Chapter Text
Tuesday
Hermione Greengrass was known for her intellect as well as her unparalleled ability to make a grown wizard tremble on the spot with just a raise of an eyebrow. The formidable witch was nothing if not self-assured. Her robes were always immaculate and her poised and graceful manner gave her an air of refinement. She could oftentimes be seen strutting around the Ministry, burgundy lips in a straight line and chin tilted upwards, whilst people scurried to let the young witch pass.
The fact that Hermione was an auror was still a cause of hushed whispers between Britain’s most distinguished witches and wizards, the position one much too low for someone of her status. She couldn’t have cared less if she tried, she’d given up caring what people thought of her career choice long ago. Although maybe, not fully.
She would have been lying to herself if she didn’t recognise, at least to a certain degree, that the truth about her parentage was something that would sometimes play on her mind unbidden. The knowledge that some of the respect she’d gathered for herself was in part due to the name she carried gnawed at the edges of her mind. The fact that that respect could very easily be taken away was one of her weaknesses. But Hermione knew that this fear of hers was solely on her, and her alone. It wasn’t like she’d been lied to by her parents, after all, her sister reminded her of her true origins too often for all of them to ever forget.
She had never been ashamed of the blood that ran through her veins. Her parents were exactly that to her– her parents. With their faults and hang-ups, they had always treated her well enough, as much as their own emotional limitations had let them do so even when her younger sister, little miracle Astoria, had been born. The sisters had always received the same level of care and attention, much to Astoria’s chagrin.
So Hermione’s biggest concern had always remained on the backwards ways in which the wizarding world functioned. The way high society she knew so well could and would turn its back on her in the blink of an eye the moment they found she wasn’t a pureblood. She’d often have to remind herself that caring about where she stood in society didn’t make her any weaker. If anything, she had enough mind to guard her back whilst continuing to work towards making a name for herself. One outside of the Greengrass lineage.
Up in her London home, she finished packing her bag. The charm to expand the small dark green duffle with gold trimming made it so that she could carry as much as she pleased. She put on a lightening charm for good measure. She didn’t feel like carrying anything remotely heavy and she knew that she had probably packed far too much for the five days she’d be away.
Once downstairs, she slipped on her outer robe, the fur-lined black garment contrasted against her pale skin. She disapparated with a turn of her heels only to appear with a soft crack at the meeting location. She was to meet Harry Potter so they could grab a portkey to take them to their next assignment in Ireland.
Hermione shuddered at the thought of Potter, his cocky lopsided smile showed in her memory much too clearly for her liking. He’d always been such a prat, she thought, especially during his Hogwarts days as captain of the Gryffindor’s quidditch team. It hadn’t helped one bit that half of Hogwarts population had been about ready to turn the halls into a bloody battle just so they could slip into Potter’s bed during their seventh year.
Potter’s fame as a great lover had been one his incredibly brief, albeit awfully tumultuous, relationship with the Weasley girl had established for him. He’d always been tight-lipped regarding the matter but his clear popularity and cheeky smirks got on her nerves. Hermione was quick to scoff at any and all hints that perhaps what she needed was a good shag. There had been far more important things to do at school than shag a boy, even if that boy was the most fanciable out of the lot.
She hadn’t been all that unaffected by Potter’s charms and that had infuriated her more than she could have ever let on. She would blush and her heart would beat faster every time Potter showed he could be a thoughtful wizard on top of being good-looking. She had always attributed this to her teenage hormones. She would explain away each and every single reaction to being in his close proximity with the information she had, whether that was the obvious disruption of her hormonal cycle or muggle evolution theories. She was a logical person, she valued reason and she was very much goal-oriented above anything else. She was, after all, a Slytherin. Her ambition drove most of what she did, regardless of what that ambition was aimed towards.
Right now, her goal was to track the man who had decided smuggling century-old artefacts with muggle drugs was a good idea, the foot-long list of missing items enough to require her and Potter’s involvement. And that was the reason why she stood near an old train stop, off in the sleepy English countryside as the sun rose up higher in the sky in the crisp late August morning. Her boot-clad foot tapped against dark grey gravel as she waited for Potter to arrive. He was late . If they lost their portkey because of his tardiness she would strangle the man with her own bare hands, wand be damned.
As if summoned by her ire-fueled thoughts, Potter came parading like he wasn’t ten minutes late. His hands were deep inside the pockets of his black trousers and his shirt was untucked with the top three buttons undone. Hermione scowled at his appearance. His raven hair was in a worse than usual disarray, his glasses slightly askew, and he was whistling as if he’d never had a single care in his entire life. The thought that he was probably coming from having spent the night partying or shagging some nameless witch crossed her mind. She felt her face get hot the way it did when she was close to snapping. Her lips thinned into a straight line.
“You’re late,” Hermione informed him, her tone clipped and short.
Breathe in and breathe out, she reminded herself, it would do no good to have her partner killed before they even left the country.
“I’m aware,” Potter replied. He shrugged one shoulder and bypassed her in favour of going towards where the portkey would be hidden per Gawain Robards instructions.
Hermione groaned, this wasn’t going to be fun, but none of their partnering assignments had ever been. It was known to everyone at the Ministry, and beyond, that Hermione Greengrass and Harry Potter did not get along. Which was why they seldom worked together, and when they did, they usually only did so for a day. Whilst Potter emerged looking triumphant from a nearby bush after retrieving their portkey, Hermione wondered just how badly this trip of theirs was going to go.
She really had no idea what was in store for them.
***
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard me!”
It’d been only five hours of them sharing what muggles called a bed and breakfast room near the Irish coast. The wind made the wooden blinders outside their window rattle. But the tempest outside was nothing to the one within the four cerulean walls of their otherwise cosy room. They were both grateful they had magic running through their veins. The silencing charm they placed when their screaming began was the only thing preventing the poor elderly couple that was hosting them from running into the room.
The morning hadn’t been all that bad if she ignored Potter’s tardiness and general cockiness. They had been warmly welcomed by the couple running the place. The man had soon excused himself to run some errands in town and his wife, Loretta, had shown them around . The bed and breakfast consisted of only a few bedrooms, all of them set in such a way that suggested they had been laid out with the purpose of hosting married couples only. The catholic influence Hermione had read about in muggle books was evident in the various crucifixes that adorned the painted walls and the religious imagery she couldn’t quite place. Her knowledge of muggle religions wasn’t as vast as she would have liked.
Neither she nor Potter had said anything as they had taken on the double bed that took most of the bedroom’s space. Its dark iron frame seemed to mock them as their host showed them the small antique-looking wardrobe and rustic wooden chair near the curtained window that looked into the well-kept garden. All the while Loretta told them about how good it was to welcome a young couple into their home. Their host seemed to value the sacrament of marriage greatly, which made Hermione feel slightly guilty about their lying. She didn’t think there was any world or alternate universe in which she and Potter could be considered a happily married couple.
Potter kicked his boots off and the sound of the heavy leather hitting the wooden floor with a loud thud was a clear show of his piss-poor mood.
“I don’t bloody care Greengrass, you're not going to check all by yourself.”
She huffed and, blowing a curl out of her face, focused on transfiguring the offending double bed into two singles. Potter frowned and pointed towards the beds.
“You’re doing that yourself, I don’t feel like having extra work.”
She was going to murder him.
“Thank god one of us isn’t a lazy arse then,” she retorted angrily. “And I can very well go check a pub, I’m an auror.”
She stressed the last word as she sent a stinging jinx to his leg. It was with great pleasure that she saw him wince. Served him right.
“Of course you are, I wouldn’t be stuck with a stubborn cold-hearted witch if you weren’t,” Potter said simply. His eyes shot daggers her way. She shot some of her own back after the description of her he’d just given.
“And don’t fucking-”
“Language!”
“-jinx me if you don’t want payback,” Potter finished as if she’d never interrupted him.“You’re so fucking childish,” he murmured, almost to himself.
He turned and grabbed a set of decidedly muggle-looking clothes.
“I heard that.” She really, really, was tempted to kill the man as he carelessly tossed his duffel bag over a chair.
“Sure did, princess,” he said with an eye roll and walked past her into the adjoined bathroom.
***
The moment she left the room, and then the building, to walk in the now calmer weather, Hermione should have known Potter would be angry. He had, after all, made it clear that they were to go watch the old bar together. But Hermione did not work well in teams, or with partners. She preferred to take matters into her own hands. As she walked through the quiet streets she thought this was no different. She would go, ask for a pint, and watch as old fishermen talked low and loose whilst she listened. She undid the top button of her black blouse for good measure. She was well aware men responded best to the sight of some skin showing. If any of them tried to get handsy she could always throw a hex. She really hoped it wouldn’t come to it.
The pub was an old and dingy little thing near the sea and far from the main road. The patron wasn’t as old as she had imagined him to be, but some of the fishermen were very much retired. A short silence had descended into the room the moment she’d stepped in, looking very much out of place in her knee-length skirt and heeled boots. She had grabbed a map of the area from a corner shop on her way to the pub and the feeling of paper in her hand armed her against possible questions. She was a mere tourist. Her wand was safely tucked away in her arm holster and she made sure to use as much of her fake pleasant and friendly persona as she could when she ordered a drink.
The pint she was served was cold and bitter and not at all to her taste. She had always favoured mixed drinks over beer, but she sipped it nonetheless without grimacing. There was an old telly on with some sort of show Hermione couldn’t place but that, as far as she could tell, nobody seemed to be paying any mind. Different bottles lined one of the walls, the colours and shapes varying greatly from one another, some of them covered by a fine sheen of dust. The various rows reflected some of the warm light coming from the small windows and from the fixtures on the walls.
She sensed that the patrons were watching her as she played tourist and pretended to look at the map which now lay open on top of the weathered wooden table. The novelty of her was far more interesting than anything on the telly. Hermione counted down the minutes until Potter tracked her down as she took on the various names written on the map in front of her, some of which she wasn’t sure she could pronounce.
Almost as if on cue, she felt eyes burning a hole through the back of her skull. Soon the chair beside her was roughly pulled away. A large body now occupied that previously vacant seat.
She continued looking at her map, pointedly ignoring her companion. She traced the roads with a manicured finger. Besides her, Potter made a show of clearing his throat and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.
“You didn't wait for me, love.”
Hermione sharply turned around. Her eyes hardened as she took on the grinning prat at her side. The steel quality to Potter’s green irises gave away his actual mood.
“Ah, young love,” said a man wistfully a few tables down from them, his white beard a mess that would have given Dumbledore a run for his money. Hermione wanted to snort at his remark. If there was something she and Potter weren’t, and would never be, it was in love.
Potter grabbed her hand and gave it a hard squeeze. She refused to wince . She chose to slightly narrow her eyes instead. He promptly patted her hand with a concerned face. The glint in his eyes let her know he was up to no good.
“Honey, have you lost your ring?”
He really was going to play their cover, the bastard.
“Oh, I may have forgotten it in our room!” Hermione exclaimed with all the airiness she could muster considering she was a step away from Avadaing the now laughing wizard.
“What will you ever do without me?” Potter asked in a much too cheery voice as he took a gold band from his jeans pocket and slipped it on her ring finger.
Brilliant, just bloody brilliant.
“What will I ever do, indeed,” she replied, her tone deathly saccharine.
Potter stood up abruptly as if sensing he was playing with fire and was far too close to getting burnt. He made a beeline to grab a drink of his own but not without pecking the corner of her lips first. The almost kiss made Hermine’s skin tingle and her cheeks tint. A blush spread without her being able to do anything to stop it. She watched in horror as the old man with the long beard chuckled and Potter winked in her direction. She chose to focus on the cold from her glass lest she did something she regretted.
They stayed at the pub for a while, sipping on pints and looking at the map. But in the end, they left with as little information as they’d come in with. Whilst the men were loose with their tongues they hadn’t seemed to have noticed any changes in their routines. They had seen no strange crates at the port and no notable strangers. At least not from all the gossiping she and Potter had had to endure during their stay. There was so much time one could spend pretending to drink a pint of beer, after all, and neither had fancied some of the questionable-looking chips being served.
The owner told them they were welcome to stop by at any time during their stay as they waved their goodbyes. Potter enthusiastically accepted the offer while, beside him, she smiled politely. She told herself that the sooner they left, the sooner she could dart away from the feeling of Potter’s arm around her waist. His loose grip felt so unfamiliar yet so intimate.
She left the old pub huffing and puffing, both upset over the lack of information and Potter’s attitude. Whilst their cover was of them being a married couple, especially when they visited muggle towns for the day, they hadn’t ever truly played the part to such an extent. She wasn’t sure what Potter had been thinking, behaving the way he had, but she was a step away from hexing his balls off.
“Are you seriously in such a pissy mood because I’m following our cover?” Potter asked at her side. His long legs made his stride far more casual than hers, which infuriated her further.
“Don’t play games. You did that as payback,” she snarled. She stopped to briefly look at him with a raised eyebrow, daring him to negate what she knew was the truth.
Over them, the sky was an angry grey. The clouds moved faster and the wind made her hair whip angrily into her face. When Potter simply shrugged, she huffed again and continued walking, focusing instead on putting her hair up in a knot.
She wasn’t proud of her attitude, not by a long shot. But She’d always had a temper, one she’d done her best to control. It wasn’t becoming of a lady to behave in such a way. Her mother’s voice rang in her ears as she tried to go back to the controlled, simmering anger she was better known for. Potter truly had a gift of bringing out the worst in her.
“When you’re done acting like a petulant child we could go down to the port, see if we can find any traces of magic.”
This time, Hermione didn’t take the bait. She told herself she was better than this, that she’d left home and ceased contact with most of her schoolmates for a reason. She nodded instead, biting down her tongue. She wasn’t giving Potter any more ammunition.
His eyes narrowed and a calculating expression overtook his features as he measured whether she was going to snap at him. She gave him her best innocent expression, an eyebrow raised in question, daring him to be the one to keep the argument going. Having decided he was safe, he gave her a curt nod back. His hand grabbed hers as they walked their way to the port, cover back in place.
She couldn’t wait to go back to England.
***
The port was an underwhelming experience. The bad weather thatplagued the area for over a week meant there was little to no activity. This made the place look eerily abandoned with its lack of people and decaying structures. The port itself consisted of just a few small-looking fishing ships that rocked over the turbulent water. The town’s fleet was truly unimpressive considering it was its main source of income. Some sheds stood further down in different states of disrepair, their exterior weathered by the salty air and frequent winds. A little office sat nearby, more than likely filled with records and other necessary things for the fishermen’s activities. Whatever those were she didn’t know.
The sound of seagulls accompanied them as they walked around different piles of nets. Hermione thought they could perhaps go look into that one office once nighttime fell and they didn’t risk getting caught. They strolled through the area for about close to an hour, silently casting spells to trace and locate any residual magic. Each try kept coming back with absolutely nothing. Much to their dismay, they seemed to be the only two magical beings to have set foot in the harbour for at least a few days.
By the time they made it back to their bed and breakfast, apparating near the garden where they thought nobody could see them, both Potter and she were in a terrible mood. They hadn’t eaten much that day, and they had been on their feet most of the afternoon since they’d chosen to walk the surrounding area to make themselves more familiar with the place.
The weather appeared to want to match their emotional state. The wind picked up again. The sky quickly turned a dark shade of purplish blue that promised a storm by the evening. The idea of returning back to check on the office was soon discarded. Neither of them felt like getting soaked once it inevitably started chucking it down. This only served to sour their mood further.
They were asked to stay for dinner, and they were too tired and hungry to decline. Soon, they were seated along their hosts, playing the part of a recently married couple. They passed potatoes and meatloaf and spoke of the weather. Their performing of their facade was so impeccable that Hermione wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have gone into acting instead. The thought of her pursuing a muggle career and the face her parents would have made at this made her chuckle into a forkful of her food. Three sets of eyes set on her and her face reddened. The scene made her feel like she was back home, a glaring glitch in an otherwise perfectly synchronised family.
The feeling of self-doubt she always carried reared its ugly head. She pushed it back down, embarrassed. She complimented the jacket potato she was currently eating as a way to divert attention away from her weird reaction. Potter looked at her with an expression she couldn’t quite place, and wasn’t sure she wanted to. She was hyper-aware of his body sitting so close to her in the small dining room, his thick arm brushing against hers as he demolished his dinner in the way most young men did.
The lovely couple running the bed and breakfast was far more helpful than any of the fishermen had been. They mentioned in passing a fella who sometimes came to sell trinkets to the folk in town. Potter’s eyes subtly let her know his thoughts were running in the same direction as hers. This was the man they were looking for. They didn’t push for more information, the older couple already moving on to gush about how the weather was supposed to improve in the following days which was perfect for the wedding that’d be taking place by the weekend. The soon-to-be-married couple was supposed to arrive the following day.
They wished their hosts goodnight and soon excused themselves. The mood shifted into the kind of charged energy that was bound to snap into another thunderous argument in the time it took her and Potter to make their way back to their bedroom. Silencing charms and a lock were put in place the moment they walked through the door. Neither of them spoke as they both proceeded to grab their toiletries.
She had been so focused on trying to hide a set of underwear inside her pyjamas so she could take a shower that she didn’t notice Potter was now standing shirtless a mere foot away from her. Her throat became dry at the sight of him. His wide shoulders and strong torso were distracting as it were, but not nearly as distracting as the peek of ink she could spot starting at his ribcage and swirling into his back. She felt her cheeks starting to grow hot again, this time by something that had nothing to do with anger. She cursed herself for it.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
And just like that, Hermione was reminded of who it was that was standing shirtless. Her brows furrowed at his rude tone.
“I’m sorry if I’m not used to being around half-naked people all the time.”
Potter’s head shot up at that, his eyes narrowing and his tone hard when he spoke next.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She didn’t have time for this, quite literally. It was late and she just wanted to shower and call it a day.
“Your reputation precedes you,” was all she said. Armed with her pyjamas and toiletries, she dashed into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
She really wasn’t expecting Potter to be pacing the room once she emerged from the steaming bathroom, silk blood-red pyjamas on and hair still slightly wet. She barely made two steps in, hands curled around her dirty garments when he had her cornered against the wall, his much larger frame towering over hers. He was still shirtless, a point she did her best to ignore, the expanse of pale skin and heat radiating off him making her breath come out quicker.
She felt just how fast her heart was racing against her chest and heard its thumping drum in her ears, the sound deafening. She pressed her clothes and toiletries closer to her chest, using them as a shield.
“Let’s settle one thing, here and now,” Potter said. His voice was low and his tone left no room for arguments. “Whatever you’ve heard about me? Take it with a grain of salt, ice princess.”
“Don’t call me that,” she replied, both offended and fully aware of her own reputation.
She gathered herself and shoved him with an arm as hard as she could then, making him stumble backwards. The feel of his hard chest against her palm lingered as she moved away from him.
“What? Can go around throwing shite without taking any?” Potter asked her with his hands open up in the air, more agitated than she’d ever seen him.
She thought it was such an odd thing for him to be this bothered by rumours about him being a bit of a womaniser. He really didn’t have that thick of skin if this got under it so easily. The thought he wouldn’t have lasted a day as a Slytherin crossed her mind.
“Other men would be glad to have your reputation, you know,” she stated simply, choosing to ignore his remark once again.
She put her dirty clothes inside a clothed bag and her toiletries back in her duffle. Then, she went to her bed and took the covers off, closing her eyes and settling in for the night. She made her best to ignore the sulking six-foot man by the bathroom door to her right.
“Well, I’m not other men,” he said simply, dropping the subject. He went back to the other side of the room to grab his pyjamas from where they lay on top of his own bed.
She listened as Potter made his way into the bathroom in a few strides, shutting the door forcibly behind him. It was only then that Hermione let herself open her eyes and stare at the yellowing ceiling whilst she tried to calm her breathing.
That night, she dreamt of shirtless wizards with back tattoos that neither backed down nor bowed to her.