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LAST TANGO IN PARIS Prologue ** A man walked into a bar. It sounded like the beginning of a joke, but it wasn’t. Those who knew him well, or thought they did, would have been surprised to see him turn in at the narrow door, sparing a furtive glance in either direction before descending the steps from the street. It wasn’t his kind of place, it wasn’t in his kind of neighbourhood, and he was dressed entirely too well to be there. It was also on the other side of the globe from where at least three witnesses would swear to the death that he’d been all day. None of that mattered. He was here to meet someone. The place was dingy and cobwebbed and poorly lit, illuminated only by some guttering, evil-smelling candles and a single bare lightbulb flickering over the bar. The man nodded to the bartender, a cadaverous skeleton of a man with sunken cheeks listlessly flicking a grimy rag down the bar’s scarred wooden surface, and slid distastefully past the establishment’s only two patrons – hunched figures with averted faces, swilling flecked liquid from dirty glasses. As he approached the deeper shadows at the back of the bar, he could just make out the blurred outline of a third drinker at the far table. The shadowy figure raised his glass in greeting. The man pulled out a chair, studied the seat carefully for possible foreign objects, and – apparently satisfied – sat down gingerly. "The traps are full," he ventured at length – the end of his sentence rising slightly, like a question. The mysterious bar patron took another gulp from his drink. "The exterminator is on his way," he answered, setting down his glass. The words sounded practiced and bored, like an oft-repeated catechism. Formalities out of the way, both men relaxed slightly and leaned closer toward one another. "Have you seen the papers?" A pause. "I have." "Then you’ve read the article." "Probably." Another swig from the glass; a grimace as he held the alcohol on his tongue for a moment, then swallowed. "You’re talking about the Muggle-born. The … scientist." This last word carried a patina of disdain that was as thick as the film on the bar’s only window. The man in the designer coat nodded, his eyes flinty. "She goes too far," he said. "For years, she’s pushed the limits of accepted convention, flown in the face of all the standards our society holds dear. But this …" His face twisted into a contemptuous snarl. "This is something else entirely." "The new project?" "Is almost complete, according to our sources." Visible tightening of expensively-manicured fingers on the grotty surface of the table. "If she’s allowed to go through with it …" "Say no more." The second man finished his drink and signalled for another. "We’ve our own reasons," he said, "for halting her … research." He paused, as the apathetic bartender smacked a second glass indifferently onto the table; when he spoke again, after the bartender had moved away, his voice was even lower than before. "To what lengths?" he murmured, and his well-dressed companion’s lips flattened into a thin, vicious line. "Stop her," he said, the words cold and bitten-off and – maybe – just the smallest bit eager. "I don’t care how. Just stop her." "It’s as good as done." ** "Morning, honey." Hermione Weasley, née Hermione Granger, opened one eye and stretched lazily. "Morning," she said, her voice rough with sleepiness, and frowned slightly at the sight of her husband – already out of bed and belting himself into a robe. His thick red-gold hair was loose and tousled against the white terrycloth collar of his robe, giving him the look of a sleepy archangel. Mmm. "What are you doing up already?" she wanted to know. "It’s Saturday." Suspicion brought her head off the pillow in an abrupt jerk. "They don’t have you working another weekend, do they?" Bill shook his head. "Nope. Free as a bird till Monday morning." "Good." Her head hit the pillow again. "So, then – where are you going?" "Down to the kitchen to make breakfast," he said, tightening the tie on the robe and reaching down to stroke the miaowing caracal at his feet. "Bagels okay with you? I’d try eggs, but the results I got last time weren’t pretty." "Mm. I remember." Do I ever. "Just fruit for me, thanks," Hermione said, and pushed herself up to a sitting position. "And coffee." She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "Nine-thirty," she said, wonderingly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "By our standards, that’s positively decadent. I thought it was earlier." She yawned. "Why am I so tired?" "Beats me." Bill leaned over to plant a kiss on her forehead. "Couldn’t have anything to do with your late-night laboratory hours, could it?" She dropped her eyes. "They haven’t been that late." "Uh-huh." He grinned. "My wife, the World-Famous Scientist. Lucky for me that this house came with a greenhouse. If we hadn’t put in the mini-lab downstairs, I’d never see you ... I’d have to comfort myself with your numerous news clippings." "My heart bleeds," Hermione said dryly, rearranging the pillow behind her back and pretending not to notice that the bodice of her nightgown was gaping open in the meantime – or that his eyes had slid immediately to the shadow of her cleavage. Bill looked hurt, then ruined the effect by flashing her another wicked smile. "You’re a cruel woman." "It’s a caffeine deficiency," she said, shooting him a sly look. "Do something about that, and maybe then you can get yourself a good long … um, look." She wiggled her eyebrows at him. "Seeing as it’s the weekend and all." Bill brightened. "Hope springs eternal," he murmured, his gaze sweeping down her body to where her bare toes peeked out from under the sheet. "I’ll get right on that. Wouldn’t want you to fall asleep in the interim." Hermione laughed. Four years married, and as much a Romeo as ever, she thought. Everyone should be so lucky. "No danger of that, I don’t think." She yawned again, then started to throw one leg over the side of the bed. "Oh – I almost forgot. I left the computer on downstairs last night, to run that last batch of statistics. They’ll have printed out by now; I should go see what they came up with." "Ah-ah-ah. Don’t move," Bill directed, and blocked her exit from the bed hastily with his body. "I’ll get them. You stay right where you are; you can read in bed, if you must, but you’re not setting foot in that laboratory this morning until I’ve had my wicked way with you." Hermione rolled her eyes. "You know me too well." "Damn skippy." He blew her a kiss and sauntered out of the bedroom toward the stairs, whistling, Cleo at his heels. As always, the tune was unrecognisable. "Love you," Hermione said softly to the empty doorway, and – with a contented, Saturday-morning sigh – snagged another pillow from his side of the bed. She’d almost gotten it arranged to her liking when she heard the explosion. **
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