Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

Chapter Nine - An Uncomfortable Affair

Consequentially Yours
Or
A Gentleman’s Duty

Chapter Nine ~ An Uncomfortable Affair

-..-





Dear Mister Granger,

Sir, I realise that this letter is rather unexpected, but I am writing to ….




Quiet movements marked his passage across the parquet floor. The interruption would only hold for a few moments more, and Anthony wanted to be far away from here as possible by the time it was up. The place gave him the creeps – somehow he wasn't surprised that his cadaverous employer desired something lying in the depths of a place like this.

They had initially met three nights ago, were the mummy-ish man had stood, just outside the reach of the inadequate light of the alley, wrapped in odd, voluminous black robes. Mr. Pearce hadn't actually introduced himself during their meeting that night, but Anthony had privately given him that name for an overly sharp accountant he had known, in the employ of one of his first contracts. The man had had the same unhealthy pale skin of someone who never sees sunlight, and the same fevered light in his eyes. Anthony had watched it carefully, making sure it had wholly gone out when he slipped the thin blade between the man’s ribs some years back.

Mr. Pearce had actually been almost silent during their encounter, speaking only occasionally to give short instructions in a strangely sibilant and rasping whisper. His companion had done most of the talking, eyes rolling in a head not completely grounded in the same world as the rest of them. When Anthony had asked for his employer's name he certainly wasn't green enough to expect his real one, but felt it customary to at least have something to go by. Mr. Pearce had remained coldly silent, as if he were a fly beneath his gaze, but the younger man had grinned manically.

"Mr. Nobody," he'd giggled, actually giggled, spittle dribbling into his short black beard; his mad scientist personae completely at odds with his otherwise handsome appearance. The man was clearly insane, Anthony had even caught him pulling a short stick out of his pocket, obviously polished with loving care. He shrugged it off as a minor peculiarity; he was a footpad, a very good one, not a psychiatrist, the difference in his mind being that though he used arms occasionally in his activities, at least it was all out where you could see it. Psychiatrists committed armed robbery in your head, and he know which profession he considered the more honest. Besides, all of his employers were relatively strange, seeing as how they all seemed to feel that poking around in other people's pockets or houses was a perfectly legitimate way of acquiring something of value.

Mr. Pearce had handed him a strange worn metal charm. It had burned his hand painfully when he'd taken it, though when he examined his palm for damage he’d been disturbed when he found that it was smooth and unmarred. The charm itself was of a metal he couldn't identify, and was suddenly certain no fence he'd ever worked with would be able to either. It was very dark, like burnished lead pewter, but it looked like it would almost flow out of its intricate twist at any moment and pour from his hand. It looked as something would if you could force oil to hold a solid shape, and even shimmered with a slick rainbow when it caught the cheap incandescent light of the bare bulb shining by the garbage door of the bar forming one wall of the alley they were in. He'd been informed that he absolutely was to carry the charm with him when he made his way to the specified location, and the strength of his command was such that Anthony didn't even consider not abiding by the rather bizarre dictate.

Three nights later, and he'd made his way to this valley. The solid stone walls of the building had appeared to shiver right out of the fog at his approach, where no building had a right to be. He'd watched, uncharacteristically uncertain as tall marble colonnades had shouldered the mist aside, wide stone steps leading to an impressively large arched doorway. The Roman architecture was unmistakable, but the early morning gloom obscured any signage that may have identified it. Anthony, who knew himself to be a cool professional, wanted nothing more then to finish this disturbing job as quickly as humanly possible and be long gone before this place decided to go back to whatever faerie realm had conjured it, shimmering back into the gloom and taking him with it.

Twenty minutes later, the lone researcher proved to be no difficulty as he pocketed his tools once more, deftly scooped up his prize and slipped into the welcoming darkness.

He'd have to take precautions though; somehow, Mr. Pearce and his giggling companion struck Anthony as the type of employers who might prefer to keep his services exclusive.

And he had no intention of becoming anyone's Daedalus. That kind of service ended only one way, as that mythical artisan had learned too late.


-..-

The two weeks Oliver was gone went by unaccountably slowly for Hermione. All of her lessons seemed to be dull, and even Ron and Harry had been less of a distraction than usual. They had still refused to give in to her frequent suggestions that perhaps it was time to stop playing Wizarding chess, or Gobstones and allow her to help them organize their notes so that they could begin studying for the rapidly approaching N.E.W.T.s

Both boys had stopped what they were doing and were now watching her in uneasy confusion. “Hermione, we’ve still got three months! That’s loads of time for you to help us, isn’t it?”

Muttering under her breath, and glaring at both of them, she gathered her books and stormed from the Common Room. “You might try a little less force, next time!” The Fat Lady huffed as she banged the portrait closed behind her.

“Sorry,” she muttered on her way past, but she wasn’t really certain she was heard. Ducking her head and hunching her shoulders over the books she held tightly to her chest, she barrelled down several corridors, still muttering.

“...Of all the mulish – and they’ll come to me when it’s the last minute wanting my notes! And I’m the overly worried one! They would never ... I mean, when have they ever —” Her was anger cooling and she came to a halt outside of an empty classroom. She allowed her bag to fall from her shoulder as she slid down against the wall to sit cross legged in the empty hall. She wasn’t even sure what had actually set her off, most probably influenced by the stress of studying, but it wasn’t like she didn’t know Ron and Harry by now, and normally even had an affectionate tolerance for their procrastination. She wasn’t really angry anymore - she was more frustrated she decided as she picked irritably at a stray thread on her thick wool skirt. So much a part of her life; she had worn it every day she was at Hogwarts; for almost seven years it was part of who Hermione Granger was, maybe. Me? Books and cleverness… the voice of the past surfaced briefly.

She still found it odd sometimes to look in the mirror and see herself so old, like she had aged overnight and was trying to fit into her girlhood cloths of yesterday. Twenty years old, and about to be married, all before she meteorically got to try wearing anything other than this scratchy skirt. Absently she ran her fingers over the rather plain and sensible silver skirt pin.

She had finished coding her notes right after Christmas hols, a bit later then she would have wished, but it had been an enormous task to go through seven years of notes to pick out any fundamentals that may be on the examinations. She had set up a study schedule by New Years. And now for the first time, Hermione had to question why. Would she get a chance to use that knowledge once the Contract was filled? But she knew this was a ridiculous fear, as Oliver wasn’t like that, and she would certainly be able to go on and do whatever she wished - but what did she want to do? She really had no answers.

Grimacing at her foolishness, Hermione resolutely stood up, and shouldering her bag, she headed off for the library. She still had the exploits of Talbot the Mildly Terrible to cover if she was to cross off everything on her schedule for today.

Striding purposefully through the stacks, she felt the equanimity she had just gained slipping away when she realised her table was occupied. In her first year, Hermione had scoped out this small corner of the large library as it was sort of tucked away from the rest, almost folded in between the surrounding stacks of books and unnoticeable until you turned the last corner and were right on top of it. The table was scared, and wobbled slightly until she had shoved a wadded up old timesheet under the one foot, but she had spent a lot of time here during the first few months of that year, as she was teased by rival students and housemates alike, up until the Troll. And right now, she really didn’t want to work with a bunch of chatty Hufflepuff fourth years when all she really wanted to do was get to her studies until she could get her wayward temper under control.

Rounding the corner, fully prepared to glare at whomever was occupying her space until the gave up and left her alone, Hermione stopped short when she saw Harry, black head bent dutifully over his open books and painfully scribing out notes on a roll of parchment. “Harry?” she asked, surprised.

Harry looked up, his quill dripping large drops of ink on his uniform slacks as he startled. “Shit! Hi, Hermione –” he distractedly greeted her as he tried to wipe up the spatters in his lap.

Shaking her head, she set her bag down and pulled out her wand. “Here, let me. Scourgify!”

“Thanks – I always forget that one, for some reason.” Harry smiled at her, a little uncertainly after the scene in the Common Room. “So, ah. Ron and I were discussing, and we reckon you’re right. A bit of a head start on the N.E.W.T.s wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

“You and Ron, huh?” She pointedly eyed the empty chairs beside him.

“We-ell, Ron thought maybe it was best if he let me talk with you first.”

Despite herself, Hermione could feel herself smiling. “So what is he, hiding in the Tower?”

“Actually, I think he went to the kitchens to get some snacks. He’s going to meet us here when he figures its safe.”

She tried, she honestly tried to remain stern, but she could feel the laughter bubbling up, causing her lips to twitch and ruining her convincing scowl. Harry grinned at her triumphantly, and she gave in and sat down to help him organize his own study schedule.

Honestly, when had Harry grown up so much?

The next morning a thick parchment roll was dropped alongside her plate of bacon with a soft thunk. Offering her crusts absently to the grey owl who had carried it, she unsealed it and began to read it over immediately. She didn’t notice Ginny, a little ways down the table, turn back to her own breakfast with a pleased expression.

The letter was surprisingly long, though a trifle awkward, and Hermione had an image of Oliver bent over his correspondence, struggling to write it. There were surprisingly few details regarding his trip to Luxemburg and the Quidditch team he met with there, though she supposed he could be treading lightly in view of their brief argument before he left. Hermione frowned; he seemed oddly... defensive somehow, though she wasn’t exactly sure how one could be defensive in a letter. Filling it under Rather Odd, she dismissed it for now.

He went on to say that his mother had been in contact with him, and was looking forward to meeting her, which caused Hermione to blush uncomfortably, and he then went on to say he had sent a letter to -

“My father!”

-..-

Brave clear sunlight was trying to break through the last of this long winter’s gloom and streamed through the high windows of the castle, bathing the flagstone floor in narrow bands of light. It was still rather early for a Saturday, somewhere near 9 o’clock, and the halls were fairly empty. Oliver shifted position, again, where he stood against the cool stone of the wall. He had positioned himself by the doors leading to the Great Hall where he could still watch the marble stairs leading up into the castle. A few sleepy students gave him curious looks as they shuffled past him to find their breakfast, and in truth, he knew his stomach would probably be growling from the scents wafting from the open doors, but he was too busy concentrating on how to make this a good meeting to notice much.

He’d arrived early, and taken a long walk through the castle grounds, a curious twisting in his gut that he’d tried to get under control before heading in to wait for Hermione. It had been calming, wandering along the quiet landscape, something in his blood always stirred by the lonely highlands, and he’d watched the mist drift in off the lake and enjoyed the stillness broken only by the occasional cry of a kestrel or the chitinous buzz of fuzzy Glumbumbles until he was worried she’d get down before he got back to meet her.

He’d contacted her da six days ago, and though he knew he probably shouldn’t be surprised by the quick reply considering, he still couldn’t help but feel that this was too soon. He really wasn’t sure he was ready to do this, but ready or not, in a few hours time he would be facing Mister Addison Granger for the first time and trying to prove himself good enough to be the provider for his daughter.

The soft chattering of the few students up this early on a Saturday morning had been the only distraction for him as he stood, waiting for Hermione to meet him. When he caught sight of her, being escorted down the wide steps by Weasley and Potter like it was a gallows march, the significance of it wasn’t lost on him, though he had to hide a grin at their bit of drama.

She was dressed in Muggle clothing, he noticed, a pair of dark denims with some kind of soft looking blue jumper that fit her well, though it only the second time he’d ever seen her without her robes. He crossed the hall to meet them at the base of the stairs, where they had paused for a moment, most likely to help settle any nerves Hermione might have.

“Oliver,” Harry quietly greeted when he had reached them. Ron managed a nod, but kept quiet, holding Hermione’s bag so tight, his knuckles were turning white.

Hermione smiled at him, fleetingly, and though it was sincere, Oliver could see by the resolute way she was holding her shoulders that she wasn’t really paying attention, more girding herself for something unpleasant. He reached for her bag, and after a moment, Weasley handed it over without comment.

“Ready t’ go?” he asked, suddenly wondering if he was ready. He was about to ask this girl’s – no, this woman’s father for permission to marry. His stomach felt like it was filled with heated lead, rolling heavily with nerves, and understood Hermione’s distracted determination. He had no idea if this man could ever accept well-meant duty as an acceptable reason to let his daughter go.

Hermione turned to focus on him intently for a moment then tossed her head back, as if shaking something off, and said determinedly, “Let’s go then. We’ll miss the bus in London if we don’t get moving.” She then turned to her friends and pulled them into a fierce hug which seemed to only embarrass them marginally, though they were both awkward to return it - patting her back uncertainly as she held them both for a brief moment, before pulling away with a suspiciously muffled sniff.

Harry smiled. “It’ll be alright, Hermione. Your dad’s great.”

Ron chipped in, “Yeah, and don’t waste the whole time studying, I mean, you packed enough bloody books for an army -” He broke off with a startled oath as Harry reached out and cuffed him before he and Hermione could start bickering.

Oliver reached over and gently propelled Hermione with a careful hand against the small of her back before an argument could break out; reminding her that Professor McGonagall was waiting for them outside the Headmaster’s office to see them safely out of the castle and on their way.

Flooing was never a tidy way to travel, Oliver reflected as he stepped from the grate into the back room of the Leaky Cauldron. He took the moment to run a hand over his robes to dislodge any soot that may have settled on them and waited only a moment before Hermione joined him, coughing slightly after her trip through the grate. Oliver opened his mouth to say something, but found he didn’t know what to say, so shut it again and merely motioned for her to lead the way out into the main room of the pub and from there into Muggle London.

They caught another one of the strange Muggle buses with no problem, Oliver glad that he had done this once before and could at least look inconspicuous while he watched the passengers with fascination.

They travelled for close to forty minutes before disembarking at a rather large station teeming with people who all seemed to be in a dreadful hurry. Settling his own bag more comfortably on his shoulder, he once again reached out and took Hermione’s bag from her while she scanned for something.

“Come on!” She grabbed him by his wrist, tugging him to follow her through the throng of people as she headed for a line of black and silver vehicles stretching in a long line down the roadway.

After stowing their bags in the boot, Oliver settled himself in the back of the taxi as Hermione had indicated he should while she stayed to give the driver their destination, so he was startled when a moment later found her sliding onto the slippery seat beside him, completely ignoring the empty one up front.

They pulled away from the station in silence, and Oliver watched Hermione’s face, fascinated, as she struggled with something. She had begun to worry her bottom lip again, brows furrowed in fierce concentration. After a moment, she turned to him, and though her expression had cleared somewhat, she was looking at him with a pondering expression.

“Oliver,” she began, rather firmly. Taking a breath, she tried again, “Oliver –” This time it came out less like a command, but she still paused helplessly. She studied him instead, looking him over with a critical eye before her expression softened and she leaned over to ruffle his hair, almost playfully. “You still have soot in your hair,” she told him. “You look like a chimney sweep.”

“Well, I would hate t’ embarrass us both by showing up at Granger Castle looking so disreputable.” This teasing seemed to provide her with the opening she’d needed, as she suddenly looked serious again and looked up at him with an unconsciously appealing expression.

“Look, Oliver, I know you were trying to do me a favour with all this Contract nonsense, but –” Here she seemed to struggle to say what she had on her mind without offense.

“Yer Da isna so likely to see it as such,” Oliver finished for her, seeing the cause of this uncomfortable conversation.

She scrunched up her nose a bit at this thought. “Not really, no.” The taxi had stopped momentarily and Hermione turned for a moment to watch the pedestrians crossing beside them. He watched her reflection in the glass,

“So, I’ll just ha’ t’ concentrate on charming yer mother instead, will I?”

She paused for a moment, still staring out of the window. When she spoke again, her voice was brisk and business-like. “Unfortunately for you, you only have my father to worry about, and he’s much more difficult to charm. I just ... well, I just thought you should know.”

The rest of the ride was spent in silence.

The house was in the middle of its row, neat as a pin with fresh swept walk and a well trimmed hedge. It was tall and narrow, as all houses in this part of the city were, with carefully pressed lace curtains in the front room widow that Oliver immediately knew to be a legacy of the absent Mrs. Granger. A chipped stone birdbath sat in one corner of a winter-browned garden, surrounded by dried remnants of last season’s honeysuckle and delphinium. A small statue of a cat, with one ear folded over comically, lay lazily along the rim, trailing one paw playfully in the empty basin. Oliver silently handed a Muggle wallet over to Hermione to pay the driver and continued his curious survey of the house and yard. Despite the carefully immaculate appearance, he was surprised to find it still managed to feel welcoming. Late daffodils lined the steps to the house, and a brass plate on the white wooden gate simply said, A Lilac Wood.

Oliver turned a questioning eye to Hermione, who had finished with the driver and had come to stand beside him in front of the gate. She actually flushed slightly, but answered gamely enough, “A bit of rubbish from my first visit home from Hogwarts.” She smiled, ruefully in remembrance. “It’s from a book; about not being able to go back, because it’s never quite the same. This was my lilac wood. I still managed to have my moments of melodrama as a teenager, I’m afraid.”

Oliver was amused by this image of a much younger Hermione. “I’ll never tell, lass. What was the book?”

Unlatching the gate, she didn’t bother turning to him to answer, rather matter of fact, “Does it matter?” and lead the way down the walk.

Addison Granger was waiting for his daughter at the door, and immediately swept her into a tight embrace once she mounted the stairs. Broad shouldered and lean, he must surely have been a handsome man in his youth, but now his dark hair was dulling with age, and starting to streak with grey, and his back and shoulders had begun to slump a bit, as if carrying a weight with him wherever he went. Despite this somewhat premature aging, Oliver thought he was still an intimidating figure, and his movements as he came down the steps to shake his hand and take Hermione’s bag from him were precise and strong. His eyes, tawny like his daughters, were sharp and unrevealing as he looked Oliver over, from crisp leather shoes to slightly ruffled, but soot-free hair, and with a jerk of his head, he motioned for them to follow him back into the house. Oliver was unsure what a Dentist was, but privately wondered if it always required the ability to turn someone’s knees to jelly with a single disapproving stare.

Inside was every bit as immaculate as the outside, and smelled faintly of furniture polish. Dark woods gleamed in the sunlight let in from all the unshuttered windows, and from the next room, he could hear the sharp whistle of a tea kettle. Everywhere, there were curious objects of unknown purpose and strange design.

Oliver was so busy taking in his rather intriguing surroundings that he almost startled when Mister Granger spoke. “Show Mister Wood to the guest room, Hermione. I’ll get some tea on the table and perhaps you can both explain a few things to me.”

The room Hermione showed him to was at the back of the house, on the middle floor of the house. A dark blue and grey patterned comforter covered the bed, and a simple desk sat in one corner, the top of it battered and scared from years of use. A small shelf hung over a small dresser beside the door with several books propped up on it with what appeared to be a black box with dials taking up the remaining space on the shelf, which Oliver though might be a Muggle wireless, though it looked very strange to his eyes. Hermione breezed in to open another door, which showed a small closet with a number of empty hangers on an equally empty rod, saying, “This will be you for tonight.” She began compulsively tidying the room in her wake, moving items around randomly, and not looking to where Oliver had moved to set his bag down on the bed. “Bathroom’s down the hall, on the left, there’s a radio for you if you want it; help yourself to any of the books...” Oliver reached over and trapped her hand between his, effectively halting her progress.

For a long moment, he just held her hand between his, unsure what to say, but trying hard to hide his own nerves and offer some comfort for what was likely to be an awkward afternoon, for both of them. “Hermione,” he said eventually, when she would did not look up. “Hermione, how do ye want me t’ handle this, lass? I need you teh talk t’ me, tell me what you’ve told yer Da about all this.”

She seemed to shake herself slightly, as if throwing something off, and after a moment said calmly, “The truth, Oliver. I told him that the new law obligated me to marry.” And with that, she left him to unpack. It hurt to be reminded that it was only through coercion that she was bound to him at all, though he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why it should bother him so much beyond the fact that he felt ruddy awful for being the one to force her, despite the fact that he had saved her from Goyle. It was still a sore spot on his conscience, something he couldn’t help picking at sometimes, like a sick tooth. At least she seemed amicable to the slow friendship that was growing between them.

Was he ready for this? Pushing it to the back of his mind, he finished putting away his few possessions and made his way back down the stairs.

Mister Granger sat and listened while Hermione and Oliver took turns explaining to him the circumstances that had lead to them drinking tea in his sitting room right now. He listened intently, with no interruption or even a change in his expression that might indicate how he might feel. Oliver had the ridiculous impulse to tell him that he was secretly trying to make self-spelling wands for Flobberworms, and that he was going to move Hermione to the moon, just to see if that guarded expression ever changed, but quickly repressed it. Oliver had the distinct impression that, aging or not, Addison Granger was fully capable of giving him a right smart ding around the ears that would have him seeing stars until the middle of next week. Hermione, for her part, betrayed nothing of the nervousness he had glimpsed upstairs. She regarded her father levelly, giving no apparent apology for what she had chosen to do, and presented the story matter-of-factly; one stubborn will set firmly against another.

Their narration had ground down to a halt, and still there was no indication as to what he might be thinking. He sat there, regarding them from behind square-rimmed spectacles for a full three minutes, just sipping his tea. He was obviously a quiet man and one much alone from the look of his home. Nodding once to himself, some inner decision obviously made, he placed his cup back in its saucer and said to them, “Lunch will be served in an hour. I imagine you still know where everything’s kept, Hermione, so you can make the sandwiches; mind you use the white plates and make sure the crusts are cut off straight.”

And with this astonishing bit of information, he left.

Hermione sat, staring at the empty chair for a long time, frowning.

-,,-

Her father was being a prat, that’s all there was to it, she decided crossly. Oliver was putting up with the whole business with remarkable patience, not even batting an eye when her father had suddenly broken off from a rather prosaic conversation on the horrors of aphids during the rather moderate British summer to ambush him with some remarkably sharp questions.

“So what was it you said you did for a living, Mister Wood?” Mister Granger didn’t even look up as he spoke, but continued to deftly slice the top from his boiled egg with precise care, and adding three careful twists of salt from a grinder before placing it back on the table exactly four inches to the left of the butter dish. Oliver set the relish down, next to the ceramic milk pitcher. Mister Granger seemed derailed for a moment, staring at it, bemused.

“Please, it’s Oliver, sir. And I didn’t - mention it, I mean. I –”

“Oliver is involved with professional sports; he’s currently working to have the leagues expanded.” Hermione cut in quickly, not really sure the strict truth was a good idea, under the circumstances. Besides, it wasn’t really a lie, now was it? No real need to clarify that in all actuality, there were no British professional leagues at the moment, so technically Oliver was unemployed. As she spoke, Hermione reached unconsciously to shift the relish back, so it once again sat at right angles to the mustard pot. Her father’s expression cleared, and he went back to focusing on his lunch, pointedly not looking at Oliver as he spoke.

“Sports? What, like rounders or football, something like that?” He was scraping each bite of his egg from its shell, every movement a curiously precise mirror of the one before.

“Quidditch,” Oliver clarified carefully, with a curious look at Hermione, unsure if she had ever explained the game to him or not. “It’s played in the air, on brooms, and –”

“Sounds unconscionably dangerous,” he dismissed, and then continued to discuss advantages of garlic solution over nicotine dusting when dealing with rose beetles.

They had retreated to the front room after that. Oliver sat in a chair by the mantle, curiously examining a newspaper he found on the coffee table. Her father sat on the complete opposite side of the, admittedly small, room, thumbing through a well worn birding book Hermione’s mother had bought for him three Christmases ago.

For herself, she couldn’t seem to settle anywhere. It was a little challenging being home again – not in the overly emotional, nothing-is-as-it-was sort of way, but more that it simply required a readjustment of her thinking to reconcile the changes each time she came, almost as if she forgot them when she was no longer here. This had been the fortress of her childhood innocence, the little place she carried around with her, deep inside, that sheltered her during the war, when everything around her had been utterly horrible. And melodramatic or not, it was different now.

Right now, she didn’t know what her father was thinking. There was a time when she knew this man better than almost anyone in the world, but he wasn’t the same person anymore, and neither was she.

His book was resting on the little end table by his chair, a faded watercolour of the Kentish Plover regarding her from the worn cover; Hermione hadn’t even noticed him slip from the room.

“Why do ye no get oout you’re books and study a bit? I know it must be weighing on ye.” Oliver’s eyes crinkled affectionately as she was about to protest at leaving him to his own devices. “This is not the first concerned father I’ve ever had to deal with, ye ken.”

Her stomach contracted as if hit with ice water at this sudden reminder of how much older Oliver was. Of course he had ... dated, and all that implied. Who had those girls been? Had he ever been this close to engagement with any of them? Had he ever loved any of them?

She was startled to find herself regarding these unknown girls almost as if they were some kind of ghostly rivals. Pushing aside her unexpected discomfort, she forced herself to look back at him with one brow raised. “Oh?”

He laughed with easy amusement at her proffered scepticism. “Well, this may be the first time I’ve been asking for one of their permission to steal their daughters away, but still, I imagine I’ll manage to keep myself out of trouble long enough for ye to get some school work in. Now go, get yer studying underway before yeh pace a trench through the carpet.”

-..-

The room was dark, heavy curtains pulled tight against the bright moonlight. Dimly, she could make out the familiar shapes of her furniture as darker patches against the night-time shadows. She turned slightly, trying to settle more fully on her pillow, irritated by her inability to find sleep. Things hadn’t improved much between Oliver and her dad, and Hermione had to admit to herself that it was possible they wouldn’t, and the possible implications of that had kept her tossing deep into the night.

If her father refused his blessing, would Oliver call it off? He was rather old-fashionedly honourable to her Muggle eyes, as she knew many wizards were – would he still go through with the wedding without her father’s permission?

And why did it bother her so much that he might not?

Could he even back out at this point?

Oh honestly! The irritated thought finally drove her from her bed. Stuffing her feet into a pair of white moccasin slippers and throwing on her robe, she left her room, muttering grouchily to herself as she made her way down the narrow stairs. It was quite late - after midnight, and the silence of the witching hour enveloped the empty hall and soothed Hermione’s nerves. A grandfather clock that had once belonged to a rather misty great-aunt stood at the base of the stairs, quietly ticking its measured tones in the muffling silence. Down the hall, she noticed a glimmer of light creeping out from under the door of her father’s study. It wasn’t really all that unusual for him to fall asleep while reading, just forgetful, and the faint noises floating down to her told her he’d left the radio on again as well. She was about halfway to the door, which was slightly off its catch when she realised the noises she was hearing weren’t coming from the rather antique cabinet radio her father kept.

“She’s given two years of her life to try and save your world!” Not angry, but certainly spoken with a great deal of conviction; still her father had yet to raise his voice above his customary quiet, yet deep murmur. He continued to stand behind his desk, not having moved since Oliver had first braced him in here half an hour ago. The older man was staring at him with an unfathomable gaze, and Oliver watched him for a long moment, carefully biting back his first, ill-considered retort. Despite his earlier teasing with Hermione, he found that he was not at all sanguine about his chances of appealing to this man, who’d regarded him with cold detachment from the moment he’d walked through the door.

And now, he continued to consider him with a stare that was as hard to shrug off as it was to meet. The rumbling bass of his speech was expressionless as he continued to evaluate his unasked for son-in-law. “Two years of fighting and death and horrors she can’t ever tell me about – but she’s survived it all, and she’s strong. Did she really need you?” Somewhere, a clock chimed quarter past the hour.

It must have been awful, Oliver divined. Not just the war, but all of it. When Hermione’s parents sent her to Hogwarts, they sent her somewhere they could not follow; could not understand. In a moment of empathy, he felt the melancholy ache of natural parting must surely be too much for most anyone to swallow in the wake of all they had already faced.

“She probably could take care of herself,” he acknowledged, “but after everything she’s already done these last two years, I didnae think she should have to. Just once, I thought someone else should be looking ou’ for her for a change.”

Addison Granger stared at him, considering. Oliver almost didn’t dare breath. Finally, he nodded once, slowly, in acknowledgment and stiffly made his way around the large oak desk and past Oliver but stopped before the door, one hand resting on the polished brass knob. When he spoke this time, he didn’t pin Oliver beneath his stern gaze. In fact, he didn’t turn from the door.

“It was two years of secrets and never knowing where she was. Two years of hell.” His head was bowed, as if the weight of that memory was a physical thing.

When Oliver replied, it was to give this man the only pledge he could. “I’ll look to her happiness. I promise.”

Addison Granger acknowledged him solemnly. “See that you do.”

And a silent agreement was made.

When he finally left the small room, Oliver felt drained, but too tense to sleep. As he passed the open doorway to the kitchen and saw the dim light spilling into the hall, he hesitated; not wanting to go another round with Mister Granger right then, but a soft sound, sort of a cross between a sigh and a murmur told him it was Hermione struggling with restlessness and not her father.

She was sitting at the small table they’d taken their meals at, staring into a mug held loosely in front of her.

“Well, now - this looks familiar. We really have to stop meeting like this, Mouse.” He didn’t bother to hide his grin as he watched her jerk in surprise from where he leaned against the door frame. The rather dim light was provided by the lit end of her wand, resting on the table beside her. For some reason, his rather light observation seemed to be causing the normally composed witch to flush. He crossed to the counter, and rummaging through several cupboards, managed to find a mug with little difficulty. A further search turned up a spoon and something that proclaimed to be Cadbury’s Drinking Chocolate, though he was reserving his judgment on that, and a pot. Rather pleased with his success, he looked around, realising he’d seen nothing so familiar as a cast-iron stove in the room, or even a wood pile to fuel one.

He must have looked pretty lost, because suddenly Hermione was taking the pot gently from his hands. “Here, let me. Go get some milk from the fridge.”

The cold box - he remembered it from lunch. He pulled the handle with a sharp tug, and nearly let go in surprise as a light came on from the interior. How in the blazes did it know it was too dark to see? Intrigued, he pushed the door closed again, and waited a moment before slowly opening it again. Sure enough, as soon as enough darkness had gotten in, the light sprang on again. A gremlin, perhaps? They were small enough to sit inside and operate the light. Or perhaps something like a Hinkypunk, protecting its home? He began to ease the door open this time, trying to catch whatever it was unawares, watching intently for the exact moment the light would come on and betray his presence…

He heard a snigger behind him, and rather sheepishly handed over the milk pitcher. Hermione took it without a word, but continued to grin at his embarrassment.

He watched Hermione as she poured enough milk into the pot for two, and placed it on a part of the counter that looked no different to Oliver except for a shinier finish and four circles drawn on it, two larger ones at the front, and two smaller at the back. He was startled when after a moment one of the circles under where she had placed the pot began glowing cherry red in the darkness. Hermione noticed him looking and smiled at him. “It’s a bit different from what you’re use to, isn’t it?”

“Aye, a bit,” he admitted ruefully.

Hermione was quiet for a moment, diligently stirring the milk in the pot with a wooden spoon. Oliver moved to lean against the counter at her side, not close enough to crowd her, but near enough to be companionable. “Hermione?” he asked, softly.

“Hmmm?” she murmured, still watching the milk with practiced care.

“Where’s your mother?”

The precise turns of the spoon stilled for a second, but that was the only indication that the question was at all uncomfortable for her. “She’s dead.”

Oliver winced, though he had expected that this might be the case. “I’m sorry.”

Hermione made a neutral sort of noise, the kind of noise one normally makes when there is nothing else to say, and the light from her wand seemed to be dimmer now, from where it lay, still sitting on the table by the door. Oliver forebear asking her any more, and cast for something light to say in the uncomfortable silence that followed.

“I’m sorry, Oliver. It’s alright to ask, really.” The smile she gave him was rather tired, he noticed. “She died during the war.”

“Death Eaters?” Oliver asked.

At her nod, Oliver would have pulled her into his embrace if it weren’t for the rather straight set of her spine that gave him the impression that such an action may not be welcome. She was fighting hard for the fragile neutrality in her voice, and if he were to comfort her, a he was inclined to do, she may not be able to hold it, and intuitively he was fairly sure she didn’t want to lose the comfort of easy conversation right now by subsuming the moment with sadness.

“So, is it going to be this hard when I meet your mother?” The question was light and rueful, and Oliver complied with her unspoken desire to change the subject.

“Worse,” he said, solemnly. “Yer no’ as loveable as me, so yer likely t’ find it rough going.”

She looked startled for a second, until he was unable to hold back the teasing grin, and she whacked him with the heated spoon across his upper arm with a solid thwack!

“What is your family like?” she asked after a moment. “All as funny as you?”

“Seriously? Let’s see… I have an older sister, and two older brothers, an’ my ma rules over the lot o’ us unruly ragtags with an iron spoon. I spent more time while I was growing up mucking out the shed, or the yard, or whatever else she could find for me then I care to remember.”

Deftly filling the two waiting mugs, she quickly washed the pot and placed it on the drain-board, to be put away in the morning. Oliver handed her one of them, and took the other for himself, but neither of them made any move to go back to the table.

The moon had come out again, and was picking out the caramel highlights in her hair, making them glow like liquid copper. She had one arm wrapped around her waist, and the mug of cocoa was cradled in the other hand. Her eyes sparkled faintly, animated from their teasing. He was beginning to think that in moonlight was the best way to see her, and the thought of course brought to mind the last time he had seen her thus, in the Hogwarts kitchens.

She’d kissed him, he remembered. She tasted of nutmeg and sweetness, the moment flavoured by her cinnamon and ink scent. It had only been comfort, of course, her seeking some kind of connection in her distress, but looking at her here in the moonlight, he began to wonder if she would ever do it again, and whether he wanted the answer to that question to be yes or not. He was startled to find he was honestly considering kissing her when Hermione broke his train of thought.

“Oliver?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you think it’s time to tell me what you’ve really been doing for the last little while?”

Caught completely by surprise, he could only stare at her in shock. She stared right back at him, determined and impassive. “Hermione, I don’t –”

“Don’t, Oliver. Don’t answer if you must, but don’t lie to me.”

Bollocks. Hermione was entirely too clever for her own good, though she had startled him yet again; she was allowing him to doge the issue, but not to hide it. Percy would probably be pleased – her intelligence would be a great asset, though he was beginning to have suspicions about that too.

When he didn’t answer right away, she sighed and asked, “Shall I help you? You haven’t really been chasing Quidditch teams, but whatever you are doing, Percy is aware of it. That rather suggests some kind of Ministry work, doesn’t it? Furthermore -”

“Enough, Hermione,” Oliver broke in gently, though he was unsure if he was stopping her to give her the answers she seemed to know already, or to stop her before she said something he’d have to deny.

When he didn’t continue, she gave a small sigh. “You can’t answer? I’m glad you didn’t lie, at least. I can handle secrets, Oliver, but not lies.” She reached past him, placing her empty mug in the sink, and began making her way back to her room. “Goodnight, Oliver. And thank you.”

She was halfway through the door before he spoke. “It’s not exactly the Ministry, ye ken.” He said it reluctantly, not entirely sanguine in his decision. When she turned back to come and stand by him again, he continued. “It’s Percy I work for, mainly. There’s no’ enough left of the Ministry to work with, not right now.”

She didn’t interrupt him, just stood patiently, waiting for him to continue. So he told her. Some of it was halting, but he told her everything. When he got to the end, she looked at him owlishly in the moonlight, fists tightly gripping the folds of her robes.

“Harry killed Voldemort; he bloody well killed him!” Though she didn’t raise her voice, it was thick with frustration.

“I know, lass, no one’s saying he didn’t,” he soothed. “But we cannae find a body. Presumably his Death Eaters have spirited the thing away, and ye know tha’ it won’t be for anything wholesome.”

She stood there, chewing on her bottom lip for a few moments, digesting everything he’d told her. “So all these Quidditch trips, they’ve all been for show?” He nodded, and she continued to regard him intently. “So, where were you last week when you were supposed to be in Luxemburg?”

Oliver laughed, gently. “I’ll tell you all about it on the trip back to the castle tomorrow,” he promised. “I think we can both use some sleep, don’t you?”

Hermione nodded, sheepishly, and absently reached out to nudge the drain-board back a few inches from where it had been shifted. Looking over the rest of the kitchen while she quickly washed and dried their mugs, she then handed the already dry pot to Oliver while she put the two mugs back in the cupboard. Oliver noticed she placed them with care, so that the handles went the same direction as those already there in the cupboard, at precise right angles, and half noticed rituals he’d observed the last day suddenly crystallized. Looking up, he caught her eye, and reached forward to brush his callused thumb across the high plane of her cheekbone, right beneath her eye, his touch nearly as gentle as his voice when he spoke.

“How long’s he been like this?”

She looked back at him with a sort of rueful sadness, though she smiled faintly in return. “Since mom died. He’s been getting worse for a while, but this last year it seems to have stabilized some. It’s not so bad, really; not right now anyway, and it may never get any worse.”

This time it was Oliver who moved first, gently tugging her forward until she nestled in his arms, and bent to press his lips to her forehead in comfort. He held her thus for a long moment, just feeling her solid presence in his embrace until he felt her pat his shoulder in preparation to disengage. He looked down at her, heart swelling a bit as he realized how far they had come in realizing the friendship he’d told her he wanted from her.

When he finally made it back to his bed, he found that this time, he dropped off to sleep easily, the phantom feel of tangled curls still brushing his nose.

-..-

Hermione found her father already seated at the table when she made it downstairs the next morning. He was sitting at the table, carefully eating kippers and honey toast, one bite of the fish for every two bites of the toast, while reading the paper. Hermione made herself an instant coffee and sat across from him, enjoying the companionable silence of the early morning. Outside, a robin busied itself with its diligent search of their front flower bed.

The Daily Prophet was pushed across the table when she sat down, folded open to the article that her father had been reading:


Health Crisis Intensifies!

British officials are stymied in newest wave of outbreaks.


Manchester. Seven new cases of blood-sicknesses, two of them highly virulent, have cropped up in the last quarter year alone, a Ministry source disclosed. Each with its own set of symptoms and none with any leads to an easy cure.

“What concerns us most is the increasing frequency of sterility in the British Wizarding population. It comes on in previously unaffected individuals with little warning, and so far, there is no predictable pattern. We estimate that by the end of the year, fully 17% of the community could be affected.”

The unnamed official continued to say that the rather controversial new law, enacted by the acting Minister for Magic, Percy Weasley is by far the best chance at survival for a struggling country until cures can be found. Though highly unpopular, the law is being accepted by a reluctant population, largely, it is suspected, due to the endorsement of Mister Oliver Wood, a well- liked public figure and former Keeper for Puddlemore United and the reputation of Acting-Minister Weasley’s own rather old family. The Weasley name goes back twelve hundred years, and can be traced all the way back to Edwin the Forthright, a former turnip farmer in the west Firth county who became a highly distinguished Auror during the first Goblin uprising. Several notable figures in this rather long history have been…



He didn’t say anything at first, but watched her intently as she skimmed the proffered article.

“Is this what you want?” he asked seriously. His deep voice was somehow soothing; analytical and yet thoughtful.

Hermione turned to watch the robin hunt through browned marigolds, bright red breast standing out sharply against the withered plants like spring’s promise personified, and she snorted softly at her own fanciful thoughts. Could she walk away? Let them break her wand – and the very thought was enough to make her slightly uncomfortable - and try to live a Muggle life, knowing what else was out there? “I’m apart of that world now. I didn’t watch Harry nearly get pulverised just to leave it to its own devices now.” She looked over and gave him a small smile, one half of her mouth twitching upwards. For a moment, she wasn’t sure he was going to respond, and perhaps he didn’t think so either, because when he did it came out fast almost tumbling and he had to start again, slower.

“He’s – he’s a good man.” He looked at her, clearly debating if there was more to say, decided not, nodded once and opened the Muggle paper instead. Hermione shook her head, affectionately; her dad, the fount of emotionalism.

When Oliver came down later, it was to find father and daughter, both with meticulously folded papers propped before them, cradling cooling tea mugs in hand. A fresh cup had been left on the counter beside a glazed red teapot, and when he passed by Hermione, she held out a letter for him without looking up from her article.

Frowning, he poured himself a cup from the still steaming pot on the stove, adding milk and sugar from the pots set out for him. He wrapped one large hand around the mug as he settled his hip against the counter to read his letter.

The frown only got deeper as he read, until he was glaring at the bleached parchment.

“Trouble?”

He hadn’t realised that he had been swearing under his breath in Gaelic until Hermione was standing beside him, her warm hand resting on his shoulder soothingly. Guiltily, he broke off to see if her father was glaring at him, but he seemed to be ignoring them for the moment. He hesitated, debating folding away and passing it off as something from the twins but instead he found himself angling the letter enough so that Hermione could read it as well.

The Albion Museum was the oldest British Wizard museum in existence, situated in the Conwy Valley, in Wales. Its wards and defences were considerable, and yet someone had broken in just two nights before.

Only one thing had been taken. A book, A Treatise of Anatomy, by Healer Muhyi al Din Sulayman. Written in 1764, according to Percy it was on loan from the Wizarding Ministry in Arabia, and quite valuable.

And not just because the cover was made of three different types of beaten gold, apparently.

What in the world could be so important that they would want this book? As far as Dark Wizarding crimes went, this would probably be the last thing he would pick off a list of things likely to be stolen. Of course, it was possible that it was something completely unrelated to the growing rumours of Dark activity, but though Oliver would be hard pressed to explain the feeling in his gut, he had learned to trust the primitive instinct that was now telling him that this was something that was going to make his life complicated.

By the time she was finished reading, she was swearing softly too.

He indicated with a jerk of his chin for Hermione to follow him to the front room, and waited for her to join him there before speaking.

“I’ll have to go into the office to speak with Percy about this one lass, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Why?”

He stood there, casting about awkwardly for a gently way of easing into the subject, but gave up. “Well, I know it isn’t exactly going to be a gala affair, but I had thought perhaps you might want me around a bit, what with the wedding supposed to happen in the next few weeks -?”

Her eyes widened in embarrassed shock, as a furious blush spread across her cheeks, hot and pink on her winter-tanned skin. “I hadn’t really thought about them being so soon.” Her voice almost squeaked.

“So, did ye have anything special you wanted for yer wedding day?”

She snorted indelicately, her nose wrinkling with her dry amusement “I don’t really have any girlhood dreams of white ball gowns or sunset beaches, so no, I guess not.”

“No, and I suppose being forced into things like this isn’t exactly what you may have had in mind as a little girl.”

She looked at him dourly. “Oh, I don’t know. Goyle certainly didn’t figure into any of my fancies, but you make a very convincing Prince Charming.”

“Well, unfortunately, this Prince will have to check in with Percy before he can be at the lady fair’s disposal again, but I won’t be long, I promise.”

“Do me a favour – let me know what you find out?”

Oliver grimaced internally. “Haven’t you got enough t’ worry about righ’ now?”

Hermione sighed, exasperated. “Really – why in the world did you tell me everything if you didn’t intend for me to help?”

Definitely wasn’t going to obey him out of any kind of marital authority, then.

-..-


≤hr≥

Author's Notes:

For those of you who may wonder, Mister Addison Granger is suffering from clinical Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). This is truly a very difficult disease to live with, both for the sufferer and their family, as the sufferer is usually aware of the fact that the actions they feel compelled to take are irrational, but must take them to stave off excessive anxiety related to a (fictional) dire consequence. This can also manifest itself in part in other, related personality disorders, as well as certain diseases, such as Alzheimer’s, especially in its later stages (particularly in the need to adhere to specific schedules).

I am taking some liberty with this, as in many cases I do not think that it is average for this disorder to strike at such a late age, but the human mind is a wonderfully complex thing and grief can be one of the most debilitating detriments to our mental health, so I won’t say this couldn’t happen, either.

Love,
Ny(ruserra)

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