Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

Chapter 14 - Temperance and Forgiveness

14
Temperance and Forgiveness

McGONAGALL APPROACHED her as soon as class was over, barely waiting until the last student had scrambled from the room. Shutting the door firmly behind her, she turned back to regard her long-time pupil with pursed lips.

“Well, Miss Granger—” she stopped, looking suddenly like she had bitten something sour. “Oh, for heaven sakes – Mrs. Wood.”

It was the first day back at classes after the Easter break, actually the first day Hermione had spent in the castle since her marriage. Hermione couldn’t help but feel annoyed at the fact that it hadn’t been longer – for so much to have changed in her life, it somehow seemed ridiculous that only a week had passed in the lives of everyone around her; that they couldn’t feel this great chasm of time, too. And that just left her feeling irritated at her own irrational musings.

Professor McGonagall fought for a moment, discomfort clearly written on her face, before she continued, brusquely. “You do realize, Mrs. Wood, that while you’re particular situation has changed, Hogwarts is, first and foremost, a school, and as such you are expected to maintain appropriate decorum while you are still a student here.” She took a moment to glance down at her favourite pupil from over-top her square spectacles, perhaps mistaking the cause for Hermione’s disquieted expression, as she continued, somewhat more gently, “While I will be the first to agree that, er, romance between yourself and Mr. Wood is of course to be welcomed, this is, most definitely, not the place for it; so I must ask you to be cautious of the example you are setting for the younger years. A room has been prepared in the downstairs East Wing corridor, for Mr. Wood, as he has expressed an interest in remaining close to you thus far; you, however, will be expected to retain residence in Gryffindor Tower – and I know we won’t have to discuss this any further.”

Hermione could only stammer her assurances as the mortifying discussion ground to a halt, and her professor ushered her towards the door just as the next class arrived.

Much as McGonagall had predicted, Oliver took up residence within the main part of the castle, only occasionally leaving for small ‘Quidditch trips’, and Hermione was secretly glad to have this final reprieve from her complicated relationship with him that McGonagall’s strictures were providing her, especially with N.E.W.T.s practically around the corner.

Still, though evenings and weekends found herself and Oliver perfectly cordial to one another, even friendly, she couldn’t help but be thankful for the chance to push everything to a safer distance in her mind.

In quite moments, she would occasionally, and slightly guiltily, think back to the feel of crisp linen sheets warmed by a strangely affecting masculine presence, and the feel of his skin as it twitched beneath her hesitant hand as he slept.

After delivering her imperious missive to come and join her, she had retreated to their bedroom, carried there by courage born of the moment, perhaps. Moonlight lanced through the cloud cover, dimly illuminating the room in soothing greys and shadows, and the faint cry of a nightingale came in through the open window. When, what seemed like hours later, Oliver gently eased the door open and slipped into the room, she felt her false bravado begin to dissolve as layer by agonizingly slow layer, he carefully prepared to join her where she feigned sleep, watching cautiously from beneath lowered lashes. Frankly, she felt slightly ridiculous, after her earlier chiding and demands for this very thing, and yet, now that she was facing it, she could feel her confidence vanish like a summer wind, and no amount of self-recrimination seemed to be able to right things.

The mattress shifted, dipping as he sat on the edge of it, simply watching her, seeming to be warring with some inner voice as he made no move to slide further into the bed. One of his hands moved, reaching for her, only to be arrested mid-motion, hanging uncertainly between them for several heartbeats, before falling back to his side.

Hermione wasn’t sure if she were grateful, or impatient for this horrid anticipation to be over, so the full-blown awkwardness could settle in.

Somewhere, the nightingale had fallen silent, his sweet tones hanging in the cool April air like an after-image when you squeezed your eyes tightly shut after staring at the sun. Perspiration beaded minutely along her wrists and collarbone, absorbed instantly by the heavy linen sheets and spots began appearing in front of her eyes before she realized she had been holding her breath as he continued to watch her. She lay very quietly, still feigning sleep.

Oliver finally moved, whatever inner monologue he’d been having apparently resolved.

The bed dipped further as he settled himself on his back, one arm crooked behind his head as he stared at the ceiling, his warmth perceptible even though she lay a good foot away from him, and Hermione felt small flutterings begin, deep in her belly.

He really was a powerfully built man, she reflected, unable to force her eyes closed - to take that necessary step towards sleep. His broad shoulders would have rested uncomfortably close if the bed hadn’t been so large. Dimly, she heard the rustle of his drawstring sleeping pants as he shifted, looking for a better position, and she was acutely conscious of every rise and fall of his chest as his breathing began to settle, and then slow.

It was a long while before her taut nerves settled enough for sleep, despite the weight of all that had happened that day, but gradually, she began to feel the lassitude of sleep creeping up on her, making her eyelids suddenly much too heavy, and any further thought on such worries far too enervating to bother pursuing just now, when Oliver’s warmth surrounded her, and the scent of apples hung tantalizingly under her nose, and she surrendered to a sort of deep relaxation.

Briefly, she wondered —

But she was already asleep.

***

NOW THAT the time remaining to N.E.W.T.s could be measured in weeks, instead of months, the atmosphere around the castle became extremely tense. Everywhere you went, there were teenagers, and some not-so teenagers, heads bent in furious concentration as they desperately tried to cram ingredients lists for potions, complex star charts, complicated wand movements and other, seemingly endless bits of information.

Of course, on top of that were all the parchments assigned by the various teachers, who seemed to feel, as Ron frustratingly lamented, that their time was better used on piles and piles of homework than on ‘actually memorizing the bloody stuff!’, and Harry was nearly incoherent with fatigue most evenings, with the added pressures of Quidditch practices, and captaining the Gryffindor team.

Oliver, of course, never missed watching a practice.

They had managed to settle into a comfortable routine; Oliver spent most evenings and part of each weekend keeping Hermione company as she studied. He would spread out with his own work, pouring over large maps and sheaves of reports as he made meticulous notations. Most of the time, it was in connection with work Percy had for him, but every now and then he seemed to have enough of it, and pulled out a thick, battered notebook, tied together with string. Hermione managed to look over his shoulder one evening, unnoticed, and had to stifle a laugh when she found it was a playbook, painstakingly filled with pitch notes, possible recruitment choices and other plans for the future of the now-defunct British League.

A Treatise of Anatomy, by Healer Muhyi al Din Sulayman turned out to be a colossal bore. It had been a hectic week: Snape had taken sadistic delight in tormenting Harry over his latest potion failure, allowing the Slytherins a good long laugh at his expense, never mind the near-perfect work he had turned in just the class before. In Herbology, they had been assigned to Greenhouse Four, where the tray of vicious Honey Creepers they had re-potted as seedlings were deemed mature enough for the class to harvest. Now four feet in height, this was no easy task as the seventh years diligently fought the numerous tentacles intent on squishing them to a pulp. Nearly two hours of concentrated effort had yielded several bruises, a nasty cut across one cheek, and a scant half cup of the necessary pollen. Ron had somehow managed to produce twice that, and Hermione had left the class in a distinctly foul mood. In addition to all this, were three enormous essays added to their expected homework, and Hermione was beginning to feel like that famous camel.

“Yeh don’ look like yer getting much done this evenin’, lass.”

She had been so involved in her own misery; she hadn’t even heard Oliver come around the stacks.

“Why don’t yeh put that aside for tonight? I’ve go’ something that might interest you more than,” and here he craned to look over at her cramped notes, “the fascinating uses of bat shite in wand making.”

“Oliver!”

He grinned at her, already moving her textbooks to her bag, and somehow, Hermione couldn’t keep her irritation at being interrupted during her bout of self-pitying peevishness. Her mood was further forgotten when he lay a familiar brown notebook on the table between them. For a moment, she almost didn’t breath.

“Is that –?”

“Perce had it sent as soon as the Curse Breakers were done with it.” They were both grinning rather foolishly now, their excitement infectious and far out of proportion to what a foxed notebook should warrant, but neither of them couldn’t keep back the feeling that this was important, and Hermione waited expectantly while Oliver lay the book open and began slowly reading and absorbing what Mycroft Pafft had to tell them.

Minutes dribbled by, and Hermione tried to hold on to her excitement, and not demand answers. Oliver began flipping the pages faster now, obviously skimming.

After ten minutes, Hermione felt a curious whistling in her belly, like air let out of a balloon, as Oliver had begun jumping whole sections of the book; seemingly random choices.

With increasing disbelief /incredulity Oliver was skipping larger and larger sections, until finally he threw the book down in disgust. For a moment, he seemed beyond speech, simply staring at the book as if willing it to reveal some secret, or perhaps simply to become something else. “Bollocks,” he finally cursed, without any real energy. Hermione reached for it, smoothing the spine rather primly as she laid it open.

“Wha’ever they stole the damned thing for, it certainly wasnae for what’s written in it.”

Hermione bit her lip, cradling the notebook as she leafed through it, without really seeing it. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “perhaps it’s written in code?”

Oliver gave a half-hearted grunt.

“Obviously, someone wanted it,” she said, pushing away her own disappointment. “You really can’t be sure until you actually read it, instead of just scanning.”

Oliver did settle down to study it, but without the sense of impending discovery that had lit that first night. Unfortunately for Hermione’s piece of mind, he seemed unable to do so quietly, concentrating on the offending manual with such fierce determination as to almost seem to occupy more space than was normal, which only made it that much more difficult for her to keep her eyes firmly focused on her work.

Previously, their evenings together had been easy and comfortable as each worked in productive silence, with only the occasional low comment of encouragement to break the quiet. May was now half gone, and after almost a week of listening to Oliver’s frustrated noises (which were definitely interfering with her studying) Hermione finally insisted on reading it herself.

“Ye have too much studying of yer own, lass—” he’d protested, being pulled from his glaring match with his current page.

“Which I’m not getting done with all your noise. You radiate frustration even when you’re quiet, and make it quite impossible to work,” she’d responded waspishly.

So she’d taken the book from him, and somehow found some spare time here and there to read it, adding it to her already overwhelming reading pile.

And if she found it as bad as he, she wasn’t about to admit it.

***

“The presence of so many of the tiny, Furry-Footed Tattlewidges may be interfering with some peoples’ ability to concentrate on the game today - Oh, look, I think Erin Leslye just fell off her broom. Tattlewidges, of course, are a common problem for studying students, especially around exam time …”

It was uncharacteristically warm, even for June, and so it was that Hermione found herself sandwiched between Dean and Oliver, sticky and uncomfortable on what was possibly the hottest day of the year so far, a captive audience to Luna’s increasingly ludicrous theories and advice.

“Gryffindor scores another 10 points. Ginny, you’ll note, is wearing a necklace of polished black agate beads, a very sensible precaution against lurking Gremlins…”

Above them, Ginny and a fourth year Chaser cheered as they sped by, waving to the stands as their fans roared back in enthusiastic response. It was the final game of the year, and the heat was making it particularly gruelling on players and spectators alike. Blake, the opposing Seeker, was slowly lapping the playing area, scanning diligently. Circling far above, Harry was invisible for the moment from where Hermione sat, though she knew he was poised and waiting to swoop in at the slightest flash of gold. Further down, Ron paced warily in front of the goals, keeping a careful eye on the play up-pitch as he waited for the Quaffle to come zooming out of nowhere. Across the field, Hufflepuff fans were watching each play anxiously, some appearing almost too nervous to look. Dennis Creevey was cheering so vigorously, Hermione was beginning to wonder if he might succeed in launching himself into flight with all his gyrations.

The house standings were close this year, with Gryffindor and, amazingly, Hufflepuff in close competition for the House Cup. Harry had trained his team maniacally, and had thoroughly trounced Slytherin, and taken Hufflepuff with a very comfortable margin. Ravenclaw had done equally well this season, leading them to be Gryffindor’s closest competitors for the Quidditch Cup. Both Cups would be decided by today’s match, and Harry needed to win this match by a margin of 200 points to overcome Hufflepuff’s lead.

The game had been very evenly matched. Ravenclaw was fielding a good team this year, and a new Keeper was making every shot count for the Gryffindor Chasers. Beside her, Oliver seemed wholly enthralled in the game, pausing every now and then to explain a particularly fast play, or convoluted strategy. He was so patient, so obviously having a good time, Hermione didn’t have the heart to inform him that after all her time at Hogwarts, she was following just fine. Besides, though she certainly wasn’t about to admit it, especially not to herself, having Oliver lean in like that was rather pleasant.

On impulse, she reached out and captured Oliver’s hand, where had been resting on his knee, twining her fingers firmly with his at his startled look. He cocked his head, staring at her for a moment, before relaxing into a pleased smile. Squeezing gently, he turned back to the game. She had the distinct impression, though, that he now kept glancing back at her, from the corner of his eyes, instead of watching the game, and had to rather sternly suppress the warm feeling that flooded her stomach.

The noise of the crowd made conversation quiet impossible, though Hermione was more than content to leave things as they were; it seemed like talking only encouraged them to royally muck things up anyway, and she was beginning to suspect she could stay quite happily like this, just enjoying his warmth and presence, for the rest of the week, if only they didn’t have to move; she’d even put up with the Quidditch.

Letting her gaze wander past the zipping blurs of navy and scarlet, she saw the N.E.W.T. examiners – who had arrived the evening before, crowded into the teachers box, where it stood nestled between the Slytherin and Hufflepuff stands. One witch in particular had to keep ducking while Hagrid waved and cheered as his favourite students manoeuvred to take the lead. Her irritated glances and sour expression were completely lost on the half-giant as his enthusiasm sent her cowering below her peers. Hermione allowed herself to smirk, just slightly, when she reappeared, prim little hat askew on her once-perfectly coiffed head, as she watched warily from where she crouched behind her seat. A rumble beside her told her that Oliver had noted it too.

Unlike O.W.L.s, the practical portions of the seventh year exams would be held first, and would begin the following week. Only for Harry would Hermione have put aside her books for an entire afternoon, but really, Ron was right. This was their final year at Hogwarts, and there were a few things that were even more important than studying, and even Hermione had to admit that sometimes, you had to take the time to savour the little things. Of course, the smell of Dennis’s cologne, made overpowering in the damp heat, was making it desirable to savour without breathing too deeply, she reflected.

The game lasted an agonizing five hours, three houses hanging on every goal and save, when, like a freight train, Harry came diving out of seemingly nowhere, and captured the Snitch from under Blake’s fingertips. The Gryffindor fans erupted, as Harry did a flyby, executing several playful barrel rolls before being swarmed under by the combined weight of his team, and two stands of spectators cheered themselves hoarse.

The final score had been 240 -170, and Hufflepuff, for the first time in a century, had won the House Cup.

It was hard to return to studying, after the charged atmosphere of the pitch, but Ancient Runes wait for no man – or witch, Hermione reflected with tired amusement.

Her feelings for Oliver were still rather confused, and she was loath to have them uncovered where she would be forced to examine them. Thankfully, Oliver seemed equally content to avoid any further emotional confrontation, and so, as graduation had crept inexorably closer, things settled nicely into a comfortable pattern. The fact that the safe constraints of the school would be lost in just two short weeks was something Hermione was trying hard to push from her mind. Of course, the fact that she was currently in his room, she admitted, made it much more difficult to ignore these things.

By unspoken accord, they had avoided being here since their return; whether to avoid the allusion presented by the bed, or simply to avoid being so intimately alone together, Hermione was unsure - but the library had been infuriatingly crowded this evening, and even the Common Room had been denied her when she had been driven out by a raucous game of Exploding Snap – well, actually, it hadn’t driven her out so much as forced Oliver to drag her out before she hexed someone. Unfortunately, being here was only bringing thoughts to the fore that she had been successfully ignoring. Hermione turned her hand over. Her palm had long since healed, leaving behind only a thin white scar, almost pearly in the dim light. It had been allowed to heal naturally, without the use of potions, as was the tradition, and for the first few days back to Hogwarts Oliver had tended it for her, changing the linens each night and massaging her hand with strong fingers smeared with an ointment that was faintly scented with comfrey oil and calendula.

He watched her, contentedly, as she sprawled out in a rather amusing heap on the hearth rug, mountains of books spread out around her, where she’d made a sort of nest for herself with her bag, piles of half-written scrolls and various other supplies. A handsome tawny quill was shoved carelessly behind one ear and her cheek was smudged with ink where she’d absently swiped it, and he had to admit, even if only privately, that there was something so Hermione in this, that he had to fight the urge to lose his fingers in her hair and discover the taste of her skin, starting with that ink smudge.

For her part, she seemed to be slowing down. Faint circles like fading bruises highlighted eyes that were glassy from lack of sleep, and though she had been staring diligently at her notes, she had been reading the same page for the last twenty minutes without blinking, lost in some inner reverie. He was momentarily surprised when she looked up rather suddenly.

“Oliver?” she began, startled.

“Mmm?” he indicated he was listening, trying to sound like she was interrupting him, instead of being caught staring at her.

“Where are we going to live?”

Oliver felt himself flushing beneath his collar, and rapidly spreading up his neck. Until that moment, he could honestly say he hadn’t really thought about it. Such a simple thing. Such a basic thing; and he hadn’t discussed it with her, hadn’t even bloody discussed it with himself.

But no, that wasn’t entirely truthful either. Her words had evoked an instant image of a simple stone cottage, lonely highlands; family. The image came to him so easily, so naturally, he couldn’t question the fact that, on some level, he’d just associated having a home with being back in Scotland, and apparently hadn’t bothered to inform the rest of him.

But would Hermione be contented with that? Scotland was not exactly the hub of the magical world. There were far fewer strictly wizarding places tucked away in Marr than in London, and she might find it too isolated to be happy. A’course, even the entirety of Aberdeenshire might not be big enough, with his mother there.

“Because I think we should have that sort of thing planned, at least —”

“Well, Mouse, I’d say that depends on what you might want to do now that you’re almost free of school.”

She looked away, staring into the fire while one hand began picking at the rug. “Actually, I haven’t decided.”

“Have they noo discussed it with yese?” he asked, confused. “Career counselling or some such?”

Still looking at the fire, Hermione nodded reluctantly. “I, uh, well I spoke to Professor McGonagall and everything. I did! And I got the information packets, you know, about how The Ministry Needs You! and other rubbish like that. I just…”

“What?”

“I just … haven’t found what I want, I guess. It’s all just, so different now. I thought, before all this, I wanted to be an Auror, with Harry and Ron, but now everything’s changed, and I’m not sure if I’ve not had enough of chasing Dark wizards around, frankly.”

She continued staring at the fire, obviously upset with herself for not having something as important as this figured out; planned, and Oliver found himself leaving his chair to kneel on the hearth rug.

“Ye don’ even have ta work, if ye dinnae want, you know—”

“I most certainly will not stay just stay at home!”

“—I had a pretty good career before the leagues stopped,” he continued, ignoring her outburst, “so we’re alrigh’ if ye wanted to do something wi’ yer House Elves, or something like tha’.”

Hesitantly, she smiled at him, obviously embarrassed by her assumption. “Thank you – but I think I’d like to do something, at least for now, that – there’s still so much to be done. It still feels as if no one’s really living; there’s no joy in anything.”

Her eyes sparkled with hopeful animation, the firelight turning their normal mix of tawny and chocolate to molten bronze. He shifted closer, slowly; more leaning in than actually moving really, continuing to watch her in the flickering light of the fire. She seemed to catch the subtle movement, her eyes dilating quite enticingly as she swallowed, her gaze betraying the new direction of her thoughts when her eyes darted to his lips. He smiled, and moved in closer still, slowly, so close that he was sure his breath was ghosting her skin and he could see that tempting ink stain, urging him still nearer from the corner of his eye.

Since their return from Wales, she had pulled back again, turning away from whatever they had gained during their week together. Frustrated with her seeming cool and then warm-again mood shifts, he had had a hard time allowing it, wanting to make her acknowledge him, to admit to what they had started. He waited until her eyes slowly closed, something inside him crowing with triumph as beautifully long lashes drifted down to rest on faintly freckled cheeks, and he closed the distance, touching her skin so gently, he wasn’t sure at first she felt it. The second time, he used just slightly more pressure, grazing her skin as softly as silk might, enjoying her softness even as he teased her.

Her eyes flew open, shocked, as he made to drag his thumb back across her stained cheek for a third time. He grinned, mischievously at her confused stare, and leaned back. “Ink,” he explained softly, privately smirking just a little. He was tired of their little game - she responded to him well enough, but come time when thought had time to chase itself around her head, she always seemed to talk herself out of it, banishing him back to some safe place in her mind. He bloody well wasn’t going to let her again. He would go slow, as slow as she needed, but he was going to go forward, not back, and if backing off slightly this evening was the only way to make her aware of the potential between them, he would find depths of patience hitherto unknown to witch or wizard.

Pleased with her obviously wanting look, Oliver searched for something to ease things back a little ways, and let her stew in her frustration. His eyes fell on a parchment, obviously a letter, stuffed between the pages of her Arithmancy book. Navy ink in an angular hand adorned the visible corner of it.

“Who’s been writing to you, then Mouse?” he asked with no more than friendly interest, satisfied in the diversion this unassuming question should provide. He wasn’t really listening, not closely; too busy basking in the success of a moment before, when a name caught his attention.

“… heard from Viktor in so long, I—”

“Viktor Krum?” Of course he’d heard - who hadn’t heard that Hermione Granger had been dating one Viktor Krum during her fourth year? What the hell did that wanker want?

Hermione nodded, and suddenly her expression clouded.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing doesnae make yer face sour like a bowl of cold oatmeal. What is it, lass?”

“Oh, thank you for that image. I can see why you were so popular with the ladies, Mister Wood,” Hermione rolled her eyes before continuing, “Viktor wrote to ask me how I was – apparently, he heard about what’s been going on here. He asked if I was happy; if I wanted him to try and intervene. Apparently, he feels he could remove me from my contract, if I wanted – something to do with an uncle at the Bulgarian Ministry, I think, though I don’t know how he’d expect that to make any difference...”

Something in his gaze must have got to her, because she allowed her ramblings to trail off. Oliver waited a moment, until he was sure he could speak without any of what he was feeling showing on his face, and then asked, as neutrally as he could manage, “Did ye want to talk to Mister Krum about his offer, then?”

Hermione stared at him, searchingly, but he kept his face impassive, and she glanced away again, looking pensive. Oliver felt something inside him tighten painfully and when she won’t even look at him, new worries made him feel positively ill.

“It’s late, Oliver, and I have my exams starting this week. I think it’s time we both get some sleep.”

Of course, all this did was remind him of the last time she had given him suggestions about sleeping, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek in frustration, and even some desire. He watched her shift around, trying to pack everything as quickly as she could, never raising her head.

He startled her when, as she turned to leave he stopped her with a steely grip on her arm.

Apparently, he’d decided to ignore her, as before she could even scold him, he’d pulled her close, staring into her eyes with such intensity, she felt her reprimand dying on her lips. Wind tanned skin glowed faintly in the warm light cast by the fire, one errant lock of sandy fringe making her fingers itch to push it back in spite of herself, and she felt her eyes close again without her willing it; waiting. Moist breath against her skin, and he was kissing her, fierce, determined, and not terribly gentle; the warm, wet pressure of his lips gliding over hers before he was nipping, coaxing her to open for him. Only his hands on her upper arms were preventing her from leaning further into that embrace, or from tangling her fingers in his hair.

She could taste the apple he’d eaten earlier, the cocoa he’d been drinking, but she could also taste him, and it was quickly threatening to make her forget why this was such a bad idea. But just before her unease could push its way into panic, his grip loosened and fell away. Hands that had been holding her arms so tightly, were now cupping the back of her head. His kiss gentled, teasing licks and nips as he pulled back, watching her eyes as he butterflied soft thumbs over the high points of her cheeks. His lips crinkled into a smile, warm and affectionate as he continued to gaze at her, apparently content with everything that had her stomach rolling like a ship under heavy storm.

Staring back at him uncertainly for a moment, Hermione quickly grabbed her bag and left, only just slowly enough to not be considered running.

***

THE FIRST day of their exams dawned hazy and sticky, causing Harry to eye his robes with distaste as he contemplated how unpleasant and damp they were going to be by dinner time. Just his luck, Potions was scheduled for first thing this afternoon, meaning that, not only would he be working over a fire during the hottest part of the day, but he wouldn’t even be able to concentrate fully on his Defence Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T. without it being overshadowed by the looming presence of the exam directly after.

Soft snores were still coming from behind the curtains of Ron’s bed, but Harry made no move to wake him up, feeling rather glad that at least one of them had been able to get some sleep, even if only by dint of passing out over a text book.

By the end of their first exam, Harry was wishing he’d had a little more sleep himself, as he struggled to get thorough the last of the practical set by the Ministry. “Once again, Mister Potter, please demonstrate your duelling technique? Somehow, I do not think an Expelliarmus is sufficiently, well, threatening, frankly. I’m sure, you of all people, understand how important it is to react quickly and with something that works in such a situation? Now, let’s try that again...”

Frankly, Sir, it works almost as well as a knee to the bollocks, but Harry managed to bit back his comment and ground his teeth instead, as he was lead through the exercise again. By the time he made it to lunch he was fuming, painfully recounting every detail to Dean and Ron, who, after the first few minutes of the narrative, began to guffaw, loudly.

Potions was every bit the nightmare he’d been expecting, but with the added silver lining of Snape not being able to do more than just stand there and glower as the examiner, a Madame Pinniette, gave grudging praise to Harry’s correctly leaf-green shimmering Sanctimonious Soother. Somehow, every bit of sweat, and even his burned thumb, seemed worth it for that one moment when Snape looked like he might swallow his own tongue.

Suddenly, his week was looking up.

Tuesday was Charms, and Wednesday was Herbology. On Thursday, Ron came down from the Divinations Tower nearly bent double with laughter, finally being free of the batty old fraud that had simply lapped up his augury of his own painful execution, scheduled, he told them, for the day after his exams, and committed by the Bloody Baron. Even Hermione couldn’t completely maintain her disapproval at this sort of cheating, and even allowed herself to smile, fleetingly. Ron of course, teased her about it for the rest of the day.

And finally, it was Friday, and they had finished the last of their exams, Transfigurations, and had enjoyed a free period, where they sat around feeling more like rung out sponges more than triumphant students, before venturing forth and managing to snag Hermione out from under the nose of the Ancient Runes professor, whom she had sat with last. Hermione, of course, was being typical Hermione, and had nearly managed to work herself into a nervous mess before they had even made it to the dining hall.

“I think I missed the question about Leif Ironson, in 1067 –”

She had turned to go, as if she were going to go back and give the correct answer now.

“Hermione—”

“Oh, but –” she protested unwillingly, clearly still torn.

“Let it go, Hermione.” Harry couldn’t help but grin at her, sharing his amusement with Ron over their friend’s infrequent bouts of ridiculousness. Hermione looked up at him for a moment, before sheepishly biting her lip with a sigh. For the next half hour, Harry still caught her sneaking glances towards the hallway, as if she hadn’t quite managed to give up the idea just yet.

Harry found himself echoing that sigh, blissfully aware that they now had a whole week to themselves, with no studying, no homework, and absolutely no professors to muck it up, and he found himself feeling content with the whole world as he enjoyed the uncomplicated speculation as to whether there would be pudding with dinner this evening.

***

THE FINAL train ride on The Hogwarts Express was looming like a gateway to her new life. Of course, as seniors, and over-aged ones at that, most of them could simply Apparate from beyond the school gates, but no one seemed to be even considering it. Hermione wondered if it was because of all that had happened to this particular group of young adults, or if previous graduates had felt the same need she did, to end the adventure as it had begun? Whatever the motive, she found the journey down to the platform seemed surreal. Bird song sounded unnaturally loud through the open windows as she and Lavender made their way down for breakfast. Bright patches of repaired stone stood out glaringly against the worn steps of Gryffindor Tower, and Hermione smiled, thinking of the generations of feet it would take to wear it to uniformity again. Somehow, it was enormously comforting just now to know her stay at this seeming eternal castle would not go without visible evidence for some time to come.

The walk down to the village and the train platform there was full of relieved chatter as laughing groups of students rattled on, promising to write, to Floo, to keep in touch over the summer. In amongst them, in small pockets, the senior students made their way; still chatting, but quietly; still laughing, but somehow restrained. Hermione watched as plumes of steam rose above the trees that still hide the train from view, just letting Ginny and Luna’s chatter wash over her. A few paces away, Oliver was conversing with Harry and Ron, and Hermione watched as he tipped his head back to laugh at something Ron had said.

They found a compartment near the back of the train, Harry was rummaging in his bag for a deck of Exploding Snap, while Ron was already sitting, staring out the window at Hogsmede, perhaps trying to memorize the details of the village that had been so much part of their lives at Hogwarts. Hermione was straining to get her trunk up onto the storage rack. “Crap!” she swore, as she put her jammed finger in her mouth, turning to use her shoulder to keep the half-falling trunk from sliding to the floor again. It was this need to keep the heavy trunk from falling on her that prevented her from jumping when she felt two arms reach around her.

“Le’ me get tha’,” Oliver said, gruffly. He spoke right beside her ear, and for a moment she completely forgot what she had been doing. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to expect a response, as she felt quite unable to breathe while he easily slid her trunk into its place above the compartment. For a moment he looked at her, before dropping his arms quickly and taking a step back. He jerked his head towards the hallway, and said, “I’ll let ye have some time with yer friends.” There was no trace of hurt in his demeanour, only wry acceptance.

“Thank you,” she said - and meant it. With a nod, he left, sliding the door closed behind him. Now why didn’t I just use my wand? she was forced to wonder, belatedly.

“What was that about?” Harry asked, as Hermione came to sit beside him. She shrugged, not wanting to delve too deeply into things just now, and turned the conversation to ask about their plans for the summer instead.

The witch with the trolley had already been ‘round by the time Oliver joined them again, and from the way his eyes flicked over her, sitting beside Harry, Hermione knew he was fully aware of the deliberateness of her chosen spot, but he made no comment, taking the place left for him by Ron without a word.

It was getting dark by the time they pulled into King’s Cross. The whistle blew, signalling for the sudden, noisy exodus as students fumbled to cram the last bit of their belongings into overflowing trunks, or collect Familiars and robes before heading out into the choked aisle. Hermione gave one look at the crammed mass of bodies, and raised an eyebrow at her companions, settling back to wait it out. Their rolled eyes and impatient expressions poorly disguised their pleasure in having this excuse to put off the moment just a little while longer. But, no matter how much Hermione wished it otherwise, in a surprisingly short time the crammed aisle cleared, they had their things gathered together, were through the barrier and were standing awkwardly in the thinning crowd of the Muggle part of the station.

“Well,” Ron began uncomfortably, looking down and around their feet.

“Er, yeah,” Harry responded, looking for a moment like he was debating. With a shrug, he pulled Ron into a startled hug, ignoring the looks he was getting from the Muggle guard when this sudden move caused Hedwig to squawk reproachfully.

Hermione was pulled into the hug a second later, and it was a tangle of arms and chests as she revelled in having her two boys close for perhaps the last time, at least like this, and the three of them stood grinning at one another, even once Harry had released them. Hermione sniffed, quietly, but by blinking rapidly a few times, she quickly it under control; now was not the time for that. From between Harry and Ron, Hermione could see two shocks of familiar red hair, and knew they saw it too, and even though Molly and Arthur stayed, lingering by the stile, they could feel the moment of separation had finally come.

“Right then,” Ron said, roughly, turning to Oliver. “I expect you to talk care of her, mate—”

“Ron!” Hermione squeaked, aghast.

“And don’t mind her scolding, that’s just how she tells you she cares,” he finished, grinning at her, having neatly circumvented her imminent protests.

Harry reached over and shook Oliver’s hand, while looking over at the gaping Hermione. “We’ll owl you – and there are always visits…”

She nodded, absolutely sure that if she opened her mouth, she’d give herself away. And with a final flurry of hugs, and fierce promises to get in touch soon, Hermione was left standing with Oliver under the electric lights of the station.

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