I’ve seen what men can do to each other, some of the worst atrocities on Earth.  I’ve seen women beaten, maimed and raped.  I’ve seen children used as slaves in some of the worst areas in vile backwaters only one step up from hellhole.

None of that has lingered with me, haunted me, tormented me, like Hermione Granger’s face when she told me she was engaged to Ron Weasley.

I agreed to be recruited into the SAS the next day.

Monday, 15 July 2013

“Sit down, Potter.”

I sit.  Though the chair in my commander’s office appears flimsy enough to collapse, I know it won’t.  If it didn’t break after being flung across the room during a fight, my arse won’t destroy it today.

Colonel Cameron slides a file across the desk toward me.  “Your new assignment.”

I raise my eyebrows in mild surprise even as I reach for the folder.  My assignments for the last several years have always been team assignments, sometimes extraction but mainly destruction.  I’m good at blowing things up.

The location listed on the front of the folder brings with it terribly mixed feelings:  London, England.  I haven’t been in England in fifteen years despite my job – or maybe because of it.

“England, sir?”

Colonel Cameron leans back in his chair, studying me.  “Will that be a problem, Potter?”

“No, sir.”  I want to ask why but don’t dare lest it be considered insubordination.  Colonel Cameron is sensitive about that sort of thing.

“This mission is for someone of your unique talent.”

My eyes, which had been on the file, dart upward.  The last time Colonel Cameron referred to my unique talent I had to extract a wizard from Algiers and Obliviate a dozen Muggles.

“Read the file, Potter.”

Cautious, I open the folder.  Shock holds me frozen.

The picture of my assignment draws me back all the fifteen years I’ve been away:  Hermione Granger.

Without reading, I close the folder and return it to Colonel Cameron’s desk.

“With all due respect, sir, I would like to decline the assignment.”  I try to keep my voice even and unemotional.

Colonel Cameron smirks.  “With all due respect, Potter, this is your next assignment.”

A sick, sliding sensation fills my stomach.

“Sir, my reasons are personal, not professional, and – ”

“I know your reasons, Potter,” he says, cutting me off.  “I know about the Golden Trio, about their marriage and their divorce, but you’re still on this assignment.”

Divorce?  They’re divorced?  It takes a long moment to wrap my mind around that.  Well, and to bury that spurt of “now it’s my turn” that rears its head upon hearing the news.

Lifting my head, I meet his eyes.  “Why me, sir?”

Colonel Cameron leans back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes fixed on me.  “Potter, you are the one person she’ll accept and allow close almost immediately.  Everyone else would require laying a foundation of trust.  Your war did things to all of you and she trusts few people.”

I take a deep breath, lay the folder back on the desk and lean back in my own chair.  “So I’m to get close?”  Despite my controlled exterior, inside I’m close to panic.  Near her again?  I’ve been hiding for this long and would really prefer to continue my pattern of avoidance.

“Ms. Granger has been receiving credible death threats, the frequency and psychotic level of which have increased over the last six months.”

A spike of fear lances through me, but I shove it aside.  “Why does she need protection?”

Colonel Cameron smirks again, this time at the irony.  “She’s a war hero.  Your government wants to keep her alive.  It’s bad mojo if war heroes are killed by psychotic stalkers.”

“So they send another hero to save her,” I add grimly.  Of course my only usefulness is in this way, according to the Ministry of Magic.  “Was this by order of the Minister?”

Colonel Cameron grimaces.  There is no love lost between the Ministry and Muggle forces.  “Indirectly,” he answers.

Meaning that the Minister strongly suggested I be brought back to the Wizarding world and Kingsley Shacklebolt, now in charge of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the DMLE, found the threat against Hermione to be the most expeditious way of forcing my return.

I can only imagine the furor that will erupt if I show up in Diagon Alley...

...as myself.

“Sir?” I begin.  He nods for me to continue.  “Does it say anywhere that I must return as Harry Potter?”

Colonel Cameron grins.  “No, Major, it does not.  I am requiring you to appear to Ms. Granger as Harry Potter, but you may use an alias otherwise.”  The unsaid  “and glamour” is understood.  Colonel Cameron has no qualms about making use of my special abilities.

“Very well, sir.  What is my mission window?”

“The month of August.  Intelligence suggests September 1 will be the date of choice of our letter writer.”

I smirk.  Of course it’s September 1, the red-letter day in the Wizarding world.

“Anything else, sir?” I ask.

“No.  Dismissed.”

I gather the folder, salute, and exit the room.

Two floors below in a little-used alcove, I collapse.  I left the Wizarding world because the only things anchoring me were Ron and Hermione.  When I admitted my feelings for Hermione and was subsequently shot down, it killed me for a while.  Moody saved me by giving me an outlet for my emotions, somewhere to bleed.

Now I have to flay myself alive all over again.

Wednesday, 31 July 2013

Happy fucking birthday to me, I think viciously as Hermione’s wards lash back.  The wards are old and deteriorating but still carry enough punch to open a cut above my eye.  It’s difficult to concentrate when blood is stinging your eyes and making your vision blur.  Thankfully Muggle medicine several years ago could do what Wizarding medicine could not:  permanently correct my vision.  Had I not had my eyes fixed, I’d be wearing contact lenses that would feel horrid by now.  I know that from experience.

Finally, the wards part – not falling completely, but parting enough to allow me in.  The effect is a bit like feeling the wall I’ve been beating my head against suddenly vanish, making me stagger slightly.

As soon as I enter her house, I can feel her.  Not literally since she’s at work, but her essence.  Her presence lingers in her home.  When I cross the threshold there’s an oddly welcoming feel despite the fact I essentially broke her door down.

Closing the door, I absently reweave the wards.  She needs them rebuilt, but I’m not going to do that – hell, couldn’t do that – without her permission.

Feeling like a terrible voyeur, I investigate Hermione’s home.  There are parts of it, such as the neat but packed bookcases in every room but the kitchen and toilet, that remind me of the girl I knew.  But then there are other things that make me realize she’s grown up, just as I have.

The Rabbit Pearl vibrator in the drawer of her bedside table, for one.

I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed or horrified and return it to the drawer.

Poking about the remainder of the house gives me the impression of a woman living alone and, if not comfortable with the fact, resigned to it.  The appointments on her calendar – color-coded and precisely next to the computer in the magically-added annex to her bedroom – belong to a woman set in routine.  The odd doctor’s appointment, dental cleanings at precise six-month intervals – that makes me smile – and regular lunches with Ron pepper the calendar.

I’m glad that though they’re divorced, they’re still friends.  Despite my desire for her, banked but not abated, I don’t know if I could take Ron not being in her life, especially when I’m not.

Darkness is settling in before it occurs to me to wonder where she is.  Given the food in the refrigerator, she doesn’t seem to be the type to work late often.  Based on the files in her office annex, she probably works from home rather than stay at the office.

I move into her front room and settle myself into a large, comfortable chair to await her return. In the meantime, I can hope I don’t vomit from nerves.  I’m supposed to be a badass SAS officer but feel all of eleven and facing Professor McGonagall on the steps before being Sorted.  Humiliating.

A tingle floods my body twenty minutes later when Hermione unlocks the wards.  There is a telltale click of tumblers when she physically unlocks the front door.  I have a brief moment to enjoy the pleasure of having reset her wards without notice.

Then she’s framed in the doorway backlit by the streetlight.  The moment lasts hours in my mind as I catalogue her appearance despite the shadows.  She’s tired.  That much I can read in the set of her shoulders.

The spell is broken when she kicks her bag into the room.  I’m frozen as I watch her toss her robes onto a chair, where they promptly slip onto the floor, and close the door.

“Damn!” she says.

I smile.  “I didn’t know Hermione Granger knew how to curse.”

She startles, aiming her wand in my direction with a quick Lumos.  I flick on the lamp beside the chair at the same time.

I can tell she doesn’t recognize me right off – no glasses and the near doubling of body mass has rendered me a stranger.  The light reveals her to me as if illuminated by a spotlight.  Despite the circles under her eyes and near-ethereal thinness, she’s beautiful.  Above the dark circles, her flashing brown eyes are lit with knowledge and determination.  Her hand, holding her wand on me, is steady.

“Who are you?”

It shouldn’t hurt that she still doesn’t recognize me, but it does.  Standing, slowly, I ask, “I know it’s been a while, but has it really been that long?”  A flick of my wand illuminates the overhead lights.

She stares at me.  At first her gaze is still wary of the stranger in her home.  With delight, I watch the knowledge of who I am dawn in her eyes.

“Harry?”  she whispers in shock.

I grin.  She seems frozen to the spot, her only movement the slight rise and fall of her chest and the darting of her eyes.  Her behavior reminds me of a trapped rabbit.  I can all but hear her heart beating a frantic tattoo despite her stillness.

Thinking about her heartbeat draws my eyes to the deep vee of her blouse and the way her breasts fill out that blouse, their swell riveting my attention for a moment.  To prevent myself from reaching out to touch her, I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my bomber jacket.

When I notice her studying me just as intensely as I’m studying her, my cock hardens painfully.  I shift slightly in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure against the zip of my jeans.

Resisting the urge to revert to my school-age nervousness by clearing my throat, I say, “Hello, Hermione.”  I’m just happy my voice didn’t crack.

She blinks once before her expression hardens.  “How did you get in here?  After fifteen years, you break into my flat and all you say is ‘Hello, Hermione’?”  Her voice rises on the last few words, her agitation clear.

I want little more than to wrap my arms around her and bear her back against the wall.  I don’t realize I’ve taken two steps toward her until I find her wand leveled at my head.  Humoring her, I pull my hands from my pockets, revealing them to be free of a wand or anything else.  The sense of approaching a wild horse ready to bolt is strong.

“Your wards and locks need upgrading,” I answer slowly.  “It was easy to get in.”  I’ll just ignore the cut I healed.

She scoffs and shakes her head.  “I can see that.  I had Bill set the wards.”

“They need upgrading,” I repeat, stifling the urge to smirk.  She’d hex me for certain if she thought I was mocking her.  “Are you going to continue to hold me at wandpoint or can we talk?”

She slides her wand back into its holster.  I fight a moan in response, imagining what else I could slide into her.

“Why are you here?” she demands somewhat shrilly.  I don’t answer, following her silently into the kitchen.

I take a seat at her table, moving the chair to the left so I can see both out the window and through the doorway into the hall.  If she’s under a threat, I have to be vigilant even in her own home.  Given my reaction so far, that’s going to be exceedingly difficult.

“Can’t I visit an old friend?” I tease, nodding my thanks at the glass of pumpkin juice she sets in front of me.  Maybe she’ll relax some if I appear relaxed.

“Not after fifteen years,” she replies, taking a seat opposite me.

I lost my gamble to get her to relax.  Tension rises between us.

I tilt my head slightly.  The only way to convince her will be the truth.  Unfortunately.

“You’re getting death threats,” I tell her without preamble.  My hands flat on the table, I splay my fingers in a gesture to show I’m hiding nothing.

“That’s nothing new,” she replies, narrowing her eyes.  “Why do death threats against me concern you?”

Does she think it wouldn’t matter to me?  Does she think I’m that heartless?  “I’ve been assigned to protect you.”

“What?”  Her voice is nearly a shriek, though I’m sure she’s not aware of it  Her hands curl into fists as her jaw clenches.

“You heard me,” I answer.

“I know what I think I heard, but that can’t be right.  The illustrious, mysterious Harry Potter has deigned to return to protect me from a few people who have nothing better to do than send nasty letters?”

The sarcasm in her voice cuts me even further.  I knew she’d be upset with me, but I didn’t know she’d be that upset.  I need to give her some time to cool off.

“I know you have an extra room,” I say shortly.  “I’ve already put my things there.  Good night.”

Without another word, I rise form the table and disappear into her guest room.  Though I want to slam the door, I close it gently.  Once closed, I slide down to sit on the floor, knees nearly under my chin.

She’s managed to wrap me into knots once again.  I thought I’d grown up since I left her.  Apparently I haven’t.  The thought is utterly galling.

The sounds of shattering glass and a frustrated growl echo down the hall but I don’t dare investigate.  In fact, I don’t move until long after I hear her stomp down the hall and slam her bedroom door.  Though I wish I could utilize her shower, I don’t leave the guest room.

It takes me less than a minute to strip completely and lay flat out on her guest bed.  My traitorous mind provides the image of a mature Hermione Granger naked on her knees before me.  In less than two minutes, I’ve come all over my hand and stomach.

Some birthday, I think, casting a cleaning charm before slipping my boxers back on.

Thursday, 1 August 2013

Despite not sleeping well, I wake at six, as usual.  I’ve performed my standard morning routine – piss, 200 sit-ups, 200 push-ups, shave and cold shower – before cluing into the fact Hermione isn’t awake yet.

I stand in front of her bedroom door for several minutes, torn between checking on her and crawling into bed with her.

Fuck, if I’d known my libido would interfere so much, I would have picked up a woman or two before this assignment.  I roll my eyes at myself.  Even if I’d picked up three women, it wouldn’t have mattered – none would have been Hermione.

I open her bedroom door without knocking.  She’s sound asleep and snoring softly.  I can only see some of her hair and one arm above the blankets, but it’s enough to tell me she won’t be going to work, especially once I catch a whiff of the alcohol she drank last night.  I should feel bad for driving her to drink, but I don’t.

I back into the hall and close the door.

Her owl perch is in the kitchen.  A medium-sized tawny owl is sitting there eyeing me warily.  It wasn’t there yesterday.  I scrawl a note to her boss stating that Hermione will be out sick.  Before I tie it to the owl’s leg, I charm it so my near-illegible writing is transformed into Hermione’s neat script.  It’s a handy spell highly regulated by the Ministry.  Even after I cautiously tie the note to its leg, the owl eyes me suspiciously.

“The Ministry,” I tell it.

If owls could roll their eyes, this one would.  It pecks my hand, drawing blood, before flying away.  Damn bird.

Rummaging in Hermione’s kitchen, I find both coffee and breakfast items.  I make coffee and down one cup before starting breakfast.  Half-nine and Hermione is still passed out.  Toast and oatmeal are all I manage given my nervous stomach.

I know this assignment is killing me.  I’ve been accused of being a stone-cold bastard in the past, a killing machine and any other manner of unfeeling rat.  Yet, with this assignment, I can’t detach myself.  I’ve lost all objectivity and that’s going to get Hermione killed.

I sigh heavily.  I have to come up with some sort of balance so I don’t get Hermione killed and myself court-martialed.

After cleaning the kitchen, I settle at the table with my coffee and a copy of the Times I found on her doorstep.

I’m engrossed in an article about Iraq when she walks into the kitchen.  Fuck, if I don’t get her killed, she’s going to kill me with sexual frustration.  All she’s wearing is a ratty shirt that looks like it once belonged to Ron by its size.  It’s falling off one shoulder, exposing her collarbone, and riding high on her thighs.

She stops in the doorway and stares at me.

“Do you always wear that to bed?” I demand.  Had I known she had only that on, I might well have climbed into bed with her.

She shoves a hand into her hair to push it back off her face as she moves to the sink.  “What?” she mutters.

Her voice is rough from sleep and her hangover.  The headache she has is evident in the stiffness of her spine and the unsteadiness of her balance; she grips the counter when she turns too quickly.

Licking my lips as I watch her dig for a potion bottle in a cabinet next to the sink – and watch that shirt nearly expose her ass – I repeat, “Do you always wear that to bed?”

She swallows the potion and shudders, but looks much better when she turns back to me.  Must be a fast-acting hangover potion.  I miss those.

She blinks as a blush climbs into her cheeks.  My fingers tighten around my coffee mug.  Our gazes lock for a moment before she turns yet again, this time to dig parchment form a drawer.  She hastily scribbles a note then looks to the owl perch.  Her damned owl hasn’t returned yet, but I can be pretty sure of Hermione’s intention.

“I took the liberty of owling you out sick today,” I tell her.

Her spine straightens in annoyance, making that fucking shirt nearly expose her ass again.  Raise your arms... show me....

She whirls around, catching me and glaring.  She stomps her foot and storms off.  I half-expect to hear a door slam, so am mildly disappointed when the next thing I hear is her shower.

I drop my head to the table and bang it once.  She’s wet and naked.  Sighing, I succumb to the inevitable.  Freeing my cock, it takes less than a minute to pull myself off.

I grin, realizing that while Hermione would be horrified by what I’ve done, she’d also be curious.

No, don’t think about that or you’ll be hard again.  Fuck, too late.

I’m really tired of cold showers in the afternoon.

I have to do something to keep me from going insane or stir crazy – or both – until she showers herself again.  Returning to the guest room, I strip off and perform some industrial cleaning charms on myself.  They don’t substitute for a proper shower, but they’re good enough.  I rummage in my sack and pull a pair of jeans and a white button-down from it.  I prefer Oxford shirts to t-shirts as a general rule because they’re much more versatile; I can go from casual to business depending upon the number of buttons I have fastened.  In this case, I need functional clothing, so I leave the cuffs unbuttoned and roll them up.

To distract myself, I intend to lose myself in work.  Her wards need upgrading and, because I doubt she’ll allow me to tear them down and rebuild, that will require diagnostics so I know where to patch and where to strengthen.

I conjure a clipboard to take notes, deciding to start in her living room. It’s the main point of entry and the most vulnerable.

In the course of my years with the SAS, in light of my special abilities, I’ve received specialized training far beyond that received at Hogwarts.  Some of that training was wardcasting and ward removal.  Both skills have been useful in the past.  Though I’ve utilized them infrequently, it’s been often enough that the diagnostics are second nature.  As I’d expected, the wards are weakest at the door and Floo, the main points of authorized entry.

Something changes inside me when she enters the room, like an internal alarm being tripped and sending me tumbling into hyperawareness of her.

“Good afternoon,” I say softly once I’m down to the last item on my checklist.

Her clothing rustles as she startles.  “You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” she says sulkily.

Stifling my smile, I turn to her.  She’s dressed in a tan skirt and cream-colored top made of some material that shimmers slightly.  I should be used to the desire that slams through me but I’m not.

To mask my reaction, I raise an eyebrow disdainfully before settling in the same chair as yesterday.  The clipboard settles on the table between us.  I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands dangling free, mostly to disguise my persistent erection but also to show that I am attentive to her.

“I did tell you,” I remind.  “You didn’t believe me.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes, reminding me so much of the Hermione I knew in school that it’s hard to conceal my amusement.

“I’m only a minor cog in a big wheel.  I’m not getting death threats.”

She’s always been modest about most of her accomplishments, so her denials don’t surprise me.  I can’t afford to cater to her modesty, though.

Leaning back in the chair, I rest my left foot on my right knee and move my elbows to the arm of the chair so I can steeple my fingers under my chin.  To drive this information into her head, I’ll have to be overly-serious and terribly blunt.

“Hermione, you’re very smart about most things, but very stupid about this.  You are more than just a cog.  You underestimate your place in the Ministry and your value to it.  You might be in a small office in a small department, but your political clout far outweighs your ability to accomplish anything in the bureaucracy.”

I’m not surprised when her next words are laced with continued disbelief.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

That doesn’t mean I’m not annoyed.  Sighing heavily, I demand, “Are you being deliberately obtuse?”  She narrows her eyes at me, crossing her arms over her chest.  She really doesn’t see it.  Shoving my hands through my hair, I glare at her.  She’s always been stubborn.

Slowly, I explain.  “Hermione, you’re a war hero.  Even though you can’t seem to get any laws passed, your opinion means more than you think to many people.  You’ve hacked off more than a few of them and they’re threatening to kill you before your next bill comes up for a vote.”

Though that isn’t entirely the reason I’m here – Ministry security could protect her if those were the only threats against her – telling her the complete truth would make her mental.  Well, even more mental.  Were she thinking straight, she’d realize there must be a serious and credible threat to her life to have an SAS officer provide protection.

“What difference would that make?” she demands.  I can hear the frustration in her voice but I still want to shake her.

I lean forward and pin her with my eyes.  “Apparently you’ve enraged the right people.”  The sarcasm in my voice amazes even me.  Think, Hermione!  “The latest threat had enough details of your life, including where you live, that I was assigned to protect you.”

She blinks and I can almost see the thoughts whizzing through her mind.  Now she’s finally thinking and not just reacting to me.  I pause at that and brutally quash the image of her reacting to me.

“What the hell is going on, Harry?” she demands, sounding much more like the Hermione I knew.

I smile.  “I’m surprised it’s taken this long to ask me,” I murmur, pleased.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Ask.”

She visibly struggles for a moment before huffing, annoyed.  “Fine.  What have you been doing for the last fifteen years?  Where did you vanish to?  Why did you vanish?  Why did you – no, you told me why you came back, even if I don’t believe it.”  Then she leans forward, mirroring me.

I smile briefly at her body language before becoming serious once again.

“I can’t tell you exactly what I do.”  She opens her mouth to protest, but I hold up a hand, stopping her.  “It’s darker than top secret.”

She raises her eyebrows, a smirk on her lips.  “James Bond?”

For a fleeting moment, I’m eminently grateful for our Muggle childhoods.  “Something like that,” I answer in a tone much more serious than her question.  “I was recruited not long after I killed Voldemort.”  Both to stifle the sharpest memories and her incisive questions, I hold up my hand again.  “Let me tell, then you can ask questions.”

She nods slightly then sits on her hands.  I’m not sure how that will keep her silent, but don’t ask.  The memories I’m reliving are unpleasant enough without arguing with Hermione as well.

“It was actually Moody who acted as liaison between the Ministry and the Muggle government.  He’d noticed I took to the physical training and had a talent for killing beyond Voldemort.”  Nothing like sublimating a 17-year-old’s libido in heavy physical exertion and combat training.

I sigh heavily, running my hands through my hair again.  “After you told me you and Ron were engaged, I didn’t know where I fit any longer.”

I’d felt cast adrift.  I refused to see Hermione and Ron growing closer, focusing instead on my own feelings for her.  My gut twists even now with the shame and embarrassment I felt after tracking her down once I’d been released from St. Mungo’s so I could confess my feelings and kiss her like I’d been fantasizing about for months.  She’d responded by telling me Ron had proposed and she’d accepted.  My world, the one I’d built in my mind as a life with Hermione, shattered.

“When I was offered a place in the SAS, I took it.”

Better to be far away from my best friends than try to pretend to be happy for them.

“You were seventeen,” she gasps.

I smile wryly.  “I told you, they thought I was good.  I still had to survive all their training courses, but after what the Order put me through, the SAS was easy.”  I think the sarcasm in my voice is over the top this time when I continue, “Once you’ve had Mad-Eye Moody casting the Killing Curse at your head, being shot at is a cakewalk.”

My memories of that time are all tied up with bitter resentment I’ve never been able to dispel.  I try to keep that from my voice, but don’t know how successful I am.

“Once I had my commission, Moody then cross-trained me in something akin to the Wizarding version of the SAS.  To the best of my knowledge, I’m the only man in both armies.”

I can see the wheels turning in her head again, processing my words.  At last, she pulls a hand free from under her thigh and gestures toward me with a sweeping motion.

“And that’s why you’re my bodyguard?”

I tilt my head, studying her.  “What I’ve been told is that the threat against you is very credible.”  And the person threatening you is totally psychotic.  “Given that you are frequently in the Muggle world and I have the skill necessary to both function there and protect you, I was assigned.”

She visibly bristles at my words and my tone.  “That sounds awfully cold, Harry.  Is that the only reason?”

The anger that flashes through me is sudden and unexpected.  Biting back the curse I want to hurl, I straighten and raise an eyebrow disdainfully.  “Do you think I’ve been carrying a torch for you al these years?”  Even though the answer is yes, I’ll never admit that to her.

She’s taken aback at that.  “No, but that’s not what I meant.”

Liar.  I allow a bit of my anger to filter into my voice and growl, “Explain it to me, Hermione.  You were always good at that.”

Her mouth opens for an angry retort – if her expression is an accurate indication of her mood – but she snaps it closed and brings herself under control with a small shudder.  Standing, she smoothes her skirt with the sort of deliberateness that indicates an attempt to further regain control of her emotions.

Finally, she says, “I’m going to do paperwork.”

I watch her leave the room and self-loathing floods me.  I allowed her to make me angry, allowed her to make me lose control.

“Fuck,” I mutter, falling back in the chair and dragging and hand over my face.

Friday, 2 August 2013

I wake at six again.  The internal clock drummed into me by the military rarely allows me to sleep later than that.

Before I even start my morning routine, I hear Hermione shower, ready herself for work and leave.  She’s sneaking out.

Though I should be angry, I decide to be amused instead.  She’s trying to escape, to deny what I told her.  It’s something I understand even if I don’t condone it.

I take the morning to complete the ward diagnostics, leaving her alone at work.  Before I broke into her flat, I cast protection wards on her office, so it should be safe enough for the time being.  Strengthening her home wards takes more out of me because I’m doing it without her express permission and have to pour more power into them to overcome resistance.

Once that’s complete and her wards are up to par once again, I take a short rest.  Overpowering wards is a bitch of a project.

Shortly before lunch, I cast my most familiar glamour, that of John Spencer.  The name means nothing other than being nondescript and very English-sounding.  Though I’ve learned to speak several languages with little to no accent, portraying a foreigner here would make me stand out even more.  The glamour itself is cast only on my face, eyes and hair, though I do have a corresponding body glamour if I chose to employ it.  In this instance, I don’t need to disguise my body – the fact I look so different from my seventeen-year-old self is disguise enough.

The John Spencer glamour changes my green eyes to a dark brown, my black hair to a medium brown and smudges my features a bit:  thinning my lips, changing the shape of my nose, and making my eyes more rounded.  It’s a glamour that has yet to be broken.

I dress in a black Oxford, leave the tails untucked from black jeans, and complete the ensemble with black boots.  I roll the sleeves up and leave the top two buttons at the collar undone, both things designed to project casualness.

Apparating to the Ministry is disconcerting.  It’s been at least ten years since I’ve been here – in daylight and meaning to be seen – and that was as part of Moody’s special training curriculum.  I steel myself for entry with a deep breath.

Most of my worry is negated when my glamour withstands the Ministry check:  my entry badge is labeled John Spencer, Visitor.  No one bothers me as I make my way to Hermione’s office, though I do get second glances and flirtatious looks from many of the women.  I return most of them with a small, tight smile.

The secretarial desk in front of Hermione’s office is empty.  Hermione will expect anger from me.  And, while I am angry, I understand why she ran away, and that tempers my anger.  She’ll expect me to be furious, though.

Her office door is slightly ajar.  Pushing it open on silent hinges, I lean in the doorway, arms crossed.  She’s engrossed in her work, head bent, hair brushing the desk.

She must sense my gaze boring a hole into her because her head shoots up.  Her eyes don’t meet mine for two long minutes, stuck instead on my body.  The lust that fills me is barely tempered by my control.  The knowledge that it’s my body she’s lusting after and not a glamour is both terrible and arousing.

When she lifts her eyes from my pecs, I meet her gaze steadily.

“You’re a slippery one, Ms. Granger,” I say at last.

Anger floods her cheeks with color.  She stands abruptly, snapping the briefcase at her side shut before attempting to storm out the door past me.  I brace my arm across the doorway, effectively stopping her.  She glares at me to no effect.

“Harry,” she growls.

Before she can continue, I have to correct her form of address.  Were she overheard calling me Harry, things would get ugly fast.

“I am your bodyguard, not Harry,” I tell her.  “While I’m on duty, I’m John Spencer.”

She glares again, sending a flare of amusement through me.

“John – “

I cut her off again.  “Spencer.”

Her lips flatten with the urge to do me bodily harm.  My amusement increases, making it a struggle to keep my expression bland.

“Spencer, get the hell out of my way,” she hisses.

“You don’t get it, do you?” I say.  Bending so I can whisper in her ear, I continue, “I’m your bodyguard.  That means I go where you go, when you go.  You do not sneak out before dawn pretending I can’t hear you.”

By the stiffening of her spine – and my traitorous cock, aroused by her rebellion – I can tell she’d bolt like a wild pony.  Therefore, when I straighten, I take her wrist firmly in my hand, nod to her newly-returned secretary, and lead her out the door.  I don’t let go until we’re in a small pub in Muggle London.

Tense silence fills the space between us even as we order.  I find us seats, positioning myself to see nearly the entire room and door, and only then do I release her wrist.  She glares and rubs it, though I know I didn’t hurt her.

She eats sullenly, like a child who has been denied a toy.  I’m frustrated with her.  She doesn’t understand I’m here for a reason, and not just to make her life miserable.  I’m afraid it will take more than just my words to convince her.  I’m afraid it will take a move by her stalker to get it through Hermione Granger’s thick skull that she’s in danger.

“How long will this go on?” she asks as she pushes away her empty plate.

I turn from the bar to her.  I feel my eyebrow twitch upward in amusement at her belligerent pose, arms crossed over her chest, chin tilted defiantly upward.

“How long will what go on?  The glamour?  Your snit?  The job?  I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Ms. Granger.”  The bland tone I used seems to get under her skin by the flare of annoyance in her eyes.

“You know what I mean,” she snarls from behind gritted teeth.

Now I can’t hide my amusement and grin.  “Yes, I do.  However, getting you angry is so easy.”

She makes a noise that might be a growl and a huff at the same time, stands, grabs her bag and spins on her heel to leave.  Before she can take a single step, I grab her wrist once again, this time with a much more firm grip.  I can hear her grinding her teeth as I lead her out the door.  Shifting my grip to her elbow, I don’t allow her any leeway.

From the corner of my eye, I note someone following us.  I can’t tell gender due to the figure wearing a cloak much too heavy and all-encompassing for August.  Though I’d intended to take her back to work, I need to attempt to flush the predator from hiding.

I guide Hermione away from The Leaky Cauldron via a little-used side street.  The figure follows.  Hermione glances up at me and I know she’s figured out I’m leading her away from work.

“There’s someone following us,” I say out the corner of my mouth.  The figure is closing distance.

“Really?” Hermione asks, sounding much too excited for my taste.

Three more steps brings us to an alley.  I pull her into it and shove her back against the wall before she can say anything.  I brace my left arm above her and, bending down, wrap my right around her waist.

“Put your arms around me,” I demand.  If she doesn’t participate there’s no reason to torture myself this way.

“What?”  She sounds dazed.

“Do it, Hermione!”

That breaks through her dazedness.  I didn’t count on how I’d feel when she wraps her arms around me, though.  The heat from her body, the faint scent of vanilla clinging to her skin, the way she’s rubbing a leg against mine without realizing it, all of it is serving to break down both my control and vigilance.

The figure peers into the alley.

“Move your arms a bit,” I order, though I’m not sure if it’s to reinforce our illusion or to torment myself further.  “Pretend you’re kissing me.”

She shudders and I have to viciously tamp down the urge to wrap her legs around my waist and take her against the brick wall of the alley.  Her hands slide over the planes of my back and I can’t help but wish my shirt was gone and she was using her fingernails with her motions.

The figure watches for another moment before shaking its head, crossing the mouth of the alley and disappearing.  Just before the figure vanishes, I wing them with a tracking tag.

Danger cleared for the moment, I take a deep breath.

“You can stop now,” I tell her.  I’m hard as a rock, so she’d damn well better stop.  “Hermione, stop.”

She stops and releases me reluctantly.  I back away, carefully keeping my erection from her, even as I eye her speculatively.  Though I’m proud of my physique – I worked hard for it – I can’t help but wonder if Hermione would have acted the same way if I’d looked the same as I did fifteen years ago.

She smiles nervously.

“He’s gone,” I say when the silence between us becomes awkward.  Though I’m not sure the figure was male, I can’t show my uncertainty to her.

She nods, then seems to shake herself slightly.  “What was that about?”

I take another step back from her so I can pace a tight track.  I barely notice I’ve shoved a hand in my hair, a nervous habit I haven’t been able to break, until I pull several hairs out accidentally.

“Whomever it was that followed you was persistent,” I answer.  “I managed to tag him, but I don’t expect much to come of it.”  The tag will alert me if the same person is within a specified radius of Hermione in the figure, but is useless if that person is supposed to be there, such as a coworker.  Then I notice she’s smiling slightly.  “What do you find so amusing?”

“You’re fallible,” she answers, grinning.

I smirk in response.  “It seems there was a time I would take heart you were fallible as well, Little Miss Know-It-All.”

The smile slips from her face.  Her tone is dark and sober when she says, “Things have changed.”

I can’t tell if she means that positively or negatively, so say nothing.  Instead, I take her hand and lead her back to the Ministry.  She enters the building, effectively dismissing me.  In this case, I don’t mind.  She’s safe enough within those walls, our fifth year notwithstanding.

I take the afternoon to walk Diagon Alley, both studying my surroundings and contemplating the change of Hermione’s tone when I reminded her of when we were younger.  I find the former nearly identical to fifteen years ago and the latter completely infuriating.

At five, I collect Hermione from her office.  Both of us are unusually subdued through a dinner of Indian take-away.  She bids me goodnight shortly thereafter.  I let her go without comment.

In the guest room later that night, I’m tormented by two sets of images.  In one, our encounter in that alley was for base sexual purposes, ending with incredible orgasms and our marks all over the other.  The other images show me an attack from the robed figure that I’m too slow to stop.  These images make me want to bundle Hermione up and take her into deep hiding, leaving a body double in her place.

Neither is palatable.

Saturday, 3 August 2015

I don’t sleep well at all and find myself wide awake at five.  Resigning myself to a long and stressful day, I rise and dress, this time in a green Oxford and jeans.

I trudge into the kitchen in desperate need of coffee.  And toast.  And a newspaper.

With all three, I settle at the table.

“I didn’t know Englishmen drank coffee,” Hermione says from the doorway.  She looks as tired as I feel.  It gives me vicious satisfaction that she couldn’t sleep either.

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” I bite off.  This is only my first cup of coffee; I shouldn’t be held responsible for my words until at least my third cup.

She takes a seat across the table from me.  Looking up through my lashes, I note she’s dressed for work.  I suppress a sigh of frustration.  She Summons tea, sipping it slowly.  After a couple minutes of shared silence, she asks, “Am I going to work today?”

I don’t answer until I finish my second cup of coffee and feel distantly human.  “I’d rather you didn’t.”  I look up.  “I want to take you to Diagon Alley instead.”

She blinks at me, confused.  I know she’s figured it out when she gasps.  “Bait?  You want to use me as bait?”  Her voice rises with her words.

I quirk an eyebrow upward.  “You take offence at my methods, Ms. Granger?”

Her eyes narrow and I almost smile.  “Don’t take that superior tone with me, Harry,” she spits.

Before I can say anything in response, she abruptly stands and stomps over to the window.  I sip my third cup of coffee while I watch her ass.  Her hair is gathered in a tortoiseshell comb, and she’s dressed in honey-colored, summer-weight trousers and a matching cap-sleeved silk blouse.  My social skills have improved in the last fifteen years – before I left I would never have able to put a name to her clothing, only that she looked bloody gorgeous with it on and would look even better with it off.

She sounds resigned when she asks, “When do you want to go?”

“Around lunch, I think,” I answer quietly.  I’ve won this battle, but there’s no point in rubbing it in.

“Very well.  I’ll be working in my office until then.”  Her words are as tight and tense as she is as she turns on her heel and returns to her bedroom.

I finish my coffee as I consider my options.  Though I know using her as bait is a good idea tactically, it’s destroying my sanity.  Colonel Cameron is a sadistic bastard to subject me to this torture.  Then again, much of the torture in my life has been self-inflicted angst.

While waiting for lunch to roll around, I nap lightly.  I’m sure that, were he still alive, Crookshanks would be using me as both pin cushion and napping mattress.  Between naps, I review the stacks of threat letters in the hope I can find clues.

I don’t feel any more refreshed by half twelve than I did first thing this morning, damn my overactive imagination.

Sighing and stretching, I stand.  A couple motions of my wand have my glamour in place and my clothes free of wrinkles.  She’s still working in her office.  I knock on her door to no reply.  Raising my hand to knock again, I drop it in haste when she opens it.

We say nothing.  I take her hand and Apparate us both to Diagon Alley.  The Alley, which I’m used to seeing bustling with activity, is oddly subdued.  After studying the Alley with a brief glance in each direction, I lead her toward Flourish and Blott’s.

“Where are we going?” she asks after a minute.

I glance briefly at her.  “Do you have anything on order at Flourish and Blott’s?”  It’s a good bet she does, given her obsession with books.

She suddenly tugs my hand and drags me into the shop.  My resistance isn’t exactly feigned since I want to put a few discreet wards around the doorway.  Her haste doesn’t allow my normal diligence.  I’ll really have to have words with her about that.

Once inside, she drops my hand and heads off toward one side of the shop, perusing the shelves.  I’d love if this were a Muggle bookshop with a café where I could settle and watch people, but it isn’t.  I’m relegated to casting a blanket spell somewhat like the monitoring tag I used yesterday.  Unfortunately, nets are even more useless than tags.  There are too many holes and exceptions for both accuracy and speed, but they catch enough that they’re still used.

I eventually park myself next to the counter.  The clerk glares at me.  I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms over my chest.  The clerk shudders and returns to his customers, on the other hand, watch me closely, appreciating the view.  I used to be uncomfortable with it before I realized I’d be better off flaunting it.

Hermione approaches the counter with a small stack of books for the third time.

I see the magenta light strike her a second too late to cast a shield on her.  She falls, screaming, to the ground, clawing at her eyes.  Though I want to go to her, training forces me to tighten the net I cast.  It doesn’t work, doesn’t tighten enough.  There are too many people in my way – and panicked people, damn them – to Stun the figure escaping through the door.

“Bloody fucking hell, get out of my way!” I shout, shoving people away from Hermione.

Once I finally clear the useless berks from around Hermione, my stomach sinks.  Her face is covered in blood, as are her hands, arms and shoulders.  Her hands are at her face clawing at it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter, kneeling.  “Hermione, stop.”  I try to pull her hands from her face, but she fights it.  “Hermione... stop.”

She continues to writhe in agony, screaming, “No!  Burns!” and kicking out.

“Finite Incantatem!” I shout, wand pointed at her face, but it has no effect.

Shoving my wand down the back of my jeans to free my hands, I grab her forearms and yank her hands away.

She becomes more violent, kicking and biting anyone or anything within reach.  I pin her legs with my body weight, grab her hands with one of mine, snatch my wand and, pointing it at her, pour power into one spell:  “Stupefy!”

Hermione falls limp.  Spectators mill helplessly, staring in horrified fascination.  There’s blood everywhere.  Idiots.

I point at a stocky man.  “You, summon a Healer.”  I point to a short, matronly woman who reminds me of Molly Weasley.  “You, get towels.”  They stare at me like stupid sheep.  “Go!”

Satisfied I’ve terrified them enough, I turn my attention to Hermione, I try to clean away my some of the blood with spells, but they have little effect.

I feel completely helpless and I despise the sensation.

The matronly woman returns with towels.  After muttering thanks, I place two under Hermione’s head and a third over her eyes.  The sheer amount of blood is frightening.

The towel over her eyes is beginning to redden with blood by the time the Healers arrive.  They try to shove me away but one glare has them flinching back and returning to Hermione.  I do climb off her and move to one side to make more room.

I can’t follow all the triage performed, but she isn’t bleeding as profusely a few minutes later.

“We’re going to Portkey her to St. Mungo’s,” a woman whose tag reads Senior Healer tells me.  “Are you next of kin?”

I glance down at Hermione, a sick feeling in my stomach.  “No, bodyguard.”

The Senior Healer raises an eyebrow.  “I’d suggest you find another line of work.”  With that, the Healer team Portkeys away.

I don’t have time to wallow in my failure.  The bell over the door alerts me to patrons – and potential witnesses – escaping.  I pull my wand and cast several spells to secure the shop.  When Mr. Blott protests my motion, I pull a Ministry voucher from my pocket, ensuring he’ll be well-compensated for lost revenue.  He’s incredibly cooperative after that.

Systematically questioning witnesses is one way to keep my mind off what happened – and obsess about why I failed to see the attack coming.

By the time I’m finished at Flourish and Blott’s, have been reamed by Colonel Cameron and showered, it’s after nine.  I don’t know when visiting hours are over at St. Mungo’s, but I need to see Hermione.

Donning another disguise over ‘John Spencer,’ that of an Unspeakable, I head to St. Mungo’s.

The Unspeakable disguise gets me into St. Mungo’s and on Hermione’s ward without question.  I pause at the mediwitch’s desk, intending to ask where Hermione’s room is, but before I can, Ron exits a room on the right.

Seeing him is a punch in the gut.  Just as with Hermione, the last time I saw Ron was fifteen years ago.  He’s solid, wide shoulders drawing attention before his musculature holds attention.  He’s grown into his face and limbs, reminding me for a moment of a Great Dane puppy grown to full-size.

I hear the faint snick of the door closing as Ron meets my eyes.  In some ways it’s more difficult to hold my glamour and disguise with Ron than Hermione.  Hermione can be distracted; Ron is suspicious.

He stalks toward me.  “Were you the one with her?”  I nod.  He punches my jaw.

It hurts, but I’ve had worse and I deserve it.

He punches me again.

I let the second punch turn my head and leave my face half-turned away.  Just because I deserve it doesn’t mean I’ll continue to allow free shots.

“You bloody fucking bastard,” Ron growls.

With a deep breath, I turn back to him and meet his eyes.  He’s beyond furious with me.

I thrust my hand toward him.  “John Spencer.”

He looks down at my hand contemptuously before meeting my gaze again.

“Stay away from her,” he warns.

“Can’t do that.”  I shrug.  “I’m supposed to protect her.”

He scoffs.  “You’ve done a piss poor job so far.”

I don’t argue the point considering he’s right.  Tamping down the desire to share everything with him, I inject a chill into my voice as I thrust my hand out again and repeat, “John Spencer.”

He ignores my hand.  “Ron Weasley.”  I think he may hate John Spencer more than Draco Malfoy based on that tone of voice.

I bare my teeth in something distantly resembling a smile.  “Her ex-husband.”

The Ron I knew would have flown off the handle at that.  The Ron before me doesn’t, he merely eyes me up and down and finds me lacking.  Without another word, he steps around me, deliberately slamming my shoulder with his when he passes.

I don’t move until the lift doors close.  Only then do I allow myself to slump my shoulders and relax my spine.

How differently would that have gone if he knew I was Harry?

Swallowing my uncertainty, I flash my Unspeakable credentials and demand medical information on Hermione.  The diagnosis of the curse is a Dark variant of the conjunctivitis hex.  That surprises me.  It takes effort to subvert a Light or neutral spell like that, so much effort that most people forget it and use a Dark spell to begin with.

What it tells me is that Hermione is being deliberately targeted by someone who wants to cause as much pain and problem as possible.  It’s personal.

With that, I decide rest is better than tormenting myself at Hermione’s bedside.

That’s not to say guilt doesn’t dog my heels as I escape St. Mungo’s.

Sunday, 4 August 2013

I spend my morning brooding, reviewing yesterday’s interviews, and re-running the events of yesterday in my mind.  There has to be something I’ve missed, not just because I’m distracted by lust, but a crucial bit of evidence I just can’t see amidst everything else.

Hermione nearly died right in front of me.  I’m supposed to protect her and she nearly died.  The Colonel reprimanded me yesterday even more effectively than my inner voice has but it’s my nature to obsess and brood.

I keep circling around to the same conclusion I came to last night:  the attack was personal.  The theory the Colonel and I had been working with based upon the letters was that the threats were due to her position, her employment.  Yesterday changed that.

No matter what she thinks, she has enemies.  I am not looking forward to grilling her about her personal life in order to help find her attacker.

Noting the time and realizing I have to pay a visit to Hermione yet today, I write out a list of witnesses I want to interview more thoroughly.  Some were very close to Hermione when she was attacked, others may have seen the attacker fleeing, and some are more detail-oriented than others.  The last group should be the most helpful, as their memory will have deteriorated less since the attack.

I Apparate to St. Mungo’s, Spencer glamour and Unspeakable disguise in place.  I bypass the Welcome Witch and head directly to Hermione’s room.

Opening the door, I see Ron.  He immediately tenses, standing and glaring at me.

“Spencer,” he hisses.

I wish I could talk to you, Ron.  Apparently my amusement at Ron’s showcasing bleeds into my voice because I sound too jocular when I reply, “Weasley.”

Ron continues to glare, hoping to stare me down.

When Hermione shifts on the bed, apparently uncomfortable with the tension, I say, “I need to speak with Ms. Granger alone.”

He turns to Hermione.  “Hermione?”

“It’s okay,” she replies quietly.

Holding my eyes, he sighs and moves to her side, brushing a kiss over her forehead.  I’m jealous, he knows it and is rubbing it in, showing me he has every right in the world to touch her and I have none.

“I’ll come by again later,” he tells her.  She nods.

Ron continues to hold my gaze as he exits, as if afraid to turn his back on me.  I don’t move until the door closes.  Only then do I allow myself to relax.

That relaxation is a relative thing through as nausea floods my stomach at the sight of Hermione’s eyes so heavily bandaged.  She looks helpless, something she definitely isn’t.

I’m startled when Hermione asks, “Am I the only one you’ve revealed yourself to?”

Settling into a chair, I consider my answer.  If I tell her no one but her knows who I am, would she hold that over me?  Would she be offended by telling her I have no intention of revealing myself and only a direct order made me reveal myself to her?  At last, I respond, “Yes, you are the only one who knows I’m Harry Potter.”

She startles slightly, but says nothing.  The silence once again stretches between us.  I note that the welts in her cheeks have been healed.  From the review of her medical  records last night, I know the Healers had to remove her eyes and regrow them.  Guilt twists my stomach once again.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.

She licks her lips, drawing my attention to them, momentarily destroying my concentration.  “Sorry for what?”

I scoff, angry with myself.  “That you were injured.  I failed.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” she barks.

“No thanks to me.”

“What do you mean?”

She’s destroying me bit by bit without an ounce of effort.  Her opinion of me is positive, always has been, as she views my actions through the prism of our history.  If I weren’t someone known to her, she’d be incandescently angry.  Instead, she’s sympathetic.

Finally, I give voice to one of the things driving my nightmares last night.  “There was so much blood.”

If she could, she’d prop her hands on her hips and glare at me.  “Of course there was, Harry.  I’m surprised blood would bother you.”

If only you knew, Hermione.

I stand and cross the room to the door.  If I stay any longer, I’ll only end up shooting myself or destroying our friendship.  Something compels me to reply, though.

“It’s not been your blood on my hands for nearly twenty years.”  Angry with myself, I jerk the door open hard enough to crack plaster as it slams into the wall, then hurry away from her.

Ron is lying in wait for me by the lift.  He stops me with a hand to my chest.  I glare at his hand, then him.

“She’s going to be discharged tomorrow,” he says from between gritted teeth.  “Are you taking her home?”

“Yes,” I spit.

He bares his teeth.  “Don’t be late.”  Then he actually has the gall to whistle merrily as he heads back to Hermione’s room.

I growl in frustration and slam the call button for the lift.

Monday, 5 August 2013

I spend the morning one step ahead of the Ministry Obliviators – a fact I discovered after my three best witnesses remembered nothing despite having been covered with blood.  The whole experience leaves a bad taste in my mouth and ratchets my frustrations levels even higher than when I left St. Mungo’s last night.

The best way to bleed off the mood I’m in is hard, violent, messy sex.  That’s not going to happen right now.  Instead, I get to torment myself further by being around Hermione.

When I enter her room, unfortunately much later than planned, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed dressed in her clothing form Saturday.  The laundry elves did an amazing job cleaning the blood from her clothing.

“Let’s go,” I bark.

She raises an eyebrow, but grabs her purse, slides off the bed and strides past me.  At the door, she looks back over her shoulder.  Torn between admiring her arse and following.  I sigh, shove my hands into my pockets, and follow.

Silence stretches between us as we return to her flat.  The time allows my frustration to melt away to a more manageable level.  We move companionably about her kitchen as she makes tea and I make coffee.

I settle at the table, brooding as I wait for her to take a seat as well.  Once she sits, I can feel her eyes boring into me.

“What?” I bark.

“You were late,” she says softly.

I squirm under her words, mortified that they make me feel like a child being chastised, a feeling that, even so many years later, I’m all together too familiar with thanks to the Dursleys.  She calmly sips her tea, waiting me out.  And, even though I knows that’s what she’s doing, the ploy works.  I toss back the rest of my coffee and sigh heavily in resignation.

“Yes, I was late.”  She still says nothing, letting her silence eat at me.  It does, of course.  “I was questioning witnesses.”  Damn, she can get me to do anything.  And that thought makes me blush.

I shift my gaze from my coffee cup to her, looking up through my lashes.  For a moment, she seems frozen.  I try not to react as she licks her lips while staring at me.

Viciously tamping down my physical reaction, I conjure another cup of coffee.  “What do you remember?”

She seems startled for a moment, then closes her eyes.  She almost visibly gathers herself before replying.  “I was adding to my books at the counter.”  She pauses to drink her tea.  “Things after that are mixed together.  I remember thinking I should pay for the books soon before I beggared myself.  The next moment there was only pain and you cursing.”

It makes sense that she can’t remember clearly.  On the surface, that is.  One of the many things I’ve been trained to do is how to question someone, both witnesses and suspects.  The best way sometimes is to review the event from the periphery rather than head-on.

“Was your attacker male or female?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it,” I respond.  My tone brings her head up sharply.

Then she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“About the same height as me,” she says slowly.  “The wand was shoved just below my ribs.”  At that, she rubs a spot on her back, presumably where the wand was shoved.  “I’m still not sure of the gender, though.”

“Did the person say anything?”  Don’t try to think this through like a logic problem, Hermione.

She frowns, rubbing her forehead.  I’m sure she has a headache but there’s nothing to be done for it yet.  She takes several deep breaths – drawing my attention to her cleavage and making me feel even more lecherous than I already do – before saying, “She said, ‘Bitch’.”

Progress.  “She?”

She opens her eyes and nods.  “The voice was female.”

I nod in response.  “That’s what the witnesses said.”  She raises her eyebrows in question.  “They recall a blonde about your height, within a couple inches, came up behind you, shoved her wand into your ribs and hexed you.  She slipped away while you were writing on the floor.”  And, if I couldn’t stop the bitch, I should have at least been able to protect you, Hermione.

With every one of her words, my new theory becomes more solid.  She won’t like it.  I run a hand through my hair.

“What else?” she demands.

I don’t want to tell her but I have to do I can try to protect her.  Sighing, I stand and pace.

Slowly, forcing the words out, I say, “I don’t think the attack has anything to do with your job.”

“Why not?”  Her voice is cool, making me glance sideways at her.

“Women don’t go for the type of attack you suffered unless it’s personal.”  Women aren’t normally that brutal, either, unless it’s personal.  The whole “woman scorned” thing and all.

“‘Type of attack’?” she repeats.

I nod absently.  “The invasion of personal space, physical assault, especially with heated words.”  I collapse back into the chair in an untidy sprawl.  “Women usually go for the subtle, long-distance attack or a face-to-face verbal exchange of cutting words, not physical attack.”  It’s why women prefer poison, literally and figuratively.

She raises her eyebrows, a small smile quirking her lips.  “What about a cat fight?”

I grin wolfishly, suddenly imagining her scantily clad, mussed and muddy.  “That’s just for the amusement and enjoyment of men.”

She gasps and huffs, chucking a towel at my head.  I laugh as I catch it.  She appears disgruntled.

Still smiling, I tease, “You can’t tell me you’re not turned on by watching two men fight over you.”

She stands, hands on hips, chest outthrust and glares half-heartedly at me.  “I can tell you that since I’ve never been fought over.”

More to control my violent reaction to those words than real nonchalance, I lean back, lace my hands behind my head and bring my feet up to rest them on the table.  The motion tips my chair back.  She glares at my feet, then me, but I don’t move them.

Angry at my gender for not seeing Hermione’s beauty, yet at the same time pleased she’s single, and angry with myself for leaving her, not fighting for her, I ask, “So, you’re telling me no man other than Ron has been interested in you.”  The flat intonation of my voice renders it a statement rather than question.

She doesn’t answer immediately and I can almost see her reject several answers before she finally says, “No.”

The congenial atmosphere between us is destroyed for tonight, replaced with increasing sexual tension and generalized tension due to the situation.

She drops her arms before rummaging for food.  I watch her absently, lust held in check by the foot I shoved in my mouth.  Once she has a tray of cheese and crackers, she softly bids me goodnight and heads down the hall.  I know I’m watching her like a hawk with a mouse, but the woman has an uncanny knack for tying me in knots.

Groaning, I realize I’ve resigned myself to another cold shower and unsatisfying wank.  Someday I’ll get myself together and be able to get her into bed.  Whether I wank myself raw before then remains to be seen.

Tuesday, 6 August 2013

This morning I wake once again at my usual time, which surprisingly ends up being an hour earlier than Hermione.  By the time she wakes, three cups of caffeine are singing in my veins and I’m hungry.

Since she has the week off, she has no excuse for not sharing breakfast with me.  I pull out the ingredients for omelets and prepare tea for her.

I’m beginning to wonder where she is – I heard her up and about nearly an hour ago – when I hear a whimper from the doorway.  The noise is uniquely feminine and shoots straight through me to my cock.  Masking my reaction, I turn and smile at her, deliberately setting aside our words from last night.

“Good morning,” I say, gesturing to the table.  “Take a seat.  Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.”

The entire time I’m cooking, I can feel her eyes on me, devouring me.  She’s wreaking havoc with my self-control.  I’m further distracted by the image of stretching her over the table and taking her possessively.  I reach down to adjust myself and hope Hermione doesn’t notice.  I’m lucky I don’t burn breakfast.

Our breakfast conversation revolves around safe topics without a mention of last night.  That’s fine since the last thing I want to deal with right now is the anger and jealousy I felt last night.

I clear the dishes, delaying the inevitable.  We can’t put our discussion off any longer and that fact weighs heavily in my stomach.  And, sure enough, when I return to the table as Spencer rather than Harry, Hermione tenses noticeably.

“Where am I to be bait today?” she asks, steepling her fingers under her chin.

“Back to Diagon Alley,” I tell her.  “Not Flourish and Blott’s this time.”  No point in traumatizing the patrons there any further.  I absently tap a finger against my lips as I consider where to go.  There needs to be public exposure, but also a measure of protection.  “More public, like Fortescue’s.”

She says nothing.  It’s a jolt to realize she’s staring at my lips.  Fuck.

She jumps slightly, startled, when I ask, “Is that fine with you, Hermione?”

She blinks and nods.  I make the suggestion of chess to pass the time.  She’s still half-distracted when she agrees.  We split the two games we play, thought I know neither of us care about the outcome.  And I can’t play chess without thinking of Ron, which only serves to torture myself.

Just before lunch, I take Hermione to the Leaky Cauldron.  Lunch is another subdued affair despite the tension of anticipating an attack.  Though I hate doing so, we eat at a table in the center of the room.  The shield I silently cast and hold at my back is the strongest I can cast but I still feel too exposed.  However, if I’m going to use Hermione as bait, I can’t hide the lure.

Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending upon one’s view – lunch is uneventful.  After paying the bill, I take Hermione’s hand, lacing our fingers together, and lead her into Diagon Alley.  When we pass through the brick portal, the fine hairs at the back of my neck rise in warning.  We’re being watched.

Despite the personal urge to take Hermione and run away, the professional side demands I continue my present course.  To that end, I take her to Florean Fortescue’s.  After ordering a hot fudge peppermint sundae, I steer her to an outdoor table highly visible to the Alley.  I scan every face, dismissing most as harmless, studying those that pique my interest as a possible threat.

“Didn’t have enough for lunch?” Hermione asks, laughter in her voice.

I look down to find I’ve eaten most of the sundae.  Then my brain trips over into what else I could eat for lunch.  By the flaring of her nostrils when I look up at her, the lust raging through me must show in my eyes.

Then I grin self-deprecatingly.  “Never lost my sweet tooth.”

She deliberately scans me head to toe.  “Couldn’t tell.”

My first instinct is to blush while the second is to preen under her appreciative gaze.  I try to subdue both reactions and murmur, “Thanks.”

She smiles softly.  I return to scanning the Alley.

Despite all my preparation, the hex catches me by surprise.

Hermione falls to the ground and is almost immediately covered in more blood than at Flourish and Blott’s.  I distantly note the screams of other patrons but they aren’t my concern yet.

I crouch beside her and wandlessly cast coagulation charms – unfortunately I know from experience that she’s been hit with Sectumsempra and I don’t know the countercurse since Snape said it too softly the one time I cast the curse – and ridiculously demand, “Are you okay?”

Before she can respond to my inane question, another curse flies toward us.  It bounces off the shield I erected as soon as Hermione was hit, but I still reflectively duck, all training overwhelmed by my concern for Hermione.

This is ridiculous!

Thankfully, at that thought, anger and training take over.  I kick over a table, reinforce it with a series of spells, and shove Hermione behind it.  She doesn’t argue, but the look on her face shows she’s dazed from blood loss already.  I cast another coagulation charm, wanded this time, then chase after the assailant.

Another curse flies at me, its color similar to the Killing Curse.  Fuck.  Dark spells flying around Diagon Alley are not a good thing.

I cast two illusions of myself, one on either side of myself each about ten yards away.  Just as I’d hoped, the attacker tries to curse one of the illusions, allowing me to close in on his or her hiding place.  An attack on the other illusion allows me to triangulate the attacker’s position.  Because the attacker’s attention is focused forward and he or she doesn’t check six – look behind themselves to check for threats – I’m able to subdue them with an amped-up stunning spell.

The attacker falls to the cobblestones of the Alley with a muffle thump.

The first thing I notice is the long, dirty blonde hair.  The second are the delicate feminine features.  Though it appears to be a woman, the attacker could be under a glamour.  I cast several types of spells, all designed to banish a glamour or illusion.  None work, telling me the attacker is female.

Moving to her, I meet her eyes.  There’s a disturbingly fanatic wildness to them, a wildness I haven’t seen since meeting Bellatrix Lestrange and trying to Crucio her back in my fifth year.

But I don’t recognize the person I captured.

I cast a silencing spell before releasing the body bind.  A compulsion spell holds her at my side as I drag her to Fortescue’s.

There’s a small crowd gathered around Hermione, but no Healer yet.  Fuck.  I shove my way through the crowd.

Holding the woman’s arm firmly, I crouch once again so I can slap Hermione’s cheeks, arousing her from her half-conscious state.  She’s incredibly pale and a bit cool to the touch.

“Hermione,” I say firmly to command her attention.  The woman twitches, struggling in my grasp.

Hermione stirs slightly.  “Hmm?”  Her eyes open just enough, a dull look in them.

“Hermione stay with me for a minute.”  She blinks as I jerk the woman into her line of sight.

I wave my wand and release the silencing spell from the attacker.  The volume, both number and decibels, of vitriolic hate spewing from her mouth is truly astonishing.  Hermione blinks, dazed, and squints.

“Lavender?” she whispers.

The attacker screeches, attempting to launch herself at Hermione.  I Stun her and turn back to Hermione just in time to see her slip unconscious again.

The Healers arrive a moment later.  Dispassionately, I tell them what happened, what spell struck her and what measures I’ve taken.  They Portkey Hermione to St. Mungo’s once again.

I toss Fortescue a Ministry voucher, same as I did at Flourish and Blott’s, before forcibly transporting my prisoner to Azkaban.  Though I know she won’t be staying there, it suits my purposes.  I want her to suffer.  Despite the lack of Dementors at Azkaban, the prison itself is dismal enough.

Over the next week, I process Lavender Brown through the system, vociferously objecting to sentencing her to the long-term care ward at St. Mungo’s rather than returning her to Azkaban.  The bitch deserves punishment, not treatment.

I write Hermione a brief letter detailing what happened.

Then, after visiting Colonel Cameron for both praise and punishment, I vanish.

Thursday, 31 October 2013

It’s been nearly thirteen weeks of hell.  Though mostly self-inflicted, that doesn’t negate the torture of it.

Before visiting her flat, I pay a visit to her office.  Once I’m there, I discover she no longer works at the Ministry and hasn’t since shortly after the last attack.  I wonder why she left.  It was always her ambition to work for the Ministry and make a difference.  For her to have left, something major had to have changed.

Gee, do you think her near-death experience could have changed her?

I roll my eyes at my snarky inner voice.

I’m on edge.  Hermione has haunted me more in the last thirteen weeks than the last thirteen years.  It used to be that I could drown my memories in an anonymous woman, shagging her raw then leaving before morning.  I haven’t touched another woman in five months.  I’ve wanked until I’m sore, but haven’t touched anyone else.  I can’t see past Hermione Granger.

Part of me wants to hate her for the hold she has over me.  The rest wants to have her under me and let her hold me.

At her flat, getting through her wards is easy this time since I left myself a back door when I refurbished them.

Then I lie in wait in the shadows just like I did on my birthday.

She enters without noticing me.  She’s dressed for work, but if she’s employed, it’s not reflected in official records.  She enters hurriedly, kicking her bag inside where it tumbles once to spill its contents over the entry floor, and tossing her cloak on a chair though it then slithers to the floor.

“Damn!” she spits.

I smother my grin.  “I didn’t know Hermione Granger knew how to curse.”

She freezes.  My heart stops at the thought she might kick me out, either out of anger for leaving her or annoyance for returning to her.  Then she turns slowly toward me.

“Harry?” she whispers.

I flip the lamp beside me on with my left hand, using my wand in my right to turn on the overhead light.

She continues to stare, then whispers my name again.  I’m sure she doesn’t realize it, but she raises a hand to her chest as if to slow her rapid heartbeat, evidenced by the pulse throbbing at the base of her throat.

There is some click inside me as I decide not to toy with this thing between us any longer.  She was as attracted to me as I was – and am – to her three months ago.  We’re adults.  We can handle this.

I don’t know who I’m kidding.

I want her desperately.

“I went looking for you at the Ministry,” I growl, letting some of my annoyance about the wild goose chase she inadvertently led me on bleed into my voice.  Standing, I begin moving toward her.  She takes a step back and I want to crow in victory as she recognizes the dangerous edge to me.  “You weren’t there.  In fact, you quit three months ago.”

I continue stalking her, pleased when her eyes widen.  I kick her robes under a table so I don’t trip on them.

“I asked around.  You don’t work for the Ministry at all, or any government agency.”

I kick her bag further aside.  More pens and quills spill, but I don’t care.

“You changed,” I conclude softly.  Then a line from one of my favorite movies pops into my head and I paraphrase it.  “Are you on some damn fool idealistic crusade?”  The last thing she needs is some version of S.P.E.W.

She grins.  “No.  No crusades, damned foolish, idealistic or otherwise.”

I’m close enough now to smell her fear and arousal.  I need her to know how much she’s tormented me, how much she distracts me, how much she’s haunts my mind.

“I asked to be sent to Cambodia,” I growl, taking another step closer.  The pulse in her throat beats more frantically and her nostrils flare.  “It’s the monsoon season there, one of the worst times of year to be stuck in that hellhole.”  The mud, the bugs, the dysentery, and yet it still didn’t take my mind off her.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m a stalker.  Colonel Cameron threatened to send me to a psychiatrist if I didn’t work Hermione out of my system.

I take another step until I’m well within her personal space and nearly inside her skin.  “Despite how miserable I was, I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”

Before she can protest, I duck my head and claim her lips.  I haven’t kissed her in fifteen years, but the taste and heat of her is almost enough to make up for lost time.

I break the kiss and move back a half-step.  She opens her eyes slowly, dazed.  Needing to taste her again, I hold her gaze and lick my lips.  A gasp catches in her throat, making me grin even as I fight to keep my self-control.

I step toward her once again, allowing her plenty of time to run away if she needs it.  But when she closes the distance between us, pressing herself breasts to knees against me, something inside me snaps and screams, “Mine!”

I groan her name as I duck my head again.  Capturing her lips, I claim them, wanting to brand her, possess her, own her.  I gather both her hands and move her back against the wall, lifting them above her head to pin her there.  I need her.

When I trace her lips with my tongue before thrusting it into her mouth, she whimpers.

The first crack in the armor of my self-control appears.

Mine.

I shift her hands into one of mine so I can free up the other.  Deepening the kiss, I work my fly, impatient to free my cock so it’s no longer trapped painfully behind my zipper.  As soon as I’m free, I move to her zipper.  I unzip her jeans and shove them down but I’m not patient enough to wait for her to pull everything off:  I rip her knickers off, the sounds of the seams ripping loud over our moans.

She wiggles out of her jeans and kicks them off to allow me access.  I slide two fingers against her, moaning more deeply when I feel how wet she is.

“Damn,” I groan, then drive those fingers into her.  She arches against me, fire in my arms, whimpering.

When she hikes a leg around my waist, my cock only a few centimeters from her wet pussy, another rung of my self-control slips.

I bury my face in her neck, panting and soaking in her scent.  Then she clenches tightly around my fingers.  My brain stutters as I imagine that sensation around my cock.

“Fuck,” I groan.

I pull my fingers from her and resist the urge to suck them into my mouth before grabbing her hips to lift her high enough to drive deep into her.  Oh, fuck, oh, hell.

She’s hot, tight, and wet around me.  She wraps her legs around my waist and locks her ankles at the small of my back, burying me deeper.  She grabs my shoulders, digging her fingernails into them, a mix of pain and pleasure.  Though I’m sure she didn’t know it’s one of my kinks, it trips my circuits again.

“Hermione,” I moan, flexing inside her without moving.

That motion drives her to climax, making her grip my cock tightly, shudder, and moan.

I barely repress my own climax, holding it off only by remembering the Cambodian bugs that would bite any exposed skin, including one’s cock.  A man needed that lesson only once before learning to wank undercover.

When her tremors begin to subside, I tighten my grip on her hips and thrust.  Her smile matches the ferocity of sensation washing through me.

I nearly lose it when she breathlessly demands, “Fuck me, Harry.”

Only my Hermione could be so fierce and so filthy.  With a slight laugh, I answer, “Yes, ma’am.”  If she wants me to perform stud service at the moment, I’m more than happy to oblige.

I drive her to another climax almost immediately, after which I’m holding on by a thin sliver of control.  Though I know we both speak, I don’t remember any words beyond, “Yes, fuck me, Harry,” repeated several times.

Her third climax drives me over the edge.  I push her flat against the all, brace my hands on either side of her, drive my tongue into her mouth, and empty myself into her.  I think a picture falls off the wall from the force of my thrusts, but I don’t care.

After my last thrust, my legs are trembling enough that I can’t support our combined body weight.  We slide down the wall, ending in a tangle of the floor.  I keep her close with a hand at the small of her back.  Thought it could be due to four months of celibacy finally being resolved, I think my relaxation has more to do with the witch in my arms.

“We should move to your bedroom,” I murmur when the floor starts to feel cold.

She lifts her head from my shoulder to look down at me.  “What makes you think I’ll let you stay?”

I grin and grab her hand, tugging it down to cover my cock.  I have her number.  “More of this says I’ll be staying.”  She’s been pent up too long and I’m more than willing to satisfy her hunger.  She won’t kick me out.

“I have toys for that,” she retorts even as she strokes my cock.

My grin widens.  “Ms. Granger, you were so tight, you’d damn near regrown your virginity.”

Huffing, she releases me and stands on shaky legs.  Admiring the view – and the evidence of my claiming of her on her thighs – my grin turns wolfish.  She huffs again and, pulling her robes from under the side table where I kicked them earlier, drapes the about her like a cape.

“Bedroom,” she orders, her tone of voice arousing me further.  I raise an eyebrow, slip my hands behind my head and cross my ankles, putting myself on display for her.  Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare with arousal before she glares at me, crossing her arms under her breasts.  She must know that only makes me want to cup and suck them.  Then she taps her foot and glares, repeating, “Bedroom.”

I lick my lips.  She bites her own.

She won’t back down, but that’s why I love her.  Sighing, I slowly rise from the floor.  Meeting her eyes for a moment, long enough to see the lust in hers, I pull my shirt off, leaving me nude.  After so long in the military, I have little modesty – and I’m getting off on the lust I see in her eyes as she watches me.

I feel her eyes on me as I head into her bedroom.  I enter without looking back, then arrange myself on her bed.  Though I try to make my pose relaxed, I’m too tense.  I lie on my back, torso upraised by bend arms, one leg bent and the other flat on the mattress.

When she turns the corner and is framed in the doorway, my mouth goes dry.  She’s nude and utterly gorgeous.  Though I’d suspected what her robes covered, I didn’t know her breasts were quite that full, her nipples that dark, the curve of her waist and swell of her hips that arousing, her legs that long.

“Damn, you’re beautiful,” I whisper harshly.

She smiles, at first self-consciously then turning predatory.  She moves to the end of the bed to tug my bent leg flat.  I have to stifle my very vocal reaction when she climbs atop the bed and up my legs.  My arms tremble with the force of will it takes to hold back my reaction when she straddles my knees.  I can feel the heat and damp of her and it’s driving me out of my mind.

When I see the look in her eye, it’s all I can do not to whimper like a girl.  She’s looking at me like I’m a research project and there is very little in this world that Hermione Granger likes more than research.

She skims her hands over my thighs.  I tremble slightly, tangling my hands in the comforter so I don’t grab her, flip on her on her back, and fuck her brains out.  Though I don’t think she’d mind during, she’d be annoyed afterward.  She pauses, tracing one of my scars, this one on the outside of my right thigh.

“Where did you get this?”  Her voice is huskier than before, as if my scars arouse her.

My arms are now trembling too much to hold me up.  I drop to the bed, staring at the ceiling and breathing deeply, hoping for control.  My voice is harsher than I expect when I reply, “Gunshot.  During training.”  It bled like a bastard, too, and hurt like hell while it healed the Muggle way.  I later found the guy who shot me and broke his leg in three places.

She ghosts a fingertip up my thigh and hip, tracing another scar.

Knowing she wants the information, I offer, “Sword.  During training.”  And, in this case, the guy who did it was much worse off since I landed most of my blows and he only landed this one.

I’m distracted when she runs her fingertips over my stomach.  She smiles fiercely when she notices my reaction and adds fingernails.  I can’t stifle my groan, though I try, and her smile deepens.  I tighten my grip on the comforter.

She trails her fingertips over another scar just below my ribs.

“Knife.  During training.”  That had been a vicious fight, of which I was ultimately victorious, but we both ended up in hospital.

“It’s a wonder you survived training,” she says sarcastically.

I bare my teeth in something resembling a smile.  “The other guys looked worse.”

Holding her gaze, I release the comforter with my right hand so I can reach up and trace her scar, the one put there due to my youthful stupidity, the one from the Department of Mysteries.  It trails down her collarbone and over the top of her left breast.  The hand she has resting on my stomach twitches slightly.

Then I shift my focus to her new scars, the ones from Lavender’s attack.  I don’t like seeing these.  They’re even more representative of my failure than the scar Dolohov gave her.  These marks are still slightly pink, not yet old enough to have faded into that silvery glint of old healing.  Using my fingertips, I trace the two parallel lines that start near the base of her throat and slide downward.  The two lines expand to five just above her right breast, with one trailing between her breasts.

Before I can become too maudlin, she shifts, sliding upward until she’s straddling my hips.  It’s all I can do not to have my eyes roll back in my head as she nestles my cock against her slit, dampening it, taunting me, distracting me.

She meets my eyes steadily, reaching down to twine our fingers together, pinning my hands to the bed on either side of my head.  I can only lay back and let her have control, something I don’t mind doing at all.  If she wanted to use me as her personal playground for a while, I wouldn’t mind that either.  Then she leans forward, distracting me from my fantasies.

Slowly, she takes me into her, inch by inch until I’m completely buried inside her.  I close my eyes and moan, unable to hold it back.  She feels amazing.

She hisses slightly and does something I’ve never felt before:  squeezes me cock from base to head then down again.

“Fuck,” I groan, nearly overwhelmed as I open my eyes again.  “Do it again.”

Her responding grin is rife with feminine knowledge as she repeats the motion.  Something in my brain short-circuits once again, turns possessive.  I untangle our fingers so I can cup her breasts.  She arches into my hands, silently asking for more.  Shifting my hands slightly, I take her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers and squeeze.  She shudders and gasps.

For what feels like hours, we tease each other like this, alternating challenges to see who might break first.  I nearly do when she leans backwards, bracing her hands on my thighs, her fingernails acting like talons to hold her perch.  Then she squeezes my cock again.

I shift my hands to her hips, holding her tightly in place.  She squeezes again, holding her intimate grip longer on the head of my cock than before.

“You’re evil, Hermione,” I hiss.  She grins knowingly.  I slide a hand from her hip to where we’re joined, flicking her clit with my thumb.

She shudders violently once before flinging herself forward, bracing her hands on my shoulders.  My hand is trapped against her.  It’s when she licks my neck that I lose control.

Groaning, I flip her onto her back, keeping us joined.  Pulling my hand free allows her to wrap her legs tightly around my waist once again.  I rise up on my elbows, lifting my head only far enough to bend and suckle her.  She’s been taunting me with her tits and this is my revenge.  She digs her fingernails into my back, dragging them down to my waist even as she bites my shoulder.

She’s mine, mine, I chant in the back of my mind as I fuck her, driving into her mercilessly.  I distantly note the thumping of the headboard against the wall with each thrust.  She meets me thrust for thrust, continuing to scratch and bite me, ratcheting up my arousal until I’m nearly blind with need.  When I bite the juncture of her neck and shoulder, she explodes.  Digging her fingernails in deeply enough to draw blood, she clenches around me tightly enough that I can’t move and, with a small scream, comes.

I can’t keep it together after that.  Groaning deeply, I come, pouring myself into her with a few thrusts.

I don’t dare collapse on top of her for fear I’d crush her.  Instead, I collapse next to her, face down and utterly spent.

Several minutes later, she asks, “Couldn’t get me off your mind, hmm?”

I don’t bother moving.  “Wench.”  She snickers.

Despite the time apart and the complexities of our lives, I will find a way to make this work.

Shifting slightly, I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her tightly against me, spooning behind her.

“Mine,” I hiss.

I can hear her smile when she responds, “Yours.”

I’m nearly asleep when she shifts restlessly.  Squeezing her waist to make her still has little effect.  She’s not going to lie still and let me sleep off my post-mind-blowing-orgasm haze.

“Hermione,” I murmur.  “Sleep.”

“Are you going to tell Ron?” she asks, turning to face me.

Fuck, how am I supposed to concentrate with all her soft bits pressed tightly against me?  Man was not designed to think with both heads at the same time.

“Yes, yes, I’ll tell him tomorrow and let him punch me again afterward,” I tell her, hoping she’ll drop it.

She doesn’t, of course.  “Punch you?”  Her voice is dangerously low.

I crack open an eye.  She’s going to lose her temper for no good reason.  Finding some reservoir of energy, I flip her on her back and thrust into her.  Her protests die on parted lips, ending in a guttural moan.

“I hate you,” she moans even as she wraps herself around me like a climbing vine.

“I know you do,” I murmur, smiling.  “I love you, too.”