Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

Chapter 12 - Not Quite What We Were Before

12
Not Quite What We Were Before


By the end of the week, Hermione was glad to go back to Hogwarts. To say that her honeymoon was memorable would be an understatement…

It was never a good idea to Apparate while very tired, or quasi-inebriated, or any combination of the two. Hermione had been glad, therefore, to find that Oliver had arranged for a Portkey at precisely one am to take them to a small establishment in Wales, hoping against hope that booking the place hadn’t been left up to Fred, as best man. Knowing his somewhat dubious sense of the appropriate, she figured that as long as they didn’t find themselves at a place that catered with heart-shaped beds or advertised rates by the hour, he would live to influence a new generation of Hogwarts students.

He’d live, Hermione decided once they arrived at The Coron Ohono Arthur, a wizarding establishment in the Conwy valley. She was relieved to see that the room she found herself in, once the dizzying whirling of the Portkey trip cleared from her vision, was clean and friendly, and most definitely not a den of ill repute, unless ladies of the night had taken to dollies.

It was a sitting room, the soft glow of waiting oil lamps welcoming to her, and rich oiled woods gleamed in the orange light. As she turned, she noticed that the far side of the room was a tiny kitchenette, enough to get coffee in the morning, at least. A darkened doorway stood open along one wall, no doubt leading to the bedroom.

Hermione tried hard not to stare at it.

She was also aware of Oliver prowling about the rooms, examining everything with as much embarrassed curiosity as she herself was doing, drawing out the moment when they would have to face that reality, no doubt.

A bridal suite. On their wedding night. So much was implied in that single thought – intimacy on several levels, none of which Hermione was sure she was prepared to deal with, and she could feel strange dual sensations rising within her – nervous anticipation and fear twined, and mixing horribly in her stomach.

Oliver had moved into the bedroom and lit a few of the lamps in there as well, making that dark portal less intimidating, at least. She stayed out in the sitting room for the time being, ostensibly examining every inch of her new home for the next five days. She stalled, not at all sure how to deal with what was going to happen in that room this night. Not that she was a virgin, having done some exploration during the war that had left her thoroughly satisfied that it wasn’t worth the entanglement for the most part, and quite comfortable just leaving the boys nonsense to girls like Lavender and Pavarti. The fact that Oliver’s kisses made her tingle in places best not thought of, was an irritation more than an enticement, she firmly reminded herself.

When twenty minutes had gone by, and Oliver still hadn’t reappeared, she began to feel somewhat let down as the adrenaline slowly drained from her system, and she let out her breath irritably, knowing full well that she was being contradictory. She hesitated for an instant, but quickly pushed herself through the doorway, reasoning that they couldn’t put off this confrontation forever.

The room was large, with a high four-posted bed in the middle of the far wall, piled high with over-sized pillows and creamy linens. Oliver had turned back the thick down comforter invitingly, and Hermione looked at the soft mattress with longing. Her luggage had been set to one side, resting beneath a delicate looking vanity table in the corner. A mug was waiting on a small table beside the bed, steaming gently.

Oliver was still dressed in his kilt, though the black Bonnie Prince Charlie jacket he had been wearing was now lying discarded over the back of a chair, and the leather thong at the neck of his linen dress shirt had come loose. He had obviously just finished unpacking his things, and now stood, leaning with his hands on the sill of the room’s looming artisan window, gazing unfocusedly into the night. It was open, and a breeze ruffled his hair as it gusted intermittently past him. He gave no indication that he had heard her come in.

Hermione quietly crossed the room and sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed. She picked up the tea left there for her and sipped it, finding the bergamot aroma of Earl Grey to be soothingly familiar right now. His thoughtfulness made her smile and relax a bit more, confident in the man she had come to know these last two months, and knowing, one way or another, they would get through this awkward part of their marriage, too.

“Oliver?”

He obviously hadn’t heard her come in, but he gave no indication that she had startled him as he turned and faced her. She couldn’t help but appreciate the sight of him in his finery as he did so - eyes wandering lingeringly over his frame while she wondered if she would ever had the excuse to see him in such again, and was rewarded with that same infuriatingly raised eyebrow as he fought to suppress a smirk.

“Oh, honestly!” she said, exasperated, even as she blushed.

He laughed then, unable to stop himself. “Not my fault, now is it, lass?” But he smiled at her, obviously not upset. “If it helps any, ye clean up rather nicely yerself.”

Hermione huffed at him and blushed harder. This time, when he laughed, he got a pillow thrown at him for his trouble, but he was right – it did help.

They were getting sidetracked. Sex. That’s what they were supposed to be talking about. Even the word in her mind made her confused: heated and uncomfortable. Ginny’s teasing of a fortnight before came back to her, unbidden and unwanted. She took a deep breath, and plunged ahead while she still had her courage to brace him so directly on the subject. “Oliver—” she began.

“Hmm?” His response was somewhat absent as he moved from the window to hang his discarded coat.

“Well should we – I mean, how would you—” Her stumbling questions kept getting jumbled up, and infuriatingly, Oliver only cocked his head at her, pausing in his task, obviously not picking up on her attempt to ease into things. Irritation at the whole situation bubbled up, and she found herself speaking much more plainly then she may have liked.

“Perhaps you should undress me now.”

Her words fell like a gunshot, shattering the comfortable, almost domestic scene of a moment before. He stopped dead, and stared at her, hard. She found she couldn’t meet his eyes as he seemed to be waging some kind of internal debate, perhaps trying to find the right words in the wake of her bombshell. Except that it shouldn’t be a bombshell, Hermione thought, relief/regret pooling in her stomach. It’s what one expects on a wedding night, after all. Hermione would have laughed if she hadn’t felt like crying; she was absolutely mortified.

“Well, don’t we have to, I mean—” she tried to explain herself. This time, thankfully, Oliver seemed to pick up on what she was trying to discuss.

“No’ necessary, lass.” Hermione wasn’t sure if his voice was normally that husky and raspy, or if it was simply being imagined by her confused hormones. Either way, she wished it didn’t sound that way right now.

“But, don’t we have to - I mean, to avoid an annulment—”

He seemed to have himself under control again, no longer so hard and distant, and looked at her speculatively for a moment, one brow raised in sardonic amusement. “No’ unless yer havin’ a queer desire ta be rid of me already. T’would have to be you or I who declared it, an’ frankly, lots of newly married are t’ tired on the night of, anyway. Who’s goin’ ta say what we did or didnae do on our wedding night?”

Perversely, Hermione found herself arguing now, frustrated and unsure at her own defensiveness. “Well, maybe we should do this, before something happens. I mean that was the whole point of this Law in the first place, and it is really important…”

“Hermione, I am no’ having ye come t’ my bed like that.” Something internal just seemed to have shut off; his eyes were flat again, in a way she’d seen from him only once before. His voice rumbled in the unnaturally still air between them. “It will happen, if ever, when it’s something ye want t’ do, an’ never mind the children. It’s not yer responsibility t’ save the world from every problem.”

“But what if something does happen? You’re not immune to this epidemic, and I would hate to have gone through all of this to find it was all for nothing in the end!” She really wasn’t sure what was driving her on to argue like this, except perhaps the knowledge, deep down, that Oliver wasn’t going to let anything happen tonight that made her feel safe. Perhaps it was the tiny flare of hurt that he didn’t seem to have even considered the possibility of doing anything of the sort with her.

Oliver stared at her for a long moment; but when he spoke, it was quiet and calm, almost flat. “Good night, Hermione. I’ll be in the other room if ye need me.”

“Where are you going? The bed’s here, and it’s ridiculous to think you’re going to spend the next week on the couch—”

But he was gone.

She found herself sniffling quietly as she fumbled with the ties of her wedding gown. Funny, this isn’t something I had thought to do alone, she thought as her fingers twisted uncomfortably behind her, struggling with the hook-and-eye closures.

In one short evening, she had managed to change what she had been coming to anticipate as a quiet extension of the solid comfort of her developing relationship with Oliver into a deterioration that normally took years of married life to achieve. His rejection stung bitterly, and she was confused by her own contradictory emotions.

When she finally managed to crawl into bed, she lay exhausted; staring at the wall with the covers pulled tight to her chin and tried not to cry.

It was a long time before sleep finally rescued her, still huddled chill-ly in a miserable tangle with the sheets.

***

The couch was fairly easy to Transfigure into a perfectly adequate bed, or at least it would have been, if he weren’t in such a state. As it was, one of the cushions exploded in a shower of stuffing and it took him three tries before he produced something even remotely acceptable to sleep on.

What he ended up with was slightly too short, and the mattress was thicker on one side then the other, but he was too angry to even notice as he began removing his costume in preparation to lie on the one remaining pillow.

When she had so brazenly told him to undress her, it had sounded more like a command then anything, and he’d almost obeyed before his mind had had a chance to catch up with his libido. Twice now, he’d caught her lingering appraisal that left him with little doubt that she at least found him not wholly unattractive. The way she’d been stumbling and blushing as she attempted to explain her concerns had given rise to a small flame of hope that perhaps she might not find the idea of being with him in a more traditional sense, someday, completely unacceptable.

He’d been wrong, as it turned out, and his rather foolish hope had come crashing down around his ears when she’d brought up that damned law. She wanted to make sure she’d done her bit, apparently.

He was angry enough to be honest with himself, and the source of his frustrations came as a bit of a shock. He knew he’d been thinking of her as more of a woman lately; had even had to catch himself as his thoughts had strayed dangerously, but now he was forced to actually look at his behaviour and accept the fact that lust was certainly possible between them, at least on his end. He might even be on his way to developing actual feelings for her, feelings that involved the right to hold her close to his body at night and feel her heartbeat slowing under his hand as she drifted off to sleep in his embrace.

He could blame this new vision on Fred, he decided. During the rather blurry hours before the actual creeling, he had confided his honeymoon plans to his friend when he had started to pry.

Fred had given him a lewd wink and clapped him somewhat haphazardly on the shoulder. “Wales? Good thinking – nothing else to do on a wet Welsh afternoon then stay in bed.”

And that was just it. He had no right to think of her that way at all. Turning, he punched the pillow that felt like rocks beneath his head before throwing himself down again. She was still the best friend of his friend’s little brother, only a year ahead of Ginny, the girl with little red pigtails who used to tag along, begging to play Quidditch with them. The fact that she was nearly two years older than Ginny, and in all actuality only four years younger than himself somehow, didn’t seem relevant.

She was just scared, and trying her best to deal with a very difficult situation; and he would make sure that he didn’t let his own feelings interfere. Obviously, she was capable of being more mature about this whole mess than he was able to manage.

I promised her friendship when this began, and if that’s all I can have from her, I’ll consider myself lucky.

He fervently hoped he could keep his end of that bargain.

The mattress was lumpy, but he barely noticed beneath his swirling thoughts as he twisted over, tangling his leg in the cover as he did so.

It had been nice to be home again. His hadn’t been home like that since before the war, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it - and it had given him a queer turn to walk in to his family home and see her there, taking and laughing so easily with his sister; almost like she belonged there; a part of his family. It had felt – comfortable. Nice.

Feelings that, now, felt uneasy and awkward in his gut.

Then there was that augury. They were important to his people, usually a fair indication of how good a match might prove to be. Of course, there were rare occasions when they proved to be a warning – a portent of future mischief or strife.

What the bloody hell was the marten supposed to mean? Martens were clever and cunning; they were also mischievous and not at all above thievery. He wasn’t sure how any of that might fit in. The heather, long held as the symbol of Scotland, was also the personal flower of his clan, and a symbol of luck and fidelity. How in the blazes did that fit together? Could he assume the heather to pertain to himself somehow? Then what with the marten – was it Hermione?

He gave up on the pillow; it felt like a short plank beneath his head anyway. The problem with this kind of magic, he reflected, was that it was rarely of any use until it became obvious; usually well after the fact.

The mattress wasn’t much better than the pillow, and he rolled around a bit, trying to find an even moderately comfortable position before giving up again.

He could still remember the look in her eyes after he’d kissed her at the creeling. He hadn’t meant for it to happen; hadn’t even mentioned the custom to her, but somehow he must have known she’d find out, because he hadn’t been surprised to see her there in the lane. The alcohol had loosened him a bit more then he’d liked, but he hadn’t seen the harm, until suddenly she was there, and he was trying to remember why it was a such a bad idea to taste those pretty lips, or muss her unruly curls.

She seemed to have forgiven him, perhaps not minding as much as she might have, but he cursed the fact that he could still remember the tang of her skin, and the feel of her sharp tongue tasting him in return.


***

Things remained strained the next morning, and Oliver had to quietly acknowledge that they would likely remain so for a while.

He awoke to the smell of freshly brewed tea, and the sight of Hermione puttering quietly in the tiny kitchen just fifteen feet away. He eyed her carefully, not sure how far they may have stepped back in their relations last night, and desperately trying to remember if he’d thought to put on pyjamas in all his turmoil.

“Good morning, Oliver.” A mug was shoved in his direction while Hermione seemed to be trying to avert her eyes, and he realised that while he’d remembered his pyjamas, he’d failed to put on a shirt. Mentally, he shrugged, deciding it was far too comfortable right where he was to move and change yet. He casually settled down a bit farther beneath the heavy comforter and tried not to think of it as a somewhat fluffy shield against her probable anger.

She sat stiffly in a chair a few feet away and sipped her own tea, robe pulled tight to her body like armour, and he realised she was expecting another argument.

“Morning, Mouse.”

Hermione’s head came up, and she stared at him frostily. Oh, boy, he winced inwardly.

Neither of them spoke again for several long minutes. She went back to staring at the cup cradled in her hands, ridged posture speaking louder than words just how uncomfortable she was to be there. Oliver balled up his anger and disappointed hope, and firmly locked them in a tight mental box. Getting out of here, that was what they needed, before they managed to ruin their friendship anymore.

“Look, Mou-Hermione, we’ve go’ access t’ the museum offices and such this evening, once they close up. Did ye perhaps want t’ play tourist there for the day?”

She smiled, looking relieved, before her expression shuttered again, but she wasn’t able to keep the anticipation and pleasure from her eyes.

Twenty minutes later, they were on their way.

***

The Albion Museum, or Cywreinfeydd Yr Alban in Welsh, was beautiful. Constructed over a thousand years earlier, it had been there when Dublin had still been a Viking settlement and Scotland itself no more than a collection of minor holdings to Anglo-Saxon warlords. Wales, or Cymru to the inhabitants, was a perfect place for such an ancient relic. There was something about the misty, rocky lands that spoke of unchanging values and gave you a real sense of stepping back in history as you entered the valley.

He’d been right, of course. The minute Hermione had stepped through the doors, she’d been lost in fascinated discovery for hours. He’d watched her as she’d immersed herself in the various exhibits, unlike any Muggle museums, he was later told, and he could practically see her trying to absorb all the new information being presented as if she were a sponge.

In particular, the museum was widely known for having wonderful Arthurian exhibits, and the main floor was largely devoted to the Pendragon and his knights, both legends and fact; for with magic there often wasn’t much of a difference. He’d trailed companionably behind her as she experienced recreations of Badon Hill and Camlann taken from early consciousness-preserving magicks well before the advancement of Pensives, and conversed with the memories of Galahad and Bedivere on subjects as far reaching as early magical theory and the first stirrings of the suppression of Magical creatures by the Wizard class. Surprisingly, house-elves were only mentioned once.

Merlin was a topic that would entertain a scholar such as herself for years to come, considered, as he was the father of much of today’s modern magical theory and practice, so he managed to steer her clear of the entire top floor by pointing her to some interesting exhibits on the Picts in the opposite direction. The combination of their activity and the security of the crowds seemed to ease much of their earlier tension. It was comfortable between them again, at least on the surface, and Oliver was happy to trail behind her and just let her enjoy herself for the day. They had time, since she wasn’t due back to the school until Sunday, so for today he enjoyed just playing tourist to her enthusiasm. He’d been here a few times, as it was right next door, sort-to-speak, from home. Though not often enough to become blasé, he found that seeing it through her eyes made everything new again.

“Actually, Albion itself is taken from the Welsh elfydd, for earth or world. It’s the oldest name for Great Britain, but is sometimes used to represent just Scotland, which I suppose is why the Welsh name it Alban, which is technically their word for Alba, which is Scotland. I wonder—” Hermione continued to prattle on, meaningless, relaxed, and safe conversation being the order of the day.

Five o’clock found the large building nearly empty. The curator’s office was on the second floor, a small split-level off the first landing leading to the upper levels. Oliver had never met the man, but Percy had quietly had a word, asking him to cooperate.

Mr. Ethan Daniels looked up from his desk, startled when Oliver knocked on the doorframe of the open door as they let themselves into his office. The expression was no more than a flicker across his smooth face, but Oliver got the distinct feeling they were not a welcome distraction.

“You must be the investigators from the Ministry, then?” The question was neutral, and he didn’t wait for an answer before continuing rather fussily, “I really don’t see how all this is necessary. I already accommodated the first team of you Ministry chaps when it happened – they turned the whole place upside-down and ruined the carpet in the East wing with all their traffic. I just don’t see what more you expect to find.”

Oliver smiled coolly at him, and just stared. It didn’t take long for the man to give in, the sudden lessening of his self-important air signalling reluctant cooperation. Oliver waited until Daniels put the work before him into his desk, before he pointedly motioned Hermione to a seat and sat himself, in absence of an invitation.

“Jus’ a few more questions, sir. If you don’ mind?” The question was asked mildly, but it was still childish, as something about his man’s lack of courtesy just rubbed him the wrong way.

“Actually, I’d like to see a copy of the security layout for this building, if you please,” Hermione’s voice broke in firmly. Oliver suppressed his surprise at her interruption, simply raising his eyebrows at the motionless curator, as if to ask what he was waiting for.

“I don’t really see how that’s necessary,” he blustered, fidgeting with his a ring on his left hand.

“This is the Ministry asking,” Oliver reminded him levelly. He sat there, completely unruffled as he allowed the man to carefully consider the situation.

It took him a full minute to make his decision, and while Hermione took the blueprint to a small table by the window to examine it, Oliver filled in time by asking questions, most of which were probably already asked a few dozen times during the initial investigation. He wasn’t surprised that he didn’t learn anything.

As soon as Hermione finished her examination, she and Oliver left the room, with permission to look around. They were safely down the hall, before he asked hopefully, “Did you learn anything from all that?”

Hermione shook her head. “Not much. The wards are extensive. Frankly, I can’t see how any witch or wizard managed to get in.”

The main floor corridors were empty now – even the stragglers had made their way out, leaving the stone corridors chill with the absence of so many bodies. Oliver felt it was the perfect backdrop to his rather useless thoughts, and was startled when Hermione broke the silence.

“I never realized just how little power the Ministry still has left.” Her voice was hollow. “He was very close to refusing, wasn’t he?”

“People don’t feel safe, and that’s the Ministry’s job. If we don’t get this mess cleaned up shortly, Mouse, there won’t be a Ministry anymore. If people don’t start to feel safe again, soon, the whole thing’s likely to collapse.” Oliver grimaced. “Come on - let’s get down to the employees’ entrance. We can poke around a bit where it happened. Maybe we can find out something about this book.”

“Mr. Daniels didn’t seem to have much of an idea as to who might want to steal it, did he?” she mused, thoughtfully. “He seemed to feel it was rather boring. As a matter of fact, he rather emphasised how boring it was, didn’t he?”

Oliver grunted his agreement, adding this to his list of reasons why Ethan Daniels was a slimy bugger.

As they crossed the large entrance foyer on the main floor, Hermione grabbed Oliver’s arm and stopped him. “Just a moment,” she said as she pulled out her wand. “I want to try something.”

“I thin’ the investigators did a pretty thorough job of it when they came here, Hermione.”

“You said Percy sent investigators after it happened? Not Aurors?”

“Yes,” Oliver said, giving her an odd look.

“Then his men probably didn’t do this, Oliver. It would be a big tip off to anyone watching that he suspects this isn’t just a robbery and may actually be a Dark crime. And since he didn’t send Aurors—”

“He was trying t’ make it look like a normal investigation. Smart.”

She closed her eyes, and concentrated for a moment, before swishing her wand in a baffling chopping motion, like cutting and bisecting a circle.

“An’ what exactly’s supposed t’ happen now?” Oliver asked, dryly.

Hermione glared about indiscriminately. “Nothing, apparently. It was a spell Moody taught us, awhile back. The Order developed it during Voldemort’s first uprising – by Dumbledore, perhaps. That peculiar tattoo of theirs? I think it detects whatever spell he used to give it to them. No Death Eater has crossed this threshold in the last twenty eight days.”

“Well, tha’ opens up a whole different trunk of problems, now doesnae’t?”

Hermione looked at him, unhappily. “Well, it could mean that it was just a normal robbery.”

“Or it could mean tha’ someone’s using the Imperius Curse again.”

***

They slept in different rooms again that night, and every night thereafter. Each day saw an increase in the tension between them, as opposed to a resolution, and by the fourth day, Oliver wasn’t sure how far they were from being strangers again. Conversations thinned and cooled until it was mostly silence whenever they were alone together. As a result, they spent most of their time out – anything and everything from sightseeing at the Welsh princes’ fortress, Dolwyddelan Castle, at the head of the valley, or long hikes up the mountain passes, trouping long trails with streams of Muggle tourists to experience incredibly defined echoes and picnic with a view of the valley.

The rift in their relationship becoming an ever-widening chasm under the weight of hurt feelings and ego.

It had begun raining sometime over the course of the night, and by the time they got up Friday morning, it had decided to settle in for a nice, Welsh all-day wet. They had planned another hike today, to see the famed fairy glen at Betws-y-Coed through which the river Conwy flowed, but everything outside turned to thick grey muck, making the outing entirely unappetizing. Resigned to spend the day in barricaded silence indoors, Oliver spread himself out at the small breakfast bar in their tiny kitchen with all his notebooks and reports, determined to at least pass the time usefully if he could have nothing else. Hermione seemed to like the idea, as she curled up in one of the large armchairs with a thick novel, feet pulled under herself as she tried to stay cosy in the damp chill of the day. Soon, the only sound in the room was the dry rustle of pages as they both lost themselves in their distractions.

Only, he wasn’t really lost. He grit his teeth as, once again, he found his eyes drawn to her, sitting there not fifteen feet away, but as far as the moon, for all of him. He’d planned on spending this week getting to know her, trying to gently deepen their relationship, make her more comfortable in his presence. Even ten days ago he would have thought nothing of setting up on the short chesterfield instead of the bar, encouraging her to settle next to him while he worked, stretching his long legs out so that their thighs touched, that simple contact enough to keep him happily in one place while he read useless reports and notes.

Instead, in a matter of one evening, they had managed to cock things up so badly that even that simple touch would be an almost unbearable intimacy. But somehow, he just couldn’t go to her, and even begin to have a conversation that would end this. He couldn’t pursue anything with her if it was under the shadow of the damn Marriage Law. It would be an affront to all the feelings he was distinctly suspicious might have been possible between them. He couldn’t even begin to have a conversation that would have her trying to take a meaningful act and turning it into a duty.

For Percy, no less.

“You aren’t studying?” He found himself asking the question without even realising he intended to speak.

She looked up, startled by his voice, but barely spared him a glance before turning back to her book. “I didn’t bring any of my books with me. I – well, I guess I thought I could manage without for a week.”

He grunted softly, and turned back to his reports. Times like these he missed the beautiful simplicity of playing Quidditch; when he was on his broom, with the wind in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the crowd, it was just him and the Quaffle, uncomplicated and demanding.

He pulled himself back to his reports and speculations, but found it difficult to focus as he became aware of the quiet sounds of Hermione’s restlessness as she squirmed and wriggled, looking for a better position in her large chair. He’d only managed to write a handful of words in the last ten minutes, but he was coming to realise upon closer examination, that they weren’t so much progress as complete gibberish, when suddenly Hermione burst out:

“There must be some notes on the book; an annotated copy or something! I mean, how are we supposed to figure out who stole if we can’t even begin to guess why?”

Oliver found himself growling at her, the nonsensical words on the parchment mocking him. “Don’t you think Percy’s men thought of that already? Or do you think you’re smarter than the lot of them?” Probably are, Oliver added in the privacy of his own head, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. Tension and frustration were finally erupting and he almost revelled in the release of it.

“Don’t be stupid. Of course I don’t,” she snapped, glaring as she shut her book with a snap.

“Well, I mean, that’s just wonderful. The great Hermione Granger has decided that there must be something there, because she’s at a loss. If that was all it took to break this mystery apart, it’s a shame we didn’t bring you in earlier, now isn’t it?”

Instead of fighting back, as he’d expected, her shoulders slumped a little, and she looked down at the floor with a hurt expression. “No, I just – damnit, there has to be something!”

Oliver suddenly felt very foolish. “Yer right, Mouse,” he agreed, awkwardly. “We probably should go and take a look. It’ll be at least as helpful as what I was doing here.”

"Its Hermione Wood now, isn't it?" Her look was almost challenging.

But she felt more like she was trying to convince herself. Hermione Wood was a lie. She wasn't. She was still Hermione Granger, a figurehead and a symbol - and a completely separate entity from the man before her.

She could only hope that someday, perhaps she could figure out who Hermione Wood was as well.

***

The journey back to the museum was silent, and when the building seemed to rise up out of the mists when they passed the edges of the anti-Muggle wards it was almost a relief.

The museum was constructed out of the remnants of one of the old forts or castles built in the area by the Saxon kings. Castles that had been virtual warrens of corridors and hallways connecting every part, many of them never walked by the nobility that had lived there, being the almost exclusive domain of the vast numbers of servants needed to keep up a place like this. They were convenient for the museum’s purposes, though, as they discretely connected all the main exhibits. These non-public corridors, or the now ‘Employees Only’ portion of the museum were narrow, and frankly, Oliver was beginning to feel a bit shut up by the looming stone walls. They had been down here for what seemed like ages, in actuality only seven minutes or so, but it was enough for him to understand something about himself.

He really didn’t like closed in spaces. At all.

Hermione didn’t seem to have the same problems. She was happily poking around, rather more like an extension of the tour of exhibits above as she lead the way from a small map she had bullied out of Ethan Daniels. When, many twists, turns and stairs later, the corridor eventually widened out to deposit them in a room, Oliver breathed a sigh of relief. It may well have been the size of a large closet, but felt positively palatial to him after the cramped confines of the corridors.

From the look of it, it was a bit of a laboratory and office combined. Two solid, plain-looking desks stood in opposite corners, making the cramped space closer still. Towering shelves of reference books covered the wall behind them, and even from here, Oliver could see how haphazardly they had been shoved back on in places, as one might when thoroughly focused on some new discovery. Two largish tables filled with arcane equipment filled the centre of the room, magic sparking from a few of them ominously.

“Right, then. Why don’t you take the shelves, and I’ll see what I can find in his desk,” she said, distastefully. Both desks were piled high with papers and odd assortments of equipment and experiments, and in one case, the petrified remains of what may have been someone’s lunch. For once, Oliver decided not to do the gentlemanly thing.

“Sounds good t’ me, lass. Which one do yeh reckon was his?”

‘How the devil should I know?”

He manfully stifled his amusement in a cough; rather convincingly, too, he thought, despite Hermione’s glare, and turned to the piles on the shelves before she could comment. Unfortunately, a few minutes of digging proved that the shelves were no safer than the desks, as he pulled a ratty, moth-eaten stuffed badger out from behind the tomes of Goblin history in a cloud of dust.

Minutes ticked by unheeded as they continued to carefully sift through the accumulation, until an amused snort from behind him drew his hopeful attention back to Hermione.

“At least I know I have the right desk,” she observed dryly, pointing to the tarnished glint on the desk, just uncovered by a slide of papers that were now pooling at her feet. Peering closer, Oliver could just make out the name Mr. Mycroft Pafft etched in spidery script across the plate.

“Well, there is that—” but he was interrupted by the rather quavering voice of Mr. Thammassy Barrows.

“Wh-what is it that you’re doing? Get away - get away, girl! That’s not to be trifled with!”

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