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St. Mungo’s, October 1998

Another day stuck at St. Mungo’s. Another day falling further and further behind. Kingsley refuses to listen to anyone that disagrees with him. And Harry and Ron always back him up, saying Dumbledore wouldn’t approve of such methods. After yet another heated discussion, Hermione’s ‘expertise’ was requested at St. Mungo’s. While she was quite good with charms and potions, Hermione is no expert in healing. She isn’t even a qualified healer. But the wizarding hospital is losing more and more of their own, so here she is.

She’s mentally running through the best course for amputation, something she never thought she would need to know, when she walks in the storeroom. It takes a second for her eyes to adjust in the darkness. When they do, she is at once alert. The dark form hunched over the back shelf would cause panic in anyone. But even just from his outline, she can tell who he is, and she is pissed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The question comes out as a hiss, and he’s smirking as he turns around.

“Found anymore trinkets you need help getting rid of?” He looks perfectly at ease as if she hadn’t just found him stuffing his pockets with potions.

“What the hell are you doing here?” She hates how they keep running into each other. He’s everywhere he shouldn’t be.

“Just enjoying the view.” He looks around the dark storage room before settling his gaze on her. He keeps his eyes on her as he lets out a low whistle. “There’s none quite like this back at Hogwarts.”

“Yes, I’ve heard they no longer let in Mudbloods. I must be a rare sight.”  He rolls his eyes and takes a step towards her.

“Really, must you be so crass? I was just trying to make conversation.” His nonchalance is starting to grate on her nerves. As if he as all the time in the world to hang around a storage room. He takes another step toward her. “But you are right. A rare sight, indeed.”

“I’m sure you’d be more at ease with me strung up in your dungeons. That’s how the Lestrange’s like to do it, right?” She shouldn’t be taunting him. She knows that. But these confrontations with him are starting to ware at her.

“Don’t be dense, Granger.” His tone takes on a sharp edge. “You think I would have let you leave with that little tiara, if I was anything like my brother and his psychotic wife. I would have handed you over to the Dark Lord himself.” He steps right in front of her. Taking one of her curls between his fingers, his eyes never leave her. She tries to supress the shiver that goes through her as his knuckles graze her neck. His smirk must mean he caught it. She finally looks away and is met with a sight that causes a different kind of shiver to run through her body.

“The mark on your arm says otherwise.” She expects him to pull away and spout some bullshit about her not knowing what she’s talking about. She recalls a similar conversation she had with Draco Malfoy in sixth year. But he doesn’t. Her hair is still curled around his fingers as he looks down at the mark with utter disgust.

“I’m not going to give you a sob story Granger. But if I had any say, I never would have chosen to have this disgusting rot on me.” He’s towering over her, and she wants to pull away but can’t. He’s got some kind of pull over her, and she has to put an end to it now.

“You need to leave.” Her voice picks up a cold quality. It makes his whole body still. She doesn’t want to pull her wand. Too many valuable supplies that would be wasted in a wand fight. “I could have called an order member; this place is crawling with them. I bet they would just love to take in a Lestrange” He’s still wrapped around her. She pulls away from him, steeling herself to the effect he has on her. His fingers stay twined in her hair. “We’re even now. Whatever this is, whatever reason you helped me, we’re square. We’re done with this.” She stares him down. Any lingering soft edges put far away from him.

“We’ll never be done, darling.” He’s no longer smirking. No, he looks more serious than she has ever seen him. He drops one hand into his pocket and finally pulls away the hand in her hair. With the softest whisper of the word Portus, he is gone.