A/N: Wow, another update so soon. Hope you like. This one is also unbeta'd. Of course, come say hi to me on tumblr sometime, where I am also nyxphos!

Trigger warning for violence at the beginning of this chapter. ALSO I will not be individually adding trigger warnings to each chapter going forward. This is an M rated fic. You've been warned.

.oOo.

Ron's blue eyes, usually full of laughter and mirth, are blank - dull, nearly grey in their lifelessness. The sight makes Hermione stop dead in her tracks, trying to process what she is seeing.

"Ron? Ron!" she screams, dropping to her knees harder than she expected, the wood making her knees ache. "Ron…"

She is shaking him, trying to make him move, make him blink, make him react to her presence, but there is nothing. His hand, as she tightens her fingers around it, is cold to the touch, his body stiff as she tries to pull at him. There is nothing.

And then there is the creaking of the hallway, and a hand on her head, forcing her skull to impact with the wall, leaving an ache in her brain and stars in her eyes as she collapses to the floor from the force of the impact. She groans, trying to make sense of the world around her, but the throbbing in the side of her skull is too distracting.

Then there is a hand in her hair, pulling her back, away from Ron and dragging her to her feet. She struggles, as best as she can, still dazed from the impact with the wall; she reaches back, clawing at the hand that is tangled in her hair. She kicks her legs out, trying to get the grip to falter, but to no avail; it is an iron vice, solid and unyielding.

She is thrown against the wall, and the hand is now on her throat; lifting, tightening, until she is trying hard to balance on the tips of her toes to prevent herself from hanging in the grip of her attacker. Struggling for breath, she forces her eyes open, greeted by pools of black and an amused smirk.

"I forgot just how much fight you had in you," comes the deep baritone of Antonin Dolohov, and for just a moment, Hermione is frozen.

"Fuck you," she rasps, but the words burn her constricted throat and she can't be sure they are audible over the ragged air it takes to attempt the sound. The message is clear, though, because those black pools are dancing as the harsh sound of his laughter reaches her ears.

As she digs her nails into his arm, she glances over his shoulder. There, a few inches from Ron's body, is her wand - if she could just…

The grip on her throat relinquishes as her foot makes contact with his shin, but before she can slip past him his hand is in her hair again, her scalp screaming as he pulls her back up before slamming her head back into the wall, once again dazing her - and then she is falling…

Falling…

Falling.

Right off of the edge of the sofa. Her elbow catches on the coffee table right before her spine crashes into the floor, her feet still in the air, hanging over James's legs. She groans from the impact, and her legs fall to the floor as James adjusts, jolted into consciousness from the commotion.

He had fallen asleep sitting up, his legs stretched out onto the coffee table; Hermione realises she likely had slept laying across the sofa, stretching her legs over his lap at some point during the night. He still wears his scarlet Auror robes, though they are unbuttoned, and Hermione is currently tangled in her own black robes, having used them as a makeshift blanket.

"Merlin, Hermione - are you alright?" James asks, reaching a hand out to her to help her back onto the sofa.

She winces, but nods; "I'm fine," she assures him. "But did you sleep there all night? That can't have been comfortable."

James shrugs, grabbing her legs and setting them over his lap again as he scoots her a bit closer to him so he can inspect her elbow. "You're bleeding," he tells her with a sigh, rummaging beside him into the crack of the cushions to pull out his wand and cast a minor healing charm on the broken skin. Then, with a smirk, he looks up at her; "Do you normally throw yourself around in your sleep?"

She shakes her head, watching him work on her elbow. "Just when I have bad dreams," she admits without thinking, grimacing at the sting of magic on the wound. Her throat is dry and sore, and it brings back the memory of hands wrapping around her neck…

She shivers, her whole body shuddering, and James scolds her. "Keep still just a second…" And then he pulls back, tongue between his lips as he surveys his work. "Good as new." He gives her knee a gentle pat as she pushes herself back to the far side of the sofa, checking the spot he had healed with her own eyes.

"Nice work, Potter. Didn't realise you had it in you to be a mediwitch," she smirks.

"You're kidding, right?" he asks, throwing his feet back up onto the coffee table and leaning back, hands behind his head. "You know how my kid was. If I'd not learned at least a few minor healing charms while he was growing up, we'd have been liable to be at St Mungo's every other day," he chuckles. It's short-lived, however, as the smirk drops from her lips and he looks at her seriously. "They fade, y'know. Eventually."

Hermione stares at him for a moment, at the way he stares ahead, lost in thought, and she nods. "I know," she tells him; and she does. She hadn't been lying to Harry when she told him she hadn't dreamt about that night in years; perhaps the previous day had brought up old traumas, but it was unusual that she had that dream again.

"What time is it?" she asks, changing the subject, and James brings one of his hands from behind his neck to check his watch.

"Like, five in the morning."

"Oh good. I can rest a bit yet," she says, yawning as she reclines herself a bit more, stretching her legs out across James's lap again without thinking.

She freezes when she feels James's hand on her ankle. It's just sitting there, a light weight against her skin; he probably didn't even realise. But it's a foreign feeling for Hermione; the relaxed familiarity.

Once upon a time, Hermione had been a very physical person; with her friends hugs, hand squeezes, and arms resting on shoulders had been in abundance. Touching had been her love language - friendship or otherwise. If this had been only five short years earlier, James's hand on her ankle would likely have relaxed her.

As it is now, the feeling is foreign. Not bad, but foreign - and she realises, consciously for the first time in years, exactly how much she had pulled herself away from her friends and family. And after so long of pulling herself away from the comfort of touch, she has to remind herself that it is definitely not appropriate to curl herself against his side and pull his arm across her shoulders.

She lets her head fall back over the arm of the sofa, a small sigh escaping her lips as she forced her eyes closed.

"Do you dream about it often?" James asks, oblivious to her thoughts.

"No," she tells him honestly, sighing again. "I think yesterday just… brought up some old shit."

"I'd be more surprised if it hadn't." Silence, again, but only for a moment. "I'm not going to force you to talk about anything you're not ready to, but I'll say it again; when you're ready, I'll listen. It does help."

She doesn't argue, or make excuses, as she has before. Instead, she reaches down the sofa, placing her hand on his forearm and squeezing it gently. "Thank you," is all she says, and her grip softens as she nestles herself into the crook of the sofa, drifting back into a light sleep while she still had the time.

This one is thankfully dreamless.

.oOo.

When she wakes again, it's to a gentle tapping on glass, the sound coaxing her from sleep rather than jolting. Half awake, she feels hands on her ankles, rearranging the angle that they rest at, and feels James rising.

"Hermione?" comes his voice after a moment, and then his hand is on her arm, shaking her gently. "Hermione, you need to get up."

Hermione's eyes fluttered open as she turned her head towards James's voice. "Mmm… what's going on, James?" she asks, her eyes falling on the parchment in his hand.

"We're being recalled," he says, with a frown, "Back to London - immediately. Something's happened." Hermione sits up quickly, frowning as James continues. "Harry doesn't say what's happened, but he's contacted the Ministerstvo and arranged a portkey for our immediate return."

"We still have much to do here, though," Hermione begins to argue, her frown deepening.

James shakes his head. "The Russian Ministry will continue their investigation and keep us apprised of anything they may find - but we need to go home," he tells her, offering a hand to help her from the sofa. She takes it an begins to pull on her black robes, shaking her head.

"No, James - this is too important, we are too close, we - "

"We need to go home, Hermione." James's voice becomes serious as he walks towards his room, leaving Hermione to straighten her robes. She can hear him rummaging in the room, the click of suitcase locks, and she speaks after him.

"James - no one has been this close to Dolohov in years - "

"Hermione." There is something in his voice that is final, and he is in the doorway, looking back at her. "You are not an Auror anymore - this is technically my investigation, and we are done here. We are going back to London. Now."

Hermione purses her lips, almost pouting, and she suddenly looks like she did when she was younger, and was put out because she didn't like something someone else had to say.

"We can talk about it if you're still mad at me after we get back," he tells her, shrinking his suitcase and tucking it into the pocket of his robes.

"Fine."

She grabs her beaded bag from the coffee table, conceding to follow James. Their trip back to London is surprisingly quick. They check out of the hotel, apparate to the Ministerstvo, and stop into the Aurory to let Maxim's temporary stand-in know they are leaving. With promises to stay in contact from both sides, they make their way to Departing International Portkeys, and before lunch they are back in London, the familiarity of the British Ministry immediately calming Hermione's nerves.

This is only for a moment, however, because they are greeted by a young Auror, Malcolm Alexander, who anxiously begins ushering them upstairs.

"It's a complete mess," he half-whispers in a rushed tone, "There's a meeting of the entire DMLE happening right now. Potter and Brockert are waiting for you two to get started."

Malcolm is right; the DMLE is in complete uproar when they arrive. Every Auror, Hit Wizard, and Magical Law Enforcement Officer employed by the Department is on the floor; sitting, standing, leaning on desks wherever there is room. Harry nods at them as they move to the back of the room, Hermione leaning back onto the wall behind her.

"Attention please!" He addresses the room using what Hermione had come to refer to as his Boss Voice. "At 3:00 a.m. this morning, a group of four infiltrated Azkaban Prison." There was a collective gasp throughout the assembled crowd, and Hermione's back straightened tensely. "They managed to break out nine prisoners. The Lestrange brothers, Corban Yaxley, Evan Rosier, Alecto Carrow, Thorfinn Rowle, Creighton Travers, Sander Selwyn, and Hephaestus Mulciber have been confirmed as the escapees."

Hermione felt sick, and turned her head to gauge James's reaction to the announcement. He was standing as stiff as Hermione felt, his eyes narrowed as he listened to Harry.

"At the same time, a second group of just three broke into the Ministry, and these offices. This was a clear provocation, and it was at this time that one of our own - Auror Roger Davies, was killed. I believe their purpose here was for nothing more than to make us aware they could, if they so chose, and Auror Davies death served no other purpose than to be a message to us. I know this is shocking to hear, but it is of the utmost importance that we do everything we can to ensure that Davies's death was not in vain."

Hermione turns her whole body so her back is to Harry and Brockert. She grabs James's arm, leaning close to him and whispers, "James, this was fucking Dolohov."

He frowns back at her. "Hermione… you just finished saying this morning how close we were to Dolohov, and now you're saying this was him?"

"You don't get it!" she exclaims, then glances around before leaning in closer. "Russia was a warning for me. 'For you, 18/06/96' - the day of the fight in the Department of Mysteries, the day Dolohov almost killed me. Azkaban, Davies - this was a message for everyone - no one is safe. This is all just a game to him."

James considers what she is saying with his intense gaze on her. "We've been working for years with the understanding that the remainders of the Death Eaters have been unorganised and unassociated from each other - it would also appear we were either wrong, or someone has organised them," he thinks aloud.

"Possibly Dolohov himself," Hermione agrees.

"Fair observations, Granger, Potter," comes a gruff voice from behind Hermione, and she whips around to find Brockert and Harry standing there. "Let us convene in the younger Mr Potter's office, if you do not mind."

Hermione nods to the pair, sparing James a glance before she follows to the Head Auror's office. James, being the last of the four to enter, closed the door behind him.

"Why was Davies even here?" Hermione asked, taking a seat next to Brockert. James hung back by the door, leaning one shoulder on the wall.

"He wasn't," said Harry with a serious look. "They took him from his home and brought him here just for us to find. Like you said; it's a warning. He wants to make sure everyone knows they're not safe; not in their own homes, not here. And what about Russia?"

Hermione lets James respond, still a little put out by his chastising earlier (although that feeling was definitely lessened with the knowledge that more than likely Dolohov was already back in Britain. "He was definitely there. At his aunt's house we found two bodies - the aunt, and another victim who turned out to be the niece of their Head Auror. The Ministerstvo is still processing the scene, but I think it was very clear who was responsible."

Brockert turns to Hermione. "What made you so sure that Dolohov is responsible for what happened here last night?" he asks.

Hermione shrugs. "Intuition? He was the last of the big ticket Death Eaters we haven't round up, and I don't think there's a chance that any of the others still around have the capabilities of organising or planning to that extent. It makes sense it would be him."

Brockert nods slowly, considering her words as he turns towards Harry.

"We agree," Harry tells them. "And we have decided that you two are going to keep working the Dolohov case. Our best chance to get ahead of this before the situation gets any worse is to track that fucker down, and hopefully the rest will crumble."

Hermione nods in agreement. Was it only two days before she was yelling at her friend in this very office for pairing the two of them together? It felt like months. But the day before had only managed to show her she needed someone who understood with her through this.

How had that happened?

She had spent years attempting to track Dolohov on her own, in secret. It had never bothered her before; but she also hadn't been this close to him since that night all those years ago. And as much as Hermione Granger - or Hermione Granger-Weasley - hated admitting she was wrong, she had to admit that she wasn't entirely sure what kind of a state she would have been in if she had stumbled across the scene from the day before without a comforting and familiar presence.

"I have an idea on where to start," she says, after a moment. "The Malfoys - I actually don't doubt Draco and Narcissa have been walking a straight line, but Lucius is still in Azkaban. What do you suppose the chances are Dolohov has attempted to make contact with them?"

"Good call," Harry says. "Let's go that direction." It's a dismissal, and they all take it as such, James reaching for the door as Brockert and Hermione move to stand. "Oh, Hermione, could you stay back for a minute?"

Hermione settles herself back into the chair as Brockert and James leave.

Once the door clicks shut, Harry turns to Hermione, his voice urgent. "Hermione, I know I haven't brought this up in a long time, because I have respected your connection to that house, but I feel I must once again urge you to consider moving; especially if Dolohov is active again - "

"Harry, I am not being ran out of my home," she tells him, shaking her head.

"You need to be smart about this - be safe, Hermione. I know we went a little overboard with the wards since the last time - "

"And they will hold," Hermione assured him. "I'm not leaving that house." She stands, moving to the door.

"I'm not going to fight you on it," he sighs, slumping slightly in his chair, "I just wanted you to know where I stand."

"Thank you," she says carefully, hand on the door handle. "I know you care. But it is my choice." Harry nods at her.

Brockert stops her on her way past his office. "What did Potter want?" he asks in his usual gruff bark. Hermione shrugs back at him.

"Personal," is all she says, pausing to salute him before making her way to her own office.

.oOo.

Sirius is sitting at James's kitchen table at his flat when he arrives home, already having helped himself to the Ogden's hidden under the sink. "How was your trip?" he asks, finishing the glass as James hangs his robes on the coat rack beside the door.

"Eventful," James admits honestly, grabbing a glass from the sink and making his way towards the table. "You know. Murders and crime scenes and all that." He grabs the bottle, pouring a generous portion into his glass.

"Is that all?" Sirius asks with a raised brow, and James frowns at the question.

"Yes?" he replies with a frown. "Why?"

Sirius chuckles. "You smell like lavender," he tells his friend, leaning back into the chair he occupies, and then chuckles again at how flustered James gets.

"Jesus, Sirius! I was there with Hermione," James says through clenched teeth, but Sirius appears unaffected by this.

"Oh, I'm aware; I'm not saying you fucked her five ways 'til Tuesday, I'm just saying you smell like you were getting awfully close, and when you first got home you seemed much more relaxed than you usually are." He chuckles again as James glares at him. "Listen; all I've wanted since you lost Lily is to see you find some semblance of peace again, if not happiness. I know you've tried so hard to hide how lost you've been, but you've always been a shit liar. And that poor girl deserves some happiness just as much as you. Have you considered - "

"You stop that thought right there, Sirius Black," James snapped. "Hermione - she's a wonderful young woman. But I have never thought that way about her. She's my kid's best friend - I've known her since she was eleven, for Merlin's sake. There's eighteen years between us."

Sirius pushes himself up from his chair, moving towards the fireplace. "Y'know, I've always thought that one of the bonuses of being a wizard was a long lifespan that makes large age gaps seem insignificant," he laughs out, and James's glass smashes against the back of the fireplace as Sirius disappears in a swirl of emerald flames.

"Bastard," James breathes to no one but himself, but Sirius words are already starting to sink in.

He had been honest; he hadn't ever thought of Hermione that way. But it had less to do with Hermione herself and more to do with the fact that he hadn't thought of any woman in that for far too many years.

His worry was that having someone bring his attention to her would crack the damn.

.oOo.