Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

The Art Of Making War

Chapter Seven ~ The Art Of Making War

-..-


Bringing his wand up in what he knew was a futile gesture, Oliver struggled with lips that felt like sloppy mush to form the spell — any spell, as his world went dark around him.

He’d lost. The thought was very bitter as his confused senses vainly pushed against the blanketing veil that covered them, his last thought before losing consciousness was of Hermione in Goyle’s arms —

Hermione woke with a start. Moonlight filtered through the thin cloud cover, revealing the other occupants of the room to still be fast asleep.

It wasn’t the first time she’d had the dream. She hadn’t told anyone about them, not really wanting anyone to know how afraid she actually was. She knew Oliver would give it his best, but there was just so much risk…. Images of Oliver’s large, broken body sliding limply down the stone wall drove her from her bed. Slipping on her robe, Hermione made her way silently down the stone steps to the portrait guarding the tower entrance. Maybe all she needed was a mug of warm milk to put the image of Goyle’s triumphant smirk to rest for the evening.

-..-

It was well past midnight. Silver moonlight filtered in through the cracked glazing, illuminating the sleeping occupant of the Downstairs East Corridor guest room.

At least, he should have been sleeping. Instead, Oliver Wood found himself awake, morosely watching the hypnotic patterns the rain made as it slid down the glass to the heavy oak casing below. Tomorrow would dawn grey and damp; a perfect day for an ancient duel with someone like Malfoy. Giving a frustrated sigh at his own inability to concentrate, he pulled his attention back to the multitude of parchment scrolls, tomes and notebooks scattered along the bedspread around him.

Dark Magic cults had been flourishing in the chaos of the post-war wizarding world. With very little left in the way of a functioning government until just recently, it had been the perfect climate for even the most mild mannered, slightly repressed British wizard to suddenly don a costume made of bed sheets, put a stuffed badger on their head, and take to memorising strange pass codes and ancient pledges while plotting mad schemes in dank basements.

Oliver had very little patience with the lot of them, and resented spending his time trying to track down loons in black hoods. But they had to respond to each and every disturbance. There was still the genuine threat of the remaining Death Eaters, and the possibility that their Dark Master was still at large, like a looming shadow over the hopeful new start the wizarding world was trying to make. George was right though; people were actually worse now that they had won.

Now, they had something to lose, he thought with resignation.

Oliver was good at tracking, which was one reason he had been asked by Percy to take on this mess. And he understood, he really did, the importance of keeping quiet about their suspicions to the community at large. Something in his soul cringed at the necessity though. Though thinking of Percy and his directives brought him right back to tomorrow’s duel and a certain tawny-eyed mouse with a sweet smile, and Oliver found that his ability to focus fell away like a house of cards once again. Sighing ruefully, he snagged a very battered notebook, tied closed with a piece of cord, from the pile and with a sweep of his arm, swept the rest off the bed and onto the floor.

Extinguishing the lantern on his way out the door, Oliver decided it was late; he was definitely not getting to sleep anytime soon — time to go in search of some cocoa.

He was rather surprised when he got there to find Hermione sitting at the battered table in the corner of the dim kitchen. She was staring down at her mug, swirling the contents slowly, and very obviously lost in thought.

Slipping into an only slightly wobbly chair quietly, it was several moments before she seemed to realize he was there. She’s actually rather cute when she blushes. Oliver quickly filed that thought away, as Things-Not-To-Be-Thought-About-Hermione-Especially-When-She’s-Right-Bloody-There, and firmly focused on the mug she held in her hands, instead.

“So, I have you teh compete with fer the cocoa supply now, do I?”

“Actually, it’s warm milk with nutmeg. My mother’s recipe. She would always make it for me when I had a bad dream, and couldn’t get back to sleep.” Her voice was sad, belying the smile she had given him.

“Yeh do look a wee bit knackered.” Oliver left it hanging, inviting a response, but Hermione said nothing, just continued to stare at her congealing milk as it skimmed and swirled in the bottom of her cup. Reaching over, he covered one of her hands with his, interrupting her mug’s progress. Startled, she looked up at him, a little belligerently.

“An’ have you been having bad dreams, Mouse?”

“I really wish you would tell me why you choose to call me that.”

Oliver felt himself flushing. “Yeah, we might get to that, one day,” he mumbled. “I think I was asking you if you’ve been sleeping okay.”

Ducking her head, it was Hermione’s turn to mumble.

“What was that?”

“I said it’s nothing. Just a few bad dreams.”

Oliver put down his notebook, to look at her closely in the uncertain light of the fireplace. The bags under her eyes looked even worse than he remembered. Even her hair seemed to sag, as if it were too much effort to do otherwise. This had obviously been happening for a few days, at least.

“Tell me about them?” he asked, gently, shifting his focus to the fire to give her some space.

“It’s nothing, really. Just me being stupid.”

"Somehow, I doubt that. About the duel, is it?"

Hermione nodded wearily. Seeing as she wasn't forthcoming with any more details, Oliver released her hand and stood up. Looking down on her, he held out his hand and waited.

“What’s this, then?” she asked, confused.

In answer, Oliver gently tugged her to her feet. “A distraction,” he said, smiling, as placed her hand on his waist, held the other at an angle from her body, and began to lead her gently around the room in the intricate steps of a wizarding waltz.

“What are you doing, Oliver?” Hermione hoped he didn’t notice how breathless she sounded.

“Shhhhh. Can’ya no’ let go for a minute, luv?” Oliver’s voice was soft, and Hermione could feel the rise and fall of his breathing through the thin material of her dressing gown, and she was very aware of the warmth of his skin where he touched her.

Momentarily robbed of any retort, Hermione instead allowed herself to relax against his hold, slightly. He had begun to hum an ubiquitous tune quietly; a rumbling rough baritone that was surprisingly pleasant, and brought to mind lonely countryside and blooming fields heather, and Hermione realised how soft the fabric of his shirt was under her hand.

They moved comfortably around the room, a modified circuit as Oliver skilfully avoided the few work surfaces, and deftly wove them around scattered tables and chairs. Hermione leaned her head back and closed her eyes, inexplicably content. She was surrounded by Oliver’s presence, his burly frame and strong arms enveloping her, his voice humming just above her ear, his warm scent invading her nostrils. With her eyes closed and the gentle breeze of their passage moving her hair, the whole experience became surreal. The floor no longer existed beneath her feet and they were flying. For once, Hermione found the sensation extremely pleasant. The whole scene was slightly ridiculous; here they were, dancing around the dark kitchen, late at night, in their bedclothes.


“It was the duel.”

She hadn’t even realised she planned to speak until the words were out of her mouth. Something about being here, right now, just made it very easy to talk, and the way Oliver was holding her gave her the impression that nothing could hurt her.

Oliver didn’t stop humming, just softly squeezed her hand companionably, and she continued, not thinking, eyes still closed as they danced.

“I keep dreaming about it, over and over. I know I won’t even be there, but in my dreams, I can see it all happening, like I can see right inside your head, and, and…” she faltered, looking up at him uncertainly, suddenly not sure if it would be rude to tell him that, in her dreams, he always lost.

Oliver looked down, as if sensing her dilemma, and smiled crookedly at her. “Sound’s like I’ve done all my losing already then, doesn’t it?”

Hermione made a rueful face as they slowly drifted to a stop as Oliver stopped humming. “Sorry.”

Oliver shrugged, unconcerned, and spoke lightly. “You’re entitled to be scared, Mouse. You don’t have to put on a brave face all the time – but don’t think for a moment that I’ll lose you to that little ferret.” He was looking down on her, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.

His eyes are actually hazel.

She wasn’t even aware of thinking it; she was too busy telling herself that what she was about to do was a really, really bad idea. The impulse had become so strong, she found herself leaning her weight forward to keep her balance as she raised up on her tiptoes, without any conscious command to do so. Her hand, which was still resting on his waist, took a tighter grip, bunching the soft fabric of his shirt between fingers that shook slightly. The other hand crept up his arm, tentatively, to finally settle high on his shoulder, fingers gently seeking to brush the soft skin of his neck. Dimly, she was aware that he made no move, to either encourage her or evade her.

This close, she could smell the scent of spice and a faint hint of aftershave, all mixed up with the myriad of other smells that were heady, warm and rather distractingly masculine.

I’m probably going to regret this later.

Closing her eyes at the last moment, she finished leaning in and placed a soft kiss on his lips. Not moving to deepen it, she held the contact for a long moment, savouring the warmth of his skin against hers, the sense of connection as he suddenly moved to hold her in place with one large hand on the small of her back, before releasing her.

“Good luck, Oliver,” Hermione said softly, watching his face for some hint as to what he was thinking. She couldn’t identify the emotion in his eyes, wasn’t even sure she knew what she was feeling. Suddenly feeling terribly drained, she gave him one last searching look, and left him standing there by their table as she headed back up to her bed.

-..-

The day of the duel dawned bright and cold. The rain the previous night had washed away the last of the spring frost still hanging round, but the ground was still too frozen to accept it, and the Quidditch pitch beneath Oliver’s broom when he’d been out early that morning had been flooded and mucky.

He’d spent the entire day quietly, focusing on being calm. He’d resolutely pushed all thoughts of the duel from his mind, along with the puzzles of Nifflers, gallivanting dragons, or strange lights in the sky. He’d hoped to catch Hermione in the Great Hall that morning, in hopes of joining her for some breakfast before her classes, but reluctantly decided against the idea. He’d been very careful since coming to the castle to give her lots of space. After last night, he was fairly sure she would want it.

The day had passed swiftly for Oliver. It seemed he had just had his breakfast, when he was out again with Fred and George for a pick-up game of Quidditch. His days of playing professionally may be past, but he still loved to fly. Lunch had found him eating lightly from a tray in his room, laughing and joking lightly with the twins as they remembered past pranks they had dragged Oliver into during their time at Hogwarts.

Before he knew it, lunch was done, his time was up and he was following Professor McGonagall through a damp corridor deep beneath the castle on his way to the Duelling chamber - and Malfoy.

McGonagall peeled off to the side as Oliver entered the room, to ascend to join Professors Flitwick and Firenze, who were standing on a sort of raised dais on an enclosed balcony to his right. The balcony almost looked organic, like it had grown out of the stone wall of the chamber. Dark bronze rails gleamed in the torchlight, and intricate carving was thrown into shadowed relief.

The chamber itself was large, as large as the Great Hall, Oliver would guess. Eight stone pillars supported the ceiling, all massively thick. If he stood against one and encircled it with his arms, Oliver knew he wouldn’t be able to touch his own hand on the other side. A faint prickling could be felt in the air, a warning that the chamber’s inherent magic was functioning. The room itself almost looked like it had been carved out of the bare rock; the walls were rough-hewn, and bore tool marks in places, while the uneven floor had been worn smooth with age and use. From the corner of his eye, he saw Fred move off to stand in an alcove obviously intended for him as Oliver’s Second. It was the first time Oliver could remember him looking so serious, his freckles standing out sharply against his pale skin.

Draco Malfoy had entered while Oliver had been examining the room, being lead in from an entrance concealed in the shadows of the far wall. Professor Snape glanced across to Oliver impassively and leaned over to speak with his student briefly before turning to leave again. Goyle hovered nervously, until Draco motioned him to take his place with an impatient jerk of his head.

In the very centre of the room was a depiction of the Hogwarts crest carved into the dark stone, each quadrant of the shield engraved with a different metal – Dark polished bronze for Ravenclaw, bright straw-coloured gold for Hufflepuff, gleaming copper for Gryffindor and pure shinning silver for Slytherin. The effect was impressive in the flickering light, but somehow menacing as well; the torchlight making it glitter wetly, more like the stones themselves were weeping.

Oliver wondered how many people had died here.

Calmly, he moved towards the centre of the room, taking his position just beneath the school motto, Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus. Malfoy moved slowly to stand opposite him, above the Hogwarts banner, about three paces separating them. Oliver eyed him speculatively, waiting until Malfoy gave him a nod before moving away the proscribed number of paces to take up his position again, waiting.

When it came right down to it, Oliver found it difficult to be intimidated by Malfoy, despite his reputed skill as a Dark Wizard. He tried to keep that feeling in check, knowing that it could easily lead to a miscalculation that would cost Hermione dearly. He’d always been nothing more then a tetchy little snot desperately seeking attention and importance, in Oliver’s eyes, an image that no amount of Dark Marks could erase.

He waited, unmoving in the oppressive silence of the large chamber. He could sense the immenseness of the room, all the open space above his head as the ceiling vaulted out of sight, housing strange, rustling noises that brought to mind leather scraping stone, or scales on wood. Draco shifted slightly, changing his grip on his wand as he studied Oliver intently. Oliver could see the tense lines of Draco’s body, poised and ready to strike the moment the signal was given. Oliver forced himself to relax, muscles and posture loose and ready to move without thought.

The loud crack that was their signal caused both of them to immediately dodge and cast simultaneously. Oliver felt the magic crackle as what felt like a knee-reversal jinx zinged past him, missing by a good yard as he made it to one of the columns. His own curse had also missed, but forced Malfoy to swerve inefficiently and allowing Oliver to get off another jinx that scored on Malfoy’s shoulder. Nothing debilitating, but he knew from experience that the damn produce would be very uncomfortable for the next little while.

Oliver felt he could live with that.

With two well-trained wizards, he knew this contest could take quite awhile. While they were both fresh and alert, they were unlikely to finish this. It would get increasingly harder to think quickly enough, move fast enough and summon the necessary emotion behind each spell the longer this went on. Magic on this scale was more of a marathon than a race, and Oliver resolved to wait out the little ferret, if it took all afternoon.

-..-

Listening to Professor Binns while your fate was being decided in a dungeon far beneath you must surely break some sort of humanitarian accord, like the Geneva Convention, Hermione felt. It was her first class directly after this, and she found she was having enough difficulty focusing during Defence Against the Dark Arts class, which was considerably more interesting. Harry had to keep stepping in to subtly guide her when Professor Lupin had his back turned, a state of affairs that had never once occurred before in all their years together at Hogwarts.

“Careful, Hermione,” Harry whispered, as she realized she was using completely the wrong wand-work for well … anything really.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione’s low murmur was just loud enough to be heard by her partner. He’d been so vigilant this class, and she was sure he must feel as though he’d been partnered with Crabbe or Goyle instead of one of the supposedly smartest witches in the school. His smile was slightly wry, but his eyes were warm and forgiving as he took up his position again.

“Just try not to accidentally remove anything I may want later.”

Grateful for his attempted distraction, Hermione smiled in return and resolved to force herself to focus for the remainder of the class.

Unfortunately for Harry, Hermione wasn’t as successful as she had hoped, and the last half hour passed in soggy discomfort for him as Hermione repeatedly whispered her apologies for hitting him with an Ever-Wet charm.

“…you may find that some spells react slightly differently than you anticipated on certain subjects. Many of these slight differences are often brushed off, even by reputable sources, as difference in intent of the caster. However, there is at least one Arabian wizard who has presented the theory that Muggleborn witches and wizards will have slightly different reactions to certain types of magic, due to the rather different nature of their blood…”

The signal for the end of classes interrupted Lupin before he could continue.

“Alright, class, for next week, I want lots of practice on those counter-jinxes, and a full parchment scroll on the uses of Switching spells in defensive magic. Class dismissed!”

Hermione began to stuff her scattered books and notes into her bulging rucksack when she noticed the shadows falling across her desk. Looking up, she found Harry and Ron looming above her, grinning mischievously.

Ron reached down to grab her arm, as Harry quickly shouldered her bag. “C’mon Hermione, there is no way even you can manage Binns’ class today.”

“Ronald!” Hermione tried to sound scolding, despite the difficulty of it while being dragged bodily from the room by her two ‘rescuers’. “Where are you taking me?”

“Back to your dorm – we can hide out there until tea, and I’m sure we’ll know about Wood by then.” Ron sounded very gruff, but it was the first time he had even remotely acknowledged Oliver in anything other than a derogatory snark since this whole mess had begun, and Hermione was reminded once again why he was one of her best friends. Sometimes, it was easy to miss how much Ron – and Harry, had both matured since she had first scolded them rather bossily about being out in the halls after curfew so many years ago.

“Ron, we can’t bunk off of classes like this, we’ll get —”

“Hermione, relax! None of your teachers are really going to go after Hermione Granger for skiving off at a time like this; besides —” Harry turned to shrug at her, smiling, “detention later is better then sitting through History of Magic with you as wound up as you are.”

Laughing, Hermione smacked both of them lightly and followed them, somewhat guiltily, back to Gryffindor Tower. She was secretly very touched by their gesture.

-..-

THE COOL stone was soothing to Oliver’s chapped skin. He ignored the tightness of the burned flesh as he scanned the room meticulously, looking for any sign of the little wretch. Draco had taken the momentary distraction as he’d dealt with the flames thrown at his Second, to camouflage himself in some way. He really hated the rules to this damn match. No mater how much Snape liked to lecture that they were all based on common sense application, Oliver still found it was often just plain nastiness.

They had been at it for what felt like hours. The exertion had caused Malfoy’s baby fine fringe to plaster to his forehead, and Oliver could feel himself slowing and the effort to summon every new spell was getting greater and greater. He knew that now, it had become dangerous. They were getting tired, and mistakes were happening with greater frequency. A missed protection spell, a botched counter curse or jinx, and everything could be over in a flash.

A Disillusionment charm, Oliver thought. Which meant he would look like the stone that made up the chamber, or possibly one of the pillars. Concentrating, Oliver whispered a quick warming charm, and then shouted “Glacialis!”

Deep, bone aching cold spread throughout the chamber, raw and unyieldingly harsh. Intricate, crystalline frost grew along the walls and pillars like beautiful glass ivy, and the air seemed to shimmer with ice fine as glitter. Oliver stood still in the silent room and listened, intently poised, waiting for his opponent to give himself away. Sweat soaked clothes began to frost, despite the warming charm he’d cast, and Oliver continued to watch and listen as the moments dragged on. He had just begun to wonder if perhaps Malfoy had managed to cast a counter charm without him knowing, despite his vigilance, when suddenly he felt the rush of magic as a ragged voice behind him shouted “Sectumsempra!”

He had been ready for it, and managed to dodge and deflect most of the spell, but felt the edge of it catch him low on the hips and bite deeply into the heavy muscle of his thigh. Oliver spun around quickly, his footing suddenly treacherous on the now wet floor, pushing back his disgust at the lengths to which the other man was prepared to go to make a woman into a piece of property.

With a panicked feeling in his guts, he saw Malfoy step out from behind a pillar, unexpectedly close and now standing on the copper lion only a dozen feet away. He held his wand out at a precise angle as he advanced, shivering slightly with the after-effects of the numbing cold.

Oliver could see the sneer already forming on the aristocratic face, despite the great heaving breaths Malfoy was taking, and a small part of him noted the struggle with grim satisfaction.

Oliver was in trouble, and they both knew it. Snape’s training had done him well to get him this far. He was a better wizard than Malfoy, but this contest was not geared for the better wizard, but for the more ruthless. The sheer lack of conscience needed to succeed obviously wasn’t something that the unpleasant Potions Master could teach. Oliver watched as Malfoy stalked him, moving across the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw house, now only a handful of feet away. He moved wearily, matching his movements with a painful limp, his damaged leg shaking under him as it threatened to give out entirely. He couldn’t run – he would be spelled down before he got three steps. Oliver grimly began gathering his remaining emotional strength, ready to channel whatever he had left into his defence. He had to make it count.

“You know, I think I’ll keep her, Wood. I don’t really think Greg would know what to do with her.” Malfoy was taunting him now, waiting for him to try something desperate. Oliver refused to respond, carefully calculating any possibility his racing brain threw out for him.

“Oh, I forgot, you actually like the little whore, don’t you? You certainly jumped in quickly enough when the law gave you an excuse to claim her. How long have you been waiting for a chance? Did you used to dream about her in her dorm, so close, yet absolutely untouchable while right under McGonagall’s eyes?” Malfoy was moving across the engraved motto on the floor, Draco … titillandus a thought began to tickle his brain.

Oliver wasn’t really paying attention as Malfoy continued to try to goad him into action, struggling to keep the slow smile from spreading across his face when Lupin’s words came back to him “… skewered with the sword up you sleeve…” Oliver adjusted his grip on his wand, handle now slick with sweat, and watched for the flickering movement that would tell him that Draco was about to extend himself and the final blow was coming.

When it came, Oliver nearly missed it, and almost reacted too late. Grey eyes shuttered, fingers twitched slightly over the dark wood wand handle, and then Malfoy was shouting, voice resonating in the vaulted ceilings of the stone room, and everything slowed down for Oliver as he marshalled what reserves he had left and forced leaden limbs to move with speed and agility.

“Depello Visceraum!” Malfoy’s spell hung in the air like shards of glass, caught in the impossibly stretched moment, even as part of Oliver’s brain noted the spell, and realised how dangerous Malfoy really was. Had he succeeded in hitting him, Oliver’s guts would now be a rather grisly, short-lived fountain before his empty body fell like a used sack to the floor.

Dropping down, Oliver was already yelling, his own voice raw with strain, “Ferula!” and dropped his wand to take firm hold of the conjured rod in one smooth motion that had him carried forward and up, the weight of his entire body behind him as he struck out, instinct alone guiding him and sweeping the staff through the intervening space, cutting the air with a shrill whistle.

Malfoy’s eyes widened; the blond wizard had not been prepared for this, had no way of getting his wand into position in time to stop Oliver from connecting with his body with the force of a sledgehammer. The extra sets of eyestalks from one of Oliver’s earlier hits were interfering with his ability to see, giving him confusing and contradictory information, causing Malfoy to react jerkily, like a broken stringed puppet. The wooden rod caught him low on his chest, forcing the air from his body as he folded inwards, inadvertently trapping it against his body. Oliver had felt the snapping crack! like dry wood in a storm as Malfoy’s ribs had broken under his hand. All this was noted dryly, dispassionately as his body continued to use the extra momentum to discard the staff as he rolled over his wand, coming up onto one knee, unsure in the moment as to why his right leg was refusing to take any weight, and confused by the slick floor.

Focusing, wand extended, he clung to the knowledge that it wasn’t over until he actually put Malfoy under against the roaring in his ears and the sudden tunnelling of his vision, images now only being perceived in hazy black and white. Malfoy was clutching his side, doubled over, but struggling to get his breath back, trying to raise his wand with trembling fingers. Oliver just felt weary, and disgusted when he whispered “Somnus Quiesco Gravis.”

And allowed the darkness to take them both.

-..-

HE’D ONLY been dozing when she arrived. He could smell the subtle change in the air as she sat next to him, a faint aroma of cinnamon and ink. He indulged by not responding immediately, just enjoying the fact that she was here, and was currently brushing his hair from his forehead.

Her fingers were cool, and made him feel uncomfortable and warm for some reason.

He allowed her to get back to her seat before he opened his eyes, not sure he wanted to deal with her embarrassment at being caught. She was curled up in a fairly large, comfortable chair, and Oliver had the sneaking suspicion that she had transfigured it from one of the ridiculously small ones usually supplied for those visiting the infirm.

“Oliver!” He was grateful she’d kept her voice down. As soon as he’d opened his eyes, he became aware of a dull throbbing ache in his skull, and the maddening, itching sensation of his bones being knit.

The Hospital Wing was quiet and he could hear Madame Pomfrey bustling about somewhere further down the row of beds, though thankfully, the curtains were drawn. Hermione was surrounded by large textbooks, legs drawn up under her skirt so she could balance her work on her lap. Her school robe lay discarded behind her.

“Wha’ time is it, then?” His voice sounded raspy with sleep. He was faintly aware of a tickly sensation along his right forearm.

“You missed dinner; it’s going on eight o’clock.” It was around this point that he became aware that the tingling along his forearm was actually being caused by Hermione’s finger as she traced absent patterns on the skin, just below his wrist. He could faintly see that she was tracing the shinny pink skin left after a bad burn; all that remained of Draco’s spell. He wasn’t sure what to think about that gesture, at the moment, so decided to focus on something simpler.

“I’m sure I’ll be able to get something later.” He watched her carefully for a moment. She was looking down, watching her finger as it moved, her hair falling like a curtain of spun caramel between them. He felt himself smiling. She wasn’t going to be Missus Goyle, and things looked pretty good right now that he might not even end up as a toad.

“How did Malfoy come out of it?”

Hermione glanced up at him, archly. “Second,” she said.

“Ha, very ha. I can see we still have to work on our sense of humour.”

“Oh, I don’t know... I thought it was pretty funny.” She was smiling at him again, cheekily. He couldn’t remember the last time she was so free around him. Slowly, it was beginning to sink in for Oliver. Hermione was safe —

She was also rather soon to become his wife.

Definitely not something to be thinking about when she was Right Bloody There, you twit. “Hermione I —” But Oliver was at a loss for what to say. The comfortable mood fell away, and their easy teasing now felt awkward as they both became aware of their new status.

Hermione seemed to suddenly realise the way she had been touching his arm moments before, and hastily settled back in her chair, away from him.

“Well, Malfoy will be alright, in a few days. Madam Pomfrey was scolding everyone in the vicinity when the two of you came in, saying how barbaric duelling was, but … he’s going to be fine, unfortunately.”

“Can’t make your last year too easy on you now, you’ll go soft.”

“Couldn’t you have considered it an early birthday present?” She grinned at him, but it was quickly gone again as she shifted nervously in her chair.

Oliver could hear the faint murmur of other patients further back in the room as he and Hermione searched for something to say to fill up the awkward silence. “I’m really glad —” he began, just as she started, “Oliver, I wish —”

She caught his eye and gazed at him with exasperation, lips twitching as she tried to hold onto her stern expression, until they both began chuckling. It felt good to laugh with her, though it didn’t completely dispel the earlier awkwardness.

“So lass, where exactly do we go from here?” Inwardly, Oliver grimaced. That hadn’t been what he’d meant to say at all.

Hermione hesitated, brows furrowed. Nibbling her lower lip, she frowned at him absently while she thought, an expression to be replaced by a mischievous look before she then leaned over and brushed her lips briefly against his cheek.

Without saying a word, she turned and gathered up her things, and replaced her black robe. Before Oliver could gather his potion-addled wits to say anything further, she had given him a fleeting smile; just a small incline of her lips really, and was gone.

Lying back, Oliver was thankful for the time alone to organise his thoughts. The glimpse of the small, glittering object as she’d turned back to him had caught him completely off-guard, and he needed time to think, carefully, about what to do next. Pinned to her robes, right beneath her house crest, was a familiar worn silver brooch, twin hearts entwined amidst a labyrinth of filigree patterning.

Oliver could feel the goofy grin grow as he stared after her, extremely pleased with the world just then.

-..-

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