A/N: This one-shot is part of the Coward universe and is set sometime in August 1997, after the Battle of the Seven Potters. Since I started Coward before Rowling published Book 7, this is an attempt to make sense of some of my story's key deviations from canon while happily embracing others. Kingsley and Hermione fighting evil on a Thestral? Too good to pass up, especially in light of Riding Hippogriffs! Riding Hippogriffs is another one-shot that serves as a prequel to Coward and takes place even earlier than Unsung Heroes. If you haven't read Coward, have no fear. Unsung Heroes is set months before Coward begins, so you won't find yourself lost.

This particular plot bunny was born from Rowling's recent revelation that she had originally harbored bigger plans for Florean Fortescue, owner of Diagon Alley's ice cream parlor. In the books, poor Fortescue is kidnaped and killed by Death Eaters for no good reason. I must warn you that this one-shot is not particularly lighthearted. No characters die in Unsung Heroes, but the story is centered around a conversation about a character's death.

Writing a one-shot seemed a good way to ease back into fanfiction. I have neglected my poor stories for years, and I really want to finish them. I owe a Hagrid-sized apology to those of you who started reading Coward back in 2007. Please head to my profile notes if you want to find out more.

Please review if you reach the end of this fic—I've been out of the fanfiction writing game for a while and admittedly need some encouragement and feedback! I am also in need of a good, patient beta. If you are interested in the position, please check out my profile, my other fics, and let's talk.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. J.K. Rowling is queen.

UNSUNG HEROES

By Gueneviere

Kingsley stared at the fake Galleon in his hand, genuinely impressed. He had not even minded Hermione's long, abstruse explanation of the intricacies of her modified Protean Charm and its potential applications.

It was a Saturday afternoon and Grimmauld Place's drawing room seemed enormous with only the two of them in it. Bill, Fleur, and Molly had been here just minutes ago, debating what to do about the wedding in light of recent events. From what he had overheard, the couple had decided to get married quietly at Grimmauld Place and have the larger ceremony they had planned when things were safer. Kingsley had not noticed them go until just now.

He stole a glance at Hermione. They had been spending more time together since their Thestral ride from Privet Drive. It had been an extraordinarily peculiar experience – especially since the witch had been polyjuiced to look like Potter. They had made a good team, taking out three Death Eaters and shaking off one very angry Dark Lord before diving to save Alastor mid-fall in the knick of time. Thank Merlin Voldemort had shot a slashing hex and not an Avada at Mundungus, who had lost what little respect any Order member had for him by apparating away and letting Alastor take the hit.

All in all, the mission could have gone a lot worse. Alastor had gained a battle scar for his collection, and George had lost an ear, but the only casualty had been Potter's owl. Loyal familiars were to be cherished, so he understood the boy's grief, but he was glad that none of his friends had lost their lives.

As soon as the danger was over, Tonks had given him one of her trademark hugs, and, as usual, quickly proceeded to deflate his high spirits. She had spent a good five minutes teasing him about how Hermione was still worlds ahead of him in the flying-magical-creatures category, as the young Gryffindor had now ridden a Hippogriff once and a Thestral twice.

Honestly, these teenagers' lives were unbelievable even by magical standards. As far as he knew, Hermione Granger had no right to claim to fear heights. He was half-convinced that the girl would find herself riding a bloody dragon one of these days.

"Kingsley?"

Hermione, eyes intent and eager, was waiting for his opinion of her brilliant little device. He could scarcely believe that she had created it during her fifth year. Then again, he was starting to believe that there was nothing the witch could not do. "Hermione, surely you know that this is an extraordinary invention. I am sure you could make a tidy sum of money out of it too."

"I might have asked Fred and George to help me get it patented." She paused. "But only after… After it is all over. For now, I just thought it might be useful to the Order."

He looked at her carefully. He could tell that she was trying to avoid the thought of what their world would look like after it was all over – and whether they would even be around to think about patents and investments. Kingsley's sense of contentedness dulled, he tried to shake off his own cynicism as he put the coin down. Unfortunately, he was far more intimately acquainted with cynicism than contentedness these days.

"That is very sensible," he said, serious now. "Your Galleons will certainly help us communicate far less conspicuously than via owls or speaking Patronuses. Not everyone can conjure a Patronus, much less a talking one meant to travel long distances."

Hermione winced slightly at the mention of the speaking Patronuses – the late headmaster's invention. Albus' death was still fresh on everyone's minds, and it stung despite recent revelations.

By now they had been informed via the unlikely person of Florean Fortescue – an Order informant they had all but forgotten about – that Severus had not, in fact, betrayed the Order. Rather, the Slytherin had killed Albus under the headmaster's very instructions to cement the spy's position among the Death Eaters as well as save the Malfoy boy from becoming a killer. The revelation had assuaged people's grief only in that some, Minerva and Alastor in particular, were now also livid that the departed wizard had kept so much from them.

Personally, Kingsley felt for Severus, too. While he had always considered the Potions Master to be a gratuitously unpleasant man, Albus had very possibly ruined his life beyond repair. Kingsley did not know if he would be able to ever fully recover if he were forced to murder a friend. Further, the Slytherin was now cohabitating full-time with a throng of maniacs who would devote every ounce of their scant creativity to devise for him a most horrible death should he be found out. And if, Merlin willing, the Light did manage to win the war, Severus might still not live long enough to see his efforts rewarded. Even if those who knew the story behind Albus' death survived to speak in his defense, Severus might still be convicted to appease Britain's appalled magical community. The Ministry did not have a good track record when it came to fair trials, after all. In fact, the Wizengamot might not even accept the testimony of any Order member; they were part of what their world might still consider an illegal militia after all was said and done. Veritaserum would only prove that they truthfully believed what they had been told.

Florean had shown them a memory as proof, but one's memory of someone else's memory is extremely unreliable – no magical court would ever admit it as evidence. The owner of the original memory could help no further either. Florean had died only a few weeks after relaying his message, and days prior to their retrieval of Potter. The poor man had burned to death in his ice-cream shop during a Death Eater raid.

Kingsley frowned. He suspected that the brave elderly man had been the one to set fire to his shop to protect the Light's only remaining spy, lest the Death Eaters decided to take him during the raid. Bolder than ever, Voldemort's followers had started kidnapping visible members of the magical community both for potential information and, he suspected, for sheer entertainment. It struck him that he felt sorrier for the death of the kindly wizard who had served him ice cream as a child than he did for the assisted suicide of the Order's late leader.

A gentle voice broke his reverie. "Thinking of Dumbledore too?" Hermione was eying him carefully.

He clenched his jaw ever so slightly. "Severus and Florean Fortescue, actually," he replied, but offered no elaboration.

Smartest witch of her age or not, Hermione might not understand. Kingsley knew that many of the younger Order members still hated Severus with the passion of a thousand suns, and were unable to see any fault in their beloved dead headmaster's decisions.

As far as Florean's death went, few of the younger Grimmauld Place residents had dwelled on it for long. They had recently learned about his role as Dumbledore's messenger, but, at the end of the day, he was just another casualty of war. To be fair, retrieving Potter from his Muggle family had been the priority at the time, and few had reason to speculate that the brave shop owner had likely forfeited his life in service to their cause. Kingsley was not inclined to share his suspicions. What was the point of piling a horrid possibility on an already sad tale when there was nothing to be done about it now? He had not even discussed the matter with Tonks. His partner had been worried sick about Lupin at the time after he went missing for two whole days while on a mission to recruit a pack of werewolves in Wales. Everybody was dealing with the share of tragedy these days.

The witch bit her lip. That meant she wanted to ask a question, but was debating whether she should. Kingsley had come to recognize many of her little tells, which, if he was honest with himself, was somewhat disturbing. Fortunately, the Auror was very good at dispelling thoughts that led to personal realizations at odds with his sense of moral rectitude.

A second later, Hermione's lower lip was free once more, her expression now serious. "Mr. Fortescue started that fire himself, didn't he? On purpose."

Kingsley frowned. If he didn't know that the witch would never invade his privacy so offensively, he would have suspected her of using Legilimency. The Aurory had never released the fact that it had been a unicorn wand that had started the fire since they knew nothing much beyond that. Forensics had only been able to recover vestiges of the core in the wreckage. Enough to determine that the last spell cast by the wand to which the core had belonged was Incendio, but not enough to ascertain who had been its owner. Magic was frustrating like that.

Not even the Aurors were sure what had transpired that night. Only the Order was privy to the knowledge that Florean might have wanted to protect, so the notion that the cheerful shopkeeper might have chosen to self-immolate was disregarded entirely. Even with anti-apparition wards in place and no way to escape the raid, a regular civilian would have hidden and taken his chances. The official report on Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour judged the evidence inconclusive, but most of those involved in the investigation speculated that the unicorn wand that started the fire had belonged to a Death Eater.

Kingsley brought his chair closer to the table between them and leaned forward slightly. "What makes you think that, Hermione?"

The lip biting was back. She was far too young for them to be having this conversation. Hermione Granger ought to be playing exploding snap, berating the twins, or reading a dusty tome of theoretical Arithmancy. Like her friends, Hermione Granger should be deliberately holding onto these precious rare hours of peace to enjoy the carefreeness of youth before the war stripped it all away.

What Hermione Granger should not be doing on this day, so uncommonly devoid of tragic news and tense strategy meetings, was discussing a brave man's self-sacrifice with a jaded Auror over a decade her senior.

But Hermione Granger clearly did not care a whit about what Kingsley Shacklebolt thought she should or shouldn't be doing. "Kingsley, did you know that Mr. Fortescue was an expert of medieval witch burnings?"

"I did not," he said slowly, more than a little perplexed. That Old Florean had been a History of Magic aficionado was certainly unexpected, but he did not see how it could be relevant to his death.

"He knew everything there is to know about them," Hermione went on, looking distressed. "When we dropped by his shop, Harry would get free ice cream, and Mr. Fortescue and I would talk about his research. He had a body of work that he never published. I once told him he should, but he laughed it off."

Kingsley hesitated. He did not want to hurt the young woman's feelings if she needed to talk about the shop owner's unacknowledged academic accomplishments to process his death. Still, he needed to know why she believed Florean had started that fire. If the information about the unicorn wand had leaked, perhaps the Aurory had a mole or at the very least someone with a dangerously big mouth.

"Hermione, why do you think Florean started that fire?"

Hermione looked up from the table, where his right hand had mysteriously moved to cover hers. He had not noticed, but he supposed comforting a sad girl was somewhat instinctual. The witch's hands tightened her hold on his, and his heart seemed to skip a beat.

Was that instinctual too?

"Kingsley, Mr. Fortescue knew obscure protective charms that are not taught at Hogwarts or printed in contemporary books." Her face displayed an intensity he had rarely seen her wear before. "Spells used by real witches to protect themselves from fire when condemned to the pyre during the trials."

Realization dawned on him like a blow to the head. "You mean he could have saved himself had he not intended to die in the first place."

Hermione nodded, her small hands still holding his like a lifeline. "There's more. The fire did not spread – I read that much in the paper. During the witch-hunts, magical people would sometimes point the finger at neighbors whose property they wanted for themselves. The townspeople would often set fire to houses with entire families inside. When the magical accusers started the fires themselves, they were careful to spell them to remain contained. They didn't want the lands they hoped to usurp damaged. Many pureblood families built their fortunes on the practice."

That was a horrible history lesson, but he could see where she was going with it. In this, Hermione had to be wrong though. He shook his head, about to speak.

She beat him to it. "I know what you're thinking – there's no evidence that the spell used was anything more sophisticated that an Incendio. But Kingsley, the trick is in the movement of the wand when casting the spell – the curvature of the arc, in fact. The charm at Fortescue's was indeed an Incendio, but I am sure it was deliberately contained to a perimeter."

Kingsley listened, stunned. If her information was accurate, which he did not doubt it was, this explained a lot.

She had slowed down, drained. "I know that the mechanism if not the history behind a contained fire charm is not obscure knowledge. Anyone with an affinity for fire magic and the willingness to do some research might come across the technique in a decent library. But Kingsley, it doesn't make sense." She fixed her eyes on him once more. "Why would Death Eaters care about causing more destruction? They usually use Fiendfyre for that very purpose."

Hermione's revelations had only confirmed his suspicions. If the whole affair were not so unspeakably horrible, the Auror would have applauded the young witch for coming to the same conclusion he had reached without a shred of forensic evidence. She still looked very upset, and Kingsley guessed this knowledge had been troubling her since they had heard about poor Florean.

The Auror rubbed his brow with his free hand, and Hermione – apparently noticing that she had been holding its pair hostage – slowly let go. He wished she hadn't.

"You're right," he sighed. "I flagged the use of Incendio over more destructive fire charms as out-of-character. And Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour was the only store that burned that night. The rest of the raid consisted mostly of kidnappings and curses against pedestrians, not infrastructure. Some Aurors think a Death Eater with a sick sense of humor thought setting an ice cream shop on fire would be amusing, but even so – you are right, the fire should have spread."

"Kingsley," her voice was very quiet now. "Mr. Fortescue knew things that could have destroyed any chance of us winning this war. And Professor Snape – they would have killed him." She looked at him. "You agree with me, don't you? About what must have happened that night?"

Of course he did. As far as he knew, Hermione had closed the case. But would it be right to validate her deductions when they could only serve to confirm a most horrible truth?

His hesitation was brief. This was Hermione Granger, after all. Leaving her to believe herself alone in her suspicions would not make them go away.

"I do." He did not how to make her feel better about the grotesquely tragic affair, so he spoke plainly. "I think Florean was a very brave man. I think he faced an impossible situation, and I think he set the scene and took his life to avoid the risk of being kidnaped and unmasking Severus under torture."

The declaration felt entirely inadequate in the shadow of the enormity of Florean's sacrifice, but no words could make justice to a tragedy of this magnitude. Hermione still seemed very sad, but the frenzy in her eyes had subsided.

Neither of them said a word for what seemed like hours. It was almost as if they were both standing in front of Florean's ice cream parlor right then, watching the flames light up the sky as Diagon Alley's beloved shop burned to the ground. Kingsley realized that he, too, was glad to have someone with whom to share the knowledge of the extent of Fortescue's courage. He sneaked a glance at Hermione. He had never felt so close to her before.

"I know we shouldn't say anything. Not now at least," the brunette whispered, breaking the silence.

He was not happy that she had come to this realization on her own. No one should have to grow up this fast. But, as always, Hermione Granger was right. "Not until after the war," said Kingsley. "It would only invite inquiry into Florean, endanger other informants, and put innocent people at risk."

"I know," she sounded both resigned and heartbroken.

Her tone, half heartbreak and half resignation, sparked Kingsley's anger at Albus once more. "There could be dozens of sleeping agents out there ostensibly acting on our behalf, yet without our knowledge. Who knows who else has been keeping secrets for our dearly departed Commander in Chief?"

He bit his tongue, regretting the comment immediately. It was the kind of thing he might say to Tonks, and only Tonks. It wasn't like him to be anything but composed and professional, and he did not want to disrespect the memory of the headmaster in front of Hermione.

He missed the brief look of guilt on the witch's face, so when silence dawned upon the drawing room once more, Kingsley wondered if he had offended her.

"Dumbledore was a great man, I know that. And I am sad he is gone," said Hermione spoke at last. "But I am so disappointed, Kingsley. Angry, even. The boys don't understand, not yet, but what he did to Professor Snape is unforgivable. And he essentially allowed Death Eaters into a school, for Merlin's sake. Professor Snape knocked me out, which kept me safe, but people got hurt. And it could have been so much worse."

It appeared they were of one mind on this too. Kingsley had to concentrate to maintain his composure instead of adding his two sickles to her tirade.

Hermione was not done. "Had Dumbledore shared his plan with the Order, even the bare bones of it, his posthumous message to us would have been unnecessary, and Mr. Fortescue might be alive. There are other ways to pass on confidential information, anyway." Indignation dripped from her every word. "Kingsley, what if the raid had happened earlier? What good would a spy be to us if we all still believed he was a traitor?"

This clever witch was full of surprises. Out of pure practicality, the Auror knew that sharing his thoughts about Dumbledore's actions with the rest of the Order would be ill-advised. He had remained entirely silent on the subject. But although he did not understand why, things were different with Hermione. He decided that in this conversation, so surreal already; he would allow himself a modicum of openness.

"Hermione, you are preaching to the choir," he confessed, deliberately borrowing a Muggle saying picked up from his days at the Prime Minister's office. That always made her smile.

The girl's lips curved a little, but he had the feeling that if was mostly for his benefit. "I know."

She did? Whatever he might be thinking or feeling, Kingsley prided himself on being unfailingly composed and professional. Stone-faced, if you asked Tonks, who liked to come up with the least complimentary adjectives for her partner and yet was the only one who could read him.

Apparently not anymore, since Hermione seemed to have picked up on his unspoken question too.

"You don't say his name anymore if you can help it. When you do, you clench your jaw before you speak." She gave him another half-hearted smile. "Don't worry – your secret is perfectly safe. I'm sure I only noticed because I'm the daughter of dentists. But I am duty-bound to let you know that you will ruin your teeth if you keep it up."

She seemed to be trying to cheer him up, of all things, and it was working. Mostly because he was strangely pleased that she had been looking closely enough to notice these things about him, which made absolutely no sense. He had spent considerable energy schooling his reactions to the Albus Dumbledore topic.

But he had noticed something about her too, just now. "You don't call him 'the Headmaster' anymore. Not even Professor Dumbledore. Just Dumbledore."

"I guess," she sighed. "Look, please don't worry. I wanted to share my misgivings with someone who would understand. I know there is no sense in slinging mud at the man who, for better or worse, kept the Order together. Not after he's gone, and we must find our way out of this war."

He could see that Alastor's esteem for this remarkable young woman was not just based on her magical skills and common sense. She had a mind for strategy, and the discipline to lead. Hermione Granger might not have been cherry-picked by a prophecy or a murderous dark lord looking for a nemesis, but the witch would do great things. He was sure of it.

"You're wise beyond your years, Hermione Granger," he said tritely. He feared his tone would come across nearly reverential if he did not keep it light.

She looked away. "I wish other people shared that sentiment. If it were up to me, I would do this entire thing differently." The witch looked as though she regretted her words the moment she said them, although they made no sense to him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, getting no answer.

"Hermione," his voice was stern now. "Hermione, what entire thing would you do differently?"

When she turned to face him at last, her expression was entirely nonchalant. "It's nothing, Kingsley. I'm just a little frustrated, and it's nice to complain to someone who will listen. That's all."

Her little smile and shrug might have fooled some, but Kingsley was an Auror for a reason, and he could see the tension in her entire posture.

"Hermione –"

Her smile vanished. "Please drop it, Kingsley."

He would not bloody drop it. This had all the markers of another idiotic plan that for some unfathomable reason could only be entrusted to children.

"Hermione Granger, we both know that if you had not wanted me to know that something is going on, we would not be sitting here discussing the foolishness of Albus Dumbledore's secret machinations." He was rarely this passionate, and he could see a brief flash of surprise come and go across the brunette's face.

She went quiet, seeming torn. "You're right, I think," she said. "I do want you to know there's something going on – I wish I could say more, but I can't. Not now."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she beat him to it. She did that a lot.

"Kingsley," she was looking at him half-pleadingly, despite her stern tone. "I promise I will ask for help if we need it. I reckon we might, down the line, and I will make the boys realize so if it comes to it. But for now – please trust me. I will keep my boys safe."

No Order member would consider those reassuring words, but Kingsley suddenly felt very agitated. "And you, Hermione? Who will keep you safe?"

The Auror was shocked at himself. Where in Merlin's green earth had that come from? He rarely spoke without thinking, and he gathered that was a good thing if this was the kind of saccharine nonsense that came out of his mouth when he did.

Hermione seemed a little surprised at his outburst too, but she took it in stride. "I am very careful, Kingsley. But I do want to cover all my bases, and while I did not engineer this conversation, I did bring you here for a reason."

Hermione picked up her enchanted Galleon from the table. "You know, back in fifth year, we used the numbers around the edges of the coin to reflect the date and time of D.A. meetings. There was a master coin, Harry's, and all the numerals on our replicas would change when he modified his." She stole a glance at him as she pulled out her wand. "But I've been thinking about new ways to use them."

And just like that, she was off. Hermione worked over the coin silently and with great concentration. The enchanted Galleon glowed with every wave of her wand, lighting up their little corner of the room. While he wondered if the cunning girl was just trying to distract him to avoid further interrogation, witnessing Hermione Granger's elegant spell work was a beautiful sight. He kept quiet for now.

The light grew brighter for a moment, before going out completely.

Hermione placed the coin in his right hand and closed his palm around it. The freshly charmed Galleon was pleasantly warm, and he could feel the caress of Hermione's magic against his skin. "I have modified this one. It's yours. You know about decryption spells, of course?"

Kingsley would have been offended by the question, but she was still holding his hand, and his heart was beating alarmingly fast.

"I will design a decryption spell using a unique cipher. When the Galleon warms up, you need only perform the decryption spell over the coin to read the message – we will be able to share more than numbers."

Impressed despite himself, Kingsley pondered the implications of such a method of communication among the Order. Passing on times, dates, and coordinates was helpful, but the ability to share short messages would allow them to report suspicious activity, send warnings, call for reinforcements…

He looked at the precocious witch sitting across from him. "This will save lives, Hermione."

She blushed a little. "I will start working on a batch for the entire Order as soon as possible." She paused hesitantly, a little nervous even. "Just like in the D.A., we will only need the heads side for Order business. The tails side is a perfect replica of a regular Galleon; it will not change when the Protean Charm is cast." Hermione bit her lip, and Kingsley knew there was more.

"Your Galleon is different."

He looked up, waiting for her to explain. His heart was pounding. Why was his heart pounding?

"The tails side of your coin will be linked to that of my Galleon," said Hermione. She looked as though she feared he might object to that.

"Just yours?"

She shifted in her seat. "Yes," she said, before smiling somewhat unconvincingly. "So, you see, if the boys get us into anything I can't handle, you will be the first to know."

"Hermione," Kingsley was at a loss for words. "Thank you."

She perked up theatrically. "But of course! We are comrades-in-arms now – you, me, and Tenebrus the Thestral." She was trying to be funny; he could tell, and he was not surprised that she had made a point to learn their Thestral's name. That bit did make him smile.

"Now don't go spending your Galleon," she said with mock sternness. "It's a fake, and I will not be held responsible for getting the Ministry's best Senior Auror arrested."

Kingsley felt his heart soar, and he instantly knew that he would regret whatever came out of his mouth if he didn't keep it close. But Hermione Granger's presence was like an Evanesco for his good judgment. "I will keep it close, Hermione," he promised, sounding like an idiot. "If you call, I will come."

Hermione beamed at him. This time the gesture lacked any cynicism or pretense, and Kingsley was sure that he would never see an enchanted Galleon brighter than her smile. He was still staring at her in confused fascination when the witch leaned forward conspiratorially. "Who knows? Maybe I'll be the one to keep you safe, Auror Shacklebolt."

He was supposed to chuckle at that, so he did. The truth is he could hardly think straight. She had pulled back, but her jasmine perfume still clung to the air around him.

Hermione, smiling still, gathered the book she had been carrying and put them in the prodigious little beaded purse that never left her side these days. She stood up to go, walking by him as she headed for the door. He closed his eyes, feeling oddly drained.

He sensed her stop behind his chair. She said nothing, and, for a second, he thought he had wanted her to stay so badly that he had simply imagined she had. When he opened his eyes again, she was standing very close to him. "Thanks for the talk, Kingsley. I needed it," she said.

Although he was still sitting, she was so small compared to him that they were almost at eye-level.

"I think I did too." He meant every word.

She was still standing too close, and he could feel every muscle in his body tensing. Hermione was making him feel as though he had wandlessly strayed into enemy territory with no Tonks by his side.

If the girl had noticed his inner turmoil, she was not letting it show. "Kingsley, would you have some ice-cream with me later?"

The Auror did not understand her proposition in the slightest, but he found himself too overwhelmed to ask any questions. She was biting her lip again. He wished she would stop.

"We have some in the pantry, under a freezing charm," she said. "I know it's not Fortescue's, but it seems fitting, you know?"

Hermione Granger's heart was just as astonishing as her brain. It would be the silliest of scenes, of course: a thirty-one-year-old Auror sharing frozen sweets with his teenaged war buddy in honor of a late ice cream-maker-cum-martyred informant. But she was right. It was fitting. And he was… was he moved? For Merlin's sake, he was moved. This girl had a confounding influence on him.

"A chocolate cone and a toast to unsung heroes? I'm in," said Kingsley, marveling that his tone could sound so serene when he felt anything but.

Hermione grinned again, and, just like that, his life was over.

The blinders had come off, and what Kingsley saw frightened him so much he would have given anything to go back to dueling a flying dark lord on the back of a Thestral to make it all go away.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was looking at Hermione Granger, and he wanted her. She was still a month away from turning bloody eighteen years old, and he wanted her. She should be starting her seventh year at Hogwarts for Merlin's sake, and he wanted her. He wanted the girl, and it was taking all of his considerable self-possession not to reach out to touch her there and then.

This was not the day Kingsley had come to realize that Hermione Granger was frighteningly clever, unfailingly compassionate, and wiser than most people twice her age. If he was honest with himself, this was not the day he had first recognized Hermione Granger was a very pretty girl, either. In passing, he had noticed all sorts of little things about the witch. Her eyes were several shades darker than her hair, which was the exact color of milk chocolate and longer than girls seemed to wear it these days. He had spotted the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and he had recently noted that her lips were charmingly full and a very light shade of pink.

By now, he had also detected that her delicate fingers were often ink-stained and that she never wore nail polish. He had come to learn that she frowned a little when deep in concentration and that she favored Muggle writing tools over parchments and quills. He knew that she loved her two best friends more than anything in the world – certainly more than they probably deserved. He had discovered she was ambitious, idealistic, and yet unfailingly pragmatic. Above all, he knew the Order should thank the Fates on a daily basis for Hermione Jean Granger.

All these little epiphanies had come and gone. Kingsley had allowed himself to see that he deeply respected Hermione, that he cared for his safety, and that he was enjoying their burgeoning friendship. A different wizard might have realized what was happening a lot sooner, but Kingsley Shacklebolt had strived to be a man of principle and integrity since adolescence. He lived by the rules. He was always honest and professional. He put bad people away to keep decent wizards and witches safe. He had thought himself to be one among those decent wizards and witches.

Apparently not.

Hermione was still there, unaware of the absolute panic she had unleashed upon him. "It is butterscotch, actually." He stared at her blankly, and she frowned. "The ice cream, Kingsley," she said. "It's butterscotch. Still in?"

Was he? His mind was reeling still, but the nausea had set in. Kingsley was utterly revolted with himself, and he knew he should not put himself anywhere near Hermione Granger until this utterly ridiculous infatuation passed.

Except Hermione Granger was standing right there, looking at him with wide, expectant eyes. Hermione Granger was asking him to mourn the death of a wizard whose self-sacrifice might never be recognized by a soul beyond this room.

"Kingsley?" She had seemed only mildly exasperated a moment ago, but there was no mistaking her wounded tone.

The Auror braced himself. He would do it. They would share that ice cream, and he would give her that closure. And he would protect her from danger as best he could. He would keep her Galleon close. But he vowed to himself then and there that he would put as much distance between them as it was humanly possible for two people living under the same roof. There would be no more heart-to-hearts. He would put an end to this accursed attraction if it killed him.

"Still in," he all but whispered, dread tightening its hold on him like a noose around his throat.

"Excellent. I'll come get you after your shift," she said. Hermione readjusted her purse, flashed him one last smile, and walked out the room. The door closed behind her with a creak.

Kingsley could not shake off the feeling that she had taken something of his with her.

x

A/N: While I took many, many liberties with Florean Fortescue's story, his expertise on medieval witch-burnings is canon. Tenebrus is also Hagrid's favorite Thestral in the books.

Please review! It would make my day. I should be writing a very important paper, but I could not even begin it without posting this first. It is unbetaed for the same reason, so I apologize for any mistakes.