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When Hermione got upset, she did one of two things: she took a deep breath and gave her feelings a chance to self-regulate, or – less often but far more satisfactory – she held her breath and compressed her feelings deep down until they literally exploded out of her in the form of sparks. 

After almost two handfuls of years working at the Ministry, she’d become quite adept with the first technique. Hardly anything brought her to uncontrolled-magic levels of upset anymore, a feat she was quite proud of considering what she’d had to deal with as a young Muggleborn witch with an agenda for improvement.

The memo she received on an otherwise innocuous Friday threatened to break her streak. 

The Department of International Magical Cooperation had seen a resurgence of duty in the P.V.E. (Post-Voldemort Era), partly due to the nature of the war and how many borders it had crossed, but mostly due to Hermione having graduated from Hogwarts and subsequently (and seamlessly) worked her way up from the middle to the top, where she now sat as the Head of the International Magical Office of Law. 

Her agenda was simple: bring the magical world together under the banner of genuine consideration and active collaboration to achieve the ultimate goal of lowering the veil between Wizarding and Muggle worlds. Given how close that veil had come to being rent during the war, she didn’t think it was an outlandish objective to bring it down in the name of mutual understanding and cohabitation. 

But that was her long-term plan. Ten years, perhaps. Maybe fifteen. 

In the near future, her objectives were much more digestible for the general Wizarding world: bring the magical world together.

So, when her proposal for improvements to Portkeys was answered with a summons to attend a meeting with the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation, her first instinct was to perk up. She loved cross-functional meetings and the prospect that her ideas might actually be discussed and enacted excited her. 

And then she recalled who was the Head of that particular department.

She dealt with persons more obnoxious than him, of course, but there was something acute about the vexation that Percy Weasley caused her. He was practically family – had almost literally been family, before she and Ron had sorted out that they were better off as friends – and the pseudo-closeness made her less reserved when it came to reacting honestly whenever he or his terrible ideas were ever brought up in her presence.

Which meant she might have shouted at him a time or two. Semi-publicly. 

But she held out hope that he would see the genius in her scheme and allow her to pursue it within his department. 

It was perhaps a bit of an overstep in terms of her area of expertise but she’d studied the nuances of Portkey travel extensively while devising the best way to literally unite the magical world. It was currently impossible to traverse more than a few thousand kilometers at a time by most magical means and after educating herself on the biological limitations of Apparition and the structural constraints of the Floo Network, she’d discovered an interesting lead with Portkeys. 

Hence, her proposal.

The objective was simple: she would take the three Portkeys required to cross the 11,713.92 kilometers between London, England and Jakarta, Indonesia (the furthest point on the globe from one another, give or take) and then make the return trip using only one. Hermione knew the science, both Magical and Muggle, of what it would take. She’d done the sums. Knew the charmwork. It wouldn’t be easy, exactly, but in theory, it didn’t seem extremely complex. 

It puzzled her that no one was exploring it already, but perhaps that meant her idea was more novel than she considered it, and so Percy would simply approve her proposal and assign her a liaison from the Portkey Office.

She took the lift down to level six, walking through the Department of Magical Transportation to where she knew the Head’s office was. Percy’s secretary noted her approach while Hermione was halfway across the floor and depressed a button on her desk. Hermione internally rolled her eyes at the suggestion that Percy needed prior warning that she was on her way, as if his own meeting invitation hadn’t been the cause for her presence. 

“Hello,” Hermione said brightly as she reached his secretary’s desk. “Shall I just let myself in, or does he need a minute?”

The door opened as she was finishing her question. She turned, bracing herself for the flash of irritation his face always inspired. The fact that he’d been allowed to return to a post of influence after his disastrous previous employment at the Ministry was something she tried not to fixate on. Mostly because it brought her to uncontrolled-magic levels of annoyance.

“Hello, Percy,” she said, in the same tone she’d used with his secretary though the ease of producing it was much harder. She let her vision go slightly out of focus so she didn’t actually have to look at him. “Is this still a convenient time?”

To her left, his secretary made a small sound of disapproval. Percy’s eyes flicked toward it, something Hermione observed through clear vision. Damnit, she’d let herself look at him.

“Department Head Weasley,” he corrected briskly, then stepped to the side to let her in. 

She would use that honorific over her (or his) dead body and gave him a tight-lipped smile to convey as much. He kept his expression carefully polite as she walked past him into his office, casting an unsubtle Muffliato as he pulled the door shut, a charm she resented both on principle and for what it implied of his perception of her self-control.

But she needed his sign-off and so clasped her hands behind her back, watching as he walked around his desk then paused with his hand on the back of his chair. 

He gestured to the guest chair on the other side. “Please.”

She’d hoped the meeting would be short enough to conduct on her feet – a mere formality before getting his department’s stamp of approval – but resigned herself to the chair. Percy sat as well and began flipping through her proposal. She could see several places where he’d made notes, a sight that offered a suggestion of hope. If he’d taken the time to read closely enough to mark it, then he was surely going to approve it.

“I’ve been reviewing your proposal,” he began, still riffling, “and must admit it’s very intriguing. If this were to succeed, the positive ramifications are innumerable.”

Hope sparked brighter in her chest.

“Yes,” she said. And then, though it was painful to admit, added, “I agree.” 

“As I’m sure you don’t need to be told, this is very thorough. I only found two places where I might suggest a slightly different approach but all in all, it’s very well done.” He looked up, eyes finding hers.

If he expected her to react to his praise, he’d be waiting forever. She kept her gaze fixed coolly on him, expression as patient as she could keep it. He sniffed lightly.

“I’d like to see this completed.” 

She appreciated his ability to get to the point. 

“Excellent,” she said. Words of thanks were on the tip of her tongue, but she pressed it to the back of her teeth instead.

“Do you have a timetable in mind?” he asked.

“Yes. I have the theory sorted, as you’ve seen, so I’m ready to advance to the first trial. I’d like to begin as early as next week.”

He nodded. “I think I can make that work.”

His lack of pushback was surprising, and she gave herself a little pat on the back for having such an excellent idea that even Percy Weasley couldn’t find fault with it.

“Wonderful. I expect I’ll only need one assistant, and though I would love to go through their credentials before selecting which one, I understand if that feels like an overstep in authority. If you’d prefer to just Owl me your chosen employee’s details or, better yet, have them report up to my office sometime before end-of-week so I can get them up to speed with the plan, that would be perfectly acceptable as well.”

He looked up. “Employee?”

“A representative from your department,” she clarified. “I don’t actually need anyone but I expect you’d want some level of oversight given this proposal is technically within your purview.” 

He shook his head, making a small sound of understanding in the back of his throat. “Oh, no. I’ll be seeing this through personally, of course.” 

“You?” she repeated, stomach plummeting. “No, that’s…surely that’s unnecessary. Just give me someone from the Portkey Office. As I said, I’ll hardly even need them, but–”

He waved dismissively. “Absolutely not. This would be a monumental breakthrough should it be successful so I want to see it done properly.”

The implication that it wouldn’t be done properly without his direct influence had her hackles rising. 

“It will be,” she said as levelly as she could but then couldn’t help herself from adding, “And to be frank, your presence would only threaten that outcome.”

He pressed his lips together, inspecting her for a moment, and then exhaled and took his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose. The frames were new, she realized. Round tortoiseshell rather than the black horn-rimmed ones he’d worn for the past two decades. When he put them back on, the difference was suddenly stark. How had she not noticed it before?

“Hermione–” he began, tone placating.

“Department Head Granger,” she interjected smoothly, purely to be petty.

He pressed his lips together again. “Department Head Granger,” he said, voice tighter. “This is not a negotiation. You may enact the proposal you’ve written within the purview of my department under my supervision only. The nuances of Portkey travel take more than whatever time you’ve been able to allocate to them between all your other, actual duties to understand. It would be irresponsible for me to let you attempt this alone.”

She tried to focus on her next inhale to keep herself in check, but the desire to shout was rising hotly in her throat. 

“Irresponsible,” she repeated as calmly as she could, and then couldn’t help but splutter out the bigger affront. “Actual duties! This proposal aims to unite the magical world which, if you recall, is a core tenant of my duty.”

“I recall. I worked in the Department of Magical Cooperation for years, lest you forget.” He laced his fingers together over her proposal. He looked so pompous, his shoulders square and posture perfect, that she had a rather childish desire to smack the jar of extra quills off the corner closest to her, just to see him jump. 

Instead, she squared her shoulders and gave him her most perceptive look. “I could never,” she said, voice ice cold, “forget what you did while employed in my department.”

His face went tight. She watched with satisfaction the way he tried not to react to her reference to his monumental pig-headedness and overt self-aggrandizing while employed under Barty Crouch Sr.

“What’s your decision, then?” he asked after a moment, voice carefully moderated. “Will you be seeing this proposal through with me, or shall I unburden you of it?”

She hated the knowledge that he could – that even though it had been her idea, it was technically within his jurisdiction and he could therefore enact it without requiring her input. It was an unbalanced scale, and she despised the way it skewed in his favor. 

Curse her for having good ideas. And doubly so, for caring more about the outcome than the sacrifices it took to achieve them.  

“Fine,” she said crisply. “You may accompany me. I’ll put in the request for the initial three Portkeys and–”

“I’ll arrange them,” he interjected. “As the Head of the department, I’ll be able to put in a rush order for them.” 

He was so pretentious. So self-righteous and entitled, and for what. He didn’t deserve it. He was just a conniving, slippery, secret-Slytherin and she absolutely couldn’t stand to look at him for a moment longer.

She stood while he was still halfway through his sentence, earning herself a flashing look and a subtle tick of his jaw. He let her get away with the lack of respect, not stopping her as she marched to his office door and yanked it open.

“Monday morning, my office,” he called after her. “Nine o’clock. Be on time or I’ll leave without you.”

She slammed his door for good measure and walked straight to the Atrium before she erupted.

The familiar scent of Harry’s living room soothed her instantly, though only enough to not spontaneously combust, her anger simmering hotly right under the surface. Harry peeked into the room at the sound of his Floo activating, observing her from the doorway as she brushed herself off and then muffled a furious scream between her teeth.

“Tea?” he asked mildly, when she’d taken a breath. 

Hermione drew in another inhale and nodded. He popped back into the kitchen.

The bookshelves against the opposite wall drew her nearer, the idea of sitting unfathomable with how pent up she felt. She focused on her breathing as she read the spines, willing her own to soften. 

Harry returned with two mugs of tea and a wary though understanding expression. “Want to talk about it?” he offered as he passed her a mug.

Standing in Harry’s home, feeling his careful attention, had brought her blood pressure down. She felt a little foolish now for the enormity of her reaction.

“It’s nothing,” she tried, but a flicker of latent annoyance flared at her own dismissiveness. “It’s just…fucking irritating.” 

“What is?” Harry dropped down onto his sofa, watching where she still stood by his bookcase.

She attempted to find a third tactic for managing her upset: releasing it slowly, and with control, rather than explosively.

“I submitted a potentially groundbreaking proposal.” The heat of the mug in her palms gave her a point of physical grounding that she appreciated. “It was accepted.”

“That’s…great?” Harry was frowning slightly, not at all following why this would be the cause for her to burst into his flat in the middle of a work day. 

Wait, why was he home in the middle of the workday? She took in his lounge pants and t-shirt – definitely not Auror-issue clothing – and then checked the clock on his wall. It was only half two.

“Why isn’t it great?” he prompted. She shelved her inquest until after she’d dealt with her own crisis.

“It isn’t great because my proposal requires traveling to Indonesia next week for, very likely, a day or two. Which, yes, I see that could be lovely except I’ll be going with…” She grit her teeth, irritation spiking hotly. “Percy."

Harry’s brows went up. “That’s an unlikely assistant,” he said after a moment. 

She loved him so very much for calling Percy an assistant. She tucked the delight from hearing it away in the back of her brain for later enjoyment and nodded, refocusing on explaining her ire. 

“My idea is to do with Portkey travel. He’s butting in because he wants a share of the glory, although he’s doing it in an absolutely underhanded way by claiming I won’t be able to do it without him, as if he’s Merlin’s sodding gift...”

Harry pressed his lips together but the edges rebelled, pulling upward. 

“Don’t you laugh at me, Harry Potter!” she warned, raising her forefinger at him. 

“It’s just…it’s Percy,” Harry said. “It’s not like it was–”

At that moment, Draco Malfoy poked his head out of Harry’s bedroom. 

The sight of his pointy face made Hermione shriek, purely out of muscle memory but also in a bizarre response to the sudden visceral fear that somehow Percy was here, in Harry’s flat, waiting to challenge her abilities further. 

Malfoy’s eyes went wide, then rolled lazily, expression shifting into something excessively pleased with himself. 

“Merlin, Granger,” he drawled as he stepped into the room fully. “Don’t lose your head.”

“Hermione,” Harry chided with a laugh, “please be nice to Draco.”

“I can’t,” she said, shaking her head reflexively, then processed whose name he’d said. “Oh. Yes, of course – sorry, Draco, this isn’t about you.”

Malfoy’s chin went back, brows raising. “What? Why not?”

“Draco,” Harry sighed but held out his arm to make space for Malfoy to come closer. “Don’t antagonize her.”

“No no,” Malfoy said, going over to Harry. “I want to know what has gotten Granger into a tizzy if not my presence in your home.” He pouted. “I thought that would top anything.”

“You’ve never topped anything in your life,” Hermione sniped, shoving her face into her hands with frustration that another person would now be bearing witness to her mental breakdown. Twin snorts of laughter drew her out. 

“What?” she asked, looking between the smirking men.

“Oh, nothing,” drawled Malfoy, sliding down onto the sofa beside Harry and draping a leg over Harry’s thighs. “Just glad to see you're maintaining your reputation as the all-knowing swot.”

She considered hexing him wandlessly – to show off her swottish ways – but frankly, didn’t have the energy for it. 

“Hermione’s going to Indonesia,” Harry explained to Malfoy, who perked up as if the news implied a well-deserved holiday, “with Percy Weasley.” 

Malfoy’s nose scrunched. “Ick. What on earth for?”

Perhaps Malfoy would be good for something after all, Hermione thought hopefully, if only to rub some of the Weasley shine from Harry’s lenses. 

“Because,” she said crisply, “apparently it’s impossible for anyone else in the department to understand the exact nuance of Portkeys and therefore it is vital that the head of the department see to it personally.” 

Malfoy frowned. “That’s ludicrous. What’s the point of becoming department head if you still have to go off and do work yourself?”

“Exactly!” Hermione said, then faltered. “Wait, no. That’s not–” 

“What he means,” Harry cut in, laying a hand on Malfoy’s thigh, “is it’s ridiculous Percy is going when you’re completely capable on your own.”

Malfoy sniffed but heeded the unsubtle squeeze of Harry's hand. “That’s right,” he said after a moment, though his face implied otherwise. Hermione appreciated the attempt. 

“It'll be fine,” Harry insisted. “You’ve spent plenty of time around Percy – at the Burrow, at school. It’s better than being sent halfway across the world with a stranger, isn’t it?”

He had unintentionally highlighted the exact nexus of her fury. She dove onto it.

“That’s right Harry, I have spent plenty of time with Percy. I know his personality. The way he marched around the castle like he knew best. I know his duplicitousness.” Malfoy’s brows went up. “But most importantly, I know his family. And I know what he did to them.” She hissed the last, unable to contain herself. 

The effect of it was instantaneous. Harry’s shoulders dropped, tugging the edge of his mouth with them. “Ah,” he said.

“Ah,” Hermione echoed, beginning to pace again. “Ah is right.”

There was a lengthy pause during which she worked a tidy circle into the fibers of Harry’s rug. 

“Hermione…” Harry held up the hand not on Malfoy’s leg when she snapped her glare on him, already anticipating annoyance just from the placating way he’d said her name. “It’s been years since that. And he reconciled.”

She scoffed. “Reconciled.” Her feet worked the rug in the opposite direction. “He saw the error of his ways, perhaps, but I can’t forgive him for what he did.”

The men were silent for a moment, something she didn’t notice until Harry broke it. 

“Look,” he said, tone no-nonsense. “I’m just going to say it. You’re overreacting.” 

Hermione clenched her jaw but didn’t interrupt, hearing the lift in Harry’s voice which suggested he was just getting started.

“It’s been years, and he saw the error of his ways when it mattered; he changed. He fought with us, Hermione. He’s different now. He’s trying. You have to give him a chance.”

She had to? No. No, she absolutely did not. She made a sharp turn to face Harry, mouth opening to retort, but he was faster.

“I forgave Draco,” Harry continued, “and Draco…” He cast his gaze sideways, tracking it thoughtfully over the now-somber face of the man beside him.

“Had a lot to be forgiven for,” Malfoy supplied quietly. 

Harry gave him a half smile, full of understanding, and squeezed his thigh again. Hermione turned away.

“Draco didn’t know better,” she said to the wall. “Percy did.”

“Hermione,” Harry chided. She was getting tired of hearing her name like it was a chastisement in and of itself. 

“No, Harry,” she said. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not the forgiving sort. Percy put his family through hell, he didn’t stand by you, practically aided the fall of the Ministry–no. No. ”

“I did know better.” Malfoy’s voice was firm, the note of earnestness in it drawing her gaze. “I wasn’t taught better, maybe, but I’m not a puppet. I can process information independently. Which, yes, makes my actions more reprehensible but also means that when I finally had the balls to be the man I knew I should be, I did it. It wasn’t easy. Asking for forgiveness is excruciating. I’d almost rather have been forgotten than need to ask for it, but I’m glad I did.”

The easy way that Harry slid his hand to Malfoy’s, fingers twining, indicated the reason for Malfoy’s gratefulness at having been brave. 

She hummed a non-committal sound, inspecting the mantle once more. 

“Forgive him or don’t,” said Harry. “Just do me a favor and don’t kill him, yeah? I don’t want to do the paperwork.”

The bark of laughter was uncontrollable, as was the fond smile she sent over her shoulder to her longest, closest friend. “Fine,” she said, sighing with excess reluctance. “I suppose that’s a reasonable request.”

“The Auror office appreciates it.” Harry disentangled himself from Malfoy and pushed to his feet, approaching her in her periphery. Her shoulders softened even before he slung his arm around them. “It’s just a quick trip,” he said comfortingly. “And you’re supposedly smart or something, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ll have it done and dusted in no time.”

She clucked her tongue at his teasing but leaned into his side all the same. “Quite right. I’m sure I’ll be back in time for supper.”

He chuckled, dropping a kiss to her temple. “There’s the Hermione I know.”

She allowed herself the comfort of his presence for a moment more, then drew back to fix him with a shrewd expression. 

“Speaking of knowing one another.” She gestured to where Malfoy was still sprawled on Harry’s sofa, right at home. “When was I going to be informed of this?” 

Harry didn’t even attempt to look sheepish. “When it felt appropriate,” he said easily. 

Malfoy snorted and Harry grinned in response, a smile obviously meant for the man behind him even though he didn’t look away from Hermione. The implied familiarity of knowing what a sound was meant to convey sent a shot of envy through her. She was happy for Harry, truly. But she’d never felt so far away from a love of her own.

“I’m gathering it might have been in a while then,” she said dryly. 

Harry shrugged expansively, expression outright cheeky. Behind him, Malfoy smirked.

Hermione was waiting outside Percy’s office at ten to nine on Monday morning, her satchel fully stocked with everything she’d need for what she hoped would be a roundabout trip: research materials, toothbrush and a hair elastic, a change of clothes. She was optimistic it wouldn’t take long to sort things out but even so, it never hurt to prepare for an overnight. 

Her outfit was perfectly selected to be appropriate for the various cultures and climates they would be traveling through: the blouse and linen trousers modest and professional, layered with a soft cardigan that could be easily tucked into her bag upon their arrival in Indonesia. She checked her watch. Eight fifty-two. 

Percy’s secretary was sorting papers with a busy-ness that suggested she was purposefully pretending to be deeply focused on her work and therefore fade into the background, though Hermione felt the woman’s eyes flick to her more often than someone dedicated to their tasks would ever allow.

Percy arrived a few minutes before nine, a black messenger bag slung over his chest and a small brown paper sack clutched in his hand. He was wearing, as always, a set of formal Wizarding robes.

“Department Head Granger,” he greeted, and she felt a mix of enjoyment and annoyance that he’d remembered her (admittedly, sarcastic) preference of address. “Shall we depart from my office?”

“Certainly.” She stepped to the side so that he could open his own door, offering his secretary a little nod of farewell, indicating she hadn’t been as forgotten as she’d hoped. The woman sniffed and shuffled her papers more aggressively.

Percy held the door for her and then pulled it closed behind himself. “Alright,” he said, coming to stand in front of her in the center of his office. “The first Portkey will take us to Baku, the second to Balangir, and the final one to Jakarta.”

It was close to the pathway she would have selected as well, each location right at the currently-known terminal distance for a single Portkey: just under 4,000 kilometers. 

She nodded once. “That should put us in Jakarta shortly after four in the afternoon, so we’ll have plenty of time to begin the return journey preparations. I’ve booked a room at the Wizarding hotel in the city center which we can work from.”

“Fine.” Percy set the paper bag on his desk and then unfurled the rolled-over top. “How are you with Portkey travel?”

“Fine.” In actuality, Hermione hated it but felt that the convenience of traveling by Portkey well made up for the temporary discomfort. “You?”

“Fine.” 

The Portkeys were all small objects in order to be easily stowed in a pocket, and Hermione noted each as Percy set them on his desk: a bottle cap, a black and white die, and a silver fox figurine. 

Percy crumpled up the empty bag and tossed it neatly into his wastepaper basket, then swept the objects into his hand and stepped toward Hermione. “The bottle cap goes to Baku, the fox to Balangir, and the die to Jakarta.”

The word fine burned on the tip of her tongue but she forced herself to say something else. “Spectacular.” 

Percy tucked the fox and die into an inner pocket over his chest and then drew his wand, the bottle cap held between them in his palm. 

“Wait a minute,” she said, eyeing him incredulously. “You can’t travel like that.”

“Like what?” He frowned, wand still hovering over the first Portkey. 

“In robes,” she said impatiently. “We’ll be traveling through the Muggle world until we reach Jakarta, and those will have you sticking out like a sore thumb. Not to mentino the climate of Jakarta is tropical. Take them off.”

With a downward glance, Percy examined his clothing. “Ah,” he said. “That’s…I suppose you’re right. Here.” He handed the bottle cap to her, retrieving the fox and die from his pocket before unfastening the clasps that held his cloak closed over his chest and shucking the heavy outer garment. 

She took the other two Portkeys from him, barely restraining herself from drawing her wand and activating the first right then and there. Maybe even taking an extra step back, so he couldn’t lunge for her and come along. 

He eyed her as he unbuttoned his robes, perhaps seeing the intention on her face. She raised her chin, giving him a supremely patient expression, refusing to be predictable. Under the robes, he was wearing neat black trousers and a white button-up. Percy Weasley, she was sure, had never worn anything but black trousers and a white shirt in his life. Even mornings at the Burrow, while his brothers loped down in blue-pinstriped pajama bottoms and t-shirts, he was properly dressed at the breakfast table.

He draped his robes neatly over the back of his guest chair and then re-slung his black bag across his chest. 

“Alright.” He held his palm out for the Portkeys. Reluctantly, she handed them back over. It seemed a silly thing to fight over and she was rather keen to bloody get on with it already. “I’ll activate the first one now. Ready?”

“Yes.” 

She took a step closer to place her palm over the Portkey, her fingers lifted so that she managed not to directly touch him while ensuring solid contact with the cap; as soon as Percy activated it, it would drag him to Baku and she was determined, despite her earlier intrusive thoughts to ditch him, to not let him go alone.

Percy tapped the side of it with his wand, murmuring “Portus," and the cap began to emit a soft, yellow light between their hands. The tug was almost instantaneous, a hook behind her navel and the subsequent sickening feeling of being dragged through space. 

She bore it as best she could but was immensely grateful to feel solid ground under her feet only a few seconds later. Really, Portkey travel was incredible. Focusing on the literal magic of it helped keep her intentionally-light breakfast where it belonged. 

Percy dropped his hand from under hers, fist tightening around the bottle cap as he recalibrated from the vertigo. As was standard practice, the coordinates were designed to bring them somewhere discrete and as she looked around, she saw they were standing in a small grouping of trees in the middle of what appeared to be a rather large city park. 

After completing a full circle to confirm there were no Muggles within sight, Hermione held out her hand again. Percy dug the fox figurine out and dutifully set it on her palm, placing his own over top. 

The second trip was easier mentally because of the preparation of the first, but it felt twice as bad physically. She managed to keep her feet under her as they touched down in India, but wanted very badly to sit down. Across from her, Percy exhaled hard.

“Merlin,” he swore, swiping a hand over his mouth. Hermione quite agreed.

It was best to get it over with – and as they aimed to return in one go, she wanted a semblance of an idea of what it might feel like to be transported all those kilometers with hardly a break.

With the die sandwiched between their hands, they made the final jump to Jakarta. Upon arrival, Percy bent over, hands on his thighs, something Hermione observed distantly, rather more focused on not keeling over. The staggering dizziness faded after a few harsh breaths, her lungs tight and her head pounding. Around them was an outcropping of large boulders at a shoreline, protecting them from sight. The salty air helped to clear her brain and Hermione took a few deep breaths to further the effect.

Percy righted himself a moment later, pushing his glasses back up his nose from where they’d slid and peering around at their surroundings. 

“This should be Ancol Beach, or near about,” he said. “The Wizarding hotel is probably–”

“I know where it is,” she interrupted. The dizziness had faded, leaving her headache twice as apparent. She suspected the cause of it was still staring down at her. “Come on, this way.” 

They picked their way along the slim strip of sand between the shelter of rocks and the sea, seeing the beach itself was playing host to a few handfuls of families and couples enjoying the early afternoon. They turned left to follow the rocks up to where the beach turned into hard land, picking their way through the grass to the pedestrian walkway. 

Hermione oriented herself quickly, having acquainted herself with Jakarta via maps and a few travel books, and led the way up the path and then into the city itself. The hotel was easy to spot because it was hidden in plain sight at the base of a distinct-looking skyscraper. A discrete tap of her wand to what appeared to be a service door granted them entry into the opulent, magical space.

The woman at the front desk looked up and offered them a warm smile. “Welcome to Jakarta! Do you have a reservation?” 

The shapes her mouth made didn’t match the sounds, indicating a translation spell was in play. It was an incantation Hermione was quite familiar with, given her Department in the Ministry, and though she’d learned a few essential phrases in Indonesian, it was a relief to know she wouldn’t be butchering someone’s native tongue right to their face.

“Hello! Yes, I do. It’ll be under Hermione Granger.” 

In short order, they took the lift up to the ninth floor. The hotel was beautifully designed in neutral tones of cream and brown, accentuated by washes of pale orange, blue, and green as they walked down the corridor. Hermione let them into the room with the magical keycard, holding the door for Percy purely out of professional courtesy. 

The room was structured in the same style as every hotel room Hermione had ever stayed in: a narrow hall with a door to the bathroom to the right, then a little closet, and then the room opened up. There was a bed on the right with a bureau across, and a little sitting area at the far windows consisting of a small desk, desk chair, and an accent chair.

It would suit their purposes just fine.

She went to the desk and began unpacking her satchel, pulling out her notes, a quill, and the map upon which she’d charted a few coordinates of increasing distances. Percy came over, hands in his pockets and his bag still slung across his chest. She spared him half a glance out the corner of her eye as she organized the work space. 

“We’ll be here a while,” she reminded him. “Take your bag off.”

He made a sound of annoyance in his throat but did as she said, walking his bag to the accent chair, depositing it there and undoing the clasps. When he came back over to the desk, he was bearing a notebook. She was curious what he’d been able to come up with over the weekend, given she’d dedicated untold hours to her own theorizing and calculations. 

It seemed his thoughts were similarly aligned. 

“Walk me through your plan in broad strokes first,” he said, standing beside the desk with arms crossed, notebook held under an elbow, “and then we’ll get into the minutiae.” 

She’s seen how thoroughly he’d read her proposal and so kept it surface level, just to get them in the right headspace.

“The primary constraints of Portkey travel are, first, the energy required to transport physical matter through space, and second, the physical stress on the body incurred by that process. Portkeys work by, metaphorically, making a crease in space and tugging us through it like thread on a needle. Interestingly, Portkeys don’t appear to have a limit on what they’re pulling through – they can transport one or ten people without any modifications – but that’s because the distances are within the range of the charm’s inherent potential energy. Making the fold bigger – jumping from one side of the globe to the other – means stretching that energy three times further than it ever has. There’s a decent risk it depletes mid-trip, which obviously has catastrophic ramifications. That’s the first thing to solve: we need to devise a way to store more energy to power the entire trip.”

Percy dipped his chin in a curt nod, and while that mild of a response from nearly everyone else would’ve had Hermione suspicious that they were simply placating her so she’d finish her ramblings and move on to a topic they could actually follow, the focused expression on Percy’s face indicated he wasn’t lost. He was right there with her, ready for more. She hated that it thrilled her. 

“The second constraint is the physical stress on the body. Traveling by Portkey is uncomfortable and disorienting. I’m not sure how you felt after that last jump from India to here, but I found it hard to breathe for a moment. The vacuum effect of the prior jumps was lingering enough that my organs were still resetting, lungs especially, and doing two long jumps back to back meant repetitive strain. Compounding the effect by not having any breaks in between jumps will put our bodies through an incredible amount of stress. Mitigating this constraint will be trickier, because we can’t exactly imbue the human body with the ability to function correctly in a zero-pressure environment, so keeping the time it takes to make the trip as brief as possible is essential.”

“Which brings us back to the first constraint,” Percy said, humming to himself. “We need the trip to be as quick as possible, meaning we need plenty of stored energy to power it.”

“That’s right.” Hermione drummed her fingers on the desk, a singular showing of nerves mixed with eagerness.

“Alright.” Percy drew his wand and levitated the accent chair to the short edge of the desk, then shifted his bag to the floor so he could take a seat. “Let’s get into the minutiae then.”

Hermione wasn’t unaccustomed to losing track of time while focused on a task, but even so, when her stomach rumbled, she was surprised to see that it was nearly ten o’clock. They’d been at it for nearly five hours straight.

She sat tall, the poor position she’d worked herself into suddenly evident by the sharp twinge in her back. “Merlin,” she groaned, stretching side-to-side.

Percy roused himself with similar creaks and as he leaned back in the accent chair, tilting his neck to work out a crick, Hermione observed a version of Percy Weasley she’d never seen before. His normally tidy hair was mussed from having been bent over his parchment, head supported by a hand buried in the red waves, and his normally pressed shirt was wrinkled. Though air-conditioned, the ambient air in the room was still several degrees warmer than at home in England, and he’d pushed his shirt sleeves back because of it. He’d undone the top button at his neck at some point, too, and her exhausted brain couldn’t help but snag on the base of his throat and the three freckles that framed it, like an arrow downward. 

He exhaled and she watched the tendons of his neck shift as he tilted his head the other way, the lithe muscle and skin dusted with a faint shimmer of reddish gold facial hair oddly mesmerizing. 

“Hungry?” he asked, and she finally dragged her eyes away. 

She must be close to fainting if she was having thoughts about Percy Weasley’s neck.

“Starving,” she said, capping her ink and then pushing back in the chair to open the desk drawer where she’d shoved the hotel’s booklet. She flicked to the room service page. “Let’s order food to the room. It’ll be the most efficient and then we can sort out the rest of that coefficient.” 

“Fine.” Percy pushed to his feet. “If there’s any sort of sandwich or salad, I’ll have that.”

“Where’re you going?” she inquired. 

He pointed down the hall, like it was obvious. “The loo. If that’s quite alright with you?”

She scowled at his tone, eyes burning into his back as he walked down the short hall and then closed the bathroom door behind himself. “I was just asking, Merlin,” she mumbled under her breath. 

To her chagrin, there was a sandwich and a salad option, and as they sounded good to her too, she saved herself brain cells on further decision-making and simply ordered two. When the knock sounded a few minutes later, Percy was up to get it before Hermione could untangle herself from the chair. 

“After we eat, I’ll go down and book a room,” he said, setting the tray down carefully on the sliver of desk not covered with the detritus of research. “It seems we’ll be here at least another day, sorting this all out.”

“Seems it,” Hermione agreed with a sigh. And then, in an attempt to be polite, added, “Thanks, Percy,” when he handed her one of the sandwiches.

He acknowledged it with a glance and brief nod, settling back into the chair in front of his own plate.

They got halfway through the meal before somehow Hermione’s notes were back in front of her, an idea having struck, and Percy was mumbling around his fork before stabbing it into his salad to pick up a quill instead. It was refreshing to be working alongside someone who prioritized the same things she did; namely, that food was merely for sustenance and could be consumed while still using one’s brain for more important pursuits. 

Indeed, it seemed that Percy’s work ethic in general was a near match for hers. He did his own sums when needed, but trusted that hers were correct otherwise; it was a balance she found herself begrudgingly appreciative of. 

The downside of working alongside someone equally engrossed was that all of a sudden, it was two in the morning. 

“Godric,” Percy said, scrubbing his hands over his eyes. “Is that really the time?”

It was, but she didn’t have it in her for a quip. She felt absolutely dead on her feet, her brain gradually having slowed to a sluggish buzz, and reorienting herself to the physical world around her was jarring. The effects of Portkey travel on the circadian rhythm were less impactful than air travel, at least in Hermione’s experience, but even so, the additional hours were finally pressing down on her.

“We should sleep,” she mumbled. Books made a comfortable enough pillow, she knew, but it was silly to sleep draped over the desk when there was a bed just behind her. “Need brains tomorrow.”

It wasn’t the fullness of what she’d meant to say, but even thinking the correct number and order of words was suddenly too much effort. Percy nodded though, so she didn’t bother trying again. 

“Yeah.”

They stood in unison, walking robotically to the bed, she to the right side and he to the left without discussion. It was also without discussion that he slid under the covers, turning to face the edge. She mirrored his position, and fell asleep before she’d fully pulled the covers up.

Crookshanks was a nuisance. 

He was always curling up on Hermione while she slept, his heavy body compressing her lungs and his hot-water-bottle body raising her temperature until it woke her up, sweaty and irritated. She really ought to be better about closing her bedroom door.

She sighed and nudged her hips up, trying to dislodge him. As usual, he was persistent. 

“Crooks,” she mumbled. “Off.”

Crooks grunted deeply.

Hermione froze. 

And then opened her eyes, seeing not her dark grey bedroom walls (to encourage a restful sleeping environment) but bright cream, made brighter by a streak of sunshine beaming right through the window, curtains hanging undrawn on either side. She wasn’t at home. She was in Indonesia with…shit.

Behind her, Percy exhaled softly and tightened his arm around her waist. The weight and shape of it was distinctly un-catlike now that she was fully awake, and, regrettably, using her hips as the method of removal was no longer appropriate. Not when…

Her cheeks flamed, heart racing at the realization that not only was she in bed with Percy Weasley, but that he was curled around her and pressing something unmistakable into her spine.

His imminent embarrassment was the only thing that kept her from attempting Apparition while lying down.

“Percy,” she whispered, sliding her hand under the covers to find his arm. “Wake up. It’s morning.”

He resisted her tug, burrowing closer to her so that she felt his next soft exhale through the thin fabric of her blouse. It had been longer than she cared to remember since she’d last been in bed with a man; longer still since she’d simply been…held. 

It was unbearably nice, erection against her bum and all. But despite the implicit comfort of an embrace, she could not allow herself to be held by Percy Weasley in bed. She dug her nails into his forearm on her next tug but rather than finally wake him, all it did was make his hips jerk against her. He groaned in his sleep again.

“Percy Weasley,” she hissed, louder this time. “Wake up!”

“Hermione?” He pressed his face to her back and inhaled deeply, barely awake. And then he froze. “Gods. Sorry.”

He rolled onto his back, the blankets going with him. She threw the remaining covers off herself, relishing the rush of cool air as she slid to her feet. She’d slept in her blouse and trousers, without brushing her teeth or washing her face. She felt horrendous, but when she spared a glance over at Percy, she grinned.

“Morning, Perce,” she chirped, delighting in the way her attention had his cheeks flushing. “Sleep well?”

“Fine, thanks.” He’d remembered to take his glasses off, or else they were lost somewhere in the bedding. He looked so different without them but before she could quantify it, he cleared his throat. “You?”

“I’m going to have a shower,” she informed him airly. “I’ll be about ten minutes, but if you need longer…?”

Percy’s freckles were stark against the deep rose of his cheeks. “I’m not going to–” He glowered at her amused expression. “Ten minutes is fine. I’ll order us tea and breakfast.”

“Coffee, actually, for me.” Hermione grabbed her bag, grateful she hadn’t completely lost her survivalist habits and always traveled with a set of basic necessities. “Ta.”

She felt remade after the shower, even if she had to slip back into yesterday’s clothing (righted with a few quick freshening and ironing charms). Percy was sitting at the desk when she came out of the bathroom, a pot of tea and a carafe of coffee on a little tray beside him. He glanced over as she came closer, then fixed his gaze back on the paperwork. 

Hermione noted that the bed was tightly made, and that he’d found his glasses. 

She poured herself a cup of coffee, inspecting what he was working on. He downed the dregs of his tea and then stood.

“Mind if I shower?” he asked. “It’s your room, and all.”

“Go ahead.” She made herself comfortable in the accent chair he’d used the night before, pulling his parchment to her. He’d been working on the issue that had stumped them the night before, and based on the fresh ink scribbled, had actually made progress. “Oh! Of course…” 

She lost herself in the work, absently refilling her coffee and chewing a piece of toast. Percy rejoined her at some point, smelling like the hotel’s shampoo but not interrupting her focus, simply pouring himself another cup of tea and getting stuck in beside her. 

They had a breakthrough just before lunch. 

“Oh my god.” Hermione sat back, staring at what she’d just calculated. “Wait…did I just–? Percy, check this.”

She shoved her parchment over to him, not caring that she was knocking his quill hand off whatever he’d been working on, leaving a streak of ink across the page. He made a soft sound of affront but swallowed any verbal complaints, peering down at where her finger was tapping excitedly. 

“Hang on,” he mumbled, pushing his hand into his hair to rest his head, elbow on the desk, eyes darting across the page. He read it over twice, quill tapping in an irregular cadence she registered as him keeping track of the sums he was doing in his head. He snorted a soft sound of disbelief a moment later, eyes cutting sideways to her.

“I think you did.”

Her heart pounded with elation and anticipation, watching as Percy pushed back from the table to retrieve the fox figurine. He clutched it for a moment then held out his hand, the silver glinting as it caught the light. 

“Here,” he said. “You do it.” 

She took it from him, wand ready. The magic itself wasn’t excessively complex – not in a magical-core, energy-draining sort of way – but it took almost the entirety of her focus to ensure she did it all correctly, adding in the adjustments she’d finally cracked. 

When she’d finished, the fox felt heavy in her hand, but that’s what they’d expected. The physical energy required to pull a human nearly twelve thousand kilometers had to be stored somewhere, and turning the Portkey itself into the receptacle for it (an idea Percy had struck upon around midnight the prior evening) was an elegant solution. The silver of the fox, a natural conduit of energy both electrical and magical, had been the missing piece. 

“Okay.” She exhaled slowly, and met his eye. “I think it’s ready.”

Percy wet his lips, looking as nervous as she felt. “To Baku?”

She nodded. “From here to Baku. Seven thousand and seven hundred kilometers, plus a few extra. Double the currently tested distance.”

They stared at each other for a moment and Hermione considered the possibility that Percy Weasley’s would be the last face she ever looked at. If the Portkey failed to get them all the way to Baku, they might be left streaked across the globe like stardust, stitched into the in-between. It wasn’t likely — based on the maths — but it also wasn’t impossible. 

As always, it seemed her thoughts played out right at the surface because Percy compressed his lips into a tight line. 

“I’ll do it.” 

She frowned. “What?”

He held out his hand. “Here. I’ll do it. It’s irresponsible for us both to–” risk it “–leave the hotel room at the same time. You organize our notes and I’ll…be right back.”

“Absolutely not.” Misguided attempt at chivalry or not, there was no way that Hermione was letting him be the first person to take such an auspicious journey. She suspected he felt the same way in the reverse, so didn’t even bother wasting her breath on demanding she be the one to take the solo trip.

“We’re doing it together, or we’re not doing it,” she said simply.

He exhaled, jaw clenching once in vexation. “Fine.”

They sandwiched the fox between their palms and Hermione took one tiny, secret, steadying inhale before speaking the incantation to activate the charms. “Portus.”

It was Portkey travel; Portkey travel plus a near-excruciating pinch around her solar plexus. Just when she was about to scream or retch, the ground solidified beneath her feet. She stumbled, free hand lifting to catch herself and finding purchase just in front of her. Her vision was hazy, a blinding white. She blinked and it cleared enough to make out the fibers of the blinding white; the buttons. 

She pushed back from Percy, and with his shirt no longer filling her vision, saw that they’d made it back to the little copse of trees they’d arrived at the day before. It took a moment for reality to sink in.

They’d done it.

They’d done it!

“It worked,” she breathed, then turned back to Percy. “Oh my god, it worked!”

“Merlin.” Percy was looking around as if confirming for himself that they were indeed back in Baku. “That’s…Merlin.”

“And it wasn’t too bad, was it? The journey?” Hermione’s mind was rapidly picking up pace, the ramifications of success meaning only one thing: more work. More trials. Longer distances. “There was a nasty bit in the middle there, when the pressure dropped out – how long do you think that lasted? Four seconds? Seven?” 

The human body could withstand a certain shift in pressure, and going from sea level to a vacuum wasn’t horrendous, but it had been awfully close to more than she could withstand with full lungs…

“It was seven seconds,” Percy said, still sounding dazed. “I counted a moment after it started and got to six, so assuming it only took me a second to make the choice to start…yes, it was about seven seconds.”

Seven seconds was doable. And the full journey would only add another four thousand kilometers. If each additional kilometer added another second of zero-pressure, it’d be just over ten seconds altogether. One could withstand ten seconds of discomfort. One could stand quite a bit longer of quite a bit more, she knew. 

It was a small price to pay for the convenience of jumping across the globe in a single burst. And perhaps if they exhaled before touching the Portkey…

She itched for parchment, ideas and avenues of questioning close to bubbling over. She unfurled her fist and pointed her wand at the fox. 

“What, already?” Percy blurted. 

“Yes.” She tuned out any further protestations as she got back to work charming the fox for a return trip, using the coordinates she’d memorized for the rocky spot by the sea.

The trip back to Jakarta was much the same, which was a comfort only in the sense that it implied their bodies could withstand it without severe side effects. They sat on the sand for a few minutes, reorienting themselves to gravity and the ability to take a full breath. The humidity, normally oppressive, made the air feel soothing, softer and more gentle than the harsh bite of cold would have been. 

They made their way back to the hotel a few minutes later, each caught in their own thoughts. As soon as the door shut behind them, Hermione went straight to the desk and sat down, searching for a quill. She felt Percy’s presence a moment later but didn’t look up until she felt the wash of his magic over her.

She turned sharply but any complaint died on her tongue when she saw the diagnostic charm hovering in the air between them.

Smart, she thought automatically, then finally gathered herself back to annoyance.

“It’s polite to ask first,” she reprimanded, but inspected the readout all the same, relieved to see an overall positive result. 

“Apologies,” said Percy absently, brows knit as his eyes darted across the colors and numbers. “Thought it’d be good to check…your pulse looks a little high – is your resting normally in the high seventies?”

“Yes.”

He waved his wand and inspected another readout, the edge of his mouth pulling down into a disapproving grimace. “That’s a rather high resting heart rate.”

She narrowed her eyes at the implication that she was in any way not taking care of her cardiovascular system. “I work at a higher clip than most,” she retorted. “My blood keeps up.”

He met her eyes at her defensive tone, looking genuinely apologetic this time. “Right. Sorry.” He canceled the charm and gestured to himself. “Will you…?”

“Sure.” She drew her own wand, casting the same charm and inspecting his for both evidence of impact by the extended Portkey travel and for something to tut disapprovingly about. Unfortunately, Percy appeared to be the picture of health.

She didn’t bother voicing it, simply hummed a note of acknowledgement and then canceled the spell, turning back to her notes. He breathed what might have been a soft chuckle but was more likely a sound of annoyance, and sat down to do the same.

They had all the remaining threads neatly tied up within the hour, and then checked and rechecked within the next. By mutual agreement, they didn’t attempt another Portkey trip that day. Positive health readouts or not, it seemed like a good idea to attempt the full trip back to London the following morning. 

It was only two o’clock, which left Hermione and Percy with an entire afternoon and evening to fill. Her empty stomach made a suggestion for their first activity, something she attempted to muffle with her hand. Percy’s eyes dropped to the motion, then carried on past her, as if acknowledging it was impolite. 

“We forgot lunch,” she said needlessly, then scooted the chair back to retrieve the room service menu from the desk drawer. 

“Have you been to Indonesia before?” Percy asked. 

The non-sequitur had her brows twitching together. “No,” she said, turning to look at him.  

“So let’s go out,” Percy suggested. “It seems a waste to bother with International Portkey development if you’re not going to utilize the benefits of them.”

He had a point. And exploring Jakarta was certainly preferable to the alternative: sitting in a hotel room with Percy for several hours until she was tired enough to sleep. What would they even do, with no television and only thrice-read research books for entertainment? 

“That’s an excellent point,” she allowed. “Fine. Let’s go find somewhere to eat.” 

They got the coordinates to Wizarding Jakarta from the front desk, adding a different sort of magical compression to their daily count by Disapparating to the bustling neighborhood. It was similar to Diagon Alley in terms of the obviously-magical shopfronts and patrons, but the various scents of food ignited Hermione’s appetite in a way bangers and mash never quite did. 

“God, I’m starving,” she groaned, turning in place to take it all in. “Where’s that smell coming from? It's incredible.” 

She followed her nose to a nearby food stall, nodding enthusiastically when the woman gestured to the steaming stacks of sate padang. Hermione ate the first skewer as soon as the vendor handed it to her, nearly dripping the rich, savory sauce down her chin in her haste and earning a delighted chuckle from the woman. 

“Good?” the woman asked, smiling broadly, and Hermione could only moan and nod again. 

“Incredible,” she managed, once she’d swallowed, then held the plate to Percy. “Try one, seriously. You’ll die.”

“You need to work on your sales pitch,” he remarked dryly, but took a skewer and did a much neater job devouring it. 

They ordered a second round, as well as a dish of noodles, then took their spoils to a nearby bench. Hermione had never seen Percy eat anywhere but at a table, but he tucked in without hesitation, crossing an ankle over his knee, propping their takeaway box of noodles on it like a make-shift table. It was perhaps indecorous to be eating practically off his lap, but Hermione didn’t have it in her to care. Not when the food was this good.

The lively, casual environment, surrounded by sights and scents so different to home, had Hermione’s shoulders relaxing down. After the containers were scraped clean, they people watched for a few minutes. The air was warm and humid, the chatter foreign and therefore pleasant to be amid without worrying about catching snippets of passing conversations. They earned a few passing looks, mostly from older women who looked them over with appraising eyes and giggled to one another behind their hands.

It wasn’t until Percy tapped her on the far shoulder that she realized he’d draped his arm across the bench behind her, and the cooing of the older women suddenly made sense. Her cheeks heated at their misunderstanding but she turned to look at Percy expectantly. 

“Would you like to get a drink?” he asked. 

With her mind stuck on the assumptions of the women, her stupid heart skipped a beat. He didn’t mean it like that, she chastised it. 

“Sure,” she said out loud. 

He surprised her by leading them out of Wizarding Jakarta and onto the city streets, looking both ways before choosing left. They found an upscale bar a few blocks down, and he held the door for her. 

They sat at the bartop – another choice that surprised her – as did his order of a Gimlet and a glass of water. She stammered her way through her request (a Mojito with extra lime), thrown by the easy way Percy was moving through the foreign Muggle space.

While the bartender made their drinks, Hermione inspected the man beside her. Percy Weasley, someone she’d known in some capacity since she was twelve but, she was beginning to realize, she’d never really met. 

He was less freckled than Ron – all that time sitting indoors studying or trying to catch people breaking rules rather than traipsing through the grounds or practicing Quidditch drills – and the slant of his nose was a touch stronger than Ginny’s, but she could see her friends in him. 

As she could in the blue-hazel of his eyes, a perfect combination of Arthur’s blue and Molly’s brown. And in the signature Weasley hair color, his cut into a neat style with just enough length on top that the wavy texture had come alive in the humidity. 

Sitting next to him in a Muggle bar in Indonesia, he seemed like an altogether different person than the pedantic paper-pusher she was so keen to either avoid or shout at in England. 

He seemed warmer, and the only thing she could attribute it to was his lack of formal Wizarding robes and absence of those horrible black horn-rimmed glasses. 

“What?” His voice drew her focus back from her pondering. He was frowning at her, wary of her scrutiny. 

She propped her chin on her hand, elbow resting on the bar, deciding to be unashamed at having been caught looking at him. “When did you get new glasses?” 

His brows twitched in a flash of confusion before his eyes slid back to watch the bartender rattling a cocktail shaker. “I don’t know. A few months ago. In June. On the twenty-second.” 

She compressed her smile that he did, in fact, know the exact date. He looked at her side-long, now wary of her smile. 

“They suit you better than the black ones,” she said, in lieu of teasing him. 

The corner of his mouth twitched up. “Thank you?”

She laughed. “I like them,” she clarified. “They look nice on you.”

His lips twitched again, finally giving up and curving into a restrained half-smile. 

Today was full of new discoveries, she thought. Like cracking the ability to transport human beings two-thirds the way around the globe. Or realizing that Percy knew how to do more with his lips than just purse them imperiously. 

“Thank you,” he said, genuinely this time. Then repeated the sentiment to the bartender as their drinks were placed in front of them. They hesitated for a moment, glasses lifted but not sipped from.

“To figuring it out,” Hermione offered after a beat, tilting hers slightly towards him. 

He smiled again, eyes touching hers for a second before focusing on not sloshing his drink as he gently clinked the edge of his glass to hers. “To figuring it out.”

They sipped, then again. 

“It’s quite possible,” Hermione said, eyeing her drink and then raising it in a salute to its creator, who grinned in thanks as he wiped down his work surface, “that Indonesia has the best food and drink I’ve ever had.”

“Do you know what?” Percy had another slow sip, savoring. “I think you might be right.”

Ordering a second round felt appropriate, given the magnitude of their success, which also meant a few plates of appetizers, just to be sensible, and then a pudding the bartender – Reza – claimed was life-changing, which it absolutely was.

Around them, patrons came and went. The sky went dark, and they ordered a third round. 

“Percy?” she said, using her straw to poke the mint further down into her glass. “Can I ask you something?”

He glanced over at her as he sipped. “I suppose,” he said, replacing his glass on the bartop.

“How could you–” She paused to rephrase, hoping for an honest answer and not a defense. “What was it that had you supporting the Ministry over Harry? And your own family?”

He sighed, dragging his glass idly in the little rings of condensation it had made. 

“I don’t have a good answer for that, Hermione. Trust me, I tried to sort it out after the fact, once everything came to light and there was no rational way to justify operating as we had.” His eyes were downcast, watching as he fidgeted. “It was fear, probably. That he was really back, and that, just when I’d gotten myself in a good place, I’d have to give it up. So, greed, too. Selfishness. Wanting to be better than what people thought of when they heard my last name. Wanting to be better than what my family saw, when they looked at me.”

It was more than she’d expected from him, but then again, if there was a Weasley prone to considering things from an analytical perspective, it was Percy. The three Gimlets had probably helped, too.

She waited a moment, in case he wasn’t finished, then asked, voice gentle but curious, “What did your family see?” 

He breathed a laugh, devoid of humor. “A pretentious, ungrateful prat.”

She didn’t patronize him with effusive points to the contrary. Beyond the fact that she’d literally heard the twins call him that, and Ron had had other disparaging remarks, Percy had been a pretentious, ungrateful prat. It felt more truthful to simply hear him and sympathize that he’d felt that from his family, warranted or not. 

And it felt most honest to challenge him on the way he’d first gone about making a new image of himself, though she injected an undertone of amusement in her otherwise dry tone. 

“And you thought that getting a position at the Ministry with clear intent to climb the ranks by supporting their beliefs, despite first-hand evidence to the contrary, would help to shift that perspective? Even before...all the rest of it happened?” 

He breathed a laugh. “I suppose I did get sorted into Gryffindor for something.” There was a touch of humor in his voice, too, though his leaned self-deprecating. “Reckless and determined to a fault.”

“We have that in common, then.” 

“Hm.” His eyes flicked to hers, then back to his drink. “Can I ask you something?”

It seemed only fair. “I suppose,” she said, mirroring the tone of his earlier unenthused agreement. He caught it with another quick flick of his gaze and that same hint of amusement, then assembled his expression back into something more serious. 

“Your parents.” He paused, as if to see if she’d stop him already. She didn’t, so he carried on. “Are things different between you now? After everything?”

She considered it for a moment. Time had worn down the edges of what had once been a painfully sharp topic, and the rum had done away with her usual reticence to consider the inerasable effects of her actions. 

“Of course,” she said.

It was an unexpected relief to state it, like a fact. Because it was.

And somehow it was alright that it was.

“I don’t hide much from them but I was discrete in recounting the…misadventures Harry, Ron, and I had while away at Hogwarts. I didn’t want them to stop me from going back, so I glossed over some of the darker details. I’m sure Ron did the same with your parents, as much as he could for how integrated they both were – are – with Wizarding society.” She paused, getting back to the point. “My parents have always been outside of everything, so when the curtain was finally drawn back, they were rather shocked to learn the extent to which I’d aided the cause. So, yes. Of course things are different now. Not worse, exactly, but…yes. Different.” 

“You did it to protect them.” 

As part of her pseudo-extended family, Percy had been privy to the fallout of her decisions to alter her parent's memories and send them to Australia. He’d also been there the day she’d Floo’d into the Burrow in joyful tears that the reversal had been a success.

And so she knew that him stating her rationale for it wasn’t to have her confirm it. It was to contrast his own actions.

“We can’t expect to make the right choice every time,” she said reasonably. “Sometimes things are greyscale, or we don’t have all the information we need at the time we have to make the choice. There are a million ways things could happen and so the odds aren’t always on our side.”

His shoulders tightened slightly, enough that she caught it in her periphery. 

“Not sure that justification applies to my situation, but I appreciate the effort,” he said after a moment. Then steeled himself. “I was protecting the wrong thing. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time – I always do – but you can never know, not for certain, if it was the correct choice until afterward. When you see how the cards land.”

“Sometimes even then,” she added quietly, and he hummed in agreement. 

They were quiet for a moment, and she watched as Reza mixed a drink for the group down the bar. When Percy shifted beside her, her eyes drifted to him. His normally perfect posture had loosened over the course of the hours and he now sat hunched against the bar, his forearms bracketing this empty glass. He looked woebegone.

He sensed her looking at him and sighed.

“I don’t trust much,” he confessed, staring down into the dregs of his drink. “My self least of all. My instincts are always wrong.”

"I'm sure that's not true," she countered. She had first-hand evidence of how correct his instincts could be.

He looked at her, jaw clenched, thoughts still in the past. “I kept an Animagus as a pet for years. Years, Hermione. Being absolutely none the wiser, carrying him in my pocket, bringing him everywhere. Merlin knows what Pettigrew witnessed or overheard, what he could have used had things gone just slightly differently…” He exhaled. "How can I trust my instincts? Knowing how close it came, time and time again, for everything to have been my fault?"

Ron had gone down the same spiral about Pettigrew-cum-Scabbers once, on a dark day in the tent before they’d sorted out what the locket was festering in them. He’d paced the length of the tent, overthinking everything he’d ever done, every weak point he might have been, trying to sort out if it would be his fault that they failed. 

So Hermione told Percy what she’d told Ron all those years ago. “It doesn’t do to contemplate the might-have-beens,” she said quietly. “Trust that if things had gone differently, we’d still have found a way to end it.”

Ron had nodded and given her a rather watery smile and a lingering hug. Percy was silent. 

She let him marinade in his self-pity for another few seconds, then turned on her stool to face him. He looked at her askance.

“It’s finished,” she said firmly. “It’s figured out. Done. So, put it down. Let it go.” 

He turned toward her properly, and she could see the thoughts flickering behind his eyes. Finally he exhaled softly and nodded.

“Fine. It’s done." He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. Then cocked his head at her. "I’ll forget it if you do.” 

A gauntlet thrown. She raised a brow, never one to back down from a challenge.

“Deal.” She held out her hand. 

His was warm as it wrapped around hers.

The streets of Jakarta welcomed them for a stroll after they’d paid their tab. They chatted now and then when something caught their eye but otherwise, walked in companionable silence. It was the most enjoyable evening Hermione had had in quite a while and so when Percy held out his arm to Side-Along them back to the hotel, she didn’t hesitate but wrap her hand around it.

By the time they made it back to their room, the pervasive sense of bonhomie had her kicking off her shoes and sinking onto the edge of the bed without thought. 

It wasn’t until her conscious mind caught up with what her subconscious was doing – namely, tracking Percy’s body language as he leaned against the bureau across from her, to see what he might do now that the date had come to a natural next step – that she realized she was even thinking of it like a date.

And not only that, but she was open to the idea of…

She mentally shook herself. It had truly been quite, quite a long time since she’d had any sort of partnered fun to be considering Percy as a viable option. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” she decided. 

Percy shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes still on her. “Alright.”

She cleared her throat then pushed to her feet, walking past him. In the privacy of the bathroom, she berated herself silently in the mirror as the water warmed up. If she still did an extra thorough job washing herself head to toe, well, it was only due to how hot the day had been. 

She took as long as she could drying her hair, curl by curl, with a stream of hot air from her wand, stalling in the hopes that the extra ten minutes would be enough to completely sober up. Surely that was the only reason she’d had thoughts about Percy. She decided to ignore that her last drink had been at least an hour ago and she’d nursed it even then.  

Her pajamas weren’t anything fancy, just a pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, nothing Percy hadn’t seen her in countless times in his parents house or the common room, but when she exited the bathroom and walked past where Percy was sitting in the chair to stow her work clothes in her satchel, she suddenly felt quite exposed. 

Her heart was a trilling, rapid thing inside her chest, hyper-aware of where he was sitting just a few feet away, eyes on her as if they'd never left.

He broke the silence first. 

“I tried to Transfigure the chair,” he said, apropos of nothing, and she turned to look at him, and then the unchanged accent chair. 

“Oh…?” She frowned, not following.

“Into something I could sleep on,” he clarified. “But there are anti-Transfiguration charms at play. So…it didn’t work.”

“Oh. Of course.” It wasn’t like she was going to Transfigure the nightstand into a hairpin and sneak it home in a chignon to decorate her own bedroom, but she could appreciate the precaution from a loss prevention point of view. “That’s alright.”

Percy searched her face for a moment, then looked past her to the bathroom. “Mind if I shower?”

“Go ahead.” 

She set to work packing her satchel with all the relevant items and then tidied up the rest for recycling. It wasn’t until she was pulling the curtains shut that it occurred to her he might have used the time she’d been in the bathroom to book himself his own room, rather than attempting to make himself one in her room. 

Percy wasn’t absent minded. He thought through problems the same way she did: logical solutions first, then rational, then creative. There was no way the hotel was fully booked, which meant he’d either gone straight to a creative solution or…hadn’t tried to solve the problem at all.

Did Percy Weasley have an agenda? Was he creating a situation in which he had no choice but to crawl into bed with her, after they’d had a lovely evening socially and a smashing success professionally? Was he angling for a reward?

As she stewed over the implications – and the fact that she still wasn’t viscerally opposed to the concept – she heard the water turn off. 

She leaned her hip against the desk, arms crossed, determined that if he had ideas about how they might close out their trip, he’d have to be quite clear about it. The last thing she was going to do was put herself out there to Percy – she could already see the look on his face as he tried to gently reject her.

The bathroom door opened and Percy emerged. She arranged her expression into something neutrally pleasant but as he walked from the dim hall into the lamp-lit room, it shifted quickly into open-mouthed awe. 

He was shirtless. Her brain short-circuited, processors unable to keep up with the sudden rush of inputs because…because Percy was shirtless, and vaguely damp, and somewhere between toned and muscled, and none of those words had ever been associated with Percy. Not ever.

“Oh my god?” she blurted, staring at the subtle lines that led her eyes right to his–

A soft laugh rebooted her brain. Her eyes flicked upward to find Percy’s on her, expression amused and somewhat pleased.

“Not sure if I should be flattered by that reaction or not,” he said mildly, and the lack of embarrassment at her blatantly ogling him sent her bafflement soaring, as well as her libido. 

Confidence looked good on him. And Godric above, leave it to Percy to be as regimented with his body as he was his work.

Damn him. 

If he asked, she would absolutely let Percy Weasley fuck her. No hesitation.

When he carried on toward her, she worried for a moment she’d said the last out loud, but he was only reaching for his bag where it was propped against the side of the desk. He tucked his folded white shirt inside.

“I couldn’t get the smell of the street food and bar out of it, so I thought it might be preferable to go without. Do you mind?”

“You didn’t pack a spare?” She watched as he flipped the top of his bag shut. "That’s not very practical of you."

She caught the flash of a dimple as he smiled. “No, it wasn’t,” he agreed, then straightened, eyes sliding to hers. 

Only the corner of the desk and a few feet separated them. 

Fine.

This was fine. 

Percy Weasley having an unexpectedly sexy torso was fine. As was his unexpectedly pleasant personality. As was his entirely unexpected ability to match her quip for quip, do complex sums in his head, and devise solutions so elegant, she’d found herself equally impressed and envious.

She wondered if he would be just fine in bed, too.

The thought beget another: what if he was also unexpectedly competent there?

Fuck it. If he was angling for a reward, she wanted one too. 

“Want to do something else impractical?” she offered, managing to not immediately berate herself for caving so easily.

He raised his brows. “Are you insinuating that acting on a series of signs, clear growing attraction, and subtle overtures in physical contact is impractical? This feels like the conclusive next step to me.”

Pretentious prat, she thought, with unmistakable fondness. If that was how he wanted to play this, that was absolutely fine with her. 

She hummed a sound of understanding. “So the shirtlessness is intentional.” 

That made more sense, at least. She wondered how many shirts he actually had in his bag, but set aside the ransacking for later. Instead, she ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek as she let her eyes skim over his chest again. 

“Not sure I’d call this subtle, though.”

His mouth twitched into a half smile. “I’m not trying to be subtle anymore. Now that you seem open to the offer.”

“Offer?” 

His eyes flicked to the bed, then back to hers. 

“Sleep?” she queried, feigning uncertainty. She tempered her resulting grin with her teeth when he rolled his eyes.

“If you like.” His eyes fixed on her bitten lip, head tilting slightly to observe as she released it. “We did have a long day.”

“We did.” She wet her lips, feeling a thrill when his throat bobbed as he watched that, too. “I’m not tired.”

Would he kiss her? Round the desk and press her against it? The image of Percy Weasley shagging anyone against a desk was so incongruent from her perception of him that she couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. 

His eyes darkened at the sound and he took a step toward her. Her heart skipped a beat then made up for it by doubling its pace, her body not moving an inch as he rounded the corner of the desk then stopped with only a few feet between them. 

Curiosity tinged his expression as he looked at her. “This isn’t any of my business but have you…that is, how many of my brothers have you…?” 

Hermione feigned affront at the question. “Are you insinuating that my interest in you is simply me checking another Weasley off the list?”

He gave her a flat look and she sighed theatrically. “None, alright? I’ve never slept with any of your brothers – or your sister. You’ll be my first.”

Good, his expression seemed to say.

He took another step then faltered, a thought knitting his brows. “Not…not your first, though, surely?”

She scoffed. “My first Weasley, not my first ever. I know what I’m in for, don’t fret.”

He assessed the distance between them with a quick check, and when his eyes met hers again, there was a new heat to them.

“Think I’m predictable, do you?” he asked.

What an interesting question. She considered it as she took a step toward him, leaving scarcely a foot separating them now. 

“May I predict a series of events?” she asked, tone light. “Wager a guess as to what I’m in for?”

He inclined his head and she hummed contemplatively.

“I think, if given free reign, you’d kiss me.” She watched for his reaction. He gave her nothing but his whole attention, so she carried on. “You’d kiss me here, and then suggest we go somewhere more comfortable.” She tilted her head to the side, indicating the bed. “I’d agree, of course – it’s so like me to be agreeable – and you’d wait until we were tucked in before kissing me again.”

He was smiling now, but trying not to. It only encouraged her.

“After, say, two more minutes of kissing, your hands would begin to wander. Up, first, into my hair, and then down to somewhere more useful. I think you’d be hard by then. Perhaps achingly so.”

She paused, mind rushing back to that morning, when she’d felt his erection pressed against her, thick and solid. By the way a muscle in his cheek flickered, she wondered if he was remembering it as well.

He let the silence stretch for a moment and then murmured, “Is that it?”

She narrowed her eyes at the unspoken challenge. “No. Once we were both good and worked up, you’d roll on top and shag me. Adequately, I’m sure, but nothing that I couldn’t replicate myself with a conveniently-shaped toy. That's it.” 

He gave her a mild expression, as if she’d told him a rather boring anecdote and he was preparing himself to be polite. “That sounds pleasant enough. You take offense at that order of events?”

She couldn’t understand why he wasn’t letting her bait him. The Percy she knew wasn’t one to let inaccuracies go by unchecked. “That doesn’t sound horrendously boring?” she prompted.

He shrugged a shoulder. “You skimmed over some of the best parts, but I’m not opposed. If that’s how you like it, I’m amenable.”

“That’s not how I like it,” she corrected, then huffed when the edges of his mouth finally curled up. “You’re so irritating.”

“Mm.” He stepped forward, closing the distance between them and curling a hand up into her hair, his palm cupping the base of her skull. “May I offer a different set of events?”

His sudden hold on her had her heart hammering in her chest. 

“If you like,” she breathed.

“I would.” His fingers rubbed against her scalp, sending goosebumps down her arms and raising the fine hairs at the back of her neck. “I’m going to kiss you. Here, as you suggested. And then I want you to take your clothes off and get on the bed.”

“I’m not hearing a difference yet,” she managed, eyes locked on his. 

“Do you want to hear everything I’m going to do to you?” he asked softly, fingers still stroking in her hair. “Or do you trust me to, what was it, shag you in ways you couldn’t replicate on your own?”

She scoffed reflexively, at his audacity. And at hers, for knowing which option she was about to choose.

“You actually want to sleep with me?” she said instead, because it still seemed somewhat unbelievable. “I shout at you. All the time. I’m hyper-critical of everything you do.”

He smiled wryly. “Don’t read anything into this, but I don’t hate either of those things.”

“Really,” she mused, brows lifting as she immediately began to read into it. “Well, isn’t that–”

The rest of her quip was lost to the press of his lips over hers. He held her steady, tilting his head to deepen it, and with a soft gasp, she kissed him back.

His other hand found her waist, gliding down the curve to curl around her hip. Her hands jumped to his sides, his skin shower-warm under her palms. He hummed a pleased sound into the next kiss at her touch, and then another when she trailed her fingers along his ribs, following the ridges of bone until they turned into ridges of muscle.

There were few things that truly surprised Hermione any more – learning she was a witch at eleven had sort of taken the cake – but finding herself kissed senseless by Percy Weasley was up there in one of the biggest surprises of her life. He kissed with purpose, putting intention into every press and retreat, every shift of his lips as he pinned first her top and then her bottom between his. He waited to introduce his tongue until she was practically gasping for it, kissing him with open-mouthed passion. 

When he drew back a few moments later, she was breathless.

“Wow,” she mumbled, still reeling. “I–”

“Still up for more?” he interrupted softly.

She nodded immediately. If he could kiss like that, then what would…Merlin.

“Take your clothes off, then,” he reminded her, hands skimming down from her hair and up from her hip to meet in the middle, holding her to him. “Or shall I do it for you?”

“I can–” she began, then reconsidered. “You.”

She watched his mouth curve into a smile, and glanced up to see his expression. He held her gaze as his hands found the bottom of her t-shirt, fingers slipping under to curl around the hem. She gave him a singular nod and he worked it up and over her head. 

“Merlin,” he groaned. “Gods, look at you.”

She hadn’t put a bra on, either because she’d been so convinced nothing would happen or that it would. She was grateful for the decision now, feeling his burning gaze over her naked breasts.

His hands came up to cup her, filling his palms and squeezing gently, weighing her breasts. The appraisal sent a spark of heat through her which he fanned into a flame with another low groan of approval. 

He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, eyes cutting up to gauge her reaction. She was sure her expression told him everything, as it always did, but even so she nodded encouragingly.

“Feels good.” He pinned her nipples between his thumbs and the sides of his forefingers and applied pressure until she couldn’t help but moan. “Fuck, Percy.”

“You’ll tell me if you don’t like something,” he said, eyes hot on hers but tone firm. 

“Of course,” she replied, like it was obvious, which it was. “That’s my speciality.”

He laughed, expression softening for a moment before he inhaled deeply and it turned lusty again. “And aren’t you just the best at it.”

She absolutely was. But she liked hearing it, so she said “Yes,” a touch breathily, to indicate the double-meaning her response provided.

He acknowledged it with another pinch of her nipples, finding the exact pressure she’d liked best. Gods, why hadn’t she sought out detail-oriented, success-driven partners before? Quidditch thighs and roguish good-looks were all well and good but if the owner of them couldn’t properly utilize them, or even worse, his cock, then what was the bloody point? Give her a clever, determined man any day.

After a tempering squeeze, he let go of her breasts to slide his hands under her pajama bottoms, palming her arse. Her hands were suddenly in his hair, tugging his face to hers in a reflexive response to the confident move. She licked into his mouth and the grip on her arse doubled, his fingers digging in as he hauled her flush against him, sliding his tongue over hers.

She hadn’t realized he’d turned them and walked her back until her legs hit the edge of the bed and she tipped down to her back. He held himself over her and finally broke their kiss to trail his lips down her throat and to her breasts. He nipped and sucked at the swells, avoiding her nipples on his way down to the sensitive undersides and then to her ribs. Her eyes drifted shut without conscious thought but then flew open when she felt his mouth pressing to the front of her pajama bottoms. 

She went up on her elbows in time to watch Percy press his face between her legs and nuzzle at her covered cunt. Her cheeks flushed hot.

“I’m going to kiss you here next,” he informed her, and she realized then that she hadn’t actually answered his question all those minutes ago.

“I trust you,” she mumbled. “Shag me in ways I can’t replicate.”

He huffed a laugh, the heat of it scalding through the thin material of her pajamas. His eyes darted up to share his amusement with her, expression somewhat charmed. “It’d be an honor.”

He stripped her pajama bottoms off, tossing the garment to the side and sliding his hands up her legs, pushing them open and immediately dipping down to press his lips to her clit. She squeaked, hips jerking at the jointly ticklish and pleasurable sensation. He pressed the flat of his tongue against her, applying gentle side-to-side pressure and melting her down into the bedding.

“God,” she breathed, and he hummed a low sound of agreement. 

He worked an arm under her thigh, his hand sliding under to span her lower back while the other curled around her other thigh, fingers splayed out over her mound to hold her open to him. She lost herself in the concerted way he worked his tongue and lips and fingers, exploring enough to find what made her thighs twitch under his hold but then not straying too far.

It was a controlled destruction, executed with precision, and so she didn’t let herself feel an ounce of self-consciousness when her orgasm began to crest barely five minutes in. 

“Oh god,” she keened. “Oh fuck, Percy, I’m–m’gonn’come.”

She lost the rest to a muffled moan as he hummed against her, the vibrations tingling through her from where he had her clit sucked firmly in his mouth. She tangled a hand in his hair, holding him right there, and came with an open-mouthed gasp. 

He worked her through the aftershocks, softening the suction of his lips so he could lick at her with short, slow flicks. They turned long and languid as she relaxed under him, her fingers softening her hold in his auburn waves. 

“You’re so good at that,” she breathed, then propped herself up on her elbows to look down at him. “God. I didn’t expect…how are you so good at that?”

Percy’s eyes met hers, tongue laving once more over her clit before finally pulling back. She still had her hand tangled in his hair and used the grip to encourage him upward. He swiped a hand over his mouth and chin, damp from her arousal and his own saliva, then heeded her request, crawling up her body, pausing to suck on her nipples as he had her clit. 

She sent a hand down his torso immediately and he lifted off her breasts, pupils blown and dark. She found then cupped his erection, and his eyelids sank halfway when she applied a little pressure. 

“What else are you good at?” she wondered mildly, stroking her palm over him.

He surveyed her under him, eyes tracking over her face and down her naked body before he leaned back to sit on his heels between her thighs, hand tracing the path his eyes had taken. When he reached her cunt, she pulled her lower lip into her mouth, teeth biting down in anticipation.

But his hand lifted before he touched her, diverting to his belt, and she watched with open hunger as he unbuckled it, then unbuttoned his trousers. 

“Did you have any idea?” he asked as he worked the zip down. “What it did to me, every time you scoffed at something I said? Or berated me in the middle of the lift queue? When you shouted at me in the Refectory?” 

She shook her head, watching as he slid off the bed and pushed his trousers and pants down his hips. His cock bounced free, so hard it defied gravity for a moment to tap against his abdomen before equalizing at a sharp upward angle. He kicked his clothes away then wrapped a fist around himself.

“This,” he said, voice low, and stroked once. She watched his body respond, abs tensing. “Thank fucking Merlin for Wizarding robes.”

It was preposterous. But she didn’t doubt him. Not as she watched him work himself over, the way his fist tightened as he reached the flushed head of his cock, the deft twist he made around the crown. 

“Would you like me to shout at you now?” she asked, only half-kidding. “Critique your performance?” 

He stroked himself again. “Better not,” he mumbled. “Not if you want me to last at all.”

The thought delighted her, and tempted her. Being able to berate Percy to orgasm was a gift from the universe she’d never expected to be given, and one she found herself quite eager to play with. 

“You can last, can’t you?” she mused, just to have a tiny taste of her power. “Though you’d do better if you weren’t egging yourself on like that.” She indicated his still-stroking fist.

His eyes burned into her. “So tell me to stop.”

“Stop touching your cock, Percy,” she said, as firmly as she could while her pulse raced. He let go immediately, hands falling to his sides.

“Just like that?” she asked. “Anything you won’t do if I tell you to?”

He wet his lips. “Want to find out?”

She did. But another time. This time, he’d promised her a shag of his own devising. 

“I’m sure you know the answer to that,” she replied, voice conspiritorial, and he sent her an amused expression that, yes, yes he did know. “But some other time. I find I’m more curious what you’d do to me all on your own, if given the chance.”

He took her in for another moment and she basked in the heat of his gaze, arching up just slightly to entice him further. He inhaled slowly, deeply, then flicked his eyes to hers.

"Do I have the chance?"

She wet her lips. "Yes."

He hummed a sound of satisfaction, and then his hands snagged her ankles, tugging her to the edge of the bed in a quick, strong movement. She gasped, and then choked on the tail end of it as he rested her ankles on his shoulders, hips jutting forward to glide his cock against her folds. The feel of him against her sent her body into overdrive, flooding her system with sparks of electricity and a rush of endorphins. 

“Hold onto the sheets," he instructed.

Her fists curled into the bedding beside her hips as he slid his hands down to curl around the front of her thighs, holding her still as he tucked his chin and dripped a string of saliva down onto her mound. 

“Fuck,” she blurted, feeling the cool glide of it slip down over her heated, sensitive skin. He slicked it over her with his cock, hips simulating sex as he rubbed the underside of his shaft over her before drawing back enough to notch his tip at her entrance. 

He watched himself push inside her in a single, languid thrust. 

“Wet,” he murmured, and the tinge of accusation in his tone had her lust skyrocketing. “Took me so well.”

“Percy.” She didn’t know what she was asking for, but when his eyes flicked up to hers, she saw the same desperation there.

“So good,” he told her, voice low and reverent. “Can you feel how hard you make me?”

He emphasized it with a slow withdrawal, making her violently aware of every inch of him and then even more so when he slid back deep, his balls tapping against her arse. 

“Yes,” she whispered. “Fuck, it feels so good.”

“Good.” 

His hands found leverage on the fronts of her thighs and he began to set a moderate pace, eyes eating up every reaction that flashed so openly over her face. She kept her fists tight in the sheets, rocking herself down on him as best she could and steadily losing herself to the way his cock was stroking inside her, the angle keeping him snug against her front wall, swollen and sensitive from her first orgasm. 

There was satisfaction to be found in so many facets of the experiences of watching Percy work, and she found that sex with him was perhaps the greatest expression of his very best traits. His determination, when applied towards bringing her to orgasm. His ability to multitask, when he dropped a hand down to thumb at her clit without breaking his rhythm. His chivalry, as he blatantly fought his own crest, cheeks and chest rosy with arousal, glistening with sweat, pupils blown wide, every motion flexing his toned stomach, every breath expanding his chest. 

She demonstrated her own excellent trait of being the best and reached for her orgasm with her whole being, letting it rise up and encouraging it along with fingers around her nipples. 

“Fuck,” he grunted when her walls squeezed around him in a premonitory clench. “Fuck, I can feel you. Going to come on my cock for me?”

He replaced his thumb with his fingers, rubbing in broad sweeps over the entirely of her clit with a desperation that sent another wave of pleasure through her, and she tipped over the edge again. 

“Oh Circe,” he whimpered, hips bouncing against hers and then stalling deep as she spasmed around his cock. “Fuck, you're so good. I don't...can’t–- I’m coming. Oh fuck, I’m coming.”

His fingers dug into her thighs as his hips rocked into her, head tilting back as he groaned out his pleasure while his cock pulsed deep. They caught their breath for a moment, his eyes on the ceiling and hers on the way she could see his heart pounding through his chest. 

When his eyes dropped to find hers, they shared a moment of mutual satisfaction.

“Sorry,” she said after a beat, not trying to hide her smile. He smiled back, even as his brows went up in question. “Can’t find anything to critique about that. You’ll have to do a shittier job next time if you want me to shout at you.” 

His smile broke into a grin, and he barked out a breathy laugh. 

They left for London just after breakfast the next morning. Percy did the honors this time, following the steps exactly to charm the silver fox into a Portkey that would take them all the way from Jakarta to London. Nearly twelve thousand kilometers. 

It boggled the mind, but despite the literal magic of it, Hermione was certain that sorting out long-distance Portkey travel would end up only being the second greatest discovery of the trip. When Percy held his hand out to her, she angled herself to stand beside him, and interlaced their fingers around the figurine. 

He looked down at her, expression open and hopeful, as they were dragged away.

The trip was about as bad as she’d prepared herself for, the intense tugging at her solar plexus lasting a whopping eleven seconds before solid ground rushed up to greet her feet. The familiar surroundings of Percy's office materialized around them, the bookshelves and desk and sodding guest chair.

She couldn’t help staggering to the side and then dropping down to her bum in the middle of his office. Percy’s hand slid from hers, the fox figurine falling down onto the rug beside her as he took two stumbling steps backward, colliding with his desk.

Their success beat a staccato rhythm in her chest, elation and a deep sense of pride. In herself. For so many reasons.

They’d come full circle, but somehow managed to end up somewhere completely different.

Percy's face, when it tilted down to find hers, was certainly making an expression it never had toward her in this room. And when he held out his hand, it promised help and not simply a terse handshake signifying a modest celebration over their joint endeavor. She let him pull her up, keeping the space between them deliciously unprofessional.

And she’d never kissed him in England. Not once. She set to rectifying it instantly, coiling her free arm over his shoulders and rising up onto her toes. 

“We did it,” she said, relishing the words. 

“We did it,” he repeated, and she felt his soft exhalation of amazement. “What a clever fucking witch.” 

She kissed him, hard, slanting her mouth over his fervently and opening to the first flick of his tongue.

And despite the unholy roasting she knew she’d get from Harry and the crinkled-nose confusion from Malfoy, she wanted to see where this would go. 

The potential was there, simmering just below the surface, teeming with untapped energy. The possibilities of what they could accomplish as a team, now that she’d gotten over her anger and he’d stepped past his shame, made her near-giddy. 

But first she kissed him, in his office, in the middle of the day, for a while.