The Canary Wharf underground station is crowded when Hermione exits the train. People in their late twenties and early thirties are bustling about in fashionable clothing that projects a certain type of image. At thirty-four, she knows she can become part of the crowd without raising any particular interest, but her simple pencil skirt and burgundy blouse are not at all fashionable. They’re professional, of course, but she sees no point in spending money on clothing when it could be spent on books instead.
There’s a chill in the air when she leaves the station, and she pulls her coat more tightly against her when a breeze blows past her. It would have been much easier to just Apparate and not have to be concerned about things like clothing and weather, but Gabrielle had felt it would be best if Hermione downplayed the magic. It’s somewhat infuriating, really, that she’s being asked for a favor while also being told she’s too magical. When has she ever been too magical? Normally, she hears Muggleborn or the ever favorite Mudblood whenever she takes off her robes and proudly wears Muggle clothing instead.
It’s cliché to be meeting in an old warehouse. Of course, this is one of many warehouses in the area that have been converted into trendy lofts as part of the gentrification of the docklands, but she’ll be good and not lecture Fleur and Gabrielle’s old childhood friend about such efforts pushing lower income citizens out of areas they’ve lived for years and how these projects might improve the economy for some while also destroying important heritage that is deemed too expensive to preserve. By living in one of these flats, their friend is silently supporting such a dangerous practice, and it almost makes her want to refuse to help. Almost because she did promise Fleur, and Gabrielle’s been heavily involved in arranging this meeting.
When she arrives at the appropriate building, it’s at least one of the most historical of the lot. No glass and shiny metal here. There’s nice brick and wood that has an aged quality to it that’s appealing. She finds the staircase easily, not about to get on a lift in a building that’s unfamiliar when she’s meeting someone who could prove dangerous. The place she’s going is on the top floor, of course, and her heels make a click-clack noise as she climbs the stairs. Fortunately, she isn’t that out of breath by the time she reaches the top. Just enough to make her hear Harry and Ron’s nagging voices about exercising and too much sedentary work being a bad thing for her health.
The door is at the end of the corridor, and she reaches it easily enough. Her boys would hex her if they knew she was attending a meeting like this without back-up, which is why she never mentioned it. She trusts Fleur and Gabrielle, even if she doesn’t trust the old family friend who has a thick file on record with the French Ministry of Magic. Straightening her shoulders, she curls her fingers of her right hand around the wand in her pocket while raising her left hand to knock.
By the third knock, the door is opening. A young man is standing there, curly hair falling across his forehead, and cheekbones that would make Ginny cry in envy. “Mr. Argent?” she asks skeptically, arching a brow because there is no way this boy is out of his teens yet.
“I’m Isaac,” he says, an American accent causing a slight drawl to his name. “Are you Gabrielle’s friend?”
“If I weren’t, it would be very easy to claim I was now that you’ve provided me with a contact name,” she points out, wondering how on Earth this boy has survived in the business Argent represents if he’s that clueless. If this is an example of Argent’s experience, no wonder he needs assistance.
“Isaac, why don’t you go get us some dinner.” The voice is low and husky, and it makes her look to her right immediately. A man is standing there with a slight smirk on his lips watching them. This one is dangerous, she decides, not only because his eyes are so blue they’re distracting. It’s in the way he’s leaning, power and strength evident in the tension in his arms, but he’s projecting a casual aura that most would never look beyond.
“Are you sure, Chris?” Isaac is frowning at her now, which just makes her think of a scolded puppy. “I don’t think I should you alone with her. She smells off.”
Hermione’s brow arches at that. “Excuse me?” she snaps, pursing her lips and stepping closer to the boy. “Do you really think you could stop me if I decided to harm him, boy?”
His features transform instantly, and she reacts, pressing the tip of her wand against his throat before he can move. His face is unusual, unlike anything she’s ever seen, and she reaches out with her left hand to touch. Before she can, long fingers wrap around her wrist and tug her hand back.
“I wouldn’t do that, sweetheart. He bites,” Argent says, pulling her away from the boy by wrapping an arm around her waist and physically lifting her. She elbows him in the gut hard enough to release his grip, and she turns to train her wand on him. He puts both his hands up, staring at her with those deadly eyes even as he nods his chin at Isaac. “Go on, Isaac. I got this.”
“I’m gonna call Jackson, just in case,” Isaac mutters, rolling his shoulders as his features become classically beautiful again. He gives her a dirty look before he grabs a coat off the sofa and storms out.
“Now, do you want to do this the hard way or the easy way?” Argent asks her, taking a step closer.
“I refuse to make a choice without knowing what the objective is going to be,” she replies, looking at him curiously. “He’s suffering from lycanthropy, isn’t he? It’s unlike any I’ve ever seen before, but I can recognize the similarities.”
“Yes, he’s a werewolf, and you’re a damn fool trying to touch him when he was ready to snap your hand off.” Argent actually chuckles. “Now I see why the Delacours felt you’d be the best one to help. You’re crazy, aren’t you?”
“I’ve faced much more dangerous things than that child, Mr. Argent.” She keeps her wand on him. “I read the file on your family that the French government possesses. I thought your kind were murderers of anything different and special. Are you doing something inappropriate with that boy?”
“My taste runs to women, not children,” he drawls, looking her over in a deliberate way that makes her body react despite her strong resolve not to. Bloody hell. “So, no, nothing inappropriate. He’s my daughter’s boyfriend. Was, I mean. I’m his guardian now.”
“I didn’t mean that type of inappropriate,” she mutters, taking a step back when he takes a step forward. “Your family are hunters. While they do apparently operate on a type of moral code, it isn’t necessarily one that allows for the gray that tends to exist more often than not.”
“I have a different code from my family, Mrs...what did you say your name is?” Argent takes another step closer, his eyes dropping briefly before his lips curve into a smug smile. “Are you cold, sweetheart? I can turn the heat up for you, if you want.”
Hermione has to resist the urge to cross her arms over her chest to hide her nipples, not wanting to give him the satisfaction or lower her guard. “It’s Miss Hermione Granger,” she says, wondering why Fleur and Gabrielle hadn’t told him who he was meeting tonight. “And I’m warm enough, Mr. Argent, though your concern for my comfort would be hospitable if you weren’t looming over there ready to take me down as soon as I lower my wand.”
“Hermione Granger,” he drawls her name, pursing his lips slightly. “I’ve heard that name before. Great Aunt Andromaque told me a story years ago about a magical war. She’s the sentimental one in your clan, and she found it a heroic tale of good triumphing over evil. I belief Madam Delacour shared it with her.” He arches a brow and reaches up to scratch at his beard. “Not just a story, then?”
“Aren’t most stories based on fact at one time or another?” She is momentarily distracted by his long fingers rubbing at the scruff on his chin, the gray streaks making him more distinguished, but she quickly recovers when he makes a sudden step forward. “How is it that a clan of hunters is friendly with a noble wizarding family?”
“Argents don’t fear magic, sweetheart. We’ve learned a few tricks here and there ourselves. Mostly herbal remedies and protection runes,” he says, moving again. She takes another step away, and realizes he’s circled them around so he’s between her and the door. If she trusted him, she’d compliment him on his maneuver. As it is, she’s just irritated.
“Argents don’t, but you said you have a different motto now,” she points out. “Perhaps that is one not so accepting of the magical community.”
“Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes,” he murmurs, the French spilling from his tongue like a confession of sin instead of a simple family motto. He licks his lips, continuing to use her obvious physical attraction to him against her. Bloody bastard. “We protect those who can't protect themselves. My daughter came up with it a couple of years ago, before she died.”
“And you still follow it?” She studies him a moment. “That’s why you’ve adopted her boyfriend.”
“It certainly wasn’t a desire to own a puppy,” he says dryly, rolling his eyes. “He’s the reason I’ve reached out to Gabrielle. He and another kid got bit by a dumbass Alpha out in California, and now I’m picking up the pieces. Gabrielle said you’d be my best bet on figuring out what to do with them.”
“Yes, well, her sister actually helps run a center for victims of lycanthropy,” she tells him, still not sure why Fleur insisted she be the one to meet Argent when he’s her old friend. Maybe she thought Bill would be jealous since Argent is definitely attractive and projects a manliness that’s rather knicker wetting. “Her husband was attacked by an extremely dangerous werewolf, but it wasn’t on a full moon, so he managed to avoid most of the disease’s effects.”
“Was he bit?” Argent frowns. “And what’s this disease nonsense? They’re werewolves. They aren’t suffering from cancer. You’re supposed to be able to help me get Isaac and his friend into whatever programs you’ve got set up to help them finish their schooling and get jobs, not put them into some kind of hospital or something.”
“Lycanthropy is a disease, Mr. Argent. Most of the victims did not choose to become infected, and their condition does not mean they should be treated like animals or not be given the same opportunities as anyone else,” she snaps, scowling at him. “And, yes, he was bit. However, the strain of lycanthropy doesn’t change anyone unless the bite happens on the full moon. Considering young Isaac’s shifting ability, I assume there must be another strain that we’ve been unaware of. It doesn’t matter, as I can research and find out more details. Our programs will benefit him and you mentioned another friend? Are you going to be providing them with a stable living environment or will they need help with that, too?”
“They are animals, sweetheart, and the sooner you forget that, the sooner you die.” He shakes his head. “Not all of them want to be, but it’s in their nature. If poked hard enough, they all snap. As for the rest, I’m retiring from hunting, so I plan to be here providing whatever he and Jackson might need.”
She laughs at him, unable to help herself because it’s the most idiotic statement she’s heard in at least a few days. “Aren’t we all animals then? If any of us is poked hard enough, we snap. If you feel that way about them, why are you trying to help Isaac?”
“He’s the only thing I have left of my daughter,” he snarls, moving so fast she almost can’t react. Her wand is pressing into his chest when he stops, their bodies much closer together. “Now are you going to help me or are you going to keep waving that stick around despite the fact that we both know it doesn’t scare me?”
“It should.” She moves the tip of her wand down his breastbone, not moving her gaze from his. “I’m much scarier when threatened than any of the things that go bump in the night, Christopher.”
“I’ve lost my wife and my daughter to the supernatural in the last four years, little girl. Nothing scares me anymore because I have nothing left to lose,” he whispers, reaching down to grip her wrist and drag her hand up, until her wand is pressed against his Adam’s apple. “If you’re going to kill me, do it.”
She licks her lips and watches his gaze drop to her mouth. The tension is making it difficult to breathe, even as she fights her reaction to him. “Why would I kill you? You’ve not done anything against me, and you’ve got a teenage lycanthrope to deal with. That is punishment enough for any misbehavior in your past.”
He closes his eyes and his lips twitch. “It really is punishment, especially in the mornings.” When he opens his eyes, he stares at her. “Why then haven’t you lowered your wand at all?”
“You said there was a hard way and an easy way, but you never did specify what it was the way towards,” she reminds him. “I tend to prefer a challenge, so I made my choice.”
“You really are crazy,” he mutters right before he lowers his head. His lips are rough and chapped as they press firmly against hers, and she isn’t surprised at all when she reaches up to tug his head down so she can kiss him back. What’s she doing? This can’t be happening. She shouldn’t be doing this, especially not with a stranger she just met, a hunter who is only just now seemingly learning that the world isn’t black and white.
Regardless, she’s kissing him back, and she drops her wand on the floor so she can push his shirt up to touch bare skin. He groans into her mouth when she drags her blunt nails across his nipples, and she gasps when he suddenly grips her arse and picks her up. She wraps her legs around his waist as he shoves her against the wall. Her skirt is around her thighs now, her coat providing minimum cushioning between her back and the brick wall, and she moans when his fingers stroke her calf past her stockings until they reach her naked flesh.
When she feels his erection press into her, she whines, which makes him chuckle in a most maddening way. She rolls her hips, listening to his breath catch, and she’s the one chuckling now, rubbing against him until he’s kissing her again, fierce and almost violent, desperate and needy. It doesn’t take long for the friction to rub her clit perfectly, even with his denims and her knickers in the way, and she scratches his back hard as she comes. He bites her lip, hips moving faster, rubbing against her even as she trembles from her orgasm, grunting against her mouth as he shudders.
He lets her down gently, stepping back and running his fingers through his short hair as he stares at her. She takes a few deep breaths so she can calm her nerves before she pushes her skirt back down and rebuttons her blouse from where he must have opened it. Her hair’s a lost cause, pulled out of the chignon and tumbling around her shoulders in wild curls. Her lips are sore, her chin raw from where he’s rubbed his beard against it, and her thighs clench as she imagines him rubbing it somewhere more intimate. Once she’s made herself slightly more presentable, which isn’t much considering she’s just been shagged against a wall by a man she only just met, she reaches for her wand and tucks it into her pocket.
“I, uh,” he starts to speak before he clears his throat. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
“Of course not,” she says, looking up at him. “And there’s no need for an apology, either. I’m a consenting adult, Christopher, and I think we were building to that from the moment we met. Half an hour ago.” She winces and runs her fingers through her hair. “As cliché as it sounds, I really don’t make it a habit to do this sort of thing, especially not with someone I’m conducting business with at the time.”
“I haven’t done anything like that since Victoria died,” he admits. “My wife. Would you like to use the bathroom to clean up? I need to change before Isaac gets home, since he’ll definitely smell sex on me considering I came in my pants like a horny schoolboy.”
“If you have a flannel I could borrow, I’d appreciate it. A quick trip to the loo to wipe up would be most welcome.” She could use a quick charm, of course, but it might not be the best idea to get her wand out again right now.
“Maybe I can help you with that clean up, sweetheart,” he murmurs, licking his lips in a very specific manner that sends heat throughout her body. “Isaac mentioned getting Jackson, so that’ll be at least a half hour plus getting food, which they’ll probably eat on the way, and they’ll have to stop for more. We’ve got another hour, I’d say.”
Hermione reaches up beneath her skirt and tugs her knickers down, stepping out of them while looking at his face. He reaches down to pick them up, slowly dragging his tongue over the damp crotch, and she feels her nipples tighten instantly. She takes off her coat, not bothering to pick it up as she leans up to kiss him, the taste of her lingering on his tongue. When she pulls back, she smiles. “We can accomplish a lot in an hour, Christopher. Afterwards, we can discuss plans for Isaac’s future and see about getting him settled into the magical creatures’ community here. Now, you mentioned something about helping me clean up?”
End
The Hard Way
Story Notes:
11/15/14