Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

Chapter Three - Dragons, Dragons Everywhere, And Not A Drop To Drink

Consequentially Yours:
A Gentleman’s Duty

Chapter Three – Dragons, Dragons Everywhere, And Not A Drop To Drink
-..-

“You absolute prat — you complete bastard! What the hell were you thinking?” Ron had at least stopped trying to hit him. Oliver really didn’t want to get into more trouble with Hermione for beating up her friend.

“Whoa, slow down jus’ a little bit, huh? I already explained ta Hermione the reasons—”

“I saw you explaining them to her, and it didn’t look like she was impressed, either!”

Oliver couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was happening. It seemed to him that Goyle would be a far more worthy target for this kind of abuse than he — and wait just a minute here; how do these two scamps know about his Contract on Hermione, when even Hermione hadn’t know until an hour ago? Ron’s reddening face quickly brought him back to the present. Time to try and figure out the complicated relationship between these three later — for now he would just play along— it was Hermione’s choice after all what she told her friends, he supposed. He probably wouldn’t want to admit to having Goyle as a suitor either. Wait a tick — that didn’t sound right, even in the privacy of his own head.

“Our wee mouse has a fiery temper. She’ll calm down, and understand the logic behind this.” Oliver suppressed a wince, as he thought, I hope.

Harry gave Oliver an odd look at his choice of endearment, but kept quiet and in the background of the confrontation.

“So there is some logic involved here, somewhere? This I’ve got to hear!” Ron snarled. It hadn’t seemed to occur to him yet that Oliver was easily twice his size. Ron may have become even taller in recent years, but he was still slim and narrow for all that he had grown. Despite his training with the Order, and a few years of Quidditch for Gryffindor, muscle mass just seemed to be refused by his lean frame. Right now, he was vibrating in rage so great; he looked like an autumn-red leaf in a heavy gale.

So Oliver related (again) his own situation, and how he had honestly been trying to help Hermione by filing for her. He spoke of the necessity behind the law, and the likelihood of Hermione being Contracted by some Death Eater or something. He left out absolutely all reference to Goyle, challenges, or drunken owls. They didn’t seem to know anything about Hermione’s other contract, and Oliver wasn’t fool enough to tell them, if she hadn’t.

Ron obviously wasn’t very impressed with this reasoning, and Oliver began to have a sneaking suspicion of the complications to come.

“Did it ever occur to you that she had friends here that would have stepped in if she needed to be rescued from something like that?” Ron was seething now, absolutely livid at Oliver’s actions.

“Why, would yeh have? Offered a Contract of your own then? ‘Cause, the last time I checked, yeh still hadn’t managed ta have an emotional discussion with her withoout ending up screaming at each other loud enough ta wake the whole of Gryffindor Tower!” Oliver watched Ron’s face carefully as he made these accusations. He really hoped Ron would be shocked, surprised, or disgusted, maybe – anything, as long as his growing suspicions were wrong….

They weren’t. Ron blushed hotly at the accusation, and dropped his eyes. Oh, shite. That was going to complicate things. He’d never seriously thought of the two of them together. Well, it might be a way out of his current dilemma – if Hermione wanted it, that was. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but his stomach clenched uncomfortably at the thought.

Wrenching his thoughts around, Oliver tried to deal with the issue before him. “Are you serious about this?” He tried to keep his voice even and soft, giving nothing of his inner discomfort away. Wait a minute, where was all this coming from – he didn’t have any intentions toward Hermione… did he?

“I don’t know! I don’t know if we could make it work!” Ron exclaimed furiously. “I’d’ve liked to try, though.” He was frustrated now, and looked like he wanted to go back to hitting Oliver.

“Have yeh ever asked her?” Oliver asked quietly.

“I haven’t said anything. She’s too dense about stuff like that –when it comes to me, anyway – to notice.”

Oliver thought that it was a bit much coming from Mister Oblivious himself, but he let it go for the sake of continuing good relations.

“There’s still three weeks left, yeh know. Yeh could offer her a choice. Rescue her from me, if yeh like.”

Ron avoided his gaze.

“Yeh dinnae know if yeh want to.” It wasn’t a question. Oliver was beginning to get really irritated. “So yeh dinnae know if yeh want her yourself, but yeh dinnae want anyone else ta have her either. Friendly of yeh, tha’ is.”

Ron bristled at this assessment and Oliver tensed, not sure if Ron was going to decide to start swinging again. The tall, lanky boy glared at him for a long moment, and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. He wasn’t ready to file a Contract for Hermione, and he knew it. With one last baleful look at Oliver, he strode off in the direction of the Forbidden Forrest, already deep in thought.

“You handled that fairly well.” Oliver nearly jumped. He had forgotten Harry was still there.

“Thanks,” he replied; and then, after a moment, “Yeh knew?”

“He’s my best mate, Oliver.” Harry sounded almost amused that Oliver thought he could miss such a thing.

“An’ yeh dinnae say anything? Yeh could have saved us all some grief, yeh know.”

“Ron is too hard-headed. If I had tried to tell him that he hadn’t a hope of being happy with ‘Mione, he would have gone out of his way to try and prove me wrong. He’s a great guy, but he has a lot of pride. He loves the idea of the two of them, but it’s only because he’s afraid of losing her at the end of the year. School will be finished, Voldemort’s gone — we won’t be together anymore. Not like we are now, anyway.”

Oliver looked startled for a moment at this insight. “Quite philosophical, aren’t yeh, young Mister Potter?”

Harry grinned, suddenly amused. “I had to think very fast, when your Contract came in. If I had thought it was what Ron really wanted, I would have spiked your wheel pretty damn quick, you know.”

Oliver laughed at this. “So, are yeh going to hit me too? Or shall we just get straight on ta dueling?”

“Oh, I think I’ll let you lick your wounds for a while yet, before I go after you. More sporting that way, don’t you think?”

When he saw the other man’s gaze follow Ron’s slumping progress out to the edge of the woods, Harry added, “Don’t worry about him, he’ll work it out for himself soon. Probably be his usual charming self by morning.”

Oliver nodded, then turned to go, intent on finding a healing charm for his face, but was halted by Harry’s voice, behind him.

“Oh, and Oliver? All the usual threats about hurting her apply, of course.”

***

WHILE HAVING his face tended to in the Hospital Wing after his confrontation with Ron, Oliver had realized that leaving things as they stood now with Hermione was not the healthiest idea he’d ever had.

“Letting her cool down a wee bit first would’na hurt, though,” he mused quietly to himself. Madam Pomfrey didn’t bat an eye at this strange comment. She had made it her policy long ago not to enquire after details of anyone’s visit to her domain. Almost all of her patients got here through some sort of rule breaking, so there really wasn’t any need to tax their creativity by asking them to come up with some kind of cover story.

Once released, Oliver had made his way to the library. He really had no clue what class she might be in, and didn’t think he had any hope of getting into her common room to wait for her, unless he ran into Harry again, so it was the best he could come up with. Sulking around in the Herbology section, he had kept up his vigil for over two hours before he was rewarded with the sight of Hermione wandering in over-burdened by a bulging rucksack over one shoulder, and three sizable tomes clutched tightly to her chest with both arms. She looked, to Oliver’s eyes, to be absolutely exhausted. Ah, seventh year slouch, he thought, taking in her drooping frame. Silently, he slipped behind her, and gently relieved her of her bag.

“Harry, you can be so sweet sometimes. I can’t bel—," she cut off abruptly, as she finished turning around, and saw her rescuer. She went extremely red, and began drawing herself up, no doubt to start scolding him again.

“We’re in the library!” Oliver hastened to remind her, hoping the consequences of being banned from her beloved sanctuary would help to keep this encounter more congenial then the last one.

Abruptly swallowing whatever she had been about to say, she cast a guilty glance around, as if expecting the librarian, to come swooping down on her.
Taking in Oliver’s determined expression, and the resolute way he seemed to be holding her bag hostage, Hermione gave in to the need to have a civil conversation. Wordlessly, she began walking towards one of the least used corners of the labyrinthine room not bothering to check that the burly man followed.

Dropping bonelessly into one of the fraying chairs to which she had led them, she deposited the heavy books she had been carrying on a low lying table, twisted around to bring both feet under her, and began to stretch her neck and shoulders. Oliver watched her deliberate nonchalance, and had to smile softly; she definitely wasn’t about to make this easy for him. Dropping her bag onto one of the other chairs, he moved around her to rub her shoulders.

Twisting under his grasp, she turned to give him a hard look. “That’s not necessary, thank you,” her voice was flat, and very unfriendly.

“Don’t be daft — I’ve been in seventh year too, you know. You probably haven’t slept enough in at least a month, and with carrying that lot of books around all the time, it’s a wonder you’re still walking.” Very gently, he continued his ministrations, knowing from experience that it is extremely difficult to stay mad when getting a thorough massage, and willing to use it to his advantage. When she made to protest again, he interrupted her to forestall another fight. “We didn’t behave too well by the lake this afternoon, did we? How much do you want to bet that we showed our maturity off for a bunch of younger years at some point during all that? Must’ve looked like right children out there.” His lilting accent came out tinged heavily with rueful amusement as he continued to dance his fingers lightly along her shoulders.

Silence greeted this remark, and Oliver hoped he hadn’t stuck his foot in it again, when she bust out in waves of soft laughter that caught him completely off-guard.
“No, I guess we didn’t show off our maturity, did we?” Oliver smiled at this break-through in inter-personal relations, though he was sure that things were still far from easy between them. He tried to think of something that might further serve to ease the tension. “Those two scamps call you “‘Mione”, don’t they?” He could practically feel her eyes narrow in confusion at where he was heading with this, and he gave a small crooked smile. “A few of the old timers still speak Gaelic back home; been hearing it all my life. There’s a word, ‘mione’ in Gaelic — the pronunciation isn’t quite the same, sort of a bit rounder, but it’s close, and it’s spelt the same. Do you know what it means?”

She had relaxed again at his explanation, and gave a very small shake of her head at his question, but he could almost feel her curiosity at this unknown fact, bright and shinny and pristine in its newness.

He reached across her to hold his palm flat for her to see. When she didn’t react, he gently took one of her hands that had been resting limply in her lap, and lay in over his own, also palm up. The difference startled even him, who had already noted the disparity in their sizes. It looked so small and delicate to his own; the palm’s smoothness making the calluses on his broom-roughened fingers and palm stand out in sharp contrast. All of a sudden he was hit with a startling desire to protect something that could be so delicate and yet so strong. “It means ‘small’ or ‘little’.” His voice was soft, still looking at the sight of her hand laying in his. Had he been looking at her, he may have noticed her smile at this interpretation of her name.

Realizing that he was still holding her hand in his, Oliver dropped it, and quickly cast about for something to say in an attempt to hide the flush he could feel crawling up his neck.

***

“Quidditch? You’re trying to re-start the Quidditch leagues?”

Once he had dropped her hand and stopped blushing, Oliver found that they managed to hold an only moderately awkward conversation for the rest of Hermione’s free period, which Oliver had taken as a bit of a triumph, given the level of interaction they had had up to this point in their lives. Apparently, when asked what he had been spending his time for the last year, he gave the wrong answer. His response seemed to have escalated the previously only mildly awkward atmosphere, into something more resembling nuclear disarmament talks.

“Well, yeah. I’ve been scouting around for the last few months,” Oliver went on, eyeing her carefully, “and I think I could get a team in the air in time for next season, if I could get the Ministry to re-instate. There’s a really fast kid playing house leagues over at…” he trailed off and furrowed his brow at Hermione’s horrified look. “What?”

“Don’t you think that, well…that there are more important things to be done first, before we bother with some sil--some game?” It was obvious, even to Oliver, that she was doing her best to choose her words with care.

What was she on about now? he thought. “Like what?”

“I mean honestly, don’t you think that there are more important uses for your time than badgering Percy about some stup– about a game? No one knows if Voldemort is really dead, everyone’s living on pins and needles in fear of his return. The Ministry is in shambles, and we have all kinds of new illnesses cropping up daily, thanks to the Pureblooded mating habits– and you’re biggest worry is whether or not you can find a seeker capable of performing one of those Wonky Faint thingies—”

“Wronski Feint,” Oliver corrected, in a strained voice.

“Whatever. I think Percy is perfectly right to deny your petition.” Hermione crossed her arms over her chest in frustration at his obvious confusion.

“An’ I suppose yeh have the perfect thing in mind for me ta do with my talents, do yeh?”
“Well, you could be devoting your time to something worthwhile, like S.P.E.W.! Helping creatures less fortunate, who are abused by the system so badly, that they don’t even have the will to fight!” Her brown eyes were sparking, and bright spots of colour were rising on her cheeks. Some of her curls had come loose of her bun in her agitation, and were laying about her head like a frizzy halo, as if she contained so much energy and passion that even her hair was alive with it. The effect is actually rather ridiculous, Oliver thought, with a fond smile, losing track of the argument for a moment.

“You do realize that House Elves are happy as they are, don’t you? If you want to talk abou’ wasting time, I think we could start there—,” he was cut off mid-retort by the most unbelievable language. She really should have been a Beater, with language like that, he reflected. Must be all those years hanging ‘round Weasley.

***

IT WAS undeniably a place meant for masculine company, the very fiber of the worn and comfortable atmosphere exuding something that spoke of a man’s office, Oliver reflected, letting his eyes travel its familiar confines; visiting briefly with the ancient fireplace dominating the one long windowless wall, the battered dark-wood desk with matching worn chair sitting in front of the huge windows overlooking the street below, and then with the scuffed sideboard, sitting almost throne-like on the wall opposite the stone hearth. More then half the space had been devoted to a conversation pit facing the fireplace, full of squashy, overstuffed chairs and one short chesterfield. The room really was a man’s room; all dark woods and functional furniture, completely comfortable without losing one bit of its utilitarian usefulness.

Oliver was getting sick of seeing it. He was watching the people moving on the street below, leaning forehead to forearm as it rested against the window frame, lost in the sea of movement. Shifting slightly, he watched through the reflection in the glass as Percy entered; a flock of memos following him into the room– one even getting stuck in his hair in its pushy insistence at being read first.

“Therapeutic, isn’t it?” Percy asked, coming up behind him to stare at the shoppers moving in groups along the once bustling street. “Just watching them all and wondering what they’re thinking, feeling right now? Why does that boy seem to lack the courage to approach that girl? Why does he look at her so longingly? It’s easy to get lost in just watching people, and never notice the time go by.”

The brunette man had no reply, merely waited for his friend to snap out of his reverie.

Shaking his head, and loosening the trapped memo in the process, he focused on more important matters. “So, you got my message? I thought you might get here sooner.”

“I was down at the school, speaking to my future bride,” Oliver glared at Percy’s reflection, as thought he could blame everything that had happened on him— it might not be entirely fair, but he fully intended to try. The spectral image in the glass made Percy’s normally fair complexion wan and sickly, and his deep auburn hair washed out to a dull orange. The ghostly image seemed to be smirking at him.

Moving further into the room, the Undersecretary passed Oliver to drop down into his scuffed chair behind his desk with something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. Oliver glared harder, knowing he was being childish, and for the moment, not caring one bit. “Actually, I was meaning to ask you how that went. May I extend my congratulations?” Percy’s face took on an expression of beatific innocence. “For some reason, I should have known the drunken owl had to be yours. Only you could land yourself in this much trouble overnight.”

Oliver continued to glare at him, trying to resist the urge to stick out his tongue. Sighing in defeat, Oliver finally left his vantage point to face his friend and sometimes-boss. Settling on the edge of the desk, all traces of his former irritation were gone from his voice, “So, what have you got?”

At this simple, but serious query, Percy’s face lost the bland countenance with which he had been teasing the other man. Straightening in his chair, he stared at Oliver pointedly, waiting for him to move off of the file he had sat on, before handing the manila folder over. “I’m afraid I have to send you out again. Today actually; before lunch if at all possible.”

“What’s happened, then?” The calm radiating from the large Scottish man when under pressure was one of the best indicators of his competence, his unpretentious nature causing many to underestimate his abilities.

“Problems in Norway, actually,” Percy paused, seeming to gather his thoughts as he swiveled his chair to stare out the window behind him. “We really can’t afford to have problems happening in a country that’s so close to us, and not know what’s happening. Oliver– we’re just too vulnerable right now. Lovisa Berg —”

“The Norwegian Minister’s wife?”

“Yes,” Percy tried not to scrub his face with his hands in weariness. He wasn’t sure he could remember the last time he had been able to sleep properly without waking up with his reports imprinted on his cheek. He accepted the tea gratefully when Oliver offered him a chipped mug. Oliver’s transfiguration work always was a bit spotty, he reflected, as he inhaled the slightly bitter aroma blissfully, before continuing, “Lovisa passed me a quiet word at the IWC talks last night. Michael is very worried, but I wasn’t able to get a moment alone with him all evening.” Percy spared a small smile when he saw Oliver’s sour look at the apparent maneuverings of ‘backroom politics’. “You’re too honest, my friend. The world’s problems cannot always be solved in a straight-forward manner. Austria is getting more militant everyday– I’m surprised the Muggle community there hasn’t heard more from them. The Netherlands are unwilling to rock the boat at the moment, and France has its own problems to worry about. Until we know for sure that Voldemort is really dead, our list of allies is very, very thin– and no one dares to be our friend openly.” The distance given him by the other European heads last evening still rankled. The second Dark War had been a very near thing for them, and countries that had been too friendly with the Order, and other resistance groups had earned punitive atrocities from the Evil Lord and his followers. The gruesome displays that he had given were now paying unexpected dividends by isolating Britain during it’s recovery; no one was willing to risk even more violent retributions should Voldemort rise for a third time.

“Specifics?”

“Not much. There have been a number of unexplained incidents lately. Things that appear fairly minor, really, but you know Michael — he claims that an entire town was reporting ‘mysterious’ lights last month. I mean, really, the lack of common sense being displayed here is astounding! You would think that the Northern Lights are a familiar enough occurrence for them that they wouldn’t panic when it appears, even if it might look unusual from time to time, due to some perfectly normal, natural phenomenon. Not everything can be blamed on Voldemort’s shadow. Now he claims he has an ‘unusual’ rampaging dragon on his hands.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow at exasperation in Percy’s voice. “An’ what exactly does an ‘unusual’ ravaging dragon do?”

A smile twisted its way onto the tired man’s face. “You know, I’m not sure.” They looked at each other for a moment, before sniggering in amusement.

Removing his thick spectacles to try and clean the lenses on the sleeve of his robes, Percy continued, “I want you to take a small team out there to find the silly thing. If there is something funny going on right on our doorstep, this is a very good cover for you to go and have a quiet look.”

A nervous knock on the door stemmed further exposition by the Undersecretary on the character defects arising in the Norwegian culture, at least those found in small towns that should know the Northern Lights from an Avada Kedavra. A blond head poked itself through the door as Percy, in his chair, swiveled back to face it.

“Mr. Undersecretary, sir,” the small woman asked tentatively.

“Yes, Miss Macier?”

“There’s a Mister Lucius Malfoy here to see you sir—” An expression of harassment showed briefly on her carefully controlled face.

The tall blonde man used his trademark ebony cane to delicately move the young woman out of the doorway, interrupting her introduction. “No need to announce me, I’m sure Mister Weasley has a few minutes for a concerned citizen.” The unctuous tones that preceded him into the room flowed like an oil-slick on water– beautiful but deadly. Pausing as he entered to sweep the room with his cold grey eyes, he spotted the other occupant. “Ah, Mister Wood. How unexpected.”

“Malfoy.” Oliver’s tone was bland, as he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. He watched with satisfaction as the other man’s eyes narrowed briefly in annoyance.

“Please, don’t let me keep you. Shall I wait outside for you to finish your business Mr. Undersecretary?”

Percy's voice had become fussy and exasperated. “No, no need,” he turned to face Oliver again, narrowing his eyes in irritation. “I think we were finished here, Wood. I know how you feel about the Quidditch leagues, but I’m afraid that I simply cannot justify the use of our limited resources at this time for something so frivolous. You know that: my answer is the same every time you come here. Why don’t you try Norway? I hear that they’re looking for talented people right now.” Percy watched the interloper carefully from the corner of his eyes, as he causally sent Oliver on assignment right under his overly sharp nose, for any sign of a reaction. He then reached around his desk, and offered a parchment to Oliver.
The bulky Scottish man was standing to leave, looking appropriately disappointed. “Here, take this with you when you go. I’m sure it will explain my position perfectly.”

A pair of dark grey eyes glittered as they followed the burly man out the door, unnoticed by Percy, who had to deal with the sudden arrival of a tiny screech owl zooming through his window, and hooting excitedly at a job well done. It was carrying a bright red envelope clutched tightly in his talons.

There was already smoke curling faintly from the edges.

***

(Dear) Hermione,

This is incredibly hard – How do you write a letter to someone who is going to be your wife, but you don’t know them very well yet? I think I now understand how people might feel in places with arranged marriages. I wanted to share a story with you that I thought might help a bit. When my oldest brother got engaged, my Grannie sat all of us down to share some advise.

“You’ll never find someone perfect for you,” she said. “You have to make things perfect with the person you find. They’ll always find a way of getting on your last nerve on a bad day, and that’s all there is to it– you’ve got to accept the things they do that drive you mad, and decide early on if they are things you can live with.” I guess when she married Granddad, she made a list of ten things he did that made her crazy, and decided that those things she would just accept. She wouldn’t nag, and wouldn’t fuss about those ten things– but anything not on the list, and boy, watch out!

I dunno, it worked for them; they were the happiest couple I know. I think the list is supposed to be stuff like, ‘I won’t go mental when they leave their socks on the floor’ sort of thing, but I really don’t know if you leave your socks on the floor yet, but I thought the same might work with more generalized resolutions for now — I can always add the thing about the socks later, if it turns out I need to.

I am kidding about that bit, put you’re wand down.

So here’s the first of my ideas: 1) I will try to be supportive of Hermione’s campaign for House Elves, even if I do think that there are rather better …
well, you get the idea.

Let me know how your N.E.W.T. studies are coming along– I’m sure you’ve got all your classes fit into a study schedule by now, you’re just that organized. I always seemed to be trying to work my studies around Quidditch strategy meetings with McGonagall– don’t let her fool you, she’s a bigger Quidditch nutter then I am. Oh, and If Goyle starts harassing you, let me know, alright? I’m sure, when this is all done, we can talk Fred and George into donating something special, just for Greg.

Yours,
Oliver

P.S. Do you know a good Warming charm? I’m up North at the moment, and it’s still ruddy cold at night, for all that March is just around the bend. I’m checking out the Norwegian club at the moment, on Percy’s recommendation– there’s some really great talent out here that’s worth keeping an eye on…

Oliver looked it over carefully, decided that he was a terrible correspondent … and then sent it off anyway. Hell, it wasn’t like it was going to get any better, no matter how much he fooled with it.

He had been thinking of her with surprising frequency, since arriving in Norway. The distraction this job had offered from his immediate problems, however, allowed him to do some very serious thinking. Up until this point, everything he had done had been reactionary, even the initial ‘proposal’ had been– at the prompting of much alcohol– in reaction to Percy’s directive to find a wife. He hadn’t put much thought into what he was going to do about the whole situation, all his efforts had been funneled into staying alive once Hermione found out. Now he found himself lying awake at night, turning the whole mess over in his mind, and had come to some startling conclusions: he wanted to make this work.

Why? He hardly knew her– though his contact with her in the last ten days had most assuredly been explosive and intense. His lips slide into a smirk at this thought. Just not in the way that you normally wanted with someone you were going to marry– and there was the really hard part to swallow. He was going to marry her, in less than two months, unless she got another offer that she liked better, in whatever time was remaining after he fought the challenge with Goyle. After how well things went at the school, if she got an offer from one of those blokes you were trying to save her from right now, Wood, she just might jump at it. Once again, the thought of Hermione taking another Contract caused an uncomfortably tight feeling to settle in his stomach. And that was the crux of it: he wanted this to work, with Hermione. She burned with this inner passion that lit up her whole being, like she was ready to fight the whole world, and Oliver found himself drawn in, despite himself. She exasperated him, and her lack of Quidditch savvy astounded him, considering she was practically inseparable for almost nine years from two of the biggest fans he knew, but he admired her nonetheless. She was fiercely loyal, and determined. He would value having her as a friend, if they could ever find some middle ground. He thought with time, maybe they could.

It had been a bit strange to realize that Hermione, Potter’s bookish Lieutenant was in all actuality a woman now. Somehow, just in holding her hand like that, he had suddenly seen her free of the haze of his memory of a buck-toothed teenager, caught immortal in his mind in her knobby-kneed and gracelessly awkward phase. He snorted at the thought, and pushed his speculations out of his mind for the day. It was time to work; time enough later to ponder when he was trying to sleep in his tent tonight.

They had been tracking the Horntail for two days, and a truly inhospitable place the damned thing had picked too. They were just east of a place called Mo I Rana, and so far, it had been miserable. The weather had been unseasonably wet, with sleet and rain almost every afternoon. After sending the owl off on the long journey to Hogwarts, he turned to check if the fire was ready to start breakfast. It was his turn to cook this morning, so that meant he had to get up early to bank the fire, and bring in water. They tried to use as little magic as possible when out in the field like this– one of the biggest reasons in this case, was that the dragon they were after was nursing, and they tended to be very sensitive to magic when they were doing that. The last thing they wanted to do was bring an enraged mother down on their camp over sausages and eggs!

He had Charlie Weasley with him, thankfully. -he had insisted on it, actually. The last dragon ‘expert’ Percy had sent along to help had goofed and Oliver had gotten a nasty bite out of his thigh. Thankfully it had healed well, but he’d refused to go out again without someone he trusted to know their business along. Basil Chambers, a very handy man in transfiguring things, and Anita Tormez, a skilled medi-witch, filled out the rest of the team. Their job was not to subdue the creature (they would need a lot more wizards for that), but to locate it, and set off some ‘scent bombs’ comprised of ingredients that gave off particularly noxious and odiferous fumes. Because dragons had such sensitive olfactory capabilities, this would force the beast into successively smaller and smaller areas and away from Muggle and wizard settlements alike. Apparently, they could smell this stuff up to two weeks after it had been put down. The team would then place apparition markers out, so the retrieval team could just come in, instead of having to slog in the hard way. Hopefully, Oliver would be able to get back to London soon, and plan how to smooth things over with Hermione. Somehow, he couldn’t help to think that scent bombs wouldn’t work as well on his wee mouse. But it was a fun thought.

***

“So, is it true? Are you really going to be the future Mrs. Wood? I mean, at least your taste has improved somewhat, he’s a small step up from the Weasel here– and definitely better then Goyle. Still, it would be nice if you could at least try to aim a little higher than an ape on a broom.” Malfoy’s quiet tone still managed to drip with derision.

Refusing to look up from where she was grinding up glittering beetle eyes, Hermione answered, “well, I guess that leaves you out then, doesn’t it?”

“Miss Granger, I will thank you to pay attention when you are in this classroom, no matter how interesting you find Mr. Malfoy.” Professor Snape smirked maliciously at her, a half smile twisting his thin mouth.

Hermione shot one more disgusted look at Draco, before guiltily turning to her potion once more. Upon entering the lesson, Malfoy had foregone his usual seat amongst his Slytherin cronies to take one behind Hermione where she sat between Harry and Ron.

Malfoy waited for the Slytherin professor to move on before continuing. “I always told you that Mudbloods were meant to be property– apparently the Ministry agrees. I’m sure you don’t mind the thought of Wood owning you, though, do you? He was rather popular with the girls while he was here, and it’s not like you would have had a hope with someone like him otherwise. A real dream come true for you, isn’t it?”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Ron snarled, as Harry and Hermione hastened to restrain him.

Unfortunately, the movement attracted Snape’s attention once again. “Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley, and I will thank you to leave your sordid love affairs for outside my classroom.”

They all quickly bent their heads to concentrate on the difficult brew that had been assigned to them, while Snape continued to float around the tables like a large brooding bat. Ron was muttering murderously under his breath, and even Harry was clenching and unclenching his fists in his rage.

“I wouldn’t get too attached to the idea of being Mrs. Wood, if I were you, Granger. I’m sure the Goyles will be kind enough to send what’s left of him back to you, though. Maybe you can seal it in one of those pendants, and wear him round your neck.”

“If you have done everything correctly, your potion should be a deep blue before you add the Billywig stings. I want you all to know, if anyone finds themselves unable to perform this potion to an acceptable standard, they will find themselves sitting detention with me for however long it takes them to improve their performance.” Snape’s expression soured as he watched on of the Slytherin’s potions began to smoke unpleasantly. “I expect my seventh years to achieve the highest standard on their N.E.W.T.’s, which I may remind you, are only a few months away.”

Hermione continued shredding her Shrake to equal length while surreptitiously monitoring Ron and Harry’s method. If any of them had thought that Snape’s dislike of the ‘Golden Trio’ or Gryffindors in general would lessen after fighting together in the war, they were severely disappointed.

The task before her was made more difficult by her shaking hands, and her watery vision. Ignore him. Ignore him. She kept the chant up like a mantra, trying not to focus on what he was saying. Unfortunately, Malfoy had no intention of cooperating, it seemed.

“Nice display you two put on by the lake, I hear, Granger. Heard you hexed the poor bastard from fifty paces. Though why he’d want to have you is beyond me…”

Ron’s whole face was slowly turning the colour of an eggplant with the effort it was costing him to control his temper. “I’m warning you, Ferret, one more word, just one more, and I’m—” But Snape had made his way over to their corner of the room once more, cutting off whatever dire fate Ron had been about to threaten.

Hermione was still surprised that Malfoy had come back to Hogwarts after the war. Actually, she was surprised by many of the Slytherins, – both in their lack of involvement, and their apparent willingness to just pick up where they left off when it was over. Only a small handful of the students from the serpent house actually sided with the Dark Lord during the fighting. Marcus Flint had been one, so had Adrian Puecy; but the majority of them, including Malfoy, Zabini, and the idiot twins, Crabbe and Goyle, had stayed neutral, despite the fact they had Death Eaters for parents. The really weird part was that they didn’t seem upset that Voldemort had lost, or even seem to acknowledge that anything unusual had taken place.

And they had all shown up to help rebuild the school last summer, joining in the student effort without comment or disparaging remark. It had been a sort of release, working the long and back-breaking hours needed to rebuild the grounds and outer walls of the castle. The exhaustion that came with it was a welcome antidote to the uneasy, nightmare filled sleep suffered by many of them. And slowly, the almost cliché adage had held true; keeping busy had allowed the mind to heal. Not completely, but enough.

Hermione had known that she was going to be okay, that the awful numbness that had inhibited her emotions since she had been forced to actually kill someone during battle nine months earlier was going to go away, when she was finally able to cry. Not for the faceless Death Eater she had killed, but for the comrades lost along the way. All alone, sitting in her make-shift cot in the newly restored Gryffindor tower, she had found herself desperately clutching a crumpled book she had found in the boys tower when she had gone up to check for damage. It’s torn binding and tattered pages did nothing to take away from the cheerful blue of its cover. Hermione had sat, rocking back and forth on her cot, sobbing so hard she thought she would shake apart at any moment, crying for a boy who had been her first friend on a train filled with strangers, whose quiet determination, despite what he had lost so early in life, had inspired his friends and kept her going with his clumsy thoughtfulness. A boy who would never lose his toad again. Sitting alone in the darkening tower, Hermione had mourned, clutching the rather foxed copy of Magical Mediterranean Water-Plants and Their Properties to her chest.

Hermione sometimes wondered exactly who Draco Malfoy mourned when he was all alone.

***

“You’ve been quiet these last few days, Oliver.” Charlie was giving him a sly look over the rim of his soup cup as they sat around a blazing fire that night. They had been getting steadily higher up into the mountains these last few days, and camp tonight was made in the lee of some stunted cedars that had somehow managed to exist where no tree had the right to grow. The resulting gap made between the solid rock rising on their left, and the stand of four emaciated trees growing out of it at unnatural angles, provided some much-needed cover from the unobstructed wind. A thick layer of needles carpeted the rock floor, promising a much softer sleeping surface to stretch out on than the previous night. Anita and Basil had already turned in for the night and Oliver was actually looking forward to seeing if the needle covered ground was as soft as it looked– but Charlie’s voice called him back from such pleasant speculations. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain brunette witch, now would it?”

How did he-? “The twins?” Oliver couldn’t help but look heavenward in silent reproach when Charlie nodded solemnly, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“I got an owl from George the day before we left; so tell me, was it young Miss Granger who was occupying your thoughts today?” Charlie’s wind-tanned face glowed copper in the firelight as he leered wickedly at his long-time friend, and one-time teammate. Oliver was practically squirming in mock-discomfort, his face screwed up exaggeratedly as though pained by the nosiness of Weasleys everywhere.

“You’re an awfully nosy bastard, you know tha’, don’t you?”

Charlie shrugged in acceptance of this character defect, a half-smile pulling at his lips. “Every man needs a hobby.” He watched Oliver get lost in thought again as he waited for him to begin talking. When he showed no signs of satisfying his curiosity though, Charlie cleared his throat noisily. “So-oo, care to share?”

Oliver busied himself with the fire for a few moments, trying to gather his thoughts. He had been thinking of little else for the past three days, but maybe a fresh perspective would help. Racking the embers out a bit to add another tough-as-iron log these stunted trees seemed to produce, Oliver settled back on the springy needles and stretched out. Leaning back on his elbows, he looked into the clear sky above them as he tried to find a place to start.

“I dunno, Charlie– I guess it’s just finally starting to sink in. Of all the people I would have imagined my future to be spent with, Hermione Granger wasn’t one of them.”

“She’s definitely nothing like anyone I would have pictured you with.”
Oliver bristled slightly at this observation, “Why? Because she’s smart?”
“No, because she’s not a sheep, you bloody highlander!” Charlie gave him a rough shove. “Actually, I was referring to Hermione’s disinterest in the noble game of Marsh-Landers everywhere– I mean, you’re going to have to learn whole new topics of conversation that don’t include Quidditch– unless you were planning on skipping the conversation, and going straight to the bedroom?” Charlie leered at him openly.

Oliver rolled his eyes, “I’m not even going to respond to that, you tosser.”
Charlie shrugged it off as irrelevant, before asking, “How did Hermione take the news?”

Oliver grimaced at the memory before launching himself into an explanation of his current predicament with the brown-haired witch.

“Goyle? You’ve got to be joking.” Charlie was eyeing him suspiciously. Oliver gave a slight shake of his head in negation. “If I were you, I would talk to Hermione at your first opportunity. Find out exactly what the rules are to this ‘contest’. Greg Goyle is one thing — I don’t think he’s even sure what end of the wand to hold and which end to stick up his nose, and his Da is no better, but usually senior family is allowed to stand in for a case like this.”

“So? I thought we just decided the Goyles don’t have enough menace to worry a Puffskein.”

“Oliver, are the Weasleys and the Woods related?” Charlie spoke as if walking a child through his lessons.

“Well, yeah, probably, somewhere along the line. Most Purebloods are. Wh—” Oliver’s eyes widened with sudden understanding, “That could have been a nasty surprise.”

Charlie raised his eyebrows, as if surprised he had to spell it out. “So, if I were you, I’d want to check to see if the rules limit how closely related you have to be to stand-in, or you could find yourself facing Malfoy, or someone like that. Hermione probably knows.”

Oliver was silent for a long time after that, just staring at the hypnotic flames of their campfire with unseeing eyes. After watching him in silence while he finished his mug of coffee, and filled it up one last time for the night, Charlie was prepared to leave him to his inner musings, when Oliver suddenly seemed to come back to himself. Transferring his gaze from the fire to his hands, which were clasped loosely around his drawn knees, he seemed to be struggling to find the right words. Charlie sipped his coffee, waiting for him to find his way.

“We have nothing in common Charlie. I mean, how is this ever going to work? She’s been forced into this every step of the way—”

“That’s not entirely true — she does have the choice of whether or not to pass up your Contract in favor of the Goyle Contract—” Charlie’s voice was sly.

“Charlie, you know damn well tha’ Gregory Goyle is no kind of choice at all–I’m sure she would rather marry a two headed troll then tha’ wanker. I’d just like to know for sure that she views me as being slightly better than the deformed troll. I mean, she thought I was bein’ a trifle thick when I told her I wanted to lobby the Ministry into giving priority to restarting the Quidditch leagues– said I could surely find better uses for my time than ‘pandering to a boy's hormone-driven hobby sport’! I jus’ don’t think we understand each other at all… and you don’t want to know the things she said when I pointed out that there were perhaps better uses for her time than fighting for the rights of creatures who where happy as they were. I definitely don’t think she would like for her mother to hear that kind of language come out of her mouth. I have this horrible vision of our future together, and it would seem to involve separate bedrooms– and probably earplugs.”

“Hermione will come around– but you’re going to have to make an effort. Try and make her feel like this is something you chose, not something you were forced into too. After all, Hermione is still a girl.”

“An’ just how do you suggest I go about that?” I know she’s a girl, you plonker.

“I know this is a shot in the dark, but have you tried actually asking her? Making her feel like she has a say in the matter?”

Maybe Ron was’na the only one with these sorts of issues, Oliver reflected, sheepishly. “But she doesn’t really have much of a say in the matter, does she?”

“No, but sometimes illusion is worth more then substance – That was your first lesson on dealing with women, and you can slip payment under my pillow tonight.”

***

THEY SPENT four more days in the mountains, tracking the beast. Charlie had told him that it was odd for one of them to get loose from the reservations like this. Dragons were born opportunists of the most basic kind; they recognized the fact that things were much easier on the reserve than out on their own slumming it. On the reserve, they had food in plenty, females to rut with in relatively close proximity (well, close for a dragon. They still weren’t the worlds most sociable creatures), and the occasional handler to bite when feeling peevish. Sure, sometimes one would escape its handlers, usually as the result of territorial fights among the males, but they would never go too far, more wandering about aimlessly, rampaging small villages rather than attempt an all-out run for freedom.

This one, however, had escaped somewhere down near Arendale, and was now something like 600 kilometers north of there, approaching the invisible cartographers’ boundary for the Artic Circle. As a child, Oliver had always imagined that there really was this dashed line outlining different territories, just floating out in space– just like on the maps he had lining the walls of his room (along with flight paths, and training locations for the various Quidditch teams he followed, which seemed to be all of them, for one reason or another). He had been rather disappointed when his older sister, Adrian Margaret, had told him otherwise when he had eagerly asked her about it after she had gone on her first long-distance flight when he had been seven.

What they would have done if it had been a male, and not tied to the ground by flightless youngsters, Oliver had no idea, though he was sure Charlie would have cheerfully accepted the challenge for his beloved dragons. Man was daft, really. It was mid-afternoon on the fourth day when they finally managed to corner her in a dead-ended ravine thingie (he never really bothered to pay attention to the proper naming of landscape – he figured it would still be a dead-ended ravine thingie, whether he knew to call it a blind canyon or not.) Charlie set scent bombs along the far ridge, as Oliver worked to seal of the near side and the opening through which she’d entered. They finished just as the early dusk of this northern place began to set. And still not even yet time for tea, Oliver thought ruefully, when he glanced at this watch.

The canyon she had chosen was somewhat protected by the rising mountain, allowing the stunted trees that they had seen thus far to thrive and flourish into the tall and healthy plants he was used to seeing. The grey light that was all that was left of their daylight for today was misleading, causing his surroundings to look like a strange alien landscape. Shadows appeared that distorted the shapes of the trees, making them loom unpleasantly, and except for the sound of the wind whipping through the rocks and branches, everything was quiet and still.

Wait a moment, Oliver frowned. As he listened, sounds began to resolve themselves out of the wind, like trying to tune a stubborn radio to bring music out of the white noise of the background static, he listened to the wind again, but that this time he heard something else entirely.

There it was again. A, a … what was that noise? It didn’t sound particularly threatening, just, well … odd. He hesitated for a moment, then drew his wand (thirteen and three quarter inches, Alder wood, firm, with a Unicorn tail hair core), before quietly picking his way further into the brush. Charlie should be finishing up his side of the crevasse by now, though he’d probably stopped to ogle the beast below, so he should be the only one on this side of the canyon, and he’d left Anita and Basil back at camp, to light their way back in once darkness finished falling. Probably a fox, or something, enjoying a moupe dinner, and I can go back feeling a wee bit silly for bein’ so jumpy. Still, he had a few moments before Charlie returned, and he felt better being sure he wasn’t going to be sharing his campsite tonight with uninvited guests. It was getting easier to pick the sound out of the wind, now that he knew it was there. It sounded a bit like scree sliding down the rock face– a dry scrapping, slithering noise, but softer, and interspersed with sharper sounds of … whuffing? Pushing his way through a last few sharp conifer branches, Oliver stopped to allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness of being out from under the trees. He could hardly believe the scene that met his eyes.

He was on the edge of the tree line here, the broken ground forming a broad natural rain-wash before rising again in a scree slope that was quickly lost in the darkness. The moonlight picked out random pieces of quartz and mica, making the ground appear to be littered with a king’s ransom in diamonds, all twinkling and glowing like fireflies. And there, moving up the rain-wash was the source of his odd noises. Smallish black-furred bodies were scrabbling over the loose rock, their sharp talons scraping the stony ground as they struggled to find traction. Occasionally one would snuffle and whuff in apparent excitement.

At first glance, Oliver thought he saw about ten separate creatures, though it was hard to tell, when they were all huddled close together like this. They appeared to be struggling to drag something slowly and painstakingly with them. I’ve ne’re seen Nifflers do tha’ before, he thought as he just stood and stared at the sight before him in stunned amazement. He was reluctant to use his wand to chase them off– the nursing Horntail was still too close for comfort, and he really didn’t’ want to rile her up and encourage her to test the boundaries they had set for her– but he was curious as to what they were dragging. Though the beasts were known to be sociable, and occasionally worked together with some rudimentary co-operation, whatever they had found must be pretty big to attract a group like this apparently had.

Nifflers weren’t generally dangerous, but with ten of them out there to defend their prize, Oliver wasn’t ready to just wander over for a look. Casting around, his eyes lit upon some decent sized chunks of the broken ground that littered the rain-wash close at hand. Selecting a small pile of ammunition for his purpose, Oliver examined the scree slope, aiming for a point that wouldn’t send a bunch of shale down on the beasts’ heads if he were successful. The impact of his rock on the opposite slope was loud in the relative stillness of the gully. Ten heads immediately dropped whatever they had a hold of, and looked around, long snouts scenting the air; pointed ears swiveled back towards the source of the noise. The next one landed much more satisfactorily, knocking a small landslide of the scree loose about six feet ahead of the lead animal. That did it; they broke and ran at the threat. He waited a moment for them to get clear before he moved to examine their catch.

“Oh, fuck.”

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