Two Step

Hermione was cooking dinner when she heard the familiar pop of Apparation. A few moments later, Bill came bounding into the kitchen and hugged her from behind, resting his chin on her head. “How would you feel about working with an intelligent, handsome, funny, sex god?”

“Professor Snape is hiring an apprentice?”

He swatted her playfully. “No. And I only put up with you for your cooking, you know.” She smirked. “I have a job that’s going to require a partner. It’s a lot of research, and I need somebody I can trust to watch my back. Hence, you.”

Hermione returned to stirring the soup. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s at the British Museum. They have an arrangement with Gringotts to contract curse-breakers when needed.” Bill let go of her and sat on the counter beside the stove.

“I thought the Museum didn’t accept magical items anymore?”

“Normally they don’t. This is a bequest. Apparently, a hundred years or sor so, some Lord Thingummy fancied himself a great explorer. He went stampeding off about the globe grabbing artifacts right and left without so much as a by-your-leave from their original owners. Now, his descendents are tired of dying sudden, painful deaths and have given the lot to the Museum. If you’re interested, we’ll start tomorrow.”

“Do we get to go back in the ‘Employees Only’ section? And see the artifacts before anyone else?” Bill chuckled at her obvious excitement.

“That’s the whole idea, love. It’s bad for the Museum’s reputation to have tourists explode. And they have promised to repatriate anything necessary. I insisted upon it.” Hermione looked at his sparkling eyes, almost losing herself for a moment.

“Looks like you have a partner, then.” She returned to the soup, a bit disorientated.

“Did I say partner? I meant slave, dogsbody, generally subject to my will in all things.”

“Keep talking, dear. Your bedroom door doesn’t lock, and you have to sleep sometime.” Her predatory smile was spoiled by a fit of laughter a moment later.

The next morning, they took the Tube to the British Museum. “I don’t understand why we can’t just Apparate!” Bill grumbled. He was less than thrilled to have to allow extra time to get to work when he could have had more sleep.

“Because the Museum has very strong anti-Apparition wards to prevent theft. Imagine if Malfoy had just been able to pop in and out to get valuable artifacts.” In sharp contrast to Bill, Hermione was practically bouncing up and down with excitement. Only the shoulder-to-shoulder atmosphere of the car prevented actual vertical movement. He had never seen anybody this excited about going to work. Well, maybe Percy.

When they arrived at the Museum, Bill led Hermione through the employees’ entrance, down several corridors and staircases, finafinally to a door marked “Storage.” Hermione could feel the power of the wards and charms protecting the room. Bill took her hand as he spoke the password, opening the door, and then pulled her into the room.

She gazed about at the crates piled in the unexpectedly large room. “I had them bring all the books I thought we might need down here.” Bill pointed to a table in the corner. “Anything else, we can file a request with the research library.”

Work quickly settled into a pattern. Carefully, they would open each crate in a warded space. Each item would be carefully scanned for possible curses. Any cursed artifact would then be set aside to be evaluated. Fortunately, most of the items were curse-free, although they had a good laugh over some pottery that the would-be archeologist had labeled as “The Sacred Urn of the High Priest of Ra” which turned out to be a Turkish chr por pot.

Later, Bill would admit that the accident was entirely his fault. He was staring at Hermione who was intently studying a Mayan codex, her teeth worrying her lower lip. In his inattention, he didn’t notice that he had brushed against the statue of Ahpuch until he felt a roiling in his stomach. Recognizing the feeling, he sprinted for the waste bin, arriving just in time to deposit his lunch, his breakfast, and, quite possibly, his socks. As he knelt, trying to catch his breath, he felt Hermione’s hands rubbing his back.

“Are you all right?” The concern in her voice was obvious.

“Vomiting Curse,” he managed. “No cor…twr…twelve hours…” He lunged for the bin again.

When he was finished, Hermione helped him stand. “We have to get you home.” She cast an emptying charm on the bin, then handed it to him. “We’ll get a cab. You won’t want to be on the Tube in this state.”

Somehow she managed to maneuver him out of the building, into a cab, and into the house. Later, Bill wasn’t quite sure how she had managed it, but he found himself tucketo hto his own bed, his mouth freshened with a charm, and some ice water for him to sip. Hermione sat on the edge of the bed and once again rubbed his back comfortingly. Now that he had nothing left to vomit, he was able to speak a bit more coherently. “There isn’t anything to worry about. I’ve had this before and it’s minor.”

“Good. Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” he said a bit too vehemently. “I mean, you can stay if it doesn’t make you ill.”

“I’ve seen Ron vomit slugs, Bill. A regurgitated ploughman’s isn’t going to scare me off.” She lay down and snuggled up against his back, draping an arm gently over his waist.

As he relaxed, feeling her warm breath against his neck, he couldn’t help but remember the last time he had been subjected to this curse. The goblins had shoved him through the Floo, sending him sprawling on the rug. Fleur had been horrified when he had vomited close to her right foot, pronounced him “deesgusting,” and had packed her bags to go spend the night with a friend. As he had pressed his face to the cool tile of the bathroom floor, where he had managed to crawl, he had plenty of time to think. Fleur refusing to cook because it was “servants’ work;” turning down a job in Egypt because she couldn’t stand the heat and dust; insisting he accompany her on endless shopping trips for expensive clothehen hen pouting when he didn’t insist on buying her everything she wanted. When she returned the next evening, he was prepared. His belongings were packed, his mind was made up, and her Veela charms no longer worked.

Hermione’s breathing had settled into a rhythmic pattern, letting him know she was asleep. He covered her small, slightly calloused, hand with his own, and soon followed her.