A/N: The delightful ANGSWIN told me to crosspost this fic here so here I am obeying my Lady. She's a fan of crossovers too and has written a dragon's pile of them that I can only recommend you go check out.

Warning: In this fic, Hermione is single and has been an Unspeakable for a little over a decade so she will seem OOC compared to the school-girl Hermione we know and love from the books and that's alright because people usually change as they grow up (especially if they work in the Department of Mysteries).

OoOoO

Hermione smoothed out her robes with one hand, grimacing as she realized too late it was full of fairy dust and she now had a glittery streak all down her front. She shrugged. As an Unspeakable, she seldom went up to the higher levels of the building and, in all the years she had worked at the Ministry, she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had been summoned to the Minister's office.

For the last twelve years - since the end of the war against Voldemort - Kingsley Shacklebolt had happily lead the magical folk of Great-Britain and it didn't look as if it would change anytime soon. Hermione was glad for it. For once, it wasn't an absolute moron at the head of the government. The magical one, at least, she wasn't so sure about the muggle one as she had been a bit out of touch from the world she had been born into.

"Kingsley is waiting for me," she announced to the secretary as she strode through the antechamber and pushed the Minister's doors wide open for a dramatic entrance. She didn't have much time to lose. She had an experiment on the fire, literally.

"Hermione, thanks for coming. Please take a seat," the Minister told, her pushing away the papers he had been fiddling with.

He then turned towards his secretary as she half-ran, half-hobbled on her too-high heels, her hair not as impeccable as they had just been a minute prior. She must have run to catch up to her and tripped on her highly dysfunctional shoes. Six inches, I ask you!

"That'll be all, Sandra. Thank you," Kingsley told his employee as Hermione smirked at the dishevelled woman from her seat.

"So," Hermione said, foregoing any kind of smalltalk to gain them both much needed time. "If I'm here, I guess you have a favor to ask?"

"Perceptive, as usual," Kingsley answered smoothly. "Although it's not really considered a favor when I am, in fact, your employer."

"Debatable," Hermione replied.

"Body-guard duty," the Minister told her, wincing before she had even started groaning about how such a job was so very dull and boring.

"You know I hate that. Why don't you send in one of your aurors. I thought that's what they were for."

"And you know that I kmow Unspeakables have a wider variety of talents for this specific line of work."

Hermione jumped out of her seat and paced exactly twice in front of Kingsley's overly large desk.

"Who?" she asked.

"My contact in the muggle government."

"The Prime Minister?" she blurted out.

That would be a very high-profile job indeed, and, although she had done well in the past with these particular missions, she would never have guessed she would be called upon for it. Surely there were more experienced people out there, she liked theorizing and experimenting more than anything else.

"No. The Ministers of Magic now contact a… behind the scenes man, so-to-speak, one who actually has power over the British government and doesn't change quite as often."

Hermione thought about this for a minute before nodding.

"That makes sense. Who?"

"Mycroft Holmes. I can floo you there to start your duty, effective immediately."

"How long?"

"Two weeks," the Minister answered before looking away. "Probably more."

Hermione sighed loud and long until she had no more breath to give, showing her displeasure as much as she could, but Kingsley's face was splitting into a grin, knowing that if she hadn't left by now, she was in.

"You'll owe me," she warned.

"I pay you a salary," he replied, rolling his eyes.

He then walked over to his chimney, threw in a handful of glittering powder, waited for the flames to turn green and muttered an address she didn't care much about overhearing. She stepped in, just then remembering about the experiment she had left to stew down in the Department of Mysteries. Oh, well. Kingsley could only blame himself when it all exploded, if you thought about it. He'd have to clean up the gooey mess himself.

OoOoO

Mycroft observed curiously as his fireplace turned green. One thing he could say about the wizarding population was that they were always right on time. He expected to see their Minister for Magic walk out, all dark muscles and shiny shaved head, grinning his white grin as he looked genuinely happy to see him for some unfathomable reason.

However, it was his complete opposite who stepped out: a petite woman with long wild hair and a frown, as if he was the one bothering her with his presence in his own home.

"Minister Shacklebolt was busy, I presume," he said, attempting to be polite.

"Who isn't?" she sniped back, throwing him a lazy glance before attempting to pat the soot and -was that glitter?- out of her strange garb. "You're Mycroft Holmes, I imagine? I'll be your bodyguard for the next two weeks apparently, if not more. I presume you would like an unseen protection?" she asked and Mycroft nodded.

"Well, it's not like I could loom over you anyway," she said, craning her neck to look him in the eyes as she approached. "Don't worry, I never lost anyone before and you won't even know I'm here."

And before Mycroft could get his wits together to answer something to take her down a peg or two, she vanished right before his eyes.

He turned around and back again, then closed his eyes, trying to locate her, her footsteps or her breathing at least, but try as he might, he could swear she was not even here. He was about to call her when he realized he didn't even know her name.

"I don't even know your name,' he protested petulantly.

Damn her, she was making him as angry as only his youngest brother usually managed to, and she was doing so in record time too.

"Hermione, or Granger," answered her incorporeal voice right beside his left ear, making him twitch. "Or whatever you call your other underlings and lackeys. I don't really care," she whispered in his right ear.

He shuddered and decided the best course of action was just to forget about his invisible bodyguard altogether. She was simply too strange and unsettling, and he met with Sherlock Holmes on a regular basis, so that was saying a lot.

That night, Mycroft undressed to change into his pajamas with an uneasy prickle nagging him at the back of his neck and he almost called out to the strange woman shadowing him to ask if she was there, but he shook his head, reminding himself to just do as if she didn't exist.

OoOoO

Hermione watched as Mycroft slept. She never called the people she was tasked to protect by their last names. Being an invisible bodyguard, she got to know her charges too intimately for such trivialities. Sometimes better than they knew themselves, so she didn't even bother calling them by anything other than their given names. If she had to, she'd even call the Queen herself Elizabeth and thought that might be the reason why Kingsley would never assign her to royal duty.

Mycroft didn't snore. She thought it might be because he didn't let himself sleep too deeply, always keeping half his brain awake in case he was needed for an emergency. Just in the last two hours before bedtime, he had been juggling staff and resources to avoid two major catastrophes, and that had included dinnertime.

She was not often impressed but she had to give credit where credit was due: this man was actually important, vital even, so she didn't feel as sullen towards Kingsley as she had been when he had given her this assignment.

Settling herself in an extravagantly cosy armchair located in a shadowy corner of the room, she set up wards to shock her into wakefulness if so much as a butterfly's wings fluttered too close to her charge and she promptly fell asleep.

She woke up with Mycroft's strident alarm-clock going off. It was a bit violent. Why did he think he needed such a disagreeable sound to start his day? She waited for the man to traipse lazily towards the bathroom before taking his alarm-clock apart and bewitching the appropriate parts so his awakenings would not be as terrible as they were already.

A relaxed charge was a more malleable charge, she sing-songed to herself as she sauntered over towards the steamy bathroom. The man was just getting out of the shower himself, throwing a large fluffy bathrobe around his lean body and she knew she wouldn't have time to shower herself today without being noticed so she scourgified herself, wincing as the cleaning spell rubbed a bit too forcefully at her cheeks and followed Mycroft back to his room and into his walk-in closet.

Merlin! The man was a diva. It took him a full half-hour to choose a suit, belt, shirt, shoes, cufflinks, cravat and even choosing socks and underpants was a well thought-out ordeal. But then, she had to admit the result was rather impeccable and gave him a sharp, impeccable edge that came in handy when you had to order a whole lot of people around all day.

He took breakfast alone at a very long table and she had to wonder why he had such a long table in the first place. It left her with a sad, lonely impression, especially because he didn't even have a cat.

She watched him eat, stealing a toast here and an apple there when he was focused on his newspaper. She looked over his shoulder to see what had caught his attention so thoroughly and read a bold title that claimed a murderer she had never heard of had been caught. That was good, she supposed. Then the coffee pot caught her attention and she syphoned half of it into her thermos when Mycroft left the table.

Sneaking into his car was easy enough because his pretty assistant, Anthea, was holding the door open for him. Reverse gallantry, she thought, nice.

But after that it was a boring series of meetings with various boring people who had titles and names as long as her arm and could talk a rabid hippogriff to sleep if you gave them a chance. Mycroft might be powerful and respected, but she didn't envy him. His job was dull most of the time.

The week came to an end and Mycroft seemed to have forgotten about her entirely, except when his alarm went off and he cursed it for not ringing as it should. She stifled a giggle as she imagined he probably thought she was slacking off and had left a long time ago when in reality, she had never left him for more than a couple of minutes. Yes, even Hermione had basic needs she couldn't really perform by shadowing her charge nonstop and that included bathroom breaks.

However she was as alert as anyone could be asked to. She knew that if Kingsley had assigned her to protect this man, it meant there was a real threat, whether magical or muggle and she knew by now that Mycroft had more enemies than friends.

Hermione's usefulness was proven that very night when her ward shocked her awake from a much needed sleep. She lit her wand with a soft glow and immediately spotted a black form slytherin its way across the white sheets and towards Mycroft's head.

With one swift cutting hex, the head of the snake, a poisonous tropical breed that could in no way have found its way here by accident, separated from the rest of its sleek body.

Mycroft blinked into wakefulness in mere seconds, giving credence to her theory that he never allowed himself to go into deeper sleep than he could afford. He looked at her, standing right next to him, then to the remains of the snake on the other side.

"Need me to bag it?" she asked with a grin, because Mycroft had a cute frown line that appeared right in the middle of his two eyebrows as soon as he was awake and functional.

"No, thank you," he said without so much as a tremor. "Given the breed of the snake, I have a pretty good idea who sent it. You can just...dispose of it."

Hermione flicked her wand and the corpse and associated bodily fluids disappeared as if they had never stained the sheets. Mycroft's mouth went slack for a fraction of a second and Hermione wondered if he had actually witnessed that much magic before. If not, he was a master at hiding his emotions.

OoOoO

His bodyguard was staring at him. Why was she staring at him? He was almost 100% certain he had not let anything show on his face. He had hidden his surprise at seeing her there, his anger at seeing one of his enemy's pathetic little 'gifts', his disgust at the mangled body on his bed and his awe at seeing another bit of magic performed right before him.

Then she was extending a hand towards his face and he froze, like a deer caught in daylight, not sure of what was happening, before she wiped her warm palm across his cheek, announcing cheerfully:

"There, all gone. Sorry it got so close but those buggers are really fast and sneaky."

And then she vanished into thin air again before he could say anything. But say what? Thank you for saving my life from a most painful death? No, that was her job after all. If he went about thanking all the people who did their job, he'd be wasting the working-hours he already had so little of.

So he turned on his other side and closed his eyes tight, trying to catch the coattails of the dream he had been having before his sudden waking-up. He wasn't sure what it had been about, but it had been nice, and he wouldn't mind a bit more of that in his life. After twenty minutes he gave up and stared into the darkness of his room, trying to locate his bodyguard. If he had to be honest, he had thought she had left days ago and hadn't given her any mind. He had other security agents around him after all, not around the clock of course, but he was now seeing the utility of that.

His eyes rested on the armchair in the right corner of his room and almost slid past it but something caught his eye. He couldn't see anything on the chair itself but there was something not quite right with it either. It took him a few more minutes to realize the shadows were not coherent, a bit distorted, like a picture photoshopped by an amateur.

Gotcha, he thought childishly before falling asleep again.

The next morning, his alarm clock woke him up slowly with soothing music as it was won't to do since his body-guard had arrived. He cursed it out of habit. He had rather liked the shot of adrenalin his previous strident alarm gave him and the machine now barely deserved to be called an alarm-clock. He'd be buggered before he admitted he was just that little bit less stressed in the morning though.

He walked unsteadily to the bathroom and took a piss before stripping and throwing open the doors of his large walk-in shower, turning the taps to scalding hot. Touching his cheek, he could feel it was still a bit sticky from the snake's blood so he energetically rubbed it with soap and a washcloth until it felt raw.

He was alert now, his brain functioning at full capacity, when he wondered where his body-guard was when he showered. Surely, she didn't follow him in the bathroom? He did leave the door between his bedroom and bathroom open, out of habit, but she wouldn't… Oh, goddamnit, she would follow him here, wouldn't she?

"Erm…" he hesitated on what to call her, having never done so before and having always thought of her before as the crazy woman or the bodyguard, both of which sounded a bit rude, especially after she had saved his life last night. His 'lackeys' or 'underlings' as she had called them, he usually called by their first name so he would offer her the same courtesy.

"Hermione?"

Yes, he felt really stupid talking to himself under the shower, his hair still full of bubbles and a soapy washcloth in his hand.

"Yes?" came her corporeal voice. Too close, much too close.

He groaned and tried to cover himself with the small piece of cloth.

"You're in the shower, aren't you?" he asked, too bewildered to be angry.

"Of course I am. How do you think I'd shower otherwise?" she answered easily.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and scrutinized his surroundings. His shower was large, luxurious even, with jets of water at regular intervals, but it wasn't so large that he couldn't spot a clutter of bubbles foaming on his left that had no business to be foaming there in the first place. It was easier to make out the rest of her womanly figure after that and he groaned, feeling his cock twitch at the sight.

"Can't you- you know- magic yourself clean?" he asked, thinking hard about the disgusting things he usually found in his brother's fridge so his budding arousal would please give up and not make a fool of him.

"Sure, and I do, from time to time, but it's really not as effective as a good warm soapy shower. It even stings a little," she replied, not seeming to mind sharing a shower with a man she didn't even know, but that might be due to the fact that she had the luxury of being invisible. "Besides, after last night. I might even follow you into the men's loo too after last night's incident. You never know what could be hidden under a toilet seat."

Mycroft felt his face flush.

"No, please. Your diligence is… admirable, but I insist you wait for me outside of the men's lavatories, as usual."

"Oh no, you misunderstand me, I do follow you into the men's bathroom, I just leave you the privacy of the stall. Although I'm giving that second thoughts now."

Mycroft fell silent as the shower's warm jets hit his back and sides. This is unacceptable, this is unacceptable… the phrase repeated itself in his head until his temporarily-shocked brain came up with a solution.

"How about you sweep the men's loo before I go in, and then wait outside for me?"

Hermione groaned and the foaming bubbles disappeared under one of the water jets, her curves becoming more apparent as the water carried the bubbles down her body.

"You're just making my job more difficult. You should just forget I'm there like you did before."

"That's going to be a tad difficult now that I do know. Contrary to my dear brother, I cannot just delete information from my brain."

"He does that?" she asked and continued when she got no answer. "Oh, alright. Don't be so uptight about it. But I'm not giving up the shower though, it's glorious."

Mycroft smirked and rinsed himself off. He just negotiated a stalker out of his loo and a naked woman into his shower. Not so bad for someone who hadn't even had his first cup of coffee yet.

OoOoO

Hermione felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she observed Mycroft trying to find out where she was standing. He was getting good at spotting her if the conditions presented themselves. The disillusionment charm did not offer a cover as good as the invisibility cloak, but if she stood very still and used a silencing charm on herself, there was really nothing her charge could do to spot her, save throw a bag of flour around and then, of course, she'd stand out like a sore thumb, but he would look equally as stupid with his perfect three piece suit covered in the white powdery substance.

However, his careful scrutiny meant she couldn't yet steal her share of the breakfast and her stomach was rumbling in protest. Mycroft finally relented when one of his minions brought him that morning's newspapers and he was more concentrated on what was happening in the world than on spotting the invisible woman for his own personal satisfaction. She never would have guessed Mycroft had such a childish streak and she found it kind of endearing given his overall too-stern, too-serious personality.

"Damnit!" Mycroft spit out with half his toast before he shot out his phone and typed on it at an impressive speed given the man never seemed to hurry to do anything in his life.

He then walked briskly to the front door, shrugging into his long coat and snatching his umbrella out of the stand y the door, Hermione not far behind with her stomach still protesting at the lack of incoming food. She slipped into the car just as Anthea slammed it closed on her bum startling a squeak out of her. If she didn't know better, she would have thought the pretty assistant did that on purpose. Mycroft smirked as he stared at the each seat in turn, no doubt trying to locate her again, the man just couldn't abide not knowing something so she flicked his ear and he opened his mouth to protest but Anthea appeared just then, taking her usual seat beside him.

The car ride was quiet, except for Anthea's constant typing on her Blackberry and they were soon pulling over into a quaint little street, right in front of a small café called Speedy's.

"You can wait here, Anthea," Mycroft told his assistant who barely nodded in response, her nose hovering over her luminous screen.

Hermione scrambled forward to avoid another hit on her bruised bum as Mycroft exited the vehicle, but the tall man was holding his door just slightly longer than was strictly necessary. Such a gentleman, she thought, knowing she would have to scold him for being a standing target for longer than necessary. Mycroft walked over to a door marked 221B, Hermione shadowing his every step with her wand ready to be fired in one hand and her eyes roaming over the windows and rooftops all around. So many possibilities for a hitman to hide in the shadows here, unacceptable. She deployed a small shield at Mycroft's back, just in case.

Once a chatty old lady opened them and Mycroft dismissed her, they entered a small dark hallway with stairs going up and a smaller set of stairs going down.

"Hermione, can you make yourself visible?" he whispered and so, she did.

Mycroft looked her up and down with a moue of distaste at her clothes. Apparently, long, heavy robes that looked like they belonged in a Victorian-era film were not to his taste.

"Can you make yourself more…" Hermione knew that face. He was trying to find an adjective that wouldn't be too insulting.

"Up-to-date?" she offered and Mycroft nodded.

"I want to test my brother and this little game should bring him to boot," he told her, staring up the stairs and then at her, his eyes widening just a fraction as Hermione morphed her clothes into an exact replica of Anthea's, styling her hair and makeup the same way too.

Mycroft gave a sharp nod and they walked up the stairs, Hermione just a step behind his left shoulder.

The two men in the small flat did not seem overly happy to see them. The tall one in a threadbare bathrobe was obviously Mycroft's brother, although they had nothing more in common than their impressive stature and their cold, calculating blue eyes. The other man was much shorter and homelier, sporting a kind smile as he tried to stay out of the way of the staring contest between the two Holmes brothers.

Sherlock Holmes finally decided to spare Hermione a glance and he seemed to freeze for a second before he looked at his brother again.

"Who is she?" he asked, and for some reason, that prompted the smaller man to pay her more attention too.

"None of your concern," Mycroft said, waving a hand dismissively in her direction.

"But...she doesn't make any sense. Why is she not making any sense?" Sherlock demanded.

"You can't read her? But she's not even-" the small man stopped as the tips of his ears turned red.

"Naked? No, she isn't. Thank you for your brilliant observation, John." Sherlock replied, his eyes never leaving her. His gaze was really disturbing, there was a spark of madness there.

Hermione cocked an eyebrow at the man called John, making him blush some more. Well, this was fun, even though she didn't understand a word they were talking about.

"How about a wager, brother?" Mycroft said. "If you can't guess who she is, you give up your case on the Binkley disappearance."

"It was boring anyway, too much politics involved. And if I win?" Sherlock asked, finally turning his attention back to his brother.

"Then I'll owe you one background-check and you won't see me for two weeks."

Sherlock hummed, his long fingers scratching the stubble on his chin.

"I get three questions." Sherlock bartered.

"One." Mycroft countered.

"One," Sherlock seemed to agree. "And a lick."

Hermione hid her disgust, feeling like a slab of meat being sold at the market, but she trusted Mycroft somewhat not to let his little game become too distasteful.

"You can't just ask to lick people, Sherlock," John said in a tired voice that seemed to indicate it was not the first time he'd had this argument, as strange as that seemed, but his protest went completely ignored.

"Deal," Mycroft said, extending his hand.

"Deal," his brother agreed, shaking the proffered hand once before letting it fall and turning around her like a buzzard contemplating its next meal.

"Let's see," Sherlock said, taking his former place right in front of her, his fingers crossing as he seemed to analyze her one piece at a time. "You're dressed like an office employee, a personal assistant with clothing as impeccable as Mycroft's and with assorted colours at that, so that would seem to be the obvious answer, except you're lacking the blackberry all his previous assistants had and you're wearing the clothes like a costume, not like you're used to them. It's a facade."

Sherlock tilted his head, then looked her up and down, from head to shoulders, ignoring her face.

"You hold yourself like a soldier," he said, glancing at his flatmate, who looked her over with a surprised expression and nodded once while Hermione tried too late to relax her stiff posture. "But you have neither the typical height or built of a highly trained soldier. Of course, you could be an army surgeon like my friend John here. However you're standing just one step behind Mycroft's blind spot, the way a bodyguard would. A bodyguard in an office employee's clothes… that could work as a subterfuge of course."

Then Sherlock approached and took her hands, pulling them towards him the palms up. He studied the both of them and let go of her left hand, one of his fingers ghosting over the calluses and scars of her right hand. He pulled on her index finger and brought it up to his mouth, giving it a lick. He let go of that hand too and closed his eyes.

"No trace of gunpowder, faint traces of...wood polish?" Sherlock opened his eyes, cocking one eyebrow ridiculously high as if this was the last thing he had expected. "Mycroft, I hope you didn't dress up your housekeeper to play a prank on me."

Mycroft gave him a disparaging look and kept his peace, observing his brother's guessing game play out.

"But that smell," he inhaled deeply in her direction and then Mycroft's. "Same soap, same shampoo. Her hair is still a bit damp, which means she would have been taking her shower at about the same time you usually take yours, you're using the same soap and shampoo and you came together, no need for a picture to get the meaning across. Is this your girlfriend, dear brother? That would indeed be most unexpected. So which is it: your bodyguard or your girlfriend?"

"Not his assistant, then?" John asked.

"No, That's a decoy. Too obvious at first glance but lacking in the details," Sherlock said dismissing him.

"And I have one question to solve this little mystery and win the game. I could just ask you if you are his bodyguard and process by elimination for my final answer. But where would be the fun in that? I want to know more than just that and I can then use the background check Mycroft will owe me. So my question is: what is your name?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft growled, a clear warning in his voice.

Hermione took a step forward, catching Mycroft's elbow to stop him from poking his umbrella through his brother's chest. He glanced at her, clearly unsure if he could let her give Sherlock her real name.

"It's alright, Mycroft," she said soothingly. "Even if he makes you search for information on me, you won't be able to give him much."

She looked at Sherlock, smirking: "My name is Hermione Granger and a fat lot of good that'll do you."

And it was true. There would be the usual paper trail of legal muggle documents up until her eleventh birthday and then, nothing. A ghost living in another world that was unreachable for muggles.

"Interesting," Sherlock said, probably to himself. "London accent, probably brought up in the suburbs. Not much information to be found about you would either mean you're a very dull person or a very 'interesting' one. I'm going with the latter, so you probably have a very high-profile in the government or secret services and that may be where Mycroft and you met."

Sherlock paced for a minute as he continued to think out loud:

"She uses your first name. I've never heard any of your employees call you that. And you brought her here, into my flat. That means you trust her more than your usual entourage that you leave downstairs. That would be just like you, using the unlikelihood of you actually having a girlfriend to use her for one of your games."

"So that's your answer, then?" Mycroft asked, his face reflecting none of the glee she was certain he felt.

"Yes. She's your girlfriend," Sherlock replied with a smug look.

"How you deceive me, brother," Mycroft said. "So, as agreed, you will please leave the Binkley case well alone. I don't need you poking your nose in that snake's nest."

Hermione startled at his statement. Was that the reason Mycroft had been sent a deadly snake in the middle of the night? Was he himself mixed up in that case? Hermione had had a hard time finding out how they had managed to sneak in a deadly snake into Mycroft's highly secure chambers, doing it in this place would be a piece of cake.

"I don't believe you," his brother said, trying to catch Mycroft's wrist but Hermione reflexively batted it away with the flat of her hand.

A bit too sharply if Sherlock's vocal complaint was anything to go by. Mycroft gave him a smug expression.

"She is my bodyguard, Sherlock. I am not in the habit of lying for our games. You simply overlooked the degree of...devotion a bodyguard can have for its charge and the degree of trust that earns her in return. Don't be a sore loser and keep your end of the bargain."

Sherlock looked at her and she confirmed this proclamation, although she was surprised about his opinion in the matter. His charges were usually more annoyed than anything else to have her clinging to them like an invisible shadow, and she thought Mycroft was no different, especially after his indignation in the shower this morning.

They closed the door behind them, Hermione just able to catch John's squeaky:

"What? Even under the shower?"

They descended the stairs, Hermione at her usual spot behind, one step behind him.

"Thank you," Mycroft said without turning around, used as he was by now to just speak to her as if she was invisible. "My brother can be a bit stubborn and hates to abandon a case but he can never resist an interesting puzzle."

"You know that was a bit of a cheat," Hermione replied.

"It was for a good cause. I did not break any of our rules for this game. He just doesn't know there are more rules than he's aware off."

Hermione couldn't help but chuckle at his devious logic. Mycroft would have made a formidable Slytherin. She let herself become invisible once more, and conjured a shield just as Mycroft exited. They had barely taken two steps into the street when a staccato of a heavy firearm and screeching tires thundered in the small street. Their own car was too far to hope for an escape, and her shield had been shattered under the heavy impacts, making her visible again as her concentration wavered.

Hermione did the only thing she could still do to protect her charge and threw Mycroft on the ground, covering him as best she could with her body and summoned another shield just as another burst from a machine gun erupted followed by isolated shots from a greater distance. Hermione just hoped some of the shooters were on their side or she would end up receiving more bullets than she could stop. She panted when her second shield gave up. Magical shields that protected against physical damage were incredibly hard to keep up as they sucked up a huge amount of her energy. She used the opportunity of a reprieve in the heavy shooting and the disappearance of the car around the corner to push Mycroft back against the door of 221B, banging on the wooden surface until the door was suddenly wrenched open by a panting Sherlock. Mycroft stumbled in as he lost his balance and Hermione lost her wand and she tried to steady him. She cursed like a sailor but hurried after him, slamming the door shut with a kick and slumping against the door. She stared at the faces around her, frustrated that she couldn't find the one she was supposed to protect.

"Mycroft?" she asked, her eyes finding him as stood taller, having smoothly pocketed her wand.

She smiled in appreciation and he smiled back, before they were interrupted by someone clearing their throat to make their presence known.

"Oh dear," the old lady that had opened them the first time around said, pointing at Hermione.

Apparently, that was all she needed to start feeling the pain blossoming out from her shoulder and she looked down to see the small gaping hole through her charcoal-grey suit and the spreading stain turning her white blouse a bright shade of red.

"Stupid bullets. They're always so bloody messy," she growled. "Can we get back to the car?"

What she really wanted was to use Mycroft's chimney to floo to Kingsley's office, or at least for some privacy to send a patronus requesting a mediwizard's presence. Mycroft didn't need to answer though, as they heard stray bullets still whizzing about.

"Up she goes, then," John intervened with a more authoritative voice than she would have given him credit for.

Sherlock had said he was- something medical… in the army… something. Damn, loss of blood...focus...pain...focus… Hermione pushed away the hands trying to help her up and untangled her wobbly limbs to stand on her own two feet, thank you very much, before stomping heavily up the stairs.

OoOoO

"Well…" John Watson said, a bit miffed at having his help so rudely refused.

Mycroft knew the ex-soldier liked playing the knight in shining armour, it was in his nature, and he fought the smugness from creeping onto his face. Hermione was not a feeble woman to be rescued and he greatly admired that. Still, he remained at her back as she made her way up the stairs with difficult, rasping breaths. It wouldn't do to add to her injuries by having her stumble all the way back down.

The door to his brother's flat had been left open so she stumbled in and crashed on the couch, the last of her strength finally abandoning her as she passed out. It was probably for the best. Extracting the bullet was going to be excruciating since the good Dr Watson did not keep any kind of painkillers in the apartment. Living with an ex-junkie, he hadn't wanted to tempt the devil.

John ordered Sherlock to fetch his doctor's bag and ripped Hermione's clothes away from the wound. Her bra strap had actually been shot clean in the middle. He looked at Mycroft suspiciously.

"What kind of bodyguard doesn't wear any body-armor?" he asked.

"The best kind," Mycroft answered, doing his best to remain impassive as he looked at the blood seeping out the the dark bullet wound.

His stomach lurched. It was much worse looking at a bullet wound when it had been one meant for him. He knew he should actually be riddled with bullets, and Hermione too, given the number of impacts he had heard around them, so she must have used some kind of magic to deflect them all. That was going to be a bit difficult to explain if anyone looked too closely at the crime scene. Sherlock dropped the bag next to John and loomed over them to look at the wound with interest. His brother had strange interests, to say the least.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked pointing at the top of her forearm where raised red lines were just barely visible.

John tugged her sleeve down and Mycroft was too curious himself to stop him from doing it. He read MUD but knew the carved letter continued further down her arm.

"If you're quite done staring, boys," Hermione voice rasped.

Damn, she was awake. Mycroft would have prefered her to be unconscious for the next part.

"Right," John said , wearing his somber doctor face again and slapping on a pair of rubber gloves.

"Bite on this," he advised, shoving something leather in her mouth before digging in her wound with a pair of tweezers.

Hermione barely made a sound as John cleaned the debris from her wound but beads of sweat rolled down her face and she wore a fierce scowl that would have curdled milk in a second. Finally, John declared she had been lucky: the bone had not touched any bones and he had gotten the debris out but he was a bit perplexed that the bullet was whole and had not gone through her all the way.

"Don't stitch it," Hermione ordered. "Just slap a dressing on so I don't bleed out and I'll have it sorted later."

John looked to Mycroft and he nodded. Hermione probably had some way to magic the wound away.

"Sir?" came Anthea's voice from behind them. "Your car is ready. Team Echo and Jigsaw are cleaning things up."

"Thank you, Anthea. We'll be leaving shortly," he replied curtly. "Stay behind to sort things out."

No one missed the curious glance Mycroft's assistant gave Hermione as she left, nor the similarity between their two outfits.

Mycroft pulled Hermione up by her good arm, thanked the doctor and ignored his brother as he left. He tried not to be too overbearing in helping his bodyguard down the stairs. He wasn't sure about the social protocol involved when your bodyguard took a bullet for you and would be relieved when she got herself in one piece again. However, she almost tripped on her way down and Mycroft decided to ignore her protests as she threatened to turn him into a toad if he didn't put her back down this instant. But without her wand, the very one he could feel in his trousers' pocket, her threats were as ominous as a kitten's angry hisses, so in one swift motion, he had her in his arms and they were soon out on the sidewalk.

There were bullets and bullet cases everywhere. Thankfully, his car was armored, and although it was a little battered, it was still in perfect working order. He opened the door and finally let Hermione down so she could enter by herself. She seemed too tired to do anything else but slump back in Anthea's seat and he watched her anxiously as the car drove away.

"Don't make that face, Mycroft. It doesn't suit you," she said. Everything she said always caught him off guard, and it always made him feel better nowaday, even though it might have angered him a week ago.

"We should be back to the mansion soon. I'll reschedule my appointments for the day," he offered.

Two assassination attempts in as many days and he had no doubt they would have been successful if not for Hermione. Even for someone in his position, that was quite a lot so he wasn't going anywhere without her in the near future. Actually, he might even try to get her to stay in his service if he could afford it, although he didn't know what her currency was. Some people were bought with gold, others with favors and more still with promises of freedom or protection, or his silence concerning their dirty little secrets. He couldn't see Hermione wanting for any of these though.

"Reschedule? Don't be ridiculous," she said, wincing and holding her wound when the car hit a pothole in the road. "I'll be as good as new in an hour or so."

"Really?" he asked and he hated not knowing if it was a real possibility with magic or if she was pulling his leg, but she merely smiled enigmatically and he was no closer to the truth.

"I almost forgot...here." Mycroft told her, digging in his pocket to hand her wand over. As far as he could tell, the thing was just a pretty stick, but her eyes positively twinkled at the sight of it and she slid the wand in her sleeve where it disappeared from view. However, he had no doubt she could whip it out in a second if necessary.

"Not turning me into a toad, then?" he asked now that the kitten had its claws back.

She seemed to think on it but shook her head.

"No. I can definitely imagine Kingsley disagreeing with doing such a thing. He's a bit scary when he gets in a snit."

The only Kingsley Mycroft knew of was Kingsley Shacklebolt, the magical world's equivalent of their Prime Minister who was just as intimidating as a grizzly bear too, and here she was talking about the man as if he was a mild nuisance she had to put up with. That would be just like her, of course. She seemed to have no care about social proprieties and it should annoy him to no end, but oddly enough, he found it refreshing. It would be best if he kept her out of sight of the Queen though, She wouldn't find it endearing at all.

"You know him well? The Minister for Magic?" he asked, wondering just when he had gotten so chatty, but in this case, it was the only way he had to get information on her.

That and the fact that she was usually invisible. Somehow, seeing her loosed his tongue.

"Kingsley? Yes, we thought in the war together… You know about the last wizarding war, I imagine, given your position?" she asked cocking her head.

Mycroft nodded, remembering the briefing he had gotten from the magical Minister when he had been appointed new Liaison to the Magical World on top of all his other duties. It had explained a lot of inconsistencies he had encountered in the previous years: a formidable rise in murders, disappearances and punctual amnesias. But that was over twelve years ago and Hermione couldn't be over thirty… Well, that certainly explained a lot about her personality and background.

The car crawled to a stop but Hermione held his arm when he reached for the door.

"There could be another ambush," she said, leaning over him to look out the tinted window on his side.

"Not here, too much security detail in the perimeter," he replied, pushing the door open and stepping out.

By the time he turned to lend Hermione a hand, she was already half-out herself with her wand pointed at him. He recoiled reflexively and she chuckled.

"It's just a shield, don't worry. You can't feel or see it."

"Is it what you used in Baker Street?"

"At your brother's? Yes. But it's tiring to keep up, so if you could…" she waved in the direction of the front porch.

Mycroft lead her in and in front of the chimney she had appeared through in what seemed a lifetime ago.

"Will you be leaving through here?" he asked, wondering if he should call the butler to light a fire first.

"Hell, no," she replied blasting the fireplace to life with blazing flames before slouching in the couch and holding her shoulder. "If I use the floo, I'll pass out from being spinned around before I even get to Kingsley's office."

Instead she waved her wand a couple of times, muttered a strange phrase and a brilliant translucent cat jumped out of her wand. It bounded around them, came to sniff the hem of his trousers before standing to attention in front of Hermione. She talked to it and it ran off and disappeared.

"Messenger," Hermione told him so he must have looked like he needed an explication. "I used to have an otter as a kid, but I prefer this one."

Probably a story there, Mycroft thought, seeing how sad she looked, but he didn't feel like digging in her personal life anymore than he had already would be well received. He settled on the couch next to her and ten minutes later, the flames lighting the room turned green. A man in lime-green clothes stepped out and shook the soot out of his silver blond hair. The man spotted them and Mycroft got up to greet him properly. He introduced himself as Healer Draco Malfoy and he seemed to hesitate upon seeing his bodyguard slumped in the couch.

"Draco," Hermione said, venom dripping from each syllable.

Mycroft marvelled that she managed to say the man's name as if it was an insult in itself. She would do quite well in politics with such a talent.

"Granger," he replied, looking unsure as he kneeled in front of the couch to have a better view of her wound. He took off the temporary dressing Dr Watson had applied and wrinkled his nose when the blood started pooling in the dip of her shoulder blade again.

"Oh, come on, Draco," she said pulling down the sleeve of her blouse to expose her lacerated arm, the word MUDBLOOD burning red in stark contrast to her creamy skin. "It's not the first time you see my dirty blood, is it?"

The doctor gritted his teeth and did something with his wand.

"The bullet has already been extracted?"

"Yes, muggles are good for something, you know."

Mycroft watched their exchange as one would look at a particularly aggressive tennis match, his head snapping from one adversary to the next. But once again, the young man did not respond to her taunt and did another movement with his wand, chanting under his breath. He did another thing with his spell and gave her three small bottle.

"One blood-replenishing potion, drink it now. One pepper up to drink to take now if you intend to be resuming your duties today. And one Skele-grow dose, but only drink it at night if you can rest."

"Yeah, I know the drill," she snapped and took the bottle downing the first two which made steam come out of her ears and flush bright red for a second. She pocketed the last and glared at the doctor, who in turn just ignored her and closed his bag.

"Good-bye, Granger, Mr Holmes," he said and left, not through the chimney but by disappearing right in front of his eyes with a loud bang.

Mycroft looked around, uncertain.

"He's gone," Hermione told him, heaving a great sigh, still lounging in the couch with her head on the armrest.

Mycroft approached and studied her shoulder. The skin there was smooth as if there had not been a gaping hole just a few minutes ago. Mycroft couldn't resist extending his index to trail it down its surface. Magic was truly amazing.

"So, you're alright," he asked.

"Yes, we can get on with your day if you're ready. Sorry for the delay."

Mycroft wanted to scoff at her excuse but she was already disappearing before his eyes and he could almost feel her presence, just one step behind his left shoulder, standing vigil. And, just as he had surmised earlier, it was harder to talk to her when he couldn't see her.

Silent and powerful, always watching over him, Hermione was, in fact, more of a guardian angel than a mere bodyguard, or that's what he would say if he felt inclined to wax poetic, which he never did.