, Harry noticed that several of Hermione’s prized possessions were missing. "Someone’s been here pilfering our things," he whispered. Then his heart jumped into his throat at the sight on the floor: Hedwig lay stock still as though dead. Crouching over his beloved owl, Harry determined she was alert but temporarily incapacitated, probably by the Petrificus spell. "Finite incantatem," he commanded, and Hedwig immediate sat up, shook her wings and began to preen herself. Harry leaned down and petted her, then looked back at Ron, who was shuddering.

"Something is definitely not on here," Ron said darkly.

The flat was eerily quiet. Harry decided that the intruders had probably left by now – but where was Hermione? Steeling himself, he crept quietly through the flat room by room with Ron one step behind him. When they opened the door to the master bedroom, Harry sensed that something was terribly wrong. Near the ottoman, he saw Crookshanks lying on the floor, apparently Stunned.

"Hermione?" he called out desperately. When she failed to answer, he moved cautiously into the room, with Ron shadowing him, until they reached the end of the king-sized bed. Harry’s heart plummeted at what he saw -- Hermione lying on the floor on her right side, her arms and feet bound with magical ropes. Her beautiful face was bloodied; at least one of her cheekbones had been broken and -– the sight almost made him vomit -– there were two boot prints on the front of her nightgown. Overcome by guilt and worry, Harry dropped to the floor and cradled Hermione’s head in his lap.

"Bloody fucking hell!" Ron shouted, waving his wand wildly as he stomped angrily around the room.

His insides heaving, Harry used his own defense mechanism to deal with the situation – he went into Auror mode. "Do something useful, Ron!" he snapped. "Take care of Crookshanks! Stick your wand out the window and call for help from St. Mungo’s!"

Ron grimaced but looked resigned to helping Hermione's pet. "Finite incantatem," he said, pointing his wand at the ginger cat, which raised its large, squashed-in face and yawned. Then as Ron ran to the bedroom window and stuck his wand out, Harry rolled Hermione over and undid the bindings at her waist and feet. She began to stir just as a siren screamed outside the apartment building.

"I’m here, sweetheart," Harry consoled her. "Ron is here too."

All Harry wanted to do was wrap his arms around Hermione and never let her go, but he knew he had to keep his wits about him. Between the attempt on his life in Bulgaria and what just happened in the flat, he had no choice but to notify Lupin. He scribbled a note on a sheet from the parchpad near the bed and gave it to Ron. "Tell Hedwig to take this to Lupin."

While Ron raced out to the living room, Harry stroked Hermione's hair and whispered words of comfort to her. Just as she began to stir, an ambulance from St. Mungo’s pulled up in front of the building, its magical siren wailing at a frequency only witches and wizards could hear. Hermione still lay on the floor, but now she was muttering incoherently; the words sounded like "jester" and "matty" and "vile, evil, disgusting." Kneeling next to her, Harry stroked her arms gently. A mediwizard and a mediwitch, both in lime-green robes, entered the bedroom and nodded to him.

"Is this the victim?" the witch said, pointing to Hermione.

"Yes. It’s Hermione Granger…my girlfriend. She’s been…assaulted," Harry croaked, barely able to get the words out of her mouth.

"Do you mean...?"

"I’m not sure. She's been muttering unconsciously, and I just…I'm not sure." He turned away, his face blazing.

The mediwitch winced. "I’m sorry."

"Just take care of her, all right?"

"Of course. Have you notified the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?"

Harry nodded. "I’m an Auror myself, but of course I can't investigate this." He bit back tears, trying to compose himself. "I just owled the captain of the Auror Division. I think this is related to something he’s already investigating."

Looking puzzled, the mediwitch didn’t press Harry further and beckoned to the mediwizard. "We'll get the victim into the ambulance as quickly as possible," she advised. "But we must be careful not to jostle her because we don’t know exactly how she’s been injured."

As the mediwizard moved toward Hermione, the mediwitch conjured a stretcher and levitated it under her. Then thin magical cords flew out from the mediwizard’s wand and lashed Hermione securely to the stretcher. Having untied Hermione’s previous restraints, Harry bristled at the thought of her being tied up yet again, but his rational side knew these restraints were necessary.

"Are you coming with us, Mr. Potter?"

"You know …oh of course!" he said absently, beginning to pace the bedroom. "No… I mean… I need to stay here to meet the Aurors. Please tell my friend Ron Weasley to go with you. He's out in the living room. And tell him I’ll be at St. Mungo’s as soon as I can get away from here."

"Very well, let’s go," said the mediwitch to her cohort, as the two medics departed with Hermione on the stretcher between them. Harry heard them speak to Ron, who sounded surprised at being asked to accompany them. The three voices trailed off, and Harry knew Ron had gone with them.

As soon as the front door shut, Harry sat on the edge of the bed and let himself break down for a moment. Bloody fucking hell, Hermione. What in the bloody blue blazes have I got you into? Why is there always someone trying to hurt me and the people I love? Though this time it's someone who's mostly trying to hurt each of us physically and tear us apart. Who is this maniac? Why does she want to split us up?

A hard rap on the front door pulled him back to reality. He shambled into the living room, opened the door and was slightly surprised to find Remus Lupin standing there.

"Come in, Remus. I was expecting Tonks and Ackerley. Are they still working our case?"

Lupin stepped into the living room and stared at Harry. "You look like hell, Harry. What the sod is going on?

Harry’s shoulders sagged. "I haven’t the foggiest fucking idea, Remus. I mean, I don’t know who’s behind any of this. But whoever is stalking me and Hermione has raised the ante considerably. In the past hour, this person had someone assault Hermione and tried to kill me."

Lupin looked visibly shaken. "Back up, Harry. Your owl said Hermione had been hurt. What do you mean, someone tried to kill you?"

Harry pulled the stalker’s note from his pocket and handed it to Lupin. "A brown owl brought this note to me about two hours ago in Bulgaria. I went to the Quidditch World Cup Stadium as the note instructed – don’t worry, Ron came with me – and nobody showed up. But before we could leave, someone made a section of wooden railing fall from the top of the stadium. If Ron hadn’t been there and stopped it with a spell, I probably would have been killed."

Lupin read the note slowly, his lips pursed in thought. "I wish I knew what to tell you, Harry," he said thoughtfully. "To be honest, before now this seemed like a nuisance case. But now we're talking about assault and attempted murder. I think I’m going to bump Ackerley and take the lead on this with Tonks."

"Don’t do anything special just because it’s me involved, Remus," Harry objected. "I don’t want you to get in any trouble because of our friendship."

"Our friendship aside, Harry, I’m concerned because of the way the stalker’s attacks have escalated. You got the first message about two weeks ago, right?"

Harry nodded, wondering where Lupin’s line of thinking was going.

"You’re a relatively new Auror, Harry. I’ve had some experience with stalker cases," Lupin advised. "Generally speaking, a stalker doesn’t usually escalate from vague notes to assaults and attempted murder in the space of two weeks. So I’m concerned we might be dealing with someone who is even more unhinged than the average stalker."

"More unhinged than the average stalker?" Harry's stomach wobbled. "How the hell are we supposed to deal with this, Remus?" He sat down on the sofa and pushed his hands through his hair nervously. "I’ve had about enough -- even before I got home -- and I can’t even imagine how Hermione feels."

"Did she say anything when you found her?"

"Nothing coherent. She was semi-conscious and mumbled some words that sounded like ‘jester’, ‘matted’ and" – Harry cringed –"something that sounded like 'penis'."

Lupin’s eyes widened. "Bloody hell. Let's go straight to St. Mungo’s. Once we know she’s out of danger, I’ll need to interrogate her. And Harry," he said quietly, "I’ll do my best not to upset or embarrass her. But it has to be done."

Harry sighed heavily. "You’re right, Remus. We’d better leave now."

"We'll have to get in through the visitors’ entrance," Lupin answered. Harry nodded, then closed his eyes and concentrated on the pavement outside the Purge & Dowse department store. Two seconds later he found himself standing next to Lupin outside the seemingly vacant building.

"Remus Lupin and Harry Potter here to visit Hermione Granger," Lupin told the ugly dummy in the window. When the dummy nodded, Lupin walked through the window, followed by Harry, who remembered doing something similar when Arthur Weasley was hospitalized for a snake bite during Harry’s fifth year at Hogwarts. Apparently the procedure for using the visitor’s entrance hadn’t changed in the past seven years.

Once inside, the two men spoke to the welcome witch, who told them where they could find Hermione. Rushing into the emergency ward on the ground floor, they found Neville Longbottom attending to her. A St. Mungo's hospital gown covered Hermione's bruised figure as she lay unconscious on an examining table. Ron stood next to the table, holding her hand.

"Harry! Professor Lupin!" Neville greeted them.

"Please, Neville, call me Remus," Lupin smiled as they crowded into the examining room. Neville nodded shyly.

"Glad you’re finally here, Harry," Ron said as he rubbed the back of Hermione’s hand.

Harry detected an edge in Ron’s voice but chalked it up to the anxiety caused by the day’s events. "I had to wait for Remus at the flat," he said simply, walking over to Ron and hugging him. "Thanks for staying with Hermione, mate."

Ron nodded, then stroked Hermione’s hair.

"You can go now if you want," Harry offered.

"No, I’m fine. I don’t want to leave," Ron insisted with a look of surprise.

"Okay," Harry said. Turning to Neville, Harry began stroking Hermione’s other hand. "How is she doing?"

Neville smiled weakly. "All things considered, not too badly. Both her cheekbones were broken. I’ve used some standard spells to heal them. Her face might be a bit discoloured for a few days, but I’ll give her a potion to help speed the healing process."

"Anything else?" Lupin asked, his sad eyes seeming even sadder than usual.

"Yes, I found miniscule pieces of flesh on the cutting edges of her front teeth," Neville frowned. "The flesh was oddly discoloured, rather purplish in fact. It actually resembled" – he blushed and lowered his eyes—"the epidermis of an erect human penis."

"Bloody hell," Harry, Ron and Lupin said in unison.

Neville cleared his throat. "Yes, well, we also found a trace amount of blood on that skin, which might help your investigation. Hermione also had some contusions around her stomach and ribs, plus numerous abrasions on her wrists and ankles."

Harry nodded. "Not surprising. She was bound with magical ropes when we found her."

"Apparently something worse happened to her," Neville added. "She also has some internal bleeding in her torso and a large bruise on her abdomen. Fortunately we’ve got other spells and potions to fix that, but it’s not something that can be done on an outpatient basis, so I’ll need to admit her overnight."

Stifling a sense of déjà vu, Harry eyed his companions. Lupin nodded while Ron frowned again. Harry was beginning to feel vastly more than just annoyed. After not even visiting St. Mungo’s in more than three years, he and Hermione had spent rather too much time there lately. It was, after all, only two weeks since he’d been admitted with a torso full of Bulbadox boils. He was starting to wonder just how much more this insane stalker was going to put them through.

Harry sidled up closer to Hermione, one hand on her shoulder and the other still stroking her hair. Suddenly she stirred and her soft brown eyes, now full of sadness, looked up at him above puffy healing cheekbones.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice hoarse and shaky, "I'm sorry—I couldn't -- tied up--"

"Shhhh, sweetheart," he soothed her, "it’s okay. Don’t try to talk now."

Lupin gave him a sharp look, then turned to Hermione with a kinder expression. "Actually, Hermione, now that you’re conscious I do need to interrogate you as soon as possible. It’s just standard procedure. We need to gather as much information as we can, as soon as we can. I’m sorry to have to put you through this."

Hermione clutched Harry's hand tightly. Her voice seemed to catch in her throat. "I…understand. What do…you need to…know?"

Lupin pulled out a small parchpad and a Quick-Quotes Quill. "Just tell me what happened, in the order you remember things happening. Just start at the beginning."

Still holding Harry's hand, Hermione began to recount what had happened in a vague, mechanical voice. Harry and Ron looked at each other knowingly. Hermione didn't sound like herself; the words came from her haltingly, as though she was talking about someone else's dream rather than her own experience. Her lip trembling, she told of hearing hexes muttered in the living room, followed by the thump of Hedwig's body falling to the floor. As Harry exchanged an anxious glance with Ron, his stomach tightened with anticipation.

Beneath her puffy cheekbones, Hermione's face was chalky and pale as she continued speaking in a detached, mechanical voice. Harry shuddered, almost afraid to listen, as she recounted hearing noises in the living room and how she attempted to retrieve her wand from the kitchen.

"Then what happened?" Lupin asked.

Hermione swallowed, her hand trembling in Harry's grip. "Someone in the kitchen punched me in the face." Harry’s jaw tightened while Ron’s face darkened in anger.

"I’m so sorry, sweetheart," Harry whispered to her, squeezing her hand.

"It’s not your fault, Harry. It was…my fault, I'm sure," she muttered. To Harry's mind nothing that happened that morning could have been Hermione's fault, but he chose not to press the point at that moment.

Lupin looked at her intently. "So how many thugs were there? Did you get a good look at any of them?"

Hermione frowned. "Three men. I…I didn’t see any of their faces. They were all wearing masks that covered their faces but not their hair."

Lupin raised an eyebrow. "Okay, go on."

Touching her swollen lower lip gently, Hermione winced, then narrowed her eyes in concentration. "Yes, well, there were three men. One was tall and gangly. Someone called him Bobbin. He's the one who punched me."

The Quick-Quotes Quill scribbled furiously as Harry thought of ways he'd personally like to punish this blighter. As Hermione described the other men, Harry wracked his brain trying to remember any cases that might have involved anyone matching those descriptions. Unfortunately he’d worked mostly Death Eater cases the past three years and these blokes sounded like garden-variety hoodlums, probably from Knockturn Alley. That realization made Harry feel slightly less bad; at least that seemed to rule out the bad guys he usually chased.

"That’s very helpful," Lupin said. "Can you tell me more?"

"I'm not sure what…they did some things… I don't know if I can tell you everything the right way," Hermione frowned. Harry squeezed her hand again as encouragement. "I was by myself in my nightgown. Our home had been invaded. I didn’t want to do anything...stupid...that might get me into any real trouble. I just wanted them to go away. I didn’t care much about what they took. Though for robbers, they seemed to want some odd things."

Lupin looked askance at her. "What do you mean?"

Hermione shook her head vaguely. "They didn’t want valuables. Didn't want money or jewellery. They asked where I kept my mementos."

"Mementos? And you told them?" Lupin asked.

"I'm telling this wrong," she murmured, now seeming to be on the verge of crying. "That came later." Hermione paused, gathering her thoughts, then explained how the men pushed her around then bound her in the living room.

That must be how she got that cut lip and broken cheek, Harry thought, cringing at the image of the hooligans slamming Hermione into the sideboard.

Hermione continued, "They levitated me down the hallway into the bedroom. They said they wanted to see where I slept with 'Potter the Great'. Somehow they knew that I live there with Harry."

They must be working for the stalker, Harry fumed.

Lupin considered Hermione's information for a moment, then asked her to continue. Her voice even softer than before, Hermione faltered for a moment, as though she couldn't bear to tell what happened next. Haltingly, she reported how the thugs knocked her down in the bedroom then rounded up her mementos from around the house.

"Then they came back into the bedroom. Crookshanks woke up and tried to jump on the smelly one. They stunned him. And then…"

Hermione’s lip quivered hard and her hand shook in Harry’s. His stomach sinking, Harry dreaded hearing what happened next; based on his own experience that morning, he was sure it would be awful. Still, he knew that Lupin needed to know. "Go on, sweetheart," he said softly. "Can you tell us any more?"

Her lip trembled furiously as she forced the next words out of her throat. "All the while the three of them called me horrid names. Mudblood, slag, slut, bitch. Then the blond one – he pulled his …penis out…of his trousers…and stuck it in my face…and…and tried to push it between my lips."

Blood roared into Harry's head, worse than anything he'd felt since defeating Voldemort, and he slammed his fist on an instrument table. "That bloody son of a bitch!" he fumed. Ron’s jaw dropped; Neville’s face twitched.

"I know this is hard for you to hear, Harry," Lupin cautioned, "but you need to let Hermione finish. I apologize for having to ask this, Hermione, but what happened next?"

In a low, shaky voice, Hermione choked out, "He told me to suck him. I would rather have died. So I bit him. Hard. On his… He screamed like I’d really hurt him. Then he slapped my face really hard." As tears streamed down her face, Harry felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs.

"You probably did hurt him," Neville said reassuringly. "I found tiny bits of, um, skin on your teeth." Hermione swallowed hard, her hand still clutching Harry's like a vise-grip.

"Are we almost done with this?" Harry demanded, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. "Hermione needs to rest."

Hermione gave him a half-smile. "I'm almost finished, Harry. The other fellows got very angry. Then they kicked me in the stomach. That’s when I passed out." As he exchanged a wrathful look with Ron, Harry's blood boiled at the thought of anyone inflicting such harm on the woman he loved.

Lupin approached Hermione and took her other hand. "I’m so sorry this happened to you, Hermione. This is one of the most brutal attacks I’ve had to investigate since the end of the war. Thank you for providing so many details. I’m quite amazed that you could remember so much. I want you to know that I will be personally involved in investigating this assault on you as well as the assault on Harry."

She looked at Harry questioningly. "What does he mean? When? How?"

Harry shook his head and kissed her forehead. "I’ll tell you later. It’s not important now." But Hermione did not look mollified, and Harry knew he'd have to tell her eventually, which would just add to the pain of what had happened that morning.

Lupin stuffed the Quick-Quotes Quill and the parchpad into his bag and nodded to the group. "I’m off to the Ministry now. Hermione, thank you for your forbearance. Neville and Ron, thanks for taking such good care of her." Ron and Neville both nodded. "Harry, I’ll see you at work, if not tomorrow, then soon." Lupin then turned and walked out of the examining room.

"What now, Neville?" Harry asked.

Neville looked at his patient sheepishly. "Well, I'll need to keep Hermione in hospital overnight." Hermione frowned at this news. "You suffered some internal injuries and significant trauma. So I need to give you a few more doses of a particular healing potion. I'll also perform a healing spell on you every four hours until nine o'clock tomorrow morning.

Hermione sighed, shifting a bit on the hospital bed. "I see. May I rest now?"

Neville smiled shyly. "I’ll have you moved to the Artifacts Accidents Ward on the other end of this floor. Considering how we classify cases, it’s the best I can do." At this a rueful smiled played on Hermione's face. Ron seemed to relax visibly as Hermione calmed down.

Harry kissed her forehead and hugged her shoulders gingerly. Tomorrow he would talk with Lupin and see if he had any leads. Before then, however, he would spend every minute with Hermione. His gut told him that he needed to be with her as much as possible now, because at the rate the stalker’s threats were escalating, something was bound to happen that would, finally, tear them apart.

^*^*^*^

Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. The worst is over in terms of physical stuff, but there's certainly more angst (and I hope suspense) to come. Many thanks to my great betas, abigail89 and MPotter77, for their invaluable help. This is now the longest story I've ever written, and I've got a lot more story to tell. I've started writing chapter 9 and hope to post that in a few weeks. So I hope you will all stick around.

Again, no NC-17 in this chapter, still just R to hard-R. The usual disclaimers apply, of course. JKR owns everyone whose name you recognize; the rest are the product of my imagination, as are the situations.

^*^*^*^

Chapter 8

August 25, 2002, 9:00 p.m.

I am fairly proud of myself today. Most of my plans actually worked. True, the chunk of railing from the top of the Quidditch World Cup Stadium didn't kill Potter, but only because that nitwit Weasley was with him and actually managed to rescue him with a seventh-year spell. Just my luck that he "weaseled" his way into N.E.W.T.-level Charms. I'm surprised he remembered that charm in the heat of the moment. He could have just pointed his wand at that hunk of wood and levitated it. But no, he had to use Arresto Momentum. I bet Granger tutored him in Charms all through seventh year. That would be just like her, from what I know. Actually, I've had six years to study the bloody bint. So I know everything there is to know about Hermione Granger. I know how she takes her coffee (white, one sugar) and her tea (with lemon). She has a ginger cat named Crookshanks that she bought at the Magical Menagerie before she started her third year. I wonder if she lets that cat lick her when Potter isn’t around? I bet while he was at the World Cup she took off her knickers, spread her legs and waited for that cat to come up and use his scratchy tongue on her. It’s actually a rather interesting sensation, at least the way my cat Godfrey has used his tongue.

But I digress. Potter and Weasley left the World Cup without getting to watch the finals! It’s such a pleasure to deny Potter something he really wants. I wonder how he felt about watching Viktor Krum winning that game. I know that he knows that Krum fancied the Mudblood years ago. But did the Mudblood ever fancy Krum? Or was she just using him then to make Potter jealous so she could eventually sink her claws into the Boy Who Lived? That ridiculous title makes me sick. The Boy Who Escaped the Dark Lord Through Some Kind of Luck and Ancient Magic is more like it. Potter is nothing special – and yet he’s always gotten special privileges. Between him and his Mudblood whore, I don’t know which of them makes me angrier.

But speaking of the Mudblood whore, what a day this has been. It’s actually easy to get certain people to do what you want, if you know how to contact them. Just send an anonymous letter saying where they can find 300 Galleons if they complete a small task by a certain time and they don't ask who's providing the money. It really wasn’t much trouble at all to get them to do my bidding. Of course they had to come back with proof that they’d done what I asked. They dropped the bags full of Granger’s personal articles where I instructed, and an hour later they found the money in the same spot. I was very specific too; I wanted to know that they’d humiliated her in the process. They seem to follow directions well; before they finished they’d beaten her up a bit, and one of them even tried to get her to suck his dick. I wish I’d been a fly on the wall then. Too bad that didn’t quite work out. The filthy bitch actually bit him. He wanted extra money for that, but as I said in my initial note, 300 Galleons for the three of you, no questions asked, and you take whatever lumps you might get. Granger has a reputation as a fighter. Interesting that she’ll fight even without a wand. I must remember that later – when I finally break up her and Potter. I assume she was taken to St. Mungo’s. It’s just too bad I can’t be in two places at once. No matter. I’m sure I’m a bit closer to my objective. Now I'm going to sit back and see what happens.

^*^*^*^

Harry spent the night with Hermione at St. Mungo’s. After what happened to her that morning, he was reluctant to leave her for even a few hours. Listening to Hermione recount her ordeal almost made Harry forget that at the same time she was being terrorized, someone had tried to kill him. The note he received in Bulgaria convinced him that that the thugs who attacked Hermione were working for the same person who sent the railing hurtling toward him. Harry was used to being a marked man; he’d spent his entire life until he was eighteen as Voldemort’s prey. But Voldemort had died almost four years ago. True, there were still some Death Eaters who had eluded capture at the end of the war, but those folks had a definite range of activity that was very familiar to Harry. The person stalking him and Hermione was behaving in ways Harry couldn’t understand. And quite frankly, the stalker’s pattern of behaviour scared him.

After Hermione was admitted to St. Mungo's, Tonks came by and took her nightgown as evidence. The evidence bag containing the nightgown was now at the Ministry along with other pieces of evidence Lupin and Tonks discovered at the flat while Hermione was being treated at St. Mungo’s. Early the next morning, Ginny Weasley, Hermione’s closest female friend, stopped by with a change of clothes from Gladrags Wizard Wear. Harry thanked Ginny profusely for doing this; in his agitated state of mind, he hadn't thought to get Hermione some fresh clothes from home.

At eleven o'clock Neville Longbottom came by with a parchment releasing Hermione from the hospital. After Neville left the Artifacts Accidents Ward, Hermione looked cautiously at the loose lavender shift Ginny had brought.

"Well, as least I don’t have to leave here wearing a St. Mungo’s hospital gown," she said, smiling weakly as she began to change her clothes. Changing from the hospital into the shift was a tremendous struggle for her. Every movement make her cringe, and her lip trembled as she lifted her arms behind her head, trying to button the tiny button at the back of her dress.

"Can I help you with that?" Harry asked cautiously. She nodded, her eyes full of sadness. As Harry dealt with the button, Hermione leaned back against him and sighed, her hands grabbing tightly onto the sides of his trousers. When he finished with the button, he took her hands in his, wrapped his arms as gently as he could around her waist and kissed the side of her neck.

"Almost time to leave," he whispered.

"I know."

"You don’t sound particularly happy about it."

She turned slowly and looked up at him. Her brown eyes seemed haunted, with more pain in them than he’d seen since her parents were killed during their seventh year at Hogwarts. "I’m just – a bit afraid – of going home," she said, her lip trembling.

"I’ll help you get settled, Hermione," Harry reassured her. "I’ll make sure you have whatever you need. Ron will come and fix your lunch, and Ginny is going to come and have tea with you." He took her face gently in his hands and kissed her forehead. "We won’t leave you alone, sweetheart. I won’t leave you alone again," he said, his voice shaking.

Pulling way from him, Hermione walked gingerly across the room toward the table where Neville had left the discharge parchment. "I’m just…I’m not sure I can sleep in our bedroom again. Because of what happened. Not tonight anyway. Maybe not for awhile."

Harry was silent a few moments, trying to comprehend what Hermione had said. "I understand, sweetheart. Really, I do. You need some time to put it behind you."

"Yes, Harry. Some time to put it behind me. But right now, no. I just – I can’t sleep in that room."

Harry walked slowly to where Hermione stood, then slipped behind her and turned her around gently until she was facing him. "It’s okay, Hermione. We’ll sleep in a different room. I’ll set up a bed in the other bedroom." Tilting her chin up toward his, he placed a gentle kiss at the corner of her mouth. He was afraid of actually kissing her lips, which were still bruised and swollen from her ordeal. Though he wanted to hug her tightly to him, he was afraid he might make her aching body feel worse than it already did. What pained him worst of all, though, was that he suddenly realized he was afraid to tell her what had happened in Bulgaria. She already had enough to deal with. She’d been beaten up in their flat and just barely missed being raped. How could he tell her so soon afterward that, at almost the same moment she was being terrorized in their home, the stalker had attempted to take his life? No, Harry thought, I won’t tell her now. It’s too much for her to deal with right now. I’ll tell her later… when she’s feeling better.

"I’m ready to go now," Hermione said, almost in a whisper. Nodding, Harry grabbed a bag full of potions Neville had dropped off. Then he took her hand and led her from the Artifacts Accidents Ward, down a long corridor and through the reception area. When they walked out of St. Mungo's, Harry hailed a Muggle taxi to take them back to their flat.

After getting Hermione settled on the long, plush sofa in the living room, Harry meandered around the flat, checking out the rooms, making sure nothing was different than when he and Remus were there the previous morning. Nothing had been disturbed – except for the bedroom, which had a glowing yellow X over the door, marking it as a crime scene.

"Want some tea?" Harry asked solicitously. "I’ll make some Earl Grey if you’d like that." Hermione nodded, averting her eyes. She’s so quiet, he thought as he went into the kitchen, filled a kettle and charmed it to boil the water faster.

Several minutes later Harry brought two cups of tea out to the living room. Setting them on the coffee table, he seated himself on the sofa near Hermione. As she reached for her cup, she winced in pain. She drank her tea very slowly, almost as though she was just pretending to drink it, and her eyes appeared to be glued to the abstract design in the beige and blue carpet.

"I’ve missed you so much," Harry said huskily, sliding closer to her then putting one arm gingerly around her shoulders. Lifting her eyes from the carpet, she glanced up over her shoulder at him and gave a sad half-smile.

"I’ve missed you too, Harry," she sighed with just a hint of a smile. "The photographs in the Sunday Prophet were wonderful. I saw you and Ron in the Top Box, and Viktor flying right past the two of you. I was happy that you seemed to be having such a good time."

Harry smiled ruefully. "Yes…well, they were fantastic seats. It really was a great game. Thank you again for the tickets."

Hermione smiled a little wider than before. "I’m glad you enjoyed the game. I’m just sorry you left before the finals. Why did you come back so early?" Harry recognized the look on her face; after a whole day of being out of it, she was finally beginning to catch up with events – and putting two and two together.

Bugger, she's going to ask. He’d hoped he could avoid this conversation for at least a few days.

"I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said that Ron and I didn’t care who won the World Cup," he said, watching her sip her tea.

Putting the cup and saucer down, she looked at him curiously. "No, I don’t think I would. Care to try another excuse?"

He brushed a lock of hair away from her face, accidentally touching one of her bruised cheekbones. He winced, fearful of hurting her physically as well as emotionally. The thought of putting her through any more strain was starting to tear him apart. She had been through so much recently and he was pretty sure how she would react to the real reason they'd come back early.

"I think you need to take that bruise-healing potion soon," he said quickly.

"Don’t change the subject, Harry." She now wore her Don’t try to bullshit me expression; apparently he was going to have to tell her the truth after all. Taking a deep breath, he crossed his fingers and hoped for the best.

"You want to know why we came back so early," he began, running one hand through his hair nervously. "Well, it wasn’t an accident that Ron and I arrived home when we did. And what happened to you was no accident either."

Hermione's eyes went wide. "It wasn't?"

"No, it wasn't…I guess I'd better begin at the beginning."

She nodded tentatively. "Okay."

"Night before last," Harry began, "after the second semi-final game, I was restless and had trouble sleeping. I went out for a walk and ended up falling asleep under a large old tree. I had a very strange dream involving you and Krum—"

"Really? What was it about?" Her interest piqued, Hermione looked at Harry closely.

He cleared his throat, embarrassed by what came next. "I, um, dreamed that I was standing next to our bed, watching you sleep and – the next part was weird and upsetting – I thought you were in bed alone, then I realized a man was in bed with you…and it wasn’t me."

"I was…it wasn't you?"

"No," Harry said, "it was Viktor. He got out of bed to let in an owl that was tapping at the window. He was naked and he had a boner the size of a beater’s bat."

"Really?" Hermione’s eyes went wide again and her cheeks reddened. "Well…what happened when he let in the owl?"

Should I be worried that she seems a bit embarrassed about this dream? Harry wondered. Deciding not to let this angle sidetrack him, he forged onward. "It turned out that an owl had landed on my shoulder and woke me up." Now came the part he dreaded sharing even more than the dream. "And…I hadn’t wanted to tell you this so soon...the owl was carrying a note from our stalker."

The last three words caught Hermione’s attention. Harry then recounted the contents of the first note to Hermione, who continued to listen intently.

"I went to the stadium at nine o’clock as instructed," he went on.

Hermione's brow creased and her eyes darkened. "Harry, why didn't you try to contact me before you met the stalker?"

"What?"

"I said, why didn't you try to contact me before you met the stalker?"

Her question caught Harry off guard. "Well…I, um, I didn't have any way to contact you, did I? I didn't know how to find a telephone at the park, and it would have taken hours or days for a Ministry owl to reach you. I…just…I had to meet the stalker."

The next words from Hermione's mouth were so quiet Harry could barely hear them. "Why didn't you make a Portkey and come home and warn me?"

Harry's heart fell through his stomach. Why hadn't he just made a Portkey right then and there? Had he gone home then and warned her, she could have left their flat, gone somewhere safe, probably never encountered those goons who hurt her so badly. And now she wouldn't be doubting whether he'd even thought of her safety before his own…

Facing burning, unable to look at her, he said simply, "I must have panicked."

"Yes, I guess you did. What happened to the Harry who keeps his head in a crisis, the one I knew at school?"

Harry laughed bitterly. "He seems to disappear whenever you're in mortal peril, beginning with the Department of Mysteries in fifth year."

Taking one of his hands in her own, Hermione placed her other palm gently on Harry's cheek. "Perhaps that should have been your first clue that you thought of me as more than a friend," she said softly, with a hint of a smile. "Please, Harry, go on with your story."

Sighing heavily, Harry leaned back against the sofa, his hand still in Hermione's. "Okay. I went to meet the stalker. Ron insisted on coming with me, and I’m glad he did. We waited twenty minutes, but no one showed up."

"Then what?"

"Then I got another owl. That note was the worst I’ve received yet. I didn’t memorize it and I gave it to Remus yesterday as part of the investigation. Basically the stalker said that I couldn’t protect myself and I couldn’t protect you either. The note even said that you were in trouble, here in London, at the very moment I was in danger in Bulgaria."

Hermione leaned closer to Harry, who put his arm tentatively around her shoulders. He hesitated to go further, but knew he had to finish the story.

"At that point I didn’t know what the note meant about me being in danger. Ron and I had been waiting outside the stadium. As we were about to leave, he suddenly yelled at me to watch out, something was about to fall on me. Before I could get away he yelled Arresto momentum, which kept the object from hitting me. It turned out to be a piece of wooden railing from the top of the stadium. It weighed at least ten pounds and fell over a hundred feet. If Ron hadn’t done that spell, I might have been killed."

As Harry described what had happened, Hermione began shaking in his arms. He pulled her closer to him, still trying to be careful about the tender injured areas of her body, then took a deep breath. "I’m sorry I had to tell you all this. I was hoping to wait a few days before telling you."

She pulled away from him and gave him a steely look. "And what would that have accomplished? Other than keeping me in the dark?"

Harry started to talk but found himself stumbling over his words. "Well, I didn’t want to – you’ve been through so much – the past few weeks have been hell – I wanted to spare you--"

Hermione took one of his hands and sighed heavily. "Harry, this is me you’re talking to. Not someone you barely know. I’ve been in this with you since you were eleven and I was twelve. I’m not going anywhere. And I need to know whatever you know. How else will we be able to fight this – whoever it is – together?"

He jumped off the sofa and began to pace the living room. "But you shouldn’t have to fight my battles for me!"

She attempted to get up to follow him but sank back to the sofa, apparently exhausted by the effort. "Why is everything your battle? Why is it always about you?" she cried, tears spilling down her face. "Maybe it’s not just about you this time! Maybe it’s about both of us!"

Her words stopped him in his tracks. "Both of us?"

"Oh, honestly, Harry," she scolded him, gingerly wiping the tears from her face, "have the notes talked about only you? I seem to recall I’ve been mentioned several times. And since this person hurls epithets at me like ‘Mudblood whore’, it seems she’s at least as unhappy with me as she is with you. So please, do us both a favour and lose the hero complex."

Hero complex. It was an accusation he’d heard many times, and he’d even heard it from Hermione more than once. If he’d heeded her advice about his "saving-people thing" in fifth year, Sirius might never have died.…This time, though, her words cut him like a knife. He wasn’t trying to play the hero. He was only trying to protect her. Why wouldn’t she let him? Why couldn’t she see how much he needed to keep her safe? Still, she seemed so fragile right now. He hated arguing, especially with her. Now was just not the time to try to make her see things his way.

"Okay...I guess I got a bit carried away," he finally replied, sitting down next to her again and taking one of her hands in his. "I need to go to work soon; I know Remus wants to talk to me about our case and I’ve got a ton of files to catch up on. We can talk about all of...this...later. Do you want to go to bed now or would you rather lie on the sofa and rest? Ron should be here in less than an hour."

Hermione shifted, leaning back on a plush throw pillow that lay against one arm of the sofa. "I’ll just rest here for awhile," she said as Harry moved her feet carefully onto the sofa. He summoned a Gryffindor blanket from the other side of the room and placed it gently over her lithe body.

"You rest here, sweetheart. I’ll be back around six o’clock. And don’t you dare try to fix yourself anything to eat. Ron and Ginny will take care of that during the day and I’ll bring some takeaway from that Chinese place on Charing Cross Road."

Smiling weakly, she nodded and settled down on the sofa, closing her eyes as Harry leaned down and kissed her forehead. He then grabbed his cloak from a peg near the door, walked over to the mantel, pinched some Floo powder, and stood in the fireplace.

"Ministry of Magic," he said, and disappeared into the maelstrom of the Floo network, finally landing in a Ministry fireplace a few moments later. As he made his way through the Atrium and over to the bank of lifts, he pondered the situation he and Hermione found themselves in. While he hated arguing with her, he felt deep down that he was the reason she was in danger. He’d always been the reason she was in danger; why would it be any different now? So if she wouldn’t agree to let him protect her, he would have to find some way to do it on his own.

^*^*^*^

Soon after Harry left, Hermione fell asleep on the sofa. Dozing fitfully, she had several disjointed dreams. In the last, she relived the previous day's ordeal. But when the blond thug stuck his penis toward her mouth, Harry arrived out of nowhere, grabbed the appendage in his hand and gave it a huge, wrenching twist that made the blond thug howl in pain and sent all three hoodlums scattering. Harry and Ron then untied Hermione's restraints, and while Ron turned his back, Hermione thanked Harry for his bravery by sitting him down at the end of the bed, opening his flies and stroking him until Harry moaned and begged her to help him. As she lowered her head toward him, the sound of a key in the front door woke her up – Ron was letting himself into the flat. Thank goodness I woke up before he came in, she thought, glad she hadn’t betrayed her dream by making oral-sex noises in front of him. Though she did wonder why, in her dream, Ron had stayed in the room, even with his back turned….

"How are you doing, Hermione?" Ron asked quietly, kneeling next to her pillow and dropping a kiss on her forehead.

She slowly pushed herself up and sat back against the pillowy sofa cushions, patting a place next to her for him to sit down. Ron rose from his knees and planted his lanky frame next to her, taking her hand in his and stroking the back of it softly.

"I’m not too bad. Better than I thought I might be this soon after... everything." Hermione scowled. Out of force of habit, she accidentally bit her lip, which made her wince in pain.

Ron raised an eyebrow. "You always say you’re not doing too bad. You said after you were hit with Death Eater hexes at the Ministry—"

"Yes, I remember." It had taken her four weeks to recover from the spells that struck her in the Department of Mysteries at the end of their fifth year. She was much younger then, not quite seventeen, and was told by Madam Pomfrey and others that she was lucky she’d survived. Later, when Neville described how Harry reacted when the curses hit her, Hermione got her first inkling that perhaps Harry’s feelings for her extended beyond friendship. Her own feelings for Harry had been steadily growing during fifth year, but everything was complicated then, so she kept her own counsel. Harry fancied Cho; Ron – she knew since fourth year – fancied her; and they all had other priorities then.

Once Harry finally told her and Ron about the prophecy during sixth year, her sole focus – and Ron’s, too – had been to keep Harry safe and learn as much as they could to help him defeat Voldemort and come back to them alive. She was thankful that, during sixth year, Ron began to return Luna Lovegood’s affection. Though Hermione often felt bewildered by the Ravenclaw's dottiness, Luna’s attentions were genuinely good for Ron, who had always felt overshadowed first by his older brothers and then by Harry. When Luna went missing near the end of the war, Ron’s heart was broken; he even told Hermione he would never again let himself feel as much for a woman as he’d felt for Luna. That was the beginning of Ron’s playboy persona. Now as Hermione sat on the sofa with her other best friend, she wondered how all their lives might have been different if Ron had never taken a fancy to the goofy but good-hearted Luna.

"Earth to Hermione," she heard Ron saying as he waved a hand in front of her face. "You look like you’re a million miles away."

"No...just thinking. And remembering. Do you think about Luna often?" she asked him boldly.

Ron’s blue eyes went wide, then his face sagged and he swallowed hard. "Yeah, I do. Sometimes at night. Especially if I’m – with a woman," he stammered, his ears turning red. "Sometimes I wish it was Luna in bed with me. I never…did it with her" – now his whole face went red – "I never got the chance. I wanted to but she wanted to wait until things were more settled. I think she was afraid I would die in the war and leave her pregnant." He looked away, biting back tears. "She and I did pretty much everything else" – now Hermione blushed – "but I never to got to make love to her."

"Did she know how you felt about her?" Hermione asked, genuinely curious.

Ron shook his head. "I never got to tell her. You know, all that shite about you’re not supposed to say I love you while you’re having sex with someone. Bad form or whatnot, or maybe it just sounds insincere."

Hermione nodded, knowing exactly what Ron meant. "I think she probably did know, Ron, even though you never got to say the words. A girl knows these things."

Furrowing his brow, Ron swiveled on the sofa and looked at Hermione intently. "Did you know about me?"

Heart in her throat, Hermione took a breath and looked him in the eyes. She knew he was talking about his crush on her. "Yes, I did. Since fourth year. But" – she hesitated – "I never felt the same way about you. And I did feel something, even then, for Harry. So I did the easy thing, but not the right thing. I said nothing."

Ron grimaced slightly, then a smile crossed his face. "Actually, Hermione, that might have been one of the smartest things you’ve ever done."

"Oh really? Why so?"

"Well...just think what might’ve happened if you’d encouraged me. You and I might have started dating. Then we would’ve had even bigger fights than we already did, and Harry might’ve ended up pissed off at both of us and maybe the three of us would have stopped being friends and...well, I reckon it worked out better this way – for all of us," he finished, squeezing her hand.

Realizing that she was genuinely smiling for the first time in over twenty-four hours, Hermione reached her other hand up to Ron’s chin and kissed him on the cheek.

"Oy! What was that for?" he smiled.

"For being a lot smarter than some people think you are," she sighed. "And for being the best friend a girl could have."

Blushing, Ron shrugged then hoisted himself off the sofa. "I’m supposed to be here making lunch. You want anything special?"

"Just some chicken soup for me, please," she called as he went into the kitchen. "There’s some in the fridge and also some left-over stew. But make yourself whatever you want. We’ve also got ham and cheese and some good bread from the Muggle bakery down the street."

As Ron poked his ginger head out the kitchen door and nodded, Hermione settled back against the sofa pillows. Harry was her lover as well as her best friend, and the sexual relationship sometimes complicated their friendship in ways they didn’t always acknowledge. Ron was simply her best friend, and the fact that they’d never been more than best friends actually made some things easier with him. If Harry continued on his high horse about protecting her against the stalker, perhaps she would have to enlist Ron to convince him that she didn’t need protecting – she only needed Harry’s love.

^*^*^*^

After all the drama of the past three days Harry’s first afternoon back at work seemed quite boring. He found a tall stack of files in heavy parchment folders on his desk, as well as a note instructing him to come to Lupin’s office at four o’clock. Harry plowed through the folders as quickly and efficiently as he could considering his thoughts were on Flat 1231 of Andrewes House at the Barbican Centre, rather than anywhere inside the Ministry. At half past three, needing a break before his meeting with Lupin, he went down to the Atrium to stretch his legs and grab a nosh from the witch who operated the snack trolley. The Trolley Lady, as everyone called her, was pushing her cart up and down in front of the outgoing fireplaces. Harry strode over quickly and gave her five Sickles for a pumpkin pasty, which he shoved into his mouth as quickly as he could. Wandering distractedly through a crowd of at least two hundred other witches and wizards in the Atrium, Harry managed to walk into, and almost knock down, Cho Chang and her friend, Marietta Edgecombe.

"Hey, watch where you’re going – oh! Sorry, Harry, didn’t know it was you," Cho exclaimed, straightening her short, tight skirt underneath her dark robes.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, his face flushing with embarrassment.

"We didn’t see you at the World Cup finals. Weren’t you up in the Top Box again?" Cho asked.

Distracted, Harry looked over toward the lifts. His meeting with Lupin was rapidly approaching and he didn’t have time for chitchat, especially with Cho, who only seemed to upset him lately. "No, we didn’t see the finals. We had to leave Sunday morning. Something came up here in London and I had to get home in a hurry."

She eyed him beadily. "Oh? Nothing serious, I hope."

Harry was determined not to let his situation come public knowledge, at least not beyond those who had to know. "Erm, no, not really. Hermione …erm…owled me that she'd had a little accident – and I was worried about her. So I left Bulgaria early."

"Oh. That’s too bad. I hope she’s okay now?" Cho smirked. Marietta, as usual, said nothing and just started into space.

"Yeah, she’s doing a lot better. But she decided to stay home and rest today."

Cho grinned. "Well, I hope darling Hermione is up to snuff really soon. It would be a shame not to see her smiling face around the Ministry for more than a day or two, don’t you think, Marietta?"

Marietta gave a little sigh. "A terrible shame."

The two of them are such insincere bints, Harry thought, glowering. "I’ve gotta run, I have a meeting with my boss in ten minutes."

Cho and Marietta flashed simpering smiles at him, then walked away giggling at each other. Muttering epithets to himself, Harry raced to the lifts and caught one back to the second floor. When he reached his cubicle, Lupin was sitting on the edge of his desk.

"Welcome back, Harry. Please come into my office." Lupin walked toward his office and Harry followed close on his heels.

"So what’s up, Remus?"

Lupin sat behind his desk and pulled out a parchment. "Have a seat, Harry. I’ve got a small bit of news for you."

Harry sat down across from Lupin. "What is it?"

"Well, it’s good news and bad news."

Harry sighed, fidgeting in his chair. "They always seem to come together, don’t they?"

"Yes, well, that does seem to happen a lot," Lupin shrugged. "The good news is that we’ve got a lead on the thugs who invaded your flat and hurt Hermione." Harry leaned forward, anxious to hear more. "They’re just a bunch of plonking thugs from Knockturn Alley, but at least we think we know who they are."

Across his desk Lupin spread Wizarding mug shots of three rough-looking wizards, who stared, blinked, chewed the insides of their cheeks, turned to offer their profiles, and generally made rude faces at the camera. "The ringleader, the one called Matty, is Matthias Speckler. He was in Slytherin, I'm afraid, and finished school in 1974. The other two are street thugs who never attended Hogwarts. The gangly one called Bobbin is Hector Mapplethorpe. And the blond one called Jester is Elfric Gudgeon."

Harry stared at Gudgeon’s mug shot. "He’s the one who tried to--"

"Yes, if Hermione’s description was correct," Lupin said calmly, but a vein in his neck throbbed dangerously. "Unfortunately she didn’t see their faces, so legally she won’t be able to identify them from these photographs."

"But she could identify them by their voices, right?"

"Yes, she could do that, assuming we find them."

Harry bit his lip in thought. The thugs had worn masks, but they'd spoken to Hermione, rather at length according to her account of events. That made him feel slightly better; she could identify them after all.

"So what do we do about these blokes now?"

"I’m not sure there’s much we can do about them right now," Lupin conceded. "I can have Tonks and Ackerly check the files for any unsolved cases that involved a similar modus operandi. If they get any matches, they can go out and try to find these cretins. Other than that, I suppose we’ll have to hope we get lucky and catch them actually breaking the law. Either way, if we can bring them in for questioning, Hermione could come up here and listen to them talk through a one-way mirror. That seems to be the only way she could identify them and it’s probably our best shot right now."

Harry stood up and shoved his hand through his hair. "What about the person who hired them?"

Lupin heaved a sigh. "Unfortunately we’re not any closer to identifying the stalker. Assuming Hermione is right and a woman is orchestrating all this, she’s doing an excellent job of covering her tracks. I’ve given all the notes you’ve received to our best graphologist, but she’s come up empty so far. The stalker apparently doesn’t have a prior criminal record, at least not with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It’s possible, but not likely, that this could be someone from the Muggle world who knows Hermione or her family, so we’ll have to check with the Muggle police as well. But right now – I’m sorry, Harry, but we still have no idea who is doing this."

As Lupin finished speaking, Harry leaned over the desk and looked him in the eyes. "I don't know, Remus. This -- it just seems like you could be doing more to find these pieces of shit."

Remus's face went blank for a moment. "Could I?"

"Yeah…sure…I mean the Ministry could be doing more," Harry said, his voice deadly quiet. "Putting up posters or something, letting people know these mopes are wanted for robbery, assault and attempted rape. For chrissakes, you couldn't go anywhere in Wizarding Britain without seeing a poster of Sirius back then," he seethed.

"That was very different, Harry. Sirius was -- even though the whole thing was wrong -- he was a convicted murderer who had escaped from Azkaban. Of course the Ministry was going to put his picture up everywhere."

Harry's stomach sank even as blood rushed to his face. "And finding Sirius, who wasn't even guilty, was more important than finding these sons of bitches who are?" he barked at his surrogate godfather. "I can't believe this. Am I going to have to investigate this myself?"

"Harry James Potter!" Lupin growled at him, practically in Harry's face. "I am still your supervisor, in case you've forgotten. You will not speak to me that way again, do you understand? Or I'll have to put a reprimand in your personnel folder."

Lupin's rejoinder knocked the wind from Harry's sails. Harry slumped back into his chair, feeling at least temporarily defeated.

"I'm sorry, Remus," he said quietly. "You have no idea how frustrating this is."

"I can just imagine—"

"NO, YOU FUCKING CAN’T IMAGINE!" Harry bellowed, his arms flailing. As he started pacing, he got worked up all over again. "The anonymous notes were bad enough. The chunk of wood that could have killed me was pretty bad too, though I’ve dealt with worse. But those buggers breaking into our flat and terrorizing Hermione, beating her up and then that fucking moron sticking his— I’m glad she bit him, I wish she’d bitten his whole fucking cock off! And now Hermione – if you could have seen her when I brought her home today...I can barely look at her."

Lupin raised an eyebrow and stared back at Harry. "You think she’s damaged goods now?"

"Bloody hell! Of course not, Remus. But she has been damaged by this. It’s sapped her spirit somehow. I don’t know how to act around her now. I want to hold her but I’m terrified of hurting her. And I’m even more afraid that something I’ve done was the cause of all this." Harry slumped against the wall, fighting back tears.

Clearing his throat, Lupin walked around his desk and put his arm around Harry’s shoulders. "Harry...listen to me. Hermione needs you now more than ever, so whatever you can do for her, whatever she needs you to do, just try to do it. And please – do yourself a favor and stop thinking that everything that happens to anyone you know is your fault."

"But—" Harry tried to object.

"No buts, Harry. Although this might be hard for you to believe, given your personal history, not everything that happens is about you." Harry winced, remembering he'd heard almost identical words from Hermione just a few hours earlier. Lupin continued, "I know this isn’t your normal leaving time but I’m ordering you to go home now and take care of Hermione. She needs you at home a lot more than I need you here."

Dumbfounded, Harry stood rooted to the spot for a few moments. "That’s an order, Potter. Out. Now!" Lupin swatted him on the arse and shooed him out of his office. Harry gathered his briefcase and cloak, left the building and Apparated over to Charing Cross Road. He would get some Chinese takeaway food for himself and Hermione. After dinner he would conjure a new bed in the spare room, and when it was time for bed he would try to comfort her as best he could.

^*^*^*^

"That moo shu chicken was very good, but I’m not very hungry," Hermione said as she put her chopsticks aside her half-full plate. "How was your General Tso’s?"

"Excellent as always," Harry said, wiggling his chopsticks and pretending to breathe fire at her. "Honestly, Hermione, I've always been a bit surprised that you’re such a ninny about spicy foods. Are you sure you don’t want just a tiny taste?" Using his chopsticks, he picked up a small chunk of chicken and brandished it in her direction until the chicken was almost touching her lips.

"No!" she grimaced, trying to swat his hand away. Harry was too quick, however; he grabbed her right wrist with his free hand then planted a kiss on her palm. When Hermione didn't object, Harry let his lips travel to the heel of her hand, then her wrist. He waited, nuzzling her wrist, afraid to move further. As much as he wanted Hermione, his heart clutched in fear that he was moving too fast, too soon.

The feel of Harry's lips against her skin sent a shiver through Hermione's body. This little endearment was a sign that Harry was getting frisky. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; usually it was a Very Good Thing and often it was a Very Amazing Thing. Tonight, though, Hermione wasn’t sure how she felt about Harry being amorous. She hadn’t made love with him since before he went to Bulgaria and now...now the sexual feelings she had for him seemed a bit jumbled. What she needed most was his arms around her, comforting her. But her midsection was still very sore, her face and lips still hurt like they’d been bitten by Doxies, and she felt like a china doll held together with Spellotape. Despite this, Hermione knew that she needed the reassurance his body always gave her, and not merely the feel of his skin on hers. It might require some positions they weren't used to, but what Hermione wanted most was for Harry to make love to her.

She could feel the heat rising off Harry as he pulled her closer to him. His lips finally rested in the crook of her elbow where he lightly kissed the delicate flesh. His kisses were tender, almost reverential; he seemed both worshipful and fearful at the same time. As he breathed gently on her skin, she slid off her seat katy-corner from him and onto his lap.

Harry stop kissing her elbow and gazed at her in surprise. "Yes?"

"Yes," she replied with a shy smile.

"You're sure?"

"I’m not sure of anything right now. But I know I need you to hold me; I need your skin next to mine."

"But what if I...if it hurts? I can’t bear the thought of possibly hurting you. Not now, not after -- what happened."

"And I can’t bear the thought of you not touching me for fear I might break." There. That was what had worried her since Harry and Ron found her in the bedroom the previous morning.

Looking deeply into her eyes, Harry placed a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose, then sighed into her neck. "We need to sleep in a new bed tonight, don’t we?"

She nodded.

"Let’s go make our bed and lie in it," Harry said, pulling her hair back and kissing her earlobe.

"Shouldn’t we clean up and do the dishes first?" Hermione fretted.

He gave a cheeky grin. "We can leave them till later and then use magic on them. If Molly Weasley taught me anything, it was to use magic for things you don’t enjoy doing, so that you can do the things you enjoy the non-magical way. Like this." He kissed her jaw line just below her ear.

"An excellent strategy," she agreed, standing up and leading him by the hand down the hallway.

Opening the door to the spare bedroom, Hermione found it just as they’d left it a few months ago when Ginny had spent the night. It contained a small side table, a dark wood dressing table with an upholstered chair in front of it, and a black lacquered futon frame holding a plump red futon mattress full of buttons. Hermione frowned.

"You’re still too sore for a futon; all those buttons would hurt you," Harry said. Pulling out his wand, he transfigured the futon into a queen-sized mattress with red silk sheets. "Much better."

"This looks very comfortable," Hermione agreed, unable to hide a grin.

Harry grinned back, conjuring a pair of plump pillows in red silk pillowcases. "That’s better. Now we have everything we need."

"What about pyjamas?" Hermoine asked innocently.

"I don’t think we’ll be needing those...unless you think we will," he added quickly.

"Well...maybe not," she said, suddenly feeling shy with him. He’d seen her naked countless times in the past two years, but he’d never seen her naked with broken cheekbones, a split lip and giant bruises all over her midsection. Suddenly she could commiserate even more with Eloise Midgen – the plain girl with spots who was the brunt of Ron’s adolescent jokes in fourth year.

Harry sat down on the bed and patted a spot beside him. "Come here, Hermione. Please." He gave her his best puppy-dog eyes, which she could never resist. As she sat down he drew her gently to his side until their bodies were touching from shoulder to knee. His body barely touched hers but even that slight contact left her wincing in pain.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked immediately.

She shook her head, swallowing hard. "Not intentionally. I've just got a lot of tender spots. I’ve taken Neville’s healing potions exactly as he prescribed them, but I think it will take a lot longer than twenty-four hours for me to heal. I bet even Madam Pomfrey would think so."

Harry sighed. "Poor Madam Pomfrey. She certainly had to spend a lot of time healing us."

Hermione nodded. "Now I think you and I both need a different kind of healing," she said, taking his hand and sliding it up under the hem of her shift. She moved Harry's hand slowly up and down her inner thigh, and as his palm stroked her skin, she felt him shiver next to her; his muscles went rigid, either in fear or in anticipation of what was to come. The feel of his hand on her leg set her skin on fire. Though she knew it would be uncomfortable, Hermione needed to feel his skin on hers, needed to feel his lips and tongue all over her, needed to feel him -- some part of him anyway -- inside her. She smiled gently and lay back on the bed, her eyes inviting him to join her. He lay next to her and touched her tentatively, first her legs, then her arms and finally, very carefully and slowly, her torso. When he accidentally touched a tender spot too hard, she whimpered and flinched.

Harry’s brows knit with confusion and a different kind of pain as his erection strained through his trousers against her bare leg. His desire for her butted up uncomfortably against his fear of causing her any physical pain. "Where can I touch you that won't hurt?" he asked, hoping the answer would be better that he expected.

"Well, you can’t kiss me on the lips...nor on my cheeks...nor on my stomach... and I can’t kiss you either -- anywhere" – Harry looked really pained at this. "But I can still use my hands and so can you. And there are at least three places you could kiss me...couldn’t you?"

Harry nodded, undoing his flies and pulling Hermione’s hand inside his pants. "Yes, I think – you can use your hand – right there – yesss.... And I’ll use mine basically the same way," he said, gently pushing the fabric of her knickers aside.

"That’s a good – idea," she panted, continuing to move her hand. "I know you like this" – she did her thumb-and-forefinger trick –"and I really...ohhhh...like what you’re doing...ohhhh…"

"Yessss...oh God...I like that...don’t stop," he moaned, pushing against her hand. "Yesss...keep on...yesss...ohhhh...don’t stop..." – he bit his lip, then bent over and licked her collarbone.

"Don’t you stop—either—ohhhh," she breathed, positive that she would combust like Fawkes the phoenix if he continued to move his fingers just so. Harry bucked and moaned, then shuddered. She giggled and he moved his hand in a way that made her brain explode.

"I need you so badly, Hermione," he breathed as she sat up so he could pull her dress up over her head. "But I'm so afraid of hurting you," he continued, tossing the garment across the room. As Hermione lay back, he slithered out of his trousers and pants, then slid down next to her on the bed. His lips moved gently, almost delicately, across the skin of her breast until they found her nipple; as he licked the pink nub slowly, his fingers found a more southerly target.

Twenty minutes later, Hermione's moans of ecstasy alternated with whimpers of pain as Harry’s head lay nestled at the top of her thighs, the red silk sheets rumpled and stained beneath them.

"I’m sorry I hurt you," he mumbled. "I didn’t mean to be so rough. I – just don’t know how to touch you or kiss you properly right now."

Hermione stroked his head and sighed. "You didn’t hurt me, Harry. I’m already hurt. I know you’re not trying to hurt me. There are just some things I can’t do right now. I’m the one who should apologize. I can’t give you what you need right now. I can’t even kiss you." And I can’t kiss you there either, she thought sadly. "Come up under the covers with me. Please?"

Taking her hand, Harry slid under the covers and claimed the pillow next to hers. Their lovemaking had been strange and fumbling in a way they hadn’t experienced since the first few times they’d made love. As Harry kissed her good night and settled down in bed, he didn’t spoon up behind her the way he usually did but, instead, turned his back to her. Hermione lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, blinking back tears and wondering if the events of Sunday would set their love life back to zero.

^*^*^*^

Author's Note: This is basically a transitional chapter. There's not a whole lot of action, but what goes on sets up a few things that happen later on. This is also the first chapter that really contains some NC-17 material (and really, just a little). Thanks again to my wonderful beta readers, Abigail89 and MPotter77, who always spot and help fix the parts that don't work/suck.

Thanks also to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. This might be the last time I update for awhile, because I'm considering just writing the rest of the story straight through, dividing that into chapters, getting those beta'd, then posting the rest of the story fairly quickly. I started writing this story on November 1, 2004. I want to get it finished before the end of August 2005, and I don't see that happening unless I do a concerted push, similar to the way I wrote the first 50,000 words. So, if you're still with me at the end of this chapter, you might want to sign up for a Portkey story alert. Thanks again for your forbearance. Y'all rock too.

^*^*^*^

Chapter 9

At noon the next day, Harry left the Ministry of Magic and Apparated to Gringotts Bank, where he exchanged thirty Galleons for British pounds. He then Apparated to Charing Cross Road, near the Strand, and entered a small, brightly-lit Muggle shop. Twenty minutes later, he left the shop with two Muggle devices tucked firmly inside his trouser pockets.

Back at the Ministry, the afternoon went slowly. Hermione was still home recuperating from her injuries. Harry wished he could go home and be with her, but he had stacks of files to go through to finish his previous assignment. Also, Lupin had mentioned that he might have a lead on the whereabouts of one of Hermione's attackers, and Harry didn't want to miss any news. So he bided his time, his eyes glazing over as he read through stacks of parchments and worked on a report that was due at the end of the week. In between poring over parchments, his mind wandered to the events of the past weekend, especially everything he wished he could change.

If only I'd Portkeyed home, I could have prevented the attack, he berated himself.

You don't know that for sure, his rational mind countered.

No, but I could have tried. I didn't even try. I should have done more to protect her. If I can't even protect her now, how can I protect her once -- if -- we get married?

His rational mind didn't reply.

Lupin never did follow up with him, so when Harry finished his report around six o'clock, he took a lift down to the Atrium and Floo'd home. He found Hermione lying on the sofa, her hair fanned out on one of the velour throw pillows. Her eyes were half-closed, and a Muggle paperback novel was propped against her chin.

She's so beautiful. She looks so peaceful. She deserves someone who will take care of her better than I have. Better than I can… "Bugger!" He grimaced as pain radiated up from his stubbed toe.

Hermione stirred, her eyes opening halfway. "Harry, is that you?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. How was your day? Are you feeling any better?"

Opening her eyes fully, she pushed herself up slowly until she was sitting up. Crossing the room, Harry sat down at the other end of the sofa.

Hermione eyed the distance between herself and Harry. "I'm feeling a bit better, thanks. And my day was very quiet and very boring. I don't like being confined like this, as you well know."

"You need to rest. Neville said so."

"Neville did not say I needed to stay home for days on end."

Harry shrugged. "You've only been home two days."

She pursed her lips in an expression Harry had come to know well. "It feels like two months. I'm going stir-crazy here. And…I miss you."

"I'm here now," Harry said, sliding closer to her on the sofa. Perhaps this was the time to bring up his purchase. "Erm…I brought you something."

Her face brightened. "Oh? For me? Is it something I'll like?" She looked like a little girl peering into a sweets shop.

"I hope so," he said, laughing softly at her enthusiasm. "Actually it's for both of us." He stood up and dug into his trouser pockets, then displayed the contents on the coffee table.

Hermione stared at the devices for a moment, then looked up at Harry, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "Mobile phones?"

"Yes. I want to stay in better touch with you. This seemed like the best way."

"They're not going to work inside the Ministry, you know." Hermione's frown deepened.

"I know. But I bought a three-month contract on both of them, to try them out. We can use them when we're not inside the Ministry. If we don't like them, we can return them at the end of the contract."

Hermione didn't look convinced. "Why should we have mobile phones? None of our friends do."

"Most of our friends don't live in Muggle flats, Hermione. And none of our friends has been attacked and beaten and…and…"-- Harry could barely get the words out--" and almost raped in their own homes." He hoped the edge of panic he was feeling hadn't crept into his voice. He wanted her to believe that buying the mobile phones was strictly a rational decision, when really he'd been desperate to find some way to keep a closer eye on her safety.

She leaned back against the sofa pillows and sighed. "No, I don't suppose they have." She paused, weighing her words. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Harry. Really, I do. But I'm a grown woman -- no, don't look at me that way -- I'm a grown woman, and a fully capable witch. And that wasn't a fair fight. It was three against one, and I didn't have my wand."

"You could have been killed -- or worse--"

"Something's worse than being killed?"

"That piece of shit was trying to- to rape you!"

"But he didn't, did he?" Her eyes were bright and fierce. "I bit his cock"-- Harry winced -- "and made him scream like a little girl."

"Yeah, you did. Then he slapped your face and the other two tried to kick your guts out."

She stared at him. "I know. I was there."

Tears stinging his eyes, he looked away from her. "I know. And I wasn't."

Hermione took one of his hands in hers and stroked it gently with her thumb. "You can't be with me every minute of every day, Harry. You just can't. That's not how our lives are. So please stop kicking yourself because you weren't here when that happened. I couldn't bear it if you couldn't get past that. I love you. I'll always love you. But I don't need you watching over me like a hawk."

Harry could tell that Hermione's mind was made up, so he decided not to push things any further…for now. "I love you too. Sometimes so much, it hurts. But I promise I won't call you constantly to check up on you. Anyway, that's not what I wanted the mobiles for," he lied. Well, it was really just a twist of the truth. "I wanted you to have one so you could contact me quickly in case you needed my help. Any kind of help. Like, say you need me to pick something up from the market on the way home, or we want to order take-away. We can't exactly send an owl to that Chinese place on Charing Cross Road, can we?"

She smiled. "No, I don't suppose we can. The health inspector probably would not appreciate it either." Picking up one of the mobile phones, she turned it on and put it to her ear. "So how I do work it?"

"This model is pretty simple," Harry replied, showing her the various features.

"Please tell me we're not going to have Chinese take-away again tonight."

"Nope, not tonight. I was thinking more of pizza."

^*^*^

It was a beautiful late-summer evening. Harry and Hermione lay side by side on a raft, drifting lazily on a warm ocean current beneath a hazy half-moon. Suddenly storm clouds gathered in the night sky. Hermione stirred from her nap, rolling closer to Harry, and as she did, lightning lit up the sky and a peal of thunder clapped right above their raft. The sea, so calm just moments before, began to roil around them, and the little raft tossed and tumbled amid the swelling waves. Just as the sleeping Hermione reached out and touched Harry's face, the raft snapped in two and her half began to drift away.

Torrents of rain fell on Hermione, lightning crashed around her, but she seemed oblivious. Reaching out to try to pull her back, Harry noticed that the storm continued to rage only around Hermione's half of the raft; elsewhere the sea had calmed down. His own side of the raft, now drifting farther and farther from hers, was shrouded in a dense fog, so that he could barely see his hand in front of his face. Despite this, he could still see Hermione clearly, and what he saw terrified him. She'd slipped into the water, only her head and shoulders visible as she clung to the remains of the raft, her mouth opening and closing as though she was yelling Harry…Harry…Harry…

"Harry!"

"Ergh." He tried to pry an eye open, but failed.

"Harry, wake up. You've overslept. You need to get up right now, take a quick shower and Apparate to work," she said in her familiar bossy-boots tone. "No time for breakfast today, Mister Lazybones; you'll have to nick a muffin from the Trolley Lady."

Bleary-eyed, Harry looked up and saw Hermione slightly bent over him, her forehead wrinkled in a light wince of pain.

"What time is it?" he asked, still groggy and disoriented.

"Eight thirty-six."

Harry sat up slowly, rubbed his eyes and pushed his fringe off his forehead. "Why didn't you wake me up earlier?"

Hermione sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. "I woke up about six o'clock. I thought I was done sleeping, so I made myself some tea and went out to read on the sofa. I suppose I really must be mending slowly, because the book put me to sleep."

"What were you reading?"

A hint of pink crept into her cheeks. "Hogwarts, A History."

Harry snorted. "About time! You're the only person I know who hasn't fallen asleep reading that -- until now."

Hermione rolled her eyes and tutted. "Honestly, Harry, I'm just very tired. Under normal circumstances I'm sure my eyes would've been riveted to every word." She cocked an eyebrow and tried to give him a cheeky grin, but her lower lip -- still a bit swollen -- wouldn't cooperate, so the grin turned into a frown.

A lump grew in Harry's throat at the sight of Hermione unable to smile. If it weren't for me not protecting her properly, she'd not be struggling like this, he thought bitterly.

"Earth to Harry," she said, pulling him from his recriminations. "You'd best shake a leg if you don't want to be late for work."

She cupped his face with her hand. Her skin smelled of the jasmine-scented soap she liked to wash her hands with. His mind drifted back to the very first time they'd kissed, her hands fisting in his hair as he backed her up against the kitchen counter, her body slipping and sliding against his own half an hour later. Like other men his age, he usually had an erection in the morning. Now, being so close to her set his blood thrumming in his veins. The way her nightgown clung to her curves, her nipples straining the thin fabric, made him even harder.

"Hermione, do we have time to play just a little?"

She rolled her eyes again, then eyed his pyjama bottoms. "Nice morning glory, Potter. But you've got only twenty minutes to shower and get to work. We really don't have time to--"

"Please, Hermione. Would you please touch me there? Even just the thumb-and-forefinger trick?" Lowering his eyes, he looked up at her through his lashes, aware that she could rarely resist his requests when he gave her that look. "Please. It's already been three days since we touched each other at all." He hoped his voice conveyed the urgency he felt. "I need your touch. I've needed it as long as I can remember. And right now I need it right - there."

Pushing the sheet aside, he took her hand, guided it inside the fly of his pyjama bottoms and moaned as her fingers wrapped lightly around his erection.

Hermione had a naughty look in her eyes as her thumb found his slit and coaxed some pre-come onto the head of his cock and down the shaft. Eyebrows raised, her eyes shut in concentration, she set to work stroking him, her thumb and forefinger teasing him in the way that always made him explode in just a few minutes. As her fingers moved faster and faster, guttural sighs and moans escaped Harry's throat while his body shook beneath her hand. Finally, when she knew he wouldn't last much longer, she finished him up. As her forefinger squeezed the head of his cock and her thumb prodded his slit, Harry came hard over her hand.

"Oh God, I needed that," he moaned, his breath ragged as he lay boneless against the pillows. "Thank you."

"Scourgify," she commanded, cleaning up the immediate area. "Now you'd better get up and get in the shower before you end up late for work."

"You're right, " Harry sighed. Putting his hand on her arm, he pulled himself up enough to kiss her cheek gently. "I guess Remus wouldn't appreciate it if I told him I'd slept in."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Oh, he'd probably appreciate it all too well. Now hurry up and shower and SCAT! And don't use up all the hot water," she warned as she left their bedroom.

"You could always charm the water to make it warmer," he shot back.

"Cheeky sod," she called from down the hallway.

*~*

On his way from the Ministry Atrium to his desk, Harry grabbed a pumpkin pasty for a late breakfast. As he ate the pasty and read through some files, his mind kept wandering back to his latest interlude with Hermione. She'd done all the right things, just as he'd asked, but beneath her compliance, he sensed she was holding something back, the part of herself that made him feel whole. There was something tentative in the way she held and stroked him. Maybe she doesn't really want to do that with me anymore, he thought morosely. Maybe she's just doing it to keep the peace between us.

Problem was, he wasn't sure he could blame Hermione for feeling that way, if that was how she really felt. If I were Hermione, I'd be plenty pissed off, he thought grimly. When push came to shove, I failed her at the moment she needed me most.

After lunch, Harry finished the report he'd been working on all week. Around four o'clock he dropped three rolls of parchment in the in-box next to Lupin's office. Returning to his desk, he spied a Ministry memo whizzing toward his cubicle, snatched it in mid-air and opened it.

Harry,

Just wanted to check in with you. How are things going? Meet me at the Leaky Cauldron at half-past five?

Ron

Just what I need right now - a few drinks with my best mate, Harry thought with a sigh of relief. He looked forward to leaning back in a worn old booth and having a few butterbeers, or more, with his oldest friend in the world. He scribbled "Yes" on the outside of Ron's note, then sent it flying back to him.

At half-past five Harry left the Ministry and Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. Nodding his way through the early evening crowd, he found Ron seated in a dimly lit booth near the back of the pub, a pitcher of butterbeer and two tall glasses in front of him.

"I'm glad you could make it, mate," Ron said brightly as he rose and clasped Harry's arm.

"I'm glad you invited me. I've been needing to do something like this for a few days now," Harry replied, sliding onto the bench across from Ron, who poured a tall glass of butterbeer for Harry and pushed it toward him. Harry lifted the glass to his lips and sucked down a few ounces of the amber liquid.

"So what's up, Harry? How are things going?"

"You mean in general, or with Hermione?

Ron looked down his long nose at Harry. "With Hermione, of course. How's she doing? How are the two of you doing?"

Leaning back against the wall, Harry sighed. "Hermione seems to be improving. Her bruises aren't as purple as they were on Monday - actually they're starting to turn yellow, which isn't pretty, but I know it means they're starting to heal. And the swelling has gone down pretty well, though her lips are still kind of swollen."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. I can't kiss her right now. I can't even get close to her lips. It's killing me."

"She's probably not happy about it either," Ron offered.

"Well, you know how she is. Stoic about this kind of stuff. She's not complaining about it, but she lets me know exactly what I can or can't do. The situation is quite -- frustrating."

Ron smirked. "That bad, eh?"

"Yeah, it is," Harry muttered, frowning as he took a long swallow of butterbeer. "It's not just about sex, though."

"I suppose not."

"No, of course not. It's about intimacy. I never had that with anyone before Hermione. To tell the truth, I had more emotional intimacy with her as my best friend than with any of the women I shagged before her."

"You never had much of a love life before Hermione, did you?" Ron sounded a bit sad, as though he'd finally realized something rather unhappy.

Harry continued, "No, not really. Just the odd shag here and there. I never let myself get close to anyone emotionally during sex. I couldn't drag them into the danger I was in."

Ron nodded knowingly.

"In seventh year I had a few quickies behind the Three Broomsticks with girls from the village," Harry elaborated. "After all that business with Voldemort was done, I hired a prostitute a few times. I met her at the Wet Wizard in Diagon Alley. I cast a glamour on my face and called myself James Evans. I didn't care that I was paying her. She was good at what she did, and she made me feel like a man."

A thoughtful look in his eyes, Ron nodded again. Harry's sexual history was something he and Ron had never really discussed, and suddenly, Harry felt the need to get certain details off his chest. "I also had a few one-night stands --" he hesitated a moment before continuing -- "including one with Cho Chang."

Ron snorted, spitting out his mouthful of butterbeer. "Cho? Bloody hell, Harry. What could you possibly have been thinking?"

Shrugging, Harry closed his eyes. "I have no idea. Obviously the firewhisky was talking and Little Harry was listening."

Ron smirked. "Calling it Little Harry is kind of ironic, if I remember correctly from the Quidditch changing rooms."

"Yeah, well…You know how it goes. Sometimes your willy's got a mind of its own. One night I was sitting at the back of the Wet Wizard and Cho came up to me. And I was drunk enough to listen when it told me Cho Chang wants you to get into her knickers."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Bugger!"

Yeah, that too, Harry remembered.

"So what's she like?" Ron sounded quite intrigued.

Harry wasn't going to shag and tell, at least nothing specific, so he offered a general opinion. "Actually -- and if you tell anyone else, I'll have to hex you badly -- she's one kinky piece of work. I spent one very long night with her, and on that basis, I bet she'd probably try anything at least once." Unbidden, memories of where his fingers, tongue and cock had been that night flooded his mind. It was hard to believe he'd done a few things with Cho in one night that he'd never tried yet in two years with Hermione….

"Bloody hell." Ron exhaled a breath. "Well, that explains a lot. Like why you always seem a bit off when you're around her. So why was it only a one-night stand? After all that time you'd fancied her, why didn't you keep on shagging her?"

Harry laughed mirthlessly and sucked down a few more ounces of butterbeer. "Well, it had been probably four years since we'd fancied each other. I reckon she just wanted to see what she'd missed the first time around. And, frankly, so did I. There was nothing emotional between us. We were just two lonely, randy people who'd once been attracted to each other. It was just sex."

Ron looked at Harry for a long moment. "Was she any good?"

"Jesus, Ron! I wasn't in love with her. I just -- she offered a taste and I took it. So yeah, if you insist on knowing, I guess she was good. Enthusiastic and highly skilled, in fact. But my dick could've belonged to Roger Davies or Michael Corner for all she cared. The minute we were done, she kicked me out of bed."

"Wow. That's harsh." Ron sounded shocked.

"I should've known she would do that," Harry said bitterly. "Bloody cow. Can't figure out what I saw in her in school or afterwards." He leaned back in the booth, glad for the warmth spreading through his body, glad that the butterbeer had loosened his tongue enough to let him reveal this secret to his best mate.

Ron scratched his chin thoughtfully then took another swig. "Well, she was rather fit then, and quite pretty. Still is, in fact. And she knows how to dress to make a bloke look twice at her. I'd say it was just your basic raw sexual attraction." He paused and gave Harry a shrewd look. "So what did Hermione think about all this?"

Harry choked on his mouthful of butterbeer. "She doesn't know anything about that night." Then, lowering his voice, he admitted, "I never told her."

"Ohhhhh…."

"I mean, what would've been the point? You know what she thinks of Cho."

"She's not fond of her, that's for sure. You and Hermione weren't…involved then, were you?"

"Of course not!" Harry huffed. " Bloody hell, Ron! I wouldn't do that to Hermione. She and I weren't…we hadn't… we were just friends then." Harry sagged in his seat, feeling deflated. This conversation was quickly getting out of hand. He wished a waitress would come by and ask them to order. If they were going to continuing drinking, he would need some food to soak up the alcohol -- plus, it might distract Ron from this topic.

"So why didn't you tell her?" Ron asked, a shrewd look in his eyes.

"I don't know." Harry had tried not to think about it much. Now forced to consider it, he realized what he'd been avoiding. "Maybe I didn't want her to think less of me."

"Does she know about any of the other women?"

Harry weighed his words carefully. "Not specifically. Only that she wasn't my first."

That seemed to satisfy Ron's curiosity, at least for the moment. The two friends sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, enjoying just being together as best mates. When Tom the bartender came round and asked if they needed anything, Harry shoved two Galleons toward him and asked for a pair of shot glasses and a bottle of Old Ogden's, plus two platters of fish and chips.

Soon the food and booze arrived. Harry poured some firewhisky for Ron, who threw back his shot and sighed with satisfaction.

"Merlin's beard, I love this stuff," Ron said, smiling into his shot glass. "It seems to go down easier these days, now that I'm too old to get in trouble for drinking it."

"I know what you mean," Harry said, draining his own shot glass. "Being an adult takes some of the kick out of drinking, unless you've had too much. Then you'd better have a good hangover potion on hand."

Ron stared at him blankly for a moment, then rolled his eyes and pointed a long finger.

"Didja know that was how old Ogden made half his fortune?"

Harry shook his head, which was starting to spin.

"Yup," Ron continued, waving his arm expansively. "First he invented the best whisky wizards have ever known. Then, he invented a potion to cure the hangover he got from drinkin' it!"

Harry poured himself and Ron another shot, then raised his glass in a toast. "To Old Ogden, wha'ever the hell his first name was. And to his very fine firewhisky."

"And his hangover potion!"

They drank the shot, then tucked into the fish and chips. After awhile their talk turned to Quidditch and Viktor Krum's spectacular play at the World Cup. Harry recounted how Hermione had finally dragged out of him what had happened in Bulgaria the morning she was assaulted.

"I told her about that dream I had, the one with her and Krum in bed…"

"And?" Ron leaned forward and put his chin on his hands.

"She sounded surprised. But she also blushed."

"Blimey. D'you think…"

"I don't know what to think," Harry said as he leaned back and sighed.

"Maybe she still has some feelings for him?"

"I'm not sure whether she ever did have feelings for him. She's told me she didn't."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "So what's the problem?"

Leaning his elbows on the table, Harry put his head in his hands. "I dunno. I'm just…maybe I'm not enough for her. Maybe I'm not giving her what she needs. I sure as hell feel like I can't even protect her anymore--"

"Aren't you overreacting a bit, Harry?" Ron cut in.

Harry shoved his hand through his hair. "I dunno. Maybe I am. I can't stand feeling at sixes and sevens around Hermione. Haven't felt like this since right before she and I got together."

"Bugger, you are confused."

"Too right. And I'm scared of what this stalker might do next. Whoever she is, she seems to be totally unhinged -- and she's obsessed with Hermione as well as me. At least Hermione thinks so."

"Any idea who it is?"

Harry shrugged. "Yes and no. Remus said they know who attacked Hermione, but not who's stalking us. He was gonna contact the Muggle authorities to see if it might be someone from Hermione's past."

Ron's mouth waggled like a fish out of water. "But Harry, how could a Muggle be doin' this? Didn't that last note call her a M-- Mudblood?"

Harry's stomach sank. Why hadn't he seen this sooner? How could the Muggle police possibly help? This had to be the work of someone magical, almost certainly someone they'd known at school. The stalker just knew too much about himself, Hermione and even Ron.

"You're right, Ron. Bollocks, I'm starting to think the Ministry's going about this all wrong. Not that I've been much help."

After a long silence, Ron nodded and downed another shot of firewhisky, then turned toward the pub, which had become much less crowded. "Crowd's thinning out now. 'Spose you'd best be getting home to Hermione soon."

Hermione… "Oh fuck. I didn't tell her I was meeting you after work," Harry said, a knot of guilt welling up in his chest. His mind raced back to his fifth year at Hogwarts, when everything he did and felt seemed wrong. Ever since the stalker came into their lives, he felt as though he was fifteen again - anxious, angry and totally in the dark. Getting up from the booth, he stood up and felt the floor shift under his feet. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he found -- not what he'd expected. His mobile phone was not in his trousers, nor his shirt pocket, nor the inside pocket of his cloak.

"Now I'm really fucked," he moaned, grabbing the edge of the table.

"What?" Ron looked almost as confused as Harry felt.

"I shoulda rung her before I came here. I bought mobile phones for both of us. She doesn't want me to check up on her, but I wanted her to have one anyway."

Ron smirked and rolled his eyes. "Well, you're just out drinking with me. Your best mate. It's not like you've run off with another woman --"

"Don't even joke about that."

Now Ron's eyes narrowed. "No need to get shirty with me, Harry. I'm on your side. You've been awfully tetchy lately."

"Sorry, Ron. I've got a lot to be upset about."

"S’pose so."

"Well, now I've made a bollocks of the whole night. I can't even ring her up."

"Better go home before she throws a wobbly."

Harry could only nod and hope Hermione wouldn't be in a wobbly-throwing mood. Grabbing his cloak, he said, "See you soon, Ron."

Ron leaned toward him over the table. "Hey, Harry, 'fore you go, can I ask you 'bout somethin' that's been buggin' me?"

Throwing his cloak on, Harry eyed Ron carefully. "Okay, what?"

"Well," Ron began slowly, "I was just wonderin'…why'd you send me to hospital with Hermione that day? Why didn't you go with her yourself? I mean, you're the one who's in love with her, not me."

Harry felt like he'd been slugged in the stomach. He knew Ron wasn't asking maliciously, but this particular question had been on the edge of his consciousness for days. Why had he sent Ron with Hermione that day? Why had he insisted on waiting for Remus, when he should have gone with his girlfriend, the woman he planned to marry, instead? There was only one possible answer, he thought, his heart sinking and his face burning.

"Guess I panicked. Seems like I'm doing that a lot lately, 'specially when Hermione is in serious danger. See you later, Ron."

For once, Ron had no reply. With a heavy heart, Harry found his way out of the Leaky Cauldron and started to stumble home. Being half-pissed, he reckoned it was better to walk the two miles home rather than risk getting splinched.

^*^*^*

Half-past nine. It's half-past nine and I haven't heard a word about where he's been or when he'll be coming home.

Hermione lay on the sofa, trying to read the Muggle mystery novel that she'd started five days earlier. At the back of her mind, though, a clock ticked loudly. It was half-past nine and she'd not heard a word from Harry since he left for work that morning. Not that she'd ever felt the need to keep track of his every movement -- and a good thing, too. His job as an Auror and hers as an Unspeakable meant that, quite often, neither of them knew the other's exact whereabouts or activities. Given the nature of their professions, they were used to occasional separations ranging from a day to a month. Being apart was hard on both of them, but they always managed to keep in touch by owl or fire-call. Now that they both had mobile phones, she assumed he would have rung her if he expected to get home really late.

But Harry hadn't rung. She'd tried his mobile twice within the last two hours and got no answer. Now he was four hours late, and she had no idea where he was or when he would return. She wondered why she was so anxious about him being a few hours late getting home from work. Because he always tells me if he's going to be gone when he should be here, she thought, wondering when she'd become so clingy and whingey. Of course, she knew exactly when that started -- the moment those arseholes had beaten her up and stolen her independence from her.

Muttering curses under her breath, Hermione eased her way off the sofa and began to pace the living room. Her pacing was slower and less physical than Harry's. His was all long strides, flapping arms and urgency; hers was more hand wringing and wearing a hole in the carpet. Biting her lip unconsciously, she was pleasantly surprised that it was no longer tender. Her lips were finally beginning to heal. Maybe she and Harry could resume their normal love life -- assuming that he wanted to and that she didn't hex him into the next county for making her worry.

Of course he wants to, she chided herself. He wanted to play just this morning. He seemed happy enough while she'd stroked him until he lost himself. But was he really happy? Was she really able to give him what he needed right now? He had very healthy sexual appetites, even for a young man his age. Perhaps he'd hooked up with a co-worker, or even a slag on the streets outside the Ministry, and gone off and…

NO! Do NOT think that. He loves me. Me! Hermione Granger. He's not interested in anyone else.

Sure, he loves me. But what if I was incapacitated that way? Would he stay with me? Or would he start looking elsewhere?…

A click in the front-door lock interrupted Hermione's musings. Instead of the door opening, a flurry of epithets erupted in the corridor outside. Easing her way across the room, Hermione opened the door carefully -- and just missed bumping into Harry, who seemed to wobble as he entered the flat. She looked up at him, wondering what in God's name was going on.

"Harry, are you all right?"

He gazed at her from heavy-lidded eyes. "S'okay, Hermione. I'm okay. Just a bit…had too much to drink." He leaned against her for a moment, then shuffled across the room and sank onto one end of the sofa, his head resting heavily against the cushioned back.

"You were out drinking?" she said evenly as she sat down next to him.

"Yeah. With Ron. After work." Gritting his teeth, Harry closed his eyes tightly as though his head hurt. Which, Hermione, thought, it probably did, if his breath was any indication of how much he'd drunk.

"You didn't tell me?" she asked quietly, trying to hide her annoyance.

Shoving his fringe off his forehead, he looked sideways at her. "Ron asked me late in the day. I shoulda let you know."

"That would've kept me from worrying," she replied, grateful that he at least seemed contrite about the whole thing. "I don't mind you going out for a drink with Ron. I do mind not having any idea where you are for four hours after you leave work. I'm -- I just worry about you, Harry. I love you. Even though Voldemort's been dead almost four years, I still worry about something else happening to you."

Reaching over to her, he cupped her jaw with his hand. Still smarting from his earlier behavior, Hermione turned her face away.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "Shoulda rung you. Shoulda used the bloody mobile."

She gave him a long, hard look. "So why didn't you? I tried to ring you twice."

Averting his eyes, he shook his head. "Just plain forgot. Don' even have it with me now. Must've left it in my desk at work."

Hermione counted to ten silently before replying. "I know you're not used to telephones, Harry. As I recall, while we were in school your nasty uncle didn't want you to talk to anyone on the phone." She paused, weighing her words. "But the mobiles were your idea. So it's highly ironic that the very first chance you had to use yours, you managed not to."

Leaning back, Harry shook his head. "I bloody well fucked that up, didn' I?"

Sliding closer to Harry, Hermione leaned her head against his. "Yes, I guess you did," she said softly. "Pardon me, love, but it's not the first time you've bollixed up. And it probably won't be the last."

Harry had nothing to say. Hermione stayed quiet, her forehead pressed softly to his temple, one arm around his shoulders. Harry did nothing, just sat there with one arm holding her loosely at the waist, the other limp at his side. His eyes seemed glassy, almost unfocused. He was definitely half in the bag. But his lips were so close… she had missed them so much and her own lips were feeling much better. Surely it couldn't hurt to try to kiss his lips? If she didn't kiss him, she reasoned, she just might strangle him for making her so worried.

Snogging sounded like a better plan. Feeling his shallow breath on her cheek, she let her own lips glide just above the surface of his skin, across his stubbled cheek, and down to the corner of his mouth. His lips seemed rougher than they had barely a week ago, before he and Ron left for Bulgaria. She hesitated, afraid to put too much effort into the kiss, unsure which reaction she was more afraid of -- her own body's, or Harry's. As her lips finally settled on his, gently, almost fearfully, she got her answer. Harry flinched, his arm slipping from her waist, his eyes avoiding her own.

"Don' think we should do that righ' now," he whispered, a pained look on his face. "I don' wanna hurt you again. And I'm half-pissed, so Little Harry won' be up for anything--"

Pulling away, she stood up, jaw clenched, willing herself not to yell at him. "Who said anything about shagging? I just want to kiss you, Harry. Despite your current condition, I want to kiss you. Is that so hard to understand? I haven't kissed you on the lips in over a week. That's all I want, to kiss your lips, to snog you blind, like I usually do. My lips finally seem to be healing, so I thought we might try that tonight. But if you're not interested in anything but a shag…"

Now she was steaming. He would not leave her alone for hours, fail to ring her, forgot to even take his bloody mobile phone with him -- then show up half in the bag and assume that a simple kiss would automatically lead to shagging. As she moved away, she expected him to do something, anything to assert his interest -- perhaps grab her wrist and try to pull her back toward him. But he didn't. He just sat there, staring vacantly, not even looking at her as she backed out of the room. Sure he was close to pissed. But he could at least object to her leaving him alone there. Instead, his response was deafening in its absence.

Nothing.

A few minutes later, she returned to the living room with a fluffy pillow and a blanket, which she tossed carelessly on the sofa.

"Get some sleep, Harry. There's some hangover potion in the bathroom. Perhaps a night on the sofa will convince you not to take me for granted again. Good thing you don't have to go to work tomorrow."

Turning on her heel, Hermione walked out of the room.

Drunk and confused, Harry gazed longingly at her retreating figure.

^*^*^*^

Author's Note: Well, dear readers, your replies to chapter 9 convinced me that I shouldn't try to finish this story in one fell swoop, which would, perhaps, mean that I wouldn't update it for many months. So if you can still stand how slowly I write, I'll just keep posting it one chapter at a time until it's done, whenever that is. That said, this chapter in particular kicked my butt; not a lot happens in it, but it's a necessary transition to chapter 11, in which a lot more plot action occurs. I'll try to write chapter 11 faster, but who knows whether my muse will cooperate. Again, I'd like to thank my wonderful betas, MPotter77 and Abigail89 (from LiveJournal), without whose wise counsel this story would have been a bloody mess long ago. Alas, we still have a long, long way to go on this story. I just hope it doesn't end up being as long as OotP! ;-)

^*^*^*^

Chapter 10

The next morning, Hermione awoke earlier than usual. Creeping into the living room, she found Harry sprawled on the sofa in his customary position, one arm over his face, one leg dangling over the side. His shirt was pulled up out of his jeans and he was snoring lightly -- the way he always does when he sleeps like that, she thought, hoping not to wake him as she moved on little cat feet through the dining room and into the kitchen. After making herself a cup of tea, she settled down to drink it at the dining room table. Before she had time to blow the steam away, the fireplace sprang to life and a ginger-haired, freckled face appeared in it.

"Ginny?"

"No, it's Ron in a wig. Of course it's me, Hermione. How are you?"

"Not bad, all things considered. Much better than when you saw me at St. Mungo's. And yourself?"

"Wonderful, thanks." Ginny seemed to be craning her neck, trying to see past Hermione into the flat. "You're up kind of early. Where's Harry?"

"He's still asleep." That was certainly the truth; Hermione felt no need to mention that she'd made him sleep on the sofa last night.

"Ahh…okay." Ginny raised one eyebrow, a skeptical look on her face.

"He was out drinking with Ron last night. He was pretty well pissed when he got home, so I'm letting him sleep it off now."

Ginny nodded knowingly, then put on her best smile. "So, Hermione, have you been out of the flat since you got back from St. Mungo's?"

Sighing, Hermione studied her friend's face in the fireplace. "No…I've been…I just haven't felt up to going anywhere. Anyway, Neville told me to take the week off work."

"I see. Well, you can't stay there forever. Would you like to join me for breakfast?"

"Now? But--"

"No buts. We haven't talked since before--"

"No, I guess we haven't." Hermione cut Ginny off, not wanting to go in that direction if she could avoid it, at least for the moment.

"Listen, if you're worried about traveling by Floo, or Apparating, I can meet you somewhere close to your apartment."

Leaning against the back of her chair, cradling her steaming mug of tea, Hermione thought for a moment. "I could meet you at the coffee shop on Silk Street. We've been there before."

Ginny's face brightened. "Yes, I remember that place. Would half-past eight be too soon?"

Hermione looked at the mantle clock above the fireplace. Could she shower, dress and walk to the coffee shop in forty-five minutes? "That would be fine, Ginny. I'll see you then."

"If Harry wakes up soon, he could join us."

"No, I'll come by myself, if you don't mind."

Ginny eyed Hermione cautiously for a moment. "Okay, see you soon," she said as her face disappeared in the flames.

The coffee shop on Silk Street was smaller, yet brighter, than Hermione remembered it. She arrived with five minutes to spare, ordered a plate of blueberry scones and two mugs of coffee, then found a small private table at the back of the shop. As she waited for her coffee to cool, she spied Ginny entering the shop, her long ginger mane pulled into a ponytail at her crown. Rather than her usual colourful robes, Ginny wore trainers and a dark green tracksuit. She found Hermione and sat down with her.

"Good morning," said Ginny, leaning over to give Hermione a hug.

"Good morning to you too," Hermione said, hugging Ginny back. She pushed one mug and the plate of scones across the table. "I've bought us some breakfast."

"Hey! This was supposed to be my treat. I invited you!"

"Yes, but I suggested eating at a Muggle coffee shop. I just figured it would be easier, since I always carry some Muggle money with me." Ginny appeared to be placated. "You can buy me lunch at the Leaky, or a drink after work, once I go back next week."

Ginny's expression fell somewhere between amused and astounded. "You, drinking after work? Has the world ended?"

Sipping her coffee, Hermione leaned back against the wall and sighed. "No, but after the month I've had -- that Harry and I have had -- can you blame me?"

"No, I suppose not. Do you have any news about the investigation?"

"Not really. If anything significant is going on, Harry hasn't told me…"

"He probably doesn't know anything. Or else he doesn't want to worry you."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "That's exactly the problem. He's keeping things from me, Ginny. I just know it. He's so hell-bent on trying to protect me that I'm sure he's not telling me things I need to know."

"Like what in particular?"

"I'm not really sure concerning the investigation. When I got home from St. Mungo's, though, Harry and I had a long talk, and it came out that he got a note from our stalker while he was in Bulgaria. The note said that I was in danger here in London. It also said that Harry needed to meet her at a certain time at the Quidditch World Cup. He chose to stay there and meet her -- which never happened, she'd tricked him -- instead of trying to warn me."

Ginny sucked in a breath, her eyes round as saucers. "Bloody hell. How did he explain that?"

Hermione's chest heaved slightly as she recounted the conversation in which she reminded Harry that he could have created a Portkey on the spot, zipped back to London and warned her that someone was planning to assault her.

"So he just…panicked?" Ginny seemed dumbfounded.

"Yes, that's how he explained it. He seems to believe he's not thinking clearly anymore when my safety is an issue."

"Has he ever thought clearly about you?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "What do you mean - ever?"

Ginny smiled kindly. "Hermione, where you're concerned, Harry has always had a bit of a blind spot, hasn't he? I mean, I've been his friend a long time, Ron has been his best mate since their first trip on the train, but you -- you've always been in a category all by yourself."

Hermione felt her face burning but said nothing.

Ginny went on, "You know how he is. He does his damnedest to protect whomever he loves most. That's always been you and Ron. At first, when we were all kids, I could tell it was because he liked you both equally but for different reasons. Then, as we got older, it seemed obvious to me that he loved you both, but he loved Ron as a friend and you as…well, more than a friend. I could see by my fourth year that you meant more to him than any other girl ever could. He just didn't know it yet himself. Later, it seemed like he'd figured it out, but couldn't bring himself to tell you."

Finishing the last of her scone, Hermione remained quiet for a moment, digesting this information. "You must have seen more than I could, Ginny. Right now, though, I'm just…I'm at sixes and sevens with him, and it's got me all twisted up," she said, trying to hold back a tear. "It seems like he's lost his head completely. Do you know he bought us mobile phones this week? He said it was so I could ring him up whenever I needed him, well, not at the Ministry, but elsewhere. I suspect he's trying to keep tabs on me. But when he should have used the mobile -- last night, when he met Ron for drinks -- he'd left the bloody thing at work. He's just not making sense these days."

Ginny quirked her head, then looked at Hermione as though she were choosing her words very carefully. "Did the two of you have a row last night?"

"Oh, you could call it a row," Hermione muttered, her emotions finally boiling over. "I had no idea where he was, I was worried sick, then he came home soused and rejected me when I tried to kiss him -- for the first time in over a week, mind you, because I simply couldn't kiss him before then"-- she lowered her voice, remembering they were in a crowded coffee shop -- "because he assumed I wanted to shag. Well, perhaps I would have wanted to shag, but that's not what I asked for! I just wanted to kiss him. Even though he smelled like the bottom of the dustbin behind the Leaky. He's been acting like such a tosser lately." Steaming, she leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. "I made him sleep on the sofa. Maybe he won't take me for granted again."

Sipping the last of her coffee, Ginny was silent for a few moments. "Maybe you two just need to talk things through," she said kindly, patting Hermione's arm.

"Easier said than done," Hermione replied. "You know how Harry gets when he's in his saving-people mode. Not that he needs to save me from anything, he just thinks he does. He's closing himself off, making decisions on the fly. Not talking to people who could help him. You know, like he did when he and Ron and I were in fifth year."

Ginny nodded knowingly. "So…what are you going to do about all this?"

Hermione sighed. The one person she really wanted to talk to had been dead for five years. "I don't know. When I was a lot younger I talked to my Mum about boys -- and relationships and such. She was the one who told me I was in love with Harry after fifth year. She said it was written all over my face."

"It sure looked that way to me when both of you came to Grimmauld Place that summer."

"Apparently Harry didn't notice. Or if he did, he was ignoring what he saw."

Her brown eyes shining, Ginny looked at Hermione intently. "Look, Hermione, that was six years ago. You should stop resenting Harry for not being wise to you then, and start dealing with what's going on in your relationship now."

Ginny's bluntness shook Hermione out of her self-pity.

"You're right. I'll try to talk to him about this soon, but I've no idea whether he'll hear what I'm saying. Thanks for listening, Ginny, and for giving me such unvarnished advice."

Ginny laughed softly. "I watched you two dance around each other for ages. I had a lot of time to formulate my opinions. But I didn't ask you here just to talk about Harry. Tell me everything else that's going on. How are you feeling?"

Hermione's mood brightened. "Quite good, actually. Neville did such a wonderful job fixing me up at St. Mungo's, and my week at home was ridiculously quiet and restful. So I'm feeling almost back to normal. I certainly hope to return to work soon."

The smile on Ginny's face reached her eyes. "I hope so too. I know you hate just sitting around."

Wiping her mouth with her napkin, Hermione glanced at her watched and discovered it was half-past nine. "Goodness, the time has flown by. I've got to go home now, Ginny." She got up and placed three shillings on the table as a tip, then bent down and hugged her friend. "Thanks for inviting me. I'm glad we talked."

"May I walk you back to your building?" Ginny asked, pulling on her tracksuit jacket.

"Thanks, I'd like that."

When they arrived at the apartment block where Harry and Hermione lived, Ginny hugged Hermione then Disapparated. Taking the lift up to the twelfth storey, Hermione opened the front door of their apartment -- and found Harry frantically pacing the living room, his arms flailing in typical Harry fashion. When his eyes met hers, Harry gulped, then crossed the room in three strides and swept her into his arms.

"Oh God, Hermione, you're safe," he mumbled over and over, his arms practically crushing her as he held her tightly.

"Good grief, Harry, of course I'm safe," she croaked. His vise grip on her midsection made breathing difficult and reminded Hermione that her bruises had not yet healed completely. "Whatever are you going on about?"

Pulling back from her, Harry gave her a long look. "I woke up on the sofa this morning. I didn't know how I got there. You were gone and I had no idea where to find you."

"You don't remember what happened last night?"

"Erm…no…I guess not. Not really." He looked down at her sheepishly. "I think I went to the Leaky last night and got pissed with Ron. Does that sound right?"

"Yes. You also spent at least three hours drinking with him before you decided to walk home. I guess you were worried about getting splinched." Hermione tried to keep an even tone in her voice. She really didn't want to get into another argument with Harry. He nodded, the details of the previous night's bender starting to come back to him. Then a cloud of unhappiness darkened his face.

"We had a helluva row last night, didn't we?"

Hermione cocked an eyebrow. "You could say that." She proceeded to fill him on what he couldn't remember, including the reason she'd made him sleep on the sofa.

"I must have been really plastered. I'm really sorry, Hermione." He sighed heavily. "I'll find that mobile on Monday. I must have left it in my desk."

"I forgive you for not calling me. But don't do that again. And I'm sorry I gave you a fright this morning. I should have left a note saying I'd gone to breakfast with Ginny." She rolled her eyes and laughed softly. "A bit of the pot calling the kettle black, wasn't I?"

Half sitting on the edge of the dining table, Harry spread his legs, then pulled Hermione between them and gathered her to his chest. "It's okay. We've both been pretty messed up the past month." He laughed bitterly. "God, has it only been a month? Sometimes it feels like a year."

Hermione nodded. It did seem that the stalker was playing mind games, trying to make Harry and Hermione believe they shouldn't be together. Leaning her head up against his shoulder, Hermione sighed into the crook of his neck. He was warm, so warm, and his skin had a clean, masculine scent. He'd showered and changed, so he no longer smelled like sour beer and cigars. He smelled like Harry, her Harry, and without thinking she planted her lips on his neck and suckled his skin.

"Ohhhhh," he moaned, a deep, almost gutteral sound that tripped out of his throat. Her hands wound around his neck, her fingers twining in the hair at the back of his head as she dragged her lips slowly across his jaw, up his cheek to the corner of his mouth, then finally planted a long, slow kiss on his lips. This was what she hadn't been able to do for almost a week -- and it was obviously making Harry happy too, if the reaction she felt against her jeans was any indication. Eyes closed, leaning against his chest, she felt him harden even more against her pelvis as she nibbled on his lower lip, then nudged his lips open with the tip of her tongue.

His arms closed tighter around her as his lips opened, her tongue sliding into the warmth of his mouth. She was so soft, so pliant, and as he grew harder he pulled her closer to him. He couldn't get enough of her, especially not through all those layers of clothing separating her skin from his. Standing up, he swung one foot out past her, then twisted both of their bodies half a turn so that Hermione was leaning against the edge of the table. He then lifted her arse onto the table and pressed himself against her, his hips rocking insistently against her pelvis. A little half-sigh, half-moan escaped her throat as he planted feathery kisses down her neck while he worked his fingers under the hem of her tee shirt.

"Harry…"

Her face was turned toward the fireplace where, from the corner of her eye, she could see something hovering.

"Mmmmm?" He was busy nuzzling her neck while his fingers slid under the waistband of her knickers.

"I think we have company--"

"Wha--"

Harry pulled himself up, then spun around and saw, much to his chagrin, Neville Longbottom's head floating amid green flames in their fireplace. Apparently realizing what he'd barged in on, Neville turned bright red and lowered his eyes.

"Hello, Harry. Hello, Hermione."

Harry jumped away from the table and straightened his clothes. "Erm, hi, Neville," he said sheepishly.

Hermione sat up, then slid off the table and brushed down the front of her tee shirt. "Hello, Neville," she said. "How are you today?"

"Quite well, thanks," said Neville, his eyes still averted. "Actually I was wondering how you are. I was going to ask you to come to St. Mungo's first thing Monday morning so I could see whether you're ready to return to work."

"I can certainly do that if you need me to," said Hermione.

"Actually, um, maybe you don't need to come in after all."

Hermione blushed. "I am feeling much better, thank you."

Neville's skin tone appeared to have returned to normal. "Are you still particularly sore anywhere?"

She was quiet for a moment, thinking. "No, I'm really much better all over. Would you like me to come closer so you can take a look?"

"That would help. Thanks."

With a wry glance at Harry, Hermione walked quickly across the room until she was just in front of the hearth. Pulling her tee shirt up, she turned slowly in a circle so that Neville could inspect her bare midriff. Harry felt a small shock of jealousy, then chided himself. It's only Neville. She has to show him; he's her Healer. Had it been anyone else, though, Harry knew he probably would have punched the bloke's lights out.

"You've healed very well, Hermione," Neville said finally. "I'm giving you a clean bill of health to return to work on Monday."

Hermione smiled broadly, tamping down her urge to hurl herself into the green flames and kiss Neville's floating head. "Oh, thank you so much, Neville," she said brightly. "You've no idea how totally bored I've been the past week. This morning was the first time I've even left the building all week, and that was just to meet Ginny for breakfast."

"I know," said Neville, returning Hermione's smile. "I just ran into her and she said she'd had breakfast with you. That's why I fire-called you. Otherwise I would have just sent an owl, very official and all."

Before Neville left, Harry thought he'd better get a word in edgewise. "So Hermione is cleared for…all normal activities?"

Neville raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'd say she can do everything she'd been doing before she was attacked. Though, just to be safe, Hermione, I'd like you to stay in Britain for the next few weeks. Just as a precaution. I know you've got a hush-hush job--"

"I suppose I can see your point," Hermione cut in, frowning. "I'll need to tell my supervisor that my Healer has prescribed desk duty. And please, Neville, just owl a note to me here. I can't tell you who I work for."

"Okay, I'll do that." Neville looked first at Harry, then at Hermione. "Well, you're released from my care now, Hermione. Please don't take this the wrong way, but I hope I don't see you again any time soon -- at least not while I'm on duty."

"That's fine with us," Harry said, laughing. "If I never see the inside of St. Mungo's again, it'll be too soon."

Kneeling in front of the hearth so that her head was level with his, Hermione gave Neville a bright smile. "Thank you again, Neville." Stepping away from the hearth, she walked over to Harry, took his hand and began leading him out of the room. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like the spend the rest of the weekend with my boyfriend…"

As Hermione led him away, Harry looked over his shoulder and gave Neville a thumbs-up sign. "Thanks, Neville," he called back. "You have no idea how happy I am that Hermione is better."

Oh, I think I do, Neville thought, chuckling as he pulled his head out of the flames.

^*^*^*

Hermione had hoped to spend the rest of the weekend in bed with Harry. The best-laid plans of wizards and witches, however, sometimes go astray. Despite hearing from Neville's own mouth that Hermione was well enough to do just about anything, Harry seemed more tentative than almost any time in the two years he and Hermione had been together.

"I just don't want to hurt you again," he mumbled as he suckled one breast while gliding his index finger slowly up the inside of her thigh. As Hermione arched against his mouth, Harry slid the tip of his finger into her moist curls, then gently parted her folds and made lazy circles around the hard nub at her entrance.

"You won't…hurt me," she breathed, her voice catching in her throat as Harry slipped one finger slowly inside her and rotated it while his thumb stroked her clit. "You can do this harder, Harry. Please. Don't hold back." Her breathing was shallow and sweat shone on her naked breasts. Why was he so tentative? Perhaps she needed to let him know how much she wanted him.

"Harder, Harry, faster, I need more," she urged him. "You don't know how much I've wanted you inside me the past week." Harry's fingers finally moved faster, fast enough so that a minute or two later, Hermione bucked and screamed and -- Harry thought -- damn near broke his index and middle fingers while her inner muscles clenched around them. "Lick me too, Harry. Please."

Repositioning himself, Harry moved his face between Hermione's legs and gently licked her clitoris. Now that Hermione had recovered from her injuries, it was like she was making up for lost time, trying to get every bit of sex she could out of him. Once they got over their initial inhibitions two years ago, they'd always had an active and, he thought, satisfying sex life. But now -- now he didn't know what had got into her. It was like she'd turned into some sex-crazed animal. It wasn't enough for him to slide a couple of fingers inside her, or stroke or suck her clit. That's just foreplay, she told him more than once that weekend. Okay for starters, but she needed more, much more. And while he tried to make love to her gently, hoping to avoid injuring her, protecting her the way he wanted to, she talked dirty to him, telling him everything she wished she were doing. She went on and on about how she wanted to climb on top of him and fuck him in the reverse cowgirl position, her legs astride his torso as she looked toward his feet.

"But Harry, if we…did it that way," she panted while his cock slid slowly in and out of her, "I'd get much better…friction. I could grind…down hard…. and fast"-- he stroked in and out -- "or maybe…I'd take you in an inch at a time…ohhh ohhhhhh…then pull back…and make you whine."

"Stop talking, Hermione. I'm trying…to make love to you." Leaning on his elbows as she writhed beneath him, Harry was having difficulty establishing a rhythm. If she'd just shut up and let me do it my way, we'd both come a lot sooner….

"I'm not criticizing…I'm just…suggesting…"

He pulled out of her, then threw one of her legs over his shoulder and entered her again, pounding her until she felt she would split in two with the force of his thrusts. "You like that? Is that good enough?"

"Oh yeaahhhh…" She wrapped her legs around his waist, then grabbed his hands and placed his palms on her nipples. "Roll them between your fingers, then come down here and kiss me," she commanded.

"Yes, Mistress," he replied sulkily, continuing to grind into her soft, wet heat while his tongue explored another soft, warm, slippery area. "You're one randy little woman these days," he said as he came up for air. "Was there…something special in…that potion Neville gave you last week? Because you seem even more…dominant than usual."

Hermione stopped moving beneath him. "Is there something wrong with me enjoying sex?" She looked close to tears.

I've bollixed this up too, Harry thought sadly. He sighed as he pulled out of her and rolled onto his back. "No, it's just…I'm the one who has the cock. You could let me lead every once in a while."

"I didn't know you minded me taking the lead at all." Her lip quivered as she pulled the duvet over her breasts.

I'm doing this all wrong. Oh God, I'm going to fuck this up too, like I've fucked up everything the past month. "That's not what I said. I just -- I'm afraid of hurting you, but you keep telling me to fuck you harder, longer, faster, and that's not what I want to do. I want to be slow and gentle but you keep telling me all this other stuff."

Hermione grabbed Harry's hand, pulling him over until he was facing her. "I want you to make love to me, Harry. But I can't read your mind, and you only told me a moment ago what you want to do to me. Just -- just do again what you were doing."

"No… I don't think so…I've lost the mood. I'm…sorry."

Harry looked at her lying in the bed, her hair fanned out on her pillow. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I love you so much," he whispered. "I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost you."

Hermione slid her hand gently down his side, enjoying the planes of his body. "You'll never lose me, Harry. I'd never leave you willingly. I love you too much to ever do that."

He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her, hesitating to voice the fears that ran rampant through his mind. "What if…what if our stalker does something to hurt you again? Could you stand to stay with me, knowing that I'm the reason someone is trying to harm you?"

He's doing it again, she thought sadly. "I can take whatever that crazy stalker can dish out. After all the years I've stood by you, Harry, what could possibly make me leave now?"

"I don't know. But I couldn't bear it if you got hurt again. And I'd do anything to protect you, Hermione. Anything."

Leaning over, he kissed her tenderly. She rolled to one side, waiting for him to spoon up against her as he usually did. He chose to lie on his back instead, watching the patterns of moonlight moving on the ceiling, unaware that Hermione was holding back tears.

^*^*^*^

"You almost ready for work, Hermione? Need any help?"

"Just with the zipper on my dress, Harry. If you don't mind."

When have I ever minded zipping - or unzipping - her dress? Harry thought, smiling as he slid the zipper up, then placed a gentle kiss on Hermione's neck. Although Neville had cleared her two days earlier, Harry could barely believe that Hermione was physically ready to return to her job, even with a few weeks of desk work to ease back into her routine. He just hoped she wasn't returning too soon and that she would have a quiet day.

"I'm ready when you are," she told him.

"Let's go then," Harry replied, handing Hermione's cloak to her while he pulled on his own. As they stepped into the fireplace together, he took her hand gently, then tossed a handful of Floo powder around them and said, "Ministry of Magic."

Moments later, they exited into the brightly lit atrium of the Ministry. Dozens of witches and wizards bustled about, hurrying to their destinations within the building. Harry and Hermione walked slowly, hand in hand, across the atrium, past the Fountain of Magical Brethren to the bank of lifts that led to their respective offices. As they made their way toward the lifts, the clamor of voices around them changed perceptibly, morphing from the usual Monday-morning grumbling into an odd susurration. Hermione could catch only bits and pieces, but that was enough to set her on edge.

There she is.

That's her.

I didn't know she was so small.

She doesn't look like she was badly hurt.

She was gone all last week, wasn't she?

Isn't she the one who--?

Yes, she was assaulted. She was almost--

It's starting, Hermione thought. The whispers. They know.

While she cringed inwardly, she would not give any of them the satisfaction of seeming annoyed or hurt by their gossip. Lifting her chin a bit higher than normal, she kept looking straight ahead until she and Harry reached the lifts. Still gripping his hand, she pushed the call button and stood, mutely, waiting for a lift to arrive.

Harry didn't fail to notice the change in her mood. "Knut for your thoughts?"

Turning to meet his eyes, she put on her best smile and said quietly, "Didn't you hear the murmuring as we crossed the atrium? It seems that news of…what happened…has got out in the Ministry." Hermione's fake grin remained plastered on her face while her eyes searched Harry's for some sign that he'd picked up on the mutterings.

Before he could answer, a lift arrived. As he and Hermione entered the cab, he was relieved to find they were alone.

"What do you mean? But how?"

Her mouth set in a thin line as she leaned against him. "It must have been in the Prophet."

Harry's eyes widened at the implications. "But… but we never…nobody talked to us, except for the Aurors."

They passed level 3. The cab remained empty except for the two of them.

Hermione shook her head as though she were shaking out cobwebs. "Stupid. Stupid! How could we have thought--"

"What?"

"We didn't need to say anything, Harry. Nobody needed to interview us. St. Mungo's is a public facility for wizards. The Prophet probably has some peach-fuzzed, young reporter assigned to the hospital to keep an eye on admissions and releases."

Harry's stomach twisted into a knot the size of Crookshanks. "Bugger."

The lift stopped at Harry's floor. "You need to get off now," Hermione said, prodding him physically when the doors opened. He backed off the lift slowly. "I'll see you later," she said, waving to him weakly as the doors closed.

Harry trudged to his cubicle in the Auror Division. His brain buzzing wildly, he barely noticed his co-workers greeting him. Sitting down at his desk, he found a note from Remus Lupin, asking him to come to Lupin's office as soon as possible.

Almost before he finished knocking, the door opened and Lupin ushered Harry in.

"Hello, Harry. Have a good weekend?"

Harry smirked. It had been a long, strange weekend, full of emotional ups and downs. "Not bad, if you enjoy rollercoasters."

Lupin cocked his head, an inquisitive expression on his face, but apparently decided not to ask Harry to explain. "Well, I have some news. It's not all good, but at least it's something."

"Yeah? What's up?" Harry leaned forward in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin.

"First, the good news. We've arrested one of Hermione's assailants."

His stomach doing somersaults, Harry jumped up out of his seat. "That's great. Which one?"

Lupin swallowed hard. "It's Elfric Dudgeon, the one called Jester. The one who--"

Harry's knuckles tightened painfully as his hands formed fists. "The bloody son of a bitch who tried to rape her!" White-hot rage overtook him as he hurled one fist wildly in front of him. Lupin caught it and pushed him back into his chair.

"While I can understand your anger about the situation, Harry, you're going to have to channel that more appropriately."

Chastened, Harry fell back into the chair and took a deep breath. "Yeah…you're probably right."

"So, Harry, I heard that Hermione returned to work today."

"How the--? That was less than half an hour ago."

"This place is like a beehive, Harry. Word travels fast. Plus, I spoke with Neville -- Healer Longbottom -- on Saturday."

Lupin's admission reminded Harry of what had bothered him in the lift. "Remus," he began carefully, "when Hermione and I arrived in the atrium this morning, people were whispering and staring at her. It was almost as though they'd read something about the attack."

"Oh bugger," said Lupin, rubbing the back of his neck. "You haven't seen the article, have you?" He sounded weary and sad.

Harry's stomach tied up in a new knot of dread. "So the Prophet really did run something?"

Turning slightly, Lupin said, "Accio, Prophet!" A copy of The Sunday Prophet flew off the shelf behind his desk and landed in his left hand. Lupin handed it to Harry and pointed to a story on the back page:

Manhandled Potter Paramour Treated at St. Mungo's

By Rita Skeeter

"That bloody cow! Is she still writing wanky gossip for that rag?"

"Be quiet and read the story, Harry."

"Uh…right."

Hermione Granger, long-time girlfriend of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Saved the Wizarding World, was recently treated at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. According to dependable sources, Miss Granger arrived by St. Mungo's Rambulance on Sunday, August 25^th, accompanied not by Mr. Potter but instead by Ronald Weasley, a close friend of both Mr. Potter and Miss Granger. Mr. Potter, apparently not terribly concerned with his paramour's condition, arrived more than thirty minutes later.

Hospital admission records show that Miss Granger was unconscious when she was admitted with two broken cheekbones, a split lip, three broken ribs, and serious injuries to her midsection. Miss Granger's injuries, our sources said, were severe enough to require an overnight stay in hospital. Ironically, Mr. Potter was attending the Quidditch World Cup in Bulgaria at the time of the attack and was unable to save his own girlfriend from this brutal beating. Based on his behaviour immediately after the attack, as well as his legendary temper, this reporter has to wonder whether Harry Potter might bear some fault in the matter.

According to one source, the attack on Hermione Granger could be related to a string of threatening letters sent to her and Mr. Potter within the past month. This reporter was unable to obtain comments from anyone in authority at the Ministry of Magic. However, I was able to determine that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is still investigating the assault. At this time, Ministry officials have several suspects but have taken no one into custody.

Harry's insides roiled like a volcano about to blow. "That bloody cow! That bitch! She can't leave us alone, can she? She's had it in for both of us since fourth year." Taking a seat, he rested his elbows on his knees, then put his head in his hands and sighed heavily. "Did Skeeter or anyone from the Prophet try to talk to you?"

"No. You know how they operate, Harry. Skeeter must have talked to someone in Central Files. Although…"

Harry looked up. "Although what?"

Leaning back against his desk, Lupin shook his head and sighed. "Ackerley. She must have talked to Ackerley. I know Tonks wouldn't have talked to her. But Ackerley is young and inexperienced--"

"And just stupid enough to talk willingly with the biggest gossip in the Wizarding World."

Harry slumped in his chair, his head ringing with defeat. Lupin pursed his lips thoughtfully and was quiet for a few moments.

"The worst part is, it's all true -- all except the part about me being to blame," Harry said bitterly, breaking the silence. "And even that isn't totally off the mark."

Lupin gave Harry a hard look. "You've got to stop blaming yourself about this, Harry. You did the best you could under very trying circumstances. I'm not sure any of us in this division would have done any better."

"Well, none of you needs to do any better. But I'm Harry Fucking Potter. I have a saving people thing. I defeated Voldemort, but I couldn't even save my own girlfriend! What bloody use am I?"

"Stop that right now, Harry. I'm telling you this as your supervisor as well as your friend. These endless recriminations are becoming rather self-indulgent, and frankly I'm tired of hearing you talk like this."

Harry's head spun as though he'd been slapped. "Point taken," he admitted, sheepishly averting his eyes. "So what have you found out?"

"Well, we just arrested Dudgeon early this morning. We've interrogated him but he couldn't really tell us much, only that someone sent an anonymous message to the ring leader, Speckler, and offered the gang three hundred Galleons to rob Hermione and rough her up. After they completed the task, they took the stolen items to a specified drop point in Knockturn Alley. When they returned an hour later, the goods were gone and they found a bag full of money."

"So he has no idea who paid them to do the job?"

"He says no. I had the Department's best interrogator question him, but she couldn't find any holes in his story. Dudgeon and the other attackers are really just low-level hoodlums after all. It was your stalker who called all the shots - but we still don't know who that is."

"It's already been a whole week since Hermione was attacked," Harry cut in. "And this woman has been stalking us for almost a month now. What haven't we done yet to figure this out?"

Lupin pulled a file out from his desk drawer. Leaning over the desk, Harry was able to read the label on the file: POTTER/GRANGER, Stalking, Assault, August 2002. As Lupin scanned the contents of the file, Harry realized something they'd missed.

"You need to interrogate me."

"Harry, I hardly think we need to interrogate you. You're not a suspect in any of this."

"Of course not. But no one has really questioned me about what happened at the Quidditch World Cup."

Lupin's mouth flapped open and closed like a fish out of water. "You're right. We were so fixated on the attack on Hermione that we didn't talk to you about what happened in Bulgaria."

"No, not in any detail." Harry paused, weighing his words. "The stalker planned things pretty well, don't you think?"

"Yes, it does appear that the whole thing was quite well planned." Leaning back in his chair, Lupin spent a few moments thinking. Harry waited eagerly for his boss's thoughts. "Okay, Harry. Do you have time to talk to me now? Might as well do it while you're here and not distracted."

"Okay." He sat down next to Lupin's desk, waiting for instructions. From one desk drawer Lupin pulled a roll of parchment and a Quick-Quotes Quill and set them in front of Harry, who eyed the quill suspiciously.

Lupin smiled, apparently reading Harry's mind. "Don't worry about the quill, Harry. I've charmed it to write down every word exactly as it comes from the interviewee's mouth. No funny business allowed."

Harry blew out a breath. "Thank goodness. Okay, then, I'm ready."

"You went to Bulgaria on August 23rd," Lupin said, "and the stalker found out somehow--"

"I think I lost the note you'd written to me just before the World Cup," Harry said sheepishly.

Lupin shook his head and sighed. "Okay…right…the stalker found out, realized that Hermione would be alone that weekend and decided to strike again. This time, she racheted up the violence considerably. She also decided to attack you almost simultaneously with the attack on Hermione."

"And she carried out the attack herself!" Harry exclaimed. Jumping up from this chair, he paced Lupin's office, his hands constantly in motion as he worked out what must have happened.

"How do you know that?"

Harry recounted how he and Ron attempted to respond to the stalker's first owl in Bulgaria. "Ron and I realized she wasn't really going to come," he finished, "so we started to leave. Then a big chunk of something came hurtling toward me from the sky."

"Yes, I remember you mentioning that. Go on."

"It was a piece of wooden plank. We reckoned it was from the railing around the top of the stadium. It was about two inches thick and ten inches wide, and at least three feet long."

Lupin's eyes widened. "That's quite a large chunk of wood. Falling from that height, at that velocity, it could have seriously injured you - even killed you if it landed just right."

Harry nodded. "I know. Thank God Ron was with me. He insisted on coming along. He hid in some woods nearby while I waited for the stalker. It was Ron who saw the plank falling from the sky. He ran toward me, waved his wand at the plank and shouted 'Arresto momentum!' His charm slowed the plank enough so that it couldn't hurt me too badly."

"You're very lucky he came with you," Lupin remarked sagely. "Otherwise we could be investigating a murder as well as an assault."

Shuddering, Harry plunged on. "Yeah…well…I wasn't seriously hurt. A few minutes later, another owl arrived with the note I gave you last week."

"And that's how you found out that Hermione was in trouble here in London."

"Right."

"Then what did you do?"

Harry recounted how he and Ron had gone back to London, what they found in his apartment, and how Hermione was taken to St. Mungo's.

"You didn't go with her, though. You sent Ron instead. Why?"

Harry finally stopped pacing. "I don't know," he sighed. "Something made me stay so I could meet you or whoever you sent. I guess…I guess I panicked."

Lupin was silent for a moment. "You'd had several rather large shocks in a very short period of time. Surely you can't fault yourself for being a bit off that day."

Harry bit his lip and stared at a point on the side of Lupin's desk. Mentally he was kicking himself, wishing he could do over everything that happened that day.

"I see now that I need to question you about what happened earlier," Lupin continued. "Please, Harry, have a seat and tell me in as much detail as you can what you did from the time you arrived in Bulgaria until right before you got the first note."

As Harry sat down, Lupin pulled out some fresh parchment and poised the Quick-Quote Quill above it, waiting for Harry to begin. Although the Quidditch World Cup had been played barely a week earlier, Harry had to dredge his mind for specifics, because his brain was overloaded with everything that had happened to him and Hermione since he left for Bulgaria.

"Just, um, ask me something?" he asked, a bit nervous about beginning.

"Okay," Lupin said. "So…you met Ron Weasley on" -- he checked the calendar -- "Friday, August 23rd. The two of you went to the Quidditch World Cup somewhere in Bulgaria."

"Right. There was an encampment in a park outside Sofia."

"Anything happen once you got there?"

"Well, Ron ran into some girls we knew from school. Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe. He brought them back to the tent to say hello."

"You used to fancy Miss Chang, didn't you?" Lupin asked in an even tone.

"Yes, I did. For a couple of years at Hogwarts."

"I heard that you dated her briefly while at school. Is that right?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that. She kissed me once after a DA meeting, right before Christmas. I took her to Hogsmeade at Valentine's Day. It didn't work out, though. In fact it was kind of a disaster."

"Really. Did it end badly?"

"No, it just kind of fizzled out," Harry sighed. Although he hadn't understood it then, Harry had eventually realized that Cho had been jealous of his friendship with Hermione. He remembered, foggily, how badly Ron reacted when Harry revealed that he'd had a fling with Cho. There was no need to tell Remus about that too...he'd rather not risk another shocked reaction.

"All right." The quill paused, waiting for Lupin's next words. "What about Marietta Edgecombe? What was your relationship with her?"

"None at all. She's Cho's friend. They used to come to DA meetings together."

"Did she get along well with you and Hermione?"

"For the most part. I don't remember her much at the meetings. Hermione made all the DA members sign a pledge. They promised not to rat on us to Dolores Umbridge. But Marietta told Umbridge about the DA, then her face broke out in giant spots that spelled SNEAK. Cho was angry that Hermione didn't tell the DA she'd hexed the pledge."

"How did Marietta feel about being hexed like that?"

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. I didn't really know her back then. She wasn't happy about the spots. But I'm pretty sure Kingsley did a memory charm on her so she wouldn't remember anything about the DA."

Lupin scribbled another note on the second sheet of parchment. "I'll check on that later. Who else did you run into at the Quidditch World Cup?"

Harry was silent a few moments. "I don't recall anyone else, other than Viktor Krum and his father. Viktor played for Bulgaria, of course, and we happened to sit next to his father in the Top Box."

"What about Viktor Krum? Could he be involved?"

"Of course not. He and Hermione are just friends."

"Certainly, as far as Hermione is concerned. But are you sure his feelings for her are strictly platonic?"

Harry's stomach clenched again as his dream from the morning of the attacks came back to him…Hermione sharing their bed, Harry's bed, with a man he didn't know…Harry realising the man was Viktor…Viktor getting out of bed with a hard-on like a beater's bat… Viktor had said Hermione didn't love him, but did Harry really know how Viktor felt about Hermione?

"I…I don't know," Harry said finally. "I'm not sure. I think his feelings are platonic, but I'm not one hundred percent certain. You'd have to ask Hermione what she thinks about that." It was obvious at the World Cup that Viktor still cared about Hermione very much. So even if Viktor was jealous of him, Harry couldn't imagine why he would put Hermione through a trauma like that.

A new thought crossed Harry's mind, and he felt somewhat relieved. "I'm sure Viktor couldn't have been involved. He was nowhere near London during the earlier attacks." Harry sat back and drew a heavy breath, hoping he'd managed to talk Lupin away from that line of inquiry.

Putting his own quill aside, Lupin muttered, "Finite Incantatem". The Quick-Quotes Quill stopped writing and fell to his desk. "I'm sorry I've had to grill you like this, Harry. I should have done it last week, but at that time it seemed more important to try to find Hermione's attackers as quickly as possible." He looked at his watch and grimaced. "I've kept you rather a long time, and you've not even had a chance to settle in for the day. You're done with this for now. But I might need to pick your brain again sometime later."

Feeling drained, Harry got up slowly and made his way to the door. "Okay, Remus. I'll get to work now."

"Thank you again, Harry. You've given me a lot to work with," Lupin said, ushering Harry out. "I'll keep you informed of our progress, of course."

By this time it was almost half past ten. Harry hadn't done a lick of his own work, yet he felt totally wrung out. Settling into his chair, he pulled some file folders out of his desk and began to work on another report. This was the part of being an Auror he really hated, the endless, mind-numbing paperwork. Reaching into a different drawer, he found his quill, a bottle of ink -- and the mobile phone he'd left at work on Friday evening.

It was going to be a long week.

^*^*^

July 24, 2005

To the readers of UMBRAGE:

I apologize for pausing this story. I haven't posted anything new on it since the end of May. I put it aside to write something else, much shorter, that had been on the back burner in my brain for a full year. That story is finished and posted elsewhere on Portkey (and sorry, I won't tell you where, because Umbrage is the last NC-17 fic I am posting under this pen name, and eventually I'm going to take all my R and NC-17 stories down from this pen name and move them to the other one.). Anyway, I should have gone back to writing chapter 11 of Umbrage immediately after posting that story, but then it was only about a week until HBP was to be published, and I was paralyzed by pre-HBP anxiety. As it turned out, my worst fears were realized. Not only did JKR pair up Ron and Hermione, but she also put Harry and Ginny into a silly, contrived romance in which she spent a lot of time TELLING but very little time SHOWING Harry's attraction to Ginny (or how or why she was suddenly (as JKR herself now says) "Harry's ideal woman")

So, now that all that stuff has happened (and don't get me started about JKR's interview with TLC and Mugglenet) I need to suck up my disappointment and get back on my fic-writing horse. My goal is to get the next chapter to you before the end of the summer. Sad, I know, but that's the best I can do, considering I tend to write long chapters and I haven't written anything on this story in over a month. (In fact, I've written less than 500 words since mid-June. Pathetic, I know. Writer's block is a bitch.)

I apologize if it seems like I've been stringing you along. Chapter 11 is in the works, but I haven't finished plotting out the overall story yet and I don't want to post any more until I've got that done. Again, my apologies.

Anne U

Chapter 11

"Manhandled Potter Paramour Treated at St. Mungo's

By Rita Skeeter…"

"Oooooh, that…that…unbelievable bitch! That hag!" Hermione seethed as she read the article in the Sunday Prophet. It was filled with half-truths and innuendo, and the fact that it bore Rita Skeeter's byline made it even worse.

"That was my reaction too," Harry said as he tore the back page off the newspaper and stuffed it inside Hedwig's cage. "Here you go, girl. Feel free to shit on Skeeter the same way she shat on us."

Hedwig regarded the somewhat crumpled paper with disdain. Hermione pouted, slightly annoyed when the snowy owl didn't immediately poop on the paper.

"So how was your first day back at work?" Harry asked as he sat down near Hermione on the sofa. He'd not had a chance to speak with her since he got off the lift that morning, and his interview with Lupin had left him feeling fretful and out of sorts.

Hermione gave him a wan smile and shrugged. "Not too bad. I read through some of my older cases and helped one of my co-workers with some rune translations."

"Sounds like a wildly interesting day," Harry remarked as he thumbed the latest copy of Quidditch Weekly.

"Better than being stuck at home again. How was your day?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, then paused, wondering how much he ought to tell her. "I talked to Remus about our case. He finally interrogated me about what happened in Bulgaria," he said, then summarized what he'd told Lupin.

"So now you've told him everything you know."

"Yeah. He also had some news for me."

Hermione's breath hitched as she strove to maintain a normal tone. "You mean about…my attacker."

"Yes! So he told you too?"

She felt a tiny shiver run though her and hoped Harry hadn't noticed. "Of course. I have to go in tomorrow at half-past ten and identify him."

A knot of fear entwined with disgust rose in Harry's chest as he reached over and took her hand. "I'm sorry. I wish you didn't have to do that."

Hermione turned her face toward Harry and gave him her most level gaze. "Harry, I'm the victim of the assault. I have to identify him. The Ministry can't prosecute the case without my testimony."

"I know, I…I just wish you didn't have to go through all that again. It could be really…traumatic for you."

She bit her lip, fighting an urge welling inside her to snarl at him for no reason. "Can't be worse than the actual thing, though, can it? I think it's just better to get it over with."

"Do you want me to be there when you identify him?"

"What good would that do? You weren't here when it happened. You don't know what he looks like," she snapped finally, her voice steely.

Something in her tone revived Harry's guilt about the attack. "I know I wasn't here! I haven't been able to forget that since it happened."

Rising quickly from the sofa, Hermione drew herself up to her full height and looked down at him. "Harry, I meant only that you wouldn't be able to identify him anyway, so there's no need for you to come along. I don't need a babysitter," she finished with a note of exasperation.

Harry was nonplussed. Why was she making this so difficult? All he wanted to do was be there for her to lean on. "I'm just trying to be supportive."

"And I'm trying to explain that I don't need you there. I can take care of myself. It's just a police lineup."

That's what Hermione kept telling herself, over and over. I don’t need Harry with me. It's only a police lineup. Perhaps by the time she went to the lineup, she would believe it. For the rest of the day, though, she and Harry danced around each other, each afraid to step on the other's toes or say the wrong thing. When they crawled into bed that night, she felt tense and out of sorts; Harry's body language -- flat on his back, staring at the ceiling -- suggested that he felt the same.

^*^*^*^

Shortly before half past ten the next morning, Hermione went to level one, where the Ministry held alleged criminals for questioning. In the short time between leaving her desk in level nine and arriving at the criminal docket, her insides had begun to wiggle like jelly. Perhaps her insistence on excluding Harry had been rash after all. Still, by insisting on going it alone, she'd made her bed and now she'd have to lie in it. And she proved a point to him and to herself, that she’d have to bear this alone.

When the lift door opened at level two, it appeared that no one had got on and the lift had stopped by mistake. There'd been no mistake, however, because someone had got on. It was Harry, who'd scrunched down under his Invisibility Cloak, then slunk into the corner of the lift, holding his breath until the next floor. There was another witch on the lift, and Harry had to take care to stay close to the doors so he could get off immediately when they opened - but not so close that Hermione might accidentally bump into him as she got off. The last time he'd held his breath and scrunched up for so long had been years earlier, at school. I wouldn't be doing this if she'd just be reasonable about the situation, he rationalized before the doors finally opened.

When Hermione got off the lift at level one, Harry followed a few paces behind her so that she wouldn't hear him breathing or back up and accidentally trip on his cloak. He had to do some fancy footwork so that no one else would run into him either. As Hermione made her way carefully through the criminal arraignment area, Harry had to stop short a few times to avoid bumping into several Ministry employees who crossed his path. He was relieved when Hermione finally reached the booking desk and spoke to the clerk.

"I'm Hermione Granger. Captain Lupin asked me to come in this morning to identify someone."

Nodding absently, the clerk opened a leather binder full of sheaves of parchment, then scanned the top page and grunted, "Okay. I'll tell him you're here." He launched a parchment airplane into the waiting area; it zoomed past Hermione, then floated down a long hallway and made a sharp left turn.

Harry remained hunched against a long wall, watching and waiting as quietly as possible under his Invisibility Cloak. Fortunately for his back and knees, he didn't have to wait long. Remus Lupin appeared at the end of the hallway and beckoned Hermione to follow him. As Hermione walked briskly around the counter, Harry followed her as carefully and surreptitiously as he could, hoping desperately that he wouldn't stumble or otherwise break his cover.

You're an Auror, Potter. . .Get a grip. Stealth is part of your business.

Yeah, but I don't usually stake out or follow my own girlfriend…

Good point…

Lupin led Hermione briskly to one of the rooms set aside for identifying alleged perpetrators. He entered the room first, then held the door open while she walked through. Harry was glad that Hermione seemed hesitant to enter the room, because it allowed him to enter close behind her -- and it confirmed, to him, that she wasn't totally fearless about this encounter. As the door closed, it barely missed snagging on the Invisibility Cloak. Harry wanted to breathe a sigh of relief then, but his relief was short-lived. In the center of the room, a Ministry clerk sat at a small desk, an eagle-feather quill poised in his hand, waiting to take notes. At the other end of the room, locked inside a heavily barred holding cell, was a tall, scruffy hoodlum with scraggly blond hair.

Hermione apparently was not prepared to see any of her assailants at close range, especially not this one. Her eyes went wide, then the slightest tremor became visible in her right hand and along her right jaw line. Harry recognized that tremor; he'd not seen it often, and in this situation he was sure that it meant she was terrified. Well of course she's frightened; that worthless scumbag tried to--

He couldn't continue the thought. Fighting back his desire to comfort her, Harry bit his lip to keep from yelling obscenities across the room.

Lupin nodded to the clerk, then began calmly, "Hermione, I need to ask you, for the record. Is this the person who tried to violate you on the morning of Sunday, August twenty-fifth?"

The tremor in Hermione's jaw and right hand became more pronounced as she appeared to struggle to find words. Unable to speak, she nodded slowly.

Lupin suddenly looked tired and sad. "I’m very sorry, Hermione, but you'll have to speak in order to make the identification official."

Harry had stayed closed to the door so that he could leave quickly when the time came. At that moment, though, he wished he were closer to Hermione so he could look into her eyes; he was sure they would show what was reflected in her posture -- fear, anxiety and defeat. She stood quietly, her head slumped slightly, her shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly. Across the room, the blond thug leered through the cell doors, an ugly snarl on his lips.

"Yes," Hermione said quietly. "Yes, that's him. That's the man who…who…" She stopped suddenly, unable to go on.

"WHO DID WHAT, MUDBLOOD?" the blond thug screamed from the cell. "WHAT DID I DO? YOU THINK THESE MINISTRY STOOGES WILL BELIEVE YOU? I'M A PUREBLOOD, AND YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A MUDBLOOD WHORE!"

"MR. GUDGEON, DESIST!" Lupin yelled back, pointing his wand toward the cell. Suddenly Elfric "Jester" Gudgeon was slammed against the back well of the cell, spread-eagled, with his wrists against the wall.

"It's okay, Hermione," Lupin said quietly, in his most soothing voice. "He can't hurt you; he's magically bound to the wall now. Sometimes we have to keep recalcitrants like him locked up that way."

Hermione nodded slowly. Harry sensed that her shoulders were shuddering less, but she still seemed terribly shaken.

"That's the one. That's the disgusting piece of filth who…stuck his…penis…in my face and…tried to make me… suck it." She spoke haltingly, the words struggling to leave her throat.

A new round of catcalls poured from the holding cell. "Mudblood bitch…Potter's whore…shoulda killed you in the war…" Gudgeon's voice grew louder as he repeated the epithet in a maniacal, sing-song voice. "Mudblood bitch…Potter's whore…someone wants to settle a score….We should've offed you when we had the chance," he snarled in a dangerous tone of voice. "Maybe somebody'll finish the job--"

In a flash, Lupin's wand was pointed toward Dudgeon's throat. Lupin yelled, "Langloc!" and Dudgeon's lips flapped emptily, but not soon enough. Lupin knows that spell too? Harry wondered, watching in horror as Hermione leaned against the wall, her body shaking as she stifled huge sobs. Unable to do anything without giving himself away, he retreated closer to the door while Lupin encouraged Hermione to sit down.

"I'm sorry I had to put you through this, Hermione," Lupin comforted her. "You did admirably well under the circumstances. Gudgeon is a bloody toerag. I should've known he might confront you this way."

Pointing his wand at the holding cell, Lupin muttered, "Impedimenta!" The air a few feet in front of Gudgeon shimmered as a temporary shield went up.

Lupin then nodded toward the clerk, who made to leave the room.

Seeing his chance, Harry sneaked out quietly behind the clerk and made his way out of the criminal arraignment area as quickly as he could. He knew that if he'd stayed another second, he might have tried to keelhaul Gudgeon. After seeing the way Gudgeon had taunted Hermione, Harry could only imagine what Hermione might be feeling after confronting her attacker.

Ducking inside the nearest men's toilet, Harry pulled off his Invisibility Cloak and leaned against the wash basin. He was sweating profusely and felt pale and shaky, thoughts of what he'd just witnessed swirling in his brain.

"You don't look so good," the mirror above the wash basin commented dryly.

"I feel like shite," Harry said honestly, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his palm.

"Perhaps you shouldn't go sneaking around the Ministry under an Invisibility Cloak."

"Perhaps you should mind your own business."

Thoroughly annoyed, Harry stuffed the cloak in his trouser pocket, then took a lift back to his office, where he sat and stewed, unmolested, for the rest of the morning. Lupin was busy with other cases in the arraignment area, the Aurors in the nearest cubicles were out on assignment, and Harry himself was waiting for Tonks to return from wherever she'd gone that morning so they could start on a new assignment together. For someone with his personal history and tendency toward brooding, this was an unhappy confluence of events. Hermione's latest ordeal -- identifying Jester Gudgeon -- had left a deeper imprint on Harry than he realized, and while he sat with nothing to take his mind off the situation, a claustrophobic feeling rose in his chest, squeezing at his heart until he suddenly felt dizzy again.

Panic. The same panic he'd felt in the Department of Mysteries when he thought that Dolohov had killed Hermione. Voldemort was gone, but remnants of his Death Eater organization still pocked the countryside. Maybe the person who'd been stalking him and Hermione really was a Death Eater, or someone with ties to the Death Eaters. Harry knew that terrorizing him or anyone close to him -- especially Hermione -- would be just the kind of thing a Death Eater would do to strike fear in Wizard folk across England, Scotland and Europe. Worse yet, there was no way to know how far the stalker would take things, just how far she would go to get whatever it was that she wanted. . . .

A thought came to Harry, crystal clear and sharp as a knife. He had no choice. If he wanted to protect Hermione -- and he wanted that with every fiber of his being -- he would have to cut himself out of her life.

For her own good, I've got to leave Hermione.

^*^*^*^

Author's Note -- This is very short chapter for me - less than 2,500 words. Many thanks to my betas once again, and to everyone who has commented on any part of this story. At the rate I'm going I won't finish it until sometime in 2006. Sorry about that. Real Life has continued to kick my butt and basically stomp all over my muse; my mother has been sick off and on since April, and 12 members of my immediate family (including my parents) had to leave their homes due to Hurricane Katrina. I've also got a few short pieces in the works, which will push chapter 12 back even further, so I appreciate your patience for the glacial pace at which I post new chapters and stories.

That reminds me: This is the last R- or NC-17 rated story you'll see from me under this pen name Due to RL issues, I'm separating my "mature" stories from the ones more suitable for younger people. I've actually posted a couple of stories on Portkey under my new pen name for mature stories: oh_honestleigh. Eventually I'll be moving all of my previous "mature" stories to that pen name. I know, it's kind of elaborate, but it's what I need to do. That's my punishment for picking this pen name originally - it's just much too close to my real name L Anyway, thanks again to all of you who have ever reviewed any of my stories. I really appreciate your comments more than I can say. And now I'll stop before my author's note becomes longer than the chapter.

Faithful readers -- I'm finally done with this chapter. Hallelujah. I apologize for taking 4 months to update. As some of you know, since early September Real Life has been kicking my butt very seriously, and I had terrible writer's block on this story until the Christmas holidays. I want to thank my lovely betas, tome_raider and especially abigail89, for their wise advice. You'll notice very selective use of new canon here (as I have conveniently ignored all the H/G crap in HBP, since I started this story 8 months before HBP was published and there's no way in h$$$ I'm going to adjust the backstory now). There's also a new original character. I'll give 10 points to anyone recognizes the OC's ancestry and mentions it in their review. I hope this chapter is worth the wait. Thank you again for your continued patience and support.

Chapter 12

Bloody toerag is right, Hermione fumed as she returned to her desk in the Department of Mysteries. Identifying Jester Gudgeon had been much more draining than she'd anticipated. During the past few weeks, Hermione had worked hard to encase her memories of the attack in a kind of mental shrink wrap, sucking the air out of them until they were flat, sterile and immobile. Her session with Jester and Lupin shattered the façade she'd built about those memories. In the five minutes it took to walk from the interrogation room to her work area, Hermione's emotions threatened to run away with her. Fear, denial, anger, shame, bitterness, disgust, and panic all raced through her mind and body, leaving her light-headed and a bit nauseous.

"You're not looking well," said Padma Patil, handing Hermione a glass of water as she sat down at her desk.

Hermione nodded her thanks, then sipped the water slowly. "I've been better."

"Something to do with your…case?" Padma sounded hesitant.

"Yes. I had to identify one of my attackers." Hermione was pleased that her voice didn't betray the panic rising in her chest.

Frowning, Padma perched on the edge of Hermione's desk. "I'm sure the boss wouldn't mind if you took the rest of the day off. Better that than to stay here and be rattled and unable to focus, don't you think?"

Hermione shook her head vigorously. "No, I'm fine. Really. I've been through worse. I just got back yesterday. I really need to get caught up." Hands trembling slightly, she opened a desk drawer, pulled out a slim folder and placed it in the middle of her tidy desktop, then looked up at Padma expectantly, hoping she would get the hint.

She was not disappointed.

"Okay, if you say so," Padma said finally. "My partner and I will be getting a new assignment later today. If you want, I can talk with you when I get back."

Hermione nodded, shutting her eyes. She appreciated Padma's attempt to draw her out, but she really didn't want to speak to her about any of it. What she needed to do was talk to Harry, but she feared his reaction. She could just imagine him pacing their living room, his brow furrowed while he either seethed silently or muttered epithets under his breath. And that would be the pleasant part.

I won't think about that now, she sighed as she carefully opened the folder on top of her desk. I'll think about that tomorrow. Right now I'll just read this file and start catching up. Catching up…yes, I'll catch up…

But instead of focusing on her files, Hermione found her mind wandering to Harry, wondering what how he would react if she told him what had happened that morning, wondering if she could pinpoint exactly when he had started to withdraw from her physically and emotionally. Because she was sure he had started doing exactly that -- and she knew that if she thought hard on it, she might realize something she didn't want to know.

^*^*^*^

Arriving home after work, Harry found Hermione wearing a dark tee shirt and leggings, practicing martial arts in the living room.

"How was your day?" he asked, wondering if he could pull it off. Unbeknownst to Hermione, he had intruded on her ordeal that morning, and now he had to act as though he knew nothing about it. A good test for my Slytherin side, he thought, shoving his hand nervously through his hair.

Hermione, apparently, wasn't going to play along, and continued moving quickly through the various steps, kicks and punches. "Well…I had to sit in a claustrophobic interrogation room with Remus and that--that beast who attacked me." Her outfit hung from her body; it was obvious she'd lost weight lately. "Then I went to my desk and spent the rest of the day reading, though I did come home a bit early. So how do you think my day went?" Her eyes were distant, focused on the other side of the room, and she didn't stop to hug him or kiss his cheek.

Biting his lip, Harry weighed his words carefully. "It sounds like the identification was stressful for you, and afterward you took things easy."

Hermione glanced at him sideways. "I've had worse days," she said sharply.

"I would have been happy to come with you," he reminded her.

Hermione paused for a moment. She seemed tired and frazzled but, as usual, too proud and independent to admit to what he'd witnessed. "Yes, you did offer," she said quietly. "It wasn't…all that bad…and Jester is firmly in custody, and Remus said he'll probably go to Azkaban."

"Assuming there's a trial."

"Why wouldn't there be?"

Harry took his time answering. "Maybe our stalker will find a way to prevent it."

"You mean like bribing someone at the Ministry?" As Hermione resumed her movements, she seemed genuinely worried.

"I don't know. She seems to be able to accomplish whatever she wants to when it comes to harassing us."

The look on Hermione's face morphed from worry to steely determination. Swinging around in front of Harry, she stood with arms akimbo, her eyes blazing. "You sound like you've given up, like you expect her to continue stalking us, like you think even worse things will happen."

Harry plunked himself on the sofa, pulling off his tie as he leaned back against the plush cushions. "How long have you known me, Hermione?"

She whirled around and punched the air, her hand coming closer to Harry than he would have preferred. "Eleven years. And a few days. Not that I'm counting," she smirked.

"And in all those eleven years, can you remember a time when things didn't go from bad to worse where I was concerned?"

Hermione's eyebrow shot up. "Actually, you did seem to be rather the golden boy in sixth year."

Why is she going there, after all these years? Harry stood up suddenly, almost blocking her moves. "You haven't forgiven me, still, for doing better than you in Potions that year? I thought we'd got past that business of the potions book --"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it!" she shot back. "Bloody hell, Harry, how petty do you think I am? After everything we've been through…" She was panting now, her face blazing with concentration and dripping with sweat.

"Forget about Slughorn and the damn book," he hissed. "You're working out awfully hard right now. Are you sure that's a wise thing to do so soon after…your ordeal?"

The edge of Hermione's right hand suddenly met his left cheek. "I'm not a bloody China doll, Harry! Stop patronizing me!"

"I'm not -- I'm -- what the hell was that about?"

Harry tried to wrap his arms around Hermione to restrain her, but when he grabbed her right arm, he found himself being flipped onto the carpet, where Hermione pinned him to the floor with her thighs on either side of his torso. Her hair was damp and tangled, her face flushed with exertion, and Harry recognized a particularly hungry look in her eyes that always sent a shiver of excitement down to his groin. This time was no exception.

I've won and he knows it, she thought, unable to keep from smirking. She slid further down his body until she encountered his erection. Repositioning herself, Hermione began to slowly, methodically grind her crotch against his. Harry's arms were free now, and after a minute of grinding, he pulled Hermione down and kissed her passionately for the first time in weeks. As she parted her lips slightly, his tongue delved slowly and surely into her mouth while his fingers twined in her hair. Hermione shuddered as Harry's mouth moved to the crook of her jaw, to the spot beneath her ear that always left her mad with desire for him. As they continued rocking against each other, his pelvis pressed to hers, he nibbled her ear and ran his hands under the waistband of her leggings.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his fingers rubbing circles on her buttocks through her knickers. "I shouldn't have brought up ancient history. I shouldn't doubt your abilities. I shouldn't love you as much as I do either, but I can't seem to help that."

Hermione's eyes had a wild gleam. "Would you like to show me just how sorry you are?"

Harry took the hint immediately. "I'll show you right here and now," he murmured as he pulled her tee shirt over her head and flung it across the room.

"You're not afraid of hurting me?" Her eyes questioned him even more than her tone of voice.

"Yeah, I am, a bit. But if you really want this…just let me know if anything hurts."

Hermione's nostrils flared. "Harry, I've been waiting weeks for you to want to shag me good and hard. So give me everything you've got." Her leggings were gone, tossed in a pile with the tee shirt. Straddling him in just her bra and knickers, she unbuttoned and removed his shirt, then unzipped his flies, reached in and began stroking his swollen cock. Shivering with anticipation, Harry automatically began to pump into Hermione's right hand.

"Diffindo knickers," he muttered, and her knickers fell off in two neatly divided pieces. As Hermione continued to stroke him, Harry grasped her arms gently, then rolled her onto her back and began to stroke the soft, wet curls between her legs. Not bothering to unhook her bra, he pushed the lacy fabric aside and took first one nipple into his mouth, then the other. While he hunched over her, sucking and licking her breasts, Hermione fumbled with his trousers, pushing them and his underpants down past his knees. His cock was hard as granite now, ridged with purple veins like swirling snakes. As he rolled one nipple between his lips, she let her knees fall wide open and pulled his cock toward her until the tip pressed against her entrance. Harry whimpered.

"Now, Harry, please," she panted.

He obliged in one long, slow, deliciously tortuous stroke.

Hermione's muscles clenched around his cock, taking him in an inch at a time. Rolling his hips, his breath hitching, he stroked in and out, slowly at first. When he was fully seated inside her, he hooked her right leg over his shoulder and began to stroke hard and fast, plunging in as deep as he could. This was what she'd wanted, been desperate for, Harry filling her up until she couldn't think straight. She let out a long, low moan, an almost feral sound that she hoped would urge him onward -- not that Harry needed much encouragement. Her gasps and moans intensified as she pushed toward him repeatedly to meet his thrusts. The faster he moved, the louder she moaned until, finally, she arched her back and let loose a howl that made Harry wish he'd cast a silencing charm before they'd started shagging. As she shuddered beneath him while her orgasm resolved, Harry finished up, stroking as hard and fast as he could until his own orgasm shook him, leaving him limp on top of her.

Looking sideways, he saw Hermione smile dreamily as her tangled, bushy hair fanned out against the carpet.

"You seemed quite sorry. I forgive you," she purred, pulling his face down so she could kiss him.

"Thank you."

"And I love you."

"I know."

She was so smart, so beautiful, so giving. She even forgave him when he'd been a total prat. Leaving her would be the hardest thing he'd ever done.

^*^*^

"Mmm, something smells good," Harry said a few hours later as Hermione magicked a tray into the living room. The tray held a steaming teapot, two mugs and a bowl of freshly popped popcorn. Hedwig sat serenely in her cage in a corner of the living room, while Crookshanks was curled up in a furry, purring ball near Harry's feet.

Hermione smiled as she directed the tray onto the coffee table in front of the sofa. "That’s another advantage of living in a Muggle block of flats," she said as she sat down next to him. "We can use a microwave oven."

"And we can watch television. And DVDs!" Harry added gleefully. He’d never been allowed to watch much television at the Dursleys’ house. Now, in his own flat, he enjoyed being able to watch whatever he wanted to, whether it was a film on DVD or television shows like Eastenders and Never Mind the Buzzcocks. Sipping his tea, he leaned back against the sofa, while Hermione snuggled her head against his shoulder.

"So are we going to watch a film tonight?" she asked as he fumbled with a stack of DVDs on the coffee table.

"Yeah, what should we watch? I was thinking that something older might be good. I didn’t see many films when I was growing up."

Hermione threaded her fingers with Harry’s on his free hand. "I’m sure I know why," she said ruefully, kissing his knuckles. "So you’ve been making up for lost time the past few years. What do you want to watch?"

"How about an adventure film, or maybe a detective film? Maybe The French Connection?"

"Wouldn’t that seem rather like your own work?"

Harry paused. "You’ve got a point. I think I’ll let you choose."

"I’d like to watch something romantic but not too exciting," she said as she shuffled through the DVDs. "Oh! This is it. How about Singin' In The Rain?"

Harry smirked. "I think you must fancy that Gene Kelly bloke. I mean, watching the same film twenty times…"

"Not twenty! Only ten." Hermione blushed. "And you know why I love it so much, don’t you?"

Harry knew, but he liked to hear her say it. "Why’s that?"

"Because it reminds me of the three of us -- you, me and Ron. Not the music or the dancing, of course, but the friendship."

Harry smiled. "Donald O’Connor does have ginger hair. Though he sings and dances much better than Ron."

Hermione chuckled. "Definitely. And the way Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds -- I mean, their characters -- fell in love"—she blushed again –"reminds me a tiny bit of how you and I started out as friends, but finally realized that what we felt –"

"—was much more than friends should feel for each other?"

"Exactly!" Beaming, she kissed his cheek and snuggled closer to him. "Oh Harry, I knew you’d understand."

As they watched Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds and Donald O'Connor sing and dance across the television screen, Harry settled back against the sofa and relaxed. Occasionally, when he felt too settled or lazy to reach over to the popcorn bowl, he levitated a few kernels of popcorn into his mouth, which made Hermione smirk and roll her eyes at him. When the film finally ended around ten o'clock, Harry was blissfully ensconced in his seat, barely able to see, much less to move. Hermione had to tug his arm rather hard to help him off the sofa.

"Someone seems to be rather tired tonight," she observed.

"Someone else wore him out a few hours ago."

"Are you trying to tell me something?" she smirked, pulling a stumbling Harry toward their bedroom.

He struggled to raise an eyebrow. "Just don't expect a repeat performance right now. I think I could fall into bed and sleep for about twelve hours."

"You really are tired, aren't you?"

She pulled him into the bedroom, turned down the duvet and sat Harry on his side of the bed. Then she gently removed his shoes and socks and rubbed his feet. Harry fell back against his pillow, his breathing getting slower and deeper as Hermione's hands caressed the soles of his feet.

"Gonna…fall...'sleep…soon," he mumbled as Hermione tucked his legs under the covers.

She kissed him gently. "I'm going to do my nightly routine in the bathroom, Harry. Sweet dreams."

'M so stupid, Harry thought as he began to drift off, stupid arse. Don't deserve her. Don't….deserve…

^*^*^*^

Hermione was in a brilliant mood the next few days. Her escapade with Harry on the living room floor made her feel wanted and desirable again, which was what she missed most from "B.T.A." - before the assault. She knew that Harry needed her -- he'd needed her for eleven years -- and that he loved her, but she needed to know that, despite what had happened, he desired her too. He had confirmed that quite nicely by practically shagging her into the carpet; that was one episode of lovemaking she'd not soon forget. There was no debt involved, of course; it was love freely given. But she made a point to provide little affectionate extras the rest of the week: a hand on the cheek, a kiss on the forehead, an occasional pinch of his gorgeous backside -- but only in their flat, because she was skittish about public displays of affection, especially with the stalker still on the loose. Harry seemed to appreciate all of these little endearments; he held her hand more in the next few days than he'd done in the previous month.

Of course Hermione couldn't know that the handholding was Harry's way of clinging to what had been his life raft for the past eleven years. He and Hermione went back to having sex almost every day, usually at night right before bedtime. The sex was physically satisfying but emotionally draining; as he licked and sucked and pumped into her, his mind often wandered to the dreaded fact that he planned to leave her, needed to leave her soon for her own safety. One night, when she'd sucked his cock until he damn near passed out from his orgasm, he resolved to leave as soon as he could get a few things straightened out. Once he was able to put his affairs in order, find a Secret Keeper and find a potion or spell that would prevent Hermione from following him, he would leave and never come back. It was the only way that he could think of to insulate her from the stalker's insanity.

Harry found his mind drifting at work and at home as he pondered what he needed to do. He had to find some way to keep Hermione from following him, and he knew that a forgetfulness potion wouldn't be enough. He couldn't Obliviate her either, because he and Hermione were celebrities as well as heroes, and one of the best-known couples in the Wizarding World. There was probably only one way to keep Hermione from following him, he finally decided: it would have to be some kind of spell or potion that would make her hate him so much she would never want to see him again.

"A Sickle for your thoughts?" she asked gently one morning as he stared into his coffee at breakfast.

"Uh? Oh…nothing much," he lied, stirring his coffee to calm his nerves. "Just thinking about a case I'm working on."

"Those robberies again?"

"No, something else. It's a tough case. I can't really tell you more than that."

She petted his hand across the table. "That's okay. I understand completely. I'm never able to tell you about my work. It's too bad you can't share this with me. Anything I could help you with in a general way?"

"No, I'm fine, I mean, it's okay. It's very complicated." And I really can't let anything slip about it. He drained the rest of his coffee in one swallow, then stood up to leave. "I've got to go to work now. I'll see you this evening." Then he pecked her on the cheek and Floo'd to the Ministry.

Harry spent the morning interviewing Madam Malkin and her employees about a break-in at her shop. He had no reason to tie it to the burglaries in Bury St. Edmunds during the summer, but that case was still open, so he made a note to follow up on it with Tonks when he got back to the office. Now that he was already in Diagon Alley, though, it seemed like a good time to see if one of his old school mates could help him with his personal problem.

He waited outside the apothecary shop in Diagon Alley until he was sure no customers remained inside. Entering the shop, he spied the dark hair of Terry Boot, who was apparently searching for something beneath the counter. Terry was in Ravenclaw House at Hogwarts and seemed to have a bit of a crush on Hermione during fifth year. Harry remembered that Terry worked hard in the Defence Association, helped him deal with Malfoy on the train at the end of term, and later, during the Second Voldemort War, served with distinction on the potions team of the Order of the Phoenix. Terry was not only an excellent chemist but also quite good with charms. If anyone could advise him about this, Terry could.

"'Lo, Terry," Harry called across the shop.

Terry stood up and grinned. "Hello, Harry. It's been a while."

"Yeah, it has. A more than a year, I think."

Terry was silent a moment, seeming to weigh his words. "I saw the stories in the Daily Prophet. I'm really sorry about all the shite you and Hermione have been through lately."

"'Thanks," Harry muttered. "We've had a rough month. In fact I've probably never been this scared for Hermione's safety, not even during the war."

Terry looked puzzled. "You think this is really aimed at her?"

Harry shrugged and scratched his neck. "Dunno. She seems to think it's aimed at both of us. Doesn't matter who the real target is, though; it's Hermione who's been hurt the worst by this whole stinking mess."

"I heard that one of the assailants was arrested. That's got to be good, right?"

"Better than nothing, I guess. Thanks for your concern, Terry." Harry stopped short of saying any more about what he and Hermione had been through, weighing his next words carefully. "Actually, I came to ask for your professional help on something I'm doing for the Ministry." I hope he buys this, Harry thought anxiously.

"What kind of help do you need?" Terry seemed intrigued.

Harry mentally reviewed his cover story, then forged ahead. "I'm an Auror, and right now I'm doing some research on Dark wizards' methods of committing various crimes. I've heard that there's a potion that can cause one person to hate another. The Ministry suspects that Death Eaters are using this potion to cause trouble between Muggle neighbours. If you have anything like this, or if you know where I could get some, I'd like to purchase a small vial to use in my research."

Terry looked at him quizzically. His eyes darted toward the door; when no one entered, his face softened. "I think I know what you're talking about," he said cautiously. "I can't actually give it to you myself, because this apothecary is licensed by the Ministry and we can't sell anything like that. However," he lowered his voice, "I could brew it for you, but it would take a while. It's not exactly something I have in my own flat, either."

Harry frowned. "If it takes longer than three days, that's too long. I need it quickly. My, erm, research will fall behind if I don't get it soon."

"Okay. I do know someone who could help you quickly." Terry pulled a parchpad from under the counter, then scribbled a name and address and some directions on it, plus a word Harry had never seen before.

"Thanks so much, Terry. I really appreciate this," Harry said, stuffing the sheet of parchment in his pocket.

"You're welcome, Harry. Just be sure to follow any instructions you get to the letter."

Harry nodded. "Don't worry, I will. Good-bye, Terry. Thanks again."

Nodding, Terry turned toward the shelves behind the counter, unaware that Harry was pointing his wand at him. Harry had become very good at non-verbal spells, especially the Obliviation charm, and he’d used it sometimes in his work to cover his tracks. Terry wouldn't remember Harry ever coming to visit him, much less the advice he'd given.

^*^*^

Despite Terry's chicken-scratch handwriting, Harry was able to follow the directions on the parchment without much trouble. About twenty minutes after leaving Diagon Alley, he arrived in front of an inconspicuous shop in Simmery Axe, a narrow lane off the Caledonian Road. The sign next to the front door said simply, "John Wellington Wells III, Prop." Harry peered through a small, greasy window. The shop appeared to be empty, but the door was unlocked, so someone had to be there. He hoped he would find what he was looking for.

Entering the shop, Harry found a long, narrow, dusty room that reminded him of the late Mr. Ollivander's wand shop in Diagon Alley. At the back of the shop, seated next to a small table covered in fringed scarves, was a gaunt old wizard with gimlet eyes. He wore a cravat and a morning coat, and what remained of his white hair formed an odd fringe all around his head, something like a stringy halo. Harry thought he was one of the oddest-looking men he'd ever seen.

"Erm, hello," he called out.

The old man cocked his head. "Yes?"

"I'm looking for John Wellington Wells the third."

The old man stood up and bowed slightly toward Harry. "At you service. And you would be?"

"I'm Harry Potter. I --"

"Well, of course you are." Mr. Wells gave a half-smile as he recognized Harry's scar. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, young man."

Harry cleared his throat. "Erm, yes, well. I'm an Auror with the Ministry now, and I'm researching Dark wizards' methods of committing various crimes." Harry gave the old wizard the same story he'd told Terry Boot and waited for his reaction.

Mr. Wells' right eyebrow arched high. "Interesting. I can't recall anyone from the Ministry ever asking for me for a potion. Not in the seventy years I've been proprietor. Though I suppose someone might have asked my father or my grandfather back when they ran the shop."

Harry wondered if Wells was stalling. "Is my request a problem for you?"

The gimlet eyes surveyed Harry cautiously. "Not a problem, no. I just rarely have the opportunity to, shall we say, assist the Ministry. Usually my customers are more unsavory types."

Harry nodded. "I suppose that what you sell isn't exactly government-sanctioned, if I understand your business correctly."

"You are correct, Mr. Potter," Wells replied with a half-smile.

"Look," Harry went on, continuing with his cover story, "I don't care whether you're selling things that are technically illegal. I won't tell anyone where I got this potion and I won't use your name when I write the report. You can remain anonymous. Is that what you need to hear? I promise you'll remain anonymous."

Wells appeared to be considering Harry's words.

"Mr. Well, please, if you have any of this potion right now, I want to buy some from you so I can get started on my research right away. The price isn't an issue."

Harry pulled a bag full of Galleons from his cloak. The old man's smile returned; he nodded and slipped behind a draped opening in the wall, returning a moment later with a small glass vial containing a shimmering, light green liquid.

"This is what you're looking for, Mr. Potter. If you know of Amortentia, this is its opposite. It's called Abominaria, and over the centuries, Dark wizards have used it to sow enmity between neighbors, to cause wars, and even to have monarchs and presidents assassinated. I assume you're familiar with Polyjuice Potion?"

Harry nodded. Abominaria -- that must be the unfamiliar word Terry wrote on the parchment.

"Abominaria is similar to Polyjuice in a few specific ways," Wells explained. "Like Polyjuice, Abominaria is designed to be tailored to a specific person."

"How would you do that?" Harry asked.

"You add to the potion an artifact from the body of the target -- the person you want someone else to hate. The artifact is typically a fragment of fingernail, or a drop of saliva, or perhaps a hair or an eyelash. The less of the artifact you add, the less effect the potion has, ranging from mere dislike up to a desire to kill the target."

Harry pondered this for a moment. "Go on."

"Abominaria is much easier to make than Polyjuice. You brew the basic potion for two weeks. At that point it can be divided into numerous smaller portions, which can be put aside until needed. So, when you want to target the potion to a specific person, you would take a small amount of Abominaria -- really, a few ounces is more than enough -- and add the artifact to that. Then you simmer the mixture for two days."

"That sounds fairly simple," Harry observed. "What else is involved?"

"The final Abominaria potion, when properly brewed, is a clear liquid that can be added easily to someone's drink," Wells continued. "Once drunk, it has no immediate effect, but it will make the recipient -- the person who drinks it -- sleepy within an hour. When the recipient awakens, he will seem to behave normally at first, but as soon as the target is seen, heard or mentioned, the recipient will harbor ill will toward the target."

"And the amount of ill will, as you call it, varies from dislike to outright hatred to murderous thoughts."

"Yes, depending on how much target artifact has been added."

"I see." Harry realised that if he were not planning to leave soon, he would bring this information directly to Remus Lupin. It might help the Auror Division clear up a number of very old cases in the files. "Are there any restrictions against using Abominaria? Any cases when it should never be used?"

Wells' expression turned grave. "Abominaria must never be used on a pregnant woman. Never! The consequences to the mother and her child cannot even be contemplated."

Harry was silent for a moment, taking in everything he'd just heard. "Thanks for telling me that." Good thing Hermione isn't pregnant, he thought, letting out a small sigh of relief. "So how much artifact would you need to add to make the recipient hate the target but not want to kill him? Just, say, never want to see him ever again?"

Wells bit the inside of his cheek, then nodded. "I believe three hairs or six drops of saliva would suffice." Wells looked at Harry curiously. "You did say you needed this information for Ministry research, is that correct?"

"Yes, Ministry research into criminal modes of operation. How much do you want for that vial, Mr. Wells?" Harry jingled his bag of Galleons again.

"Ten Galleons is a fair price, I believe. My usual customers are willing to pay twenty for this amount, but you can have it for half price. Because it's for research."

Harry drew ten large, gold coins from the bag and gave them to the old wizard, who handed him the vial. "Thank you, sir, for the potion and the information. You've been a great help."

"You're quite welcome, Mr. Potter. I've always wondered when the Ministry would finally take notice of some of the more arcane advantages employed by our less law-abiding citizens. You'll inform me of your research results, I'm sure?"

Harry nodded; what was one more lie in his growing list of inventions and prevarications? Exiting the shop, he pulled his cloak around him and Disapparated, landing near the dustbin outside the Ministry. It was almost one o'clock. Remus would probably be wondering why he'd spent so long talking with Madam Malkin.

^*^*^

Around half past eleven, Hermione sent a memo flying toward the Auror Division, inviting Harry to meet her for lunch. When a half-hour passed and he'd not replied, she decided to seek out her other best friend. Her invitation to Ron came back in less than ten minutes, with "You bet! Meet me in the Atrium" scribbled on an outside wing. Five minutes later, she found him buying a sausage roll and pumpkin pasties from one of the Atrium food carts.

"Hello, stranger," she said brightly, greeting him with a warm hug. Ron hugged her back, ruffling her hair with his free hand.

"Hello, yourself. How are you doing, Hermione?"

"I'm much better, thank you. It's such a nice day. I'd really like to eat outside, if that's okay with you. Could we find a bench somewhere?"

"Sure. Let's get out of here."

Once outside, Hermione grabbed Ron's arm and Apparated both of them to St. James Park.

"Blimey, Hermione, you really did mean outside!" Ron protested as they seated themselves on an empty bench facing The Mall.

"I thought it would be better to talk some place where no one really knows us," she replied. "I'm not sure where I'm safe anymore, but this seems safer than chatting publicly inside the Ministry or nearby."

Munching on his sausage roll, Ron nodded. "Sho why er wan talk?"

"Well, I've been back at work a few days now and Harry has finally stopped babying me."

"Tha's good, innit?"

"You know, I ought to think it's good, but it just doesn't sit right with me. It seems too sudden. We had a rather spectacular row a few nights ago --"

Ron winked. "Complete with a spectacular makeup?"

Hermione blushed. "Actually, yes. And since then, Harry's usual over-protectiveness has completely disappeared." Ron looked puzzled. "I mean, he's not fussing anymore about me doing too much, pushing too hard, or any of the usual things. Our sex life has improved --"

Now Ron blushed.

"-- but there's something wrong. Harry just seems to be going through the motions. They're very good motions, mind you, but somehow his heart doesn't seem to be in it. I feel like he's making love with me to placate me. He's also stopped touching me when we're in public."

"Well, maybe he doesn't want to make the stalker angry again."

"That could be true. But he doesn't grab me randomly and snog me in our flat like he used to either. In fact the only thing I can count on him doing anymore is holding my hand. And he does that so much lately I'm starting to feel like he's afraid I'll get lost if he lets go. So his behaviour lately is puzzling. I should be happy about some of it, but other things just makes me shake my head."

Ron didn't respond immediately, just sat there nodding as he finished his sausage roll. "Hermione, why don't you just talk to him about it? You two are the ones who can supposedly read each other's minds."

Finishing a bite of her own ham sandwich, Hermione leaned back and sighed. "That used to be true, but not so much lately. Harry's gone back to being secretive. I think he's put this stalker situation in an emotional box that he won't touch when I'm around. I just wonder if something else is going on that I don't know about."

"Look, Hermione, if you and Harry would just talk about this thing, you could probably figure out a way to handle it together. You've always solved problems together, why not this one?"

"This is different. This time, I was the one who got hurt seriously. I guess Harry can't deal with that. He seems to think he failed me."

"So, you think I can do something to help?" Ron expected her to say that she wanted him to talk to Harry.

Hermione let out a breath. "Yes. Actually, I was hoping you would kind of keep an eye on Harry when I'm not with him. Maybe spend more time with him when you're both at the Ministry, try to figure out what he's up to."

A dark look crossed Ron's face. "You want me to find out why he's acting this way? Or do you want me to tail him? Because I absolutely will not tail him. I'm not a detective, Hermione. I'm your best friend -- but I'm also Harry's best mate. I'll talk to him, if you want me to, but I think you'd do better to just clear this up with him yourself. If you want me to tail him, forget it. I'd feel like a ratfink, and I don't want to fall out with Harry again. After our fight in fourth year I vowed I would never get into that kind of row with him again. So if that's what you want, then, no. I won't."

I should have known, Hermione thought furiously. "You always take his side. Always. I thought it might be different this time. I shouldn't have got my hopes up. Thanks a lot, Ron," she said sarcastically, tossing the plastic wrap from her sandwich at him before she Disapparated.

She's mental, that one, Ron thought as he stuffed the pumpkin pasty in his mouth. And so is Harry. And where the hell am I?

"HERMIONE!" he growled, jumping off the bench as a group of Muggle strollers regarded him curiously.

^*^*^

Author’s Note: Confessions of a Middle-Aged Emo Queen

Dear Readers,

I’m fully aware that I haven’t updated Umbrage in almost 3 months. I wish I could say that I’m going to update it soon, but I would be trying to fool myself as well as you. I won’t say that my muse has left me entirely on this story, but she’s been mostly absent without leave for many months. Two days after I posted the last chapter, my mother died following a 9-month illness, and her death really sent my creativity into a downward spiral. I wasn’t able to write anything for the first month after she died. Since I began writing again, I’ve had difficulty with anything longer than about 2,000 words. Writing almost anything has basically become a real tooth-gnashing struggle for me, and even moreso for anything with a lot of plot.

Thus, to spare you, my readers (however many of you are left, and I suspect it’s not a lot), the annoyance of sitting around waiting for me to post again, I’ve decided to PAUSE this story again. I honestly can’t say when I’ll post any more of it. I do know that I won’t post again until I’ve made what I think is significant progress. My apologies to all of you. I kind of feel like I’ve strung you along, especially since, at this point, you don’t really know whether the rest of this will be worth your time. I hope that when I do post again, you’ll give this story another chance.

Thank you for your patience. I know that if I were reading this story, I probably would have given up on it long ago. Caliburst, if you’re still reading, please email me.

Your friend through H/Hr,

Anne U