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Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

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Consequentially Yours:
A Gentleman’s Duty


Chapter Eleven ~ A Bride for All Seasons




April 22nd dawned misty and damp in the small Scottish village in north-western Marr. The majority of the guests began arriving in the early afternoon, filling every nook and cranny it seemed, until Hermione found herself desperately looking for a quiet place just to gather her wits, before she was forced to strangle someone. Her hair was showing the intensive labours of Sleek Eazy potion, with huge curlers still dangling from it and escaped wisps trailing everywhere. Her face bore the green remnants of Esmerelda’s Skin Polish, and her face shone pink from their diligent scrubbing. She almost sobbed with relief when Ginny stepped out of the grate at Wood Croft, dusting off soot as she cleared the way for the rest of her family to follow. She took one look at Hermione’s steely expression and wild appearance, and immediately grabbed her and forced her from the home.

Hunting through several of the abandoned-looking outbuildings in the north wing of the croft, Ginny found one that seemed completely forgotten, pushed Hermione inside, and stood against the door. Hermione just glared at her, balefully.

“Go ahead and scream. I’m not letting you back out there until you’ve had it out - Oliver would be really upset if you turned his mum into a purple toad on his wedding day.”

Hermione continued to glare at her, looking more like a Cockatrice instead of a bride on her wedding day, before she began to swear inventively. And yell. Ginny just watched in fascination as her normally proper best friend proceeded to use language that would shock Charlie, who had the best cursing repertoire of anyone she knew. A man who worked with giant irritable lizards who could burn him, bite him and step on him with incredible weight needed a large variety of things to say. Every now and then she would helpfully offer a few that Hermione appeared to have overlooked.

She seemed to run out of words, eventually, though she was still muttering things occasionally under her breath. “Gosh, I thought I had a good vocabulary, with six brothers and all, but even I didn’t recognise a couple of those.”

“They were Gaelic,” Hermione snapped, casting about as if looking for something to throw.

Ginny grinned at her. “Won’t Oliver be proud,” she observed dryly. This seemed to bring Hermione up short, and she looked at her blankly for a moment before she cringed, looking highly embarrassed.

A muffled banging on the door behind her back made Hermione stiffen, though Ginny was privately amused that the knock seemed to be hesitant, as if the person on the other side of the door wasn’t really so sure being let in was what they wanted at the moment. After a pause, the door eased open slightly, just enough for a familiar face to peer carefully inside.

“Do you realize that you can be heard clear across the yard? Or at least you would be, if there weren’t so many large Scots drinking in it,” Harry told her, cheekily. He came into the room to give Hermione a hug, followed by Ron. Hermione instantly relaxed, feeling that this is what she had been missing; her two best friends were a presence she could hardly think about going through this day without, and suddenly everything seemed much more right in her world.

“You look a right mess, now don’t you?” Ron noted when he saw her, grinning at Hermione’s glare, and hugging her as well. “You’re dad’s here. Mum made sure to collect him, but he wasn’t happy about the Floo; said it made him a bit nauseous. I think Oliver’s dad is pouring beer into him at the moment.”

“Why is it men always seem to use that as a remedy for everything?” Hermione asked the air, exasperated.

Harry grinned. “It works, doesn’t it? We’re an uncomplicated lot, Hermione. In enough quantity, alcohol’ll make almost any problem go away — or at least make it so you don’t care anymore.”

“Come on. We’ll have to get you back in there. I’m sure they’re all looking for you by now,” Ginny gently reminded. “Ron is right you know; you definitely don’t want to go down the aisle like that.”

***

The rest of the afternoon was spent under the determined ministrations of five women, as Ginny and Molly Weasley joined the general committee. Somehow, it wasn’t as bad with Ginny there too, but Hermione still found the entire ordeal a bit ridiculous. It was still an hour before dusk, when the ceremony would begin, and Hermione escaped out from under the eye of Mrs. Wood, grabbing a robe off the peg by the back door and heading out, desperate for some fresh air and hoping a short walk would help settle her nerves.

It seemed that the property was filled with people, but thankfully no one stopped her as she wandered out from the gathering near the main house, determined to find a few moments of solitude. She descended a small rise, and the sound of animated conversations fell away, muffled and swallowed up by the mist still hanging heavily in the air. The gentle breeze was redolent with the smell of crushed sweet grasses and the earliest of spring wildflowers, and she breathed deeply, exorcising the irritations of the afternoon with each lungful. She let her mind wander, skimming deeper thoughts like the wind rippling the surface of the pond, not allowing them to dive too deeply, and so was not startled by the sound of soft footsteps behind her.

She knew it wasn’t Oliver by the scent carried on the breeze blowing past her; he smelled of apples and leather and something spicy and warm; a knowledge that would have startled her if she didn’t feel as though her mind was enveloped in a woolly blanket just now, all lethargy and reluctance. She turned slightly to see who had found her, and was only vaguely surprised to see it was Ian. The small pond rippled again as the breezed picked up, rustling the leaves above her head, and Ian seemed as content to simply stand and watch its surface as she was.

“Are they looking for me?” Hermione spoke softly, not wanting to disturb the comfortable silence between them any more than necessary.

“Nae, hen. Ye’ve a minute yet.”

They stood like that a few moments longer, while Hermione continued to let the wonderful solitude of this place drain away the last of her worries, leaving her calm for the first time in days.

“’Tis thought tae be a fairy glade, ye ken.” Ian told her, his deep voice sounding oddly flat, as though the air hungrily stole its resonance.

Hermione smiled at this, thinking it appropriate. Seeming to shake off the mood of the place, Ian straightened, once more becoming the practical man she had known these last two days.

“A wedding gift from yer brothers,” he said, holding out a gaily ribboned horseshoe for her inspection. It had obviously been laboriously polished by hand, as iron didn’t take magic very well, until the dull metal nearly shone. Both upright arms were interwoven with ribbons of ivory and blue, giving it a braided look, and the curve had been meticulously etched with a single word: Defens. Hermione found herself oddly touched by the gesture as she let her fingers trail the smooth lettering.

“The clan motto,” Ian explained while reaching to secure the shoe to her upper arm by means of two ribbons left loose from the weaving. “An’ the shoe is said tae be for luck,” he explained. Looking down, she realized the blue was the same shade as that in the tartan of the formal kilt he wore.

“An’ one from yer groom.” He made an odd gesture, seeming to grab something from the air, and then held out a woven circlet of white heather blossoms to her, their subtle fragrance reminiscent of lilacs in her nose.

“He made that?” Hermione asked, her emotions suddenly unsettled.

Ian regarded her with oddly compassionate eyes. “Aye.” He made her bow her head, ostensibly so he could settle the crown properly for her, but giving her privacy to settle her thoughts. “There ye go lass, I reckon that’ll stay.” He held out his arm for her, and led her back to the house, allowing her to stay lost in her thoughts as they crossed the yard.

***

Everything for the next hour was a haze of flurried activity and nerves for Hermione as they all rushed to deal with a surprising array of last minute madness. The rings were forgotten and had to be fetched, courtesy of Fred — and a great deal of drinking the night before, Hermione was sure; someone got very tipsy and fell in the pond out back, tracking green muck through Mrs. Wood’s pristine kitchen and dripping on Molly’s dress; a rather precocious little boy found one of Oliver’s old brooms and was happily diving birds and imaginary Bludgers, leading Michael on a merry chase when he tried to get him down, but somehow it all seemed to come together, though afterward, Hermione was never quite sure how it was managed. She had somehow stolen a few minutes alone with her father, a quiet island of calm in an otherwise lunatic afternoon, and a moment she’d treasured. He had gazed at her, dressed in her ivory dress robe, a circlet of flowers in her hair and she smiled at him past the lump in her throat.

“I don’t want to muss you,” he protested when she held out her arms. She hugged him anyway, and he awkwardly embraced her, not sure what do with his hands so they wouldn’t damage the staggering amount of work that had gone into her appearance. When she pulled back, both of them had glassy eyes, but her father smiled tremulously. “You look beautiful,” he said quietly, and for a moment, his gaze was far-away, and Hermione knew he was remembering a day long past.

He shifted uneasily, eyes darting nervously around and she knew this was exceedingly hard for him with so many things out of place and unfamiliar to him, but he was trying so hard to be here for her, taking part in the only ways he could and fought to hold back the burning sobs rising in her throat. Only one escaped, and her father’s hands tightened on hers momentarily, but she beamed at him with a watery grin and shook her head, determined to remember this much, at least, and not to waste it crying.

“Have you met Mrs. Wood?” she asked, casting about for something to ease them past this moment.

Her father shuddered, an elegant expression of his opinion of that meeting. “Be careful of that woman, Hermione - she’s a menace of Valkyrian proportions!”

At his daughter’s muffled giggles, he added indignantly, “I expect her father’s name was Richard, and she probably wears an iron corset.”

**

They made a noisy procession as the women escorted Hermione to the glen where the ceremony would take place. The men had left sometime earlier to await their arrival, and she found herself surrounded by an escort of twenty women or more, all able, she knew, to claim close ties either to herself or the family that gave them the right to make this walk with her. She was relieved to see some of the faces of those she cherished when she saw Molly walking a little ways back from her, and even Fleur smiled at her when she caught her eye. Adrianne and Ginny walked to either side of her, and she was incredibly thankful for their presence.

She was surprised and delighted when she noticed Harry and Ron were with them, both of them apparently having staunchly defended their right to make this walk with their best friend, and when they noticed her looking in their direction began to goof off, walking with an exaggerated sway to their hips and batting their eyelashes outrageously so that she had to stifle her giggles.

The moon was out early this evening, as dusk was just ending, and the moonlight shone, making the ground luminescent in its cold light. The lane wound down from the outskirts of the village, and into a shallow valley a half kilometre beyond. From the crest of the road, Hermione could see the field spread out below her. Decorated poles were wound tight with ribbon and fragrant flowers, like festive maypoles, and stood on either side of the lane where the road levelled out, then again several yards on, just behind the guests, and obviously her mark for where she should stop to allow the piper to play her down the aisle. At the end of this walkway, which was strewn with flower petals, stood a stand of massive weeping trees, resplendent with their covering of tiny, pale blue fragrant blossoms. Their branches had been woven and interlaced to make sort of a natural amphitheatre to stand around and over the couple as they were wed.

The sky above was the bruised purple of twilight, lightening to mauve where the last of the sun’s glow lit the horizon and illuminating the aisle between the guests with the last light of day. In this perfect, hollowed backdrop stood Oliver. Fanning out a step behind and below him, stood his three witnesses: Fred Weasley, looking as solemn as Hermione had ever seen him, though he might simply have been nursing the excesses of the night before; Charlie Weasley, his expression leaving no doubt as to the state of his head, and Michael Wood, grinning almost comically wide as he nudged Oliver and brought his attention to the women’s procession as they drew nearer. Behind them all stood their officiate, a plenipotentiary for the Civil Service division of the Ministry, wearing deeply green robes of a conservative cut to underline his importance in the ceremony. Hermione was faintly relieved, thankful that Percy hadn’t decided to irritate her by performing the ceremony himself. The guests waited patiently, their chattering slowly fading as more of them became aware of the women leaving the procession and taking their seats among the assembled, but she was barely conscious of their hush for the roaring in her ears.

Hermione stopped just beyond the twin standards, murmuring, “Breathe, just - breathe,” under her breath like a mantra as she watched Adrianne escort her mother to their seats up front, leaving just Ginny, Ron and Harry standing with her. They would follow her, to stand as her own witnesses. Almost unwillingly, her gaze wandered to Oliver, standing to the right of the altar. He stared back at her, his eyes not leaving her face as she tried to decipher his expression.

Under his intense scrutiny, she was acutely conscious of her finery. The robe was a pretty cut, flattering her most definitely not-willow figure, and Hermione had to privately admit Brighde Wood had really done herself proud. The bodice was of an almost corset style, lacing up the front with a wide satin ribbon and narrowing down to a point at her waist, and was cut to just skim the tops of her breasts in a modified square neckline. The three-quarter length sleeves were loosely cut, to be gathered by a pale blue ribbon tied in a bow just above the elbows, and flowed into an open bell just below, leaving her forearms girlishly bare. The skirts skimmed the tops of her shoes in front, and flared out to trail behind her in a modest train. Oliver’s circlet sat lightly on her, feeling just like a crown, and she defiantly forced her knees to stop knocking under her skirts.

When the first evocative notes of the pipes rose above the silent crowd, Hermione felt panic try to rise up as the distance between herself and the altar appeared to multiply and waver like a heat dream, and she could actually feel her head spin. The otherworldly call of the music seemed to urge her feet to move her, though she wasn’t aware of any conscious decision to do so, and afterwards she was never quite sure how it was she made it down that aisle.

As she came to take her place beside her fiancé, hundreds of bluish glowing lights began to appear in the branches above them as fairies lit the trees making the canopy above them alight as though filled with tiny stars.

She must have looked faintly green by the time she arrived, for she felt Oliver’s warm hands on her arm, solicitously helping her manage the few shallow steps to the dais, but a gentle squeeze as he did so told her it was meant as a comforting gesture rather than in doubt of her ability to rise to her position.

The ceremony itself was held primarily in English, in deference to her own non-Scottish background, but Hermione still felt it impossible to actually focus on what was being said, her conscious sort of hovering languidly detached as the official finished a few ritual sort of phrases and began with a brief homily on the commitments of marriage. Oliver stood by her side, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the old man as he droned on in his reedy brogue. The fact that he didn’t blink made Hermione fairly sure he was paying about as much attention as she was, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep back her giggles. She suspected she may be going insane. Not that Oliver wasn’t distracting enough in his own right, she admitted privately. She had never really had the opportunity to appreciate men’s knees before, always tending to think of them more as a hinge then a sensual part of a person’s body, but she was beginning to think that perhaps she just hadn’t given them a proper chance. The kilt he wore was in what she assumed was his clan colours, dark and somewhat more ornate then the simple plaids Adrianne used each day, and was striking against his black short-waisted coat. A matching plaid was arranged over one shoulder, held in place by an ornate silver pin of Celtic design about the size of a galleon, and a chain and leather belt crossed his hips to hold the decorated leather sporran. Knee-high hose and black leather ghillie brogues, the traditional highland shoes that laced up the calf, only served to highlight the muscle developed by years of demanding athletics.

The knees in question were tanned, and lead the eye intriguingly to the widening line of thigh before disappearing underneath the heavy wool cloth. When Oliver turned slightly to quirk an eyebrow at her, she could feel herself turning bright pink at being caught like that and resolutely turned her attention back to the ceremony.

Their vows were spoken in Gaelic, and Hermione silently thanked Adrianne for helping her to memorize the short speech, so that she was able to get through it without stumbling. Words as old as the hills; an ancient arcane pledge, and she felt the magic of them prickle across her skin. A short benediction by the old man, and Oliver reached for his sgian dubh, a small garnet-topped dagger tucked in the top of his right knee-hose. The blood-binding was an ancient custom, and in Britain it was a ritual only the Celtic Irish and Scottish wizards still performed.

“Ye okay, lass?” Oliver asked her softly as he gently took her hand in his, palm upwards. She wasn’t sure of her voice, so she settled for a tight nod, but softened it with a somewhat tremulous smile. She resolutely fought the instinct to curl her fingers against what she knew was coming, despite knowing it wouldn’t really hurt all that much.

She was right. The blade was so sharp, she hardly felt it as it made a shallow slice across her right palm. Blood began to well immediately, and three drops were caught in a shallow, two handled chalice before Oliver was deftly wrapping a clean linen cloth around her hand. The assemblage was strangely quiet, a hundred people collectively holding their breath and not even the cry of an evening animal disturbed the unreality of the scene for Hermione. Her hand throbbed painlessly beneath the rough linen bindings.

She took the proffered dagger from Oliver with a surprisingly steady hand, noticing that the hilt was warm from his fist. Resisting the urge to wipe suddenly slippery palms on her robes, she took the hand he held out to her and placed the blade against the fleshy part of the palm opposite the thumb and looked up, keeping his gaze as she made the shallow slice. She couldn’t help but wince slightly as she felt the blade bite into his flesh, and she found the deep red of his blood momentarily startling as it beaded against his skin and she watched the three drops elongate and fall into the waiting chalice, almost missing Ginny handing her a linen cloth to bind it with.

The old wizard whisked the cup away and placed it on the vine-carved altar. The air rippled almost imperceptivity as a shining light began to emanate from within, and Hermione realized that it was the cup itself that held the magic of this ritual, as opposed to any invocation; similar to the Goblet of Fire. Reaching into his robes, he produced a rather gnarled and twisted wand from its recesses, and tapped the glowing cup slowly seven times, before intonating, “Praenuntius!

This form of augury was a very old magic, sort of a crude horoscope for the union, and when at first nothing happened Hermione was regretful. Not that she believed in divination much, but it would have been fascinating to see something she couldn’t even find described in one of her books.

Faint stirrings from the guests told her that they were disappointed as well, but then an image began to rise from the bowl, and everyone stilled, expectantly. The talisman was forming as if out of a ghostly pool. Faintly violet-tinged, it glowed softly in the darkening evening. It was fuzzy around the edges, as though drawn from its berth reluctantly, but the image began to firm up almost instantly, and Hermione began to realize that the compact, furry body she was looking at was a marten. It stood, ears pricked forward on alert, and twisting its head in a way that was almost hypnotic, as a snake might. Clamped in its jaws was a single strand of the same heather Hermione wore on her head, and she was aware of a sort of soft groan going through the crowd as she stared curiously at it.

The ghostly vision held a moment longer before dissipating as if scattered by a phantom breeze, and she was surprised to hear Oliver let out a breath he’d obviously been holding unconsciously. Surly he didn’t really believe in all this stuff? And what had he made of the mystifying portent? She would have to question him about it when she had the chance.

The fairy lights glowed even brighter against the now-fully darkened sky, and they painted bright spots against her eyelids when she closed them, part of her trying desperately to take it all in, analyse and understand it all right now, and the rest of her fiercely longing for the quiet and solitude of their room when this was all over. Fingers brushed her arm fleetingly, and she turned slightly, and managed to give him a wobbly smile in answer to the question in his eyes. Yes, I’m alright.

More Gaelic, and this time followed by a general murmur of laughter from the crowd, and the solemn mood began to shift to something more anticipating and eager, and people moved to sit forward on their seats. The bride and groom were motioned to face each other, and with a flick of his wand, the official had their two hands bound together with a strip of tartan cloth. People were grinning at them now, congratulatory. Oliver’s smile was a bit rueful, but made Hermione feel warm as he moved closer, using his unbound hand to gently finger her hair behind her ear.

A large bubble seemed to be pushing at her stomach, making it well up inside her, fluttering and wriggling the whole way as little electric impulses fired from tingling nerves and skated across her skin, making her shiver. It was clear Oliver had only intended for it to be a polite brushing of lips, but Hermione found herself moving in closer. There was something undeniably comforting in being held in even one of those strong arms and she was perfectly willing to admit to herself that she needed some comfort right now.

Somehow, he seemed to understand her need for that contact, to feel the shield of his body against all those eyes, and he looped his free arm around her gently. She expected he would smile at her, as he seemed to often do when he wanted to calm her or reassure her, but he didn’t. Instead, he was looking at her very seriously, staring into her eyes, as if seeking something, divining some answer, before his gaze dropped to her mouth and her thoughts scattered like so much wheat chaff in the wind.

It was a little awkward, bound to each other as they were. The cloth tie was tight, the wool itching against her wrist and her bound arm was twisted uncomfortably between them, but the moment his mouth touched hers she became oblivious to the discomfort. His lips were gentle, their soft pressure caressing her skin, nothing like the bewildering, drowning flare of the night before, but seeming to ignite some slow-burning ember within her that made her flush and shiver beneath his touch, all at once.

Loud cheering finally permeated the blanketing feeling of that kiss, and they broke apart without any embarrassment. With another flick of that wand, their hands were unbound and Oliver watched her as with deliberate care he removed the fly plaid on his shoulder. Hermione turned, to allow him to drape it properly, proclaimed now as a part of his family, and she could feel his hands on her shoulder as he fastened it with the same large silver pin. They trembled, ever so slightly. Somehow, that made her feel better.

***

Magic really was a wondrous thing, Hermione reflected sometime later. Tables had replaced the rows and rows of seats, each laden with so much food she was sure one would be-able to hear them groaning under the strain if it weren’t for all the noise. It was incredible the din a group of semi- and fully inebriated people could make, though she wasn’t sure by this point which category she herself fell in anymore.

She had danced with everyone, it seemed — from friendly and teasing waltzes with Harry; to doing something strangely contemporary with a silly name with Ginny, Fleur, Luna, and strangely, Fred; and astoundingly bewildering jigs with Michael and Adrianne. She could truly say she was exhausted as she sat at an empty table on the outskirts of the main activity, happy to have a moment to quietly sip a small measure of Firewhiskey against the chill of the early morning air. Midnight had come and gone, unheralded in all the confusion and the knowledge that it was now the new day was sapping the last of her energy reserves. The bower in which they had been married stood across the improvised dance floor, the early flowering trees impossibly woven still an awe inspiring sight to her Muggle eyes, even after eight years of being a witch. Every now and again a whiff of their perfume could be caught on the night air, and if she would breath a little deeper when it did, she wasn’t about to admit it to anyone.

She was extremely content, just now. Everyone was laughing, and even her father had been persuaded to dance with Brighde, though he swore to her afterwards that the woman had no sense of decorum, and two left feet besides, but Hermione thought he was secretly just scared she’d find out he hadn’t danced since her mom died. Two years ago, she had been frantically seeking along with Snape and Lupin, trying desperately to research anything that might stop the green pus leaking from what remained of Seamus’s left eye. There hadn’t been much laughter then.

The fairy lights gleamed pale blue-lilac in the night, like a thousand stars fell to earth and she found herself smiling. When Oliver dropped tiredly into a chair next to her, turned briefly in greeting, giving him part of her smile, before turning back to watch the trees. Some of the lights were moving around now, as the fairies, not having very developed attention spans to begin with, got bored and wandered off to different branches, making it look like a hive of buzzing bees. Occasionally, one of them would have drank too heavily of their sweet violet wine, and would fall to the ground with a lazy plop! that could be envisioned, if not actually heard. Hermione giggled.

“I made Ian and Michael help me wit’ it last night.” Though not actually smiling, Oliver still gave the impression of deep satisfaction at observing her pleasure in what he’d wrought for her.

“I wouldn’t have thought you able - you were pretty much the worse for wear last evening,” Hermione could hardly pull her eyes from the silly antics unfolding in the tree tops a few metres away, and the grin in her voice was unmistakable. “As I recall, it was drinking with Fred and George that got you into this mess. Are you planning then to spend all our important days drunk?”

“I was sober this morning, mouse.” He made a bobbing gesture with his head. “Well, more or less, anyway. I wouldn’t come to you on yer wedding night like that.”

Wedding night.

Suddenly, the bottom dropped out of Hermione’s stomach.

***


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