Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

Chapter Five ~ Do Not Go Quietly Into the Night

Consequentially Yours:
A Gentleman’s Duty

Chapter Five ~ Do Not Go Quietly Into the Night
-..-

“Duck!”

The warning was, unfortunately for the other occupant of the room, issued slightly too late to be helpful.

“Shite, I’m sorry, mate – I’m sure that they won’t be permanent. Madam Pomfrey should be able to remove them in a snap, and… well, I’m sure she’ll at least be able to reduce the swelling.”

The two men were currently holed up in a largely inaccessible room of the castle, located on the seventh floor, just opposite a rather fraying tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy. Oliver could tell it was Barnabus, as only he, out of the many notable wizards they had been forced to learn about in Professor Binns' class, would be using a bent wand. The fact that the portrait was attempting to teach a bunch of trolls to dance was also a bit of a clue, really. They had been to this room so often in the last few days that at least one of them thought that he could walk there in his sleep. Currently, Oliver was trying to remember why in Merlin’s name he was going through with this.

“I think there was a definite improvement that time, Oliver – well, before, I …ah….” Gesturing helplessly at his prone companion, who now bore the unmistakable marks of someone who had been at the wrong end of a wand (either that, or victim of a random clown assault, wielding makeup and a lot of vegetables), Harry felt that maybe he should just quit now, while he might still be ahead.

To say that things had been going badly today would be a gross understatement. Oliver had hoped, as the defeater of Supreme Evil, Harry would find it a snap to help him prepare for this blasted duel. Hell, with the help of one of the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers the school had ever seen (a Professor Lupin, whom Oliver had had his seventh year, and thought the man was brilliant), and the (reluctant) help of The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-Make-Voldemort-Cry-Like-a-Baby’s best friend and partner in crime, Oliver thought he should have this one in the bag, so to speak.

Apparently, the Wizarding World’s green-eyed hero could bring down the most evil man to ever live, but couldn’t manage the mucky rules for a formal duel, and kept setting his wand off at ‘inappropriate’ moments. Like when they were bowing to each other before beginning, supposedly to show that they were all friends here, no harm no foul, though Oliver knew for a fact that he would never be friendly with Goyle, and there would most certainly be fouls if the Slytherin could at all manage it). Or yesterday, when they had stopped to assess whether a point scored on Harry’s nose was valid (and whether or not it was worth more than one struck on his ear). Then there was Tuesday evening, when they had… well, Oliver was trying hard not to remember that one.

The skills necessary for defeating Dark Lords often involved ‘curse first, bow never’, and both Harry and Ron seemed to find it a bit difficult to adjust to the very chivalrous, often just mystifying rules required in such a duel as Oliver would be facing in a few days time. (Oliver wasn’t entirely sure that in Ron’s case, everything was accidental, though.)

Lupin had succinctly summed up Oliver’s feelings on the matter quite early on, when he had declared duelling to be ‘...one of the most useless skills to ever grace the upper classes. Any enemy on the battlefield stupid enough to wait for you to find your wand again after dropping it, deserves to be skewered with the sword you’ve got up your sleeve. The whole point in a fight like that is to make bloody well sure the other guy doesn’t get up again, not to show off how good your manners are.’

Secretly, Oliver had to agree. Unfortunately, a strategic knee to the bollocks would most definitely be frowned upon, so Oliver had to resign himself to trying to master the ridiculous sport as best he could. When it was all over, Oliver thought sourly, he might just see if he could find Goyle in a dark hallway to give him that knee - just for putting him through all this.

“Come on, lads, we still have a lot of ground to cover if Mister Wood is to give a credible showing.” Lupin’s tone was strained, and frustrated. Oliver had mastered a large variety of curses, hexes, jinxes and a few useful charms and counter-jinxes very quickly; after all, he had had Lupin, Harry and Ron drill him on them night and day for three solid days, using many of the same approaches Harry had used with the DA in his fifth year. He had felt very optimistic at the beginning, with Oliver showing so much aptitude, but once they had gotten down to the actual rules and formulas of duelling, his progress had stilled to the point Remus thought he had gone beyond ‘stalled’ and on to ‘backwards’. It certainly didn’t help him any that it was a real case of the blind leading the blind, as none of the three men attempting to help Oliver learn had ever really learned how to duel properly themselves, and Lupin’s passing familiarity with the art was the sum total of the expertise present in the room. Harry and Ron were working from a book they had dug out from the library, though the tired man was trying very hard to ignore how badly things were going, that they actually needed to try to learn from ‘Duelling for Squibs – How to Bluff Your Way Into Acceptance’. How was he going to be able to explain things to Hermione when her would-be fiancée got turned into a large purple smear on the flagstones, and she was facing the prospect once again of being Mrs. Goyle, he didn’t even want to think about. Of course, he had tried to convince Oliver to seek more qualified help, but when he explained that the only person at the castle who had the necessary expertise was, in fact, Professor Snape, he realised it was a futile suggestion.

Running his long fingers through his greying hair for the umpteenth time that night, Remus blew out a deep breath to try and recapture his patience. Duelling really is the stupidest sport to ever be invented, he thought sourly. It was flashy, and exciting to watch, but magical skill often played very little role in choosing a winner – it seemed more designed to compensate for the stupid and inept, to allow them equal footing with their peers. Unless one had a good grip on the rules to back you up, all the skill in the world wouldn’t help you. For some reason, Sirius had loved it.

“Okay, Oliver, have you got yourself sorted out? Yes? Good. Now, maybe we’ll use Mister Weasley this time.” Remus watched as Ron took Harry’s place opposite Oliver. Harry hastened to sit well out of the way, on one of the high-backed stools next to his professor. “Wands out, both of you – good, now bow, holding the wand in the correct hand, Ron – make sure you’re holding it at a precise angle, you can lose points for bad form, you know.” By this point, after hours of brutal practice, both boys were weaving slightly on their feet, showing none of the athletic gracefulness with which they had started the evening. Their thin teacher winced slightly when Oliver’s weaving became slightly more precarious, before he managed to regain his balance. “Now, stand… and turn sharply to the left – to the left! Your other left, Ron. And ten measured paces to take up your duelling positions. Good. Turn right this time, to face each other…that’s your left, Ron…yes, and you might want to turn fairly sharpish at this point, because you are both now ready to begin. Wands up, and start!”

They both managed to get off some fabulous attacks before becoming hopelessly entangled in the rules once again – though it was possible, Remus reflected, that Ron had hit Oliver with that Densaugeo spell completely by accident, not realizing that it was bad form to strike after the round was up. Possible, but not very likely.

To top it all off –

His train of thought was derailed abruptly when he noticed the presence of Professor Snape.

“By all means, don’t stop them on my account, Lupin. You seem to have such a … talent for teaching them. They’ll be scraping Wood off the floor with a spoon by the time you’re through.”

Remus glared at Severus, though mostly for vocalizing the things he’d been thinking all evening, and decided it was time to give up for the night. “Okay, that’s it for tonight; it's after one, and I don't think we can get anything more useful done this evening. I suggest you all head down to the hospital wing to see Poppy, just to make sure there are no lingering spells, or side effects for any of you to worry about. We’ll meet again tomorrow night, straight after the evening meal.” At their collective groans, he reminded sternly, “There are only five days left before the duel, gentlemen, so we need to get busy.”

***

HE HAD run into Hermione a couple of times since their ill-fated dinner four nights ago, and each time had been horribly awkward and uncomfortable. Making his way wearily down the drafty stone corridors of Hogwarts castle, he tried tiredly to puzzle out his next course of action with the exasperating girl. The way things had ended after he presented her with the Luckenbooth, he had been quite content to just leave her to Goyle, and be done with it. Then they would have a quiet moment of … connection, and she'd offer him a shy smile that made him think about how nice unruly curls really were. It got him thinking that maybe she felt just a little bit guilty for the way things had turned out. It was enough to force him to practice unendingly with Potter and Weasley, just to find out. If Charlie ever found out, he’d never hear the end of it.

Oliver had stayed behind to speak with Professor Lupin (even though he'd graduated, he still didn't feel right calling him Remus) and he’d had to wait until Snape left, so Harry and Ron were probably already finished with Madam Pomfrey, and on their way back to their common room by now.

He had been slowing gradually as he became lost in thought, trying desperately to hold onto all of the forms and stances he had learned that night, while simultaneously trying to push Hermione from his mind. He had enough to concentrate on for tonight, he felt. Voices came drifting out to where he had paused outside the large oak doors with the small gold plaque announcing that, he had indeed found the hospital wing. Words were impossible to distinguish through the ancient wood door, but by the tone, Oliver thought that he was hearing several people, all trying to keep their voices down. He debated for a few minutes whether or not to simply bypass the hospital wing for tonight, and leave whoever they were to visit their friend in peace, but a particularly sharp twinge in his shoulder reminded him that he still had the remains of produce in several uncomfortable places, courtesy of Harry Potter.

Pushing the doors open only enough to slip into the darkened room, Oliver glanced around for the source of the voices. Off to his left, he could see a curtain partitioning off one of the beds halfway between himself and Madam Pomfrey's office. Soft candlelight glowed from within, and cast the shadowed silhouettes of several people against the rough curtain.

Moving quietly past the beds, Oliver made his way to the office, trying without complete success to tune out the discussion happening on his left.

"…he out there alone? I mean, I …"

"…going to be okay…"

"But what about the bleeding…"

Once inside the cosy confines of the Medi-witch's empty office, Oliver gingerly lowered his aching backside into one of the soft chairs in view of the door, and settled in to wait. It wasn't long before the combined warmth of the office, and the softness of the low-sitting chair lulled the large man into an exhausted sleep. With his legs sprawled out before him, Oliver remained unnoticed by the visitors behind the curtain for bed seventeen. Their soft voices murmured and buzzed soothingly at the edge of his consciousness as he drifted off, and began to snore, softly.

***

SNOW WAS falling in a heavy blanket all around him. The landscape was grey, lit only by the night sky. A bloated moon hung low on the horizon, though somehow Oliver was sure it was getting close to dawn. Boots crunched on hard packed snow around him, the small sounds falling like gunshots on the crisp air. Though he didn't turn to look for his companions, he also knew, with a sinking feeling, what he would see if he did. He had already seen it once before; the prized possession of a pack of Nifflers.

"This has ta be good 'nough. You'd hav'ta be blooming out o'yer tonk t'come out'ere." The coarse voice was further roughened by strain. Oliver was somehow certain it wasn't the strain of helping to carry the heavy burden, but of fear.

What had they done?

"Shut yer gob. We'll lay it out by the banks. If the scavengers don' find it, the river'll take care of it come spring. Now pick up the pace - I don' plan on being out here longer jus' so's you can take in the sights."

He did look back at that point. He couldn't seem to stop himself when he felt his head turn of its own volition, dragging his eyes along for the ride. He really didn't want to look. He felt the sight had been burned into his memory with an iron brand already.

It was even more obscene when it was fresh.

The moonlight glinted off the silver veins, making the body look as though it had been snatched back from some giant spider, mid-way through the cocooning process. Drops of the thick, visceral liquid were seeping freely from open, and very fresh wounds, to fall to the snow in a grotesque parody of Hansel and Gretel's trail of breadcrumbs. The allusion to the trail, ultimately leading to the unnamed horror of cooked children was not lost on him. Oliver numbly wondered if these two men would use them to find their way back through the dark forest tonight.

His companions, both dark haired men, with dark eyes peering out from beneath fur caps pulled low on their foreheads, continued on, completely oblivious to Oliver's horrified stare. Grunting occasionally with effort, they continued to half carry, half drag the corpse to the banks. Oliver noticed as they passed, that they held the body reluctantly, supporting it between them with hands held under each arm socket, but leaning as far away from the task as physically possible. They kept their eyes firmly averted, from their burden, and one another.

Oliver wondered if later, they would also avoid their own gaze in the mirror.

"Is it really supposed to be oozing green like that, d'ya think?"

Unlike the voices of the two men, this voice was muffled, almost like trying to listen to the wireless underwater. Glancing around, Oliver saw the two men continue towards the banks as the trees began to flicker in his peripheral vision. The new voice seemed to be tugging him, pulling him back and keeping him from following.

"Dunno…."

No! This voice was much clearer, pulling him harder as the details of his dream began to melt into the mists of his subconscious.

"Honestly, you two..."

That did it. Oliver would recognize that tone anywhere, having heard a fair bit of it in the last few days. As he concentrated on forcing the blanket of sleep from his still-slumbering brain, the fuzzy, phantom voices began to resolve themselves into ones he could recognize. Keeping his eyes firmly closed, he focused on holding all the images from his dream in his mind, not thinking about them – not yet; just holding them until he was sure he had it all committed to memory. Occasionally, imprints like that could be left in the residue of a powerful spell – Oliver wasn’t sure that this one was any help to him, but something about the fear he sensed from the men in the scene put him on edge. The conversation outside the office continued at the edge of his awareness, teasing him into recognition.

“What I want to know is, how did a Graphorn get into the Forbidden Forest?" Weasley.

"There are still a lot of Death Eaters around, Ron, that never got rounded up with the rest." And Potter.

"So?"

"So, I would think Hogwarts would be one of the places they'd want to disrupt any chance they had. I mean, with all the losses we had during the war, this is one of the highest concentrations of powerful witches and wizards left in Britain!"

"Oh, yeah. I guess that'd do it."

"No, Ronald, it most certainly does not! Harry, you see Death Eaters in your breakfast cereal, sometimes, don’t you?" Oliver could almost feel Hermione rubbing her eyes tiredly at this point, as she tried to keep her voice down, and struggle for patience all at once.

"That only happened once, Hermione, and I was very, very drunk, you know." Harry's dry tone acknowledged Hermione's attempt at teasing, while still not backing down.

Opening his eyes, Oliver stumbled to his feet, moving quietly to investigate. Early morning sunlight streamed in through the ward's windows, warming the stone beneath his feet once he left the office. The privacy curtain was still drawn around bed seventeen, though he wasn't noticed right away as he rounded it. Harry was leaning against a metal cabinet on the far side of the bed, fists shoved in his pockets as he stared out the window. Ron sat awkwardly on an overturned bucket, hands clasped and dangling between his knees as he carefully studied the floor. Hermione was the closest to him, though her back was turned as she watched the ward's other occupant.

Lying there, swathed in bandages, was the school's groundskeeper, Hagrid.

"She's right, yeh know." Oliver flashed a tired smile as the three of them startled at his interruption. Harry gamely flashed him a tired, half-hearted twist of his mouth in greeting. Ron looked up to gave his customary glare that was his only greeting whenever he saw the Scotsman, and looked back down at his hands. Hermione turned, and Oliver could see that her soft eyes were cloudy with lack of sleep and worry. Wordlessly he reached out and squeezed her arm in comfort. The thankful, gentle look she gave him caused him to scramble awkwardly to try and cover the moment, before he said something stupid.

"Well, right abou’ it not being very good proof o’ Death Eater activity, anyway. I have no idea about what you migh’ see in yer cereal bowl each morning, Potter." He took his eyes away from Hagrid to shoot Harry a speculative look, and raised his eyebrow at him, teasingly.

"Sod off." Harry snorted, good-naturedly, a real, if only half, smile twisting his features. The tension in his shoulders eased a little.

"What, exactly, would you know about it then?"

Oliver rolled his eyes, mentally. Right on cue, Mister Weasley. "The beastie probably wandered in on its own."

Harry cocked his head slightly. "Oh really? And just why would you say that, Oliver?"

Oliver rubbed his eyes blearily. "We-ell, Graphorns're largely a mountainous species, oft'n kept by trolls… you remember tha’ troll back in fifth year?

"Yes…"

Hermione was smirking triumphantly, having got there much faster than the boys. "It was a Mountain Troll, you see…"

"Sure it t’was. Hogwarts is surrounded by mountains, so it's the perfect place for them. Most of the surrounding area outside of Hogsmeade and the school grounds is all desolate an’ uninhabited." Oliver fought to suppress a yawn as he finished his explanation. Merlin, maybe I do hang around Charlie too much.

Ron shot him an irritated look; Harry just shrugged. "Alright, then. It's still important to be careful." Giving one last, concerned look at what was visible of Hagrid’s pale face beneath the bandages, he turned to Ron. "Coming? We've got Potions first thing this morning, and I know you haven't finished the essay on Gremlin saliva he set for today."

"How do you know that then?" The question was indignant, but Oliver watched as Ron scrambled off his bucket seat to join Harry.

"Because, Ron; I haven't finished mine yet."

"Oh. Right, then."

Hermione watched them go with a fond, if slightly exasperated look, and sighed before taking Ron's vacated 'seat'.

I should go. Being alone with her at the moment is not a good idea - I’m in no condition to keep my feet out of my mouth, and I really don’t fancy the taste of leather all that much. Despite this well thought-out advice, Oliver found himself settling against the wall opposite Hermione. Glutton for punishment, obviously.

He still wasn’t sure how to handle her after their disastrous dinner. Part of him was still very defensive and reluctant to even try to get close with her again; but in the last few days, he had occasionally caught her looking at him when she thought he wasn’t watching. She would have a sort of speculative look in her eyes; almost like she was trying to decide what to do next. He felt he should at least wait, and see what she had in mind.

Watching dust motes dancing in the light let in through the small window, Oliver found himself stifling another yawn against the back of his hand. The silence was surprisingly comfortable, with only Hagrid’s deep breaths rumbling between them.

“So, lass, did’ee catch it, then?”

Startled out of her reverie, Hermione gave him an irritated look. “Pardon me?”

“Hagrid. Did he catch th’ Graphorn?”

Hermione’s tired eyes widened in shock, then narrowed sharply in anger. “Of all the insensitive … How could you be so - ”

“Hermione! Hermione – what’s the first thing Hagrid’s goin’ to want to know when he wakes up?” Hermione continued to glare at him from red-rimmed eyes. “If he thinks there’s even the slightest chance tha’ ruddy beast is still wandering ‘round out there, there’s no way we’ll ever keep him here long enough t’mend.”

At his words, Hermione’s face flushed darkly. Resting her face in her hands, her voice was very muffled when she spoke. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I thought-” She took a deep breath, and looked up. The flush had left her face, and she smiled at him wanly. “I should have thought of that myself. I know how he is, and, I….” Her inability to articulate her feelings left her scowling in frustration.

Oliver let his irritation go, pushing it out of his mind. “’S’all right, Mouse. I imagine you’ve been better.”

Hermione just looked at him, startled. “Mouse?”

Oliver could feel the heat crawling up his neck as he mumbled something and stared hard at the spot where his ankle rested over the opposite knee.

This time the silence that stretched between them was not comfortable. After studying her prone friend carefully, Hermione settled back on her bucket, perching on the edge stiffly. Oliver’s knee began to jiggle. Hermione kept fidgeting, nervously without looking up.

“The duel is scheduled for the end of this week, isn’t it?” She kept her gaze straight ahead as she spoke, her shoulders very stiff; Oliver thought it looked like a subtly defensive gesture, and was bothered that it would be. He didn’t like the idea of the slender witch feeling that he was someone she needed to protect herself from, even verbally.

Oliver replied carefully. “Five days from today.”

“Are you – are you confident?” The question was quiet. She was still speaking at Hagrid’s feet.

“I’ve been working with Ron, Harry and Professor Lupin for three days now.” Somehow, Oliver couldn’t bring himself to tell her just how badly things were going. The thought of what it meant for her if he failed was suddenly overwhelming.

She turned, finally, to give him a sad smile. “I appreciate that.”

“Will you be there?” The question was blurted out before he could stop it. He hadn’t meant to ask that - wasn’t sure he was ready to hear the answer, and very sure she wasn’t ready to hear the question. Everything was still so uncertain between them….

Hermione turned to look at him, unexpectedly regretful. “No one but your Seconds, and a panel of three witnesses will be allowed to be present. Too great a risk of cheating.”

“Oh.” Oliver looked down at his hands. What had he expected, really? He should be relieved that the rules had prevented what was sure to be another awkward scene. Then why did he feel so disappointed? He was startled when he felt a small hand on his shoulder.

She waited until he looked up before speaking. “I really would have gone, you know.” They stared at one another, allowing the silence to stretch, letting the lack of words repair some of the damage already done. The sunlight picked out caramel highlights in Hermione’s unruly curls, matching the tawny gold of her eyes as she looked at him. And suddenly, the moment was gone. Hermione pulled back, lifted her bag and headed for the door. She paused when she reached the threshold, speaking without turning. “I never missed one of your Quidditch matches while you were here. Not even your practices. Not once. I know that may not mean anything anymore, but I thought you should know.”

And with that she was gone.


***

“Mister Wood.”

Surrounded as he was on all sides by large, dusty tomes, Oliver wasn’t able to see the speaker immediately. Not that he needed too; six years away would never be enough time to forget the steely tones of Professor Snape.

“Professor.” The afternoon light had begun to fade from the library, leaving the grey light that comes before actual twilight. They would be serving dinner soon, and Oliver knew he would have to hurry to make it to their practice on time. He pointedly began gathering his books together, hoping the brooding professor would leave him in peace.

Snape ignored his attempts. “You will join me after the evening meal tonight, Mister Wood. I will expect you in Dungeon Four within the hour.”

Oliver was incredulous. What the hell? “I’m afraid you’ll be waitin’ a fair while, Sir. I’m rather busy this evenin’.”

Black eyes glittered unpleasantly and there was a definite sneer in his voice when he spoke next. “Do you know what is likely to happen to Miss Granger if you fail? Let me assure you it will be most… unpleasant. I suggest, Mister Wood, that you consider this carefully. You are almost hopelessly ill prepared for your upcoming duel. After what I witnessed last night, I feel it’s safe to say that you would be hard-pressed to win against a flobberworm, let alone a skilled Dark Wizard, so I say again; I will expect you in Dungeon Four within the hour.”

Staring hard at the speechless man, he nodded once, seeming satisfied that Oliver would show, and left just as quietly as he had come.

The chill gloom of the dungeons made it easy to get turned around when looking for the little-used number four. Oliver felt that he’d been down here for ages already in the labyrinth of dark corridors and narrow passages when he finally saw the glow that indicated the Professor had gotten there before him.

The room had been cleared of desks and equipment, leaving a large, echoing chamber for them to practice in. Torches lining the walls didn’t so much illuminate the room, as highlight the gloom, driving the shadows to lurk just outside their wavering pools of yellow light. Oliver made a face at the Potion Master’s sense of theatrics, while still suppressing an irritated shiver at the effectiveness of the gesture.

“You are almost five minutes late, Mister Wood.” The soft voice came whispering out of the deep shadows in the far corner of the room. Oliver had to stop himself from spinning around at the sound – he wasn’t going to play into Snape’s little game. Instead, he very deliberately turned his back on the professor to wait patiently in the centre of the room.

“Six, actually.” It was petty, but Snape always seemed to bring out the best in him.

“In future, you will be sure to report on time. I’m not in the habit of wasting my time – a habit I hope to break you of tonight.” The voice was right behind him now, and Oliver wasn’t surprised to find him standing only a few feet away when he turned.

Oliver looked at him closely. Wand out, body tense, the pale man was poised perfectly to strike in an instant, should he feel the need to. He remembered Lupin telling him that Snape was a duelling champion, and looking at him now, Oliver could believe it. Everything about his stance spoke of power, confidence and control. “Why are you doing this?”

The dark eyes stared at him in the blackness, glittering unpleasantly in the firelight. After a moment, he spoke, “Because Miss Granger may be an insufferable know-it-all, but someone of her intelligence and potential does not deserve to be chained to a gorilla, no matter how intolerable she may be.”

“Now, wand out, Mister Wood, and let’s see how badly Lupin managed to cock this up, shall we?” The sneer was back in his voice, and Oliver was sure that the chance to ‘correct’ one of Professor Lupin’s mistakes played a part in it, too.

An hour later, it had become obvious to Oliver that most of what he’d learned was useless.

“Forget what those dunderheads taught you. This is a challenge, an ancient contest, not sport. There are no points for this duel, no panel of judges to award penalties.” His tone was heavy with contempt for Oliver’s progress.

Oliver bristled at the implied criticism of the other professor’s abilities. “But those rules are supposed to be -“

“The rules he’s been trying to teach you are based on common sense application, but aren’t rules in anything but a formal competition. If your enemy drops his wand, by all means let him pick it up. It will give you a moment to gather your strength and look for an opportunity to finish him while he is distracted. A spell detonated closer to the eyes has the added bonus of blinding and unnerving your opponent than one detonated somewhere else. The rounds are supposed to test your control – powerful magic requires strong emotion. Can you just stop, when you need to? Take what little you’ve managed to learn, and think. Be ruthless – you’re opponent will be, count on it. ”

He hated to admit it, but by the end of the night, Oliver had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that he’d learned far more in one evening with the unpleasant potions master, than in three days with his friends. And he’d been attacked by a lot less produce, too. Wearily, he decided to detour to the kitchens, in hopes of finding something warm before bed.

***

“Mrs. Hermione Wood?” Ginny glanced up from her parchment to see the reaction to this. “Hmm…, it’s going to take some getting used to, but I think it sounds good together – Much better then Mrs. Hermione Finch-Fletchly, wife of the no-neck wonder, anyways, and Hermione Goyle isn’t even going to be discussed.” She looked back to her list.

“Hmmm… Mister and Missus Oliver Wood? I never understood why they do that – it seems so possessive, like you aren’t your own person anymore. You’re now this weird combined creature; Hermiver, or possibly Olione. Sounds like something Hagrid would breed up for classes.”

“Ginn!” Hermione was blushing.

“How about Missus Hermione Granger-Wood, then?”

“I honestly don’t think that this is my most pressing concern right now, Ginny,” Hermione said, dryly.

She and Ginny had spent the entire afternoon holed up in Gryffindor Tower. Ginny had ambushed Hermione directly after class and insisted on getting her away from her boys for a while, claiming that some time spent with her would be a far better use of the evening. Hermione and Ginny had become very close friends over the last eight years. Hermione sometimes found she just needed to talk to another girl, someone who didn’t think body functions were a basis for wit, or find themselves gaping stupidly when she did something feminine. Ginny may be as Quidditch-obsessed as her brothers, but her fun-loving and irreverent nature was just what Hermione needed at times, as she herself tended to take everything far too seriously.

“So Hermione Wood it is then. Unless you’d prefer Hermione Weasley? I think Fred is still single….”

Seeing the look of horror on her friend’s face, Ginny let her voice trail off suggestively. Actually, Hermione had been very distracted for the last few days, ever since Oliver Wood showed up, and Ginny was going out of her way this evening to draw a rise out of her friend, in hopes it might get her talking about whatever was on her mind. Ginny was dying to know the details of their meeting, but so far, she’d had very little success.

Seeing Hermione settle down to brood again, Ginny smoothly diverted her to something she always found absorbing – schoolwork. “So, tell me about this research project you’re doing for Professor Snape, Hermione. The one having to do with differences with people's pants?”

Hermione tried not to laugh at Ginny’s complete ignorance of Muggle science. “Genes, Ginny. Not pants,” she corrected gently. Grateful for the change of subject her friend had provided her with, she tried to explain why genes had nothing to do with fashion to the increasingly bewildered Weasley girl. She loved taking N.E.W.T. level courses, as the students’ studies were largely self-guided. Private meetings were arranged monthly with the teachers of each course, to check-in, discuss any problems the student may have encountered during their research, and even offer career advice. There were still the regular classes to attend, and homework to complete of course. All in all, it was enough of a challenge to reduce most seventh-years to stress-crazed maniacs by Valentine’s Day – and even Hermione was beginning to crack a little under the pressure. She was taking more N.E.W.T.s than anyone else, of course.

“Oh, Ginn, it’s really very fascinating. Did you know that Muggle children who turn into witches and wizards actually have a gene that other Muggles don’t have?” Hermione’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm for her subject.

“Well, yea, I mean they’re not really Muggles, are they? They’re wizards, so they should have the same gene-thingies, right?” Ginny was really trying to keep up, but her head was beginning to hurt from Hermione’s determined explanations.

“Actually, interestingly enough, no. Purebloods don’t have it either - only Muggle born witches and wizards, and their children, presumably. It’s really quite incredible – Professor McGonagall is helping me with the research, and she’s arranged for me to work with Madame Pomfrey one day a week to perform some tests on blood samples she’s collected for me.”

“Tests for what?”

“Well, I want to see what the gene does. I mean, obviously Muggle-born wizards are different from Pureblood ones. I want to see how far the difference goes. It’s just so incredibly interesting! Really – “

Grinning at Hermione’s enthusiasm, Ginny cut in. “See, that’s better… Come on, the house elves probably still have some of that chocolate stuff they served for dessert in the hall tonight. Let’s go raid the kitchens for some, and hide out in your rooms until curfew, plotting a truly evil revenge on Mister Goyle, shall we?”

***

EVENING SHADOWS stretched along the walls of the darkened room, playing with the wrought iron leading in the arched windows. Draco sprawled comfortably on an overstuffed armchair, watching the play of flames in the grate, lost in thought. This was one of the only rooms in the house were his mother’s influence was prominent, and he liked the contrast of her warmth with the cool sparseness of the décor. Everything in here was comfortable; the chairs, the rug, the lighting. No decorative knick-knacks marred the clean lines, or strange dark artefacts placed to intimidate visitors detracted from the simplicity of the space.

It was one of his favourite rooms in the manor. He supposed that said something about him, but he didn’t really care what it was. Sometimes he wondered what she would think of this room. And then he hated himself for thinking it.

It was Saturday, and he’d Apparated home rather than spend another weekend in the company of the moron twins. He’d return well after curfew, but he knew that Professor Snape never checked the Slytherin dormitories, feeling that their nocturnal activities were probably far more educational than some of their classes.

He could hear the house elf answering the door at the front of the house. So, his father was home. The staccato taps of his boots on the marble floors came closer, though Draco didn’t bother to straighten up before he entered, as he would have done once.

“Good evening, Father. Where were you tonight?” The senior Malfoy had gone out right after lunch, after being strangely quiet all morning – brooding, more then anything, he thought. Draco knew that things were proceeding for them, but that things could start happening rather quickly, and it would be disastrous to have anything happen before they were ready.

“I’ve been at the Ministry offices, using my time in a useful manner. You might try it sometime, just for variety. It seems that Mister Wood has filed a challenge to obtain… rights to Miss Granger.”

“I know; poor Greg.” Draco smirked with saccharine amusement. “He’s hopeless with a wand. Should be rather amusing to watch.”

“Really, Draco. Perhaps you should assist Mr. Goyle – help him to retain his bride.”

One of Draco’s elegant, pale eyebrows arched before he could stop the gesture. “Oh? Why would I care if he has her or not? What that gorilla Wood will do to him will be nothing to what Herm-Granger will do to the poor bastard if he actually manages to win her.”

“Draco, how is it that you actually manage to dress yourself each morning? Who is the current Minister for Magic?”

“Percy Weasleby?”

“Precisely.” Growling faintly when his son failed to follow, Lucius continued, “And whom did you tell me was a good friend of Mister Weasley’s, and continues to spend a disgusting amount of time trying to get that idiotic sport re-instated?”

“Oliver Wood?” Draco hazarded, while glaring at the condescending man for casting aspirations on his favourite game.

“Very good. So, we know that, one: Miss Granger is unwholesomely clever and very respected, quite a useful combination. Two, that Oliver Wood while not incontinently bright, is still smarter than Mister Goyle. And three, Minister Weasley is both quite clever and altogether more devious and forward-thinking than you are this evening.” At his son’s inquiring look, he continued, “Don’t you think he might want to keep the girl close enough to keep an eye on her, without drawing too much attention to the fact that he is? Wood is a perfect choice.”

“Giving her to the Goyles serves no purpose. You know what they’re likely to do with her, and there’s no point. She’s an irritating little swot, but I don’t feel like getting myself involved in that kind of filth.”

Crossing the room gracefully, Lucius sank gratefully into the welcoming cushions of the small couch. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he looked so tired. “I didn’t say we would turn her over to the Goyles. I’m sure we can find a way of sitting on the fence awhile, until we have a solid position. Too much is happening, and I’m not sure… Just win the duel, Draco. We’ll decide what to do with Miss Granger later.”

“Why don’t you do it then? You’re always telling me I need work on my duelling technique.”

“We can pass off your actions as a repressed emotional outburst of some kind. The sheer scandal of it will keep others from looking too closely at what we’re doing. If I were to get involved, it would invite a lot more speculation.”

Draco went back to gazing at the flames, lost in thought.

***

OF ALL the rotten luck…. Hermione couldn’t believe that she had to run into him while on a simple chocolate run. Ginny had been surreptitiously watching the two of them ever since they had snuck into the room and found him sitting at the scarred wooden table by the fire, staring into a mug of hot cocoa.

The almost panicked look on his face when he’d looked up and realized it was her was almost adorable, she thought. Especially the way even the tips of his ears blushed. Funny, how something that in Ron was just ridiculous managed to look so temptingly boyish in the large man.

She was still a little embarrassed by her behaviour the last few days. For some reason, Oliver just seemed to bring out the worst in her. Probably a good sign that they’d be rubbish together anyway. Oliver was only trying to make the best of it, but somehow, she was having a hard time convincing herself to do the same. It was just so… unfair. She was being sacrificed to ensure that a community that was still heavily biased against her, and every other Muggle, would survive its own stupidity. But when her thoughts would turn to the Weasleys, who had surrounded her and Harry with family and love, especially during the hard losses of the war, she felt she could do this, if only to save that very special family.

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione tried a tentative smile, and didn’t protest when Ginny asked if they could join Oliver for a while.

She really wasn’t surprised when, ten minutes of strained conversation later, Ginny announced that she had to get back to finish her Arithmancy scroll before bed, and no, Hermione, don’t bother to come up, I’ll see you in the morning….

Oliver turned to look at her, then back down at his mug. “How’s Hagrid doin’, then?”

“He woke up this afternoon. Madame Pomfrey says he should be out of bed in a couple of days.” She didn’t’ bother trying to keep the relief out of her voice. Reaching across the somewhat sticky table, she touched Oliver’s hand shyly, making sure she had his eye before continuing. “The first thing he asked, you know, was about the Graphorn.”

Oliver looked down at where her hand and his were joined, then looked back up to smile. “Glad teh hear he’s okay.”

Hermione sat quietly for a few moments, listening to the soft bustling as the house elves finished up for the evening, preparing to start fresh in the morning. “Do you think we can really do this, Oliver?”

Startled, he tried to jerk his hand away, but she kept a firm grip on it. She continued to gaze at the flames, letting the soothing sounds of the kitchen relax her inhibitions, making her feel bold. “We havnae gotten off ta such good start, have we?”

Oliver contemplated his answer carefully. Allowing his shoulders to relax, he began idly tracing patterns on her hand, between the webbing of her thumb with his calloused digit. “When you were little, Hermione, were yeh different from other kids?”

The question was unexpected, but her current lassitude made it easy to answer without thinking too hard about anything. “I suppose. I was always smarter, I liked to read, where others liked to play at skipping. I liked libraries, while most liked the movies. Then, there were always strange things happening around me… a bully would take my book, only to find that he tripped and fell before he got two steps away. A girl would tease me, and find her bag strap snap, and all her homework would be blowing ‘round the yard, that sort of thing.”

“It must have been such a relief to finally know why those things happened to you.”

Hermione chuckled quietly. “You should have seen the look on my parents faces when they had an owl deliver a letter to them – and such a letter! They’ve always been so proud of me, but it must have been very scary to let me go, to send me away to a place they couldn’t follow. I sometimes wonder if I could have been that strong in their place.”

“You’re a very strong girl, Hermione.”

“Sometimes. I’m usually just as scared as everyone else, I just hide it better.”

“Sometimes… that’s enough.”

Hermione hadn’t turned during their strange conversation, staring intently as the hypnotic flames danced in the grate, and Oliver traced gentle designs on her skin while continuing to ask his probing questions.

“Did ye find it hard, leaving everything behind like tha’? To come to a strange castle in the middle of the night, surrounded by strange people?”

“At first. It was two months before I had Ron and Harry for friends, you know. I was just as different here as I had been at home, I guess.”

“Was it worth it? The uncertainty, the struggle ta find your place in a completely new and unexpected situation - One you hadn’t really chosen for yourself?” Dimly, Hermione was aware that Oliver’s thumb had stopped moving against her skin as he watched her serious contemplation of his question; both the one he’d asked, and the one he hadn’t.

Her years at Hogwarts had been wonderful, despite its almost overwhelming strangeness at first. Even her rather dangerous adventures with Harry and Ron were remembered rather more fondly then was probably appropriate. Then, in the blink of an eye, everything had changed. Instances of bigotry and the hatred stood out against the backdrop of violence. The siren call of superiority drove the engines of war for eighteen long months; experiences Hermione would never have to try to forget, never have to relive in the dead of night had she remained a Muggle. But the war would have happened regardless of the involvement of one Hermione Jane Granger: Bill would still have been brutally scarred and afflicted, Seamus would still have lost his sight and Neville would still have died; but Hermione could hold close the fact that she was a part of the solution, and could savour that sweet moment of victory, when she realized that they would have the chance to rebuild. The amazing connection she had with Harry and Ron transcended friendship, strengthened by all they had endured together.

In the end, she had eight and a half years of exploring wonders most never even knew were possible, highlighted by amazing friendships and extraordinary people. Could she wish that she had never known any of this? Had it been worth it? With firm conviction, she knew there was only one answer. “Yes. It’s been painful at times, but no, I wouldn’t change it. Not now.”

Oliver’s hazel eyes regarded her steadily in the flickering light, and Hermione found herself fighting the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. The sudden shift in their relationship left her feeling insecure and uncomfortable and she had the irrational feeling that he was seeing far deeper into her attempted light answer then she would like him to. Pushing back against the weight of his gaze, of their sudden camaraderie, and the attempt at communicating something that she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear, and struggled to keep her eyes shuttered and unrevealing –

And then it was gone; his eyes were flat, distant mirrors once again as he gently tugged on her hand, helping her to stand. “Come on lass, I’ll see yeh to th’ tower. Ye’ve go’ classes in the mornin’.”

The experience left Hermione thoughtful. They had passed some sort of barrier tonight and gained a new depth to their relationship. She carefully didn’t acknowledge to herself how much she missed the warmth of his hand once he left her at the door to the tower.

-..-

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