High Crimes and

Partners in Crime!Ron and Hermione

Who knew exactly how it had started? Hermione sat on top of the large metal rubbish bin in the back of the London Institute of Thrilling and Mysterious Artifacts while Ron struggled with the locked security entrance at the back of the museum.

It had been around six-thirty in the evening, if Hermione remembered correctly, when Draco Malfoy's head had popped up in their fireplace. Hermione rubbed the shoulder that she had nearly dislocated trying to hold Ron back from Draco's smirking face. After being called any number of obscene things by Ron, Draco seemed about ready to leave, and his image was beginning to fade, when Ginny Weasley's head popped up beside Draco's. "Dear, please," she in a placating tone. "Just ask them."

Draco seemed to be having a problem with opening his mouth; it seemed like the only words he wanted to form were curses aimed at Ron. He turned to Ginny and whined, "But he started it!"

"Yes, he did," Hermione said, glaring at Ron.

"What?" shouted Ron, glaring right back at Hermione. "I hardly did anything!"

Things could have gone on like this for a very long time, but Ginny decided to be levelheaded. Which, in this case, meant screaming, "Would you all shut up?!" louder than anyone else. In any case, it worked, and Ginny had gotten down to explaining. Explaining what, you may ask?

Well, it seemed that Ginny and Draco, who had been dating almost as long as Hermione and Ron, had a business proposition to make. It appeared that the two of them were. . . thieves. Museum thieves, to be exact, and very successful ones at that. The two of them had wanted to set up a larger business for quite some time, and had turned to Ron and Hermione to see if they wanted in. Did they ever! Well, actually, Ron had been decidedly more enthused at the idea than Hermione, who had very firm principles, but he had managed to convince her. Besides, Hermione had always wanted to wear a black leather catsuit and spike heels. For that matter, Ron had also always wanted Hermione to wear a black leather catsuit and spike heels. However, he tried not to make her angry when she was wearing said heels, because she had a very unbecoming habit of stomping on his feet.

I suppose that answers the question of how exactly it all started. Now comes the question of how it would end. At least, how would this mission end? Ron and Hermione had been working with Ginny and Draco for a little over a year now, and at the moment, they were standing outside the London Institute of Thrilling and Mysterious Artifacts, on their biggest job ever.

Hermione rolled her eyes and jumped off the dumpster. "Ron, honestly! How much time have you wasted trying to pick that lock?" She gently removed the bent and twisted hairpin from his hand and extracted her wand from an inner pocket. "Alohomora!" she said, stepping into the darkened museum.

Ron sheepishly walked in after her. "But - but, well, that's how they do it in all the Muggle movies!" he spluttered. "I've been taking notes for at least a month, and the hairpin is most definitely the instrument of choice when it comes to these things!"

"Ron, dear," Hermione said impatiently, "the key word is Muggle. They do it that way because they have to. There just isn't any alternative!"

"Well, I really think we should go about this the right way, and anyway, spies pick locks!" Ron argued.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it and sighed. "Well, either way, we're in now, aren't we? And dear, please let's remember, we're not spies. We're high espionage art thieves." Exasperated, she continued. "Let's just go."

Ron looked like he was going to protest. He was very passionate about this art theft thing. Hermione grabbed his hand and tugged him down the corridor, despite his muttering indignantly under his breath.

It was a fairly short walk to the portrait wing; however, the added threat of night guards slowed the two down a considerable bit.

"Hermione, remind me again exactly why we can't cast a glamour around ourselves?" Ron whispered.

"I already told you," she answered back, "who knows what this building will do if it detects us doing magic? I was reading about a man who tried to rob the East Wales Historical foundry, and he did a simple repairing charm, and -"

"Right, right, that's all well and good," Ron interrupted impatiently. He seemed to be contemplating something for a moment, and Hermione guessed that the glint in his eye meant there had to be some sort of hole in her theory. "However," he began mischievously, "if that's the case, how do you explain your Unlocking Charm back at the entrance?" A wide grin lit up his features, making them look oddly disproportioned in the moonlight streaming through the large picture windows.

Hermione flushed. Her face suddenly felt very hot, and she struggled for an answer. "Well . . . well," she fidgeted with the clasp on her watchband, "Oh, Ron! That was outside the building!" she snapped.

Ron opened his mouth and let out a large guffaw. "Oh, please, Hermione! You know I'm right!" He looked like a little boy who had just been told Christmas had come early. Almost immediately, however, he stopped laughing and dropped his mirthful grin. "Oh, Hermione. Dear, dear, dear," he simpered. "It's okay. I promise, it'll be our little secret."

"What will be our little secret?" she snapped, wrenching her gaze from the floor just briefly enough to look at him with angry eyes.

"That you were wrong!" he crowed.

Hermione opened her mouth several times, but couldn't find anything to say. "Oh! You . . . " she stammered. "Come on!" She grabbed his wrist and pulled him down the corridor, her face burning with embarrassment.

Hermione had barely traveled twenty feet when Ron stopped abruptly. She whirled around, eyes flashing with rage. "What. Is it. Now?" she spoke clearly, each word pointed and deadly.

"Hermione, are you . . . are you . . . angry?" Ron stammered.

Hermione dropped her eyes to the floor. She suddenly felt very uncertain. "Oh! About you teasing me?" She let out a small, indistinct cough. "It's . . . oh, you know... it's - it's . . ." The words she was trying to form seemed very small and far away.

"It's what?" Ron said, almost hesitantly.

"It's fine," Hermione said shortly. She shook her head almost imperceptibly and inhaled sharply. "It's fine." She began walking briskly, suddenly very preoccupied with the tiles on the marble floor.

Ron hesitated a moment. "It doesn't seem fine," he called out across the hall, his words beginning as a whisper, but ending as a shout. With a sudden disregard for being quiet or avoiding security, he ran the distance that separated them and awkwardly reached for Hermione's hand. She weakly protested, but he held firm. Ron realized that her hand seemed a little damp, and glanced at her face. He felt a twist in his stomach at seeing the shining tears, their tracks illuminated silvery-white, which had made their way down her face.

Hermione sniffed and tried once again to pull her hand out of his grasp. She finally gave up and wiped her face with her other hand, her wand clattering to the floor. The sound echoed weirdly in the deserted hall, accompanied only by Hermione's halfhearted sniffs and near-silent gasps.

"Oh . . ." Ron didn't know exactly what to say. He didn't think that his teasing would hurt her so much. It wrenched at his heart to see her crying, it always had. "Hermione - " he hesitantly raised his hand and placed it on her shoulder. She tensed visibly for a moment, but relaxed. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the words to come. "Hermione, please. I'm sorry. I didn't know that my . . . teasing would hurt you so much. You know - you know I would never, ever hurt you intentionally. I'm so, so sorry that I upset you." Ron thought that this affirmation of regret would make the ache inside of him cease, but it felt like the bottom of his stomach was dropping still farther into the depths of his body.

Hermione cleared her throat. "No, you know what? It's okay. It's just fine," she said dismissively.

"Hermione, you know that it's not!" retorted Ron. "If it was as fine as you say, I don't think you would be crying!"

"I'm not crying, Ron. It's just . . . it's this museum. Too much dust," Hermione said, swiping at her eyes. "You know . . . my allergies," she said lamely.

"You're not allergic to anything, Hermione."

"Well, God, Ron! What do you want me to say?" she burst out. "I really want to do this right!" With a small shudder, another tear coursed slowly down her cheek, dropping off her chin. "I'm - I'm nervous, okay? I'm really scared about this. I'm not used to . . . to this feeling." She swiped at her eyes, as if she could hide the fact that she was silently crying. "I don't like feeling like I don't know what I'm doing. I hate it!" she cried fervently.

Ron slowly raised his hand, which was still resting on her shoulder, to her cheek and brushed away a tear. It glistened on his hand before falling, in a perfect, glowing silver orb, to the ground. "Hermione, you do everything right! You work so hard, and you're so dedicated to this, it's amazing! I know we'll do this right. Together, remember?"

Hermione exhaled roughly. The breath had almost a hint of a laugh on it. "Together," she echoed hollowly. For a second, Ron thought that the word had a hint of sarcasm on it, and clenched his fists tightly. Hermione tried to continue, but Ron spoke first.

"You know I'll always be here for you! Damn it, Hermione, you can do this! We've done this a thousand times, and each time, you put your whole heart into the job!" He lowered his voice, and, more tenderly, continued. "That's why we've never failed. Because of the heart you put into this. The heart you put into everything. You - you make me want to be better when I'm around you, better than I am now. You know that I love you, don't you?"

Hermione raised her head and smiled.

"Don't you?" he repeated.

"Yes." It was a whisper, barely even a word, but its meaning was the same.

He gently placed his hand on her back, pulling her towards him, lowering his mouth to hers at the same time. When his lips met with Hermione's, Ron felt like fire was consuming his entire body. He stepped in closer, deepening the kiss, tasting her salty tears on his tongue. After what seemed an eternity, but at the same time, far too short a period, he stepped away and took Hermione's hand. He cleared his throat and marveled at the self-consciousness that he still felt, the way he had when they had first kissed, all those years ago. He raised his head to look into her eyes, and managed to speak. "We should go if we're going to finish this job without getting caught."

"Oh!" Hermione seemed to shake herself into some alternate form of consciousness. She looked at her watch and gasped. "We have to go! We don't have much time, Ron! The museum opens in three and a half hours!" She broke into a quiet run, and Ron followed.

******

Hermione cautiously peeked her head around the doorway of the Portrait Wing. Surveying the room, it seemed rather unremarkable; tastefully decorated, with cream-colored walls behind the gilt frames or numerous sleeping portraits. She took a deep breath and entered, with Ron following closely behind her.

Ron scanned the room, trying to match the face in the photograph he held to one of the faces behind the frames. His eyes traveled from left to right, over grizzled old men and gray-haired witches, finally setting on a woman with raven black tresses reaching far past the frame of her portrait. Her eyelids, now closed in sleep, were framed by thick black lashes, and her expressive eyebrows seemed to be permanently arched to match her haughty-looking mouth.

"Hermione," he whispered, gently nudging her side. She turned and looked at him, eyebrows politely raised, silently asking him what he had found. "Look," Ron mouthed, and pointed at the portrait, holding up the photograph and waving it back and forth with his free hand.

Hermione matched the two images and a look of comprehension passed over her face. "Let's roll," she whispered, and began walking purposefully over to the portrait.

Ron's mouth dropped open; didn't she realize that to carry this mission out safely, they had to keep the portrait asleep?

Hermione turned around and motioned towards Ron, directing him to follow. "It'll be fine," she said nonchalantly.

A loud yawn from behind Hermione caused her to shriek and whirl around to face the portrait she had so possessively taken charge of. Ron, momentarily disregarding caution, raced across the room to join her. Hermione opened her mouth though she obviously had no idea what to say, but the portrait spoke first.

Her full, blood red lips parted to reveal dazzling white teeth. "Come to visit, have you?"

Hermione cleared her throat. "Would we be in the presence of a Mistress Calypso?"

"That's Mistress and All High Sorceress to you," the portrait responded, brilliant black eyes flashing.

"Right, right," broke in Ron. He paused. How exactly do you explain to a picture that you need to steal it?

"Erm . . . Mistress and All High Sorceress Calypso, we are . . . well, we are portrait renovators, and we need to do some work on you. We've come to collect you so we can . . . er, clean your frame." He hoped it sounded convincing enough.

"The renovators came a week ago," countered Calypso, sounding bored.

"Well, we - we found another problem," replied Ron uncertainly.

"I can assure you, my dear, there are no problems with me," she said. She raised a hand to her face and began to inspect her nails. Ron racked his brain for another reason why they might have to remove this obviously high-maintenance "Sorceress" from her frame.

Hermione, sensing the problem at hand, quickly stepped forward. "What he's saying is a lie," she proclaimed in a clear voice.

Ron's mouth dropped open. "Hermione!" he whispered urgently, "what are you doing?"

She turned to him and smiled. He felt his ears heat up, and realized he preferred Hermione's gentle beauty to the cold, haughty loveliness of this painting. "Ron," she said under her breath, "I know what I'm doing." She turned back to Calypso. "Hello! It's nice to meet you," she began conversationally. "I'm . . . " she paused, searching for a workable alias. "I'm - Parvati Patil. I suppose you're wondering why we - that is, myself and my boyfriend . . . Seamus, are here." She laughed nervously.

Calypso pursed her lips and nodded coldly. It was obvious that she didn't take kindly to being woken in the middle of the night.

"Well," Hermione continued breathlessly, "I've . . . I've read all about you, and I admire you so, and, well, I just really, I couldn't resist coming to see you to maybe . . . ask a few questions?" She smiled her most fetching smile.

It was obvious that Hermione's "idea" was working, Calypso's expression softened visibly and she replied in a slightly warmer voice, "Like what, dear?"

"Well," Hermione said, wringing her hands as she searched for a believable question, "I just . . . oh, do tell me about your island! And how you captured Odysseus-"

"I didn't capture him," Calypso said defensively. "He merely . . . chose to stay with me."

"Oh, right, my mistake," Hermione replied quickly. "But you must have had some method of seducing him . . . the way he fell for you! You're - you're amazing," Hermione continued sincerely. She turned to Ron and hissed emphatically, "Start cutting," before turning back to the portrait.

Ron suddenly realized what he had to do. He was, once again, amazed at Hermione's good ideas. He inhaled quietly and drew a small, silver pocketknife from his coat. He began to creep quietly towards the portrait, with Hermione's exclamations of "Oh, how brave!" and "Amazing!" echoing in his ears. He neared the portrait, willing it not to look at him. He raised his knife and pierced the cloth connecting the painting to the frame. All he had to do was slit it all the way around and the painting would fall out of the frame, and into his hands. He replaced the knife in the slash it had made and began to slowly ease it around the outside of the painting. Ten centimeters, twenty centimeters . . . only five centimeters left . . . .

Suddenly, Calypso, who hadn't even noticed Ron's presence until now, began to turn her head.

"No, wait!" Hermione shrieked, holding up a hand.

Calypso's head whirled back to Hermione. Ron breathed an inward sigh of relief. "Yes, dear?" she said, politely puzzled.

Hermione quickly retracted the hand she had flung up, and brought it, awkwardly, to her cheek, crossing her bent elbow across her chest and trying to look as innocent as possible. She looked at the ceiling as she frantically searched for a response. Laughing nervously, she cried, "Pigs!"

Calypso arched an eyebrow. "Pigs?"

"Yes, yes! Pigs! What I had . . . forgotten to ask you was . . . how did you . . . do with . . . pigs?" Hermione chewed on a nail while racking her brain for ways to make this work.

Calypso was beginning to look irritated. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"Well," Hermione stammered, "what I was wondering was . . . " Her eyes suddenly lit up. "How . . . exactly did you manage to turn all those men into pigs?"

Calypso's eyes registered understanding, and then annoyance. "Darling, that wasn't me, that was my cousin Circe. I do so hate when people confuse us," she said, beginning to pout.

Hermione's face fell. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I can imagine, I've always hated when people would confuse me with my . . .my something . . . my twin, Padma!" Hermione yelped, trying to cover up her momentary loss of brain power. "So, tell me about Circe - though I'm sure you're much smarter and more beautiful," Hermione amended quickly.

The portrait's face lit up, and she opened her mouth to speak, but it was too late. Ron had cut through the remaining piece of material and was holding the canvas in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he rolled it into a cylinder, muffling the startled scream that had emerged from Calypso's mouth. He quickly tossed the rolled-up canvas to Hermione, who dropped it into her bag, briefly thanking her lucky stars that expandable, soundproof purses had been on sale in Diagon Alley. Ron rushed to her and embraced her so fiercely she thought her ribs would break.

He kissed her forehead and grinned. "I told you we would be able to do this!"

"Not so fast, Ron," Hermione replied. "This isn't even close to over. Here's the plan." She began to talk quickly, gesticulating wildly to illustrate her ideas. "What we need to do is go to the toilets."

"What?" exploded Ron. "Why?"

"Just let me explain," she continued impatiently. "The museum is going to open at ten thirty. Right now, it's . . . " she checked her watch. "Eight twenty. What that means is," she had begun to walk briskly through the corridors, with Ron running to keep up, "we have exactly ten minutes until the workers come in. They'll work at setting up the exhibits and cleaning and all that until ten thirty, when the museum will open to the public. While they are working, I'm going to be in the women's toilet, you in the men's. What you do is you sit in a stall with your feet off the ground, and the door locked. The workmen will likely come in, take a quick look around, and leave. If there's any trouble, just cast a glamour about yourself and it will be fine. Change into normal clothing - I packed your bag before we left - and meet me here-" she indicated a point on the map, "at eleven. By that time, the museum will be swarming with people, and nobody will give you a second thought." Hermione paused. "Have you got all that?"

Ron nodded weakly. This plan would take a miracle to pull off. "Erm . . . I think so."

"Ron, you have to completely clear about this, or it will not work. Once again, have you got all that?"

Ron cleared his throat. "Yes," he said, much more confidently than he felt.

Hermione looked him dead in the eye. "Then let's roll."

******

Ron made his way to the men's toilet, trying to ignore the sinking sensation in his stomach. This plan was going to be difficult, he could tell. Hermione seemed so in control; she actually seemed to know what she was doing. It was obvious that any insecurities linked to his teasing - he mentally kicked himself for being such an arse - had vanished, or at least were cleverly hidden.

******

Hermione hurried along the hall to the women's toilet. When she reached it, she hurriedly pushed open a stall door and dashed inside. She quickly changed out of her clothing, wincing as she pulled off her leather catsuit - "Why leather?" she asked herself very quietly. She changed into a fairly modest blouse, skirt, and, for her own enjoyment, trenchcoat, and sat down to wait. Inwardly, Hermione marveled at how well the plan had gone off - so far.

******

Hermione's watch clicked to 11:00. It was time to go. She was surprised at how well the plan had worked. A guard had come into her lavatory for less than a minute, and hadn't even bothered to look in the stalls. She cautiously unfolded herself from the upright fetal position she had been holding for the last two and a half hours, and pulled open the door of her stall. Tentatively, she pushed open the door of the toilets and peeked into the hall. There were adequate amounts of passerby to make her unremarkable. Hermione thanked every higher power there was that the replacement portrait she had put into place was fooling everyone so far. With this in mind, she headed towards the entrance.

******

Ron pushed open the door of the men's toilets and heaved a deep breath of fresh air. He vowed never to forgive Hermione for forcing him to sit in a lavatory for two and a half hours. Actually, Ron was surprised at how well the plan had worked. Nobody had even entered the toilets in the entire time he was in there. He never ceased to be amazed at the way Hermione always had it all planned out. With this in mind, he headed towards the entrance.

******

Hermione could spot Ron all the way across the crowded entrance hall. She smiled at the way he was standing with his hands jammed into the pockets of his trousers, trying to look inconspicuous but failing, and hurried to meet him.

"How did everything go?" she asked him.

"It was brilliant," he replied, grinning excitedly. "Nobody came in the entire time. However," he continued, his smile vanishing to be replaced with a scowl, "that loo stunk like bloody hell!"

"Ron, please!" Hermione admonished, chewing on her thumbnail.

"Oh, you know you like it, Hermione," Ron retorted.

She ducked her head and smiled. Raising her head to look him in the eye, she pulled a pair of sunglasses out of her bag and flipped them open. Shaking back her hair, she slipped them over her eyes and flashed a dazzling grin at Ron. He pretended to stagger, placing his hand over his heart. Hermione lightly punched his shoulder, blushing, and handed him his own pair of sunglasses. "Now's when all those notes you took on James Bond movies come in handy, Ron," she joked.

Ron quickly slipped on his sunglasses and adopted an American accent. "Come on, baby," he said daringly, "let's blow this joint!"

Hermione bit her lip to keep from bursting into laughter, and they exited the premises, with the soundtrack to their own high espionage film playing in their heads.