What We Do

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to JKR.

Author’s Note: Written for granger_girl17, who requested a fic where Hermione is threatened and Harry’s reaction changes their relationship.

What We Do

Chapter 1

“Hermione.”

Hermione looked up from her paperwork at the sound of the Head of her Division’s voice. “Yes?”

Damien Westfall made a motion with his head. “Can I see you in my office for a minute?”

“Of course.” Hermione stood, automatically straightening her shirt as she did so, following Damien into his office.

He closed the door and then walked across to his desk, its entire surface strewn as always with stacks of files and papers. He handed a file to her. “Your next case.”

Hermione glanced down at the name on it and paused, her gaze focusing on the two words. Jasper Traynor. Jasper Traynor! She could feel her heart rate picking up. She would be trying Jasper Traynor? Jasper Traynor, who was single-handedly responsible for the most terrorizing streak of serial murders of Muggle-born wizards since Voldemort and his Death Eaters at the height of their power. Jasper Traynor, whose capture and arrest had been the biggest news story in the wizarding world for a week and had already been deemed the single biggest success of the Aurors since Harry had started working there. Jasper Traynor, whose trial was guaranteed to be the biggest, most-watched one since the Wizengamot had finally finished all the trials for the prominent Death Eaters in the last War three years ago.

She looked back up at Damien, trying to sound perfectly calm, competent. “I’ll do my best.”

Damien cracked a slight smile. “That was never in doubt.” He sobered quickly. “I don’t think I need to tell you that we want to make sure Traynor goes away for a long time. After what he’s done, for my money, if he ever sees the light of day again as a free man, it’ll be too soon. I told the higher-ups you could handle this one on your own, that you’d get the job done.” He paused. “So get it done.”

Hermione nodded, her fingers tightening involuntarily on the folder. “Yes, sir.” Informal as the atmosphere in the division generally was, this was not the time for informality.

Damien nodded, moving around his desk to sit down. “Ok, then. Get to work, Hermione.”

“Yes, sir,” Hermione said again as she left Damien’s office.

She returned to her desk, putting Jasper Traynor’s file away for the moment so she could finish up the paperwork from her last case that she’d been working on when she was called into Damien’s office. Putting the file physically away but not from her mind. She worked by rote, thankful that the routine paperwork didn’t require much attention as her thoughts raced, planning and preparing what she would need to do. She was thankful that she managed to finish her paperwork fairly quickly, glancing over it a final time just to make sure everything looked alright, since she was rarely so distracted while working.

She had her usual routine for the start of a case—any case—and so she began, pulling the Traynor file out once more and opening it up, just letting out a deep breath as her only outward indication that this was any different from her usual cases.

Of course, she was familiar with the list of Traynor’s atrocities simply from reading the Daily Prophet, but there was still something shocking about seeing the length of the list of the people whom he’d killed, all of them either Muggles or Muggle-born. All his victims also had one other thing in common; they had all been found bearing Traynor’s trademark, much like the Dark Mark. Traynor favored carving an ‘M’ into the flesh of his victims after their death, ‘M’ for Mudblood.

She glanced through the list of his crimes before she turned to the page summary that had been taken upon his arrest, when he had been put into a holding cell until after his trial. He had, she noted with some disquiet, refused counsel to assist him in his defense at trial. That was his right to do so, but it seemed a little odd, unnerving.

She put the matter aside though to look for the main contact for the Aurors who had been in charge of Traynor’s capture and arrest: Harry Potter. She paused. She had known, of course, that Harry had worked on the task force to capture Traynor, but she had not known that he had also been designated the primary contact person for the Division on the Traynor case. That was a pleasant surprise and would make things easier.

She had worked with Harry before on a few prior cases and had found that working with him officially was nearly as easy as their friendship had always been. There was usually a tension of sorts between the Aurors and Enforcers in the Division, in spite of their close working partnership, because of the Enforcers’ focus on ensuring justice, which could at times be at odds with that of the Aurors, who were more interested in capturing the alleged criminal than ensuring that justice be done. With Harry, though, there was no need to worry about being at odds; working together was familiar territory to them both and that added comfort always made things easier.

To say nothing of the fact that while they were careful to keep their personal friendship separate from the professional when they were dealing with each other in their official capacities, their friendship did slip in and they always managed to find some shared amusement in what they did, in spite of the grimness of the work.

Feeling somewhat heartened at the thought of working with Harry on this case, Hermione stood up, slipping into her official robes as an Enforcer who worked within the auspices of the Wizengamot and, at the same time, slipping into her professional persona, calm, cool, and competent. She had perfected her official demeanor in the years since she had begun working, but she suspected this case would prove to be the biggest challenge to her professionalism yet.

But as if on cue, she heard the voice in her head, the one that always sounded like Harry, the voice of encouragement and support. You’ve faced down Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and if you can face them, you can face anyone.

She focused on that thought as she finished gathering up her materials and left the office to travel to the Department’s holding cells. The less dangerous people were usually kept in the holding cells within the Ministry itself, but Jasper Traynor, unsurprisingly, had been taken to the Maximum Security holding cells in Attica Gaol. The Gaol was separate from the Ministry building, although attached to it by a direct Floo connection, that was reserved solely for travel between the Ministry and the Gaol.

She nodded a greeting to the guard on duty, who waved her in after checking her badge.

Once inside, she spoke with another guard. “I’m here to see Prisoner # D-10642.” Even his prisoner number spoke to the severity of his crimes, as each prisoner was assigned, along with his number, a letter which designated the level of dangerousness the prisoner was thought to represent, with A as being the least threatening, and D reserved only for those very few deemed to be the most threatening, the most dangerous criminals. Up until now, she had mostly prosecuted cases for prisoners assigned to the letter B, only handling two cases of prisoners designated in class C.

The guard’s eyes widened slightly. “Ah, that would be Jasper Traynor.”

“Yes,” she affirmed briefly, feeling another niggling disquiet. The guard had spoken Jasper Traynor’s name with something of the same horror mingled in with fear with which Voldemort had been spoken of for years, when he had still been called He Who Shall Not Be Named. In anyone else, she would have dismissed as the fear of the untrained, but the security guards here were not untrained. They were selected from the best and most promising of those candidates who applied to be members of the Magical Hit Squad and the Aurors, but who were not selected for whatever reason. They were nearly as well-trained as members of the Hit Squad and often became members of the Hit Squad after a few years as a guard. So for this guard to speak of Traynor in such a way was alarming. But Hermione pushed aside the alarm firmly. She had a job to do and she would do it.

Hermione steeled her spine as she followed the guard further into the building, walking past numbers of other cells before the guard paused before a door with one barred window in it, murmuring a complicated series of unlocking charms and finally being required to verify his badge information before the door finally unlocked and the guard opened it.

“I will wait right here, Enforcer Granger,” the guard said.
“Thank you.”

With that, Hermione stepped inside the cell, her eyes immediately finding Jasper Traynor, who straightened up from the bench on which he had been… reclining? Most prisoners were found slumped on the bench or on the floor, but Traynor looked as arrogant and as coldly superior as if to acknowledge his surroundings in any way was beneath him.

Traynor looked up and met her eyes and Hermione bit back a slight gasp with an effort. She had seen his picture in the Daily Prophet after his capture so his general appearance was familiar to her but she had not realized from the rather grainy newspaper picture that his eyes were so light, in stark contrast to his dark hair. His eyes were a pale, pale blue, so pale they were almost the color of ice, but what shocked her was the coldness of them. The eyes were pitiless, almost inhuman. They looked as if they had never shown any human emotion, as if he had never known an emotion.

She had faced evil before, had seen it in Voldemort, in Lucius Malfoy, in Antonin Dolohov, among others. But all that had been different, she suddenly thought. Before, she had always had Harry and Ron with her, supporting her. Now, she was suddenly, terrifyingly conscious that she was alone in a cell with a mass murderer.

She was being irrational, she scolded herself, suddenly annoyed. She was hardly alone and she was certainly not helpless. The guard was just outside, she still had her wand, and moreover, she knew that Traynor was, of course, unarmed.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Traynor,” she began coolly, lifting her chin as she regarded him with as much composed hauteur she could muster. “I am the Enforcer who will be prosecuting your trial. My name is--”

“I know who you are,” he interrupted her, and just the sound of his voice had the hairs on the back of her neck lifting, an instinctive reaction to the menace in his voice, all the more chilling for its utter dispassion. “You are the Mudblood friend of Harry Potter, that half-blooded traitor.”

“Am I correct in stating that you have declined counsel to represent you in your trial?” she asked briskly, refusing to react to his provocation. “You are entitled to change your mind at any time before or during your trial.”

Traynor met her eyes, rising to his feet in one slow, deliberate motion, before he smiled, very slowly. It was not a reassuring sight. “I believe,” he stated coolly, even languidly, “you will find you are mistaken.”

“You have not declined counsel?”

“Oh, yes, I decline counsel because I shall not need it.”

“Very well, then. The date for your trial has been set for three weeks from today, on April 25.”

“You are mistaken, Mudblood. You see,” Traynor smiled again, a smile that would have done justice to Tom Riddle, “there will be no trial.”

Hermione stiffened, steeling herself as she met Traynor’s gaze unflinchingly. He could try to intimidate, but she was Hermione Granger, Gryffindor, and she had more mettle than that. “You are mistaken, Mr. Traynor. There will be a trial and justice will be done.”

He laughed, a brief, hard chuckle more menacing than even his smile had been. “Oh, yes, justice,” he mocked. “Justice will be when every Mudblood is either dead or enslaved as the inferior animals that you are,” he suddenly flared, his voice rising in volume and in force. “Do not even think that you have defeated me, Mudblood, or you will regret it.”

He moved with a suddenness and a swiftness that startled her, until he was standing directly before her. “You will die, Mudblood, and I shall enjoy your screams before you do.”

Hermione stepped back calmly, refusing to show any reaction to his deliberate threat. “This conversation is over, Mr. Traynor, until your trial. Good day.”

She felt just a twinge of satisfaction at the flicker of expression she saw cross his face, realizing that her utter composure in the face of his menace had baffled and infuriated him.

She backed out of the cell, not caring to turn her back on him in spite of all her bravado, knocking on the door for the guard to open it again.

And it was not until she was outside the cell and the guard had finished re-locking the door that she let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding, feeling a slight trembling beginning deep inside.

Jasper Traynor was worse, much more sinister, than anyone she had prosecuted yet. She had, she realized, been expecting rage, and that, she could have withstood without much difficulty. Traynor, on the other hand, had been cold, dispassionate, his menace all the more powerful for being so controlled, so emotion-less. He had not committed his crimes out of fury, but out of contempt for all who were not pure-blooded.

She was angry at herself for reacting, for the slight shiver she could not quell, for even feeling a little intimidated, which was exactly what Traynor had wanted. Her only meager satisfaction came in knowing that no matter what she felt, she had not shown it, her training serving her in good stead.

She followed the guard back out to the entrance of the prison, nodding again at the guard, before returning to the Ministry building. She normally returned to her desk after her first meeting with an accused, in order to think and strategize, depending on her impression of the attitude of the accused, but today, she decided against it. Instead, she headed straight to the offices of the Aurors, half-guiltily aware that, while it would ostensibly be an official consultation meeting, she was going to the Aurors now because she wanted to see Harry. Harry, her best friend, and not Harry Potter, the Auror. Because she suddenly wanted the reassurance and the comfort of Harry’s company, because she wanted the feeling of safety she always got from being with him.

She was familiar with all the Aurors, of course, and managed smiles and nods of greeting for those she knew best as she made her way through the cubicles toward Harry’s office. It was a sign of Harry’s status in the wizarding world that he had been given an office of his own so quickly, since many Aurors worked for decades without moving from their cubicles. Harry, in contrast, had been in a cubicle for just over two years before he had been assigned to his own office, along with being made the youngest team leader in Auror history.

Harry was talking to a member of his team, Gage Whittaford, but he broke off the moment he saw Hermione.

“Hermione, this is a nice surprise.” He gestured her into his office before turning back to Gage. “As I was saying, keep an extra-careful eye on that area. It may be nothing but my thumbs are pricking, so to speak.”

Gage nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“Gage, how many times have I told you to call me Harry?”

The barest of smiles softened Gage’s otherwise rather harsh features. “I believe I’ve lost count, Mr. Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes slightly. “Well, go on then, Mister Whittaford.”

Hermione suppressed a smile. Harry hated that, as his team leader, Gage Whittaford refused to call him by his name, never mind the fact that Gage was in his early 30’s and was, therefore, Harry’s elder by at least five years. What Harry never quite considered was that Gage’s refusal to call Harry by his name was not so much because of Harry’s status as it was a simple sign of respect because Harry had proven that, regardless of his status or his youth, he actually did deserve to be a team leader.

Harry faced Hermione with a smile, the smile she tended to think of as hers because it was one she only ever saw him direct at her, not the rather perfunctory social smile he had given her earlier when Gage had been present, but the more personal one he only used when they were alone or with Ron. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Enforcer Granger?” he asked half-teasingly.

“Jasper Traynor,” she said succinctly.

Harry blinked, abruptly sobering and becoming the Auror rather than simply her friend. “What about Traynor?”

“Damien assigned me to work on his case when it goes to trial in three weeks.”

“Really? That’s great.”

Hermione stared, a little confused. If anything, she would have expected him to express a little concern at her handling a case this big, against a criminal as notoriously dangerous as Jasper Traynor, his protective instincts kicking in. “Why do you say that?”

Harry gave her a look as if she’d just asked him what day it was or some other question equally silly. “Because you, of all people, will make sure Traynor gets what he deserves. It’s a relief.”

She smiled. “Really?”

“Of course. What did you think I would say, that Damien just made a huge mistake because you’re incompetent?”

She had to laugh, as she knew he’d intended her to. “No, I didn’t think you’d say that.”

“Honestly, Hermione, imagine if Damien had given the case to someone else. Felicity Maines would have finished the case in the space of an hour, but then left out some vital thing that had Traynor going free on some technicality,” Harry said, mentioning one of the senior Enforcers who had been working in the division for nearly 20 years but had a tendency to overlook details that had rather derailed her upward mobility in the division.

Hermione made a laughing protest. “Harry, that’s not fair to Felicity. She’s not that careless.”

“No, she’s not,” Harry conceded, “But still, of course Damien gave the Traynor case to you. It’s an important one and you’re the best Enforcer he’s got.”

Hermione had to smile. “I think you’re biased, but thanks.”

Harry shrugged a little. “Maybe I am biased, but the point stands. You’re good at what you do. Anyway, have you eaten lunch yet?”

“No, why?”

“Let’s go have some lunch and we can talk more about this then.”

She hesitated. “But, Harry, we usually leave work at work.”

“I know, but it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry.” He gave her a cajoling smile. “Come on, there’s this great little place I’ve been wanting to take you to that’s just a 10 minute walk from here.”

She gave in. “Okay, I’ll go.” It was that cajoling smile of his, one she’d never been able to resist. She had long ago stopped pretending she could resist it; it was simply the way things were.

“It’s a Muggle place, so you’ll have to leave your robes here.”

Hermione did so, leaving her official robes neatly folded over the back of the chair, and then paused. “Oh, wait, let me run back to my desk; I didn’t bring my bag with me so I don’t have any money or anything.”

“No, you don’t have to. I’ll just cover lunch,” Harry said easily.

Hermione agreed with a smile, falling into step beside him as they left the office.

They kept the conversation casual on the walk to the restaurant, idly swapping stories from the past few days at work and not mentioning Jasper Traynor at all, by some unspoken agreement. So she told him about an amusing anecdote told to her by one of her co-workers that morning, and he talked of something funny Ron had said the night before and mentioned Ron’s suggestion for what they should all do that weekend.

At the restaurant, Harry requested a private table so that they could speak freely. The restaurant might be a Muggle one so they wouldn’t need to worry about the confidentiality and privacy concerns that they would have in a wizarding restaurant, but they did have to keep in mind the necessity not to say anything that would reveal too much about the magical world to Muggles. It wasn’t something they had talked about, but then she’d known there was no need to mention it. She knew she could trust Harry to act as she would.

It was, she suddenly found herself thinking with the clarity born of the three years distance since her break-up with Ron, something she had never been able to do with Ron. When she’d been with Ron, she’d always felt as if she needed to “be the grown-up”, thinking and planning ahead, because she’d known that Ron wouldn’t, that it just never occurred to Ron to analyze or consider very deeply. Part of her had appreciated—and still did— that spontaneity in Ron; it was something she didn’t have and it did make for fun times. And fun had been in short enough supply during the War and immediately afterwards to make it even more precious to her. But she’d found that when they had settled into their normal, workaday lives, in the common light of common day, Ron’s fun and spontaneity had gradually ceased to be an unequivocal good but had become irritating, even tiring. Because it was tiring, very tiring, to always have to be the adult in the relationship, to always have to be the reality check. It had been a relief, in that sense, to go back to simply being friends with Ron. With Ron just her best friend, she could simply have fun around him, could disagree with him and provide the reality check without the guilt.

“Hermione.”

Hermione blinked, returning to the present to see Harry giving her a slightly quizzical smile. “You look awfully serious. A Galleon for your thoughts?”

She managed a laugh. “They’re not worth a Knut. I was just trying to remember when the last time we had lunch, just the two of us, was.”

He gave her a look of exaggerated dismay. “You mean you don’t keep a mental calendar of every time you see me? I’m hurt.”

“I know; it’s terrible. I think I’m just too overcome with the honor of your company to remember the dates,” she teased.

“Yes, well,” Harry nodded solemnly. “I have that effect on a lot of people. I should come with a warning label, that people may be so over-awed by my sheer presence that they might suffer a temporary loss of memory and an inability to think straight.”

She dissolved into laughter that he joined. “The only thing awe-inspiring about you, Harry, is the size of your ego,” she teased.

He grinned. “I’ll have you know I’m also known for my humility.”

They exchanged grins that gradually faded into small smiles, their humor dissolving into a silence of simple friendship, a silence that lasted until after they had ordered and the server had left them.

“Harry, what was your impression of Jasper Traynor when you captured him?” she finally asked.

He hesitated, considering his answer for a moment. “A nasty piece of work,” he summarized succinctly. “Cunning, arrogant, and all the more dangerous because he’s also very dispassionate.”

Hermione nodded, soberly. “That’s what I thought too,” she agreed, trying—and failing—to suppress a slight shiver at the thought. She hoped Harry wouldn’t notice her automatic reaction, but, of course, he did.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her. “What did he say when you went to see him?”

Being Harry, he knew her routine, knew that she generally only wore her official Enforcer robes to visit prisoners or when she had to argue her case before the Wizengamot, and that she visited the accused first whenever she had received a new case. He also knew the outline of what she said in those initial visits to prisoners, having accompanied her on a few of them soon after she’d begun work as part of his own Auror training, wanting to know every step of the process that occurred after the capture and before the trial.

She managed the faintest glimmer of a smile. “Well, I don’t think he likes me very much,” she said with forced lightness. And realized her mistake when Harry’s expression didn’t change except to become slightly sterner. She should have known better than to think she could avoid mention of her reaction to Traynor’s menace by trying to make light of it. With Ron, she could have, but certainly not with Harry.

“What did he say?” Harry asked again.

“It was odd,” she began honestly. “Unsettling, really. He declined counsel and seemed very confident that his trial was never going to take place.”

“Defiance?”

“No,” Hermione answered, drawing the word out thoughtfully. “It wasn’t that so much as it was contempt. Defiance usually implies frustration, acknowledging that the other person has some power, but he didn’t do that. He acted as if he were a lion being threatened by a gnat, as if it was beneath him to even acknowledge us.”

“Hmm.” Harry frowned. “I can see why that would be unsettling, but it could just be his way. I doubt it’s in his character to acknowledge anyone else’s authority and certainly not that of the law.”

“True,” Hermione agreed, feeling better. She always trusted Harry’s opinion when it came to criminals. She knew he disliked it, understandably enough given all he’d had to go through to acquire this particular skill, but Harry’s insight into Dark magic was trustworthy, his instincts about these things becoming honed over the years.

She paused and then found herself admitting, “He scared me a little. He was just so… evil.” It was something she would not have admitted to anyone else, but she knew Harry, knew he would understand.

Harry smiled slightly, reassuringly. “He rather scared me too. He’s not just a run-of-the-mill Dark wizard. He had the potential to be the next Voldemort.”

“I know.” Hermione paused and then added, “It’s all the more intimidating because this is going to be the biggest, most high-profile case I’ve ever handled on my own. Damien said he’d had to persuade the higher-ups that I could handle it, and I’m not the most experienced Enforcer available by any means. I mean, normally it wouldn’t have mattered so much, but this is Traynor and he’s… well, he’s the worst criminal I’ve had to prosecute and he was so dangerous…” She sighed. “With all that, do you still think I’m the best Enforcer to take on his case?”

He met her eyes. “Yes. You might be intimidated, but that’s never stopped you from doing what you need to do before and it won’t stop you now.” He have her a half-smile. “It’s what you do, Hermione. I know you, remember, so I know you’ll do your job and do it well.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Harry,” was all she said, simply, but then with him, she didn’t need to say more.

He returned her smile. “Anyway, for what it’s worth,” he said, his tone changing, becoming brisk, “you know you’ll have the full support of the Aurors for anything you need.”

“First, I’ll just need to look through all your files on him from before his capture.”

He inclined his head slightly. “They’re in my office and are all yours. Anything else?”

“Not at the moment, but I’ll let you know.”

“Good.”

They exchanged shared smiles before Harry smoothly switched to an entirely unrelated subject, relating a story he had heard.

Hermione made a teasing response, relaxing fully, as she pushed work out of her mind. There would be time for that later, but for now, she would just enjoy having lunch with her best friend.

~To be continued…~

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: Apologies for how long it’s taken to update this! Finals ate my brain and my life and so I haven’t had much time at all to write or even think about writing fic. That said, I have every intention of finishing this fic; I’m just not sure when that will be. Thank you, everyone, who’s read and reviewed Chapter 1. I hope this chapter is worth the wait!

What We Do

Chapter 2

Harry jolted awake to the ringing sound of the charm which he had set to go off whenever there was a Floo call.

A Floo call in the middle of the night was never a good thing and he felt his heart rate picking up as he grabbed his wand and stumbled out the door, throwing on a robe over his pyjamas as he went.

Gage’s head was floating in the fireplace, his expression grim.

“What is it?” Harry demanded even before he’d come to a stop before the fireplace.

“Jasper Traynor’s missing,” Gage announced with no preamble.

“What the hell do you mean he’s missing?” Harry’s voice rose.

“The guards just raised the alarm when they couldn’t see him in his cell on their last round. They’ve searched all through the gaol but he’s gone, vanished, and the only thing he left behind is the dead body of one of the guards on duty on his floor.”

“That’s impossible,” Harry stated, more as if he wanted to convince himself of it than as if it were a fact.

“Maybe, but the fact remains that Traynor’s escaped and we have no idea where he is.”

Oh my God.

“Hermione,” Harry just managed to articulate her name through lips that had suddenly gone numb with horror. Hermione was the Enforcer assigned to Traynor’s case; Hermione had admitted that Traynor had frightened her and he knew Hermione too well to think that she’d been frightened solely by Traynor’s demeanor. Hermione, who was Muggle-born and represented everything Traynor most detested. Hermione, who was alone in her flat…

“Mr. Potter! Sir!”

Harry blinked out of his increasingly panicked thoughts to see Gage staring at him.

“Sir, what do you want us to do?”

He- he—he had no idea, couldn’t think. How could he possibly think of what the Aurors should do?! “Go—wait—get everyone in and wait for me at the gaol,” he finally managed to get out.

Harry didn’t even wait to hear Gage’s “Yes, sir,” before he turned, running back into his room to throw on his official Auror robes over his pyjamas. He managed—somehow—to put on his shoes while running out of his flat and barely managed to Apparate without splinching himself. He took the steps three at a time as he sprinted up the stairs to Hermione’s flat, gripping his wand so tightly he would later find that his hand physically ached from it, but at the moment, he didn’t care. The only thing he was conscious of, the only thing he cared about, was to get to Hermione and make sure that Traynor had not—had not—

He stopped so suddenly he almost fell over as he reached Hermione’s door, testing it and then feeling somewhat relieved to find that it was still locked and secure. He quickly managed to unlock Hermione’s door, the hand holding his wand trembling slightly as he waved it at the lock, and then he was inside her flat.

Everything was still, silent, and he paused, relief hitting him like a tidal wave, his knees almost giving way. Everything was fine. He knew that; after all these years, his instincts were finely honed, especially when it came to something like Hermione’s safety, and all he could sense was peace.

He made his way quickly through Hermione’s dark flat, pushing open the closed door to her bedroom to see that she was sleeping soundly.

Oh, thank God.

For all that he’d been fairly sure from the moment he entered Hermione’s flat that she was fine, the sight of her, safe, still hit him in the chest with all the impact of a blow. He almost fell to his knees beside her bed, too relieved to do anything but stare at her sleeping face for a moment.

She was safe. She was fine.

And it was only then, as the reality of Hermione’s safety sank into his mind, that he realized the true magnitude of what was happening, his mind finally beginning to function.

Traynor’s escape was a disaster to the Aurors. They were facing widespread panic and hysteria. The security at the holding cells in Attica and at Azkaban and all the other prisons would need to be increased. And he needed to get to the Gaol to coordinate the search for Traynor and then find out how Traynor had managed to escape.

He let out a deep breath, steadying himself for what lay ahead, before he lifted his hand to touch Hermione’s shoulder lightly.

“Hermione, wake up.”

As always, Hermione was a light sleeper—he was actually surprised that he’d managed to enter her bedroom without waking her up—and so she blinked her eyes open immediately, her gaze finding his and sharpening as she sat up.

“Harry, what’s wrong? Are you okay? What’s happened?”

Amazingly, given everything, he somehow managed to feel a warmth in his chest at how her first thought was concern for him. Before anything else, before asking what had happened, she asked after him.

“I’m fine,” he reassured her quickly. “But you have to get up. Jasper Traynor’s escaped.”

“Escaped!”

“Yes. I’m just on my way to Attica to try to figure out how it happened and organize the response, but you need to come with me.” He pushed himself to his feet, holding out a hand which she ignored as she slid out of bed on her own.

“Why do I--”

“Because, if I know anything at all about Traynor, he’s going to come after you. It’s not safe for you, so I’m not about to leave you alone.”

“I can take care of myself, Harry. You go on; you have to take charge of the Aurors.”

“No,” Harry stated flatly, his tone one he rarely used with Hermione, one that brooked no disagreement. “Pack some things, if you must, but then you’re coming with me.” He realized his mistake when Hermione responded by giving him a distinctly mutinous look, a look he recognized all too well.

“I appreciate your concern, Harry,” Hermione said in a tone that almost belied her words, “but I know how to defend myself. You taught me, remember?”

He promptly switched tactics—just as she knew him, he knew her too—and softened his tone, resting his hands on her shoulders briefly so she met his eyes fully. “If you won’t do it for your own sake, will you do it for me? I won’t be able to think straight if I’m worrying about you.”

Her expression softened and she nodded, giving in as he’d known she would. Because she knew that it was true, he would worry about her if she didn’t come with him now and it would interfere with his concentration.

Being Hermione, from the moment she gave in, she was in motion, hurrying into the restroom to change quickly out of her pyjamas and then haphazardly throwing some spare changes of clothes into a bag. He left her to it, moving to check all the windows and then using his wand to make the windows doubly-secure and unbreakable. He might have no intention of allowing Hermione to stay at her flat alone until Traynor was safely locked up again but there was no point in giving Traynor any easier access to Hermione’s flat. As it was, he was aware that Traynor was not likely to have much difficulty in breaking into Hermione’s flat; there were limits to the effectiveness of wards that could be put up for flats in buildings such as this one where a fair number of tenants were Muggles.

They Apparated straight to the Ministry and he headed for the Auror offices only to have Hermione balk.

“Harry, where are you meeting the Aurors?”

“At the Gaol,” he answered briefly, grasping her arm with his hand in an attempt to keep on walking.

“Then why don’t we head straight there?”

Now, he stopped, turning to face her. “We aren’t going anywhere near Attica. You can wait in my office; it’s probably the safest place in the building right now.”

“Oh, no, Harry, you’re not just going to send me off to wait for you while you play hero.”

He opened his mouth to argue but then noted the expression on her face—and closed his mouth, swallowing back his protest. “Alright,” he half-sighed, even as he changed direction and began walking again, this time heading back to the elevators to where they could get the Floo network to the Gaol. “Come on.”

“Don’t look like that, Harry. I know you’re not mad at me.”

He couldn’t help but throw a slightly incredulous smile in her direction. “I don’t know how you can sound so calm.”

She gave him a quick half-smile even as she kept pace with his quick steps. “I’m with you so I know I’m not in danger right now.”

She said it lightly, but he took it seriously, making a silent promise to himself that he would live up to her words. Traynor wasn’t going to so much as harm one hair on her head, not if Harry had anything to say about it—and the thought was a vow.

They didn’t speak the rest of the way to the Gaol, more to preserve their breath while walking so fast than from any other reason.

Attica had exactly one meeting room, of sorts, just off the front hall and Harry headed straight for it, cutting through the Aurors and security guards who had been on duty and were, therefore, already present, and members of the Hit Squad, knowing perfectly well they would all follow him. He noticed a few curious glances at Hermione, who was well-known in her own right as an Enforcer and, therefore, not exactly necessary personnel at this meeting, but he ignored them.

The room had a raised dais at one end but Harry didn’t bother to stand up on it. He simply walked to the center of the room and waited. He let out his breath, drawing on his reserves of energy, trying to become the hero everyone expected him to be, the automatic leader in times like these, never mind the fact that in usual times, there were many more senior Aurors around. It was something he had finally accepted, not happily, but accepted nonetheless, that in emergencies, he became the de facto leader of the Aurors. Automatically, in that moment, he found himself seeking out Hermione, meeting her eyes as she stood off to one side, let her steady gaze ground him.

“Simeon and the Hit Squad,” he began, facing Simeon Lacdamant, the senior member of the Hit Squad present, “you all know what Traynor looks like and you know how dangerous he is. Split up into groups of four—and no less than four—and scatter. Create a net around London, starting from here and going outwards. Focus on the more predominantly Muggle neighborhoods, Shepherd’s Bush, Mayfair, St. James. That’s where Traynor’s next victims are more likely to be. But I want at least one group in every neighborhood going through it with a fine-tooth comb.”

Simeon nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Members of the Hit Squad began to leave but Harry stopped them. “One last thing—remember you’re trying to capture him, not kill him. Now, go and be careful.” He hoped the reminder that killing should only be the very last resort wasn’t necessary, but they were not that many years removed from the War years when the Hit Squad had been given unchecked discretion to kill instead of capture. It was the one thing that he’d insisted on changing when he had joined the Ministry.

Members of the Hit Squad began filing out, and Harry focused on the guards. “Warden, choose a skeleton crew of guards to remain here to keep the Gaol secure, but we need the rest of the guards joining the Aurors. It’s all hands on deck right now.”

Warden Hal Bruce nodded. “Yes, sir, understood. 5 guards, excluding myself, should be enough to secure the Gaol, sir.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you, Hal.”

Warden Bruce collected the guards with little more than a jerk of his head and then left the room.

Now for the Aurors.

“Gage, first alert all the district offices around the country—and I do mean everywhere. Not just the cities like Manchester and York, but everywhere, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, even the Isle of Man and Guernsey. Everyone needs to be put on alert about Traynor. And contact--”

“Don’t forget Scotland Yard.” Hermione’s voice interrupted him and he stopped, glancing at her.

“Right, Scotland Yard,” Harry agreed, focusing on Gage again. “The Yard will need to get the alert out to the newspapers and other news on the telly so people will be on the lookout for Traynor too. And then contact all the International Apparition and Floo network stations in case Traynor decides to make a run for it. I don’t want this to turn into an international incident.”

Gage nodded and left the room almost at a run.

“Jack,” Harry turned to face Jack Hardesty, the team leader who was on duty tonight. “You’ll be in charge of organizing the rest of the Aurors into teams of again no smaller than four, to go out and find Traynor. All other Auror business will be suspended as much as possible because we need to focus on recapturing Traynor before the bastard kills again. Understood?”

Jack Hardesty nodded. “Right.”

“Gage and I will remain here to take care of whatever immediate business comes up and coordinate the search. Report back to me of any news the teams might hear so I can let the other teams know.” He paused, giving Jack a rather grim smile. “It’s time to start waking everyone else up.” Jack would have the unenviable duty of notifying all the other Aurors operating out of headquarters of this new emergency.

Jack threw a quick salute. “On it, sir.” He left with a speed that was in contrast to his almost perpetually easygoing expression that often caused people to underestimate him. But Harry knew from experience that Jack was one of the most capable Aurors out there. He was followed by the rest of the Aurors present, all members of Jack’s team.

Harry turned to Hermione. “Did I forget anything?”

“No, I think you thought of it all.”

“Thanks for reminding me of Scotland Yard. It had slipped my mind.”

She gave him a fleeting, solemn smile. “Just doing my part to help.”

“You always do. Now we need to figure out how Traynor managed to escape.”

“Actually, I had a thought about that already.”

Harry turned to give her an inquiring look.

“Who was the only person who’s managed to escape from Azkaban?” was Hermione’s almost incomprehensible response.

“Sirius,” he answered automatically, “but what does--” He broke off, as his thoughts caught up to Hermione’s. “You think he’s an unregistered Animagus.” It wasn’t a question.

Harry took off at a run for Traynor’s cell, knowing Hermione would follow.

Traynor’s cell was the only one whose door was open, making it easy to identify, as he slowed his steps to a walk as he neared.

He frowned at the door. There was no way for Traynor to have opened the door from the inside; the doors had been specially made to prevent that, with good reason. There was one barred window that permitted a guard to look inside and check on each prisoner. Aside from that one window, the door was impenetrable except for one small area at the bottom of the door that had been charmed to permit guards to create a temporary window, through which the prisoners were given their meals. Traynor could have managed to escape by somehow managing to harness wandless magic powerful enough to recreate a larger version of that meal window from within, but that would have taken an immense amount of power. Harry was fairly certain Headmaster Dumbledore and Voldemort himself would have been able to do so, but doubted whether any other wizard would have been able to. Which made Hermione’s animagus theory much more likely, although the space between the bars severely limited the number of different animals Traynor’s animagus form could take.

“He had to turn into a very small animal,” Hermione said, as she studied the bars of the window, visually measuring the space between the bars.

He wasn’t surprised to have Hermione voice his very thought.

“The only possibilities I can think of are an insect or spider of some kind, a rodent, or a snake.”

“A small bird could also fit,” Hermione supplemented his list. “Or a bat. Some kinds of sea animals, fish or small crabs or something—but those are less likely because most of them are generally not able to function on land.”

He sighed. “It’s too many possibilities still. I can’t tell Jack and Simeon to tell their teams to capture all suspicious small animals, and somehow I don’t think Traynor would be a crab or something that would make his Animagus form very easy to pinpoint as being suspicious.”

“Mm,” Hermione’s answer was absent and he turned to look at her.

“I know that tone. You’ve thought of something. What is it?”

“It may not end up helping,” Hermione began, more diffidently than he was used to from her.

“Well, it’s still one more idea than I’ve had so tell me.”

“It’s a new charm that I read about in the latest issue of the Charms Institute magazine. It’s something like a way to find out what the last work of magic was performed. You know that all magic leaves behind a sort of trace that’s invisible to the human eye. This charm was created to somehow put a shadowy form to that trace so it allows the caster to see something like a holographic image of what the last magic that was used did.”

“Will it work for an Animagus transformation?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose in the familiar way she had when she was unsure of something. “I’m not sure. The charm has only been used for actual spells that have been cast and those have all involved wands and an incantation, but an Animagus transformation, obviously, doesn’t require either a wand or an incantation.”

“Hmm. Well, we can try it. What do we need to do?”

“I’ll do it, since I know more about the charm.”

Harry nodded. “Okay.” She was also better at advanced Charms than he was, so if anyone was going to succeed at this charm on the first try, it would be her. It was the simple truth—but he also knew that if he ever said as much, she would deny it quite adamantly. But then, for all her confidence, Hermione also never seemed willing to believe that she would be the best at something; she could admit that she was clever and fairly skillful, but never that she was the most clever or the most skillful.

“I’ll need to be alone in the cell, because sometimes having another person around acts as something like a conduit to direct the charm away from the room itself,” Hermione explained.

“Okay. I’ll wait out here. Knock when you’re done and need me to open the door,” Harry agreed, but then stopped her with a hand on her arm before she could actually go into the cell. “One more thing, the charm isn’t dangerous to the caster in any way, is it?”

“No, of course not,” Hermione answered quickly. Too quickly. And she didn’t quite meet his eyes as she said it.

He lifted his hand to touch her chin until she had to meet his gaze. “Hermione,” was all he said, softly, but he knew she understood, heard the thread of steel in his tone.

“It can be a little dangerous,” Hermione admitted, “but only if the caster is inexperienced or not advanced enough magically to do it.” She tried for a quick, reassuring smile. “So I should be fine.”

He wasn’t quite comforted. “What do you mean, if the caster is inexperienced? You’re inexperienced because you’ve never done this charm before, right?”

“No, I haven’t, but really, I read all about it and it’s not inexperience as in not having cast this particular charm before but general inexperience with casting advanced charms like this one. Honestly, Harry, I’ll be fine. I’m not some 5th year student trying to cast a N.E.W.T. level spell for the first time.”

He finally relaxed a little, reassured. “If I remember correctly, you were casting N.E.W.T. level spells when you were in 5th year.”

She smiled slightly. “See? So I’ll be fine.”

He stepped back, dropping his hand from her arm. “Okay, but be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?” she rallied, gaining a full-on smile from him before she went inside the cell, pulling the door closed behind her.

Harry peered through the barred window to watch Hermione as she paced rather absently through the cell. She was, he guessed, recalling all she had read about the charm and trying to determine where in the cell Traynor would have chosen to transform into his Animagus form.

She glanced up, meeting his eyes through the window. “Harry, stop watching me. You’re making me nervous.”

“Alright, alright,” he relented and deliberately stepped back three paces, although he didn’t look away from the window.

He heard the faint murmur of Hermione’s voice and then saw a faint glow that slowly faded and then he heard Hermione give a soft cry of surprise and he tensed, until he heard Hermione’s voice again.

“Harry, it worked!”

He made it to the cell door in one bound, almost yanking the door open, his eyes focusing on Hermione’s face, noting that she looked a little pale.

“He turned into a snake, Harry. Traynor’s Animagus form is a snake.”

He ignored that for a moment. “Are you okay?”

She managed a slight smile. “I’ll be fine; the spell just made me a little dizzy for a moment.” She made a motion with her hand. “Go, Harry. You need to tell everyone else. I’ll be okay.”

He hesitated but then, when she gave him a look, finally acceded to her order and took off at a run, hoping to find Jack or Warden Bruce before they left on their respective searches, and then to tell Gage so he could get the word out to the district offices.

He found Warden Bruce quickly enough and managed to catch one team of guards before they left to tell them of Traynor’s Animagus form and then took the Floo back to the Ministry building. Jack Hardesty had already left, so Harry interrupted Gage as he was about to pick up the telephone to ring up Scotland Yard—it was the one working Muggle device in the building, meant exclusively to ring up Scotland Yard and, on occasion, the Prime Minister’s office at 10 Downing Street.

“Gage, have you contacted the district offices yet?”

Gage straightened, his hand dropping from the telephone. “Yes, sir, just now. They are alerting their local Aurors as we speak.”

“Contact them all again. Traynor is an unregistered Animagus, who turns into a snake. That’s how he escaped his cell.”

Gage swore but cut off the oath, quickly recovering himself. “Yes, sir, right away.”

“Oh, and you said that a security guard was found dead. Where is the guard’s body now?”

“He’s in Warden Bruce’s office at the Gaol, sir.”

“Right.” Harry took off again to return to the Gaol and rushed into the Warden’s office to stop at the sight of Hermione, kneeling beside the body, and spared a moment to wonder at his very lack of surprise to find her here. Of course, she would think of the guard.

She looked up as he rushed in and he noted, with some relief, that her pallor was gone now. “Traynor bit him.”

He knelt beside her. “He died of a snake bite?”

Hermione nodded. “I figured that was the most likely thing; he wouldn’t have been looking for a snake so it would be easy for Traynor to surprise him and bite him before he could raise an alarm.” She reached out a hand, moving the guard’s robe aside and pushing down his sock to reveal two small puncture wounds on his ankle.

Harry sighed, his gaze moving up to the guard’s still, white face, the closed eyes. He looked… almost peaceful.

Harry had seen so many dead bodies over the years, more than Harry cared to remember, but it was something he could never become accustomed to, didn’t want to become accustomed to. Every body struck him anew. “You closed his eyes,” he murmured to Hermione. It wasn’t a question. He knew her. It was something that amazed him about her. She was, as no one knew better than him, able to keep calm and rational in almost every situation, could be amazingly dispassionate when she needed to be. But she never forgot her compassion, was never so focused on the exigencies of an emergency as to forget the humanity of its victims.

He heard her let out a half-shuddering breath and glanced at her, moving to grasp her hand in his.

“He looks so young, Harry,” she said softly. “Did you know him?”

Harry tightened his grip on her hand. “His name’s Scott Hotchkiss. He is—was—young, just 21 this year.” He paused and then went on, quietly. “I met him a few times. The first time I met him, he could barely speak, kept tripping over his words, he was so in awe of me. But after that, he was better, treated me normally. He was in Hufflepuff, I think.”

“We would have been at Hogwarts together for at least a couple years, but I don’t think I ever met him.”

Harry sighed. “I’ll have Warden Bruce contact his family,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet, pulling her up with him. “Come on. You’ve helped all you can, so you should try to get some rest.”

“At your flat?”

“No, we’re going to Grimmauld Place.” He had considered—briefly—and rejected the idea of sending a message to Ron, who was away on a road trip with the Cannons until this weekend, so that Ron could provide another level of defense, so to speak, in their flat. But that was hardly feasible, because, as Harry had to admit, Hermione had always been better at dueling than Ron was so Ron would be no match for Traynor and was more likely to end up injured himself. And their flat, while about as protected as any flat in the city, was still nowhere near as safe as Grimmauld Place.

She stopped walking and he glanced back at her. “But, Harry, you hate Grimmauld Place.”

“So?”

“So why don’t we just go to your flat?”

“Because Grimmauld Place is safer.”

“Honestly, Harry, you don’t need to--”

He turned to face her. “Hermione, Jasper Traynor is out there somewhere and you’re a target, not just because you were about to prosecute his trial but because you’re living proof that his precious purity of blood doesn’t matter at all. Given all that, if I had my way, you’d be going into hiding with a Secret Keeper, but since I know you’d never agree to that, I’m settling for what’s possibly the safest private residence in the city. And the fact that I hate it is irrelevant!” He stopped, forcibly moderating his tone. “You don’t really think that I care more about not liking Grimmauld Place than I do about keeping you safe.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Okay, Harry, Grimmauld Place it is,” she agreed, putting her hand on his arm.

He glanced down at her hand on his arm, reaching up with his free hand to grasp her fingers with his. He didn’t know how, but she could calm him with just a touch. “Okay,” he repeated, his tone moderated.

She gave him a slight smile. “Let’s go, then.”

He gave her hand a last squeeze before releasing it as he turned to leave the Gaol.

He would keep her safe. He had to keep her safe. He didn’t think to question why it was so vitally important to him that Hermione be safe, why he was so certain that he could not go on if anything happened to her—but then, why question something that he simply knew? It would be like questioning why the sun rose in the east. It was just a fact.

He needed Hermione to be safe. It was as simple—and as complicated—as that.

~To be continued…~

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: Thanks to everyone who’s read and reviewed this fic so far. I may not be able to respond but rest assured, I read and appreciate every one! Finally posting Chapter 3, where there’s a little more H/Hr and more plot as well. I hope it’s worth the wait!

What We Do

Chapter 3

“Morning, Hermione.”

Hermione looked up from perusing the Daily Prophet as Harry entered the front room at Grimmauld Place.

“Morning. Your pumpkin juice is all ready.”

“Thanks.”

He flashed her a slightly crooked half smile as he sat down, and Hermione quickly looked back down at the Daily Prophet in an attempt to distract herself from the little, involuntary flutter of her heart. It wasn’t something that happened all the time, this flutter of her heart or this warmth in her chest. Just when he gave her that half-smile of his, or the warmer smile that was just hers, or those times when he said something that showed the careless sweetness that was so much a part of him. Usually only a few words, of sympathy or encouragement or praise or even humor, that were so clearly said without thought but which showed all his loyalty and all the kindness of his heart—kindness that she knew Harry never even thought about or deliberately intended, but simply showed because to do anything else never occurred to him.

It didn’t happen always and she had become fairly adept at ignoring it, pushing aside her reaction to Harry, but somehow she found these little flutters of reaction much harder to ignore after these few days staying in Grimmauld Place.

Maybe her heightened awareness of him was partly out of concern for him, since she knew that he hated Grimmauld Place, oppressed by all the memories in it and the atmosphere of the house. But whatever the reason, she noticed him more. Noticed not just his smile but every passing shadow that darkened his eyes, every glint of light brightening his eyes when he smiled or laughed, the unconscious grace and dexterity of his hands as he motioned or cast spells.

She glanced at him as he drank his pumpkin juice. There really was something very appealing about Harry first thing in the morning, freshly shaved with his hair still damp.

He looked up, catching her eyes, and she tried very hard to appear entirely unconscious of the fact that she was blushing.

“What’s the Daily Prophet saying about Traynor?”

She hurriedly pushed aside her inconvenient awareness of him, slipping back into her comfortable role of just being his friend. “They think he’s escaped to the north, to York, because of the bodies they found.”

“Mm, right, those bodies,” Harry muttered. “I just…” He trailed off, frowning thoughtfully at his toast.

“What, Harry? You don’t think Traynor’s in the north, do you?”

“No,” he admitted.

“But those bodies had his trademark on them.”

“I know,” he half-sighed, “and I don’t know what it is, but I think those bodies are the result of a copycat criminal, not Traynor himself.”

“Why do you say that, Harry?”

He hesitated, his frown deepening. “It might be nothing, but my gut just doesn’t believe that was Traynor.” He looked up at her. “Those bodies were found outside, in an alley in York, but Traynor almost always attacked people in their homes, killed them in their homes.”

“Maybe he’s just changing his MO, making him more unpredictable,” Hermione reasoned.

“It’s possible,” Harry conceded.

“But you don’t believe it,” Hermione added.

“No, I don’t. His killing people in their own homes was deliberate; he liked to demonstrate that he could invade people’s homes, the one place where most people tend to feel most secure. It was a power-play for him; I don’t think he would suddenly choose to change his MO now. It’s inconsistent with his profile. No, I think he’s still close by, in London somewhere, but I can’t explain why.” He paused and then lifted up his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Maybe I’m wrong. I rather hope I am.”

She gave him a slight smile. “What do the Aurors in York say?”

“That’s what I’ll be finding out. I’ll go up to York this morning and see what happened for myself.”

“I can make it to the Ministry on my own,” Hermione volunteered.

He slanted a half-smiling glance at her. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’m not about to leave you alone while Traynor’s still out there somewhere. I need to check in at the office first as it is.”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” she said, but the words were more out of habit, had almost become a private joke between them in the past few days. And, much as she usually hated to be treated as if she was helpless, she had to admit that with Harry, it was… different. She didn’t mind Harry’s protectiveness much because she knew that it wasn’t because he thought she was helpless; it was simply a part of him. It was because she was his best friend, because he cared about her.

“I know. I’m really just staying close to you so you can protect me,” Harry teased.

She grinned. “Very cunning plan.”

“Well, I did almost end up in Slytherin. Cunning plans come naturally to me,” Harry quipped.

Hermione laughed, as he joined in. She knew perfectly well that Harry barely had a cunning bone in his body, was about as straightforward as anyone could be.

They finished breakfast in companionable silence after that, before they both finished getting ready for work.

Their days had fallen into a routine amazingly quickly, from almost that first morning. It felt, Hermione thought that morning, almost as if she and Harry had always lived together, rather than for only the past four days.

She woke up first, and prepared their toast and made her morning tea while Harry finished his morning ablutions. They usually took the subway to the Ministry, partly because both of them felt comfortable using the Tube, but also because Harry enjoyed the little interlude of anonymity before beginning an entire day of being Harry Potter, the Chosen One and Hero of the wizarding world, at the Ministry.

That day was no different, Harry ushering her into the Ministry building first as he took a last glance around. They both exchanged greetings with Eric Munch at the gates.

Damien Westfall glanced back at the sound of their voices, pausing at the lift for Hermione. Harry nodded a greeting at Damien before turning back to Hermione. “I need to talk to Eric about something so you go on ahead. Have a good day.”

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Hermione teased. “And you go on making the world a safer place.”

Harry half rolled his eyes, although his expression was belied by the twitch of his lips, before he turned to Eric.

Hermione walked on to join Damien at the lift. “Good morning, Damien.” She paused, noting the odd expression on his face as he stared at her absently. “What is it?”

He blinked, his gaze refocusing on her face. “Nothing. It’s just,” he paused, smiling slightly, “you and Harry act more like an old married couple than my wife and I do.”

It was not the first—or second, or third, or fourth—time someone made such a remark about her and Harry’s relationship, and they had both gotten rather used to laughing off such remarks. But, for some reason, that morning, Hermione found she couldn’t laugh at the idea that she and Harry were more than just friends.

“You know we’re only best friends,” she answered automatically.

“I know.”

Hermione looked back at Harry, where he stood talking to Eric, as the lift doors closed, cutting off her view. But she could still see him in her mind’s eye, knew his stance, knew the way he gestured with his hands.

And for the first time, she found herself admitting the truth to herself—the truth she’d denied and ignored for what seemed like years. She and Harry were only best friends—but she wanted to be more.

~

Hermione hunted through her desk drawer one last time before sitting back, frowning. Where was it? She couldn’t imagine where the file could be; her desk was, as always, pristine, with everything in its designated place—except for this one file that she needed now. Where—

“Oh, bother,” she muttered to herself. She remembered now. She had brought it home with her last week because she’d needed to refer to it over the weekend and had forgotten to bring it back.

She glanced at her watch and then back at her desk, hesitating with uncharacteristic indecision. She really did need the file now if she was going to finish her current assignment. But on the other hand, with Traynor on the loose, should she take the risk of leaving the Ministry building and returning to her relatively unprotected flat, even for so brief a time? She knew what Harry would say to that question.

But really, much as she usually trusted Harry’s judgment, she honestly could not believe that she was as much at risk of being attacked by Traynor as he believed. Why should she, of all the other Muggle-born witches and wizards, be any more of a target, any more in danger?

Besides which, it was broad daylight outside, and she could Apparate to her flat and be back at the Ministry in a half hour. And it wasn’t as if she was being reckless in leaving; she really did need that file.

And did she really want to put off an assignment she really needed to work on for even a day out of some nebulous fear of Jasper Traynor? No.

Her mind made up, Hermione hastily stood up, grabbing her bag and making sure her wand was with her, before she left the Ministry.

She Apparated directly to the alley beside her building, pausing just briefly to glance around, noting that the neighborhood looked as placid and unchanged as usual, before hurrying inside. Mindful of Harry’s warning, she kept her wand in her hand as she approached her flat, first testing the door, and then relaxing as she found that it was still locked.

She stepped inside her flat cautiously, relaxing slightly as, at first glance, nothing appeared out of place. With more confidence, she closed the door behind her, setting her bag down, before she headed towards her study.

Only to stop short once she’d left the foyer, her gaze fixating on the terrible sight that met her eyes.

Oh God.

She felt her mouth falling open, her throat too dry from horror to scream or even gasp. Oh God. Oh God…

What—how—oh God… She couldn’t think. Her thoughts whirled, a confused, chaotic mass, but out of the incoherence, just one word stood out.

Harry.

Yes, Harry. She clung to the thought of him with desperation; it was the only clear thought she could muster at that moment. Harry. She needed Harry.

Her knees felt decidedly weak and her hand trembled so hard she had to tighten her fist just to keep from dropping her wand. She had to swallow several times before she could speak, her voice trembling slightly. “Expecto patronum.”

So shaky was her voice that she was vaguely surprised to see the shining white form of her Patronus appear, to realize that she had succeeded in the spell. The shining otter immediately flew off, leaving her alone.

She wasn’t even sure how or why she remained standing except that at that moment, even giving way to her shaky knees seemed to involve too much effort and, in some corner of her mind, she was horribly afraid that if she once gave way to anything, even her weak knees, she would give way to all her emotion, and that she couldn’t do. Not yet. Not now.

And so she stood, silent, staring, too numb from shock even to be conscious of the grief and the fear she would otherwise feel. Instead, she focused as much as she could on the one steady thought in her otherwise whirling mind: she needed Harry…

Harry Apparated back to the Ministry after a long morning spent in York, doing what investigating he could into the bodies found there the day before. His efforts had been largely futile; he still had nothing more than his gut instinct that these people had not been murdered by Traynor but by some copycat. The York Aurors had listened to his opinion in respectful silence, but had made it quite clear that they still believed it had been the work of Traynor and were, moreover, convinced that they would then be the ones to capture Traynor. It would be, he knew, the proverbial feather in the district office of York’s cap to be the district to capture Traynor, especially after the main Headquarters had been the ones to “let” him escape in the first place. It was also the sort of inter-office rivalry that irritated Harry to almost no end, short-sighted as it was.

With all that, Harry was not in the best of moods as he approached the Ministry—only to realize in a split second that his day could get infinitely worse.

He could have sworn he stopped breathing the moment he saw Hermione’s Patronus appear beside him, the white otter circling him in a motion that might have seemed playful at any other time but which somehow only conveyed urgency at that moment.

Oh God. He had to fight to breathe through the pressure of the iron fist that had just closed around his heart. Hermione.

He could hardly think but he forced himself to consider where Hermione could be—not in the Ministry or she wouldn’t have sent her Patronus. He doubted she would have returned to Grimmauld Place—and it was protected. But her own flat…

He managed not to splinch himself in Apparating to her flat through sheer force of will and sprinted up the stairs without even a pause, his wand clenched in his fist. He tried to tell himself that she couldn’t have been in any immediate danger or she would not have had time to summon her Patronus at all—but the thought barely registered in the cloud of terror fogging his mind and heart.

He burst into her flat with all the force of a tornado, his gaze immediately finding Hermione and taking in the scene before him in one fraught instant. “Hermione,” he gasped out.

She turned her head to look at him, slowly, and then—there was no other word for it—she crumbled. Her expression dissolved into one of heartbreaking emotion as her knees gave way.

He sprang forward, catching her in his arms before she could fall, keeping hold of her as he let them both sink to the ground.

He wrapped his arms around her as she curled against him, burying her face in his chest, as she trembled. It was shock, he knew, shock and horror so deep it had temporarily taken possession of her; she would recover. But knowing it didn’t make it any easier. He could only tighten his arms around Hermione, passing one hand up and down her back in a soothing motion. He could only sit there on the floor, feeling as if his own heart would break to see Hermione—his Hermione, who was usually so strong—like this.

He stared ahead, his eyes dry and burning, his gaze moving from the pitifully limp form of the old woman who had been Hermione’s neighbor—Agatha, Hermione had introduced her as, when he had first met her, although Hermione had always referred to her as Aggie—to the message Traynor had left scrawled on the wall in Aggie’s blood: You will be next Mudblood.

Then Harry stiffened, his hand stilling on Hermione’s back. He’d heard something.

“Someone’s coming,” he breathed next to Hermione’s ear, meaning only to explain why he was letting her go.

In the next instant, he decided he had never been more impressed by Hermione, never been prouder of her than he was at that moment. She looked up and, in just a few seconds, she managed to regain her self-control, putting aside all her shock and her grief through sheer force of will. It was the most amazing display of strength Harry had ever seen. He helped her up, squeezing her hand in silent support, before she squared her shoulders, her wand ready, and he knew that no one who didn’t know her very well could have seen that anything was wrong. The only indications that Hermione was clinging to composure through little more than will were the tension in her frame, the faint lines around her mouth from the set of her lips, and the fact that she was gripping her wand so tightly her knuckles were white.

The door burst open as Jack Hardesty and three other Aurors rushed in, only to stop short at the sight of Harry, lowering their wands.

“What are you doing here?” Harry demanded, his tone made sharper by annoyance at the strain this interruption had put on Hermione.

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly at Harry’s tone but his answer was deliberately mild. “We were patrolling the neighborhood and spotted a Patronus and decided to investigate.”

“You’re at least 6 hours late from doing any good,” Harry clipped out. “Traynor’s already been here and left.” So saying, he shifted aside, grasping Hermione’s hand in his, so that Jack could see past him.

Jack’s eyes fell immediately to the pitiful form of Agatha, making him suck in his breath slightly, before his gaze riveted to the wall where Traynor had left his message.

Harry watched with a growing sense of unease at Jack’s fixed expression as he stared at the threat; Jack had thought of something and Harry was somehow very sure that he wasn’t going to like Jack’s train of thought.

Jack drew himself up, finally tearing his gaze away from the defaced wall to flicker over Hermione briefly—almost consideringly—before meeting Harry’s frowning gaze. “A word, Harry,” he said quietly, but there was something in his tone that made the soft words more an order than a request.

Harry glanced at Hermione before he jerked his head in a curt gesture, walking into the bathroom and closing the door once Jack was inside. It was the only space enclosed with a door, aside from Hermione’s own bedroom, and Harry somehow knew he would not want anyone else to overhear this conversation.

Harry faced Jack with as neutral an expression as he could manage. “What is it?”

“Did you know—or at least suspect—that Traynor would be targeting Hermione?” Jack asked bluntly.

“I thought he might because she was the Enforcer in charge of his case.” Harry didn’t add that Hermione was also Muggle-born, as it was fairly widely-known.

“Why didn’t you mention it?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant. I’ve taken precautions to keep her safe.”

Jack let out a huff of breath. “That wasn’t what I meant. How could you not think it was relevant? Knowing Traynor has some intended target in mind gives us leverage over him!”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Leverage? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do,” Jack shot back. “We could have used the information that Hermione was a target to create a trap!”

“No!” Harry didn’t even need to think about it, his response immediate, even instinctive, and decisive.

“I know she’s your friend, Harry, but that can’t matter to us right now. This is an emergency and we need to capture Traynor before he kills more innocent people. Hermione would make the ideal bait to draw Traynor out.”

“Hermione is off limits,” Harry bit off, emphasizing each word.

“Harry, I know it’s not easy but this is what we do. We make the choices other people can’t, that other people shouldn’t have to make, to keep people safe.”

Harry stiffened, sizzling a look at Jack that would have been a glare, if anyone else whom Harry did not respect and even consider to be a friend had said it. “I hardly need to be told that.” He rarely referred to his status or what he’d done to attain that status of his own volition, but for once, he wanted to. If there was one thing no one could question, it should have been his willingness to do what was in his power to keep people safe.

Jack had the grace to look apologetic, but persisted. “Think about it, Harry. How many more people do you think Traynor will kill if we don’t capture him soon? A trap makes perfect sense.”

“We are not using Hermione as bait,” Harry snapped, his tone steely.

“For the safety of all, Harry, remember?” Jack asked pointedly, quoting the unofficial motto of the Aurors. “The potential risk to one person doesn’t outweigh the safety of all.”

“Yes, it does,” Harry said flatly, “when that one person is Hermione.”

“Harry…”

“No! I’m not discussing this further!” Harry cut off whatever Jack had been about to say. He gave Jack a flat stare of defiance. “This discussion is over. I will not put Hermione at risk, not even if I’m given a direct order.” Jack would be within his rights as a fellow Team Leader to report the issue to one of the higher-ups in the Department, who would have authority to issue a direct order, but for once, Harry didn’t care.

For a long, fraught moment, Harry’s and Jack’s gazes dueled, but in the end, Jack was the one who gave way, with a sigh.

“Alright, Harry, if that’s what you think. I’m not going to report this.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing. How will you feel if more people are killed that we might have been able to prevent?”

“I’ll worry about that when it happens,” Harry answered candidly, but he already knew that no matter how badly he felt—and he would feel badly, he knew himself well enough to know that—it would be nothing compared to how he felt at the very idea of Hermione being in danger.

Jack hesitated and then began, with some diffidence, “Have you considered what it means that Hermione’s safety means more to you than anything else?”

Harry shot Jack another look. “There’s nothing to consider. Are we done?”

“Yes, Harry. We’re done.”

“Good.” Harry stalked out of the bathroom, his gaze immediately seeking out Hermione, studying her.

She was holding herself together, was still standing. But he could see the effort it took in how she was keeping her gaze carefully trained away from the defaced wall and Agatha’s body, focusing instead on the view outside the window, with an unmoving blankness that was uncharacteristic. And his heart clenched to see it. He had to get her out of here.

He turned his gaze on the three Aurors, who straightened up to attention. “See to clearing things up here.” He glanced at Jack, now standing beside him. “An extra patrol or two around the building would be wise.”

Jack nodded. “I was thinking of setting up a team to guard the building in case Traynor returns.”

“If we can afford to pull a team out from the field.”

Jack looked pointedly at the threat Traynor had left on the wall. “I think we must afford it.”

“Alright, but I am not going to leave that rubbish there any longer.” So saying, Harry suited action to words, directing a surge of energy at the defaced wall until the wall was clean, as if Traynor had never been there, not caring that he was using the sort of focused, wandless magic he rarely used and certainly never in public.

He ignored the reaction of the other Aurors, peripherally aware that what he had just done would add to his reputation but indifferent to it. Using his wandless magic was the quickest way to clean the wall of Traynor’s filth and it would make things easier for Hermione not to have to see her wall defaced for another second.

With the same concentration, he focused on Agatha’s body until the slashes that had spilled the blood Traynor had used slowly closed.

He could not bring Aggie back to life—but he could undo the visible marks of the desecration Traynor had committed on Aggie’s corpse. That done, he knelt by Aggie’s body, closing her eyes with a gentle hand.

He stood up to see that Hermione had finally turned away from the window and was watching him, her eyes damp and her lips set in that expression he recognized from other times when she had been fighting tears.

He crossed swiftly over to her, slipping his arm around her shoulders, nodding slightly at Jack as their eyes met over Hermione’s shoulder.

He began to steer Hermione gently toward the door, but she balked and broke away, moving to kneel by Aggie as he had done, reaching out a hand that trembled very slightly to touch Aggie’s still hand in a silent goodbye.

Then she stood up and he wrapped his arm around her again as they left her flat.

“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione finally said after a moment.

He glanced at her, tightening his arm around her shoulders slightly in response. “Come on, let’s go home.”

“Home? To- to your flat?”

He paused. “To the flat? No, why would we go there?”

It was her turn to look at him. “You said, home.”

“Did I? I meant Grimmauld Place.”

Hermione nodded and they kept on walking, by unspoken agreement taking the Underground.

Harry kept his guard up, not allowing himself to relax until they were inside Grimmauld Place.

He had called it ‘home’, he remembered, and had meant it, oddly enough. Not because he liked it much more—he knew he didn’t, probably never would—but he had come to think of it as home. Because it was where Hermione was safest.

~To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: Apologies for the wait, but RL got in the way and took my muses with it. Note that the rating for this fic has been raised, mostly in preparation for the next chapter. I hope this chapter is worth the wait, since it has the H/Hr you’ve all been waiting for.

What We Do

Chapter 4

Harry turned to Hermione the moment they were inside Grimmauld Place. “Let me make you some tea,” he offered gently.

She shook her head in a rather jerky motion. “No. No thanks, Harry. I- I just want to be alone right now,” she said as she headed up the stairs.

“I’ll be here,” Harry blurted out inanely—because, really, where would he go? He wouldn’t leave Hermione alone while Traynor was still loose, and certainly not after the day she’d had. No, right then, knowing what Hermione must be going through, there was absolutely nowhere else in the world he could be.

Hermione stopped to glance back at him, her uncharacteristically blank expression finally softening. “I know,” she said softly. “Thanks.”

And he could only watch as she made her way up the stairs and then he heard the sound of her door closing.

He understood why Hermione wanted to be alone. She would need to come to terms with what had happened, Agatha’s death, Traynor’s threat, all of it. She would need to grieve for the loss of her friend, cry over it. He knew Hermione didn’t cry often, but when she did, it was almost always in private. He could remember seeing Hermione cry in public only once, at Dumbledore’s funeral. At every other time, he usually only realized Hermione had cried from seeing the traces of tears on her face afterwards.

But knowing why Hermione wanted to be alone hardly helped. He wanted to do something—needed to do something—needed to help her, comfort her, somehow. And this helplessness was killing him. Knowing Hermione was in pain and that he could not help was killing him.

Harry sighed, wandering into the front room of Grimmauld Place, since he could hardly stand there in the front entrance forever. He got out a mug of tea, preparing it so that it could be ready for Hermione within minutes when she wanted it. That, at least, he could do for her.

That done, he stood there for a moment, his gaze wandering rather aimlessly around the room as he tried to think what else he could do.

His eyes fell on the plates and cups from their breakfast, still in the sink, and he washed them, deliberately doing it manually, the Muggle way, instead of trying to use magic, so it would take longer, keep his hands busy. He dried them too and put them away in the cupboards.

And then paused, again wondering what he could do.

He sat down and tried to read the latest bulletin of Dark activities around the world—and stared at the first page for 10 minutes without recalling a single thing before he gave it up.

Next, he tried to read the latest issue of Quidditch Weekly. But that, too, failed to hold his interest for any longer than the time it took to read a few words. And he threw the magazine aside with a sigh. He turned on a Remote Apparition of a Quidditch game and watched it for a few minutes, before realizing that, for once, the actions of the players meant nothing to him. He was surprised to look and realize that somehow, one team had managed to score without his realizing it or even caring that it had happened.

Ron would be horrified, he thought, with distant amusement, but he found he could not care about Quidditch, not then.

Harry spent the next hour or so wandering around Grimmauld Place, unable to stay in one room for long before needing to move. Every time he passed by Hermione’s closed door, he paused, listening and sighing at the silence, before he moved on.

He wandered and—when he wasn’t worrying about Hermione—passed the time by trying to plan and strategize how he could direct the Aurors and the guards to find Traynor and capture him as quickly as possible. At least, now they had confirmation that Traynor was most likely still in the vicinity of London; he would have some of the teams that had spread out throughout the country to return. They would make a virtual net around London and its surrounding area, and tighten it.

Traynor’s name and face had been broadcast throughout the city, making him one of the most recognizable faces in the wizarding world right now. Of course, this was of only limited use since Traynor was quite powerful enough to use various spells to change his appearance. But surely someone would see something…

And then, he could direct Gage to—

He almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of the knock on the front door, and then frowned, hurrying forward. He had only mentioned where he and Hermione were staying to Gage, since Gage needed to know where he could be contacted, and he didn’t need to ask Hermione to know that she wouldn’t have mentioned their whereabouts to anyone else either. Besides which, whoever it was had not set off the wards and that told him more than anything else.

He opened the door to see Ron standing on the step, looking decidedly anxious. Which was a surprise—not because Ron was anxious but because Harry hadn’t thought Ron would be returning from his road trip until tomorrow.

“Ron, I didn’t think--” Harry began as he stepped back to let Ron in, after a quick glance around to see if anything appeared suspicious around Grimmauld Place.

“Great ghost, Harry, what the blazes is going on?” Ron interrupted Harry as he almost bounded inside. “We got back a little early from our road trip and I come back to our flat to find it looks like no one’s been there in days. And with all this news about Traynor… Is everything alright? Where’s Hermione?”

Harry glanced quickly up the stairs to see if Hermione had been disturbed, but the first floor remained as quiet as ever, so he relaxed somewhat before ushering Ron into the front room where he told Ron, succinctly, of Traynor’s threat and Agatha’s murder.

Ron stared, his face grave. “Merlin, Harry, is Hermione okay?”

Harry sighed. “She wasn’t in her flat when it happened, thankfully, but finding Aggie’s body like that… I don’t know how she’s doing.”

“This is Hermione we’re talking about. She’ll be alright,” Ron said.

And Harry was surprised at the flare of irritation he felt at Ron for his easy reassurance, his assumption that Hermione would be fine. Not because Harry doubted Hermione’s strength—after witnessing it that afternoon, he of all people knew just how strong she was—but because he also knew that strength didn’t mean invulnerability. Oh, he didn’t doubt that Hermione would recover with her usual resilience, eventually, but he hated to think of what she would have to endure in order to recover, the effort and the pain it would take. It was not the first time he had realized that in some ways, Ron still did not know Hermione very well, but somehow it struck him anew. Ron believed Hermione’s projection of utter confidence and near-invulnerability and didn’t question it; it never occurred to Ron to realize that Hermione’s outward strength came at a cost and masked the doubts, the vulnerabilities, that lurked in the hidden depths of Hermione’s character.

No, when it came to worrying about Hermione, Harry would need to worry alone.

“Yeah, I hope so,” Harry finally responded.

“And if she needs anything, she’ll have us to help. It’s what we do, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is,” Harry agreed, his voice stronger now. “It’s what we do.”

“So what’s happening now? Is there anything I can do? I have almost a week before we have to leave again.”

“There’s a team of guards from the Gaol that’s been assigned to patrol through the neighborhood around our flat, just in case, but you can serve as an extra look-out.”

Ron nodded. “Of course. You’ll be alright on your own, though, looking out for Hermione?”

“Yes,” was all Harry said, rather grimly. After what Traynor had done, there was more chance of a major blizzard occurring in July than there was of Harry relaxing his guard of Hermione for so much as a split second. No, if Traynor came for Hermione, Harry would be ready for him.

Ron nodded again. “Traynor must be mental. What’s he going after Hermione for? She’s probably one of the few Muggle-born witches or wizards who might actually be ready for him and able to capture him herself.”

Harry slanted a look at Ron, before he fixed his gaze on the floor, his voice quiet but somehow conveying all the more intensity for its very softness. “That’s exactly why he’s going after Hermione. Traynor’s not insane, just evil. If you think about it, this is Traynor’s pattern; he’s always targeted the higher-ranking or more powerful Muggle-born wizards first. Not that he minds killing others, but the other killings have always seemed more like after-thoughts. What he really wants to do is get rid of all the Muggle-borns who serve as living proof that blood purity doesn’t really matter. Hermione is perfectly set up to be a target for Traynor and she was pushed forward into his notice when she was assigned to be the Enforcer for his case.” A slight shudder passed through Harry. This was partly what Harry did now, using his insight to try to get behind the minds of criminals in order to capture them, and he usually managed to cultivate a necessary detachment from it, closing off his own emotional reactions to evil of this sort. But he couldn’t do that now, not where Hermione was concerned. Where Hermione was concerned, he was involved, did react emotionally.

Harry looked back up at Ron to see that Ron was looking at him oddly. “Bloody hell, Harry,” Ron finally breathed. “There are times you’re rather scary, y’know that?”

Harry managed an upward quirk of his lips in the distant cousin of a smile. “Occupational hazard,” he quipped with forced lightness.

“Right,” Ron agreed with a half smile before he sobered. “You’re sure there’s really nothing else I can do?”

Harry shook his head. He didn’t want Ron meeting up with Traynor; he knew too well how such an encounter would end and he didn’t want anything to happen to Ron. “There’s a net of all the Aurors in the city looking for him. Traynor won’t be able to hide for long.” He injected more confidence than he might have felt into his voice, deliberately not mentioning that Traynor had successfully evaded all the people looking for him for the better part of a week already.

“If you’re sure,” Ron began before he was interrupted by a yawn, blinking. “Sorry. I’m knackered. Both of the last two matches went on for more than six hours each and the last game went on for nearly nine hours.”

“I heard something about that,” Harry said absently, almost automatically. “But, yes, I’m sure.”

Ron stood. “I’m going to head back to the flat then for a kip. Tell Hermione—tell her I’m sorry about her friend,” he added, more quietly.

“I will.” Harry stood up as well, accompanying Ron to the door and then doing another automatic check of the street.

Some time later, Harry sat down and took a desultory bite of the dinner he’d prepared, more to have something to do than out of hunger. But then he froze, his fork still in the air, as he heard something and then he dropped his fork and almost leaped out of his chair, waiting.

The door opened and he saw Hermione. He crossed the room swiftly, putting a hand on her shoulder as he studied her face. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “Are you hungry? Do you want anything?”

“Just some tea, I think.”

“Okay.” He prepared the tea quickly and brought it to her.

“Thanks, Harry,” she murmured.

“Do you want anything else? I made dinner.”

Hermione shook her head a little.

“You should probably eat something,” he prompted gently.

A slight, poignant smile curved Hermione’s lips. “You sound almost like Aggie. She was always checking to make sure I’d eaten too.”

“Did she? That was nice of her,” he said, choosing his words carefully.

“Aggie seemed to have decided I was some sort of surrogate niece or something. She was always fussing about the idea of a young girl like me fending for myself, making sure I’d eaten right.”

“Clearly, she could see what a frail, delicate person you are.”

Hermione responded to his mild teasing with a small roll of her eyes that was belied by her smile. “No, she didn’t think that. She was endlessly fascinated with my work and the stories I told her.”

“Was she?” Harry asked, surprised. “Sorry, somehow, I thought… I thought she was a Muggle.”

“Actually, she was a Squib.”

“She was?”

“Yes.” Hermione paused, a reminiscent look crossing her face. “It was partly why we got to know each other so well. When I introduced myself after moving in, she recognized my name. She’d heard of us.”

“So, when I met her, she already knew who I was.”

“Yeah, she did.”

“She didn’t say anything and never mentioned it to me in the few times I saw her afterwards.”

“No, she wouldn’t have. She would have known that it would make you a little uncomfortable. She was… one of the wisest people I’ve ever met.”

“Coming from you, that’s quite the compliment. You’re not exactly a slouch in the wisdom department yourself.”

Hermione ignored the unthinking compliment, her gaze fixed absently on the floor. He could see the memories she had of Aggie, the fondness, in her expression.

“We have dinner together about once a week,” Hermione began softly and then stopped with a slight gasp, looking stricken. “I mean, we had dinner together.”

“I remember,” Harry said gently. “She baked a lot too, cookies and cakes and home-made bread. You brought over what she’d baked a few times, remember? Ron joked that he would fall in love with any woman who could bake cookies that good.”

She managed a smile and a somewhat shaky laugh. “Oh, right, I remember that now. I told Aggie what Ron had said and she laughed, said that her mother had always told her the easiest way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.”

“Certainly true in Ron’s case—feed him and throw in a few good words about the Cannons, and he’ll fall head over heels,” Harry quipped.

That got a real laugh from Hermione. “Yes, that does sound like Ron.”

“Speaking of Ron, he stopped by earlier, wanted to know how you were. He said to tell you he was sorry.”

Hermione’s expression softened. “Aggie liked Ron from the few times she met him; she used to call him the gentle giant because of how tall he is.”

Harry smiled appreciatively. “Nice name for Ron. I like it.”

Hermione shot him a teasing glance. “Aggie has a name for you too; she calls you the handsome young man.”

Harry schooled his features into exaggerated seriousness. “Clearly, Aggie was a woman of surpassing intelligence and good taste.”

“I don’t know about that,” Hermione returned in an overly thoughtful tone. “Some might consider it evidence that her eyesight was failing.”

“I resent that,” he retorted in mock umbrage. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been named Most Eligible Bachelor by Witch Weekly more than five years in a row now.”

As always, Hermione couldn’t help a slight laugh at the mention of that particular honor, especially since she, of all people, knew that he hated it.

He pretended to huff in annoyance at her reaction. “You may laugh but Aggie was clearly wiser and appreciated my good looks.”

“I’ll tell her you said so,” Hermione said lightly—and then stopped with a sharp gasp, all amusement leaching out of her face to be replaced with pain. “I won’t tell her; I can’t tell her. I’ll never be able to talk to her again…”

There was so much desolation in her voice he felt his heart twist inside him and then she was crying, her tears overflowing.

“Oh, Hermione,” he breathed and tugged her forward until he could wrap his arms around her. She sagged against him, burying her face in his shirt as she cried, her every soft sob ripping into him like a jagged blade and he could swear he felt every tear with an almost physical pain.

And he could not help her. He could not banish the grief she felt, could not undo the loss she’d suffered from Traynor’s brutal murder of someone she’d cared for, a woman who’d been something between a friend and a favorite aunt.

He could only hold her as she cried, could only tighten his arms around her as if by doing so, he could shield her from all other pain. Could only press his lips to her hair, closing his eyes against the prick of his own tears, not over Aggie but over Hermione.

It was not long—although even the short time felt like a painful eternity-- before Hermione’s sobs slowed, her tears ceasing, and she simply rested against him, quiescent.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione sniffed after a long moment, shifting to sit up as he let his arms fall away. “I know you hate it when girls cry.”

He stared at her. “Do you think I don’t love you just as much when you cry as I do when you smile?”

He saw surprise flare in her eyes. “You- you love me?”

Wait. Had he said that?

His words replayed in his mind—Merlin, he had said that. He hadn’t even realized what he was saying, had just spoken without thinking.

“Of course I do,” he heard himself say—and it was as if the last piece of a puzzle had been put in place so the whole picture could be seen and understood.

He loved her? Of course he did…

He didn’t feel any surprise at the realization of his true feelings for Hermione, as if somewhere in his subconscious, he had always known it and had only been waiting for his conscious mind to catch up.

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione threw herself at him, her arms going around him. “I love you too.”

It was his turn to draw back to stare at her. “You do?”

She gave him a somewhat watery smile. “How could I not?”

Well, actually… Put that way, he could think of any number of reasons why not to love him—but he kept his mouth shut. What was clear from her eyes—and from the fact that he knew her—was that she did love him. And the knowledge had a bubble of amazement and emotion filling his chest.

He lifted a hand to touch her face, lightly, his thumb just brushing the corner of her lips. Her eyes flared and her breath hitched slightly.

His own breathing was uneven in his chest. At that moment, nothing on earth could have kept him from kissing her.

Slowly, he slid his hand back to tangle in her hair, cupping the back of her neck, as he bent his head. His lips touched hers and he kissed her, softly at first, but then she shifted closer to him, her lips softening and then parting, and the kiss deepened. And he forgot all else, was only focused on her, on her lips and her taste and the warmth of her. One kiss turned into two that spun into three… and he lost count.

Finally, though, he drew back slightly, skating his lips down her cheek and the line of her jaw to the hollow behind her ear, making her gasp slightly and sag against him.

He slid his arm around her, as she shifted to lean against him more fully, her head fitting snugly against his shoulder.

They didn’t speak—but then, they hardly needed to, really. He was content to rest his cheek against her hair, conscious of the warm weight of her against him, knowing that she was there, with him, safe and comforted.

He sensed rather than saw her sudden smile. “What is it?” he asked mildly, not bothering to move. At that moment, he rather felt as if he never wanted to move again, could happily spend his entire life right there, with Hermione.

“I was thinking about what Aggie would say if she knew about this.”

“What would she say?”

“I lied earlier,” was Hermione’s inexplicable response, “when I said that Aggie called you the handsome young man.”

“She didn’t think I was handsome? I’m hurt,” he responded lightly, going along with Hermione’s words in spite of his confusion, because—knowing Hermione—it would be explained soon enough.

“She actually always called you my handsome young man.”

“Your handsome young man? Well, now I think I’m offended,” he said teasingly.

Hermione gave him a fleeting smile in response to his quip before her smile faded. “Aggie persisted in saying that you were mine, that you loved me, even though I insisted she was wrong and you only saw me as your best friend.”

“Did she really? How did she know, when I didn’t even know it?”

Hermione lifted her head to look at him. “You didn’t know?”

He gave her a slight smile, reaching up to touch her cheek lightly, in a fleeting caress. “I’ve always been a little thick-headed, you know.”

“Then when did you realize…”

“That I loved you?” he finished for her. “A very long time ago,” he said airily. “It’s been, oh, about 10 minutes now, I think.”

She rewarded him with a laugh and he smiled, before sobering. “Honestly, I think I’ve loved you for years; I just didn’t know it until now.” He lifted one shoulder into a half-shrug. “Aggie must be smarter than I am, to know me better than I do.”

Hermione’s expression softened. “Aggie said she could see that you loved me from the way you looked at me.”

Harry wrinkled his nose slightly in confusion. “How did I look at you?”

“She said… she said you looked at me as if I was the only other person in the world, as if nothing else existed for you for a few seconds when I walked into a room or out of it.”

He could almost have squirmed in sudden self-consciousness at hearing this perceptive description—and yet… In some small part of him, he recognized it, acknowledged it as being accurate. Because it was true, although he hadn’t thought of it until now. That was rather how he felt; he was always aware of when Hermione entered or left a room.

“Wise woman, Aggie was.” He paused. “You really didn’t believe her at all?”

“Honestly, no, I didn’t. I always said that I knew you better than she did and I knew that you only saw me as your best friend, nothing more, nothing less. I guess Aggie was right after all.”

“Even you have to be wrong sometimes, so you know what it’s like for the rest of us fallible mortals.”

Hermione laughed softly. “I never claimed to be infallible.” She fell silent and he felt her sudden increase in tension, sensed her abrupt sobering.

“I was wrong about another thing too,” she began, her voice grim and wavering ever so slightly. “I didn’t believe you when you said that I would be Traynor’s target. If I had--” she paused and swallowed, “if I had, I might have thought to warn Aggie so she could at least be on her guard.”

He tightened his arms around her. “It’s not your fault,” he told her quietly. “You can’t be blamed for what Traynor did; you know that.” He paused. “How many times did you tell me the same thing?”

“I should have listened to you, believed you.”

“You did. Why else are we here in Grimmauld Place? If you’d had your way, you would have stayed in your flat and--” He broke off, unable to put into words what would have happened if Hermione had been in her flat. He couldn’t even think it; it was unthinkable, impossible. He tightened his arms around her again, almost convulsively, as if in doing so, he could ensure that she was never in danger again, before he forcibly relaxed his arms. “You trusted me enough to stay here, even if you didn’t really believe me, and that’s the important thing. I’m sure Aggie would agree with me,” he added softly. “Aggie would have wanted you to be safe.” He hesitated and then added, “And though I did think that you would be Traynor’s target, I never thought to warn Aggie either and I should have. I’m sorry. I could have helped, could have saved her, if I’d thought of it earlier.”

Hermione sat up, turning to face him. “Harry, I don’t blame you for not thinking to warn Aggie.”

“I should have thought of it, though. I knew that Traynor would target you; I should have known that put Aggie in danger too. Traynor’s never exactly cared about how many other people he would hurt in addition to his targets and she was your neighbor and your friend. I should have remembered that.”

“That’s hindsight talking.” Her voice softened, as she touched her hand to his cheek briefly, a thread of humor entering her tone. “This may come as a shock to you, but I don’t expect you to be omniscient.”

He managed a slight smile, as he knew she wanted him to. “The same goes for you too. I don’t expect you to be omniscient either. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

She paused and then managed a weak smile. “Unfair, to use my own words against me.”

He half-smiled. “Did it work?”

“I won’t blame myself if you won’t blame yourself.”

“It’s a deal,” he promised softly and kissed her forehead lightly to seal the promise.

Hermione rested her head against his shoulder with a small sigh as he passed a caressing hand lightly down her hair.

How long they sat like that, Harry didn’t know, but eventually, he heard Hermione’s breathing become deep and regular as the weight of her settled more firmly against him, and he realized that she had fallen asleep.

He hated to wake her but he knew she would wake up stiff if she slept here. She would be more comfortable sleeping in her own bed.

“Hermione?” He would not jostle her awake but he touched his hand to her shoulder and, as he’d expected, she awoke.

“Oh, Harry, I’m sorry. I guess I must be more tired than I thought.”

“Come on,” he said gently. “I’ll take you up to bed.” He abruptly stopped, hearing his own words, and then felt himself flush. “No, wait, I didn’t mean that. I meant, you can go to your bed and I’ll go to mine… I just… I’ll just… walk you upstairs,” he finished somewhat less than coherently.

She laughed softly as she stood up. “It’s okay, Harry. I know what you meant.”

He made a face. “I know; you love me for my dashing way with words.”

She gave him a look of mock astonishment as they left the front room together. “You mean that’s not why you’ve been named the Wizarding World’s Most Eligible Bachelor?”

“Shocking, isn’t it? And me, quite famous for my eloquence and charm,” he quipped.

She laughed and then sobered as they stopped at her door. “Thanks, Harry, for everything.”

He lifted one shoulder into a half-shrug. “You’ve done the same for me.” He lifted his hand to brush a stray hair away from her face with a feather-light touch. “Anyway, how could I do anything less for you?”

The ghost of a smile touched her lips and she kissed him. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight.”

Harry was tugged out of an uneasy sleep and lay there for a moment, listening, wondering what had awoken him. It was completely silent in the house, as it should have been, and he tried to relax, closing his eyes, only to open them again immediately.

He got up silently, grabbing his wand, as he crept out of his room. He made his way downstairs, rechecking the wards on the front door, and then up again, pausing to listen outside Hermione’s door. All was quiet within but, not quite reassured, he eased open the door quietly.

He couldn’t quite see Hermione but he heard the sound of her breathing, somewhat uneven, and he knew, crossing the room quickly, to crouch by Hermione’s bed.

“Hermione,” he said quietly. “Hermione, wake up. It’s okay.”

She awoke with a slight gasp, her eyes finding his in the dimly lit room.

“It’s okay,” he repeated softly.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered somewhat brokenly as she abruptly reached for him, burying her face in his shoulder. “I- I was dreaming and I saw Traynor killing Aggie and I couldn’t do anything.”

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, ignoring the awkward position he was in. “It’s okay,” he repeated, not sure what he could say. He could not bring himself to say that it had only been a nightmare, could not dismiss it that way, not when he knew all too well the terrors a nightmare could hold even now. Instead, he could only hold her, smoothing his hand down her hair, in silent assurance that, whatever else, she wasn’t alone.

“Harry,” she asked, her voice half-muffled in his pyjama shirt, “do you think… do you think Aggie suffered?” Her voice shook slightly before she regained control of it. “I- I hate to think of her being Crucio’d.”

He opened his mouth to make a quick denial, wanting only to comfort her, but stopped himself. This was Hermione and she would not want comforting lies. And he wasn’t going to treat her as if he thought she would even believe comforting lies. She knew him too well for that. No, he couldn’t lie to her, not now, not about this. Not ever, really.

“I don’t think she suffered,” he finally said.

Hermione lifted her head to look at him, studying his eyes. “You don’t?”

“It’s not his way,” Harry explained. “Traynor generally doesn’t use the Cruciatus on his victims.” He went on with almost brutal honesty—but he also knew Hermione would rather have that than any reassuring evasions or half-truths. “He kills his victims quickly because, to him, they never deserved to live. He doesn’t find pleasure in torture; he’s too focused on his end goals for that. He likes symbolism, likes gestures and actions that have a significance beyond their simple result and, for him, torture doesn’t accomplish anything. For him, it would only serve to show his victims’ weakness, but since he already believes they’re weak, it doesn’t serve a purpose.”

Hermione nodded against his shirt. “Okay.” She let out a shuddering breath. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

“It would have been a quick death,” he finally said. “Remember in our 4th year, when Moody did his demonstration of the Unforgivables? It was fast.” And they had seen other Killing Curses since then, but he refused to mention that.

She let out a shaky breath that was half a sob. “That’s- that’s good to know. Thanks, Harry.” She was silent for a long moment and then said, “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“You didn’t wake me up,” he answered automatically—and truthfully. “I was worried about you.” He straightened up a little and touched her shoulder. “You should go back to sleep,” he said gently.

She hesitated and then asked, “Stay with me?”

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, silently damning Traynor to hell yet again for what he’d done to Hermione—not just that he had killed Agatha, but that he had made Hermione afraid. And it was just so wrong to have Hermione—his Hermione, who was so strong—be so openly vulnerable.

“Thanks, Harry.”

And so he stayed, pulling up the chair in Hermione’s room to her bedside. He stayed and watched her sleep and, for once, wakefulness did not seem like a bad thing.

~To be continued…~

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: I am so sorry for how long it’s taken for me to update this fic. My only defense is that RL got crazy and took my muses with it. However, things have settled down a little and I should have more time to write so hopefully, it won’t take so long to update again. In the meantime, I hope this chapter—with some smut—is worth the wait!

What We Do

Chapter 5

“And so then Damien told me that…”

Abruptly, Harry stopped listening to Hermione’s words. Something…

He tightened his grip on her hand and she fell silent, glancing at him.

He didn’t meet her gaze for once, preoccupied and tense. He didn’t know what had impinged on his senses, what disturbed him, but if there was one thing he had learned from the years of the War, it was to trust his gut, the instinct he had developed.

His wand was already out and ready when he sensed—felt—something and reacted instinctively, throwing himself on top of Hermione, knocking her to the ground as he half twisted to throw up a blind Shielding Spell, more to gain some time than because he believed it would be very effective.

They had barely hit the ground before Harry pushed himself up again, although he did not stand, remaining where he was so his body could serve as a shield of sorts to Hermione.

“Very nice, but I did not really plan to hurt you just now, only to get your attention.” He heard Traynor’s mocking voice just before he saw Traynor approaching.

Harry didn’t bother responding; he wasn’t going to bandy words with Traynor. And mentally swore, damning his own arrogance in not suggesting that he and Hermione be accompanied by a team of Aurors at all times. He didn’t doubt—exactly—his ability to protect Hermione but two against one were not odds he liked—certainly not when it came to Hermione’s safety. No, where Hermione was concerned, he wouldn’t have felt entirely comfortable even with odds of several thousand to one.

“Pitiful Half-blood. You should really give up. The Mudblood will still die. The only question is whether you die first or whether I make you watch as I kill her.”

Harry refused to react, although his hand tightened around his wand to the point of pain. Instead, he focused on putting up a silent Shielding Spell.

And then several things seemed to happen at once: behind him, Hermione moved, a bright streak of light flashing out of her wand and into the sky; he fired off a Stupefy that Traynor managed to dodge, even as Traynor flicked his own, stolen, wand—and then he heard Hermione cry out and saw her wand come flying out of her hand to be caught by Traynor.

He shoved aside his automatic reaction to the sound of Hermione’s cry—one quick glance had been enough to assure him that she wasn’t badly hurt—but now, she was wandless, unarmed. Quick as the thought, he handed his wand to her.

But instead of taking it immediately, she closed her hand over his, pointing his wand towards Traynor where he was picking himself up. Harry noted that it appeared Traynor had, at least, fallen awkwardly in dodging the Stupefy so he was favoring one leg as he stood up.

He felt an odd tingling beginning to pulse from where Hermione’s hand was wrapped around his and glanced down at her to see that she was focused, narrow-eyed, on Traynor. He knew that look. He might not know exactly what she was doing but he directed his energy on Traynor as well so that his own power could add to hers.

Traynor did not appear visibly affected by whatever spell Hermione had performed as he limped forward one step. “This is so much better, you see, Mudblood. I will kill you with your very own wand, this wand you do not deserve to own, worthless Mudblood that you are.”

Harry cast another Shielding Spell and then acted quickly, shoving his wand into Hermione’s hand so she would be armed before he cast a quick Confundus to buy some time. He turned to Hermione only to see her eyes widen and her lips part on a warning. He turned to look but then felt himself flying backwards to crash onto the ground some meters away.

Leaving Hermione alone. He ignored his own aches to turn towards Hermione—

He could swear time slowed, even stopped, everything seeming to happen very slowly as he watched in horror.

Hermione cast a quick hex at Traynor that he deflected with a quick wave of his wand and tried for a Stupefy but Traynor managed to disarm Hermione again, leaving her wandless.

Traynor’s smile stretched. “And now, Mudblood, you die.”

He pointed Hermione’s stolen wand at her—

In that split second, Harry could see it happen, the nightmarish image searing itself across his brain—the flash of green light and Hermione’s body falling to the ground…

No!! Harry flung his hand out towards Traynor, calling up everything in him, feeling a surge of desperate power. “Sectumsempra!”

Traynor let out an unearthly shriek as his raised right arm was sliced off at the elbow. With his one remaining hand, Traynor snatched up Hermione’s wand and turned, his enraged gaze pinning Harry.

But Hermione was safe—for the moment.

Harry pushed himself to his feet, wavering slightly. Damn it. That last surge of forced, channeled wandless magic had drained him—but it had saved Hermione. He clung to that thought, stiffening his spine, as Traynor limped towards him.

“Harry!”

He glanced toward the sound of Hermione’s voice with one eye. With a desperate effort, he leaped up to catch his wand that Hermione had retrieved and thrown at him and, in the same movement, shot ropes out of his wand to bind Traynor securely.

Traynor fell to the ground, immobilized.

“Silencio.” Harry silenced Traynor with a quick, disdainful flick of his wand. He didn’t want to hear Traynor’s vile thoughts.

Harry knelt and retrieved Hermione’s wand from Traynor’s now uselessly-pinned hand. “Hermione is more worthy of her magic than any other witch or wizard in the world. It’s you who are not worthy of it, Traynor,” he said quietly.

Traynor’s face twisted into an infuriated snarl but Harry ignored him purposefully, turning away in revulsion.

He turned to face Hermione, returning her wand to her, just as there was a sudden rush of sound as two teams of Aurors, followed closely by Jack Hardesty, both ran and Apparated onto the street.

“We heard a report of a strange flash of light in the sky and came to investigate. Should have known you’d find a way to take care of it first,” Jack greeted him.

Harry felt himself grin rather wearily, even though just a moment ago, he wouldn’t have imagined it was possible. “Serves you right for showing up late.”

Jack turned his gaze to Traynor, his expression becoming grim. “We’ll take care of him from here.”

“He won’t be able to transform into his Animagus form,” Hermione inserted. “At least, not for a while.”

Harry and Jack both turned to stare at Hermione before Harry suddenly realized. “That was the spell you did with my wand.”

Hermione glanced at him, nodding. “It’s not an easy spell and usually takes two casters so that their combined magic can overpower that of the Animagus, which is the only way to make it effective.”

Harry smiled. “You’re brilliant,” he said spontaneously and entirely sincerely.

She returned his smile. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

His smile faded as he studied her, noticing that there was a cut on her lip and—he reached out and touched his finger ever so lightly to her cheek where a bruise was beginning to form. “You okay?” he asked softly.

She reached up to grasp his hand, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m fine. What about you?”

“All in one piece,” he said lightly enough but he didn’t release her hand as he studied her, noting the lingering shadows in her eyes.

Their eyes met and held and—

Harry returned to the present as he heard Jack give a slight cough, realizing that he had entirely forgotten about Jack’s presence, let alone that of the other Aurors.

He turned to face Jack, whose expression was so preternaturally bland and unreadable that it was quite clear he was fighting to hide his amusement. “Right, so you can take charge of Traynor from here?” he asked, unnecessarily, trying to sound as coolly professional as he could, even as he retained his grip on Hermione’s hand.

“Of course,” Jack reassured him. He glanced down at Traynor with unconcealed disgust. “He won’t get away this time. I intend to make absolutely sure of that.”

Harry nodded. “He’ll need to be put in one of the maximum security cells that don’t allow magic of any kind to take place inside, for when the spell Hermione cast wears off.”

Jack nodded briskly, quite as if he wasn’t already aware of this. “Right. In fact, I’ll personally escort the bastard into his new cell.”

“Good. And then we’ll need to send the word out to all the district offices, call in the rest of the teams so they know to drop the search.”

“Gage knows what to do. I’m sure he’ll take charge of that.”

Harry nodded. “And you can let Gage know that I’ll be in first thing tomorrow to write up the Incident Report.”

“Will do.” Jack paused and then asked, “What do you want to go into the release we send out to the press?”

Harry met Jack’s eyes. “The standard message. You know the policy on that.”

Jack hesitated, for the first time seeming less than certain of himself, before he gave in. “All right, the standard message.”

Harry nodded and then glanced at Hermione. “I’m heading home now but Gage knows where to find me, if need be.”

Jack nodded and threw a small salute as he turned away, lifting Traynor to his feet none too gently.

Harry waited until they were back in Grimmauld Place, the front door closed behind them, before he pulled her into his arms with a kind of tender urgency. “Are you all right, really?”

He felt her nod against him. “I’m fine, honestly, Harry. What about you?”

He swallowed, feeling again the soul-searing dread. “That was too close. I’m sorry. I should have assigned a team of Aurors to stay with you as protection, shouldn’t have been so arrogant to think I could protect you on my own.”

Hermione pulled away from him, just enough to meet his eyes. “Harry! I’m fine, really I am, and you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

“I just… I can’t stand to think of you being in danger.”

Her expression softened. “I know, but I’m fine. Besides,” she added with a slight smile, “you might have tried to give me a team of Aurors to act as my bodyguards, but I wouldn’t have let you.”

He managed a small smile as he knew she wanted him to. “Okay,” he relented, lifting his hand to cup her cheek lightly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything. For saving me by throwing me my wand, for that spell that summoned Jack and the other Aurors. Just… thank you.”

She smiled slightly. “It’s what we do, isn’t it? We protect each other.”

“Always.” His tone changed. “Your lip is bleeding. Do you have some ointment I can put on it?”

“In my room. But it’s really nothing. I can take care of it myself.”

“No, let me do it. Besides, it’s easier when someone else plays the Healer.”

“Okay,” Hermione agreed, “but only if you let me help you with your bruises.”

“Yes, Miss Prefect,” he said teasingly.

She smiled. “I don’t recall you being so obedient when I was a Prefect.”

He shrugged a little and then suppressed a wince at a sudden spike of pain in his dully-throbbing head and at the way the gesture pulled at his now-sore shoulders. “I’ve learned something in the last few years.”

But of course, being Hermione, she caught whatever expression crossed his face. “Oh, Harry, are you very sore now?”

“I’ve felt worse,” he said lightly, only to realize his mistake when her expression swiftly sobered. “It really isn’t that bad,” he assured her seriously.

“Okay, but I’m still going to take a look at your bruises.”

“You’re going first,” he insisted implacably as they entered her room.

“But, Harry--”

“Let me take care of you,” he said, softening his tone a little but retaining enough steel to tell her that he wasn’t about to give way.

She acquiesced with a nod, retrieving the Healing Ointment from where it had been stored—probably from the last time they’d stayed here during the War, he suddenly realized—and then sat down on her bed.

He kept his touch gentle as he used the Ointment and then the Healing Charm on the cut on her lip before moving on to the bruise forming on her cheek.

Afterwards, he went on to her hand, bleeding from a thin gash across her fingers.

“Harry, don’t look so solemn. Really, this is barely more than a paper cut.”

He flicked his gaze up to her face, managing a slight smile. “I know. I just… don’t like to see you bleed.”

Her expression softened but all she said was, “Let me look at your bruises now. Turn around and lift up your shirt.”

“Yes, Miss Prefect,” he teased, doing what she’d told him to, and then heard her suck in her breath a little.

“Oh, Harry…” she sighed. “Your shoulders are pretty badly scraped up, your back is already bruised, and you’ve got a lump on your head. Is your head aching terribly?”

He turned his head to glance at her over his shoulder. “Is that all?”

She threw him a frowning look. “This isn’t funny.”

He sobered, turning around so he could face her. “I’m sorry; I know it’s not funny. But Hermione, if that’s what it took to keep you safe, then it’s nothing.”

Her expression softened. “I know, Harry, but it doesn’t mean I like to see it.” She paused and then managed a wavering attempt at a smile. “Turn around again so I can get started. And I think you’d better take off your shirt to make it easier.”

“If you wanted to see me shirtless, you only had to ask,” he quipped as he turned around again, hiding a wince at the way the motion of tugging his shirt up and over his head pulled at his sore shoulders.

“Be quiet, Harry, so I can pay attention.” Her tone was mild, belying her words, and he could hear her slight smile in her tone and was satisfied.

She started with his head and he heard her murmur a few words and then felt the throbbing ache from the back of his head decrease, although his headache remained.

“I’ll be right back, Harry. I’m going to make a Headache Potion for you.”

Hermione returned more quickly than he’d expected, handing him a cup of the Headache Potion that he quickly downed, wrinkling his nose a little at the taste, but it did relieve his headache almost immediately.

He felt the cool Healing Ointment on his skin followed by the surprisingly light touch of Hermione’s fingers. It did surprise him. He was so accustomed to thinking of Hermione as being strong that somehow he didn’t associate gentleness with Hermione—and yet, he knew she was gentle. It was something that always amazed him about Hermione, that she was so strong and determined but that she retained the kindness of her heart, as in how, even in the midst of the tension immediately following the response to Traynor’s escape, she had remembered to pause and mourn for Scott Hotchkiss.

He let out a slight hiss of pain as she began to rub the Ointment into the abrasions on his shoulders and she froze.

“Sorry, Harry. I should have mentioned it might sting.”

“It’s okay, Hermione. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

It was a few more minutes before Hermione announced, “All done.”

He turned back again to face her. “I knew you were my favorite Healer,” he told her only half-teasingly, lifting his hands to rest them lightly on her shoulders. And felt her stiffen at his touch. He removed his hands immediately. “What? Did I hurt you?”

Hermione managed a slight smile. “No, it’s nothing. My shoulder is just a little sore, that’s all.”

He frowned. “Let me see.”

“Harry, really, it’s nothing,” Hermione began.

“Let me see,” he repeated and then softened his tone a little. “You took care of all my bruises.”

Hermione agreed with a slight nod and then unbuttoned the top few buttons of her shirt to bare one of her shoulders, revealing the beginnings of a large bruise on her shoulder and upper arm.

“That’s not nothing,” Harry chided mildly, trying to hide his automatic reaction to the sight and the knowledge that he must have caused this when he knocked Hermione to the ground at Traynor’s first attack. Intellectually, he knew perfectly well that he couldn’t blame himself for this when it had been necessary to protect Hermione, but knowing it couldn’t quite prevent the visceral stab to his gut at the sight.

He spread the Healing Ointment lightly over the bruised skin, trying to keep his fingers as gentle as possible, before using the Healing Charm.

Acting on an impulse, he bent and kissed her now-unbruised shoulder. “All better now,” he said lightly and looked up at her with a half-smile.

She was so close. She had turned her head to look at him and now there were only inches between their faces. He could see flecks of gold and amber and mahogany in her eyes.

His smile slowly faded. And the mood that had been so single-mindedly focused on comfort and healing shifted as the air seemed to thicken between them. He suddenly found it hard to breathe.

“Harry.” His name was a whisper, barely a wisp of sound.

Slowly, he lifted his hand to cup her cheek. Her eyes closed briefly at the touch and when she opened her eyes again, he let out a soft gasp. She wanted him to kiss her. It was there in her eyes, in the quickening of her breath through her slightly-parted lips. She wanted him to kiss her. The knowledge settled in his chest, warmth spreading through him. He wondered, a little fuzzily, why the thought affected him so much—because it did affect him.

She wanted him to kiss her. And he—he suddenly felt as if kissing her was more necessary than breathing.

Desire—he’d felt it before, but this was different. Before, desire had been about him, more focused on what he found attractive. This—this was about her, what she wanted, more than it was about him.

She wanted him to kiss her—and so he kissed her.

He kissed her softly, slowly. Savoring her taste and her warmth and her responsiveness.

And then she made a soft sound in the back of her throat—a sound that he swore went straight to his groin—as she shifted closer to him, deepening the kiss, and he was lost. The desire that had been simmering exploded inside him. The hand that had been cupping her cheek slid backward to tangle in her hair as he kissed her deeply, with all the passion, the sheer want, he felt. It was almost shocking—he was used to feeling tenderness for Hermione, even used to the tug of attraction, used to a rather vague, unfocused desire that he’d gotten very good at ignoring. But this—this was different. This went beyond mere arousal; this was an addiction, a need.

And she responded, kissing him back with a heat that matched and mirrored his own, eliminating any small chance he had of resisting.

Everything else seemed to dissolve around him as he lost touch with the rest of the universe. The world could have ended at that moment and he would have neither noticed nor cared as long as he could keep on kissing her.

It was a shock when she broke off the kiss, drawing back.

He blinked, disoriented. It took him a few moments before his mind fought free of the cloud of passion and he returned to reality and a realization of what he was doing.

This wasn’t the time. Hermione had just been threatened, attacked. They had both been injured, emotions running high.

And then he saw what she was doing—and almost died, his throat closing so he couldn’t speak or breathe.

She was unbuttoning her shirt, completely this time. And even as he stared, she shrugged off her shirt entirely, leaving her upper body entirely bare except for her bra.

Oh my God… He felt almost dizzy from the rush of blood from his head, his mouth going dry.

He closed his mouth, swallowed, and finally managed to croak, “Hermione. You—we—we don’t have to—I didn’t mean—you were just attacked and—and—”

Whatever he’d been about to say—and every last thought in his head—died a quick death, along with any miniscule ability he had to protest, when she reached back to unclasp her bra and shrugged out of that too.

“I want this, Harry. I want you.”

She was… amazing. And beautiful and sexy and—and perfect.

He stared, memorizing the sight of her, and then finally, finally, lifted his hand to touch her.

He cupped, caressed, stroked, as her skin grew hot to his touch, her head falling back on a gasp. He bent and set his lips to the smooth curve of her neck, tasting her there and then traced down the line of her throat with his lips, seeking and finding every sensitive spot that had her shivering and then gasping.

And all the while, his hands were busy. Wandering, learning her. Learning the feel of her, the softness of her skin, the weight of her breast in his hand. Learning what made her breath hitch, what made her moan.

Learning what made her take action, as she reached for him.

And it was his turn to gasp and burn as her hands explored his chest, his shoulders, and then wandered down his stomach. She touched him with a curiously intoxicating mixture of confidence and uncertainty, and he found that there was something incredibly arousing about having Hermione’s single-minded concentration focused on him, on pleasuring him. Who knew that there was something erotic about Hermione’s cleverness? Because he, of all people, knew the full depths of her cleverness and just the thought that all her intellect was centered on him was enough to have him on the verge of exploding inside his trousers.

He grabbed her wrists. “Stop it.” He barely managed to force the syllables out, his voice so gravelly he could hardly recognize it.

She glanced up at him through her lashes. “Why? You liked it.”

She was going to be the death of him. And he wondered wildly just when Hermione—Hermione—had become a seductress.

He choked on something like a laugh. “I liked it too much.”

Her lips curved into the smile of a siren and he could swear he felt the smile as if it were a physical caress on every part of his body.

And he responded the only way he could by flattening himself against her, kissing her smile away, his hands greedy, as they fell back onto her bed.

Now his caresses were lush, immoderate, any finesse cindered away by the heat of their lust. He couldn’t touch enough of her, couldn’t get close enough to her.

And she responded, her body arching, rubbing herself against him in a desperate attempt to get closer.

His hands were hard, forceful, as he fumbled with the fastenings of her trousers and then quickly pushed them down, taking her knickers with them. At some other time, he might have taken the time to strip her slowly, enjoying every inch of her bared skin, but at that moment, he couldn’t. And neither could she, her hands making equally quick work of his trousers and his boxers, until his arousal was finally freed.

And then he was trapped, his trousers and boxers twisted and bunched together at his knees, and they broke apart, the rising passion abruptly broken as they both laughed, breathlessly.

“We’ll have to finish undressing on our own,” she said, the sound of her voice—breathy with arousal—sending another jolt of lust through him.

They did. Harry managed to strip off his trousers, boxers, and socks in record time. And then he simply stared, his eyes greedily wandering over every inch of Hermione. Even if he lived to be 300 years old, he would never forget this first sight of Hermione naked. And he knew he would never—could never—see anything or anyone as beautiful as she was right then.

“Hermione… you’re so… beautiful…” he finally breathed without even realizing he was going to speak.

She blushed but met his eyes directly. “You don’t have to say that. I know I’m not beautiful.”

From any other girl, the words would have been fishing for a compliment, but Hermione meant it.

“Yes, you are,” he said simply—just before he kissed her. He couldn’t make eloquent speeches or write poetry to convince her, but he could show her.

And so he did.

He showed her with his hands—touching every inch of her, caressing, exploring every curve, every peak and valley, from her breasts to her stomach, to her hips, and down the length of her legs.

He showed her with his lips and tongue—skating his lips lightly over her skin, pausing to kiss here, lick there…

Until her skin was hot and her breath coming fast and ragged in her throat.

And then he found the center of her, worshipped her there with his lips and his tongue. Until she cried out sharply, her body racked with spasms.

It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen or heard.

She was panting and trembling as she reached for him, her arms going around his shoulders as she kissed him deeply.

And then finally, finally, he was inside her, surrounded by her, possessed by her… And he gave himself up to her, to them together, to the power and the rhythm and the passion…

Until he was there, stiffening, shuddering, groaning her name as he exploded inside her.

He had long ago given her his trust, had given her his heart even before he realized it himself. And now he gave her his soul…

He slumped on top of her, exhausted, spent. He was vaguely conscious that he was probably crushing her, but couldn’t quite find the strength to move just yet. And then he felt her hand moving to ruffle her fingers lightly through his hair. It was a caressing gesture, small and idle enough that he was sure she hadn’t even thought about it. But something about the tenderness in it caught at him, and he had the odd sense that she had truly made him hers with the one small caress. In spite of all they’d just done, in spite of the fact that she had caressed him more intimately just minutes ago, this was the moment she made him hers. Because that caress had nothing to do with passion or lust, had not even been the product of a conscious decision; it had just been her, her instinctive tenderness for him.

And he was hers.

He rolled over onto his back, curving his arm around her shoulders so she moved with him, ending up lying half on top of him, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

He brushed a kiss against her hair and then rested his cheek against her as he closed his eyes and let himself drift. He didn’t sleep, always aware in some periphery of his consciousness of the warmth of her body against him, of the press of her breasts, of the softness of her skin beneath his hand.

He felt as if he never wanted to move again, sated, replete. This was peace, a peace deeper than anything he’d ever felt before, a peace that reached to his very soul.

And it was because of her. Hermione, who had been his best friend, the person he trusted the most, for so many years. Hermione, now his love and his lover, just… his.

And it felt so natural, so right, to be with her like this, skin to skin, so close that he felt as if the rhythm of her heartbeat was merging with his own.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“What was that about Jack having to check with you what would be sent out to the press?” The question was almost idle, in keeping with her soft voice and their relaxed state.

“The Aurors have an unofficial policy not to mention me by name in any of the press releases sent out to keep the public informed about criminals.”

He felt her shift, moving her head to rest her chin on his chest so she could look at him.

“You were the one who made that unofficial policy,” she guessed, and it wasn’t a question.

“Yes. How’d you know?” he asked, only to realize the moment he’d asked, that it was a silly question. This was Hermione, after all. Hermione who had always understood even what he didn’t say.

A slight smile just grazed her lips. “I know you,” she said simply.

“Yes, you do,” he agreed. “It was one of the first things I did when I became a Team Leader, change the policy so press releases weren’t about me. It’s better for morale, you know, if the Aurors speak and act as one cohesive whole, and not as ‘Harry Potter and the Aurors.’”

Teasing amusement tinged her smile. “Of course. I’m sure that morale was the only thing on your mind when you put the new policy in place.”

He pretended ignorance. “Part of being a leader is being willing to put the good of the team before the need for individual glory,” he informed her with exaggerated solemnity.

Her smile and her expression softened before she moved her head just enough to drop a light kiss on his chest, sending a ripple of heat through his body.

“What was that for?”

“I was just reminded why you’re my best friend.”

“Not only your best friend, I hope,” he said lightly.

“Why, what else would you be?” she asked, her face remarkably straight. “My shag-buddy?”

He choked on a laugh, rolling over so he was half on top of her, pinning her down. “Care to try again?”

“Friends with benefits?” she suggested, a small snicker escaping her this time.

“Benefits—is that what kids are calling it these days?” he quipped, deliberately pressing his hips against her so she couldn’t miss his stirring arousal, the inevitable reaction to feeling her body beneath him.

Her eyes were alight with laughter even as he could see she was fighting to keep her lips straight. And the sight of her suddenly took his breath away, scrambling his thoughts until he had to struggle to remember what they’d been talking about. She was so lovely—and he loved her, he thought rather fuzzily. He loved her not just for her strength and her understanding—or even for the fact that he lusted after her—but for this, her humor. He loved that, whatever else she now was to him, she was still his best friend, the best friend who supported him and teased him, who challenged him when he needed it and who could make him laugh when he needed it too.

The slight curve of her lips was positively intoxicating—when had the curve of Hermione’s lips become so irresistible?—and he lowered his head to kiss her, loving the way her lips opened for him, loving the way just one stroke of her tongue against his could make his head spin.

When the kiss finally ended, they were both breathing hard and he just rested his forehead lightly against hers.

He felt her hand move in an idle caress of his shoulders and heard her soft sigh. “My Harry…”

The words warmed his chest, settling inside his heart. All teasing aside, whatever she chose to call him, all that really mattered was that he was hers.

He kissed her again, softly this time, with all the tenderness he felt. Hers—and he always would be…

He broke off the kiss slowly, lifting his head just enough so he could focus on her face. She blinked a few times before she met his eyes—and he felt a spurt of male satisfaction that his kiss could bring the almost sleepy, dazed look to Hermione’s eyes, so different from her usual expression.

“You’re very good at that,” she finally said, lightly.

He couldn’t help a slight smirk. “That might be the best compliment I’ve ever gotten,” he quipped.

She laughed abruptly. “I guess I was right,” she gasped in between chuckles.

Bemused, he studied her. “That’s not surprising. But what are you right about and what’s so funny about it?”

“I said you weren’t a bad kisser and I was right.”

He blinked. “Well, I would hope you’d tell people I wasn’t a bad kisser. And why is this funny?”

She shook her head a little. “No, I told you that you weren’t a bad kisser.”

Now, he was entirely confused. “I know you did, about a minute ago.”

“No, Harry, I first told you that you weren’t a bad kisser years ago, don’t you remember?”

“You did? When? And why? And how would you have known that back then?”

“It was in 5th year and you’d just kissed Cho.”

He wrinkled his nose a little. “I vaguely remember kissing Cho after one of the DA meetings. I don’t think I liked it much.”

“You said she was crying,” she prompted.

“Right, she was crying, so the kiss was wet,” he agreed, a glimmer of memory returning to him.

“And when you came back to the Common Room and told us about it, Ron said that maybe it was because you were a bad kisser.”

“Ron said that? The git,” he responded mildly, not able to feel as annoyed as he might have expected.

“And then I said that of course you weren’t a bad kisser, and that--” she began.

“That Cho had just been crying a lot that year,” he finished for her, the memory returning. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

“I’d pretty much forgotten it too, until just now.” She gave him a teasing smile. “But I was right after all.”

It was his turn to laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. I think I could do better.” He dropped a quick kiss on her nose and then just above her lips and another one just to the side of her lips. “Practice makes perfect, right?” he breathed into her ear before he kissed the spot just below her earlobe.

She let out a soft gasp. “Purely in the interests of intellectual exploration,” she managed to say, her voice breathy, “I’m happy to volunteer for your practicing.”

“Your services are appreciated,” was all he managed to say before he kissed her again—and then he forgot what they’d been talking about and lost all interest in talking anyway. Talking wasted lips that were best used for other things.

And his last coherent thought was that he’d never known he could go from laughter to lust so quickly—but he supposed that was partly what made Hermione different, what made Hermione more…

This was why he loved her…

~To be continued…~