marked me like a bloodstain

She could easily kill Ron.

Maybe shock would ripple out among the crowd when his body hit the floor, but no one would point a wand at Hermione to stop her from walking over him to leave the room with her freedom and a little-to-no inkling of guilt. It would just be another Tuesday for the DMLE—Aurors Granger and Weasley at each other's throats again.

Although her magic sparked and crackled with every breath, Hermione refused to let it mix with the rage causing a tsunami tide inside of her, threatening to flood past her walls of obedience and skill to stun him with a breathtaking use of wandless magic. Instead, she aimed a right fist into the hollow of his throat. Ron staggered, choking, but recovered quickly enough to lunge forward. His elbow attempted to collide against her ribs, but she ducked from the would-be impact, punching his knee before driving her weight against his midsection. When the momentum flipped his lean frame over, Hermione stomped a bare foot onto his chest, keeping him in place.

When he did not move to strike, a bell dinged, dinged, dinged over Hermione's head.

"Fuck sakes, mate," said Harry, squatting to look down at Ron's pained, red face. "I told you not to go one-on-one with her when she's mad at you."

"She's always mad at me," Ron groaned, closing his eyes as he snaked fingers around Hermione's ankle, squeezing.

With her nose wrinkling in irritation, Hermione subdued the particles of her magic that were untamable against raw emotion. While she was indeed furious with Ron, she chose to remember she quite loved the idiot; she took her foot off his chest before waving a wrist to help him into a sitting position. She felt a lecture pool at the tip of her tongue, but before it could come out in a reprimanding tone all too familiar from their school days, an arm wrapped around Hermione's sweaty, sore shoulders.

Blaise Zabini was smirking, exposing sharp, blinding-white teeth as his free hand extended out to the other gathered Aurors. "Right. Pay up now. I told you Granger wouldn't make it until the end of the week before maiming Weasley in one manner or another."

Hermione shoved him off, but turned her frown at Harry when he pulled out a few galleons from the pocket of his sweatpants. "Harry! You're not supposed to make wagers, you're Head Auror !"

"Which is why I had a little more faith that you'd resist seeking vengeance against your own partner—"

"It wasn't vengeance," hissed Hermione, her magic causing the lights of the training room to flicker. She took a breath as Harry gave her a pointed look and the others leered. "We're practicing physical defensive tactics. It's not my fault Ronald can't last more than a minute with a woman, is it?"

"Oi!" With difficulty, Ron pulled himself back up to his feet. He started to glare down at her, but the fire in her gaze scorched him a few paces back. "I last long enough, all right?"

Blaise scoffed at the remark as he counted his winnings. "Never with Granger," he sneered. "It's probably why she broke up with you."

"We never dated!" both Hermione and Ron shot back, causing the round of laughter around them to echo louder.

With a deep breath of his own, Ron managed to turn them away from their nosy comrades, his fingers circling Hermione's arms as he took a cautious step forward. "How many times am I going to have to say sorry?"

"Don't be sorry," she told him, meeting his blue eyes with the same indignation that started them on the wrong foot the day before, "be careful ."

"I was—"

"You weren't," she interrupted, driving her index finger into his chest. Ron winced at the sharp poke but did not move away. "You undermined an order. And not even my own, but our Head Auror's. We were supposed to get the wards down, that's it. But you—Merlin, Ronald, you still don't use your eyes. You run headfirst into danger, but I can't afford to only be led by blind courage."

With the same finger she had used to scold him, Hermione traced the left side of her face. Ron's gaze glistened under the light of the training room, guilt brimming at the wandless spell that ended the glamour charm she had placed on herself that morning. Potions were effective for bruises and scrapes collected on a routine raid, but they hardly treated residue of dark magic when out hunting monsters. That side of her face was covered in a violet shade, tawny skin painted in midnight shadows.

"'Mione, I'm so sorry."

She took his right hand and brought it to her chest, squeezing. "I'm livid, but I don't need an apology. You're my partner and I trust you with my life. Always have and always will, prat. But I just need you to think first, okay? Because this—" she ran a fingertip across her cheek again, "this really isn't aiding my chances in sleeping with Zabini. You know he likes his lovers dainty and pretty."

Blaise rolled his eyes as she grinned, Ron and the others snickering at him now as he and Hermione turned back to the huddle. "Like it's my doing that Luna and Theo have lithe bodies? Granger's obsession with yoga did that, actually."

"You can sound a little more grateful for it, mate," said Miles Bulstrode, smirking as he crossed his arms over his bare, muscular chest, obscuring the faint pink scars of the surgery that made him finally feel at home in his own body. "I know I am. Granger taught Parvati how to do this thing where she stretches her leg way—"

"Enough," said Hermione with a grimace, her previous wrath melting into trivial annoyance. "I can't have anything to myself without you lot perverting it somehow."

Wrapping an arm around her again, Blaise pressed a gentle kiss on the bruised side of Hermione's face. "You might be all banged up, Granger, but you're still very pretty. If you want an invitation to our bed, all you need is ask. You know Luna nor Theo would mind a fourth. If that's too crowded, I have a tame ex-boyfriend I can set you up with."

"Luna and Theo are your only redeeming qualities, Zabini," huffed Hermione, but her cheeks still tinted red at the seductive glimmer of his dark gaze, "and aside from them, your tastes are questionable. Need we all recall when you sent me on a blind date with a Flint?"

There was a chorus of heckling resounding around the training room.

"No, no," protested Blaise immediately at the sound. "I was told that Flint was the only good apple on their rotten, pureblood tree. We were both conned."

"Mate, you introduced me to a vampire last month— without telling me she was one. Hell of a surprise at the end of that date," said Harry, arching his neck back to show where two small, red holes were scabbing over on the curve of his throat. "I like biters, but I like more to be alive after it, too."

"She's a countess from Transylvania, Potter! I thought it was obvious she was a vampire!"

Miles pushed Blaise into the inner ring of their hand-to-hand training floor. "Before I reacquainted with 'Vati, you sent me on a date with someone who ended up being my cousin."

Blaise blocked the fist that came his way, his forearm shooting up to protect his nose. His eyes narrowed at his partner, but a sneer worthy of both their Slytherin ties formed as he said, "That was just me having a laugh, mate. Besides," he circled Miles, aiming a jab the latter was skillfully able to elude, "aren't all Bulstrodes inbred, anyway?"

Hermione rolled her eyes when Miles lunged, his elbow repeatedly stabbing into Blaise's ribs. When they both fell from the imbalance of both their bodies trying to outweigh the other, the Aurors rushed forward, cheering and hurling violent encouragements as Ron started taking bets.

"Good to see the DMLE's budget is being put to productive use—"

"Minister," said Harry, startled, shoving his galleons back into the pocket of his sweatpants as Kingsley Shacklebolt and a young, nervous assistant stepped further into the training room.

Instantly, the Aurors fell in line with Hermione, arms pinned to their sides and all previous taunting a faint echo disappearing into the glass walls. Miles pulled Blaise up from the practice ring, both masking their embarrassment as Harry glared at them before fixing his eyes upon the Minister.

"At ease," said Kingsley, the corner of his mouth showing a shadow of a grin. Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes again; while the Minister was known for his austere persona, she knew he was often entertained by the strong comradeship Harry had forged among and between the Aurors. "Robards insisted his Aurors did not need hand-to-hand combat training, but I trust it helps the pent up aggression at the very least?"

"Some more than others," mumbled Ron under his breath, earning him a pinch from Hermione.

No longer the amused best friend, Harry stood tall and firm, the epitome of a no-nonsense Head Auror that gave a warning scowl at Aurors Granger and Weasley to cease all petty bickering. "We were just finishing up here, sir," he explained, arms crossing over an old, frayed hoodie. "We'll get changed and meet Robards down at the—"

"The debriefing for the Giles case can be moved for another time," said Kingsley, his arm extending out. Instantly, the nervous assistant shadowing him lurched forward, placing a file in his awaiting hand. "I am afraid we have other pressing issues to tend to. Atlas Greyback has resurfaced."

Hermione stiffened at the name, her body stinging from old traces of dark magic caused by another catastrophic raid that still haunted her to this day. Beside her, Ron's hands balled into white-knuckled fists and other Aurors shifted uneasily in their place.

Harry opened his mouth, but Hermione was impressed he found enough self-restraint to close it. While he never shied away from dropping the occasional curse word, all deriving from his favorite, fuck , becoming Head Auror had refined his manners. Somewhat , Hermione mused as he tore into the file the Minister handed him.

Over the course of her career as a dark wizard catcher that started long before the DMLE, Hermione learned to build profiles on people. She could take even the most minuscule, irrelevant detail about someone and form theories of behavioral patterns and psychological state. University courses had been taken to further hone this skill, but Hermione had originally learned this trait from studying Harry. Since childhood she watched him, discovering what every shade of green in his eyes meant, how the lines around his mouth only formed when he was aggravated or nervous, or how he only rubbed the back of his neck when he was coming up with a plan that was as ridiculous as it was reckless.

By the way he ran his palm over his chin, Hermione knew Harry was thinking fuck, fuck, fucking hell, fuck.

"Greyback killed three Aurors," Harry said through gritted teeth, looking up from the file in his grip. He spared Kingsley a frown before turning to his Aurors. "One of them was Phillipa Hugh. Luke Jasper's partner."

"Bloody hell," Ron was the first to grit out, his hands still angry fists at his sides. "MACUSA is involved now?"

"It happened in the States," Kingsley informed. "Head Auror Jasper sent his team to Nevada after a source confirmed seeing werewolves at a Te-Moak Tribe reservation."

Hermione's fingers twitched, wanting to yank the file from Harry so she could read all the details herself. "What's strange about that? The Indigenous wizarding community has always been welcoming to all magical creatures."

"Travers was spotted with the pack," Harry told her, extending the file out in her direction. Hermione almost smiled; she knew him like the back of her hand, but Harry knew her like the back of his own, too. "A fugitive Death Eater with werewolves? Jasper was smart to know something was wrong."

"Not smart enough to heed our warnings about Atlas Greyback," Blaise offered bitterly, his arms crossing over his chest as the other Aurors agreed with his comment. "Last year, after the pup attempted to break out daddy dearest from Azkaban, we warned MACUSA and Ministère des Affaires he would be heading for them. After the bloodbath Greyback left here, only the French Ministry listened and provided help to track him down. MACUSA didn't even entertain the idea of extradition between our governments. They're equally as guilty as Greyback for the loss of those Aurors."

As her fellow comrades grew louder, Hermione lingered at the crime scene photographs attached to the file. She had encountered Aurors from other nations throughout her time in the DMLE, and Phillipa Hugh had been one of them. Cruelly beautiful, with sharp features, porcelain skin, and white-blonde hair that created a river of light even in the treacherous night. Her eyes, rimmed with thick, luscious lashes, had been as cold and magnificent as the silver moon.

A ghost from a lost moment in time; that's what Phillipa Hugh had always reminded Hermione of the few times they had crossed paths. A name that tasted like crisp apples and regret formed at the tip of her tongue, but Hermione swallowed it down to look up at Harry.

He, of course, was already watching her.

"You are not wrong about MACUSA failing to understand the gravity of a Greyback putting a pack together," Kingsley said to Blaise, but his dark eyes looked upon all those still lined up before him. "But they know now—at a devastating price, but they know. You are going to find Atlas Greyback and bring him to face our Ministry's justice."

"MACUSA agreed to our extradition proposal?" asked Miles, thick, russet brows furrowing together.

"They didn't," said Hermione, closing the file, refusing to stare at Phillipa Hugh's decapitated body any longer. Instead, she zeroed in on Kinglsey sliding his hands into the pocket of his robes. He did not have a lot of visible tells as Minister for Magic, but she had years of experience playing card games against him to know when he was hiding something. "Jasper is coming here, isn't he?"

Kingsley did not bother to hide the sly grin he had reserved for her, the one that always said you clever, clever girl. "Robards is setting up a portkey for Head Auror Jasper and his team right now. They should be arriving this evening."

"Fuck sakes—"

"Minister, you can't expect us to—"

"Head Auror Jasper is a fucking twat—"

"Nothing will get done—"

"Those MACUSA Aurors don't know the meaning of cooperation—"

" Enough! " growled Harry, instantly silencing the protests echoing across the training room. Teeth clamped down into bottom lips, but that did not stop the Aurors from glaring at both their Head Auror and their Minister. Hermione caught the darkening hue of Harry's eyes under the harsh light as he said, "This isn't a scrimmage against Jasper and his team. Our job and theirs is to capture Greyback. And that's what we're going to do, understood? No more dead comrades."

Hermione noticed that Kingsley kept his hands inside his pockets, but the glimmer of amusement in his eyes was long gone now, too. "Break for lunch," he said to them, trying for a smile that looked more like a scowl. "Best wash up first. The smell and state of some of you. Ron, I'm guessing Hermione knocked you flat on your back as payback for that raid?"

"Not at all," huffed Ron, frowning as Miles punched his arm, laughing as the others started making way for the double doors.

"Didn't Luke Jasper have a thing for you, Granger?" With his arm around her waist, Blaise led Hermione to the exit. "I vividly remember him staring at your arse the last time we ended up in New York."

"No. He liked blondes like Phillipa Hugh," she told him as she looked behind her shoulder, watching as Kingsley's assistant handed Harry another file.

Whatever was inside, it made Harry rub the back of his neck aggressively.

"As did you. Once."

Hermione whirled around, the doors closing behind her as she glared at Blaise.

There was always a dangerous mirth that made Blaise Zabini's lips form a permanent smirk; most of the time, Hermione could handle what was behind it. He was always looking for a laugh, but he knew where the line was. Blaise liked to toe or jump over everyone else's, but never hers. He knew better.

Yet, Blaise had implied that Hermione knew a name that tasted like crisp apples and regret.

"I'm referring to Cormac McLaggen, of course," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Can't believe you went out on a date with him. Did you think his personality had changed after Witch Weekly named him Most Eligible Bachelor over Potter? Fuck sakes, Granger. If you need a shag that badly, I can let you borrow my blonde. Luna's always willing. Me too, of course."

Hermione scoffed, shoving him off before turning into the women's shower.

__________

Despite the fast-paced life of an Auror, Hermione always had her wits about her. It was crucial, of course; this job did not allow room for even the smallest error, on or off the field. Everything had to be tidy and concise. Of course, she excelled at it far better than her fellow Aurors: frequently being the one to catch a hole in a report that the accused could easily wiggle through if their solicitor knew where to look, or blocking a wayward curse from touching a person regardless of what side of the law they stood at.

Yet, after news broke out in the DMLE that MACUSA was sending their Head Auror, it seemed Hermione was the only one unable to focus. There was always chaos in the department, especially if Robards had chewed up and spat out Aurors for breakfast—these being Hermione and Ron after the failed raid a day prior—but they were focused. While they had hosted foreign Head Aurors before, Luke Jasper was the worst. Most, like Blaise and Ron, would happily tell him to fuck off, willingly choosing to work on tedious paperwork rather than share a case with the American. Still, they knew better than to embarrass Harry and the department, so, grudgingly, they tidied their desks, labeled their files, and charmed their robes to be wrinkle-free.

Hermione should have been following their lead, or by the very least start compiling the last known whereabouts of Atlas Greyback before MACUSA found him, but her sharp mind kept fraying at the edges, letting images of Phillipa Hugh in.

She tried replacing the pictures in Kingsley's file with the few times Hermione had met the fallen Auror, but the gruesome scene always reappeared. Greyback and his followers had left bodies in their wake before, each a gift honoring the leader of their wolfpack imprisoned in Azkaban, but nothing had looked quite like Phillipa Hugh.

Atlas Greyback was tired of hiding. That much Hermione knew. And the more restless and impatient he became from having to lurk in the shadows, his father still in a cold, damp cellar with a collar around his neck, the more death and chaos he would leave behind him for Hermione and the Aurors to clean up.

They would stop him, of course. They had to. But the image of what was left of Phillipa Hugh burned and gnawed at Hermione's insides because it could have been her. It would have been her if Harry had been a second too late the last time they faced the wolfpack. And they tried so hard for it to be her—after all, who was a better offering to Fenrir Greyback than the girl who put him in Azkaban?

" Dios mio! " There were hands around Hermione's face, squeezing and prodding. She had been a moment away from conjuring a Shield Charm, but outraged, kind hazel eyes she was all too familiar with came into focus. "Someone ruined you!"

"Oddly enough, Señora Herrera, that's not the first time I hear that," Hermione told the woman with a laugh, masking the shudder she felt across her shoulders.

No room for error meant vacating the Ministry with complete knowledge of leaving the place—as well as remembering to reinforce glamour charms when crossing over to the muggle world, especially when dark magic had turned her skin an unnatural shade of purple.

Señora Herrera tilted Hermione's chin up to the fluorescent lights of her cafe, further scrutinizing the bruising like she could reprimand it away. While Hermione was convinced if there was anyone that could do just that, aside from Mrs. Weasley, Señora Herrera seemed to have accepted that she could not. As such, she fixed her disapproving glare back on Hermione.

"This job of yours," she started, her tone firm despite her thumb gently rubbing a comforting trail under the damage, "is dangerous. When will you see it, niña ? Let someone else save the world."

Dangerous, sure, Hermione would always agree to that, but exhausting seemed like a better description most days. Still, she did not say this to the muggle woman, nor did she tell her she had been saving the world since she was a child.

And a bruised face was not the worst mark her body had suffered.

"I took an oath," Hermione said instead with a smile she knew Señora Herrera could see right through. "You know, serve Queen and the office of constable with integrity and diligence."

Señora Herrera huffed. "I don't much trust the police, but if it had to be anyone, I can sleep better knowing there are capable people like yourself out there protecting their community. Unlike that partner of yours," she added with an unimpressed wrinkle of her nose, a reaction Ron tended to incite without even being present. She ran her thumb over Hermione's aching skin once more before crossing her arms over her flour-stained apron. "Was Constable Weasley the cause of this? The last time he was distracted you almost lost an arm."

Hermione laughed as she followed Señora Herrera further into her shop, leaning against the counter as the latter walked behind it. "In his defense, señora , Ron had never seen a Nandos and was legitimately excited. But, no," she then added, exhaling out her remaining annoyance toward her best friend, "he wasn't at fault. Ron would never let me get hurt. This was an unexpected accident. Something, of course, I can't divulge. Police matters and all that."

"Yes, of course. The world is so much safer because Constable Granger wakes up with a keen sense of justice—" The metal kitchen door opened and Ximena, Señora Herrera's daughter, walked out with a white paper bag and a coffee cup that made Hermione beam. She could smell the cafe de olla and portobello panini from the short distance. "No offense, but your warrior-princesses-meets-pure-angel thing is a little annoying."

Señora Herrera smacked the back of her daughter's head and Hermione let out a squeak of protest when the styrofoam cup threatened to fall.

" Oye !" Ximena hissed, dodging her mother's hand again as she extended the food and drink to Hermione's begging fingers. "I said no offense."

"You'd do well to follow her example, Ximena. She is the same age as you, twenty-six and—"

"I'm actually twenty-three—"

"With a proper career, a salary, and some sense of stability" continued Señora Herrera, ignoring the way Ximena snorted at Hermione's correction. "What are you doing exactly? Other than protesting like a child when I'm peeling you off your bed because you were partying well into daylight."

Ximena tossed her long, dark hair behind her shoulder, her red-painted mouth pulling into a grin. "David finally asked me over to his," she told Hermione. "Let's just say dinner turned to breakfast, too."

"Oh, he's the banker, right?"

"Now that's a man with a salary," Ximena laughed, rolling her eyes as Señora Herrera frowned. "But don't you be fooled by mama's praise, Hermione," she then added, reaching into the latter's paper bag to pull out a chip. "Naturally, she wanted me to have a profession when we migrated to London, but her idea of a fulfilling life for a woman still requires a husband and half a dozen children. I'm working on the husband part. You?"

Crisp apples and regret.

Hermione took a sip of her steaming coffee to keep the taste from pooling in her mouth. "I'm just working," she offered with a laugh of her own, her tongue burning hot enough to melt away the memory that tried to resurface.

Ximena let out a loud snort, propping her elbows onto the counter as she leaned closer toward Hermione, her grin still in place. "For the record, if you ever decided to run for Parliament, I'd vote for you. That keen sense of justice, you know? Oh," she added, reaching into the bag to steal another chip, "and if you're ever looking for a husband, mama is willing to offer up my brother's hand in marriage. It's the only reason why she's been giving you free food all this time. She wants to lure you in."

" Basta ," said Señora Herrera impatiently, tugging on Ximena's elbow to get her upright. "Go on and check on table six."

"Isn't your son nineteen?" asked Hermione with a raised brow.

Señora Herrera rolled her eyes in perfect imitation of her daughter. "Don't listen to that girl. But, in case you do decide to date, my Fernando is an amazing young man. He's studying to be a doctor, you know."

Hermione took a slow drink of her coffee, her smile growing wider. "Toss in a few of your famous pan dulces and I'll consider—"

She thought she had swallowed the memory.

Somehow, it had tumbled out of her head, past the torn edges those images of Phillipa Hugh had created.

"Hermione?"

It had started off as only a glimmer before transforming into a beacon, like white moonlight weaving through leaves before the path cleared and the moon crashed and cracked the dark, empty night.

Hermione could recognize those silver eyes and platinum-white hair anywhere. After all, they were the colors her nightmares built themselves around.

They were the colors of her most cherished possession.

Now there he sat, in a small table tucked into the furthest corner of the cafe, his eyes on her like he had been waiting for her to find him.

"Are you all right, niña?" A hand squeezed hers, forcing her mind to come reeling back into itself.

Hermione hissed from the impact, pulling her fingers from Señora Herrera's grip. "I, uh," she tried to clear her throat, tried to gather all semblance of composure, but she could still see him from the corner of her eye, "I've got to get back. Thank you for the food."

"Are you—?"

She did not hear the rest; as Hermione turned on her heels, her eardrums pulsed with her terrified heartbeat, each throb echoing it's not real, it's not real, it's not real.

And it wasn't, Hermione knew that, because Draco Malfoy could not be sat at her favorite cafe.

Not when he was serving a life sentence at Azkaban.