Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

Chapter Two - The Importance of Being Oliver

Consequentially Yours: A Gentleman’s Duty

Chapter Two ~ The Importance of Being Oliver
-..-


There was an irritated hoot from the messenger owl sitting on the corner of his desk as a landslide of paperwork was set off when Percy attempted to relieve it of its burden. Once released, it took off with a disdainful backwards flip of its wings, and soared out the open window as quickly as it could. Percy snorted softly in rueful amusement at the creature’s antics — there were probably only a handful of people arrogant enough to own such a bird, and none of them were ones he wanted to hear from at the moment. Hermes hooted sharply from his perch by the sideboard, apparently in complete agreement with his master about their rude visitor. Percy tossed the parchment aside unopened — Goyle, he noted the name as he did so.

The heavy horn-rimed frames of his glasses had started to slide down his nose as Percy removed them, and leaned back in his chair with a soft noise of appreciation that may have been a sigh in another person. Blinking somewhat myopically without the ever-present glasses, he contemplated the mountainous paperwork before him, and thought longingly of just setting fire to the whole business. The only thing the Ministry seemed capable of right now was generating large amounts of paperwork. Percy sometimes thought the best thing that could have happened was if the whole building had been destroyed during the last attack, down to the last filing cabinet. Then it would be an easy matter of instituting new protocols and procedures to rebuild the organization from the ground up. Over half of the building had survived though, along with all those filing cabinets, and now they were desperately trying to maintain standard procedures with only half the necessary personnel, because people couldn’t bring themselves to abandon what always worked before. Change was coming slowly to his colleagues, and the Undersecretary often got exasperated by their inability to see the larger picture — such as the pointless need to fill out reports for departments that no longer existed due to lack of personnel.

Placing the lenses once more on the bridge of his nose, he ignored the waiting piles of paperwork, and instead began carefully skimming through the various reports that came to him directly from various witches and wizards in all parts of the country:

More Muggle baiting, this time involving a ward of charmed bedpans — almost the twins’ brand of humour, that was….

The International Confederation of Wizards was moving in on Austria for the increasingly restricting laws being levied against Muggle-born witches and wizards — Percy still thought it was pretty disgusting that they hadn’t said a thing about his new law; he really hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to stronger measures to get their attention….

A rather peculiar case of a drunken post owl — poor thing was in Belgium now, recovering.

A missing load of wand wood — he would have to remember to speak to Mundungus about that one….

Strange lights appearing in Andale… Percy’s glasses began sliding down his nose once more, unnoticed, as he stared at the report in front of him in interest.

***

“Ah, Minister, so good of you to see me on such short notice - especially with things as… busy as they are for you at the moment.”

“Mr. Malfoy.” Percy didn’t even bother to look up from his work, but instead continued to ignore his unwanted guest.

The last few years had not been kind to the senior Malfoy. Time spent in Azkaban, coupled with the demands of belonging to the Dark Lord had taken their toll on him. His once handsome face was lined, and his charismatic smile was now lost to a harder, sterner expression. Despite these changes, he still projected the aura of a powerful man, one to be dealt with cautiously and preferably from a distance. The fact that he had been able to avoid being sent back to Azkaban once the war was over continued to gall Percy. He saw it as an affront to the Ministry itself that they had been forced to let so many scum go free, lacking the resources to hold them all. Still, Percy was a realist, and one of the many things he had learned from recent experiences was that it was ‘better the devil you know’. Removing the current ‘elitists’ wouldn’t end the problem, only drive it back underground to send up unexpected ‘shoots’ elsewhere. Following this vein of thought, Percy had allowed them to remain public with their views and opinions, without censure. All the better to watch you, my dear Malfoy.
“What, no modest protests today, Sir? Could it be, perhaps, that you are finally accepting your trappings of power?”

“What is the point in reminding you, yet again, that currently there is no Minister for Magic, and I most certainly am not up for the job?” Percy was now making notes on the parchment in front of him, and addressing his visitor with a kind of condescending boredom that spoke of a conversation held many times before.

“I merely thought I would stop in for our little weekly chat. It is so hard to find your level of conversation amongst evil henchmen.” His eyes glittered mockingly from between narrowed lids. Moving into the room, and avoiding the seat set opposite the large desk so obviously intended for his use, Lucius instead chose one to the far left, in a small conversation area by the fire, forcing Percy to either abandon his chair at his desk, or to have to continually twist uncomfortably during conversation. Lucius enjoyed the many petty games they played at every meeting, and had found that the Undersecretary was a surprisingly good player. No doubt the result of surviving all the infighting found in being raised as part of a large litter. The thought caused a small shudder, as he settled back for what would prove to be an… instructive meeting.

***

THE OWLERY sat atop one of the southern-most towers of the school. Large, open-air windows lined the entire circumference of the cavernous room, allowing the cool evening breeze to enter unhindered. Owls of every shape and colour could be found roosting here, and the air was full of soft noises: gentle hooting, the rustling of wings, and the scrape of talons on stone; Hermione found the mixture of sounds to be unexpectedly soothing. From up here, the scars of Voldemort’s attack were invisible, leaving the grounds unblemished. She would miss this place, which in so many ways represented for her, everything they had fought to protect — including one of the best libraries in the country.

She had finally been forced to abandon the sanctuary of the North Tower when the silence had been shattered by the arrival of Pansy Parkinson and her evening’s entertainment, a sixth year Ravenclaw with pale skin and strikingly dark hair and eyes. Mercifully, the couple were unaware of her presence, being completely preoccupied with one another. Hermione had been able to slip out unnoticed; avoiding what would have been a nasty confrontation in her current mood. The sounds of soft gasps and breathless whimpers followed her down the tightly spiraling stairs, making her flush in disgust and embarrassment at the pug-faced girl’s blatant appetites.

Ginny found her here, sitting against the stone wall, staring unseeingly out at the darkening night sky, lost in thought.

“What are you doing up here, Hermione? Ron being his usual self, is he?” Ginny loved her brothers very much, but she had no illusions as to their characters. Ron, though a loyal friend and great guy, still tended to be a clueless prat around Hermione on occasion. Fortunately, for everyone in Gryffindor tower, this was happening less and less frequently, proving that even hopeless cases could grow up. It was getting almost unusual to see the two of them screaming at each other in the common room these days.

Hermione didn’t react to her presence, so Ginny moved to join her on the floor, wincing a little at the coolness of the air-chilled stone. Hermione was holding something tightly in her lap, her knuckles almost white. Leaning over, Ginny saw that is was a thick parchment scroll, and quickly scanned it for the telltale purple seal. She suddenly had a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Hermione,” she said, hoarsely, “is that…?”

Hermione nodded mutely, finally turning to face her friend in the fading light let in through the large windows surrounding them. Ginny could see the tear tracks still drying on her cheeks, her eyes puffy from prolonged crying. She just looked so lost and bewildered, and so… unHermione–like, that her heart went out to the older girl.

“Oh, Merlin… who?”

In answer, Hermione just turned the scroll slightly, to show the unbroken seal in deep plum wax, bearing the Ministry crest.
“You open it, Ginny. I can’t…” Ginny had to strain to hear her voice, even in the relative quiet of the owlery. She held out her hand, not daring to say anything to her friend right now. She wasn’t sure she could keep the tears out of her voice.

Her hands shook slightly as she took the scroll. Breaking the wax seal gently, Ginny hesitated. She didn’t want to actually see the name edged in the glowing outline that indicated the Ministry authenticity charms were in place — it would make this too real, too final. Screwing up her courage tightly, she forced herself to continue unrolling it, and began skimming the parchment for a name. The one she found, however, left her speechless.

“Is it that horrible?” Hermione looked more and more frightened as the moments passed and her friend didn’t say anything, just sat there gazing at the document dumbly.

“Oh, Hermione, you’re not going to believe this…” Turning it around, so that the victim could read the scribbled, barely legible signature, she waited, watching as Hermione’s face went white, and then very red….

“Absolutely out of the question!”

***

IN THE street outside the Sleeping Dragon, a local wizard pub specializing in the type of homey food favoured by drinking men everywhere, the quiet evening air was punctuated by the soft sounds of someone just coming to fully understand the misery awaiting them.

“Oh, Shite!”

A pause — “She’s gonna go mental!”

Then — “This is not funny, you two!”

***

OLIVER HAD finally stopped showing off his dubious education to the passersby outside the Sleeping Dragon, and now only occasionally gave voice to muffled curses as they walked down the street towards the flat the twins kept above their shop. Fred and George, though very concerned for their friend, still found his predicament supremely funny. Oliver was making his way down the street somewhat woodenly, as he tried to come to terms with what he had done.

Muffling a chuckle, George tried to reassure his friend. “Come on, it’s not that bad Oliver — I mean, at least you’ve fulfilled your duty to the Ministry.” He shrugged. “Now the decision’s out of your hands. Cheer up, it could have been much worse.”
“How?” the Scottish man asked, suspicious.

“We-ell, it could have been someone truly unfortunate, like Lavender Brown, or someone like that. I mean, at least your girl doesn’t simper.”

Oliver stared at him, wondering how the thought of not having a nice, placid girl was supposed to comfort him at the moment. “She’s going to go spare!” He spoke forcibly, hoping to impress the seriousness of the situation on his friend, whom he suspected might not be thinking of the same girl.
Fred sniggered. Oliver turned and glowered at him darkly.
“And just what in the bloody hell do ye propose I do? She’s going to go mental - with good reason!”

“Don’t worry Oliver —“

“— We’ll help you get through this.” Fred soothed.
Oliver looked at each of their grinning faces in turn. “I’m doomed,” he moaned, burying his head in his hands.
This declaration was rewarded with a fresh burst of laughter from Fred.

“I’m going to have to go see her. Maybe we can sort this mess out calmly…”

“You’re right, of course - things are only going to get worse if you don’t give her a chance to yell at you in person.” Fred unlocked the door to their shop, and crossed the room to hop up on the counter. “Girls are like that. The longer you leave her to stew on it, the more time she’ll have to come up with inventive ways of getting even.”

“Besides, she’s a lovely girl. I’m sure she will appreciate your good intentions.” George thought about this for a moment, before adding, “I don’t know that I would admit to her that it was Fred’s idea, though.” He paused for more thought. “And you might want to leave out the part about being drunk. That may not go over well.”

“George?” Oliver said, after blinking at this advice. “Stop trying to help me.”

***

“Oh Ginny, what am I going to do?” Hermione had gotten past the worst of her blind rage; she was now into numb horror. The two of them were currently holed up in Hermione’s dormitory. They had drawn the heavy velvet curtains around her four-poster bed, and cast a charm to keep their conversation private while they plotted in the dim cocoon they had made for themselves.

“Actually, I’m kind of relieved.” Ginny glanced over to her companion, slumped in a pile of fluffy pillows at the head of the bed, and carefully gauged her reaction, before continuing. “I mean, the worst is over, now we can concentrate on saving the day. There’s no way you’re marrying someone so totally unsuitable - but at least it’s not Zabini, or even Snape! He’s a Pureblood too, you know — Could you imagine being Mrs. Snape? You’d never get the grease stains out of your clothes.” Catching and eating the Bertie Botts bean that was flung furiously at her head for this comment, Ginny made an exaggerated face.

“That’s really disgusting, you know. I rate much higher than spinach!” Swallowing dramatically, “gagghhh,” she pronounced with a theatrical shudder. When Hermione finally gave into her antics and allowed a tiny smile to twitch across her lips, she became serious again.

“Honestly though, I’ve been on pins and needles these last two weeks, nervous for you every time your post came in. Now that the worst has happened, we can all get our heads together, and find a way out of this mess. Unless, you want us to leave you to it?” Ginny tried to sound serious, hoping to lighten the mood with her teasing.

“And just how are we going to fix this one, Ginny? I don’t exactly see a line up of knights in shinning armor just waiting around with nothing better to do.”

“Well, you still have a month to find another offer. Is there anyone you’d like as a substitute?” Ginny’s tone was speculative, as she gave her a teasing look.

Hermione threw the pillow that she had been lounging against, halfheartedly at her friend. “Not like that, no, Ginevra Weasley,” she said primly, flushing slightly at the other girl’s leering expression.

“You could ask Harry, or Ron, you know. I’m sure they would do it for you.”

“Actually, no, I can’t ask Harry – he’s only a half-blood.”

Seeing Ginny’s started look, Hermione sighed. “Oh, honestly, doesn’t anybody read the Minister’s Report when it comes out? Though Half-bloods can marry either a Muggle-born, or Pureblood under the new law, they cannot themselves file a contract; nor can they be contracted by anyone. Oh, and female Purebloods are entitled to file contracts, but only if they are issued by the patriarch of their family. Male Purebloods can do it on their own after they reach the age of Authority.”

“Why not ask Ron, then? He’ll never let you go through with this, once he finds out, anyways.”

“I know he won’t, Ginny. I wish I didn’t have to tell him at all, but even Ron’s not thick enough to miss the fact that I’ve gotten married. We don’t have to tell him who however, until the month is up.”

“Hermione! What are you thinking? You can’t be seriously planning on going through with this! Ron would be a better choice than that.”

“I know Ginny, but how could I live with myself after asking that of him? He would lose his freedom too —possibly for the rest of his life, if this law isn’t repealed, and it’s not likely to be with all the new blood-sicknesses cropping up almost daily. Ron deserves to fall in love someday, and be happy.” She shook her head slightly, “besides,” she said determinedly, “I don’t think the situation is beyond my ability to handle.”

***

UNFORTUNATELY FOR Oliver, he was sent out on assignment again the very next morning, preventing him from going down to Hogwarts and calmly talking things over with Hermione as he had planned. He had a sinking feeling that leaving her to stew about this wasn’t going to be conducive to his future wedded bliss, or even his continuing ability to walk upright with the normal number of limbs. Hermione, he remembered, was very handy with charms and hexes, and might find it very amusing to be married to a frog.

Groaning when he realized there was a good possibility she might do just that, he dragged himself out of bed, and quickly got himself to the Undersecretary’s office, cursing Percy inventively the whole way.

***

HARRY AND Ron had been stunned to say the least, when Hermione and Ginny had told them about her predicament Tuesday morning over breakfast. Harry had known she would get one sooner or later, and given who she was, probably sooner. Hermione had been the only one of their group to be vulnerable. Like Ginny, though, he was actually a bit relieved that the worst was over — now if only she would tell them who, they could start working on fixing everything for her.

Ron, on the other hand, was furious. Harry didn’t think it had actually occurred to him before then that his best friend was Muggle-born, and would therefore be subject to the new law. It seemed to catch him completely off guard, and for some reason, he and Hermione had gotten into a fight about the whole thing — as if it had been her fault that he hadn’t known about it.

“You okay, Hermione?” Harry asked somewhat tentatively. He couldn’t quite get over the fact that she was just sitting there reading from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7, as if nothing had happened. It really was a Hermione-like thing to do, he supposed.

“I’m fine, Harry.” Her voice was really beginning to sound exasperated now, like someone who had been asked a question, and all it’s variations, one too many times. She didn’t even bother looking up from behind her book anymore, from which she was working from on an essay due by the end of next week. Harry couldn’t believe she was still calm enough to be worrying about schoolwork that far in advance.

For a while, the only sound to be heard was the scratching of quills on parchment and the occasional soft ‘plink’ of a pen being dipped in ink a little too enthusiastically, as all three of them went back to their respective homework. The tension was still there, though — Ron had yet to say anything since hearing Hermione’s news, and Harry felt like he was treading on eggshells whenever he was with the two. When Ron’s head suddenly shot up from the parchment he was working on, all Harry could think was ‘Here we go’. He noticed, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that the red-haired boy had only written about three inches in the last two hours. He began surreptitiously scanning the room for possible cover.

“How can you be so calm about this?”

“Honestly, Ronald. It’s the law — it’s not like I can do anything to stop it. I fail to see how panicking is going to solve the situation.”

“Yeah? Well most people would actually be upset about something like this!”

“Are you listening to yourself? It’s the law, Ronald — go yell at your brother, if you feel this is someone’s fault — besides, I consider myself somewhat capable of handling my own problems.”

It probably would help if Hermione would take her head out from behind the book, Harry thought. Half of what was egging Ron on was the feeling that she thought he was being too stupid to bother with.

“Oh, yeah, I bet whoever he is, is just wonderful now, isn’t he? I bet you’re just ecstatic.”

“Oh really, what is your problem? It’s not like I asked for this.” Okay, there she went and put the book down — man was she going to be angry later when she realized that she had dented the cover just now. Harry watched as both of his friends had risen to their feet. Hermione, with her hands planted firmly on her hips, looked very reminiscent of her bossier, know-it-all younger years. Ron looked sullen, and his ears were well past ‘pink’, and onto ‘lobster red’.

“Yeah, well it’s not like you’re looking for a solution, now is it?”
Stuffing his books into his bag, Ron stormed out of the tower, leaving the entire common room to stare in his wake.

***

WHAT WAS she going to do? It had been three days since she had received the contract, and still she had no inkling as to what she was going to do about it. Since the scene in the common room a couple days ago, Ron had continued to be an absolute pig-headed git, and by now, she was getting ready to pull out her hair — or someone else’s, anyways. Contrary to Ron’s belief, she had spent a good deal of the last three days in the library, researching the new law and all of its clauses — and there were a lot of clauses. She had sent to the Ministry for copies of all of the regulations and wizarding laws that could possibly be applicable in this situation. The new bill proved to have no loopholes — Hermione would have admired the simplicity and cleanness of the wording that left absolutely no wiggling room whatsoever, if it hadn't been used against her personally. In almost three days of research, she hadn’t turned up a single thing, except to verify that she was, in fact, getting married.

There must be a way to deal with this that didn’t involve killing the offender… or Ron. Then again, roasting was fun, perhaps she could ask Dobby to set up a spit for her. No, no, that was no good; it would make a mess of the lawn. He would look good as a cockroach, and whenever he annoyed her she could step on him — Hey, and the beautiful part of it was that cockroaches survive anything, so she could step on him again, and again… but, even as a cockroach, she’d probably still be forced to marry him, and that was definitely out….

How could this happen to her? Well, actually, she supposed, she had kind of expected this to happen to her. She had known that she would get one of these infernal Ministry sanctioned decrees of doom sooner or later. The only question in her mind had been: would it be one of the Slytherin boys bent on enjoying her humiliation, or would it be someone looking for the trophy of having ‘the’ Hermione Granger? This eventuality, however far surpassed even her worst envisionments of her fate. Think, Hermione, there has to be a loophole that doesn’t involve asking someone to bail you out…

“Hermione?” Harry broke into her manic musings softly. Everyone had started treading very carefully around her in the last few days — even teachers. She still wouldn’t tell them who it was, but her complete lack of enthusiasm really wasn’t surprising. Whoever it was, Harry wasn’t sure he would like to be in his shoes right now, as Hermione’s temper seemed to be deteriorating at an accelerating rate. Still, if it was really bad, he was sure she would tell her best mates, and let them help her find a solution.

…but is Wendle’s Spot Remover slippery enough to get him up the chimney? And how do I get him to eat it? Or do I need to get Dobby to …

“Hermione, you’re brooding again.”

“I am not!” Her voice was unnaturally high. “I was just thinking about the chart I need to finish for Arithmancy. It requires some very complicated calculations —”

“You’ve been staring at the fire for the last fifteen minutes with a very evil look on your face.”

“So? I was thinking about this chart. Honestly, Harry, not everything is about that git’s terrible lack of intelligence!”

“You were cackling, Hermione. You scared off all the younger years — they thought you were going to let fly again, like you did this morning on poor Gregory.”

“He shouldn’t have startled me then! What is with these all these titchy little first years, anyway? Don’t they have homework or something?”

“He just sat down. That’s all.” Looking over at a small table in the corner, Harry noticed Gregory sitting with some other first years, nervously trying to avoid Hermione. He jumped occasionally at small noises. At least they had been able to remove the turnips that had sprouted out of his nose. “He’s probably going to need therapy in the future, you know.” Harry was fighting hard to keep the amusement out of his voice. Laughing at Hermione right now was about as safe as walking into Snape’s classroom and announcing that you thought it was about time he took a bath — and why didn’t he ask Peeves to wash his back for him?

Glancing over at the first years’ table, Hermione had to stifle a giggle as Gregory twitched yet again when someone turned a page too loudly. She felt some of the tension ease out of her frame. “All right, maybe I was a little harsh with young Mr. Fannahaghn. I’ll try not to abuse anymore younger-years.”

***

RON HAD apologized stiffly to Hermione the following morning, and judging by the dark circles under his eyes when he met her outside the Great Hall before breakfast, Harry privately thought that he had spent the night thinking on it. Things between them were still somewhat cool — they addressed each other with careful politeness, showing that neither one had forgotten it yet. Poor guy. When Hermione was through with her fiancée, what ever was left was going to be in very deep trouble with Ron.

Harry wondered if he could get tickets.

***

“Where’s Hermione? She’s going to miss lunch completely if she doesn’t come soon.”

“Dunno, Ginny. She wasn’t in Transfiguration today.” Harry looked questioningly at Ron, who, as usual, had more food in his mouth than he could handle.

“Fee wusun’ in karms e ver.”

“Ron — that’s disgusting!”

“What?”

Harry shook his head. He was used to their sibling bickering by now. “Do you want to maybe try that again, Ron?”

Ron left off his squabble to shrug. “I just said that Hermione wasn’t in Charms this morning, either.”

“She must be ill — she never misses class. Think we should bring something up for her?”

“Yeah, that’d be good. Why don’t you?” Ron was eying the food still left on his plate. Harry hid a snigger behind his hand.

“Come on, Harry, I’ll go with you.” Ginny gave Ron one last exasperated look, and grabbed Harry by the elbow.

“It’s okay, I think I can manage, Ginny —“

“And how exactly were you planning on getting into the girls dormitory, Mr. Potter?”

“Oh, right.”

***

FRIDAY — FIVE DAYS after he had filed that blasted Contract, and Oliver was finally on his way to Hogwarts to face his fiancée’s wrath. He’d put a little more thought into this one, though. This time, he had at least sent an owl to her, asking where and when it would be convenient to ‘discuss a few things’. Her reply had been civil, but cool which, he supposed, was encouraging. He had witnessed enough of her disagreements with Potter and Weasley to realize it could have been a lot worse — it could have been a Howler. She was definitely feisty, he had to admit ruefully – at least, he would never have to worry about her bottling things up on him — she had no qualms about coming right out and telling you exactly what she thought of you. He was actually a little amused by her forcefulness. He kept getting this mental image of a little mouse, puffing up indignantly to scold a fox for even thinking of making her its dinner. He would probably never be bored again, with her around.

They were meeting by the lake after the midday meal. He wasn’t sure if they were meeting there to have some measure of privacy from prying eyes in the castle, or because she wanted to feed him to the giant squid. Neither thought was entirely reassuring, for vastly different reasons that Oliver didn’t want to examine too closely just yet.

Nervousness was starting to take hold, and Oliver found that he was having a hard time remembering not to fidget as he waited for the coach from Hogsmeade to take him up to the castle. What would she look like now? It had been almost six years since their last brief encounter at the World Cup game. He had an impression of wild curls and tawny-brown eyes, but that was about all he could honestly recall of the girl. She had always sort of been around — seemed to spend all of her time getting those two boys out of trouble. He snorted at this thought — Potter and Weasley had needed all the help they could get in that respect. She had seemed nice enough, a little high-strung when it came to schoolwork, but Oliver could definitely appreciate dedication to something you found important. There were certainly enough people who would be willing to call him much worse than high-strung when it came to Quidditch. A bit prissy about the rules too, and this was amusing really, given the antics her two friends seemed to drag her into.

Still, this sort of hazy reminiscing did little to assure him. She had been a major participant in the final battles, along with her two mates. She was widely acknowledged to be clever and very handy with a hex or jinx…. This kind of thinking was quickly eroding Oliver’s confidence. He hurried to remind himself that he had done this with her best interests at heart — she would be grateful, once he explained everything to her.

In the back of Oliver’s head, a small voice snorted derisively at this pronouncement.

***

JUST LIKE Diagon Alley, Hogwarts still retained evidence of the war. In this case though, it was mostly in the faces of the students. Mature eyes staring out of youthful faces surrounded Oliver. He supposed that he probably looked that way too.

This was Oliver’s first time back to Hogwarts since he had graduated. Part of him was nervous, afraid that the school would no longer resemble the place he had left six years ago, after all that had happened. The school had been abandoned four months into what must have been Hermione’s seventh year, actually before the war had even officially started. Dementors, liberated from Azkaban by Voldemort and his followers, had glided silently out and across the lawns, flooding the grounds of the school in the early evening twilight. Hundreds of the sucking, scabby things had descended on the laughing boys and girls who were outside enjoying the frozen lake and snow covered grounds. A few dozen students had been lost that night – though it was a testament to the foresight and planning of Professor Dumbledore and the other members of the Order that they hadn’t lost a lot more. For thirteen long months, it had been unsafe to re-open the school, and then after another five they had finally found enough staff to bring the students back in. Many of the older students had returned as well, to finish their N.E.W.T.s, and, Oliver suspected, to try to regain some normalcy in their lives. Apparently, Hermione was one of these, for all that she was now over twenty.

The lake gleamed brightly in the late February sun. There was still a chill in the air, but the snow was gone at least. Hogwarts was quite a bit further north than London — where, only yesterday, he had been enjoying the unseasonably warm temperatures and the mild rain that was so common in this country to be almost unnoticed by the inhabitants.

Standing by the lake, he saw a lone figure with wild, wind-tousled curls. Early, of course — he should have guessed. At least he was on time — no sense just handing her ammunition. Staring at her agitated form from what he hoped was a safe distance (and from behind a tree, just in case it wasn’t), he found that, unfortunately, it was also too far to determine much more than the basics. She was shorter then his six-foot frame, probably up to his chest, or so. She had brown hair, and tiny hands, which she was waving around in the air wildly, as she paced to and fro; the rest was concealed by distance and billowing black robes. He knew she probably wouldn’t be on break for long, and that thought gave him the courage to cross the lawn. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have time to get too worked up.

He should have known better, really. She’d already had five days to work up to this meeting.

***

THE NERVE of him! The absolute gall! What the hell had he been thinking, filing that contract? Oh, lord, there were only three weeks left to find a way out — How the hell does one get out of something like this… and with someone like him, no less! What was she supposed to do? The man had the intelligence of a bag of rocks, how was she -

She was pacing again. And waving her arms around like a lunatic. She just couldn’t seem to help herself. How could he do this to her when he wasn’t even here? Here she was, waiting by the lake for an innocent meeting, only four days into her life sentence, and she was ranting and raving like an escapee from St. Mungo’s. She’d never felt this unable to control herself — ever. It seemed to be a special talent only he possessed. Annoying Hermione, and turning her into a crazy person. Just wonderful.

Arrghh! She was pacing again! That’s it; I’m going to kill him on the wedding night. There will be no body, I’m going to eat his heart, and feed the rest to Fluffy. Actually, Ginny had helped her practice some of the nastier curses just in case they couldn’t come up with another plan, so if it came to that, Fluffy might not even be necessary.

And to top it all off, now she had this meeting to worry about. To say that she had been stunned in getting an owl from Oliver Wood, of all people, was a gross understatement. She just couldn’t figure out what he thought they had to say to one another, but it was only polite to acquiesce to his request to a meeting, even if it was a bit strange. She was pacing again. How was he able to make her so absolutely mental when he wasn't even here? Hermione didn't feel herself an expert in these sorts of things, but she felt fairly certain this probably didn't foreshadow a future of marital happiness.

“Um, Hermione?” This soft enquiry cut though her mental rant instantly. Somewhere in her hazy memory, that accented voice matched up to one heard at the Quidditch Cup years before, so as she whirled around to face the source of some of her recent confusion, it was with a wary expression tightening the skin around her large eyes.

“Hello Oliver,” she offered, guardedly.

‘At least she didn’t answer with her wand, instead.’ Oliver was actually a bit taken aback by her willingness to converse before hexing him into oblivion. He was so taken aback that he just stared at her blankly for a moment as he tried to regroup.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Wood, can we get on with this? I’ve been under a fair bit of strain as of late, and I don’t have the patience at the moment for pleasantries.”

Ouch. Yep, definitely not happy. It was Oliver just a few moments ago, too. Now what? At his hesitation, Hermione lost what remained of her patience.

“Oh, honestly! Do get on with it, Wood. I have no idea why you would request to see me ‘somewhere where we can talk privately’, but you can just hurry up and spit it out!” She had begun to pace again, with movements that were jerky, and uncoordinated.

Looking closer, Oliver noticed the bags under her eyes, and the drawn looking quality of her skin. She hasn’t been sleeping, he realized suddenly, and I’ll bet she’s missed a fair few meals in the last few days too. His feelings of awkward guilt only intensified.

“I came down to apologize, Hermione.” This stopped her just as she was taking a breath to scold him again, confusion plainly written on her expressive features.

“What do you mean?” she tried to say, but all that came out was an odd whooshing, like someone stepping on a frog, as all the air left her lungs at once. She promptly began to cough. Great, just great, Hermione. Impressive display, that was.

After awkwardly patting her on the back until she resumed breathing, Oliver seemed to lose himself in thought. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his navy robe, and scuffed the ground with his foot a few times like a schoolboy who knew he deserved to get what was coming to him, but hoped because this was his favorite teacher, if he looked miserable and remorseful, he would be too cute to be punished. For the life of her, Hermione couldn’t figure out what was going on.

“Um, Oliver? Why are you apologizing to me?” The bafflement on Hermione’s face had softened the hard lines of her strong features. She’s probably got a pretty smile, Oliver thought unexpectedly. She should do that more often; when she scowls like that her chin gets all pointy looking…. Shaking his head to bring himself back to task, he stopped kicking the sandy ground at the lake’s edge, and came to stand by her again.

“I came to apologize because it’s my fault you’re in this situation. I really didn’t mean —“ He got no further, before he was interrupted.

“What do you mean, this is your fault?” The steely quality of her voice should possibly have been a warning that this was all about to go south, quickly, but he ploughed on, oblivious.

“Well, I mean, if I hadn’t have filed that Contract…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Oliver. There is no way that you could have accomplished something like this. There are all sorts of spells set up to prevent mistakes—“

Even though he was a little bit indignant that she didn’t think him capable of performing the task himself, he still found himself answering truthfully. “Well, the twins helped me with the trickier bits, and you know how good they…”

She heard the splash before she even realized what she had done. Standing there, listening to him explain away the torment she'd endured for the last week as some - some silly schoolboy prank, perpetrated by the twins of all people, well, she finally felt something snap. You could almost hear it happen. It was rather unfortunate for Oliver that he failed to realize that in someone like Hermione, this was definitely the time to start looking for cover.

The icy cold water of the lake came as an incredible shock to Oliver. He had had just enough time to register her scowl, before his unprepared body found itself loosing a battle with gravity that landed him on his arse.

Spluttering, Oliver was sure he set a record getting out of the water, which was, he was positive, only a very short step away from being glacial melt-off. When his brain caught up to what his ears were hearing, however, he was even more confused.

“You — you! What …ruined my … would you think I… You?” Her jumbled raving was coming out sounding like very furious and indignant hiccoughs, until finally, she seemed to settle on just “Why? Why him?”

“Well, I thought I would try and help, I mean —“ Him? Oliver’s brain finally caught up, derailing his desperate explanation mid stride.

“Him?” he queried, carefully.

“Yes, him! Why the hell would you do this to me! I don’t want to know how you forged it, but you and your partners-in-crime had better find a way to fix this, or I swear —“

Oliver thought back furiously to his hazy memories of the mad hour spent completing the paper work for the contract. Nope, he’d definitely signed it — and besides, there were all kinds of spells in place to prevent any mistakes, even if it had been illegible, so there was no way he could have bollixed it up — so that meant… Bloody hell.

“Hermione,” he grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him as he said urgently, “Who?”

“You prat! You set me up like this without even knowing who? I —“ She broke off, feeling Oliver’s grip tighten warningly on her shoulders.

“Who, Hermione?”

He just knew, absolutely knew, mind, that he wasn’t going to like the answer. And she confirmed this when she opened her mouth to say —

“Gregory Goyle.”

“Bloody hell.”

***

“So, what happens now?” They were both sitting under a tree at this point, staring out at the squid, as it made lazy patterns on the lake’s surface.

“Well, that depends on what happened to your owl. When the Ministry receives it, your challenge will be acknowledged, and the Goyle family will be informed. So will you, I assume —“

“Challenge?” Oliver struggled up from his semi-lounging position on his elbows to stare more fully at Hermione.

“Don’t tell me — you’ve never read the Minister’s Report either?”

“The what?”

“Never mind. Because the Goyle family has already filed for me, and I never signed their Contract, your claim is considered a challenge. Once the Ministry has processed it, they will inform the Goyles, who will then have 48 hours to choose how they want the claim decided.” The careful neutrality of her tone worried Oliver a little. At his gesture, she continued. “Once they inform the Ministry of their choice, the Ministry will inform you, along with the details of the ‘contest’.”

“What kind of ‘contest’?”

“The challenged party has a choice to defend their claim before the Wizengamot, almost like the trial Harry had when he defended himself from charges of under-aged magic, or…. “

“Or?”

“A wizard duel.”

***

“She sleeping?” Harry asked, as Ginny came back down to the common room, tray still in her hands.

“No,” she said, slowly. “She’s not there.”

Harry blinked at this, unsure what to think. “Not there? Do you think she’s with Madame Pomfrey? Maybe we should go check.”

Ginny chewed her lower lip in indecision. “It’s almost time for your next class — don’t you have Defense Against the Dark Arts with her this afternoon? Why don’t we see if she shows up before we get too worked up. I mean, she may just need some time alone right now.”

“I wish she would tell us who it is! I mean, if he’s someone horrible, I’m sure she would ask for our help, but I’d still feel a lot better knowing for sure that it’s not Snape or someone like that. I know you know, Ginny. Can’t you give us a hint?” Harry’s frustration at not being able to help his friend was making his normally quiet voice rough. He moved across the circular room to sit heavily in a chair by the table at the back of the room. It was Hermione’s favorite place to study, half hidden, as it was, in the shadow of the stair leading to the dorms. His chin resting in his hand, with his elbow on his knee he looked up and tried to plead silently with his best mate’s sister to tell him. It wasn’t working. Frustrated again, he dropped his gaze and noticed a stray parchment on the floor under the table. Letting Ginny’s words wash over him, he leaned down to retrieve it.

“… really, and it’s her decision when she wants to tell the two of you. I mean, is there anyone in the world that you and Ron are going to think is good enough for her? She’s just …”

Dear Hermione,
I’m sure this is confusing to you…
…appreciate a chance to talk about things…

Harry’s eyes widened in shock, realizing, as he skimmed the letter, that it was probably from Hermione’s mysterious suitor. Feeling only a little guilty in reading her personal correspondence, he quickly scanned down to the bottom, and read the signature. And then read it again.

“Oliver Wood,” he breathed. Ginny stopped mid sentence, and just looked at him, clearly unsure as to what he was talking about.

“Come on, I’ve got to find Ron.” Harry left the common room at a run.

***

“So, why exactly did you Contract me, anyways?” Hermione was playing idly with a blade of early grass, trying to hide the flush she was sure was spreading across her face. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the fact that apparently ‘the’ Oliver Wood had not only remembered a bossy know-it-all four years his junior whom he hadn’t seen in almost six years, but that it had been her he’d thought of when faced with the dilemma of having to ‘lead the way’ with the new law. It was making her more than a little uncomfortable, and she was sure her question came out more then a little accusing.

“Uh, well…” Oliver looked around for inspiration. How was he supposed to answer that? Unfortunately, all he saw was the squid, who proved to be less then inspirational. “Ah, well, the truth is, I wasn’t really thinking tae clearly at the time…”

“Oh?”

He didn’t miss the sudden coldness of her tone. Think Wood, this is your future as a frog talking to you. You had better come up with something, quick.

“Well, I’d just found out about this law a few hours before, an’ ...

“You were drunk, weren’t you?”

There was no way she could have missed Oliver’s guilty wince at her accusation. She went from her reclining position to standing so fast; it almost looked like she had Apparated, instead of bothering to go through the extra steps of getting up. With a withering glare, she left him floundering for an explanation and stormed back up to the castle.

***

“Well, apparently tha’ wasn’t such a good idea.” Oliver was leaning against a tree, staring out at the lake, and contemplating how much better that should have gone.

“You got that right.” At the sound, Oliver straightened. The voice had sounded unexpectedly hostile.

Turning, Oliver only just had time to register red hair and a lean body before he had his head snapped with enough force to rock him back on his heels a bit. It appeared that the cavalry had arrived, and its name was Ronald Weasley.

Yep, this day just kept getting better and better.

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