Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

Chapter 15 -

15
And Back to Back They Shall Face Each Other



AFTER A great deal of discussion, they had finally decided to settle in Marr, at least until Hermione had decided what direction she wanted to take. And so it was that she found herself Apparating once more to the outskirts of the small township, just as twilight darkened the night sky around them.

They had discussed possible living arrangements for days, but it really came down, in the end, to the fact that though Hermione had job packets and offers galore, she still didn’t know what she wanted to do. Oliver had hesitantly suggested returning to Scotland, and she had been surprised to find she liked that idea, remembering her time with Adrianne and her welcoming home. Oliver was likely to be away a fair bit, at least in the foreseeable future, and he was reluctant to leave her completely alone in such an unfamiliar place, despite her indignant reminders of her ability to take care of herself, and so with considerable reluctance she found herself agreeing to Brighid Wood’s offer of taking residence at Wood Croft.

Of course, if the suggestion had been to live in the main house itself, not all the sweet smiles and softly burring reassurances in the world would have made her agree. Thankfully, Wood Croft was a relic from a time long past, were it had been common for landowners to divide their holdings between their sons, and so it still held several croft cottages on the extensive property.

Hermione found herself taking deep breaths, trying to brace herself. Noticing, Oliver smiled reassuringly.

“I told her we’d be wanting t’ spend the evening alone, Mouse – give ye a chance t’ settle in before havin’ t’ deal with tha’ lot.”

She gave him a thankful smile, pausing to enjoy his profile in the faint glow still left in the sky. He suited this place, she decided; strong and capable and somehow … she wasn’t sure she had the words, but being here with him felt terribly good at the moment, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that, either. Things had just become so tangled and confused since Wales, when they had seemed to be finally heading for a comfortable and rewarding friendship. Now, she wasn’t sure if she might not like him to actually mean it when he kissed her, or worse yet, do more than just kiss her. But there was every possibility that he was just responding to their forced proximity, and she didn’t want to contemplate the mess that would be left to deal with if it proved to be no more than that and she allowed it to get out of hand.

The warm yellowish glow of lights became visible as the crested the small rise and Hermione got her first look at her new home. A modest cottage, certainly more than enough for her and Oliver’s needs, stood below them. Built of pale rose-coloured granite, it appeared a little less magical than Adrianne’s corkscrewing home, with its small second story perfectly in-line with the first, and both its chimneys being arrow-straight, but it was framed on either side by two massively twisty trees that almost gave the appearance of holding up the walls. In the gathering gloom, Hermione couldn’t tell what they might be, but made a firm promise to herself to review her Herbology text in the morning. Softly glowing light spilled from the windows, the source of which someone had obviously been thoughtful enough to leave to greet them. The white paint of the newly erected owl roost practically gleamed where it stood outside the kitchen window, ready to take deliveries.

Craning her head around, Hermione tried to take in every detail as she followed Oliver up the lane, but found that she only got the barest impressions of a freshly tended walk, and a yard in need of trimming before she was startled by Oliver suddenly reaching for her, and gently swinging her into his arms.

“What are you doing?”

The look he gave her was unreadable, but he answered lightly enough, “I think, Mouse, tha’ it’s tradition t’ carry a bride over the threshold of her new home. Much harder for her t’ run away, I’m sure, or something like tha’ – ouch!”

He chuckled at her flaming face, and completely ignored her next swat as he freed a hand to open the door, holding her as easily in one arm as if she weighed no more than Crookshanks, which she most certainly did, she reflected sourly. Even still, she stopped squirming, not wanting to make it more difficult for him, since he was obviously determined in this bit of sentimental foolishness – and her stomach was just fine, thank you very much, and most definitely not fluttering, nor was the hand that was now curling behind his neck there for any other reason than to help her maintain her balance.

A little voice in the back of her head was primly suppressed before it could call her a liar.

“Ready t’ make a home of our own?” he asked quietly, still looking at her with that uncomfortably intense expression. She nodded, slowly, unable to look away as he pushed the door open with one shoulder, and carried her inside, his grip on her, if anything, cradling her closer to his broad chest, until she could feel his breath stirring her hair where her head rested just below his chin.

The floor in the kitchen was of grey slate, with the same rosy hue as the outside stone. The table was scrubbed wood, and appeared level and inviting, already with several covered dishes steaming gently between the two place settings. A rather lengthy parchment waited on one of the bone china plates, she noticed.

“Do you think it’s possible for a soul to exist in two bodies?” Hermione asked sardonically, as Oliver gazed at his mother’s handiwork with rueful amusement.

“Sounds like a rather romantic notion, Mouse, though I’m fairly sure tha’s no’ what ye meant.”

Hermione shuddered. “Not when talking about your mother, no. I only meant that it appears that she is channelling Molly Weasley with frighteningly accurate results.”

It was Oliver’s turn to shudder, as he bent to set Hermione lightly on her feet again. “She certainly manages t’ kill a moment, without even being present. I’m fair certain it’s a skill necessary tae a mother of a couple of healthy young men growing up wi’ access t’ so many nice barns and such, but I’d rather hoped she’d leave off by now.”

Hermione couldn’t help but giggle as Oliver had intended, firmly ignoring the rather uncomfortable way thinking of a teenaged Oliver in relation to young women’s persons in the privacy of an outbuilding was making her feel.

She moved off, making a vague comment about putting her things away, hoping to find a little privacy to put her muddled thoughts in order. Oliver seemed to understand, as he let her go, allowing her to carry her own bags for perhaps the first time since she’d known him.

There were two rooms on the upper floor, reached by a narrow stair at the back of the kitchen, and Hermione crossed the short hall to the larger of the two, obviously intended as the Master Bedroom. She had no more than entered the room when she was enveloped in a shockingly bubble-gum pink cloud of vapour, smelling faintly of roses and hellebore root, and – Dragons?

“Oliver!”

***

THE NEXT few days were like a scavenger hunt, if you felt a scavenger hunt was like traversing a mine-field of pranks with the only reward in sight the possibility that you may be able to hex the red-headed bastards who had laid it. No part of the cottage was safe from their attentions, and by the second day, Hermione had taken to wandering the house with her wand poised, as even a trip to the bathroom the first night had proven that nothing had been held sacred, when a lisping, little girl’s voice had issued from the singing toilet seat:

Tinkle, Tinkle
Little Star
No need to wonder where you are
Up above the bowl so high
Like a fountain in the sky
Tinkle, Tinkle
Little Star
…
…
Oi, how about you leaving off, eh?

Oliver had found it hilarious. He could, Hermione pointed out irritably, as it hadn’t been him who had crept into the loo in the middle of the night and half asleep; nor he who had blasted a hole in the tile of the cramped shower in their shock. Oliver had fixed the damage good-naturedly the next morning, but that didn’t stop him from chuckling at her for days to come.

He hadn’t laughed nearly so much when it had been his broomstick under attack. It had been over a week now, and Hermione was secretly amused that it was still a lovely pale lavender, with little peach hearts all over the tail end, with nothing Oliver had tried having any effect, whatsoever.

Crookshanks, ever sensible, had shaken one disdainful paw at the first explosion, and taken to exploring his new kingdom, stalking mice in the gardens and field for the next few days instead.

Irritating though the twins’ house warming may have been, it did suffice to distract them from any awkwardness as they settled into the small cottage, serving as a common battleground and uniting front, as well as just taking so much of their energy as to not allow time for discomfort, and it was with considerable shock that Hermione realized that two weeks had passed.

The small cottage, which Oliver had dubbed something complicated in Gaelic, (and Hermione was sure this was simply because it amused him to her hear try and pronounce it), was sound, if old, and had been thoroughly cleaned prior to their arrival. It was furnished in what Hermione tended to think of as sort of as vintage college dorm, being just slightly above milk-crate end tables, or cardboard box bookshelves, but it was very true that the furnishings were well worn, and serviceable, if not ascetic, and with magic, they were able to make things stretch surprisingly far. Of course, Oliver had money from his playing days, quite a bit of it to be sure, but somehow, Hermione didn’t want to use it for this, being rather content with the warm, if not beautiful, atmosphere at Cot Buin a’ Fiadhaiche Luchan, which, when pressed, he’d finally laughingly admitted to meaning Home of the Fierce Mouse. Of course, she was rather irritated that she didn’t find this out until after she had wasted considerable time learning how to pronounce it.

The trees had turned out to be Cuileann, or holly trees, so planted, according to Oliver, because of their male and female nature. Only female holly plants bore the distinctive red berries, and their dependant relationship had long been accepted as a talisman for a happy family, and a good start to a married life, though by the reddening of his ears, and the way he didn’t meet her eyes as he told her had Hermione convinced they also had something to do with fertility, too. In addition, they were considered a powerful talisman of luck and protection, explaining why they were incorporated into the very wall of their cottage. He also pointed out that the talisman was especially effective as Holly traditionally presided over the month of June.

The whole family had descended on them the second day, and though Hermione was pleased to see Adrianne again, she could have done without Oliver’s mother, especially when, in her enthusiasm for grandchildren, she began nudging her son and making nodding motions to the bedroom as the family was preparing to leave for the night. It was a good thing Oliver had had the foresight to take Hermione’s wand from her before dinner.

Adrianne’s husband, Jamie, turned out to be typically Scottish to Hermione’s eyes, being tall and brawny and red-haired, but was delightfully mild mannered with a quick humour that often had her in stitches. Oliver admitted to liking him, which, Hermione felt, was a big concession considering the man was married to his sister, and having observed Ron’s rather hostile attitudes to anyone giving Ginny so much as a friendly smile. Michael was also around, staying at the main house and loudly proclaiming himself to be on-hand for the birth of Adrianne and Jamie’s first child – though what he thought he could do to aid things, Hermione had no idea.

When asked what they had done for a honeymoon, Oliver had admitted to taking Hermione to Wales, and with a start, Hermione realised that of course his family knew nothing of his real purpose, only seeing a former Quidditch player who refused to abandon his former glory days – a perception that hit uncomfortably close to home when compared to her original impressions of him. He was so much more than that, she’d learned, and found herself indignantly defending him under their combined criticism.

“Could ye nae think of something more suitable?” Jamie had asked, clearly trying to be as diplomatic as he was able.

“Really, Oliver, Ah though’ Ah’d taught ye better’n that – Wales may’ve a bonny league almost in the sky right noo, but Ah’m sure Hermione would hae preferred something a wee bit more romantic—”

“Hush, Michael. Ah’m sure he knew wha’ he wiss doing.” Adrianne admonished. However, the look she gave him was only slightly confident.

What business was it of theirs to be discussing what she wanted like that? “Actually, we had a wonderful time – it was exactly what I would have wanted, though I hardly expected Oliver to know that. It was quite a lovely surprise that he knew me so well.” Whatever issues she had with Oliver were personal, and she’d be damned if she let them start on him.

Of course, the leering was not an expected consequence of her rather determined declaration. Nor were the speculative looks from Adrianne, or Mrs. Wood. Raising her chin, she attempted to barrel through anyway. After all, it was none of their business just how tepid her real relationship with Oliver actually was, and what did she care if they assumed otherwise? “It took a great deal of thought to pick something so personal; it was a lovely holiday.” Her glare seemed to have provided the correct response, finally, at least in the boys, for Michael and Jamie were both looking at their plates now, rather contritely, and even Mrs. Wood seemed satisfied, but Adrianne still watched Hermione from eyes that had grown thoughtful and speculative. She looked over to Oliver, but her triumphant feeling faded at the look he was giving her. It was only there for a moment, but it was certainly a fact that long after the rest had left, he was withdrawn.

The days were rapidly flying away from her as she settled in with surprising ease at Cot Luchan, and she grew to love every square inch of the place, for all its wonders and marvels. She quickly lost track of time in the strenuous task of making the small cottage home, which included ousting the remainder of the twins’ pranks, along with an assortment of rabbits and a couple of mice. The front gardens needed tending, and with a slight shock, and a surprising amount of pleasure, she realised that they were hers to do with as she pleased. It wasn’t long before she was digging out her old Herbology books and cross referencing with her Potions text, to plant probably the only garden in all of Marr that was geared towards things like the Felix Felicis or the Confusing and Befuddlement Draught.

The afternoon was bonny and warm, threatening to burn the back of his neck as he worked to fix the rather ancient well that stood on the north end of their yard. Even with magic, it wasn’t an instant process, as magic didn’t prevent him from royally mucking up and causing a sink-hole with his carelessness. Of course, the pump in the kitchen was nothing to the shiny taps he’d grown accustomed to at Hogwarts, or even Hermione’s home, but he rather suspected that those innovations had been taken from the Muggles, somewhere along the way, apparently after his home had been built. Sometimes, Oliver was forced to wonder if it was just arrogance that had the wizarding community convinced the Muggles might plague them for magical solutions to every problem if the Statute of Secrecy were ever breached. From his experience, it seemed that it was the Muggles who provided most of the solutions, albeit unknowingly. More than clever enough by half, the magic folk might be in for a rather rude surprise to find that they might not really be needed.

The short Highland summer may be coming to an end all too soon, but for right now, the midday sun was fierce, exposed as he was, but he threw his effort into his work and ignored it, lost in the hammerings of his own thoughts. Two weeks. Two weeks they’d been here, and he’d yet to make any sort of dent on her stubborn determination. Oh, she talked with him easily enough, even laughing occasionally over something inconsequential, but it was always at arm’s length from her real emotions, always perfectly cordial and cool. He could only presume that he would still be sitting in this depressing purgatory until he simply burned up from his own wanting.

It was partially his own fault, he admitted. Sitting there, listening as she blatantly told his whole family what a thoughtful, attentive lover he was had made him burn inside, in ways he wasn’t sure she would have appreciated under any circumstances. He’d like to be that man, the one who knew her so intimately that he could plan romantic holidays for his wife with some degree of success, to be the man who was responsible for the little blush that had been upon her cheeks when speaking of their holiday in the way his family had taken it. And what had he done when her words had made him squirm with the fact that she had to lie for him, that he hadn’t been able to even do that much for her? He’d slunk away to brood. Oliver didn’t brood, never had. So what the hell was he doing?

He dug harder, throwing his shoulders behind the motion determinedly. It made no difference, his thoughts continued to keep time to the heavy whumphs of dirt being thrown above him head by the shovel he’d enchanted there. Shink. Another shovel full of loose soil flung over his straining shoulders to land on the lip of the partially cleared hole. Whomph. Another small avalanche of dirt was shifted by his be-spelled wand as it dug into his deposited pile, clearing the rim. He’d gladly channel all his energies into building her a home, if only he could woo her with his ability to provide for her, take care of her, and be that solid presence in her life, like the holly-impregnated stone walls of their cottage; protector and sheltered. Merlin knew he hadn’t found any other way to dent her resolve.

He snorted. Fanciful thoughts for a man who couldn’t even claim to have bedded his wife with any degree of success; even in the embarrassingly simple step encouraging her to lay a touch closer on their bed, let alone draw her into his chest and hold her to him as she slept. His hands tightened on the handle of his shovel grimly. He knew, if he didn’t manage to open her up soon, she would become set in her perceptions, things would cool and stagnate in the overly-polite and distant Wood household, and he’d – no, they’d both be facing the hell of being married with so many walls up between them. He’d been so intent on being patient, that mayhap he was allowing this to happen, and he’d be damned if he just sat back while she carefully fortified herself behind emotional walls designed to keep him out.

It was with new resolve that he dug into the chore, mind far more pleasantly occupied by a soft, brown mouse.

The clock in the corner ticked softly, barely heard over the rustling of turning pages. It wasn’t as grand as the Weasley clock by any means, but had been given by them, whom she held as dear as her own family, and it was rather remarkable in its own way.

Just as one would expect, it had the normal three hands on its front, measuring out each day as it was supposed to, but Hermione had been assured it possessed some small magic of its own that she would have to figure out with time. Of course, it had been a constant source of puzzlement and a little niggling bee buzzing around her thoughts as she worked around the house, her mind always circling back to it, only to be frustrated by its seeming-mundane-ness.

Tonight, she had determinedly forced it from her mind, opting instead to work on the equally frustrating task of deciphering Pafft’s book. Oliver had gone out with Ian, most likely out to some pub, so she was alone in the house for perhaps the first night since they’d arrived, and she was actually enjoying it. Silvery moonlight came in through the open shutters, turning the beautiful rose-grey stone of her kitchen to deep stormy-mauve instead, and she moved around the darkened room easily as she brewed herself a cup of milky tea. The stone was cool on her bare feet where they poked out from beneath the dragging hem of her sleep pants, and she stooped to fill Crookshanks’s water from the pump while she waited for the kettle to whistle.

Oliver’s barn owl, David, (pronounced da-VEED in his soft bur), hooted softly from where it roasted most nights above the eves, but the deep whistle of his call was so familiar that she barely heard it, and she smiled softly without realizing it as she fished the tea leaves from her cup and guiltily gathered a few biscuits and retreated to their bedroom.

The leather cover of Pafft’s book was warm in her hand, the rich leather dark with the oil of much handling, and for a moment, Hermione just sat there cross-legged on their bed, propped up by cramming not only hers, but Oliver’s pillows against the headboard as well, and contemplated the cracked binding, just feeling, trying to clear her mind in hopes of making some intuitive connection. The scent of peppermint curled under her nose from the steaming mug on her nightstand as she waited hopefully for some feeling of inspiration, some sign that tonight might go any better than any of her previous attempts to wring something usefull from the dratted book. When nothing came, she opened it to her marked page with a weary sigh.


I SHALL desire thee, whoever thou art, that intendest the noble (though too much abused) study of physic, to mind heedfully these following rules; which being well understood, shew thee the Key of Galen and Hippocrates their method of physic: he that useth their method, and is not heedful of these rules, may soon cure one disease, and cause another more desperate…

There are four Natural Vitrues bred in the body of Witch or Wizard, being Muggle Born or Pure; being Blood, Choler, Flegm, and Melancholy, though the very un-naturalness of the Muggle-born will affect the disposition of these principles…

Oh really – the old man had just liked the sound of his own voice, or the sight of his own spidery script, as the case may be, she thought irritably. Why bother copying out such passages, pertaining as they did to such mundane things? Though she was certainly thankful, at least on some levels, for the researcher’s apparent need for obsessive footnoting, thereby ensuring she had large passages of the original, stolen book to study, she simply couldn’t help being irritated by the shear waste of energy being employed when much less exhaustive notes would have sufficed for his rather prosaic purposes. It was as if he felt the additional quotations added extra credence to his work, that it was unable to stand on its own. Besides, why in the world would someone bother to translate Old Arabian into almost equally incomprehensible Old English?

Frankly, she was much less certain they were going to find anything in the book, by this point – though at first unable to imagine why simple research notes such as these would be hidden so carefully if they didn’t contain anything helpful, after reading any amount of Mycroft Pafft’s verbose and overly-impressed-with-itself commentary, she was beginning to understand perfectly – but she had nowhere else to even start at the moment, and though Oliver hadn’t stressed the importance of what he was doing, Hermione had eyes, and could perfectly see what the stress of not knowing was doing to the world she had fought to protect almost two years ago now. Death Eaters were no longer quite so scary as when she’d been a girl – going up against Voldemort in all his snake-like glory had seen to that – but she understood history, and knew full well that there were likely many other groups than just the remnants of Death Eaters who were waiting at the fringes, ready to take advantage of the upheaval.

Eight Muggle children dead. A loose Vampire. A stolen book. Think, Hermione. This is just like trying to track Dark Magic during the war – you know how to do this. A dead man in a bookcase. But struggle as she might, her mind just wasn’t cooperating, instead she would notice the way Oliver’s pillow smelled beneath her head, and she breathed in deeper, before she could stop herself. A stray wisp of her hair brushed her nose, causing her to swipe it with annoyance, while unconsciously wondering what Oliver’s hair would feel like between her fingers. Frustrated, she let herself forward to plant herself face first in the pillow in her lap, and groaned. Why couldn’t she concentrate? Even for one blasted evening? The burly highlander had slowly begun to take over her life, working his way into her every thought, no matter how innocent or mundane.

“Uhm… Mouse? Is everything alrigh’?”

Of course, her husband would choose that moment to walk through the door.

She blew out a frustrated breath, still face-first in the pillow. “Just fine, Oliver,” she answered, refusing for the moment to surface. It was nice here; she didn’t have to see things that made nerve endings she hadn’t even been aware she had tingle and dance in an annoyingly perky way; didn’t have to smell the way his soft scent, which she had never noticed so much as now that she was trying not to, filled each room he was in given more than five minutes; and certainly didn’t have to notice just how everything tended to become background to the handsome highlander when she wasn’t guarding her thoughts.

Unfortunately for her new-found determination to see how long she could possibly stay there, Oliver’s next comment pulled her up with an involuntary jerk.

“Michael and Ian were asking if ye were in a family way yet.”

“What!” she squeaked.

But Oliver had moved over to the far end of the room, struggling to get out of his shirt with fingers that were slightly less coordinated than when he had left, and Hermione momentarily wished she hadn’t lifted her head from the safety of the pillow.

She’d left her bedside lamp lit to work by, and the yellow glow didn’t quite reach the far end, casting him into rippling shadows and reliefs. It was like watching a marble sculpture come to life, each muscle was ridiculously highlighted as it flexed, looking perfect and controlled in a way that only professional athletes ever really achieve. Both arms were above his head, and she couldn’t seem to look away as the hem of his shirt rose in slow motion, now above his navel, and twisting slightly, now one bronze nipple was visible as he got one arm free - and Hermione was suddenly quite sure that this was somehow worse than seeing him with no shirt on at all. There was a teasing quality to it, as each inch of his powerful chest came into view, that had her unable to look away. For Merlin’s sake, the man actually had a stomach that more closely resembled a rock wall, or a washboard perhaps, eked out in impossibly sharp definition by the deep shadows her feeble light could not quite touch. With one final flick of his wrist, he sent it to land untidily in the hamper in the open closet. Of course, that also meant that he was now fully aware of her eyes on him. She glared at his amused look.

“Oh, stop it. You look very impressive, and you know it,” she snapped huffily.

Oliver laughed. “So do you, Mouse.”

“I most certainly do not. I’m possibly pretty – if you really stretched the point. I have hair that can most kindly be described as bushy, and I’m rather short, and not terribly thin.”

He stopped what he had been doing, which, for Hermione’s peace of mind was perhaps not the best thing for him to have done. She couldn’t understand why he had been undressing here, except to think that he must have drank more ale than she originally thought. His hands stilled and he turned to regard her, head cocked to one side contemplatively. Unfortunately, this also drew attention to the fact that his denims were unbuttoned, and hanging rather precariously on his hips.

“I donna think I’d care ta hear tha’ again,” he said quietly.

Hermione goggled at him, before bristling, “What? I can be realistic about myself, and I don’t require any ego stroking from you, thank you very much. I’m quite comfortable as I am.”

“It’s no’ yer ego I’d care t’ be stroking lass.” While Hermione began to splutter indignantly, he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “A touch mental, I’ll grant ye, but certainly no’ plain.” He grinned at her, clearly amused by her helpless railing.

“Just how much did you drink tonight?” she humphed.

Oliver crossed the room to join her on the bed, still wearing those damned slipping trousers. As he came into the glowing circle of light thrown off by her lamp, the strange shadows receded, making his skin look warm and living once more, less like the cold perfection of a sculpture but more inviting, too. A fine trail of dark brown hairs started just beneath his belly button and just served to draw her embarrassed attention back down to the waistband of his trousers. She fought to keep him in only the periphery of her vision and not stare, and certainly not give away how uncomfortable he was making her. After all, it wasn’t as if he were actually indecent, with only his shirt missing and it would be mortifying to admit that she was having a hard time handling the sight of this much of him. Which was completely silly, as he usually came to bed in just a pair of well-worn sleep pants, so the fact that he was wearing denims instead shouldn’t make any difference – but it did. Perhaps it was the half-undone fly, which simply screamed things she didn’t particularly want to think about just yet, or the way that his hip bones became visible briefly as he walked, offering tantalizing glimpses that she definitely didn’t want to think about.

“Why is it every time I’m friendly wi’ ye, you accuse me of bein’ drunk?”

“Not drunk, merely excessively relaxed. And you have to admit, you’ve set a fine precedent for yourself, haven’t you?”

He grinned at her again, and she couldn’t help but wonder at what was different in his mood these past few weeks. He shifted her scattered notes and joined her on the bed, stretching out to lean on one elbow as he faced her. She’d forgotten that she’d left her current book on the bed, turned over to keep her page and unfortunately uncovered when he moved her things. He picked it up curiously before she could stop him, and she felt her face flame as he read the title and lifted a sardonic eye to her. Damn Ginny and her vitiate sense of humour – and her own inability to ignore an unread book, no matter how ridiculous.

“Kiss of the Highlander? Is there something I should be reading inta this?” He easily avoided her wild grab, and Hermione was quite sure that if it were at all possible, she could fry an egg on her forehead for the heat she was radiating. The cover, of course, left absolutely no question as to what kind of novel it was.

“Absolutely not!” she choked.

“Are ye sure, then? Seems t’ me tha’ perhaps I’m being negligent here somewhere, I mean t’ drive you t’ such lengths. Or is this some sort of physiological ploy?”

“Nothing of the sort. Merely – merely Ginny’s questionable taste in hen gifts.”

“I see. An yer reading it because—?”

“Because Ginny bought it for me and it would be rude not too. Besides, Dad hasn’t sent over the rest of my books yet and frankly, it was the last thing left in the cottage that I haven’t read.”

“Don’ tell me ye waded through all that Lockehart trash my mum sent over, did ye?” Oliver winced when she nodded, and moved to set the suggestive book on the bedside table. Hermione began to breathe easier at his apparent willingness to let the embarrassing topic die.

“Oh, and Hermione—”

He caught her lips before she could even respond. Warmth spread rapidly from the wet slide of his mouth on hers, causing her belly to tighten nervously, even as she leaned in – only slightly, mind. His large hand was cradling her head and nape of her neck, positioning her just so while he lazily spread his attentions between kissing her and gently worrying her bottom lip with his teeth. She was grateful when he moved back; placing a comfortable distance between them again without pressing things further, despite a hundred protesting hormones that wanted to follow him across the bed.

“If ye wanted a kiss, all ye had t’ do was ask.”

His comment seemed nonsensical for a moment, before the fog cleared enough for her to remember the cause of this awkward conversation. He was smirking at her, clearly enjoying the fact that he’d flustered her. “I’m sure I’m much better than mere paper, lass.”

She glared at him, refusing to be drawn into this conversation, and was surprised to hear herself say “Oh, I don’t know. Some things are better left up to the imagination.” Because at least if I imagine it, I don’t realize how much better the reality really is.

He tensed, no longer smiling, and searched her face for a moment before relaxing again. “So, any luck wi’ Pafft’s damned book tonight?”

“I haven’t finished it – a lot of it is very redundant…”

“Is tha’ a no, then?”

Hermione sighed, hating to admit so much defeat, when he was clearly hoping for something. “I haven’t found anything yet, no.”

Oliver rolled over to his back, one arm bent behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. Tonelessly, he informed, “Percy scraped together a team this morning from the Magical Creatures Unit. They’re looking for tha’ Vampire, but it’s a pretty damned wide area t’ cover.”

Hermione paused for a moment, confused by his recalcitrance. “You don’t think it’s a Vampire?”

“Something isnae right in all this. I jus’ think maybe we should hold back, no’ spread ourselves quite so thin before we’re really sure.”

“I thought you and Charlie were sure. Didn’t you go and examine the bodies yourselves?”

“Aye. But tha’ doesnae mean we’re right. Yer the smarter than either of us– what do you think?”

“I think that I’ll spend more time working on that book. If there’s something there to be found, I’ll find it for you Oliver, I promise.”

He rolled over from his regard of the ceiling, to watch her again, propped on one arm. He didn’t speak for a long moment, and his scrutiny was beginning to make her uncomfortable.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you—” Hermione spoke, somewhat hesitantly. “Statistically, Muggle-borns have a slightly higher chance of producing a Squib child, at least under normal circumstances… does, I mean, would it bother you, if we were to have…?”

She couldn’t tell what he was thinking from his expression; his eyes were dark and inscrutable as the question hung between them.

“I’m no’ so sure I believe tha’ ye would ever be capable of producing anything bu’ an exceptional child, Squib or no. But no, if it fashes ye, I wouldnae be bothered in the slightest; I will be proud of any child we produce.”

“Oh.”

It was a completely inadequate thing to say, but really, he’d just spoke of them producing a child; of it being not only a remote possibility that he had dismissed it as when she brought up the subject in Wales, but as a far more possible then merely probable. ‘I will be proud of any child we produce…’ the possessive quality of that statement, and the inherent satisfaction was doing strange things to her hormones again.

“Actually, we – I mean, with the epidemic and all, Squib births are up everywhere, and me being Muggle-born probably means we have a better chance—” Her babbling was cut short when he reached out and captured her hand.

Turning it palm up, he began running his thumb over the slight ridge left on the palm, something he seemed to do more and more recently. After a couple of beats, he looked at her lightly, and said simply, “I think ye’d make a fine mother. Donnae doubt yerself so much.”

Nothing more was said between them, and Oliver’s breathing had settled out to soft snores long before she was able to fall asleep that night.

***

FOR THREE days, the passages culled from Pafft’s notes danced just outside of Hermione’s reach. Something was tickling her brain, some fact that demanded understanding and she was irritable in her frustration. Thankfully, Mrs. Wood didn’t deign to visit, so Oliver was spared the awkwardness of having his mother hexed with anything too nasty. Hermione was almost disappointed.

Blood is made of meat perfectly concocted, in quality hot and moist, governed by Jupiter. It is by a third concoction transmuted into flesh, the superfluity of it into seed, and its receptacle is the veins, by which it is dispersed through the body…

Oliver was off helping Michael on the main family property today – gathering the harvest or some such. She was sitting in the yard, once again struggling with the book, trying to at least enjoy the late August sunshine while she glared the assorted contents of Pafft’s secret drawer on the lawn beside her, pondering if simply burning everything in the fire grate would do more than simply satisfy her growing frustration, when she suddenly saw it.

She blinked.

Then took off at a run for the main croft.

***

SHE FOUND Oliver and Michael, both shirtless, in the barn, engaged in brotherly competition as they threw the baled grains to the loft, seeing who could get the hundred pound bales farther or higher. The crop was magical, of course, destined for use in the potions market and especially for use in the complicated flying solutions that were used on broomsticks and even on magic carpets in the Middle East, so that may have accounted for some of the incredible height being achieved.

“Michael, could you excuse us for a moment, please?”

Michael looked over at the dwindled pile of bales by the door, and grinned. “Sure, hen. Oliver can finish up here wheen yer doone wi’ ‘im.”

Oliver nodded absently, still staring at the barely repressed excitement in Hermione’s frame. Michael had jus reached the door when he called back mischievously, “If ‘e dinnae roger ye teckle this morn’ ye can always fin’ me fae some help, hen…”

“Haud yer wheesht, ye filthy bletherskate!” Oliver yelled after him, scowling.

“I think I’m glad I didn’t understand that.”

“Ye may want t’ pretend ye didnae hear it, noo.”

Hermione dismissed it with a wave of her hand, far too caught up in her own tense excitement to really take in the rather graphic nature of Michael’s comment.

“What’s go’ ye in a fankle this morn’, Mouse?”

““It is Voldemort – someone’s trying to get him back.”

Oliver stopped for a moment, obviously switching gears. “How do ye ken tha’ from reading tha’ mucky auld book?”

Hermione looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “Do you really want me to go through all the technical bits with you?”

He winced. “Ah, noo, I think a summary will do nicely, lass.”

“Sulayman wrote a whole section on the principles of the Natural Virtues—” seeing his rather blank look, she regrouped. “It’s an eighteenth century concept of the body. He expanded on the differences between the blood of a Muggle-born witch or wizard and a Pure-blood one.”

“So?”

“Well, we always knew they were different, but Sulayman actually goes on to define the differences, and some of them are rather fascinating—”

“What differences?” Oliver asked, cutting her off before she could lose track of the point.

“Muggle borns have a, well, a quality to their blood that doesn’t become active until somewhere between nine and ten; it the awakening of magic in their blood.” Hermione went on to explain how this gene actually re-wrote the genetic code at that age, a sort of magical puberty that literally created magic where there hadn’t been any previously – basically brought a new person to life. The concept was fairly esoteric, and Sulayman was the only one to have devoted any real research to the phenomenon. It was extremely powerful, but very limited, as after the age of eleven, it became completely dormant.

“So wha’ does all this mean?”

“I’ve been studying Blood Magic this year, under Professor Snape. It’s extremely complex magic, but if someone were adept enough, they could probably adapt this – use it to basically re-write the person they wanted to bring back.”

“How many could do it?”

“I really don’t know, Oliver. I could.”

He expelled the breath he’d been holding sharply. This was it. This was finally it, where one frayed little end finally gave, and the pieces started to fall into place. “Tha’s why Golye wanted yeh. If ye hadnae have signed my Contract right away, there probably would have been more.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, fractionally.

“So they knew of the auld man’s hole in his bookcase, but if they knew abou’ the hidey hole in the desk, why dinnae they empty it?”

“But they didn’t know about it, Oliver.” She shook her head when he looked down at her sceptically. “They probably knew nothing about that. The very fact that that drawer was undisturbed I think proves that.”

“But we found the damned thing by using the sketch from the blethering drawer; how would they have known—”

“Think Oliver, who would have extensive knowledge of what kind of hidden places were in his own museum?”

“Daniels? He’s a right shite, but I’m noo so sure he’s a murdering shite. It could be a Vampire though – I mean, wha’ better way t’ conceal wha’ they’re up to? An’ then they can simply collect it from the carrier”

“Ew. Actually, no, they couldn’t. Blood magic is incredibly precise, and the digestive acids in the Vampire would completely ruin it for any kind of ritual use.”

Even the lack of answers couldn’t dent his excitement. They finally had a start – a tiny hold on what was happening. He could see the same excitement rising in Hermione, the way her eyes danced and how she couldn’t keep the grin from breaking free the minute she stopped thinking about it.

He wasn’t sure what caused it, but they were leaning in to each other - and for a change she seemed to be participating too, one hand actually tangling in his hair before he’d even touched her. Sunlight streamed in from the window above the loft, and filtered down until it was just a mere golden glow causing mahogany and caramel highlights in her hair to sparkle. He revelled in the sweet rush of her eagerness, the sharp tug at his hair that had him angling his head obediently.

Her lips were crème and satin, a combination he was convinced would become addicting if she would only continue to kiss him like this, and when her tongue softly sought out his own, he didn’t even try to stop the groan that escaped him as everything seemed to explode between them.

He didn’t realize he’d manoeuvred her up against the barn wall until he felt the slight jolt of her contact, but it was quickly lost again as he felt one small hand begin to explore the planes of his shoulders, stroking and lightly raking her nails until he felt he would snap. Hot little kisses were burning his skin along his neck and jaw as she abandoned his mouth to taste his skin, nipping the sensitive area just below his ear before moving down along the tendon to his collarbone. He’d been sweating prior to her arrival, having worked hard trying to get the work done with for the day to get back to her, but she didn’t seem to mind his damp hair between her fingers, or the slightly musky odour of his skin. Somewhere, in the back of his mind he was smacking himself, grating that it was too much too soon – she’d only just managed to come to him, and he was going to muck it badly if he didn’t manage to stop thinking with his bollocks, but that voice was far, far too distant to make it through the red haze of having Hermione in his arms.

She squeaked in surprise when he hoisted her up against the wall, but quickly caught on to wrap her legs around his waist for balance, but Oliver was fast realizing that this was a tactical error, as the feel of her pressing him so closely was rapidly undoing what little restraint he had left.

It was the sound of the door being slid on its hinges that finally percolated into his awareness, and he knew - just knew – that he really didn’t want to turn around and see Ian’s smirk, but especially didn’t want Hermione to see it.

“Were yese plannin’ oan getting tha’ stacking doone yet, lad – or were ye caught in a wee braw dwam?”

Slowly, Oliver released his grip, and Hermione slid to her feet, resolutely keeping her eyes to the floor so he couldn’t catch her gaze.

“That’s alright Ian, Oliver and I were finished here anyway,” Hermione said as she slipped from the barn. Ian stood staring for several quiet minutes as Oliver tackled the remaining bundles, probably not sure if he should tease or apologize, but in the end, left without a word.

Oliver cursed under his breath for the full twenty minutes it took him to finish with the bales.


Neither of them mentioned what almost happened in the barn that afternoon, and things quickly slipped back into their comfortable routine again. Or at least, they did on the surface; frankly, Oliver felt the tension could be cut with a knife.

He’d allowed things to go to fast, and while it was certainly gratifying to know that she felt the tension between them too, she obviously wasn’t ready – or perhaps didn’t want to be ready. He had to admit, over the last five months, he’d come to care – and care deeply – for the brunette witch who was currently curled up in his bed, reading that damned book again.

Resolutely, he went off in search of the most tedious, exhausting job he could find.

***

THEY TOSSED ideas between them over the next few days, trying to piece any more bits of the puzzle together, and Hermione insisted, and Oliver reluctantly had to agree, that the area around Mo I Rana might bear another look. It was a long shot at best, but Hermione pointed out that Norway was still their most promising lead, so that’s where he would suggest to Percy that he start.

The conversation in the Floo was short and to the point. Percy was more than ready to grasp at straws in hopes they proved long enough to climb out of their current mess. Hermione, on the other hand, was proving less than tractable when he explained the situation.

He had to get away from her. “Actually, Hermione, I’ll be gone for a wee bit. I’m going oout t’ Norway, check around a touch. If you’re right, there could be a clue there as ta wha’s going on.” This was just sort of blurted out. He’d not really planned to go, intending to meet with Percy and have him send a team out instead, thinking it very likely that any Dark Wizards in the area had cleared out long ago. Bollocks.

“You can’t leave me here!” Hermione squeaked indignantly. “I’ll pack a few things and we can be gone in an hour.”

Shite. “Hermione, there’s no need. I’m unlikely t’ find anything—” She glared at him sharply at this lack of faith in her reasoning. “An’ I can get Percy ta send someone along wi’ me if yer’ really worried.”

“I absolutely will not stay here and wait. Apparently, your mother is quite concerned by the fact that I am not yet with child. She was trying to give me sex tips this morning.”

Sex tips…? In the moments it took Oliver to recover from that disturbing image, Hermione had already left to gather what she needed for the trip, an action he realised with a sinking feeling that he had, in all probability, agreed to in his distraction. His plan to get away from the temptation she presented had just backfired spectacularly.

Oliver groaned and began to hit his head rhythmically against the nearest tree.

It was a testament as to how truly intolerable things with Brighde Wood that Hermione would instead jump at the chance to be alone with Oliver right now; frankly, the slippery slope of her feelings were becoming a trifle heady. Her suggestion of having a guide had gone over well, though she was rather shocked she’d managed to slip in the suggestion of having Viktor Krum do the guiding. Durmstrang being a Northern school from that area meant that Viktor knew the geography far better than either of them.

She was actually rather grateful for the excuse Viktor provided her, once again charging in like a knight in shining armour, to save her from herself. His presence, she was sure, would provide a comfortable buffer; give her the space she needed to come to terms with everything – to slow down the overwhelming emotions that were ambushing her with such wild impulses as what had almost happened in the barn.

Clearly, a chaperone was a perfect solution.

***

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