Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

Chapter Ten - A Blushing Bridegroom

Consequentially Yours
Or
A Gentleman’s Duty

Chapter Ten ~ A Blushing Bridegroom


Ten days? Where in the world did all the time between go?

Hermione was looking at her fast approaching wedding day with a growing feeling of dread.

And to her secret shock, perhaps a little curious anticipation, that had nothing whatsoever to do with a certain Scottish man’s rather gentle crinkle lipped smile, or amazingly broad chest.

Or the fact that Ginny seemed to take fiendish glee in detailing what other delights were likely waiting beneath a Scotsman’s kilt, a conversation that never failed to leave Hermione blushing furiously.

Pulling her mind back from the brink of what was probably highly inappropriate speculation, and the realization that it actually may be appropriate for her to indulge in such speculation only made her blush more heavily, and Ginny to smirk at her from across the common room table.

Organizing a wizard wedding was not something Hermione had ever anticipated doing on short notice, but the situation was at least helped by the fact that she and Oliver had had no intention of making a huge affair out of it — and even easier when she found out that she had very little to do at all, as Mrs. Wood had already taken over the entire event without so much as a by-your-leave. Hermione wasn’t sure if she should protest or not, and the whole thing left her feeling more than a little disgruntled.

It did leave her more time for her studies at least, so she supposed she would count it as a blessing, and decided to brush the whole thing off. Ginny, on the other hand, was incensed.

“That cow! I mean, this is your wedding!” Ginny was ranting in a hushed whisper in deference to the fact that it was late.

The common room was empty, and Hermione had finally put aside her books to open a letter she had received from Mrs. Wood that morning. She had abandoned sending her little notes of progress through Oliver very early on in the process, preferring to get right to the source, Hermione supposed, resigned. The latest update had Ginny pacing agitatedly in front of the low burning fire.

“Oh, Ginny, what does it matter?” Hermione groaned. Ginny’s tirades were almost as tiresome as Mrs. Woods officiousness. She had to wonder if this is where some of the Muggle stereotypes of Bridezilla may have originated; poor women driven past the point of homicide by unbearably helpful, well meaning people all pulling in different directions. She gazed longingly at their Arithmancy text as Ginny continued to pace. Clearly, nothing more would get done until Ginny had had her say and calmed down.

“What does it matter? She’s making all of the decisions for you! She’s even arranged for robes for you, you know! Robes!” Ginny repeated, as if this were just over the top by half.

“Ginny! While I admit that Mrs. Wood’s interference is a trifle…heavy-handed, I’m actually rather grateful,” Hermione soothed. “I mean, look at it - when would I have the time to plan this stuff, anyway? I’ve got ten days left. A week and a half — and what do I know about weddings, let alone Wizard ones?”

The fiery girl finally stopped pacing, and Hermione was startled to see she was almost in tears of frustration. “But I was looking forward to planning this!” she wailed. Glaring at the offending letter for a moment, she abruptly stuck her tongue out at it, seeming to find a needed release for her anger. “She doesn’t even know you. You’ve been my best girl friend for eight years, and that fat cow is taking over my rightful place, you know.”

Hermione smiled at her, suddenly understanding the source of Ginny’s pique.

Ginny sniffled, more for effect than anything, and continued her tirade, the half-turned smile a small acknowledgement that all this was perhaps a tiny, teensy bit ridiculous. “I was looking forward to planning this, and I want my maid-of-honourly right to argue! How am I supposed to stick my oar in when she’s doing all this from Scotland?” She threw herself into one of the large armchairs forcefully, startling a quiet house elf that had just crept in to bank the fire. With a squeak of alarm, it scuttled across the flagstone floor and disappeared into the shadows. Both girls stared at its tiny, remonstrative parting glare, and burst into muffled laughter.

-..-

When Oliver came back, it was to find Hermione thoroughly ensconced in the library once more. He was somewhat rumpled and smelled of the outdoors, and as he came up to join her where she sat at a table with Ron and Harry he absently planted a tired kiss on the top of her head that never the less made her blush. He would only be here for a couple of days, before he had to make his way back to Aberdeenshire to wait for Hermione there until the ceremony.

“Oi! Don’t you have a home?”

Hermione suspected it was more form than substance at this point anyway, and just Ron’s protest to seeing things he’d rather not think about, so she was happy when Oliver just looked at him wearily, for a moment, not even really bothering.

He sat quietly while they continued to study, chair tilted back and propped partially against the wall. Hermione wasn’t actually sure if one could sleep like that, but Oliver appeared to be giving it his best shot, and had folded his arms against his chest and closed his eyes.

When Oliver opened his eyes again, it was to find the table cleared of books, and empty of its former occupants.

All except for Ron, that was. The lanky young man was sitting, quietly watching him, his belongings already haphazardly packed in his rather worn bag on the floor next to him. Even once Oliver was obviously awake, he continued to regard him in silence for a moment, eyes unreadable.

“I told her that I wouldn’t let you sleep here all night in that horrible chair at least.”

Oliver nodded, curious, but Ron just sat there, studying him.

I’m too tired for this shite. Nevertheless, he sat, knowing somehow that this was something Ron needed to do.

“I really would have stepped in for her, you know.” He was gripping a quill between his hands, mangling the feathers between his clenched fingers. For a long moment, he sat there, rolling the ruined feathers between his hands, staring somewhere over Oliver’s left shoulder.

“Of course you would have,” Oliver ventured, softly, thinking longingly of the soft mattress waiting for him.

Ron snarled at him. “I would have. I wouldn’t leave her to that lot, but the thing is –“ and here, he hunched his shoulders angrily, and glared.

I havenae the strength for this, Oliver thought wearily, but felt mean for the thinking it.

Ron had transferred his glare to the table. “I reckon - well, I reckon you’re better than Goyle.”

Oliver looked at him for a long moment, understanding what the other man was trying to tell him.

“Just well, make sure you never hurt her.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

“Right, ’cause she’s got a wicked Canary Hex on her, mate.”

-..-

He found his somewhat stumbling way back to the guest room in the downstairs East Corridor. Most of the students were in their common rooms by now, as it was past curfew for all but the highest years. Oliver was lost in his thoughts of his conversation with Weasley as he wandered his way back to his room, so when he got there, he was completely unprepared to come across someone lurking in the doorway and nearly shouted in his surprise.

“Hermione! Wha’ are you doin’ here, lass?”

“Checking up on you,” she admitted, somewhat dryly. “I’m hoping this means I don’t have to go scrape bits of Ron off the library floor?”

Oliver reached out to hold the door open for Hermione, invitingly. “Actually, we jus’ had a few things t’ discuss. Clear the air sort of thing.”

She gave him an exasperated look as she passed him on her way into the room. “That’s not entirely comforting, Oliver.” Oliver just grinned at her, unrepentant.

Sighing in defeat, she gave up and asked instead, “What did you learn about the museum break-in?”

“No’ much. They have no idea how it was accomplished yet. The wards an’ charms are considerable, an’ set t’ go off if even a squib were t’ come within ten metres of the place.” He was too tired to even be frustrated anymore, after running up against yet another dead end.

“Frankly, I think the logic may be a bit, well, dodgy in thinking Voldemort or one of his followers took an antique book on anatomy, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. It seems a little far fetched t’ me, but someone went t’ an extraordinary amount of effort t’ steal that particular book and nothing else. Who knows? There are more than just Death Eaters out there.”

Her mouth thinned a little at the thought. “You sneaking around in secret, the whole community just holding its breath, living in fear. It’s like they’re trying to make up for the blindness that made everyone deny that he could come back last time by denying that he won’t this time! It’s all just so stupid!”

“I think that’s just it, Hermione. We’re not all as clever as you, or as brave as you. You faced him, with Harry; you’ve seen him and he holds very little terror for you.” He moved away from her, trying to get a little space by going to sit on the end of the bed.

After a moment, he continued, though his voice hadn’t completely lost its disapproving edge. “These people only know tha’ he came back when everyone knew he couldn’t - but there wasnae a body the first time either. He jus’ disappeared, for eleven years. Yes, people are scared, and no, it’s no’ helping, but it’s all they can manage right now.”

Hermione just stared at him, thinking hard on what he had just said. Sometimes, he thought, she probably just forgot what it was like to be everyone else.

“So now we have to ask ourselves, is the book in anyway related to the Vampires?”

Her soft tone had made the question more of a hesitant, tacit apology, and he answered her question, instead of her voice, allowing them both to leave it behind. “I dinnae see how a group of feeding Vampires can have anything t’ do wit’ it. They’re no’ much for reading, I imagine.”

“I suppose not.”

“There was a researcher, Mycroft Pafft, killed during the robbery; the knife wasnae found though. I’m afraid that’s all I’ve go’ so far.”

She grimaced distastefully. “And on that note, I think it’s time I head back to the tower. Snape’s patrolling tonight, and I don’t fancy scrubbing out cauldron bottoms from first year failures.”

He stood in the doorway, looking down at her. The corridor was hushed, and even the pictures were quiet as they slept in their frames. “Ye sure yer gonna make it back without detention are ye?”

“I’ll be fine.”

She didn’t get a chance to speak with him again at all the next day, though she told herself firmly that she was not at all disappointed. It wasn’t until two nights after he arrived that she met up with him again, this time under the curious stares of the rest of Gryffindor house. She had come in from her scheduled N.E.W.T. progress meeting with Professor Lupin, to find him seated at table by the stairs, in lively discussion with none other than Ginny Weasley. The Scotsman seemed to be blushing.

Uh, oh.

She hurried her steps and slid into a seat at the table just in time to hear the end of one of Ginny’s rather extremely off-colour stories that she had nicked from Bill. It involved a garden Gnome, a Kneazle and a potato, and it had stretched Hermione’s imagination in ways she was still trying to recover from. No wonder poor Oliver looked like he wasn’t sure how to react. Ginny had such an angelic face, framed by beautiful dark red hair and a cute, feminine figure that it always tended to catch people unawares what a dirty mind she could have, a legacy, Hermione felt sure, of being the youngest, and only, girl in a family with six brothers.

Oliver seemed relieved at her interruption. “I was hoping t’ catch ye yet tonight.” His smile at her arrival was genuine, though she was sure it was more for her distraction than for her personally. “Seven days. How’re you holding up?”

Hermione felt like she was on a rollercoaster; the painful anticipation of her upcoming wedding, coupled with the curious fluttering in her stomach when he reached across to squeeze her hand in commiseration. Honestly, she thought, disgusted with her betraying hormones. You don’t even like broad shouldered types.

“Yeah, Easter hols start next week, so at least you’ll have all that extra time to breathe and well, deal with everything.” Ginny smiled, helpfully. “You really should get away, just the two of you, and do something relaxing for a few days.”

Alone with Oliver? Married, and alone with Oliver? Hermione could feel the heat of her blush spreading and sputtered indignantly “Ginny Weasely –“

“Actually lass, tha’ might no’ be a bad idea.” Oliver broke in, carefully. Hermione looked at him, startled. “We could go to Wales, maybe. Conwy Valley’s not too far out, and it’s got some rather pretty sights.”

What in the world was he talking about? And Wales? Something tugged the edge of her thoughts. “I hear they have a Wizarding museum there -?” she left the thought hanging tentatively, hoping she’d picked up on his intent.

He agreed reluctantly, looking so much like Ron and Harry when she pointed out that they really should be doing their own homework instead of coping her ideas that for a moment she thought she had gotten it wrong and he really had wanted to go on a mini vacation with her until his hand found her knee under the table and squeezed it reassuringly.

She looked down to her work quickly, mind already racing with possibilities, and terribly conscious of the knee resting against hers that was rather too large to belong to Ginny, until she realized he was speaking again, preparing to leave.

“Goodnight ladies. I will see both of yeh in seven days.” Carefully catching Hermione’s eye, he allowed himself just to keep her gaze for an extra moment, and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze in parting.

When Hermione sighed softly after he’d left, Ginny was quick to pounce on it.

“Missing him already? Just think, in another week, you’ll have that great body all to yourself in quiet Wales for an entire week –“

“Ginny!” Hermione hissed, aware of the curious stares of her housemates. “He is just, well, he’s becoming a friend. Nothing more.”

Ginny looked mildly contrite. “I understand. But honestly, there’s no harm in thinking about it a little. When he used to come round the Burrow with Fred and George, I always used to look forward to it. He was nice to me, even though I was the bratty kid sister of his friends. He talked them into letting me join in their pick-up Quidditch games in the back field sometimes.”

“Sorry, Ginny. Yes, he is a good man, and obviously you have fond memories of him.”

Ginny nodded. “Oh, yes. Oliver was the reason I was determined to become good enough to join in with my brothers.”

“Really?” Hermione murmured, not really paying attention as she leafed through her notes.

Ginny’s expression became mischievous. “Definitely. Quidditch is a warm game, and Oliver usually didn’t wear a shirt when he was playing. Let me tell you, that’s what I call motivation.”

-..-

What the hell was he thinking, mooning over her like that? The girl was a friend, and barely even that, the best friend of the little brother of his good mates, which, he firmly reminded himself, made her practically his little sister. She was most certainly was not for lecherous thoughts or calf’s eyes.

Feeling more satisfied with that stern reminder, he dialled the rotary dial, 6-2-4-4-2, and rode the telephone booth down into the subterranean Ministry Building.

The scritch and squeak of Miss Macier’s quill from where she worked at her desk was quite audible through the open door of the modest office. The subtle noise had been gnawing at Percy’s concentration for the last fifty minutes, his every attempt to focus on the rather overdue report before him skating away as soon as he tried to work on it. He raised his hand to gesture for the door to close itself, but halfway through the gesture, he stopped, irritably.

It wasn’t as if Miss Macier’s unfortunately squeaky quill were the root of his frustrations. He was irritated at his own inability to see. He had in his possession detailed reports on every unexplained occurrence within the last eighteen months. He had Pensives, and Jarvey birds at his disposal with completely accurate records.

And he still had no fucking answers.

Oliver’s arrival at least provided a distraction from the tedium of the still incomplete Sanitation reports, but Oliver’s account gave him nothing but new questions.

“I’m jus’ no’ sure, Perce. E’en Hermione is starting t’ get frustrated, trying t’ connect the Vampires t’ the theft of tha’ book. We’re all maybe seeing things tha’ are no’ there.”

“I’m sure Miss Granger will be a big help to you. I respect her intelligence greatly, and under the circumstances, she can aide you quiet easily, without necessitating excessive precautions against discovery. A very satisfactory benefit.”

His eyes narrowed, not trusting Percy’s bland, almost vague expression; several half considered suspicions of the last few weeks lurking suspiciously in his thoughts. “Yeah, isn’t it lucky that she’s Contracted to me then, of all people? She can help, and all without you giving away how much ye might suspect’s going on. How do ye suppose we got that lucky?”

Percy didn’t bother to say anything that would insult their friendship. Instead, he sat back in his chair, looking resigned.

Oliver nodded his head, lips pressed tightly together. “How did ye arrange it? Fred and George wouldnae have helped ye in this.”

“Pre-suggestion. I knew that as soon as I told you to Contract someone, it was only a matter of time before you spoke with my brothers about it. I spoke with them a couple of weeks before I told you. I made sure to bring up the possibility of revenge against Hermione by remnants of You-Know-Who’s supporters, should they ever surface. They are appallingly predictable, I’m afraid.”

“Ye realize tha’ she’ll hav’ ta live wit’ the consequences of yer shenanigans for the rest of her life! I thought she was supposed ta be a close family friend, ye heartless bastard!”

He grimaced. “You know better than anyone that I can’t afford to be anything less. It’s now your job to look after her in that way, a task I, thankfully, will have no part of.”

Oliver turned, but when he was about to reach the door, Percy spoke again, sounding tired this time.

“Maybe it was my own form of kindness. Better the man I know than some Death Eater’s son.”

Oliver didn’t turn around, and this time, Percy let him go.


-..-

Ten days passed entirely too quickly for Hermione’s taste.

The county of Aberdeenshire was situated on the East coast of Scotland. It was made up of various smaller regions, and true to Scottish logic, the capitol city of Aberdeen was not actually in the county at all. Obviously, these people were used to doing things their own way, she reflected sourly. Oliver’s family lived in a small community in the south west. The region was called Marr, and they lived just outside of a middling-large village. Hermione suspected that it was not all that far from where Hogwarts was hidden, but couldn’t say for sure. This was a remote part of Scotland, deep in the mountainous western edge of the county, and though it wasn’t a fully Wizarding community (Hogsemede was the only one of those in Britain), its small population was made up of fully two thirds magical people, which Hermione supposed made some sense. A remote location would hardly be a determent for someone who could Apparate.

She was supposed to be met by Oliver’s older sister at the local pub, but the day was so lovely, the first really fine day this spring that Hermione decided to wait outside instead. The Pinioned Pigeon was obviously a popular spot and Hermione watched through the hazy glass window as the pretty waitress wove her way between laughing patrons. A breeze was stirring, teasing her hair and bringing with it the hint of early flowering grass and crab apple blossoms that had her wanting to run and laugh and twirl in the street like she had when she was a child after being shut up all winter long away from the sun. It was a day that made you remember swing sets, she felt, and settled her bum on the low sill of the pub were she hoped Adrianne Margaret would see her, because she had no idea what the older witch would look like. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, just enjoying the sunshine.

The town was full of bustling people, and Hermione enjoyed the lack of furtive caution that was prevalent in so many of the communities she’d seen since the war. It made her feel safe and warm and she wished momentarily that she had been able to bring Crockshanks with her, and smiled at her own whimsy. She sat like that, letting her thoughts wander aimlessly as she lazily tried to identify the various sounds around her without opening her eyes until she became aware of the sunlight no longer hitting her skin.

She opened her eyes with a start, embarrassed to be caught languishing like this when she really should have been keeping an eye out. And of course, standing there to witness this moment of inattention was a woman who could only be Oliver’s sister.

She stood a few feet away and was looking her over appraisingly. Tall and angular, with the pale skin common Scottish people, she was a striking figure, and her obvious pregnancy was worn with such grace that it only added to it. Handsome, Hermione thought to herself. That’s what they used to call it. Her long black hair was pulled back and plaited practically, though a few wisps had come loose and were blowing round her face in the errant breeze, and she gave Hermione the impression that this was a person very much used to handling any situation as it came along. A tartan was pulled tight to her shoulders, and pinned like a shawl, but it was her eyes that captured Hermione’s attention most. They were Oliver’s; hazel and warm, softening her otherwise sharp features.

“So yer it, then?” Though the question was rather cynical, the voice was not, and Hermione was left with the impression that judgment had been held over for now. Hermione nodded, shoulders back and chin held high, trying not to show how nervous she felt at this meeting and terribly conscious of how she must look in her school uniform, not at all a women that would soon be getting married. Adrianne smiled at her, as if divining her thoughts. “Let’s get ye home, hen. An’ we’ll see how it goes ov’r a nice cup of tea, shall we?”

Their pace was somewhat slowed, almost like a stroll as Adrianne lead the way down the lane and away from the town centre, and Hermione adjusted her pace to accommodate the taller woman unconsciously. Along the way, Adrianne pointed out with some amusement the Muggle post office, which, Hermione noted, had three owls roosting on it, as well as a small kirk and a general type store that Hermione suspected from the way it sort of seemed to crowd the buildings around it, despite being smaller, was completely unnoticed by a third of the village’s inhabitants. The sign out front said Up Yer Kilt in gilt lettering that somehow seemed to leer.

True to what Hermione had seen of Wizarding custom, the house Adrianne eventually led her to was well removed from the rest of the village, lying about a kilometre and a half away. Hermione was actually glad of the heat the walking had generated by the end; despite the warmth of the sun, the spring air was still decidedly cool. The small home had the look of a cottage: walls made of rounded fieldstone, neatly turned flowerbeds under the windows and lining the porch, all enclosed in a gated yard. Of course, the fact that it was a Witch’s house was immediately apparent by the impossible angle of the elongated chimney, and the way that there seemed to be places on the second floor that were actually built out over the first, like afterthoughts. Fat lop-eared bunnies shuffled lazily in the yard, chins resting sleepily on their portly furry muffs. One chestnut coloured animal watched them pass with intent, glittering black eyes that it actually made Hermione uncomfortable. No animal that is ultimately destined for the soup pot should look at someone like that, she huffed to herself, irritably. Her bag was starting to become heavy in her hand, despite the charms on it, and she just really wanted to wash all of the dust off and sit down. The rabbit’s watchful eyes followed her all the way down the walk and into the house, until the door closed firmly behind her. He then blinked once, and promptly began cleaning himself.

“We’ll put you in here, Ah think. Its go’ a lovely view of the yard an’ ye’ll get the morning sun. Let’s get yer things away an’ ya ken tell mae all about whatever it is Oliver’s go’ himself intae.”

When Hermione made her way down the golden stained stair, Adrianne was busy working at the kitchen counter.

“Set yerself down; tha’ wiss a long hike fae one’as nae used tae it.” Her thick brogue was much harder to decipher than Oliver’s litting, softer accent was, but had a mesmerizing, hypnotic rhythm that was soothing to listen to. The table she had indicated was already laid out with thick slices of sweet breads with butter, pots of milk and sugar and a heavy black teapot steaming in the centre, and looked very inviting to Hermione’s empty tummy and sore feet. She gazed longingly at the pots of honey and jam and was guiltily thankful when Adrianne waved off her attempts to help and firmly told her again to sit. Sighing happily, she sank into the chair closest to the wood stove in the corner. No sooner had she settled than the pot stirred itself to pour steaming tea into a dainty cup set before her, milk and sugar quickly to follow.

“Nae then, lass, let’s have us a wee blether, shall we?” Adrianne lowered her heavy frame carefully into a chair, yet still managed to do it gracefully, seemingly perfectly comfortable in her gravid state. She looked at her house guest curiously while the pot hastened to fill a second cup. “Sae, ye’re tha’ Hermione Granger is ye?” She didn’t have to specify which one, really. Hermione winced inwardly at this reminder of her fame, but nodded, burying her reaction to the question in a quick sip of her tea that almost scalded the roof of her mouth. Adrianne’s mouth twitched, and Hermione smiled ruefully in return, apparently unsuccessful in her attempt. Adrianne paused for a moment, looking considering at her guest. “Ah’ll nae ask ye why he did it, but it doesnae seem like something he would do tae a lass he didnae think would welcome it.”

“He did, well- he did put a stop to a rather unsuitable arrangement by stepping in for me,” she admitted hesitantly.

“Aye?” Adrianne asked, but waved it off at Hermione’s obvious discomfort with the topic. “Nae matter; Oliver’ always’s wiss getting involved where he’d nae right, but it looks like this time he did jus’ fine.”

Feeling emboldened by the easy way Adrianne spoke, she asked, “When am I to meet your mother? And, is she, I mean, well, does she -”

“Approve of this? Ah wouldnae fash yerself about tha’. She wiss beginning tae worry about Oliver ever bringing her home a daughter; he was always sae busy wiss tha’ ruddy sport of his.”

“Oh.” Hermione vaguely wondered what Emily Post would have considered the correct response to that.

“Ah think tomorrow will be soon enough. Tha’ll give ye a chance tae settle in a little first. Nae good tae jus’ spring her on ye right off, ye ken.” Adrianne grinned at her, teasing easily. “Ye’ll dae fine, Hermione. Noo, let’s jus’ look at all the things she’s planned fae yer wedding day, shall we?”

She liked Adrianne a lot, she reflected as she climbed into bed that night. Her warm manner and brisk dismissal of formality made it easy to enjoy her company and the two women had spent all afternoon in undemanding companionship. Adrianne’s husband, Jamie, was away, and from her comments Hermione felt this was a fairly frequent occurrence but she had never gotten round to asking. They had spoken at length about the wedding that was to take place on the Monday, in two days time. Hermione’s last thoughts before drifting off to sleep were was of her two best friends, and how she wished they could be here right now.

I’m going to kill her, Hermione thought to herself calmly the next evening.

She had woken up thoroughly refreshed and feeling almost optimistic for her upcoming meeting with the Wood family matriarch, helping Adrianne with a couple of simple chores before they had set off for the main house. The Floo Network, though easily accessible in every Wizarding home, Hermione was to learn, was not much used for visiting anyone within the same village up here in the Highlands.

The Wood Croft, Adrianne had called it, and Hermione was beginning to see why. A semi-enclosed compound, the main home lay in the middle, with two arms coming off to each side, housing additional small apartments, a barn, shed and other outbuildings. Old, it had probably been in the family for several generations, the whole structure was built of squared fieldstone, a remnant of earlier days. Hermione could see how the large enclosed yard would have been the perfect place to play when you were a young boy with a penchant for trouble.

The day had rapidly gone down hill from there. She had no sooner entered the home than Mrs. Brighde Wood, who was a short-ish, beaky woman with iron coloured hair plaited to frame a surprisingly girlish face, had descended on her with a flurry of observations and inquiries, many of which Hermione thought to be highly personal, as she bustled her off to be fitted for her robes. They had kept her there for over an hour, standing still on a low hassock while Brighde and Kena, one of her other sons’ wife, had her pinned up and the robes adjusted to fit her rather unimpressive stature until Hermione felt she was ready to scream.

Then it had been her hair. The whole lot of them, flapping like a bunch of magpies, she thought crossly, giving her first one style than another as they tried to tame her rather uncooperative curls, and the whole thing punctuated by comments as Brighde proceeded to bring every aspect of Hermione’s character under the microscope of Maternal Concern, until she was sure she was going to hex her.

“Shame we don’ have ye fae longer, lass. One day’s nae enough time tae teach ye much of anything. Oliver mentioned yer mither’s been dead these last years? Weel, we’ll get ye up here after school’s done, teach ye tae do fae the tae of ye; cooking cleaning an’ such.”

Or:

“A barin’s jus’ the thing tae give yer frame some meat, lass. Ye’ve nothin fae the lad tae hold on tae as it is, an’ yer breasts’ll –“ but the pounding in her ears as the blood rushed to her flaming face drowned out the rest of what Mrs. Wood thought of her breasts.

Her embarrassed anger for Mrs. Wood did serve one useful service – Hermione was so distracted by her desire to throttle her that she didn’t have time to be nervous for her wedding that was to happen in just twenty- four hours.

Oliver came home sometime mid-afternoon, while Hermione had escaped his mother and was helping Adrianne get tea together in the kitchen.

“Adrianne!” He’d immediately come in to circle his sister in a careful bear hug, lifting her gently as though afraid his exuberant affection could harm the babe. Laughing, she swatted him smartly as he put her down, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

He kisses me like that, Hermione couldn’t help but notice. Is that what I am to him, a sister who needs protecting? But she wasn’t sure why she thought it, and quickly pushed it aside.

He smiled at Hermione, squeezing her shoulder when he dropped a kiss to her head as well with almost absent affection, and shooed Adrianne aside to take over for her, admonishing her to sit at the table and talk with them a bit instead.

“Then yer darling fiancée is goin’ tae break with mae, if yer goin’ tae be sae brawny, an’ ye can put the water on fae tea while ye get things together.” So Hermione got to sit quietly for a while and just listen as the two siblings talked animatedly about nothing in particular. Part way through, two other men had come in, laughing when they found Oliver, apron around his waist as he tended a stew while the girls sat and watched.

She was then introduced to them as Michael and Ian, Oliver’s two older brothers. Michael was broad, like Oliver, but shorter in stature, more like their mother, with the same black hair as Adrianne worn long and tied back with a leather loop. He’d laughed when introduced to Hermione, and startled her by pulling her into a huge hug, and kissing her loudly on the cheek.

“Let her doon Michael, ye’ll have tae find yer own lass tae pull at the pub later.” Ian nudged his brother hard in the ribs, smiling at his antics. Ian was much slimmer than his two brothers, almost as much as Adrianne’s fine boning. At thirty four he was ten years older than Oliver and the oldest of the Wood children. Ian wasn’t nearly as extroverted as his siblings, and greeted Hermione gently, but with undemonstrative warmth, and she found herself liking Kena’s husband immediately.

The meal was a boisterous affair, with all four children, Hermione, Kena and the two senior Woods making for quite a lot of racket at one table. It reminded Hermione rather comfortingly of the Weasley’s household, and even had her thinking rather kindly of Mrs. Wood, seeing in her something of Molly’s domestic presence. Everyone helped clear the dishes, and while the boys settled down again at the table, the three girls finished cleaning up. And a few lads had shown up to steal Oliver for something they called a ‘blackening’ but which Hermione privately suspected was likely an excuse to get him slobbering drunk on the night before his wedding. She was strangely sorry to see him go, realizing with a bit of a shock that she wasn’t likely to see him again until the actual ceremony the following evening.

She was feeling positively congenial towards Mrs. Wood, who had been talkative and nice throughout the meal, thinking that maybe she had judged a bit hastily. That was at least until after the meal when everyone settled down for dessert and she turned to speak with Hermione again, and quickly had her flushed with embarrassment and wondering if the penalty at Azkaban couldn’t possibly be worth matricide.

Hermione hadn’t heard much about Mister Wood prior to meeting him this evening, and she had been quick to learn why. A stern faced man, he was quiet and much possessing of the practical nature for which the Scots were famous, but it was obvious very quickly that though he kept a firm hand on his sons, it was Mrs Wood who had the true authority of raising them, seeming to almost crowd out her quiet husband with her shear garrulous presence.


“Brighde,” he said suddenly, almost as one would scold a puppy, and to Hermione’s utter astonishment, the woman who had seemed as unstoppable as a force of nature suddenly appeared almost to deflate a bit, and settled into her seat quietly for the remainder of the evening. Her husband hid a smile behind a cough and winked at a startled Hermione when he caught her incredulous stare.

Hermione wondered if it would be entirely inappropriate for her to kiss the man.

-..-

Adrianne’s sitting room was a small, comfortable place, perfect for curling up with a good book and just tuning out the world outside. And after they had been able to flee the Croft house, she had settled in to do just that.

As she sat there, only paying nominally paying attention to her book while her thoughts wandered, Hermione became aware of a growing racket outside. To far away to make out any detail, it sounded like a large party or maybe a parade, which was silly, as it was nearing ten thirty. A party then, though it did sound to be getting noisier. When it continued for another few minutes, and still seemed to be getting louder, she finally asked, "Adrianne, what's all that noise?"

Adrianne looked up from her needlepoint and listened for a moment. "Ouch nae, sounds like Oliver's creeling ha’ started."

“Creeling? Oh – I read about that. It’s a rather old custom. A bridegroom is taken out by his friends and family and forced to carry a creel or basket on his back with all kinds of rocks in it, and he’s made to walk all around town with it on his back.”

“Aye.” She looked over at Hermione and her hazel eyes were twinkling mischievously. “Ye gonna go save him, then?”

“What?”

“He’s allowed to stop if you go and rescue him with a kiss – unless you’d like to watch him haul the thing across town?”

Hermione spluttered, protesting as the almost rhythmic noise of the crowd grew outside, until she found herself hauled up, and pulled out the door behind Adrianne, where she would have to face her fiancé in front of a large crowd of fairly drunk Scots.

The evening air outside was crisp on her skin, and she was thankful she’d managed to grab one of Adriane’s rather ubiquitous Scottish shawls to throw over her shoulders as she was pulled out the door. The main crowd was a good hundred yards off, making its way leisurely up the hill as it paced the as yet invisible Oliver. It consisted of mostly men, though she noticed a few women standing on their doorsteps to watch the jovial procession as it passed, occasionally adding their own encouragements to the general noise.

Adriane pulled her into the lane, and Hermione shrank back against the gate as the group of merrymakers closed the distance. Hermione could pick out individuals now, able to recognize both Ian and Michael were they stood in the thick of things, shouting and laughing, and very obviously the worse for drink. A shock of red hair caught her eye before disappearing back into the crowd, and she knew the twins were in the thick of things as well. It wasn’t until the crowd drew within a few yards of where she stood, trying to pull the shadows around her, that she caught site of Oliver.

The fair-sized gathering were all laughing and shouting encouragements and Oliver paused to respond to some good natured jeering with something incomprehensible to Hermione’s ears, but she was sure wasn’t very polite. He wore well worn denims stuffed into mid calf leather boots, and a rough woven buttoned shirt that just added to the wild and transported feeling of the moment, like an ancient rite encroaching on a modern world. Firmly strapped to his back was a large woven creel, as she had seen fishermen use in documentaries on TV. This basket was then filled to the brim with rocks of all sizes, causing the weave to bulge out of shape in places as lads, in their mischievous fun, had forced more in than it would carry. She couldn’t begin to imagine how Oliver had gotten this far with this incredible weight pulling at him, and she could see were his shirt stuck to him in places from his exertions, and his hair was damp and clinging to his collar.

The men had just caught sight of her, and the volume, which she thought deafening, actually increased, and she was firmly pushed into what was fast becoming a ring of people around the staggering groom-to-be. With barely a moment to catch her breath, she found that she was suddenly the centre of all the noise and confusion. Oliver seemed no better off, and looked rather surprised to see her there. His friends were starting to get into the idea of crowd participation, shouting out ribald comments and commentary with impunity:

"Come tae rescue 'im, hen?"

"She'll leave ye tae carry, ya auld weegie bampot! "

"an' he'll be buckled on 'er kisses an' haf tae be packed home!"

"Giv' 'im fair laldy, then…"

"G'aun, show’us 'er winchin then!"

"Giv' him a buss, lass!"

And other shouts of things that had Hermione blushing hotly to think about.

A quick kiss then, to save him from his mates, and hopefully she would be able to escape this foolishness. Oliver’s own expression gave her no real hint as to what he was thinking, and he remained silent, neither encouraging her nor attempting to dissuade. Frowning slightly as she concentrated on making her legs work without stumbling, she closed the small amount of distance left between them in two short paces, and reached awkwardly for him, sliding her hands shakily up his chest towards his shoulders, but catching one of the straps for the creel. Good enough.

She looked up and him, and his expression was carefully blank even as he stared back at her with eyes that were much darker than his normal light hazel, and she had to wonder if she was embarrassing him – if maybe he would have preferred if she had stayed inside and not come out. After all, he hadn’t told her about this, had made no request that she come and save him – oh, god, he doesn’t really want this at all… She hesitated, not sure how to extract herself without further embarrassment, and started to pull back when a soft groan escaped from Oliver and he reached for her, preventing her from moving any further away.

“Hermione, if ye wan’ me ta stand wit’ ye tomorrow, ye’ll no’ leave me t’ these bessoms.” He was smiling at her now and if she didn’t know better she would think he was flirting with her. It was leaving her stomach rather distractingly fluttery. This close, she could smell the alcohol on his breath, and knew they had taken him out for a few fortifying rounds before their sport had begun.

She pushed herself up on her tiptoes, intending to just brush his lips with hers and release him from this ridiculous game, but the moment she drew near, he startled her by reaching for her, encircling her in his strong arms. His breath was warm on her face, in direct contrast to the night air, and he was still smiling at her in a way she wasn’t use to, and made her knees week, not that she would admit to that sort of foolishness. Cocking his head to one side, his mouth no more than an inch from kissing her, he waited. His mouth quirked almost cockily as he watched her and though his hazel eyes were a bit glassy from drink, they were clear and intense as they stared into her own, swirling with things she could no more name than she could stand without his decidedly welcome support in that instant. The moment stretched between them and she wondered rather irritably if he was going to keep her waiting until she simply combusted in a heap of bewildered anticipation on the spot.

“Are ye goin’ t’ help me, Hermione?” he asked in a husky whisper, and it became obvious to her what he was waiting for. Bastard. She gave him a look that spoke volumes of her irritation, but gave a tiny nod, no more than a quarter of an inch movement of her head, but it was enough.

His arms tightened, pulling her surprisingly close against his body, and she was conscious of his strong thighs and of the rough feeling of his shirt beneath her fingers. His lips were warm against her chilled ones, and she hummed softly from the back of her throat in surprised pleasure at the contact.

She’d never really appreciated the attraction of a large man before. She was surrounded by him, his arms cradling her, his scent permeating every breath, his chest a solid wall against her; it was almost intoxicating, and unlike any kiss she had ever shared with any other boy, but she supposed that was the difference. Cormac McLaggen and Terry Boot had most definitely been boys.

The sharp taste of whiskey burned her mouth and she was startled to realise that she had ventured forth to explore his lips, tracing their outline with the tip of her tongue, but she wasn’t thinking clearly enough to be embarrassed by the realization. A deep rumbling groan could be felt under her palms where they were caught between them, flat spread on his chest, causing what thoughts she had left to muddle even further, a heavy fog overlaying everything in her brain. She was so caught up in the moment that at first she didn’t understand what was happening when he suddenly released her and pulled away.

For a split second, Hermione thought he looked just as unsure about what had just happened as she felt, but it passed so quickly she couldn’t be sure she actually saw it before he turned to her with a teasing grin and said “I reckon that’ll about do, lass.”

Hands were reaching out to slap him good naturedly, or offer up congratulations as the men surrounding them laughed and teased them both, though thankfully Hermione found it too difficult to decipher what they were actually saying in all the noise. Oliver was gradually pulled away from her, and she found herself facing a swaying Michael instead.

“I may hae tae try this Contract nonsense myself. Oliver certainly seems tae hae gotten verra lucky.”

Hermione could barely focus on his teasing. She was aware of giving some kind of vague answer, but for the life of her, could never remember later what she may have said. Inside, her mind was whirling with useless thoughts and questions, round and round like a dog chasing its own tail.

The brief flare of, well, it wasn’t quite lust - attraction then, had shaken her badly. She was just beginning to feel that she could deal with Oliver, her friend. Oliver, the man she occasionally thought of snogging was not a place she was willing to venture right now.

Apparently, she thought with disgust, she was beginning to appreciate broad-shouldered types.












Author's Note:
So here we are, leaving poor Hermione the night before her wedding. I had really, really hoped to get this chapter all the way through to their wedding night, but found that there was just too much material to cover, and Oliver's family was just too much fun to cut them out once I realized the chapter was getting way to large to fit everything ;-p
For those who are interested, the Creeling is a real tradition, though today it is only practiced in more remote parts of the country; Aberdeenshire being one of them. There also was (and presumably still is) actually a clan Wood. They were a Sept (a smaller family or clan associated under a larger clan affiliation) to Clan Watson (a somewhat widespread Scottish clan), but eventually gained an independent status. Their lands were traditionally in and around Aberdeenshire, though mostly on the East coast and not in Marr. The Blackening is a rather old custom, and one still enthusiastically practiced in Aberdeenshire (one of the only places left that still does it, being largely a remote, somewhat rural part of the country). The Groom is kidnapped by his mates and male family for a night of heavy drinking and lots of pranking and practical jokes, usually directed at the Groom himself. At the end of the night, it’s not unusual for him to end up tied up and deposited before his door with, or sometimes without, his clothes. He is also often covered in tar (hence the ‘blackening’), which can take days to wash off – a fact that I’m sure, made Oliver thankful he has a wand :-)

I do have the wedding writen up. As soon as I finish editing it, it will go to my beta and with luck, it will be posted in a week, maybe 10 days. (*gasp!*) You guys really have been wonderful, with all your support and reviews, and I love you all.
- Ny(ruserra)

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