Entry Four:

TWILIGHT​

The Hoxton Square benches sat empty in the rain at 1 PM on a Thursday in May. A man locked his bicycle to the lamppost outside a bar still shut for the afternoon while two women smoked under the awning of the restaurant beside it. On the far side of the square, Hermione Granger stood watching the door of a shop. She had been standing for eleven minutes. The hat had a wide brim and a ribbon round the crown. Drizzle sat on the felt in small beads, and underneath was her brown hair, pinned properly.

She had survived a troll at twelve. More than that, she had survived a torture chamber in Malfoy's Manor, a Horcrux hunt, and a wizarding battle against the Lord Voldemort himself, all in the same year she reached eighteen. Now, she stood on wet pavement outside a shop in Hoxton because her girlfriend had said something five months ago and Hermione intended to fulfill it.

She was, in her opinion, well-disguised right now. Muggle clothes. Muggle hat. Her wand at the holster by her hip, hidden beneath her Muggle coat. Her alibi at the office was a late lunch break. She had indeed finished a meeting late, and she had cultivated a reputation among her colleagues as a workaholic, so a day where she took a lunch late was a day where most of them just nod and went by their day as usual.

She remembered the night like it was yesterday.

Five months ago. Christmas week. Their bed, rain on the window, the sheets pushed to the foot. They were naked and Hermione could still feel Holly's mouth between her thighs, the heat of it, and Holly's weight against her. Holly lay beside her, face half in the pillow and one arm across Hermione's waist, and Hermione was talking, because she always talked after, and Holly let her. She had been making a list for a while: places they could go, things they should try, a weekend in a Muggle town where nobody knew them and they could pass as foreign students.

The lamp on the bedside table was still on. It lit the line of Holly's shoulder, the dip at the base of her spine, the faint old scars across her back that Hermione had first seen in the first year. Holly's skin was warm where it pressed against hers and cool where the air reached it. The radiator ticked. The rain came in gusts against the glass, and the room smelled of them.

Holly's thumb was drawing a slow circle on Hermione's hip. Hermione had held her breath when Holly started doing that, and she lost her thoughts, and she did what she often did when that happened: she asked Holly what she thought.

"We should spice things up a bit," Holly said, and there was a smile seeping into her voice, soft and kind, enough to make Hermione's lips tug at the corners.

"We could," Hermione had nodded. "We should. Do you have any ideas?"

"Do you have any ideas?" Holly almost grinned then.

"Well, I--uh..." Hermione swallowed, her mind tried reaching, grasping, which was proven difficult to do with Holly's finger still on her hip, tracing, moving. "We could, use some sex toys?"

"Sex toys?" Holly asked.

"Yeah."

"Like the one we saw in the film the other day? Strap on?"

"Exactly like that."

"Hmmm..." Holly nodded. Then her mouth opened, wide, wider into a yawn, and she pulled Hermione closer by the waist. "That seems interesting. Wonder how that would feel. Hmm..."

She was asleep before the sentence finished. Her arm stayed heavy across Hermione's waist, and Hermione had stayed awake for an hour and started the planning.

Since then: three books, one journal article, one pamphlet. By February she had read about twenty-three models of strap-on and their materials to guess which one could be interesting to try. And now she stood in the drizzle.

She took a deep breath, and finally, she crossed the square.

The drizzle was light enough to walk through and heavy enough to darken the brim of the hat. At the door of the shop, she checked behind her once, a habit she had picked up from Holly and never put down. The square was empty. Nobody looked at her. She went in.

-o0o-​

The inside of the shop was bright, clean, warm. The air strangely, faintly, smelled of chemical. Behind the counter was a woman, fifties, plain clothes with a lanyard. Shelves along both walls and a wall of boxes at the back, organised by size and colour. Two customers at the far end, both men, argued over a box. Another woman read the back of a package, alone, eyes narrowed behind the glasses.

Hermione walked past the counter to the shelves. She took the notebook from her satchel, found the third page, and held it open in one hand while she read the back of a box with the other.

The colours were a problem. She had not prepared for colours. She put the box back and picked up another. The material was different. She checked the notebook, checked the box, and picked up a third.

At the far end, one of the men raised his voice. "But the size, Martin. The size."

"I don't care about the size, darling, what about the--"

"I'm telling you it matters!"

Hermione stared at her notebook. Between the colours, the materials, and the ongoing debate about size, she had lost her place twice.

"Can I help you?"

Hermione almost jumped. The clerk had come round from the counter and now standing, five feet to the right of her.

"Yes," Hermione said. "Um. No. I mean, yes. I think."

The clerk smiled, then. "What are you looking for, love?"

Hermione held the notebook out. "I'm looking for a strap-on. This model, specifically. I've written it here."

The clerk took the notebook, read the page, and nodded. She reached for a box on the second shelf without looking.

"This one. Platinum-cure silicone, medium."

Hermione took the box. She turned it over. "Is the silicone medical grade?"

"It is."

"And the curve. Anatomically tested? Certified? Is there a standard?"

The clerk's mouth twitched. She snorted, once, a short warm sound through the nose. "Tested and approved, love. University of Sheffield, if you want to look it up."

Hermione did want to look it up. She filed it in her mind.

The harness was leather with adjustable straps. A care leaflet came folded inside the box, and Hermione unfolded it at the counter and read the first three sections before the clerk could speak.

"There's a guide there," the clerk said.

"I see that." Hermione read through it, delighted. "This is thorough!"

The clerk showed her the lube: water-based, glycerin-free. Hermione took two of the strap.

"Two?"

"A back-up. I had read about it too," Hermione said. "Lubricant degraded silicone toys, and we can see on the leaflet here, section five. So just to be safe, I will take two."

She had considered transfiguration, but she dismissed the idea quick. This would be a gift, and a gift should be permanent and well made. She had read the case reports on Transfigured sex toys: they reverted. A harness that reverted mid-use, in the middle of the heat, by any measure, was bad, bad situation.

The clerk set the box on the counter. "Girlfriend?"

"Yes," Hermione said. She lowered her voice. It was the only time in the conversation she lowered her voice.

"No judgment in this shop, love," the clerk said, smiling politely, wrapping the boxes. "Special occasion?"

"Anniversary." She blurted it before she could stop herself. "It was... seven years. Seventh anniversary."

"Seven years and you have never been inside before?"

Hermione tried to smile. There were reasons for it and there were long years where there was nothing but kisses, but she couldn't say that. "We've been busy," she replied instead.

"Everyone's busy, love. You're quite early, if anything. People either do it at year two or year twelve."

"Why year twelve?"

"Husband's left and they'd like something reliable."

Hermione laughed. She couldn't remember the last time she had laughed out loud like that, in the open, in public. The couple at the back looked up; the woman who had been reading the package glanced, and the clerk chuckled. For a moment, the whole room was just ordinary people buying ordinary things.

She paid cash. The clerk put the box, the two tubes and the leaflet into a black paper bag and handed it across the counter. The bag was plain and unmarked and heavier than Hermione expected.

"With care," the clerk said, "they'll last for years."

"I know." Hermione nodded. Then, looking up again, she added, "Thank you."

"Have fun, love."

Hermione put the bag in her satchel. She buttoned her coat and walked out into the drizzle.

She could have Apparated. She could simply find one empty corner where people didn't look. But security camera was everywhere in London now, had been ever since 2001, and so she took the Tube, because some days it was easier to simply not fight the world, and because some days she simply had enough time.

Hermione kept her hands on her satchel and watched the river light between stations. She saw herself in the windows' reflection, then: twenty-five years old--old--working for the Ministry of Magic and sitting on the District line with a strap-on in her bag.

-o0o-​

The wizard at the security desk ran the rod over her satchel. It hummed once over the wand holster, once over the Galleons in the front pocket, and passed over the black paper bag without a sound. The bag held no magic at all.

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger."

"Good afternoon."

She was back at her desk by two. The bag went in the bottom drawer, under the amnesty files. She shut the drawer, pulled the first scroll towards her, and uncapped the inkwell.

Werewolf amnesty applications. Each scroll held a name, a moving photograph, a history and a request. The Ministry's Wolfsbane stock was still being built. The Potions department brewed what it could, but some ingredients need to be brought from continents away. So the Ministry could only take one applicant at a time. One warm room, one course of Wolfsbane every month. The rest waited.

Most of the applicants had never joined a pack. Most of them were people who had been bitten and left to manage it alone: a woman who worked at a Muggle shop and locked herself in a cellar in the forest once a month; a wizard who had lost three jobs in a year because his colleagues noticed the scars. Some were children.

She thought of Lupin, then. She always did when the files were open. He would have read every one of these and known what the photographs could not show.

The first applicant was a woman from Carmarthen, bitten at thirty-one, no pack affiliation. She had held a job at a Muggle post office for four years. Her photograph showed her sitting very still, hands folded, looking just past the camera. Hermione read the file twice, made three notes in the margin, and marked her for the next stage.

The second was a man from Leeds, bitten as a teenager. Part of the Northern Scotland pack. Moving tattoo on his right face. He had surrendered after ten years living in the wild.

The third scroll held a boy. Ten years old. He wore a small suit and a tie in the moving photograph and he was trying to look at the camera. His jaw was set. His eyebrows were pulled together. His eyes were wet.

Hermione stopped. She looked at the boy in the photograph. He blinked and set his jaw again.

She read his file. His name was Aled Pryce. Bitten only five months ago. His parents were Muggles; they were on camping trip when it happened. The boy survived, which was already a rarity, and he was treated in a Muggle hospital, everybody thought he was just bitten by a normal wolf. He was released and stayed with his parents. First transformation in January at his home. Parents dead, he escaped to the forest, and with a town nearby, it could lead to an almost-disaster. Luckily Ministry Aurors stationed nearby heard the howls, and it took them only one hour before finding him. He'd been staying in the shelter since.

There was no bed and no Wolfsbane until June. She wrote: Flag for June intake. Priority: age, no parents, no pack, no magical guardian. She placed the scroll on the stack to her left.

Someone knocked. Hermione looked up to Susan Bones in the doorway, standing there with a stack of parchments to her chin.

"Good afternoon." Susan set the stack on the corner of Hermione's desk. "How was lunch?"

"Good! It was very Good, actually," Hermione said.

"You went out for lunch." Susan smiled. "Padma said she saw you leave at twelve and I didn't believe her at first. I was like, Granger's finally eating something at lunch time?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I do eat lunch, Susan."

"You eat at your desk while working. That doesn't count." Susan tapped the new stack. "Some of those are flagged. Someone upstairs wants them moved through."

Hermione looked at the parchment on top, where a green tag had been added to the seal. "Someone upstairs?" She frowned. "Who is it?"

"Dawlish's office."

Hermione sighed, but she pulled the stack nearby and opened it. The applicant was from a known family. She raised her eyebrows at the family name, then closed it again. "Wow. So they got a nephew who's a werewolf?" She asked.

"Yeah. They've been hiding it for almost a decade now."

"Why would they bring him to the amnesty program now, though? If they'd been able to keep him themselves all this time?"

"Honestly?" Susan shrugged. "Probably running out of money. You know it. Purebloods these days; only things that remain for them are their dignity and pride."

Hermione shook her head and sighed again. She read the profile up and down. The picture of the man, looking crisp, chin raised. "These haven't been through the intake at all, though."

"No."

"They can't skip it."

"I know." Susan leaned against her table. "But they will. It's always favours. That's how people move upwards around here."

"It shouldn't be."

Susan looked at her. For several seconds, there was only silence. Then she took a breath, deep and sharp.

"Well," Susan started, "a lot of people on this floor are hoping you'll be the one moving upwards. Quickly." She glanced at the open door, then back at Hermione. "We need some changes around here; we both agree on that. Things like these," she tapped at the parchments, "you're right, it shouldn't be. But until someone up there says that, this will continue."

Five years ago those words would have set something alight in her. She would have sat up straighter, taken a deep breath, and started working, eyes forward, mind on target. But now Hermione just looked at the green tags, and the boy's photograph on her desk, and the new stack, with some ache in her chest. Something that she couldn't name out loud, especially not in front of Susan Bones.

"...I'll process them," she finally said.

Susan breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. "Thank you. I know you will." She tapped Hermione's table twice and turned. "See you, Hermione. And eat!"

"I will."

Hermione worked through the stack Susan brought. Then through her own. She worked until 6:45 p.m. Holly was going to come home tonight, which was usually around 9 to 11 p.m., based on their past experiences. She had planned to be home first, to cook, to open the wine, to turn on the telly, to wait.

She filed the day's parchments, took the bag from the bottom drawer, and put it back in her satchel. She clocked out at 7 p.m. It was early for her.

-o0o-​

The Ministry Atrium at 7 p.m. on a Thursday evening was still a bit crowded. The fountain was running in the middle of the hall. Gold drawings and writings were moving on the blue ceiling like a departure board. A few people waited by the fireplaces on the departure side.

A man stood by the fountain with an umbrella on one arm and a folder under his arm. His red hair and beard gave him away immediately: Percy Weasley. Head of Magical Transportation. Since his return to the Ministry, post-Battle of Hogwarts, his career had skyrocketed. People said it was because of the timing: the new Ministry had just been formed, and they desperately needed people with mid- to senior-level experience to replace the older people installed by the Death Eater regime. Internally, Hermione sometimes wondered if he also had to go through what she went through: currying favours, looking the other side to move upwards.

Percy was talking to a woman in grey robes, back half turned, a rucksack on her back. She had jet-black hair to her shoulders. She stood with her hands in her pockets, and the people passing the fountain gave the two of them enough room.

Hermione walked toward the queue of the Floo fireplaces when Percy saw her first and raised a hand. Hermione raised her hand too, waving, and at the same time the woman turned.

Warm, brown eyes, almost golden, looked back at her. A face that was much thinner than December, thinner somehow than the last time Hermione saw her. The lightning-shaped scar sat above her left eyebrow, half-hidden by her fringe but still visible, dark on a skin looking pale under the Atrium light. The woman looked at Hermione, and her face broke into a smile.

Hermione stopped. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. She turned, slowly, towards the woman and Percy, and she walked towards them, carefully, as if not believing her own eyes.

"Wha--" Hermione swallowed, stopping just in front of the woman. "Why are you here?"

"Um." Holly blinked, looking around. "I believe I work here."

"But I thought you were coming back tonight!"

"It is tonight." Holly looked at her watch. The silver one, the same one Hermione gifted her five years ago. "It's 7 p.m. Technically 'night'. Right, Percy?"

Hermione turned and glared at him, and Holly stared, waiting, the corner of her mouth already twitching. Percy looked at Holly, then at Hermione, then back at Holly. He was holding back a laugh and losing. It cracked out of him as a chuckle, and he closed his mouth quickly with one hand. Hermione felt the heat spread in her face. She wished she could Apparate away right here and there, magical barrier be damned.

Collecting himself, Percy asked, "How are you doing, Hermione?"

"Good. Good," Hermione sighed. "I'm good."

"I heard from Bones that you finally went out for lunch this afternoon. I didn't believe it at first. But I asked around, and I got the whole front desk as witnesses and--"

"Merlin's beard!" Hermione exclaimed, hand on hip. "Must everyone be so awed by such simple stuff? I do have lunch every day! I just usually took it on my desk and--"

Holly chuckled then. She stepped closer and took Hermione's hand in hers, their fingers intertwining. It surprised Hermione enough to stop her rant completely, and she went back to feeling the heat spreading in her face.

Percy looked at the two of them again. A smile was still on his face, but it had turned into something polite and restrained. He asked, "Are you going home together?"

"Yes," Holly said.

"Do you still live in your place in, what was it, Battlebridge--"

"Islington, yes," Holly nodded, smiling. She looked at Hermione, and back at Percy, and said, "Let's continue our talk tomorrow morning, before the departure, okay? Thanks for your help, Percy."

"Anytime. We'll prepare the transport, don't you worry."

"Appreciate it." Holly tapped Percy's arm, and he smiled and walked away. Holly and Hermione watched his receding back for a couple more seconds before Holly adjusted her rucksack and looked at Hermione.

"Well," Holly said.

"Well." Hermione suddenly found it hard to breathe.

A smile crept back to Holly's lips. The familiar shape, so familiar that Hermione couldn't help but smile back. Holly tugged Hermione's hand, and side by side, they walked to the Floo fireplaces.

-o0o-​

Holly's flat was at the top of a converted warehouse at the Battlebridge Basin, at the end of the Regent's Canal in Islington. It had only one open room, large and spacious enough for two: kitchen at one end, the fireplace at the other, and a large window looking over the canal. The water was unmoving in the long evening light; a narrowboat sat moored to the towpath railing below. A bedroom with a bolt on the door and a bathroom sat beside the kitchen. The neighbours below had a telly Hermione could hear through the floor.

The fireplace turned its fire by itself, green and bright. A gust of wind sounded, and Holly and Hermione walked through the fire. They shook the soot from their shoulders; Holly set the rucksack by the fireplace and looked around the flat in one long sweep. Her eyes settled on the window, on the half-closed curtain and its lock. Then she turned towards the front door, its bolt and its lock. Hermione watched her doing all of those things. She stayed silent throughout. She had learned, long ago, not to comment on Holly's vigilance.

They hung their coats on the hooks in the hall. Two hooks, two coats. Hermione hung hers, adjusted the collar. She kept looking at Holly to check she was real. Holly, in turn, looked back at her, a small smile still playing on her lips.

Then, in front of the sofa, they stood in front of each other.

"Hi," Holly said.

Hermione, who always had a list in her head, said, "Dinner first."

"Dinner first." Holly crossed her arms, nodding slowly. Her mouth twitched. "And then?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. She slapped Holly's shoulder, which made her snicker. She went to the bathroom first, and Holly followed.

The delay became the game. It had been five months, and the game ran through the only mirror in the bathroom, the towel, the door, and the shower. The bathroom was small enough for them to brush with each other every now and then. Holly's hand was touching Hermione's. Hermione's finger grazed Holly's waist. Shoulder rubbed. They glanced at each other. Both of them had agreed to have dinner first. Both still wondered if one of them would break first.

Holly showered first. She left the bathroom door open so Hermione could see her, naked inside the fogged shower stall, from the kitchen chair where she was warming the kettle to make two cups of tea. Same old Holly, Hermione thought. Same old us.

"I've spent the last three nights sleeping on the ground," Holly said, over the water.

"What? Why?"

"I was chasing this one particular bloke. He was proven to be difficult to track."

"Huh? You're chasing blokes now?"

A laugh came out of the shower. "Not romantically. I promise. For now."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a grin was fighting to come up her face.

While the water ran, she hid the paper bag inside the wardrobe, behind the Weasley jumpers Mrs Weasley had knitted for them both. She shut the door quietly afterwards.

Holly came out in her dressing gown, her hair dripping on the collar, and stopped in the bedroom doorway. Her large brown eyes looked at Hermione, then went to the bed and stayed there for a moment.

"You've been sleeping on my side," she said.

Hermione looked. The pillow on Holly's side, the one by the wall, had a dent in it while the other side didn't. Of course she'd notice that, Hermione thought.

"Well," Hermione started, "it smells like you."

Holly turned to Hermione then. Her eyebrows raised, slightly. She didn't say anything to that.

Hermione stood and walked to the door. Holly was still there, in the doorframe, and they were face to face. Close enough that Hermione could smell the shampoo in Holly's hair. Green tea, Hermione noted absentmindedly. She wondered if Holly just bought a new shampoo. Holly's mouth moved, not quite a smile, but close. Hermione felt her own doing the same thing.

"There's a cup of tea for you in the kitchen," Hermione said. "I'll go shower."

Holly nodded. She still stood there, blocking the doorway.

Hermione took a step forward. Holly didn't move. Then, at the last possible second, she stepped back, slowly, and let her through.

Hermione smirked. She could feel it coming up on her own face, her chin up, an absolute total victory. Holly whistled from behind her, low and appreciative, and Hermione was still snickering when she shut the bathroom door.

-o0o-​

Half an hour later, Hermione was cooking, barefoot on the kitchen tiles in a vest top and pyjama bottoms. Several pans worked at once: onions in one, garlic in another, tomatoes simmering in a third, the wooden spoon turning itself. A pot of spaghetti was at a rolling boil. The recipe was propped against the kettle. Glasses floated to the table. A supermarket bottle of wine was already on the counter. Holly padded in from the bedroom in an old grey T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, rummaged inside her rucksack, and set a bottle on the table. The label read Château Cos d'Estournel, 2000, Saint-Estèphe.

"What? How?" Hermione stared at the bottle. "I thought you were in Cornwall!"

"I was. I spent a day in France a couple of weeks ago for the investigation. I bought this there."

Hermione looked at the wine bottle on the table, the label and the exquisite illustration on it, and at Holly, who brandished a corkscrew from her hip, jet-black hair down one side. Then she looked at her cooking, still unfinished, at the supermarket bottle, and at herself in the kitchen window, her bushy hair tied back. "Bloody..." She muttered, and stopped, pressing her lips together. "All right, you win this round."

"I did, didn't I?" Holly grinned.

The spaghetti was done. Hermione flicked her wand, and two plates floated from the cupboard to the table, settling on the cork mats. The pasta served itself, the sauce ladled over, and she tore basil on top with her fingers and sat down. Holly was already there, fork in hand.

They ate. Holly looked up from her plate, caught Hermione's eye, looked down again. A minute later, Hermione glanced up, and Holly was already watching her. Under the table, Holly's foot found hers: warm, bare skin on bare skin, and stayed. Neither of them moved it.

They didn't say much. Just "Pass the salt, please" and "Do we still have basil?" and nothing else. The kitchen was quiet except for forks on ceramic and the canal outside, and it was exactly like every dinner they hadn't had for five months.

Their real anniversary was 3 May. Every 2nd of May they stood in separate rows at the memorial with the hundreds of other wizards and witches, the remnants of Order of the Phoenix and the Ministry, survivors of the Battle of Hogwarts, and other invited people. Holly was always seated in front, with the Ministry and the representatives from other countries. Hard for them to even get the time to chat, to look at each other. But the third was theirs. This year, though, Holly couldn't come to Hogwarts for the memorial, nor for the 3rd of May.

"So." Hermione raised her glass. "Happy Observed Anniversary."

Holly raised hers and frowned. "Is that allowed?"

"It's what the Queen does."

They drank. The wine was great, probably the best Hermione had ever tasted. She glanced at her own supermarket-bought bottle, still on the counter. She narrowed her eyes at Holly, who was still twirling her glass, slowly, watching the wine move around, before sipping it. Hermione drank hers.

The memory came, then. Dawn, 3rd of May, 1998. They were on the shore by the lake, the castle behind them. Holly had her shoes off, her bare feet in the water. She was seventeen; she had a cut above her eyebrow, and she was alive. Hermione was eighteen and had rehearsed what she had been wanting to say since yesterday. She had been practising it all night. She was sure it was a good speech, with a good conclusion too.

"It's you, by the way," Holly had said. "I've been meaning to say. I was given a choice, back in the Threshold, and I thought of you, and I knew I wanted to go back. I couldn't imagine... I wouldn't want to do it otherwise. I wanted you."

Hermione had said, "Oh." Very eloquent. Clear and direct, as it should be.

-o0o-​

Hermione got the ice cream from the freezer, vanilla, the tub she'd bought on Monday, and scooped two bowls. Holly took hers and they leaned back in their chairs. Under the table, Holly's foot was still on hers.

Holly scraped the last of her bowl and set it aside. She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was different.

"I'm going to Freiburg," she said. "It's a joint operation with the German Ministry. We'll be working with their Auror equivalent, a smaller office, better organised."

"Okay." Hermione nodded, slowly, ice cream still on her spoon. "What is it? Can you share?"

"Something bad." Holly sighed. "Something about the werewolves, still. New packs have been coming in along the Swiss border. Not the old ones. New ones. They were coming in from other areas, from other countries across Europe. They were also highly organised."

"How organised?"

"They divided territories without infighting. They got supply lines. Those new packs, they came and formed a new, bigger pack. The smaller packs either fold or get pushed out." She looked at her bowl. "Some of them fold willingly. Some of them pushed out and didn't want to talk about it. Some of them, very, very few of them, fold but are still bitter, and they were looking for a way out."

"Like asking for Amnesty and protection from the Ministry. In exchange of information."

"In exchange for information, yes," Holly said. "We try to follow leads. Finding those individuals. They couldn't just walk out of their territory and go visit the nearest Ministry office. We have to be the ones blending in with locals, going undercover, finding them. We have to go undercover."

"That's why you can't write."

"That's why I can't write." Holly's voice was flat. "No enchanted coins, no personal owls, nothing traceable on a cover job. Auror Office rules."

"Okay," Hermione said. "I understand the cover part. But I still don't understand why those packs were coming in from other countries. Werewolves are highly territorial. They usually settle in one place, blend with locals, and never leave. For them to migrate and fold in one area to form a bigger pack, something else must have happened."

Holly didn't answer immediately. She looked at her bowl, empty, scraped free of its ice cream ten minutes ago.

"Was it something, though?" Hermione asked, looking at Holly's face, finding signs. "Or was it... someone?"

A figure came to her mind, then. A face. Someone with a face looking more like a snake than a human, standing in a dark robe with his followers. Holly was being carried by Hagrid, small and unmoving, beside the figure. A grin. A wail, her own wail, and the despair--

"It was not someone," Holly said.

"Okay," Hermione said.

"There was more than one." Holly looked up from her bowl. "There were at least two of them. New alphas coming in from the East. Stronger. Faster. Bigger than any other alphas in the whole continent."

Holly looked up from her bowl and stared straight at Hermione. The warmth in her eyes faded, and when she spoke, her voice dropped lower.

"They call those wolves the Chosen Ones." Holly paused. "The individuals we managed to talk to in Cornwall... said they were called Dämmerungwölfe."

Hermione stared at Holly when she said that. Dämmerungwölfe. Wolves of Twilight. The wording was a bit strange, but more than that, her mind focused on the first name: The Chosen Ones.

Her mind went back, then, far into the past, almost ten years now. The moment when Holly told her about the prophecy, at the end of their fifth year. She had come back from Dumbledore's office and told Hermione what she had heard: Neither can live while the other survives.

Said it plainly like that, it sounded like a death sentence for Holly. At the same time, it was also hope. A hope that the Dark Lord could be beaten. That the Chosen One was real, and she was here. For people who had lost everything, that kind of hope was a spark. It pushed them forward. It made desperate people keep fighting.

And now werewolves had their own Chosen Ones. Why? Were they prophesied too? If they had Chosen Ones, they had something they needed saving from. But what is it? A hope against what? Against whom? The questions came one after another, and each one seemed to have worse implications than the last. Hermione took a deep breath.

"Dämmerungwölfe..." Hermione muttered. "Dämmerungwölfe... That's... I think... that's rather dramatic."

Holly raised her eyebrows. She looked at Hermione, blinked, and snorted. "Okay," she said.

"Who gave them the name?"

"I don't know. The ones who'll talk just say other packs called them that."

"Dämmerung," Hermione said. She pronounced it with the right ä, the right ung, because she had studied German when she graduated from Hogwarts. "It could mean dawn or dusk. Abenddämmerung means dusk; Morgendämmerung means dawn. Which one was it?"

Holly snorted, then smiled. "Wow. Hermione."

"It also wants an s." Hermione continued. "A linking s, after the ung. Dämmerungswölfe. Did they say it wrong, or did you hear it wrong?"

Holly raised both hands. "Could be me. Could be the packs in Cornwall."

"This is exactly why witness testimony needs corroboration."

Holly straightened in her chair. "I'll keep that in mind." She cleared her throat. "Thank you, Miss Granger... for the feedback."

Hermione moved her feet until they rubbed against Holly's knee under the table. Holly grinned and rubbed back.

-o0o-​

They sat side by side on the sofa, shoulder to shoulder, Hermione's legs drawn up, Holly's stretched out with her feet on the coffee table. Hermione had made tea. She always made tea. Holly held her cup in both hands and didn't drink it.

On the telly, a quiz show. The kind with a studio audience that laughed at the wrong times and a host who repeated the answer in a voice of great wonder. The host asked about the capital of Burkina Faso. Nobody answered. The audience laughed.

"Ouagadougou," Hermione said.

Holly looked at her.

"What? I've read it in a book."

"Of course."

They weren't watching the programme. Hermione's shoulder was against Holly's, and Holly's arm rested along the back of the sofa behind her neck, and the warmth of it was close and steady. The dinner-first game was nearly over, and they both knew it.

At half past nine, an owl tapped the window of their flat.

Hermione got up and opened the window to let it in. It was a Ministry owl, brisk and grey, and it dropped a folded note on the coffee table. Holly unfolded the note. She read it. She frowned. Then she folded it again.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

"Forty minutes earlier."

Hermione sat on the sofa again. "What?"

"My Portkey. 8:30 has been moved to 7:50."

Hermione took the letter and read it. It was indeed as Holly said: her portkey for tomorrow morning had been moved from 8:30 to 7:50. An apology was also included, saying they had tried to find a later portkey but couldn't. The letter was signed by P. Weasley. Percy, the head of his department, was the last one at the office, handling the night desk in Magical Transportation. Percy, who had risen very fast in rank and was gossiped about by others. Personally helping Holly and writing the letter for her.

Holly sighed, long and hard, and leaned back on the sofa. Her shoulder found Hermione's shoulder again. The quiz show audience laughed again. Neither of them followed what the question was anymore.

Hermione glanced at Holly. Her head was tipped back against the cushion, and her eyes were half-closed. Holly's life had always been on someone else's schedule. Even at Hogwarts, though neither of them knew it at the time. Dumbledore had planned years of it before Holly ever knew. And now the Ministry, the Auror Office, Percy's owl. Down to the minute, all done by people who meant well.

Hermione took Holly's hand. Their fingers laced together. Holly looked down at their hands, then at Hermione.

"I missed this," Hermione said quietly.

Holly's mouth curved. "You missed... watching bad telly with your hand in mine?"

"That," Hermione said. "And the flat with you. And dinner with you." She looked at the screen, at the audience laughing. "You. Just you."

Holly turned to her. Under the lamp, her eyes had gone almost amber. Hermione looked at her too, and her eyes traced the crease between Holly's brows, the line of her jaw, her mouth, her lips.

"I missed you too," Holly said.

"I know."

Holly smiled. "But?"

"But you leave," Hermione said. She knew how it sounded; she knew she was being selfish; she knew she was saying the things that usually led to arguments, to silence, to apologies. She couldn't hold it anymore. "You... Holly, you always leave. And I always stay. And this..." She looked at the room. The window facing the river. The telly. "It starts to feel like a waiting room."

Holly leaned forward until their foreheads touched. She closed her eyes; Hermione closed hers, her heart beating faster, fear and worry mixed into one.

"Honestly," Holly started, "it doesn't feel like a waiting room, though."

"Then what does it feel like?"

Hermione opened her eyes. Holly's were open. She watched Holly's gaze travel from her eyes to her nose to her mouth and back. Holly smiled.

"It feels like the part that actually matters," Holly said.

Hermione's breath caught. She looked at Holly and found herself unable to speak.

Then she leaned in and kissed her.

Lips against lips, soft and surprised at first. Holly's breath was warm, scented with dinner and wine. Hermione's hand came up to Holly's face, her thumb brushing the line of Holly's jaw, feeling the familiar shape of her. Holly made a small sound in the back of her throat and pressed closer, her hand sliding into Hermione's hair, fingers tangling in the strands as their bodies leaned into each other. Their knees shifted on the floor, finding purchase against each other, until they were half-turned, chest to chest, the heat between them growing.

"How long do we have," Holly said. Against her mouth.

"A few hours," Hermione whispered, her lips brushing against Holly's with each word. Then, suddenly, her mind took over, and she added, "Until ten to eight, ten hours and eleven minutes."

"Wow," Holly chuckled, her breath warm against Hermione's face. "I love it when you do that."

"I know."

"We need to get ready at seven, though."

"Nine hours, then." Hermione kissed the corner of her mouth. "And a bit."

"And a bit," Holly agreed, then kissed her again.

The sofa was too narrow, and a cushion fell onto the floor, and they laughed into each other's mouths. The quiz show audience applauded, perfectly timed, and Hermione reached behind her for the remote and turned the telly off without looking.

They stood up still holding each other. Holly waved her right hand. The window's curtains closed, and the kitchen lamp turned off. Hermione laughed at that. They walked towards the bedroom, kissing, laughing, then kissing again, until finally they closed the door and bolted it.

-o0o-​

They were standing beside the bed then, and Hermione kissed Holly first again. Slow, deliberate. Her hands on Holly's waist; Holly's hands in Hermione's hair. Holly pulled back and tugged at the hem of Hermione's vest. A question in the gesture. Her eyes asked it more clearly than her hands.

Hermione nodded.

The vest came off carefully, Hermione guiding Holly, her breath catching when Holly's fingers touched her breast, fully visible in the dim light from the window. Holly bit her lip. She ran her fingers along Hermione's ribs, above the waist of her pyjamas. Her touch was light and sure.

"Your turn," Hermione said.

Holly pulled her own T-shirt over her head. Underneath, she was all lean muscle and soft curves, shoulders that carried a heavy rucksack with grace, a body trained by years of fighting. Hermione touched her then, palm flat against Holly's chest, and the sound Holly made was small and high-pitched. The firmness under Hermione's palm was familiar, the firmness beneath soft skin. She had forgotten, maybe, after five long months, how Holly's body held strength and warmth in equal measure.

"What were you thinking?" Holly whispered.

"Hmmm." They were close, nose touching, hands on each other's body. Hermione moved her finger, touching Holly's nipple with her thumb. "Your lips are warm."

Holly let out a breath as Hermione's thumb moved. "Yours are warmer." She kissed Hermione, lightly. "Tastes like wine."

"Your old, expensive wine."

"You're not letting that go."

"Never." Hermione smiled, kissed Holly lightly too. "It's permanent; I'll remember it forever."

Holly's palm moved then, upwards and downwards, on Hermione's chest. A gasp, then a moan, escaped her mouth, and Holly kissed her lips fully.

Five months. Hermione had planned this for five months, and now they were standing in the half-dark with their shirts off, and Hermione's plan dissolved into something simpler: shifting Holly, bit by bit, towards the bed.

They lost the rest of their clothes in stages. Holly's pants landed on the bedside table. Hermione's pyjamas were discarded by the bed. They dropped onto the sheets too fast, and the springs creaked so loudly they laughed into each other's mouths for ten seconds.

Hermione had imagined how she would do this, too. Five months of planning in her mind: kissing her way down Holly's body, taking her time, giving it to her, slowly, quietly, until Holly tightened and relaxed. She had imagined it well, from the movements she would do to the sounds she expected Holly would make. So she pushed Holly onto her back and began. Mouth, jaw, neck, collarbone. Down her chest to her right nipple. She pressed her lips to it. She ran her tongue over it, enjoying the sound Holly made somewhere above her head.

Then, suddenly, Holly caught her shoulder and rolled her over.

It was just one move. There was no warning. One second she was on top of Holly, and then Holly was above her, and the plan was gone.

Holly kissed Hermione's lips. Full, slow, lips opened and closed, head tilted at an angle. Hermione's mind went blank. Completely. Her eyes closed, and things went almost dark in her head. She could feel Holly's fingers, hands, and Holly's lips kissing the side of her neck. A thumb on her chest. Lips on her stomach. Holly kissed it and moved on, lower. The bone of her hip. Her hands on Hermione's thighs. Hermione's fingers were in Holly's hair and her breathing was already hard.

Holly settled between Hermione's legs. She kissed the inside of her thigh first. Soft, tender, then went up higher. Then her mouth was on her, and the first touch was soft again, and Hermione's hips lifted off the bed immediately.

Holly's tongue moved against her. Her hands came up to Hermione's breasts, thumbs circling, and her mouth kept working. Hermione's hand tightened in Holly's hair, and she tried to hold it, but couldn't.

Five months and three hours of the dinner-first game. She lasted less than three minutes, and it was embarrassing, and she didn't care. Right now, she didn't care about anything at all! The world had faded. The bed had disappeared. There was only her and Holly's tongue inside her, and it was wet and slick, and she came with her hips pressed against Holly's mouth and her hand gripping the sheet, and she made a sound she would never have made in front of anyone else. Ever. Holly held her through it, her mouth still there, her lips pressing less now, her tongue moving slowly, her hands steady on Hermione's breasts. Hermione crested and broke, and Holly didn't pull away.

Her breathing came back in pieces. Her thighs were shaking. Holly's mouth stayed, her tongue pulled, the touch barely there, and her hands slid down to Hermione's hips, thumbs tracing slow circles on the bone. She stayed until the shaking stopped.

Holly lifted her head, then. She ran one finger through Hermione's body, from down there where her mouth had been, along the crease of her thigh, over her hip, her waist, the ladder of her ribs, between her breasts, up her throat to her chin. She tilted Hermione's face toward her, and Holly was on top, supporting herself with her arm, and they kissed.

Their lips moved. Their tongue touched. Hermione tasted herself on Holly's mouth, held her jaw, and kissed her harder. Holly's weight settled against her then, warm and heavy, and they stayed like that, mouths together, hands slow.

Holly's head came down on the pillow beside hers. Her arm was across Hermione's waist, her breathing even, her thumb drawing circles on Hermione's hip. The room was warm and quiet.

The wardrobe was within Hermione's reach. Holly's breathing was steady against her shoulder. The night wasn't getting longer.

Hermione got up.

The bag was at the back of the wardrobe, behind the Weasley jumpers. Hermione brought it to the bed and set it between them. Black paper, unmarked. Holly pushed herself up on one elbow. She looked at the bag. Her eyebrows went up first. Then her grin broke, and she sat up straighter.

"Oh wow." She took a breath. "You bought that?"

"Of course I bought this."

"Why did you buy it? Where?"

"Hoxton. You know, the store across the square? Do you remember?"

"I do remember that." Holly nodded. "Did you buy it in person? Why?"

"Well." Hermione sat up straighter, remembering the exact words and scenario when it happened. "You said we should spice things up. Then we talked, and I suggested us trying sex toys. You agreed to it, you even wondered how it would feel. Don't you remember?"

"...I think I do remember that. Wow." Holly was looking at the toy in the box. "What does it say there? Medium sized?"

"Yes."

"You looked at me and you guessed that I am 'medium sized'."

"Well we are almost the same size," Hermione said. "And I looked at myself, and I did my research, and I found out, through extensive measurements, that I belong to medium size, so I thought that I should buy this size for you too."

"I see. That's clever." Holly nodded, still looking at the toy. "You really did your research. Wow."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course I did my research, Holly. What do you think I am?"

Holly snorted and raised her hands. Hermione glared at her for a couple more seconds, then unfolded the leaflet.

Under the half-dark, it was difficult to read, but the letters were big enough for both of them to see. Hermione found her hands to be steady, but her stomach was tight with nerves and wanting, and she held the leaflet between them and cleared her throat.

"Item one: consent."

Holly looked at the leaflet, then at her. "Are you asking me?"

"Yes." Hermione's voice trembled a bit.

"Then yes, of course. I consent." Holly nodded quickly. Her eyes went through the item on the leaflet, one by one. "Are we going through a safety briefing now?"

"It's called a risk assessment guide. Look at the title." Hermione pointed.

Holly's mouth curved. "It's a risk assessment, indeed."

They looked at each other. The leaflet was between them on the bed.

"So," Hermione said. "Are we...?"

Holly nodded. "Let's try it then."

Hermione took a deep breath. She stood on the bed and stepped into the harness, pulling it up her legs. The leather was stiff and cold against her thighs. She pulled the straps up and adjusted the left, then the right.

Holly sat on the bed and watched her with her mouth slightly open.

Hermione tightened the first buckle, then the second, then the third. The leather settled against her thighs. The base pressed back against her, the silicone pad firm against her clit. She shifted her hips and a pulse of want went through her stomach.

Holly held out her hand.

Hermione took it and let herself be pulled down onto the bed. She sat in front of Holly, their knees touching. Holly's hand was still in hers. Hermione put her other hand on Holly's shoulder and pushed her gently onto her back.

She knelt between Holly's legs. The lube was cold, and Holly flinched when Hermione's fingers touched her. Hermione said, "Sorry", and Holly said, "It's okay, don't worry," and that was the last words either of them said for a while.

The first push was slow. Hermione watched Holly's face and eased in, a fraction at a time. The toy told her nothing. She could feel Holly's thighs against her hips and the base grinding back against her clit. Holly's face was her only instrument.

Holly's hands found Hermione's hips. She breathed out. "More."

Hermione pushed in further and held still. Her arms were shaking. She smoothed Holly's hair back from her face, and Holly opened her eyes and looked at her.

"Hermione," Holly said, and grinned. "Roll."

Hermione rolled her hips. The angle changed, and Holly let out a moan that ran through Hermione's whole body. Holly's hands tightened on her hips and guided the rhythm, and Hermione followed.

The toy told her nothing past the base. The rest was Holly's face: the shift of her eyebrows when the angle held, the small sharp sound when Hermione lost it and found it again. She kept her weight on her arms and watched and listened and followed Holly's hands.

She found a rhythm. Holly's hips rose to meet her, and the bed creaked, and the base ground against her clit with each stroke and the want was building again.

Holly laughed. The laugh did something to them, and Hermione let out a breath and laughed, too. Holly moved and said, "There", and Hermione moved again and said, "There?" and Holly said, "There, yes," and Hermione took a note of it and rolled it at that angle.

Holly's leg wrapped tighter around her waist and the whole thing went deeper. Hermione kept going. The rhythm settled. She held the pulse between her own legs to herself. She tried to not chase it. She still felt it building too.

Their eyes locked. Their breaths synchronized. They realized what this was: fun. It was fun. Holly was grinning up at her and Hermione was grinning down and her arms were shaking and the harness held.

Then Holly went still. One breath. Two. The grin was gone.

Hermione felt the change under her. Holly's body, which had been open and laughing and rising to meet her, was still. Her hands on Hermione's hips didn't move. Her eyes were on the ceiling.

"Hermione," Holly whispered. "Hermione."

"Holly," she answered, "I'm here."

Holly's right hand rose and worked between her own legs, fast and certain, her fingers circling her clit while Hermione moved inside her. She looked at Hermione and Hermione looked at her, and the sound of them filled the room: their breath, the bed creaking, and the wet sound of the lube, and Holly's hand.

Hermione could feel her own orgasm building. The base ground against her clit with each thrust and Holly's thigh pressed against the pad and the friction was constant and sharp and she was close, and she held it, because Holly was looking at her, and this was Holly's, this should be Holly's, it--

Holly came with her eyes open. Her body went taut from the hips and her hand closed hard on Hermione's wrist, and the sound she made was high. She held Hermione's hand and shook. Her hips jerked, once, twice, and then she was still.

Holly's breathing slowed. Her body softened under Hermione's. Her right hand came up, still wet, between Hermione and the base of the harness. She pressed her fingers flat against the pad, against Hermione's clit through the silicone, and the pressure was firm and certain.

"Here," Holly said. She took Hermione's hand and pulled her closer.

Hermione ground down against the pad and Holly's fingers. Holly held her jaw and looked at her, both of them talking, saying, "Here," and "Yes," and "There, there, yes, Holly," and Hermione came hard, her face against Holly's neck, the breath gone out of her. It shook through her stomach and her thighs and Holly held her through it, her palm flat, her fingers steady.

Hermione's arms gave out. She lay on Holly's chest with the toy still inside her.

For a while, they just lay like that: the two of them, breathing hard, sweating, wet, a mess.

After a minute Hermione pulled out, slowly, and Holly made a quiet sound, and they lay on their sides, facing each other. Holly pushed the hair back from Hermione's forehead and let her hand rest on her cheek. Hermione kissed her palm.

They lay in the dark. The streetlight made a bar on the ceiling. Everything was quiet.

Then, suddenly, from below, the sound of the neighbour's telly came through the floor. A studio audience applauded.

Holly buried her face in the pillow. Hermione closed her eyes. The audience below applauded again, longer, with feeling, and the host's voice said something bright and pleased.

They laughed. They laughed until Hermione's ribs hurt and Holly was coughing into the sheet. They laughed until the joke of it went out of the room, and the telly went quiet again, and they followed.

Hermione unbuckled every buckle with the same care she had used to fasten them, her thumbs on the leather, the straps loosened one at a time. She set the harness on the desk by the bed.

They were a mess: damp skin, tangled legs, Holly's hair across Hermione's mouth. Holly's arm came across her waist, and Hermione pulled her closer, both arms around her, and a laugh went through their bodies, low and quiet, the kind that didn't need a reason.

"Well?" Hermione said.

Holly's eyes were half-closed. "Well, what?"

"How did it feel?"

Holly chuckled and kissed her. Soft, this time, her mouth warm and unhurried. She kissed the corner of Hermione's lips, then the bridge of her nose, and settled back against her.

Her eyes were closing. Hermione pressed her mouth to Holly's hair and held her.

The rucksack stood by the door, the strap against the frame. The streetlight caught the buckle. She looked at it for a long time, and Holly's breathing went slow and even against her shoulder.

Hermione let herself look at her for a second, two, before finally letting sleep take her.

-o0o-​

The cliff was white where it met the sea. Below, the water was grey, long swells coming in and breaking against the rock. The spray went up and came back down. The sky sat low over the water, the same grey, and there was no line between them.

Behind her, a cottage stood in the grass. Small, whitewashed, the windows dark. The door was open, but nobody seemed to be inside.

Hermione walked towards the edge. The grass was green and short, and the wind bent it flat against her shins. Then, near the edge, she stopped.

There, the grass was pressed down in front of her, and there was a shape in it, the length and width of a person who had been sitting there for a long time. The shape was still sharp. Whoever it was had only just left. The grass at the edges was starting to rise, blade by blade, but the centre held.

She stood over it and looked at the sea. The shape was at her feet like a hole in the ground that wasn't a hole, just the absence of someone, pressed into the green, like a word forgotten at the tip of her tongue.

Who were you?

The wind came off the water. The grass kept rising, and the shape was filling in, and she couldn't stop it.

-o0o-​

Hermione opened her eyes. The clock on the bedside table read 4:07. The canal outside the window was grey. A blackbird sang on the towpath.

Holly slept with her back to the wall and one hand under the pillow. Her mouth was open. Her breathing was slow.

Hermione lay still and watched her.

Holly looked younger asleep. Hermione remembered her, eleven years old, in the girls' bathroom, standing between Hermione and the troll. Holly was small back then, so young, smaller than even Hermione, and still she stood there and held her ground.

Then the Yule Ball. Krum's hand was on Hermione's waist and the music was played. Holly was across the Great Hall with George Weasley, and beside them were Fred and Angelina, the four of them spinning and laughing, enjoying the music, the dance, each other, Triwizard Championship be damned.

Then Holly's eyes met Hermione's, and she stopped laughing. Hermione smiled weakly. Holly's eyes turned.

Then the tent in winter. The snow on the ground and the zip frozen shut. The radio on the camp table, reading names of the dead. Holly sat across from her and didn't talk. There were only the two of them. They hadn't seen any other humans for weeks.

For all they knew, they could be the last ones on earth.

Then Dumbledore's office, the portraits asleep. McGonagall at the door of the Great Hall, counting heads.

The corridor behind the Potions classroom, first autumn after the war. Holly visited. Hermione had gone back for seventh year while Holly hadn't. They stood in the corridor and Holly kissed her and the stone was cold at Hermione's back.

The flat, a Sunday. The Corrs was on the radio. They were dancing in the living room, all grins. Holly stepped on Hermione's foot twice, and they laughed so loudly until the neighbour knocked.

Holly's mouth was open now. It was open the same way at twelve, asleep on the common-room sofa with the fire going out. Hermione had watched her then too.

She slept again, badly. The alarm went at six.

-o0o-​

Hermione brushed her teeth at the left side of the sink. Holly brushed at the right. Their elbows touched. It was quarter past six on Friday.

"Holly."

"Hmm?" Holly was brushing with her eyes half-closed.

"The cap."

"Hmm."

"The air pocket. In the neck. I've told you. It dries the paste and it creates a seal that--"

"Hermione."

"--blocks the flow, and when you squeeze--"

"I love you."

Hermione closed her mouth. She put the cap back on the tube and set it on the shelf, slowly, with the label facing out.

Holly spat and rinsed. She wiped her face with the flannel and put it on the edge of the basin. Hermione picked the flannel up and hung it on the hook. She still hadn't said a word.

"I put your name on my vault, by the way," Holly said. She was pulling her hair back with both hands. "Gringotts. It's also yours now."

Hermione held her toothbrush under the tap. "What?"

"My vault. You're on it." Holly tied her hair and checked the mirror. "And the flat's in my will. If I don't come back, it's yours." She reached past Hermione for the towel. "The paperwork's mad, but it's all done. So you don't have to worry about anything."

Hermione looked at her, long and quiet. She knew the law. The Civil Partnership Act had received Royal Assent in November last year. It came into force in December. It covered Muggle couples. In the wizarding world, though, roommates had no claim to a vault. Roommates weren't next of kin.

She put the toothbrush down, slowly, and went quiet for a long while. When she found her voice again, she spoke quietly, too.

"That's a bloody terrible gift, Holly."

Holly looked at her in the mirror.

"At least... at least mine made you feel good last night," Hermione said. Swallowing, she added, "Right?"

Holly's mouth curved. The left side first, then the right.

"You're right. It was good. It was great. Best night of my life."

Hermione slapped her shoulder, and Holly snickered her way out of the bathroom.

-o0o-​

At seven o'clock, Holly put her rucksack on her shoulder. Hermione was putting on her coat.

The living room was bright. The sky was clear, the light on the floorboards, the canal outside the window reflecting the sun. The pot of Floo powder was on the mantel.

They stood by the fireplace in their work clothes. A yard apart.

There were still things Hermione wanted to say. Things that were shaped in the form of you don't have to do this, or let's just stay here, forever. Things she'd probably never say to Holly's face. But the sun kept rising, and the time never stopped, and the world was waiting.

Hermione stepped forward. Holly's arms came up around her back, and Hermione's around Holly's. Their foreheads touched, and they closed their eyes. Two seconds. Three. Five. Ten. Thirty, and kept climbing; Hermione couldn't stop counting.

Finally, Hermione stepped back and looked at Holly. The brown eyes, the fringe, the thin scar. She thought of the small girl she first met on the train, in September 1991. They were eleven.

Holly nodded. Hermione took a breath. She turned and took a pinch of powder from the pot and stepped into the fireplace.

"Ministry of Magic," she said, and letting the green flame taking her.

-o0o-​

The Atrium at ten past seven on a Friday was half-empty. The fountain ran in the centre of the hall. Gold symbols moved on the blue ceiling. Along the far wall, the fireplaces flared green one at a time. A clerk sorted the morning's Daily Prophet on the stand by the fountain. A junior Auror near the security desk straightened when Holly came through.

Holly and Hermione walked side by side to the lifts. The first one came packed. They let it go.

At 7:15, Kingsley Shacklebolt walked and stopped in front of the lifts. Waiting, just like them. He was tall, bald, dark-skinned, and still wearing the same gold earring. He nodded at the two of them curtly.

"Miss Potter," he said. "Miss Granger."

"Minister," Hermione said back.

His glance rested on her for a while. Hermione would spend the rest of the day deciding whether she should take it positively or not.

The next lift came. The three of them went in and nobody else. The grille closed and the lift went up.

Kingsley let out a breath, then. He turned to Holly and said, "I'm indebted to you on this one." He sighed. "The Germans are providing you their best Aurors for this mission. They've assured me."

Holly sighed. "I know. I've met some of them." She paused. "My request still stands, though, Kingsley."

Kingsley frowned. "What is it?"

"Can I just have Mrs Weasley instead, please?"

Kingsley snorted. Hermione had never heard him snort. Holly grinned, and Hermione laughed, too.

"Level Six," the lift said. "Department of Magical Transportation, including the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Centre."

The grille opened. Hermione was about to say something, words in the shape of take care and see you, but Holly turned to her fully and put her arms around her.

Hermione stood still. Her eyes went wide, to Kingsley, who had turned the other way and had one leg outside the lift, and to Holly's head. Slowly, her hands came up to Holly's back. The rucksack was hard under her palms, and it felt heavy, even with all the featherweight charms.

"See you later, okay?" Holly said.

Hermione pulled back. Her face was hot. "Don't you forget to eat," she said. "And don't sleep on the ground."

Holly chuckled and stepped out. Kingsley nodded curtly to Hermione and followed out.

The grille closed. Through the bars Holly turned and raised her hand. Hermione raised hers. The lift climbed. The bars crossed, and Level Six was gone.

"Level Four. Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions."

-o0o-​

Her office was small and glass-walled. The enchanted window showed a grey light that could have been dawn or dusk. They were all underground. The false-window was one of her only sources of sanity after long day of work.

She sat down and put her hands flat on the table.

The morning papers were there already. The amnesty draft beside it. The remaining stack of parchments from yesterday. Some looking new.

She opened the Daily Prophet. Page one. Page two. Three. Four. She found the international section.

She glanced at the clock by the wall. It was 8 a.m. Holly had departed with her portkey to somewhere in Germany. Hermione turned back to the paper and started to read.

The news on top was from France. The French wizarding authority had confirmed further werewolf attacks in the Jura region. A third village, on the night of Sunday the eighth of May. There were four victims. It was even more than the previous week. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, of the French Ministry of Magic, had declined to comment.

Sunday the eighth of May. The date disturbed her. She reached her notebook and opened it.

She kept a copy of the moon-phase page inside. She checked. Double checked. It was true: the eighth was blank. No full moon. No half moon. Nothing.

The Prophet journalist hadn't written it. The French Ministry hadn't said it. Saying it would explain why they'd declined to comment: the werewolves transformed, and attacked, outside the full moon.

She folded the paper and put it aside.

She thought of Holly, of what she had said in the morning. The vault in Gringotts. The flat. Roommates weren't next of kin. The bureaucracy should be insane. So Holly had probably pulled some strings in order to put her name on a vault. Hermione thought of it, and couldn't let it go: that everybody, everywhere, really pulled strings for someone. Could be to reach some political goal. Could be to protect some child. Could be to assure someone, at the event of her departure to an uncertain mission, that in case something bad happen, her life would be safe.

The calendar on her desk came from her parents' practice every Christmas: a grinning molar for each month, the practice's name and number in small blue type at the bottom. She turned the pages forward. Past May. Past June. July.

Sunday the thirty-first. Holly's birthday. Twenty-five years old, soon.

She took her quill and circled the date. Her lower lip trembled. She took a deep breath and counted to ten, and when she opened her eyes, her vision blurred.

"Come back," she said.

She put her head on the table. Her eyes were looking at the clock on the wall, the fake window showing the dusk. Dammerungswolfe. The world kept moving and turning toward something. A child lost her parents and ran to the forest. People looked at her, expecting something, always expecting. Werewolves running across borders faster than the wind. And Holly, her Holly, the girl on the train, her friend who died and came back, the one she loved more than anything else.

"Please come back," she said it again.

Her chest ached with a specific kind of old ache. It was so old that she recognized it right away and could name it wherever she saw it: a what if.

Hermione watched the clock again for one more minute. Two. Five. People were coming to work. Noises came from outside her office. She sat up and pulled the first amnesty parchment application towards her. She took her quill, dipped it into the ink, took a deep breath, and started her grading of the day.