Archive of Our Own

“UNTIE ME, you bloody bastards!”

Ron Weasley pulled up the sleeves of his Auror robes, trying to cool down in the stifling heat of the room. He had no intention whatsoever of untying the Death Eater bound so neatly to the chair in front of them.

They were standing in the salon of the abandoned Lestrange Estate—not a place one wandered into and accidentally stumbled over a wanted Death Eater. No. They had been led here. By an anonymous tip. The third one in six weeks.

It was always the same. A bound Death Eater. And beside them, a very long scroll of parchment.

The parchment, written with the generic handwriting of the Quick Quotes Quill,  always outlined the crimes committed by the Death Eater in question, the evidence collected against them, and—most infuriatingly—a suggested ruling.

As if someone was doing their job for them.

And doing it a whole lot better.

They had absolutely no idea who this person was.  Or whether they were supposed to stop them. This was vigilante work, after all—entirely unsanctioned by the Ministry—and it came with its own set of crimes. Capturing someone. Binding them against their will.

Even if that someone was a Death Eater. Ron doubted the public would lose any sleep over how this man was treated. Unfortunately, even criminals had rights. 

The criminal in front of them today was Wolfric Mulciber. His war record read like a checklist of prohibited magic: unlawful detainment, interrogation under curse, repeated use of the Cruciatus. No one would have objected to finally capturing him after he disappeared in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts. The last anyone had heard, he had fled to Germany—where the local Aurors had found nothing.

Well, someone had.

Neither Ron nor Harry had any clue what to do with this “perpetrator.” What they did know was that they would take great joy in booking Mulciber—who was thrashing against his restraints, a decidedly stupid move given they were enchanted to send electric jolts whenever he moved. A nifty bit of magic.

“I have rights. You cannot do this. I demand to see my solicitor.”

Ron’s partner and best friend stood beside him, blissfully unaware of the smear of baby puke on the shoulder of his robes. Harry stifled a yawn as he said, “We should probably untie him. Right?”

“Eventually,” Ron said. “But we should check the crime scene again.”

“AGAIN?” the Death Eater yelled, spit flying. “YOU ALREADY CHECKED IT TWICE—”

Harry raised his wand and Silenced him.

“I doubt that’s in line with the Auror Code of Conduct,” Ron snorted.

“I know, I know,” Harry said, yawning fully now. “But James kept us up all night. I slept maybe an hour, and I really can’t listen to another bit of whining.”Another yawn. “What do you want to check? We already tried tracing lingering magic. We looked for any evidence of the person who did this. Mulcy here said himself he didn’t see or hear anything—that he was unconscious the entire time and doesn’t remember how he was captured.”

“It can’t be that there are no traces,” Ron said. “We just haven’t looked properly. Come on, let’s run the tracing spells again.”

Ron pulled his wand and worked through every forensic spell they’d learned. Traces, residues, scent markers—anything. They all came back empty.

Whoever this was, they were far too meticulous to be caught like this. The only thing that could be considered a trace was the note left atop the stack of parchments, folded into a small bird-like shape. Harry had told him it was called origami—something Hermione used to do when she was stressed during exam periods.

Blimey, that had been ages ago. Ron realised, with a dull pang, that he still hadn’t replied to her last owl from Australia. Keeping their friendship alive across oceans wasn’t easy, but they’d found a rhythm that worked. He was genuinely happy for her—her new life, her parents—even if it meant they’d never really had the chance after the war to see what might have been between them.

He sighed, unfolded the paper crane, and found the same message as always: You’re welcome.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he said. “Alright. Let’s bring this bastard in.”

Harry yawned again as he untied Mulciber from his ropes, only for the man to be magically rebound—and Apparated them straight to the Ministry.

They handed Mulciber over to Rauberts, along with the evidence and the suggested ruling, and endured yet another lecture from him and the Wizengamot about how vigilante work would not be tolerated and that they should do their bloody job in capturing the perpetrator.

Two weeks later, they still had nothing.

But their luck was about to change.

An anonymous tip came in reporting that Fenrir Greyback had been spotted in Wales, near South Snowdonia. Apparently, he was squatting in the ruins of a Muggle religious institution—an old, abandoned abbey, as Harry had informed him.

They dropped their sandwiches and made for the Floo, swallowing the last bites of lunch on the run.

Even though they were not officially hunting former associates of Voldemort, they were hunting the hunter of those associates. It stood to reason that if they knew where Greyback was, then their perpetrator would as well.

The plan was simple: stake out the area, observe Greyback, and wait to see if anyone made a move on him. Whether or not they were to intervene in such an attack had been left to their “professional judgement” by Rauberts.

Which meant they would, of course, intervene.

And that no one could possibly blame them if capturing the vigilante happened to take precedence over rescuing the werewolf.

But like every simple plan ever made, it relied on the naïve belief that things might actually go according to plan.

Harry and Ron arrived minutes after the tip came in. Minutes—and yet it might as well have been hours. It wouldn’t have made a difference.

The abbey had already been half in ruins, but the signs of a struggle were unmistakable. Spell scorch marks blackened the stone. Claw marks gouged deep into the walls. 

And in the middle of it all, slumped against the cold masonry, was the body of Fenrir Greyback, his blood seeping into the ground beneath him.

The air left Ron’s lungs as if someone had struck him.

Their vigilante had killed Greyback.

And this time, there was no carefully prepared dossier. No list of crimes. No evidence neatly compiled. No paper bird placed with deliberate care.

Everything was different.

Everything except the message.

Written on the wall above Greyback’s body—spelled out in what Ron assumed was Greyback’s blood—were the words:

You’re welcome.

“Fuck,” Harry said, already moving. “We’re two minutes late. I bet it’s only two minutes.”

He dropped to his knees and tried a resuscitation spell Ron knew was pointless.

Ron barely noticed. He was already scanning the scene, trying to understand what had changed—what had turned this from capture into murder.

“Our perp doesn’t kill,” he muttered. “This must be personal.”

He took a step forward, turning slowly and stopped.

His head snapped to the side. Not because of a sound. Not because of anything he saw.

Because of the smell.

Harry was talking now, but Ron didn’t hear him. He inhaled again, carefully, and the scent unfurled in the air.

Vanilla and wild thyme. 

Ron went still.

He knew that perfume.

He had asked Neville to help him make it—quietly, awkwardly, swearing him to secrecy. Neville had talked about balance and base notes, about how some scents needed time to settle, to become themselves. Ron had listened more closely than he ever admitted.

It had taken weeks to get it right.

Yes, he knew that perfume. 

He had made it. 

Made it for her. 

A bead of sweat fell from his chin and darkened the parchment as Ron dropped into another push-up. He’d long since lost count. The number had blurred somewhere beyond seventy but his form was still clean, his breathing controlled. His muscles moved on instinct while his attention kept circling back to the letter laid out beneath him.

It was Hermione’s handwriting. There was no mistaking it.

He’d chosen to work out at home today, instead of heading to the Auror gym with Harry. His apartment wasn’t as spacious as Grimmauld Place, but he had carved out a dedicated room for training: pull-up bars, weight racks, and a small enchanted mirror that tracked his form, bathing him in a soft glow whenever his posture faltered. Every piece of equipment was conjured and enchanted to his exact specifications, and right now it felt like the perfect place to work off tension.

It also offered the privacy he needed—to work out shirtless, and more importantly, to study Hermione’s letter while moving. He wasn’t ready to share his findings, or rather his growing concerns, with Harry. Not when it involved Hermione. Not when he had so little concrete to go on.

He lowered himself again and his eyes snagged to the top part of the parchment. The letter was dated two weeks ago.

Which, on its own, meant very little. Owls from Australia took longer—sometimes much longer—and there was no reliable way of knowing when exactly she had sent it. A letter dated two weeks ago could just as easily have been written a month earlier. And could have been sent by someone else. 

Hermione could have come to London by Floo. That was precisely why Ron had checked the international Floo logs, under the pretext of a new working theory. He claimed that the vigilante might be entering and leaving the country between kills. Harry had raised an eyebrow at the theory, then gone back to writing his arrest report.

It had given Ron enough cover.

There was no record of Hermione Granger in the logs.

That should have settled it.

And yet.

Ron rolled onto his back and went into sit-ups, levitating the parchment at eye level now reading the words with each lift. His lungs burned, abs screamed, but he kept going, counting each rise silently while tracing every loop of Hermione’s handwriting with his eyes. 

Ron didn’t want to seriously consider the idea that it was her. That Hermione was their vigilante. But the smell at the crime scene had been unmistakable. If you add the birds, the precision, the targets, the careful intelligence behind every step.

Even the attack on Greyback. Yes, that was personal. The things Greyback had threatened her with, once they would have handed over Harry… Ron grimaced as he remembered the look of fear in her eyes, how helpless he had felt, and how he would do anything to be the one to have killed Greyback instead of her. 

He pushed himself off the floor and strode to the metal bars that had magically appeared on the wall as he approached. Gripping the bars, he began pull-ups, each rise a battle between his arms and the heavy questions spinning through his mind. He tried to convince himself that the facts didn’t point toward her.

But no, Ron told himself. Even if the pieces fit, Hermione was many things—but she wasn’t a killer. And he had no proof. No proof she was even in the country.

He lowered himself slowly, sweat sliding down his back, as he tried to recall Neville’s and Ginny’s exact words when he’d asked if they’d heard from Hermione. Both had received recent owls from her, all stamped from Australia.

Which only reminded him of the truth: he had no proof. No one had seen her in London. She hadn’t checked in with anyone. There were no official Floo logs, no Ministry records, nothing tying her to the crime scene. Nothing. Except the smell.

Maybe he had imagined it. Maybe he was wrong about the composition of it.

He hauled himself up again, groaning as every muscle screamed in protest. But no. He couldn’t have been wrong.

Finally, he let himself drop to the floor and stared at his reflection in the enchanted mirror, sweat dripping from his hair and glistening along his shoulders. He knew what he needed to do to stop his spiraling thoughts. He needed to find her.

Ron had never thought of himself as a stalker. Yet here he was, crouched in the dark behind a parked car, watching, waiting for Hermione to step back into her parents’ living room—and wondering if he’d finally crossed that line.

One night, sure—you could call it doing your job. An auror on a stakeout. Even if your partner and your boss had no idea you were watching the potential hideout of the very vigilante you were meant to catch.

Two weeks in a row, though? And the vigilante turned out to be your best friend from school… almost your girlfriend? Yeah. That was definitely edging into stalker territory.

When he went out to find her, he’d figured she would be holed up in any random inn or hotel—probably somewhere in the Muggle world rather than Diagon Alley—but he knew to always check the places no one expected, the spots that were too obvious. 

So he Apparated in the dead of night outside her parents’ house. And he hadn’t believed his eyes. A light glowed in the living room, and there she was—Hermione, dancing. Of course she’d put up wards: from the outside, Muggles would never know anyone was home, and to magical folk, it looked like some old granny with broccoli hair and a hump swaying to unheard music. But he knew. He knew it was Hermione. The way she tossed a curl from her eyes when she settled on the couch, the tilt of her shoulders, the rhythm in her movements, every bit of her was unmistakable.

And the biggest giveaway? Crookshanks, cradled in her arms like a baby, moving along with her.

His chest swelled at the sight. Godric, he’d missed her. Seeing her like this—so free, so happy—made him feel a little lighter, a little more whole, even from the shadows.

If he could have ignored the fact that she was a wanted criminal—a murderer, no less—Ron would have walked up to the front door and asked if he could join her in the dance.

But he was an Auror. And she was a wanted criminal.

So he stayed in the shadows instead, hunched behind a bush or a parked car, watching. Waiting. Hoping to catch her on the way to the next target, to see how she gathered her evidence, and—if he could—stop her from killing again.

But as he watched her step back into the living room, book in hand and a smile lighting her face, Ron realized that lurking in the shadows, watching from afar, wouldn’t be enough for much longer.

Meow.

“Oh, be quiet, you big bloody menace,” Ron muttered as he reached up to the top of the pantry and hauled down Crookshanks’ food. The cat immediately launched himself at Ron’s ribs, all fur and offended dignity, and Ron fended him off with an elbow while prying open the tin. He tipped the contents into Crookshanks’ dish, the cat hovering inches away as if personally supervising the operation.

With the monster now happily slurping down his food, Ron took a moment to look around the living room—and to belatedly assess the impressive number of legal and ethical boundaries he’d crossed in the last few minutes.

He hadn’t wanted to break into Hermione’s hideout. But she hadn’t been home for two nights (yes, he was certain, he’d watched the house all night, both nights) and he wasn’t about to let Crookshanks starve just because Hermione was presumably off somewhere torturing Death Eaters. He probably should have focused on finding out where she was and what she was doing. Harry, after all, was trying to do exactly that. But honestly, Ron cared way more about Hermione coming home to a hungry Crookshanks (even if it was entirely her fault for leaving him alone this long) than about Robards giving him hell for slacking off.

So he’d debated not breaking in for maybe a minute.

Of course, once he’d gone ahead and disabled the wards ( he’d probably missed a silent alarm charm somewhere) he’d discovered that Crookshanks was perfectly cared for. A magically replenishing kibble dish. A flowing water fountain. Typical Hermione.

He felt worse for ever thinking she might neglect her stupid cat, than he did about the actual breaking and entering.

Naturally, he’d taken the chance to give the monster some treats—hoping Crookshanks wouldn’t run straight to Hermione and report him.

And, while he was here, he might as well have a look around. He stepped further into the living room, looking out the window to ensure that his hiding spot wasn't visible from here, moving past the sofa and the low coffee table, taking in the space with an Auror’s eye despite himself, smiling at the family photographs hung along the walls.

He took a deep breath, and vanilla and wild thyme flooded his senses, just as it had when he first stepped into the house.

Oh yeah. He’d been a hundred percent correct. Hermione was his vigilante.

He smiled to himself and looked back at the pictures. He saw Hermione with an ice cream, grinning wide and unguarded. Hermione swatting at gulls in Brighton, clutching her fish and chips like a shield. Hermione holding her Hogwarts acceptance letter with both hands, eyes bright with wonder.

A dull ache settled in his chest as his gaze lingered on the smiling faces of Mr and Mrs Granger, arms wrapped around their only daughter. It wasn’t hard to understand why Hermione was on the path she was on. Even after all these years, she still hadn’t managed to reverse the Obliviate she’d cast on her parents to protect them from the war—the war the Death Eaters had started. The war that was officially over.

But not really. Not in people’s hearts. Not in their minds.

So yes, Ron understood why Hermione was trying to right a wrong she still carried with her. What he didn’t understand was why she hadn't reached out to anyone. Why was she doing it alone?

He stopped short and froze. Or maybe she wasn’t alone.

Even though he hadn’t seen anyone else in the house, and nothing suggested an accomplice, the thought still wormed its way in. Ron didn’t like how quickly jealousy flooded his veins. He liked it even less that it sent him striding upstairs, moving through the bedrooms in a sharp, restless sweep, searching for any sign that Hermione was sharing this place with another wizard.

There was nothing. Of course there wasn’t. He would have seen it during his stakeout.

And yet the thought lingered.

Or maybe she was at his place right now?

Ron’s eye twitched. He took a deep breath, trying to force some sense back into his racing thoughts. He had no right to be jealous—even if Hermione was seeing someone else. Which, by all evidence in the house… she wasn’t.

“Meow,” came a sharp, scolding sound from behind him. Crookshanks emerged, a sock perched precariously on his head—the same sock Ron might have tossed aside while searching (okay, fine, ransacking) through the house.

He blinked and looked around. Fuck. Hermione would kill him. First for breaking in, and second for the chaos he’d left behind. He didn’t know how long he had before she came back, but he moved at top speed, putting the house back in order. Clothes folded and returned to their places, beds straightened, surfaces dusted with a quick spell for good measure.

With the amount of magic he’d used, Hermione would have no trouble tracing the break-in back to him. He’d expected as much—one of her wards would have marked him anyway. He knew the risk, and now, just before leaving, he decided to push it a little further.

During his tidy-up, he had come across the origami paper she had used for the crime scences. With shaky fingers, he folded it into a simple hat—the only shape he actually remembered how to make, thanks to Harry’s impatient lessons. In the center of the paper, he had written a small message:

Welcome home. 

He wasn’t surprised that she had ambushed him in his own home. The note he’d left had been equal parts taunt and invitation, and taking down the wards on his apartment had seemed like a good idea at the time—just in case she decided to take him up on it.

What did surprise him was the wand pointed straight at his head as he stepped out of the bathroom.

Ron wasn’t too proud to admit that a small yelp escaped him when he opened the door and saw—through the steam curling into the hallway—a witch standing in the middle of his living room, hair wild, eyes positively murderous.

He clutched his towel with one hand, the fabric haphazardly wrapped low on his hips, and raised the other in what he hoped passed for a calming gesture.

“Hi, ’Mione,” he started.

“Do not ’Mione me, Ronald,” she snapped. “Do you have any idea what kind of heart attack I had when I saw that someone broke into my house? I was worried sick something might have happened to Crooks!”

“Nothing could ever harm that monster,” Ron muttered under his breath.

The stinging jinx hit him square in the chest.

“Ouch, Mione, that was uncalled for. Look, I wouldn’t have had to break in if you hadn’t left him alone for two nights straight,” he continued, voice sharp. “You were worried sick? Imagine me when I realised you hadn’t come home to feed him.”

“First of all,” Hermione said, affronted, “how dare you imply I would ever neglect my baby like that? And second—how do you even know I wasn’t home two nights in a row? Matter of fact, how did you know I was back in the UK at all? And how did you find me?”

Ron took a deep breath.

“Alright,” he said carefully, “I see we’ve got a lot to unpack here. How about I get dressed, make us a cup of tea, and we talk like civilised adults?”

“No.” Her answer was instant.

“No?” 

“No, don’t get dressed,” she said, then immediately looked like she wanted to hex herself for it. Her eyes were flicking—far too obviously—from his shoulders to his chest, lingering at the small V at his lower abdomen.

Ron raised his eyebrows. He didn’t even bother hiding his smug grin when Hermione went beetroot red, realising he’d caught her staring.

“Well then,” he said pleasantly, “have a seat while I make us some tea.”

She, of course, did not sit down. Oh no—Hermione was pacing his living room, ticking off every law and Auror guideline he’d broken by “stalking” her. She was worried about his job, furious about his “stalking,” and absolutely not pleased that he hadn’t told her how he’d figured out it was her.

Meanwhile, Ron lounged on his couch, legs deliberately spread, calmly sipping his tea—making tiny, carefully placed remarks that only fueled her fire. 

Fuck, how he’d missed her fire. And fuck, how he’d missed that fire being aimed directly at him. He focused with all his might on not getting hard while she listed the ways he was both a terrible and yet brilliant Auror—the perfect balance of praise and criticism, a balance only she ever managed. 

“Ron,” she demanded again, stopping directly in front of him, just out of reach. “Tell me how you knew it was me.”

She began reeling off every charm, spell, and ward she’d used to cover her tracks—to make herself invisible at the crime scene. Every clever precaution she named made his cock twitch in appreciation. Fuck, how was it possible for one person to be that brilliant and that beautiful?

When he didn’t answer, she stamped her foot like an impatient toddler and stepped even closer, still hovering a single, deliberate inch beyond his reach.

He held her gaze with the same smug smile as before, then leaned forward to set his half-empty mug on the coffee table. When he settled back again, he reached out, hands closing around the backs of her denim-clad knees, and with one smooth, practiced motion pulled a still-ranting, thoroughly unprepared Hermione straight into his lap.

Ron had half hoped the move would knock the words right out of her—distract her from how he’d known it was her in the first place. Instead, she fought him, twisting and struggling in his grip, indignation rolling off her in waves—while somehow, maddeningly, still managing to grind against him and make his already-hard cock throb in response.

He swallowed a groan and just managed to catch her wrists before they struck his face. Keeping one hand locked around them, he slid the other to her back and pulled her closer—then shifted his weight and flipped them both, until she was pressed into the couch, flat on her back, with him hovering inches above her.

Somewhere along the way his towel had fallen away, leaving him naked and unmistakably hard, his cock pressed flush between her open legs. That finally silenced her—if only for a moment.

“You want to know how I knew?” he murmured against her skin, knowing even as he did it that he was stepping far past the boundaries he should have kept with his childhood friend, his almost-girlfriend—and doing it anyway. Because it felt right to finally have her pinned underneath him. 

Just as she began to protest, Ron’s hand gripped her throat, tilting her jaw up to hush her. 

“It’s the perfume,” he murmured, watching her pupils dilate as he tilted her face to the side and inhaled deeply at her throat.

“Vanilla,” he noted, drawing another long inhale “And wild thyme.”

He allowed himself to cross another line, letting his tongue trail slowly over her skin. “The perfume I made… for you, right?” he whispered, already certain of the answer.

She nodded, the movement strained against his grip.

If that was even possible, the flutter of her pulse under his lips made him harder still. He bit back a groan as the fabric of her jeans rubbed insistently against his throbbing cock.

“I’ll always remember that smell,” he murmured. “I’ll always remember how you kissed me when I gave it to you as a goodbye present before you left for Australia.”

He pressed his lips to her throat, letting his hips press against her legs again, finding her center with a hard, deliberate movement.

She moaned loudly, and the sound seemed to startle her. The next second, her eyes flew open and she pressed one of her palms against his skin, sending off another hex—this one silent but stinging enough to make his whole body jerk and release her.

She panted as she sat up, pushing him back just enough that he was still hovering over her.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley! What has gotten into you?” she demanded, equal parts exasperated and… undeniably turned on.

“You think the first time we see each other in five years—after you confessed to stalking me—yes, stalking, Ronald,” she repeated, when he rolled his eyes, “you think that… actually, I have no idea what you’re thinking.”

“I am thinking,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, rough purr, “that there’s only one regret I’ve ever had in my life, Hermione. That I let you go. Not that I let you go to Australia—I mean that I didn’t go with you. That I didn’t fight for us, didn’t try to convince you to stay, didn’t try to keep you in my life.”

“Because… you’re it, Mione,” he continued, his eyes locked on hers. “You’ve always been it for me. Always was, always will be.”

“Oh…” she breathed, the blush rising on her cheeks utterly breathtaking.

He yanked a fistful of her hair—something he’d always wanted to do—and the guttural groan that tore from her throat as he pulled her head back and deepened the kiss nearly made him come on the spot.

“I don’t expect you to respond to what I just said—this is… a lot. And it deserves more romance than I’m giving you right now. We’ll talk about it over dinner soon. Yeah?”

She nodded, breathless. “Ron… I missed you so much.”

He let a slow, satisfied smile tug at his lips—and then yanked her hair again.

“No, no, don’t go soft on me now, Mione,” he murmured, nipping at her jaw. “I’m going to undress you… because I’ve dreamed about this almost every day for the last five years. And then I’m going to fuck you in missionary so we can keep arguing about how you call my stakeouts ‘stalking.’”

“Ronald—that’s what it was!” she gasped.

He undressed her slowly, all the while she lectured him on Auror ethics, while his hands and lips roamed every inch of skin she revealed. 

Even though they’d never crossed this line before, it was like Ron had known her body all along. Every touch brought the exact reaction he’d been craving. She moaned, cursed, and—his favorite—begged. Begged for more. More of him- 

And he had plenty to give.