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The Doctor and The Detective

Chapter 10: We Might Have A Problem

Summary:

I hate paperwork. My desk is my least favourite place to be in the world. I prefer to be on my feet, in the field, chasing down answers. Unfortunately, a good portion of police work is done sitting on my arse, scrolling through files and flipping through paperwork.

Neville pauses at the entrance, and upon spotting me, strides into the labyrinth that holds our desks. It’s a maze in here. Whoever designed this setup probably had good intentions, but years of trying to squeeze in just one more chair and one more desk has turned the space into less office, more obstacle course.

“Boss,” he says when he gets close enough to not have to yell, “we might have a problem.”

Notes:

I combined two chapters into one for this :) I'll probably be doing that a lot when chapters have the same pov back to back. I know with ff we're accustomed to fat wordy chapters.

Thank you so much to Happily for the awesome beta and proofing. This story is only as good as it is because of him!

Chapter Text

 

Harry

 

 

I hate paperwork. My desk is my least favourite place to be in the world. I prefer to be on my feet, in the field, chasing down answers. Unfortunately, a good portion of police work is done sitting on my arse, scrolling through files and flipping through paperwork.

Neville pauses at the entrance, and upon spotting me, strides into the labyrinth that holds our desks. It’s a maze in here. Whoever designed this setup probably had good intentions, but years of trying to squeeze in just one more chair and one more desk has turned the space into less office, more obstacle course.

“Boss,” he says when he gets close enough to not have to yell, “we might have a problem.”

“What kind?”

“I was talking to my contact in the MI5—”

“You mean your cousin?” I cut him off, not bothering to let him finish.

“My contact—”

I raise my eyebrow at him in mocking disbelief. He rolls his eyes in exasperation before starting all over again.

“Fine. I was talking to my cousin about the Pettigrew case. He sent me this first thing this morning.”

Without bothering to ask for permission, he leans over my desk and inserts a USB drive into my laptop. After a few clicks on my media player, he turns up the volume and gestures towards the screen, handing me a pair of headphones.

The noise is scratchy, and I can tell immediately it’s from a wiretap.

“I have a favour to ask you. I’m looking for a friend. A special friend. We went to high school together. Rumour has it he lives in your neck of the woods.”

“Of course. Do you know where I can find him?”

“If I knew I wouldn’t need you to put the word out, would I, idiot? His name is Herman. Dr. Herman Granger. I don’t know more than that, other than the fact that he’s currently a doctor working in the city.”

“It’ll be my usual fee.”

“Done.” 

The subject changes and I reach for the cord of the headphones, but Neville shakes his head and indicates I should continue. They spend a minute talking about product before they mention her again.

“What’s so special about the doctor?”

Bidh mi a ‘toirt aire dhomh fhin .”

It goes on after that, but the rest is of no concern to me. I rip the buds out of my ears and give my full attention to Neville.

“Tell me.”

“I was talking to my cousin. He sent it to me this morning. His email said that he thought the name of my witness sounded familiar and that he pulled the tape to verify this morning. Dr. Herman. Only that’s not her real name, right? The guys on the recording made it sound like they were looking for a dude. Do you think they’re looking for her?”

The rumbling in my gut turns into a creature, digging its claws into my gullet. 

“It would be one big fucking coincidence if they weren’t. Who were the wankers on the call?”

Neville shakes his head with an air of obvious irritation about him. 

"No bloody clue. John wouldn't tell me.”

I’m already on the move by the time he finishes his sentence.

“Call him. Now.”

I grab my gun from my desk drawer, checking the chamber before jamming it into my holster. My jacket is next, and I yank it from around the back on my chair, listening at Neville attempting to gather intel from his cousin.

I hold my hand out in front of Neville’s face, and he immediately drops his mobile onto my palm. 

“John, where are you, you bastard? Don’t try to pretend like this whole operation is being run from Banger. If you’re listening to a wire that caught a hit on my witness, then your arse is sitting somewhere in my town. Where are you?”

“Harry, man—”

I cut him off before he has the chance to finish. We make our way out to Neville’s 4X4, and he tosses me the keys and heads towards the passenger side. Good man.

“You tell me where you are right now, or I swear to God, I’ll bust Neville back down to the academy. By the time he’s out of uniform, robots will be patrolling the streets.”

Neville climbs into the passenger side, grinning ear to ear. He doesn’t know me very well if he thinks I’m kidding.

“We rented out an office space on Tenth. I’ll text the address.”

I climb into the driver’s side and toss the mobile back into Neville’s lap before firing up the ignition and peeling out of the parking lot. 

~**~

Bland. It’s the only way to describe this particular block of business complexes. Which is what MI5 wants. They can’t exactly set up a billboard that says Secret Intelligence Service located here. The plaque on the outside of the door says Dr. Fleming, Dentist. 

Cute. 

I didn’t realize MI5 has a sense of humour.

I pull the front door open, and a bell chimes over our heads, letting the office know someone’s arrived. There’s even a receptionist sitting in the front desk, wearing puppy dog scrubs.

Jesus Christ.

I pull my badge from my belt, flashing it into the undercover’s face. 

“I need John,” I say, straight and to the point.

She starts on a general line of denial, but an older version of Neville comes from behind the door, and her excuses putter into silence.

“Back here,” John says, not bothering with so much as a handshake.

“Thanks for letting me know you were in town, arsehole,” Neville snarks from beside me, loud enough to ensure his cousin heard him clearly. John’s shoulders don’t so much as twitch.

He leads us into a back room, where boxes and boxes of papers cover every available surface.

“How long have you been here?” Neville demands, an anger I rarely see radiating from him.

His posture mimics mine, with his hands shoved into his vest, and I duck my head to hide my smile.

John doesn’t bother to answer his cousin, instead turning his response to me.

 “From what Neville told me, your unit is investigating a homicide that might be connected to the Scottish Mafia.”

I fight to keep my expression neutral, but Neville’s surprise is written all over his face.

“You didn’t know?” John asks, looking between us.

“We didn’t have any actionable intel to point us one way or another until my witness showed up on your recording. When was that taken?”

John looks behind him at the agent in a suit sitting behind the desk, waiting for the seal of approval. Boss man stares at me for a moment, before flicking his hand in a go-ahead motion.

“Thursday.”

My eyes bulge at the knowledge that they’ve had this information going on four days and decided to do nothing with it. 

“Has MI5 made a habit of ignoring hits ordered on British citizens?” I squeeze out the words between the anger in my chest.

“There’s nothing on that tape that proves it was a hit, one way or another. As far as we know, they could honestly be looking for a friend they lost touch with after university.”

I snort my disbelief, and turn my back on the men to pull my anger back under my control.

“That’s bullshite, and you know it.”

Neville, still exuding hostility, joins the conversation. 

“We don’t have the Scottish Mob in Hogsmeade. We’re not that sophisticated.” 

“That’s what they want you to think. Hogsmeade is the perfect town to hide an organization like this. Strong drug trade, large enough to blend into the crowd, but not so big that they’d have any major competition. We’ve been building a case on this group for over two years. We followed the trail to Hogsmeade thirteen months ago.”

“Thirteen months,” Neville half shouts, but everyone ignores him. 

“What the hell did the Scottish Mob have to do with Pettigrew?”

“At this point in time, we aren’t able to furnish you with that information. Just know that the person on the recording was a low-level operative.”

“How come I haven’t heard about them on the street then, if you’ve been set up here investigating them for over a year?”

“Because, frankly, it’s been above your paygrade. Up until now, they’ve been operating on a more corporate level. When it comes to the drug trade, they provide services, quietly , to rich bored housewives and stressed out corporate executives. Now from what we’ve gathered, they’re ready to make themselves known as a major player in town. Both sides of the Black Lake.”

I don’t take offense. He’s right. I have no interest in money laundering and corporate espionage. I police the streets, not the boardrooms.  

“What’s the hold-up then? And aren’t you supposed to let local law enforcement know when you set up shop in their town?”

John’s eyes flick between me and his cousin again, and the apprehension is clear in the set of his shoulders.

“We did. They must not have told you.”

He resolutely refuses to look at Neville when he speaks.

“You could have told your fucking cousin!” Neville shouts, all attempts at holding in his anger gone. “Does Gran know you’re here? How did you manage to avoid her in the grocery store in the last thirteen months?!”

Because we’re a city forty thousand proud, but I don’t have the heart to point that out to Neville. Either way, John didn’t answer my question.

“It sounds like you have everything you need. Why are you still here?”

John nods his head along in agreement, then shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Yes. We have a lot. But we still don’t have the top dog. We can’t take down all the bit players without taking him in too. He’d just move and set up shop somewhere else.”

I give Neville a significant look, reminding him of our conversation about Riddle out in Knockturn last week.

“Well, good luck with that. Just give me the name of the men on the recording, and we’ll be out of your way.”

John looks back at his superior again, before trying to copy Neville’s aww shucks facial expression. He doesn’t pull it off nearly as well as his cousin does. 

“I’m sorry, but we can’t risk them spooking and pulling up shop. We have an informant, who’s working on making contact with the boss. As soon as that happens, we’ll take down the whole organization. Until that time, however, we have to let the status quo stand.”

I take a step forward, my fists tightening at my sides. Neville, understandably worried about his cousin, steps up between us, and I take the step back. Neville stays where he is.

“So, what the fuck am I supposed to do in the meantime? Tell my witness we’re sorry that your life is in danger, but we can’t risk fucking up MI5's case?”

John lifts his hands in front of his face, offering a sign of peace.

“No, of course not. We’d be more than happy to take him into the scheme of the witness protection programme, until we wrap all this up. As soon as we get confirmation of the danger.”

“Confirmation?” I ask, disdain dripping from my lips.

“Absolutely.”

“Great. When my witness is on a slab in the morgue, I’ll let them know you’re prepared to protect them now.”

Neville makes a sound of disgust, stepping from between me and his cousin and standing at my side.

“Look, as soon as everything is wrapped up here, we’ll share with you everything you know. You can question anyone you need to. Until then, we can’t risk a local case messing up a two-year federal investigation.”

I let my eyes scan the room, looking for any information lying about that I can squirrel away for when we leave this shite hole.

“Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

Neville turns to leave, but another question comes to me.

“Hey. What did the guy say in the foreign language? I didn’t recognize it.”

The man from the chair answers my question for the first time.

Bidh mi a ‘toirt aire dhomh fhin. It’s Gaelic. Some kind of family motto. It means, I take care of my own. It’s the calling card of the MacCoinnich Mafia.”

Gaelic.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

John makes like he’s going to follow his cousin, who’s shoving out of the room, but at a silent shake of my head, he collapses back onto a table ledge, his breath whooshing out in resignation.

I follow Neville out at a more leisurely pace, trying to gather as much intel as I can. There isn’t much to see. Most of their evidence is tagged and stacked in boxes. It’s a corrupt  organization's case anyway, so the majority of their evidence is going to be on paper. It won’t be physical, like the bullet shells that riddled Pettigrew’s body.

Which just gives me more questions without answers, because I'd bet money Pettigrew had never been in a boardroom in his life. So how is he connected to them? And how did it end with him dead in the middle of the street?

By the time I make it out of the building, Neville is taking his frustrations out on the tires. I toss him the keys, and he catches them out of the air, seemingly grateful to have something productive to do. We’re on our way back to The Lair before either of us speaks again.

“What did we learn?” I ask.

“That we’re totally fucked,” he replies, and I swallow back a chuckle at his language. Neville swears the least out of all of us. I bet his gram used to wash his mouth out with soap.

“Okay. But what else?”

“Pettigrew was playing both sides,” he says with confidence in his voice.

“That’s what we have to find out.”

“But I thought we just told my cousin we’d back off.”

“Not really. I said okay to them, giving us what they had when they could. Did I say that we’d stop our investigation?”

“No.”

“Is it going to make sitting around the table at Christmas Dinner too awkward for you?”

“Not at all, sir” he replies with relish in his voice. I almost pity his cousin at this point. 

Almost.

"Don't-Don't call me sir," I say with a shudder. I'm not that old yet. "You know I hate that."

Nev looks at me quickly and grins.

"Sure thing, boss."

“Now that we know what to ask, we hit the streets again. Branch out. I don’t care what colours they wear or who they report to. Drag their arsees down to interrogation if you have to. Someone knows something about the new player in town. 

“Your cousin fucked up, and he doesn’t even know it yet. I want every scrap of information we can dig up on the MacCoinnich Mafia on my desk by the end of tomorrow. When we get back, grab a team and start pounding the pavement.” 

The silence that falls is comfortable between us, each of us contemplating the next steps in our investigation. 

“What else did you notice?” I ask, breaking the stillness of the car.

There’s a reason why I nabbed Neville straight from the academy, besides our similar upbringing. He doesn’t let me down.

“MI5, and therefore the people on the street, don’t realize Herman is a woman.”

“And that’s what’s going to save her life. This stays between us. I don’t even want you mentioning it in your evening prayers.”

He bobs his head in agreement, looking at me before turning back into the government building car park.

“What’re you going to be doing while I’m sweating my arse off rounding up gang bangers?”

“I get the honour of letting our doctor know that she’s now on the radar of the mob.”

~**~ 

Class is over, and Dean is yammering in my ear about the second gym location he's hoping to open on the other side of the District.

I nod where appropriate and give some random pieces of advice, but really my attention is all on Hermione.

She's in the corner with the rest of the class, putting her equipment back into a small duffel bag. She didn't wear boxing gloves, instead wrapping her hands in exercise tape, and the move made my good impression of her jump another notch. I hate practicing in unnecessary protective gear. How are gloves going to help you when you get into a real situation on the street? Ask your attacker to kindly wait a moment while you get your gear on? 

I don't think so. My uncles would be so proud. 

As if she can sense me staring at her, she glances over her shoulder and scowls. A chuckle escapes me unbidden, and Dean changes his direction to see what’s caught my eye.

Her hair is up in a braid with the tail tucked inside. It's a style that my youngest sister wears often. I've never given women’s hairstyles a second thought, or the first thought for that matter. On Hermione, however, the way her hair is up off her neck lends her a sense of elegance, even in exercise clothes. Her sports top has thin straps that criss-cross down her shoulders and back. The amount of skin showing is by no way indecent, but that doesn’t stop me from both admiring the view and itching to throw a jacket on her.

“Now I know why you honoured me with your presence tonight.” Dean adds.  “Do you know Herman?”

“Hermione,” I answer, not taking my eyes off her, “and yes, we’ve met.”

“Well, I can’t deny you’ve got good taste. Every man in here, myself included, has tried to pick that bird up. She’s like Teflon, we all just bounce right off her. Maybe you’ll have better luck. That arse is fine though. I sure wouldn’t mind trying me a piece.”

Dean’s words set my teeth on edge, and I uncross my arms from my chest and turn to look him in the eye.

Automatically, his hands go up in front of his face. Whether it’s to warn me off or protect himself I can’t tell.

“Whoa man, easy Prongs. I was just trying to give you a heads up. I didn’t mean nothing personal by it.”

“I recommend you start looking at her like you’d look at your baby sister. Or, better yet, like you’d look at my baby sister.”

Dean starts stepping away from me, hands still raised in that annoyingly placating manner.

“I got ya, I got ya. Here you’ve had me thinking you didn’t do the whole girl thing." He smirks at me, eyes bouncing between Hermione and me. "I’ll spread the word man. Herman’s off the market. Good luck with that.”

With a fake salute that makes me want to break his fingers, he turns and swaggers away. He’s right, I don’t do the girl thing. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to talk to her about her safety, and the fact that there’s probably a hit out on her from the Scottish mob. 

Besides, it’s too late to back out now. Hermione, disguised as a tornado, is storming my way. 

She doesn’t bother with a hello. Simply goes straight for the jugular. My type of girl. 

“Did you follow me here?”

Her tone is accusatory, her eyebrows raised. She crosses her arms in front of her chest, and I’m sure any reasonable man would be put off from the fuck you vibe she’s throwing my way. Instead, I admire the way her anger pushes her breasts out just a tad further. 

No. That’s not what I meant.

Her curves are driving me to distraction. What did she accuse me of?

“Would it bother you if I had?” I ask playfully.

Her posture softens microscopically and her eyes flare in challenge. It’s refreshingly intoxicating. Still, I wasn’t in the special forces for so long without being able to sense when my life was in danger. For my own well-being I better stop toying with the storm.  

“Why do you hate me so much?” I ask instead.

So much for that.

“Why do you insist on pushing my buttons?” she snaps without missing a beat.

That is an excellent question.

“Why do you make it so easy?”

I bite the inside of my lip to stop from smiling, and I swear she does the same.

I raise my arms in a playcatting manner, then run my fingers through my hair.

“Yes, I followed you.” I concede. “Not how you’re assuming I did though. I went to the hospital to talk to you and ran into your friend Angelina. She told me you’d be here. I happen to know the owner, so I thought I’d drop by and say hi.”

Her face tightens in skepticism and irritation.

“Angelina told you where I’d be?”

“She did. I’d talk to her about that if I were you. Otherwise, this could become a habit.” 

Her eyes glaze over and I imagine she’s picturing a hundred different ways to maim her friend. I almost feel sorry for Angelina. I'm a trained killer, and even I wouldn't want to be on the other side of that expression.

"Oh, don't you worry about that," she practically growls. "We'll have words, I promise." 

Her face clears, and she gives herself a gentle shake, purging herself of whatever visions were plaguing her. She bites her lip, eyes flicking me up and down.

"So, stalker. What did you want from me?"

Oh, poor word choice. I can think of a dozen different things I want from her right now. She worked hard tonight in class, and sweat is still cooling against her body. I want to make her all sweaty again, then lick the sweat from her skin.

She’s lost the hostility in her posture and is smirking at me instead. I have some innate sense that she’s reading my mind as quickly as the thoughts appear there. This isn’t going how I wanted it to. How the fuck has this girl gotten under my skin already? I need to get laid. It’s been too long. And not from the sassy gorgeous creature in front of me. I make a mental note to call one of my standbys as soon as I’m out of her sight.   

What did I want? 

I need to warn her she’s in danger. But not yet. 

“Nothing, I guess. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She rolls her eyes at me and grins a little wider.

“You’ve never heard of a phone, huh? It’s this really nifty invention that allows people to communicate without having to leave the comfort of your couch. Or in your case, probably your office chair. Somehow, I can’t picture you lounging away at home. Hell, I can’t even picture you in a home. Harry Potter: all business, all the time.”

“I have a couch. I have a nice couch. Big. Comfortable. You’d like it.” 

Jesus Christ, Harry. You’re a hardened Marine for God's sake, and you’re talking to this girl about your couch. I’m ridiculous. This can never, ever get back to Ron. 

“It would have to be big for it to be comfortable for you. You’re practically a giant.”

“Part of me is, that’s for sure.”

Her face crimsons so fast it looks like someone painted it on, and I can tell she’s trying desperately not to take a peek down my body. I’m tempted to flex my hips out once or twice but remember that I’m not interested in this woman. 

Or, in actuality, I’m incredibly interested in this woman, which is why I should be keeping my distance. 

Not chasing her all over town.

“Dean is a friend of mine; he lets me use his place to train sometimes. It’s really the only reason I followed after Angelina told me where you were. Promise."

I put my hands nice and wide, then try to offer an olive branch.

"You looked good in class today by the way, nice form. But kicking a punching bag in a controlled setting is a lot different when applying those techniques to a real person. I can show you a few moves. If you want?”

“A few moves?”

Her tone is full of skepticism, and I guess I can’t blame her. I was talking about my cock thirty seconds ago. 

“Self defence moves. If you’re going to be walking home alone in the middle of the night, you should at least know how to protect yourself.”

Something I can’t read flashes in her eyes, and she drops her workout bag to the floor.

“Yes! Oh please, yes. That. Sounds. Awesome.”

Every warning bell I have is blazing in my head at top speeds and sounds. She agreed to that too quickly, too enthusiastically. The smart thing for me to do would be to turn tail and run, then get my arse back out on the streets. That’s where I belong, chasing criminals. Not chasing tail. It’s too late to back out now, however. 

Hermione gives her bag a swift kick and watches it slide away from us to the other side of the practice mat, then removes her hoodie and tosses it in the direction of her bag.

“I’ve taken a few women's self-defence classes before of course, taught by my campus safety patrol and another offered through my gym, but none of that ever made much sense to me. Maybe you can help it click.” The word click is over enunciated and hard, and I feel the K sound reverberate all the way down to my dick. 

I’ve taught a few women’s self-defence classes before, so I know what type of crap is taught in those things. That’s another great scenario where you want to pause and ask your attacker if you can get in position before they proceed to try to rape you.

“Okay then. Show me what they’ve already taught you, and we’ll go from there.”

“How do you want to set it up?”

This is what I hate about women's self-defence. It’s so staged and preplanned. A woman being attacked isn’t going to be manhandled in the same gentle way some pretend fitness guys are showing her on the mat. It’s going to be fast and painful, and she needs to have her wits about her to get herself out of that situation. 

“I don’t believe in prearranged scenarios. I’ll lunge, you parry, and we’ll see what we need to work on afterwards.”

With that, I make a grab for her. She jerks in surprise, obviously not expecting my attack. I get one hand on the front of her top, painfully aware that with the material of her top my fingers are millimetres away from her breasts, and one hand on the middle of her back when suddenly she slips her foot in between mine. With a hand on each of my own, she pivots in my grip, throwing her arse into my pelvis, then flips me over her shoulder and onto the mat.

“Whumpf!”

In a heartbeat the oxygen is shoved from my lungs as she straddles me across my chest and lets her weight drop squarely into the middle of my breastbone. Before I have time to register what the fuck just happened, she’s flung herself to the side, taking my arm with her, and curves her legs across my chest, straightening my arm between her knees and across her abdomen until I feel the muscles in my shoulder and elbow start to give.

Stunned more from the unexpectedness of the situation rather than the physical exertion of my person, we lay like that for a moment and she gives my arm a tug every few heartbeats, just to remind me who’s currently in charge.

“Did I forget to mention that besides the measly self-defence classes I took with my friends, my parents have had me in martial arts since I was six? My parents—they were afraid of what my swotty bookishness combined with a loud mouth would do to my safety in school, so they went out of their way to ensure I could take care of myself. I’m a black belt in three different practices. Maybe I could show you some moves, huh big boy?”

Bloody Hell. 

In the universal signal for let me the fuck up, I tap her foot three times, and take my first clean breath of air since I thought of this fucked up idea in the first place. She scrambles to the other side of the mat and I push myself to a sitting position, arms on my knees, watching her pop to her feet like a jack-o-lantern, bobbing and weaving on the tips of her toes.

“Come on big man! Is that all you got?”

I watch her bounce around the mat with something like awe.

“You’re not afraid of me at all, are you?”

There’s a strange feeling settling in my chest, and it’s not left over from her sitting on it.

“Not in the slightest,” she drawls, giving me The Matrix motion for bring it on mother fucker .

My smile breaks my face before I have a chance to rein it in. Hell yeah, baby. If she wants to play, we can play.

Leaning back with my hands behind my head I kick up from the ground, landing in a squat then raising to my feet.  I'm right, my uncles would be thoroughly impressed with her. In the meantime, I have something to prove. 

“Okay, little girl. Bring it on.”

She gives me a mocking bow, and away we go.

~**~

While I have experience in a little bit of everything, most of my training has been to take the enemy down as quickly and efficiently as possible. That won’t work here. I want to show her who’s boss, but I don’t want to break her back while I’m doing it. 

I’m still debating about how to best take her down when she makes the first attack, stepping forward and landing a kick across my middle. I decide to let her get a few hits in: that way I can better assess what sort of skills she’s working with. 

Lull her into a false sense of security.  

I let her grab my arm and yank me close, giving her the impression that she’ll be able to pull me down again, then slip under her arm and twist out of her grip, smacking her on the arse in the process. 

A full-throated laugh erupts from her lips, and I freeze in admiration, to better appreciate the glow it brings to her face. Then I know I’ve fucked up. 

Again

Taking advantage of my lapse in attention, she leaps to get her arms around my neck then wrenches me down to her height, dragging me across the mat with her arm around my throat. 

Straining to listen over the blood rushing in my ears, I hear giggles escaping between her heaves for oxygen. Giggles! The woman is fucking laughing at me. 

Enough of this shit.

I wrap my left arm around her back and my right between her legs until they touch in the middle. Swiftly as I can, I rise with her in my arms then slam us to the ground, making sure to take most of the impact upon myself. 

“Who’s the big man now, baby?” 

I rise to my hands and knees on top of her, intending to mouth off some more when she kicks out with her leg, knocking me off balance. Whipping herself around with years of lightning precision, she climbs my back like a monkey, shoving her elbows into my shoulder blades and riding me with a knee in the small of my back while I crash to the floor. 

I have strength and size on my side, but she has the talent to back up her trash talk. I’ll bet money that Judo is one of those practices she’s got her black belt in. Her knees are locked tight against my ribcage and her elbows are digging into my back in just the right position to limit my range of motion. After a second or two of trying to bring my hands underneath me, I use my hands and knees together to push myself off of the floor. 

Her grip on me is supernatural, and we roll several times across the room, each of us grappling for position until we come to a stop with me on top. Using the momentum of our rolling, she switches angles on me, leaning up with her hands at the base of my neck before pulling us back and over again, rolling me over her head. 

This time she follows me over so that she again lands in the position of power. I’m pinned with my head between her knees, her ankles pressed to my biceps holding my arms to the ground. She stops her momentum with both hands placed firmly on the ground in front of her, and shoots me a cheeky grin as she rises to a sitting position on my chest.

“Now this, I could get used to. You, between my legs, flat on your back underneath me” She mocks. “How’s it look from the spot down there?”  

Without bothering with a response, I lift my legs to wrap around her body, crossing them at the ankles and pressing into her chest. She lets out a satisfying, “oooft,” while she fights the reversal of our positions. This is where strength comes into play. She may be fast, but she can’t out muscle me. 

I thought she’d surrender when I gained the upper hand. Instead, she tightens her thighs around my throat and crosses her feet at the ankle in a classic choke manoeuvre. We’re twisted up like pretzels, legs and arms wrapped and trapped against each other and faces squished between knees and feet. 

With no one willing to admit defeat, she tightens her muscles again, and we tip to the side like Humpty Dumpty, both still thrusting and wiggling in our grips. When she thrusts again trying to loosen my grip I have to close my eyes and pretend that it’s Neville’s crotch pressed up against my chin and not the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met.

Unwilling to surrender, but unable to take the torture of her body so close to my face, I cheat, and tickle the inside of her thigh. The blood rushes to my brain as her knees immediately slacken their grip, and I open my limbs to allow her the opportunity to scramble free.

“Don’t tickle, don’t tickle, I’ll pee,” she says, then skitters like a dog on tile trying to get her footing before I get to mine. Smaller and faster as she is, she beats me to position and climbs up my back as I’m rising to my feet, wrapping her arms around my neck in a move meant to render your attacker unconscious. I have size on my side, and before she can tighten her hold enough to make me tap out, I rise to my full height, grasping her tightened arm in both of my hands, and flip her over my shoulder to land with a smack against the mat.

I won’t deny it’s not a heady feeling watching her go arse over end as she hits the ground. Her arms and legs are screwed in different directions, and her chest is heaving as she gulps oxygen into her lungs.

I lick my lips and look at her hot and sweaty below me, getting my breath back enough to snark, “For future reference, I prefer being on top. No offense, but it’s a man thing, ya know.”

Still panting, she shoots me a dirty look, then crooks her finger in my direction, leaving her hand up to grasp. I reach down to help her back to her feet, and am blindsided by a sweep of her legs. With a crash and a groan, I lay prone next to her on the mat, chest heaving just as fast as hers is.

“You—” Heave . “Don’t know what you’re missing.” Her breathing slows, merging into deep puffs. “My thigh muscles are amazing.” 

Fuuuuuck. 

The image of my face pinned between her legs is going to haunt me until the day I die. On my tombstone, it’ll read ‘Here lies Harry, the man who dreamt about Hermione's thighs until the end of time.’ She’s absolutely ruined me for the rest of my miserable life. 

There’s nothing I can do about it now other than go with it.

“Want to go get a cuppa?” I ask, still staring at the ceiling, heartbeat finally returning to normal.

“Sounds great. I could use a drink after this.” 

I still haven’t told her about the recording.