Consequentially Yours by Nyruserra

Chapter 16 - The Road to Nowhere

16
The Road to Nowhere

“Really, Mouse, I donna see why yer still so angry wi’ me. I mean, we dinnae get into much of a disagreement, an’ a man’s go’ to do something in the face of all this boredom.”

Hermione stopped her careful packing, mid-motion, her hand still hanging in the air between them as she glared incredulously. “You hit him!”

“I ken yeh’ll find he hit me first – well, a’ least, at the same time. It was a lively disagreement.” Oliver’s smirk was certainly self-satisfied, despite the conciliatory tone.

Hermione could only glare, and throw up her hands - a move which seemed to cause her husband no end of amusement. She muttered to herself as she pointedly focused on roughly shoving all her carefully folded clothes into her bag.

Of course, there was no way that Oliver was going to confide the real satisfaction he’d had in landing one on The Bulgarian Menace’s jaw, nor did he want to examine too closely the reasons behind his recent desire to do so.

It had been three weeks since they’d set out from Cot Buin a’ Fiadhaiche Luchan, and to be totally honest, Oliver’s plan to get away from his too-tempting wife had backfired spectacularly. Now, not only did he have to deal with the wanting she engendered in the forced closeness of camp, but he also had ruddy Krum hovering over everything like a great big bloody duck-footed vulture.

Of course, her insistence on coming, though buggering awkward, saved him from nearly making the biggest mistake of his marriage to date. Leaving Hermione behind, after the way he’d pushed her in the barn, would have nearly guaranteed that the woman he came back to would be barricaded behind emotional walls he’d never get through, even if he lived to be as old as Merlin himself. She’d have had far too much uninterrupted time to talk herself around, rationalize things…

Mind you, a slowly freezing camp with that Bulgarian twit fumbling around was hardly the ideal circumstances to begin trying to work on her, either. Oliver sighed in frustration, and began tightening the leather straps for the riding harnesses. He didn’t muck about with long-distance flying like this, especially when he was responsible for the life of a soft, brown-haired witch. The way she rode a broom was almost painful to watch – if he’d had any idea, he’d have packed her on the back of his broom before she had time to blink, let along argue, but frankly the idea that there was something magical Hermione wasn’t good at was so foreign as to have never crossed his mind.

If it wasn’t so dangerous, he’d have found it quite adorable.

It hadn’t taken Hermione long to secure agreement from Krum to join them on this little adventure, and they’d have been packed and off in a matter of hours, if it hadn’t been for the need to explain things to his mum. As it was, the Wood matriarch was only too ecstatic over a planned holiday between her son and his bride.

Somehow, he should have known.

True to his word, his former Quidditch nemesis met them quietly, in an out-of-the-way pub in Denmark. The directions he had given were good, and they’d found the Wizarding place with little difficulty. Bavarian-style rough-hewn beams crossed the ceiling above their heads, and a large, and very busy, trestle table dominated the space near the bar. Pushing their way back through the crowds of after-work patrons, they found Krum tucked into a booth at the back. His harsh features had warmed instantly when he caught sight of them, moving quickly to take Hermione’s one remaining bag that she’d managed to keep Oliver from carrying, a move that Oliver was pleased to see caused a black scowl as soon as Viktor wrested it away from her.

“Viktor, it’s been too long…”

“Herm-own-ninny,” he was responding, looking far too much like a besotted schoolboy for Oliver’s tastes.

“Krum.” But Oliver’s grudging greeting was lost as Viktor swept his wife up in a hug that was far tighter than necessary, and Oliver’s hand tightened so much his wand creaked in protest.

Maybe we can ‘accidentally’ leave him in a river somewhere, he thought in irritation, as he settled stiffly into the booth.

The ale was decent; if a little cold, and the serving wench was a trifle buxom. Hermione seemed to notice as well, and he was amused, and secretly pleased that it seemed to really irritate her.

It was about the only thing he was pleased about, frankly. They had been two hours in this pub, hashing out plans and ideas. If Oliver was honest with himself, part of his irritation came from the fact that he was used to doing these kinds of missions on his own initiative, and certainly didn’t enjoy sharing the leading of it with someone whose worth was yet to be proven.

Maybe, possibly, a small part of his irritation could be that, in Oliver’s opinion, Hermione smiled at Krum far more frequently than necessary.

“Smartest idea is probably start at south coast, at Arendal. Follow north to place vhere body vas,” Viktor was reiterating, as he turned to eye Oliver questioningly. “You think you can still find it?”

“Of course I bluidy well can.” Oliver glowered, momentarily forgetting that his mum raised him better than to curse in front of a witch.

“Oliver!” Hermione hissed and knocked her knee sharply against his under the table, before turning back to the conversation. “There might be a lot we could miss, if we started closer to Mo I Rana,” she agreed.

Oliver rubbed his abused flesh resentfully. “An’ have either of ye considered tha’ I was just south of Narvik when I found it? Tha’s more than a thousand kilometres north of where you two wan’ ta start. We’ll be greeting the snow before we’re done.”

Wholly lost in the excitement of discovery, Hermione barely spared him a glance. “Yes, but the body’s not the only thing that was found in Norway, Oliver. Percy’s reports also mentioned strange lights appearing over the coastal cities on a couple of occasions.”

“An’ Perce also noted that it was likely nothin’ more than Northern Lights coming south a little un-seasonally.” He was being a bit belligerent now, he knew, but the thought of travelling the length of Norway dragging along Viktor Krum was enough to set his teeth on edge.

They both ignored him as they continued to discuss whether they’d make it before the snow flew, and what supplies they would need.

Oliver was a little ashamed when he sat back and sulked.

But not enough to stop.

***

Honestly, wasn’t it someone else’s bloody turn to save the world this time? Hermione was forced to wonder. Three weeks! Three long and gruelling weeks – on broomstick no less! And she was sure that when she had so forcefully insisted on coming, she must have been under the influence of some kind of Imperious Curse.

And, to add insult to injury, there was almost zero noticeable improvement in her flying skills.

Of course, there were other reasons that proved the lack of wisdom in accompanying two pureblood wizards when they had both made their living off of being highly competitive – often against each other. Hermione just really wished she’d remembered that while she was still safe and sane in Scotland. The fact that she could even think of anyplace with Brighde Wood that way with any degree of seriousness, she felt, only proved there must have been a spell involved.

Unfortunately for Hermione’s piece of mind, the disagreement of this morning wasn’t nearly unusual enough. Oliver and Viktor seemed to have some sort of unresolved issue to contest, and it touched absolutely everything they did. Nothing could get done that didn’t involve at least one argument, some sort of silly male one-up-manship that, frankly, surprised Hermione. She’d always rather thought Oliver to be above that sort of childish behaviour, especially after his patient handling of Ron a few months ago, but there was absolutely no sign of that man now. She’d like to attribute that to the nature of their journey; worry over what they might find, and impatience to finally get ahead of whatever it was that had been sending him all across the continent for months, but she wasn’t so sure. Whatever the cause, Oliver was definitely tense and irritable, and after a few attempts, Hermione gave up trying to talk to him about it. Instead, she settled for spending more time with Viktor, carefully planning their route when they were in camp, trying to leave the quiet Highlander to his thoughts, and not push him to confide in her. So far, her considerate strategy hadn’t yielded any results, and Oliver continued to scowl blackly.

Of course, inviting Viktor along had backfired on her in one small way, as he could hardly chaperone them at night, and she would never even consider exposing their tentative relationship to outside speculation, even from a friend like Viktor, by insisting on separate tents. So a strategy of careful avoidance was put in place, and most evenings found her staying up, methodically tending the fire as she pored over new maps until she could be sure Oliver was asleep, before slipping in to join him. Occasionally, Oliver would be tied up with their brooms, and she could sneak into bed first, as he insisted on tending her’s for her each night. The way he focused so completely on the task, even after giving his own broom barely cursory care, was confusing, even as she convinced herself that he was only being so meticulous because of her abysmal lack of ability. Working by wand-light, carefully he would snip stray brushes, testing the loft and cushioning charms, then checking the balance before allowing her back on again in the morning. Frankly, the careful attention he gave the task made her warm in a way she wasn’t sure she didn’t welcome, even as she scolded him that, as the smartest witch of her class, she was perfectly capable of looking after her own gear. Sometimes she would stay up, just to watch him at it from the safety of the warm circle of firelight, finding something very calming in his quiet intensity and patient focus.

Viktor just watched these exchanges with eyes that glittered with amusement.

But still, most days saw her entirely too busy to worry. Now late September, Norway was beginning to show signs of winter’s impending onset. The days were getting considerably shorter; the sun now nearly completely set by six-thirty each evening, and travel over the mountains was severely hindered. The brush ends of their brooms built up with ice in the rapidly-falling evening temperatures, despite warming charms, and the extra weight tended to interfere with the balance while the ice caught and dragged at the winds at unexpected moments, slowing them down and making flight unpredictable and dangerous. There had been more than one extremely close call, and Hermione knew it wouldn’t be much longer before they’d have to give up anything but Floo progress if they wanted to get further north.

The days were gruelling, and if Hermione was only slightly less stubborn she knew she would have conceded long ago to riding behind one of the boys, instead of slowing everyone with her less-developed flying skills. Still, each morning saw her struggle out from under Oliver’s heavy arms, and into her warm gear, trying to be ghost-like in her silence, so as not to face any more potentially awkward alone-moments than absolutely necessary. On tiptoes, she would gather her jumper and denims, her wool tights and her favourite comfortable tee and scamper off to the next room to change.

Leaving her heavy coat until they were ready to mount, she would hurry out to set the morning fire, and start the coffee to brew. Early on, she had tried to get breakfast together, a bundle of nervous energy in the early morning silence as she worked to keep herself busy and not feel the irrational guilt for avoiding Oliver again. Viktor quickly interceded after that attempt, claiming Hermione had enough that she was responsible for, and that he had to do something to earn his keep. Frankly, Hermione felt the blackened toast and lumpy oatmeal might have been the catalyst of his decision.

Coffee, at least, was something she could handle. And if she wasn’t the one who usually preferred coffee, that was something she resolutely ignored.

Her boots crunched over what was left of the scrub grass this morning, frost making everything stiff beneath her feet. The trees glittered with crystalline beauty in the faint, early morning light, and Hermione had to pause, despite the cold, just to admire them. Somewhere off in the distance, a hart took off for the safety of the tree line, the sound of his hooves fading disturbingly quickly, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

The chill cut her admiration short, however, and it was only the work of a few minutes to get the fire burning hotly, the crackling of the wood standing out sharply without the sounds of her campmates up and about. No birds called, no wind stirred the leaves above her head. Frankly, the silence was making her jumpy this morning, almost like the land was reaching out to her, trying to rob the air itself of noise. “Oh, honestly,” she muttered, shaking herself.

“Herm-own-ninny.”

The sound of Viktor’s halting greeting nearly caused her to jump out of her skin, and her barely-stifled shriek brought a crash and a muttered oath from the other tent. Hermione glared at him, even as she was secretly relieved that his greeting had woken Oliver, too.

But still, not a sound disturbed the world outside their camp.

***

IT HAD been a quiet night, mainly because everyone was too exhausted to waste energy with conversation, though Oliver knew he probably had a similarly chastised expression as the one he saw looking back at him across the fire whenever he caught the other man’s eye.

There’d been a storm over Sandnessjoen, a small city on the coast of the frigid Atlantic Ocean, which had quickly turned to sleet in the upper atmosphere currently occupied by two competitive wizards and one entirely too stubborn witch.

Oliver was perfectly willing to admit they should all have their heads examined for staying up as long as they did, but somehow the normal shenanigans he’d been carrying on with Viktor had gotten out of hand, and of course his stubborn wife wouldn’t hear of descending while they were still so obviously willing to go forward.

She could have bloody well died today, and all he would have to hold to himself in comfort would be that he didn’t back down first, like he was still some empty-headed schoolboy back in second year.

Thankfully, he’d noticed the grips on Hermione’s broom icing up, noticed the tightness of her eyes that betrayed her bravado, and told Viktor he could fly off to the moon if he was of a mind, but he had a date with his wife’s coffee back in camp.

Truth be told, her coffee was always slightly burnt - though that certainly never stopped him from drinking it, and possibly he was actually beginning to develop a taste for it. But like it or no, he’d drink a gallon of it to keep her out of the sky tonight.

So dinner was a quiet affair, the stew Oliver had made being thick and nutritious, if not having anything more to recommend it, and the warmth, though welcome after the chill that had set into everyone’s bones was only encouraging the sleepy silence, when suddenly Hermione’s bushy curls shot up.

“Wait! There haven’t been any more Muggle deaths since last April, have there?” She was gripping her bowl tightly, and Oliver knew that if she were to let it go, she’d be waving her arms around in her apparent agitation.

“No, than’ goodness.”

Viktor eyed them curiously, no more sure of where Hermione’s brilliant mind had taken her than he was.

She took a deep breath, obviously trying to slow down. “Then, well, don’t you think they might have been looking for something specific?”

At their blank looks, she hurried on impatiently “If there haven’t been any more deaths, then it’s reasonable to suppose they found what it was they wanted.”

Oliver blinked, hoping desperately that he didn’t look as broadsided as Krum did.

Her triumphant gaze slowly turned thoughtful. “Or,” she stared hesitantly.

“What, lass?” Oliver had to clear his throat, feeling a little self-conscious when he realised how strained he sounded.

“Or, they didn’t find what they wanted at all– and we’re now looking for something other than bodies.”

They both stared at her in fascinated horror. Slowly, reluctantly, as if pushing the words through a vat of thick Bubotuber Puss, Oliver asked the obvious.

“Either way, we’re running oout of time, arenae we, Mouse?”

The new sense of urgency caught them all, and remained the unspoken drive behind their short stops and infrequent rests, and brought them well past Sandnessjoen, and only sixty or so kilometres south of Mo I Rana by the next time they set camp. By common agreement, this one was set as a more permanent bivouac, with greater care taken as to the setting of camp structures, and even a more permanent sort of shelter set over their fire pit. It had taken the handful of hours before dark, and even a few more after first light to get all the wards in place; neither he nor Viktor willing to discuss why they felt the need for such heavy protection out in the middle of the brush. For a base of operations, it would serve.

After the frenzy though, found them spending a quite morning around the campfire just resting after the herculean effort it had taken all of them to get there. Hermione especially was flagging – not that the stubborn witch would admit it, and Oliver worried that she’d not tell him if her fatigue became serious. He’d tried to convince her to just stay around camp this morning, maybe checking their gear over for wear and strain, or possibly looking for anything they might have missed in the stack of notes and reports now that they were practically on top of where he’d found the body, way back in March.

Of course, she’d refused that right smartly, and eventually he’d been forced to concede, before the argument had a chance to seriously escalate.

At least Krum hadn’t tried to help her on her broom again, after Oliver made sure to explain in private later that he might have to break a few of his fingers if he ever tried it again.

Come to think on it, the bastard had done nothing but smirk at his fuming, instead of looking satisfyingly intimidated… but the truth of the matter was, he hadn’t come close to being helpful again come time for Hermione to mount.

Honestly, Oliver wasn’t usually this kind of man; threats being more Fred’s style than his, but just something about the way the Bulgarian’s dark eyes followed Hermione as she puttered, oblivious, around camp each evening just set his teeth on edge.

Of course, the fact that he’d offered his Mouse to have her marriage annulled somehow, with the assistance of some mysterious relative, might have something to do with why Oliver found himself wanting to hit the other man more times than not.

Just maybe.

And Hermione, of course, only too happy to sit and chat with her old friend each evening, patently oblivious to anything else brewing, and while Oliver always considered himself a fairly smart wizard – certainly far smarter than many thought him to be, still The Menace seemed to be able to keep up on subjects that often left Oliver’s brain hurting.

Each evening seemed to find them on a new topic, like two kindred souls, and Oliver ground his teeth just a little harder; and every night saw him slip into bed alone, though Hermione’s tactics were blatantly clear. Still, he didn’t try to circumvent her attempts to evade him. Though the wizarding tent they had was sturdy, and far more spacious than the Muggle tents he’d used with Charlie, the walls weren’t all that thick; like with much that was magic looking far more solid than it really was, and if it was to be an argument, he certainly didn’t want to give his hovering nemesis any extra ammunition.

He could be patient.

He just had to keep reminding himself of that.

Not that things weren’t right bloody awkward between him and his infuriatingly fascinating witch right now, anyways.

He wasn’t sure what had changed his resolve last night – actually, he was fairly sure his resolve hadn’t changed, so much as didn’t matter one bluidy bit by the time he’d gotten back to the tent…

Krum had been asking questions around the supper fire that they all shared at Hermione’s insistence. Questions about their courtship, about the wedding – frankly about things that Oliver would rather not talk about until he had things more settled with Hermione and knew where he might stand, and interspersing the whole thing with comments about their Quidditch career, anecdotes and slightly off-colour stories that he wouldn’t have minded so much if they had come from Fred, or even George; anyone but bloody Krum.

He’d had enough, and after roughly aiming his wand at his dishes with a quick cleaning charm, he stalked off to their tent, before he’d done something to the blighter that might really get him in shite with Hermione.

He was actually a bit surprised when she followed, not ten minutes later.

“Oliver?” Her voice was tentative, not sure as to his mood, no doubt. Frankly, he wasn’t so sure of his mood, either.

He acknowledged her by raising himself from the worn bedspread, where he’d dropped, hoping to clear the red haze from his eyes, and maybe feel like someone he might even recognize again.

“Oliver, is everything… well, I mean, I know Viktor was perhaps being a bit pushy, but honestly, I think he was just trying to… well, to offer an olive branch. You two haven’t exactly had a lot of success burying your past history these last few weeks…” her voice trailed off as she met his stony stare, before rallying with determined conciliation. “Really, I’m trying to understand – to help, even. I mean, I understand that you’ve been competitive with him your whole career, and that this can’t be easy, having someone like him involved with something you’re used to being solely responsible for, but honestly, is it really that…” Her voice was rising; she stopped, took a deep breath, and tried again. “I mean, Viktor’s obviously trying, despite how familiar his comments may have seemed tonight – can’t there be some sort of middle ground, where I at least don’t have to worry if it’s going to come to blows again; about how bad the next one might be?”

“Oh, Krum’s tryin’ alright. Tell me, Hermione, has he brough’ up our Contract again? Asked you if you’re ready to chuck it all, have it annulled?” Hermione’s eyes widened, her face going absolutely white, and he winced as soon as the words left his mouth. This was definitely not the way to bring it up, even if the question had been burning him for the last few weeks, but before he could even attempt to retract, Hermione had found her voice, and was glaring at him.

“Is it so hard for you to understand that I might have friends who care about me, Oliver? That someone might actually be worried about what I want, rather than what the Ministry has decreed for me?”

“I seem t’ recall giving ye the option, lass. I asked you if there was anyone yeh would prefer to me.”

“Yes, and I had so many options, too. It doesn’t matter who I allowed myself to be Contracted to, Oliver, I was still Contracted; Property.” Suddenly, the steam seemed to leave her. Her shoulders slumped under her heavy green jumper, her face looked more drawn than he’d seen it since he’d convinced her to share a dance with him so many months ago; an event that almost seemed like it had happened to a stranger, now; a man to which everything had seemed so much more simple, if only he could just managed to befriend the feisty girl who was to become his wife.

“No one can deny that you’ve been a gentleman, Oliver, far more so than anyone would have the right to expect, but the truth is, I never really had much of a choice.” Hermione was staring at the wall now, her hands twisting in front of her absently. “If, well, if it helps, when it comes right down to it, I was… honoured to spend what choice I did have on you.”

He stared at her, not able to mentally shift gears in his present frustration and take in what she might be saying, only knowing that if she did leave, if this was all he could have of her, than she at least had to know; know what she did to him, know that they were still an option. “You know we’ll make this work, lass. You donnae have to run to Bulgaria to save yerself from me.”

Brown eyes stared at him for a long moment, looking… incredulous, maybe? But giving him absolutely no hint into what thoughts were spinning behind their depths. Whatever it was that she searched for in his expression though, she didn’t seem to find when she sighed, “Is that what this is about? Honestly? Because I very clearly recall being there when I let you give me this scar.”

Oliver just shook his head, frustrated by her sad demeanour and cryptic words. Like tha’ answered anything between them. “Actually, I should thank Viktor. He reminded me of something I seem t’ have forgotten since I quit Quidditch.”

“What’s that?” She seemed almost hesitant to ask, the intensity in his narrowed eyes obviously making her feel uncomfortable.

“You have to fight for wha’ yeh want. And frankly, Hermione, I’m tired of wanting you an’ getting nowhere.”

The words hung in the air between them, demanding acknowledgment, something from the woman who was slowly driving him crazy.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised when she just left.

Some furious pacing and a few muttered oaths took him round and round the small room, not even noticing when he barked his shin on the way past their bed. He’d told her outright; he wanted her to stay, that he wanted her, and it hadn’t even sufficed to keep her in the room. Instead she gives him some nonsense on the Contract, like that was the only claim he had on her. He thought they’d moved beyond their rather sordid beginnings by now. He’d hoped they had.

’…when I let you give me this scar…’ What the bloody hell had she been on about?

If he was honest, though, he had been the one to bring up the Contract; taking out his jealous insecurity on her in wild accusations. He was jealous of someone for perhaps the first time in his life, and he had no idea how to deal with it; jealous of the fact that Krum could offer her something she might actually want. Merlin knew, he didn’t seem to be able to.

Frankly, he was surprised he wasn’t a purple toad by now.

‘…honoured to spend what choice I did have on you…’

Thinking back on her saying that was doing strange things to his gut; he knew Hermione better than this. She was just shy enough, just… understated enough that this was probably a rather large compliment. Where some other girl might come out and say ‘I wanted to be with you’, or some other blunt but probably equally exaggerated encouragement, Hermione told the truth, with no embellishments to make herself more plain. He was going to have to learn to hear her more clearly, to really pay attention to what she said.

’…when I let you give me this scar…’

Unnoticed, his frenetic pacing ground to a halt. Blethering hell. He really hadn’t been listening, had he? Just because he hadn’t seen the letter until after the wedding, dinnae mean she dinnae have it before. She could have gotten out of it then, if she’d wanted Krum’s company to his.

His looked up to find himself staring at the small vanity on her side of the room. A silver-handled hairbrush laid neatly oriented parallel to the mirror; a wedding gift from Kena, he remembered vaguely. He’d often watched from beneath artfully half-closed lids as Hermione sat there while she thought he was still asleep. Seeming to find some kind of inner satisfaction in calmly taming her unruly curls each morning, she would be relaxed in a way he never saw her while she knew he was around. Those quiet, seemingly inconsequential moments had become one of his most cherished rituals of each day; a daily reminder of what he was fighting for.

Muffled sounds drifted in from the front room, telling him that, despite his behaviour, Hermione was still in the tent.

She’d made the decision to stay. She was willing to try and work things out with him. She’d let him give her her scar…

He was listening, now.

And he couldn’t keep the goofy grin from spreading across his face.

***


“What’s go’ ye so busy, Mouse?”

His voice was soft, conciliatory; probably trying to indicate that he wasn’t here to continue their fight. Her shoulders stiffened defensively anyway, though she managed to relax again immediately. She was rather proud of not having to resort to counting to ten or some other temper-controlling technique.

Of course, it might simply mean she’d decided to hex him and be done with it, she realised, when she noticed her wand was still held tightly.

Apparently, the same thought had occurred to Oliver; he tried to keep the trepidation off of his face as she turned slightly, wand still in hand.

She could see the exact moment when he realised the table she’d transfigured was now exactly where his favourite comfy chair stood not an hour ago. He was masterfully trying to mask any reaction, holding onto his politely interested expression for all he was worth. She almost smiled as he flinched when he noticed the small curl of smoke that was rising from its surface.

She didn’t answer his question, instead holding up a vial filled with some kind of silvery substance for his inspection.

“Wha’ is it?”

“I asked Percy to send us samples from everything that was found at the scene. This was in Mycroft Pafft’s bookcase.”

Oliver shivered before he could stop it, obviously remembering something unpleasant. She’d have to ask about it, later. “An’ what are ye trying to do with it?” he asked, revulsion plainly colouring his tone.

Strange.

A soft pop! from the collection of tubes and burners she’d laid out reminded her of what she’d been doing. The skullcap solution had begun to boil, twisting in faintly luminescent blue ribbons through the heated tubes of her distillery. Carefully, she added Nixie hair, counting quietly under her breath. When she got to twenty, the swirling solution turned garish orange. She sighed happily, and left it to simmer for exactly two minutes.

“I’m trying to identify it. This same substance was found in the body you found; almost like it had been fused to the blood. If we could just figure out what this is, we might know what they’re trying to do.”

“I though’ they were trying tae use blood magic to get tha’ snake-nosed bastard back?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Hermione confirmed vaguely. She slowly reached over the basin of her tube-construction, and gingerly let five drops of toad venom fall into the orange mess boiling below. When no explosion occurred, she let out a small breath in satisfaction.

“So, the silver goo is likely jus’ a by-product of wha’ever they’ve used t’ muck wi’ his blood, yeah?”

She jerked up in surprise, frowning. “No, actually. See, this silver property in the blood is the result of something that’s been added. Calx of Mercury would do it, but in spell working, it’s very volatile, and would actually be counter-productive in any kind of blood or healing magic.” She glanced down, frustrated, at the orange mess bubbling in the small cauldron. “There’re a few other things that might be responsible, but I’m testing to see if mercury is at least a component.”

“What would tha’ mean, if there is mercury in it?”

“It would certainly make things much more complicated, Oliver. Someone had to have fed him this potion; someone who didn’t want him to be healed.” Someone who was close enough to get to him at the end of all the fighting; someone inside his own ranks; but she didn’t have to mention any of this – she could see the gears in Oliver’s head already turning, putting it together only slightly slower than she had.

“So, tha’ first body – they’d actually attempted tae use his body to replace their Lord’s dead one? They weren’t just using the bloke’s blood t’ try an’ heal him?”

Hermione sighed. “No, they would have had no reason to try with the blood magic, I suppose. I’m thinking that they didn’t know about this other component until their attempted resurrection blew up in their faces.”

Oliver smiled grimly, clearly not liking what he was thinking. “So, then they switched t’ kiddies, tryin’ t’ use their blood to replace Voldemort’s.”

“Well, if I’m right about the mercury, then yes, that’s the most likely scenario.”

“But tha’ dinnae work, either, so now wha’ are they up to?”

“Well, it may have worked, Oliver. They’ve stopped attacking Muggle children. They could have succeeded.”

“But no’ if that sludge o’er there is mercury based.”

Hermione nodded, reluctantly. It was hard to think of those poor children, dying alone in some alley, the last victims of a war that should have been over long ago.

Somehow, she was glad Harry didn’t know anything about this.

Still, she pushed that far from her mind as she turned back to her experiment. She felt, more than heard, Oliver move in close, no doubt watching her reactions, too impatient to wait for her to tell him the verdict; like a little boy. She smiled at the image, before pushing that out of her mind as well.

She wasn’t kidding when she said that Calx of Mercury was extremely volatile, and she wanted to concentrate. Her wand was a comfortingly familiar weight in her hand as she gently un-stoppered the vial Percy had sent her. With a careful swish and flick that would have made Professor Flitwick proud, she sent a tiny silver ribbon twisting through the intervening space, to join the potion base boiling gently in its basin. As it slid into the bowl, ripples of deep red began radiating from the point of impact. Red was good. If she allowed the mercury (for she really was quite sure that’s what she was dealing with, despite how much she wished she was wrong) to mix with the Skullcap too quickly, the dark green waves would be the only warning she would have before the explosion. Hermione concentrated on controlling its descent whilst simultaneously casting a small ward using wandless magic.

The ribbon had almost completed its decent when a loud boom shook the tent, causing the bottles and phials on the table to rattle as they knocked against each other.

What in Merlin’s name… Hermoine’s concentration wavered, and faint green tendrils leached outwards into the previously perfect red potion— right before she felt herself slam into the small island counter. A counter that, she was sure, had only seconds ago been at least ten feet behind her, and through a wide doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. That’s going to leave one heck of a bruise, was all she could think as she dazedly tried to draw air into her empty lungs. The pitiful remains of her work was sending up acrid smoke, rapidly filling the small space of the front room, until Oliver’s murmured ‘Ventus’ had fresh air gusting gently through the open flap.

A muttered string of Bulgarian profanities filtered in from outside.

“Probably jus’ trying t’ do something nasty to my broom,” Oliver muttered darkly under his breath, though he chuckled at Hermione’s reflexive, and at the moment, unconvincing scowl. “If ye like, I’ll happily go knock some sense int’ him for ye,” he offered, without any real hope.

Despite herself, Hermione found herself laughing, though it came out more like wheezing. “Depending on how my bruises feel in the morning, I just might take you up on that, Oliver,” she allowed wryly.

Gingerly, she tried to sit up, and immediately, he was there, easing her up gently with one hand braced behind her, and one against her stomach, preventing her from going too quickly. For once, she allowed it without protest, settling against the strong support and letting Oliver do most of the work.

“Flitwick always warned us that a broken spell was an experience you never forget,” she admitted irritably. And he was right. Magic built up in a properly set spell, flowing between the caster and their object until the final words or motions, or combination thereof, released it. Any interruption of the caster’s concentration caused all the potential energy to backlash like a snapped elastic band, releasing the entirety of the summoned magic in one quick burst. Despite always believing herself to be a hands-on student, Hermione wasn’t sure she really appreciated her new understanding of why Hogwarts had such good charms in place to prevent practicing students from bringing their spells down around their ears. Her brain was still muddled by the backlash, her thoughts coming entirely too sluggishly for her enjoyment, and frankly, her whole body hurt.

“Ye’ve go’ a cut on yer forehead, sweetheart,” Oliver’s voice was muted, though she wasn’t sure if that was just because of her slowly returning senses; or if she was just imagining the tenderness there.

Blinking, she realised that some of the haziness of her vision was due, in fact, to blood that had dripped inconveniently, and some rapid blinking was able to clear the worst of it.

“Everything still there, Mouse?”

“Hmmm?” she murmured, still trying to work out exactly what had happened. Clumsily, she struggled to get up. “I should get set up again, I need—”

Oliver’s restraining hands were gentle, but no less firm for that. “I think, lass, what ye need is bed, an’ possibly a hot bath.”

She knew there was a reason, an important reason why she had to continue. Irritably, she tried to swat his hands away. “Mercury!” She was rather proud when she managed to make her thoughts cooperate enough to get this far. “We have to figure out—”

“Lass, I donnae care if Merlin himself needed to know. But I think, if it fashes ye, tha’ we can conclude tha’ it is Mercury. It looked pretty volatile from where I was standing.”

“Oh, but—” but his finger was against her lips, and for some reason, this seemed to make it much more difficult to speak. And slowly, the haze was clearing, and she could see his logic. She blushed, angrily, but his eyes were catching hers, and something about the soft expression on his face was making it very difficult to be irritated. She stared helplessly as his lips curled boyishly. It really wasn’t fair when he did that.

Something seemed to distract him from their staring contest, and he reached out to touch a spot just below her shoulder.

His fingers grazed the entwined silver of her Lukenbooth lightly. “You still wear it.”

She looked at him, pushing away her disappointment by his obvious surprise to answer evenly, “Of course; you gave it to me.”

She wasn’t prepared for the force of his smile, and she was momentarily lost in how his lips crinkled over his teeth, how his eyes became more green than hazel when he was happy like this, and how incredibly alluring that smile was…

She resisted the urge to shake her head to clear it, and instead smiled tentatively back.

His fingers, which hadn’t left the brooch, now trailed up to gently caress her cheek. “I hope yeh know Mouse, I’ll no’ let yeh go, now.”

She could feel her heart literally stop in her chest, before resuming at a frenetic pace. He was attracted to her, she knew, but this was the first indication he’d ever given that it might be more – that he might want more than merely a physical friendship. She knew his every action with her was kind and considerate, that he truly was a good man, but she was a creature of words – and she needed them from the burly highlander, because she certainly didn’t understand people, let alone boys, well enough to be sure of what was happening between them without them.

She needed to know that this was real, that there would be something there to catch her in the light of morning, because sturdy friendship was far preferable to being trapped in a failed relationship, with no hope for divorce.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione asked, trying to steer for something safer, “Did you say something about a bath?”

***

THE WOODS were eerily quite as they touched down. Come to think on it, Oliver hadn’t heard much for wildlife on any of his scouting trips with Viktor in the last two days. The thought of a storm coming through that was big enough to silence this forest was something his mind tried to shudder back from. Part of his thoughts immediately focused on what spells he could strengthen their encampment with, and the larger part, on how to convince Hermione that they needed to stay in camp and wait it out, despite the fact that the skies were clear for miles.

The sun was still high enough in the sky to provide them with some light, even in this dense cover, but the rugged terrain provided for numerous possible covers that would have to be checked from the ground. Dark needles caught his robes as he secured his broom, and turned to reach for Hermione’s.

Of course, she’d already taken care of it and stalked off towards the rocky outcropping that made up the eastern edge of the clearing they’d chosen for landing. Lichen crowded for un-used space on every surface, some even growing on top of old growth, making the rocks look like they were covered in large paint splashes; whites and greens warring with browns and purples and rusts. The trees formed a sort of protective screen between this clearing and the open shoreline that ran not a handful of yards to their east. Half a mile away, a tributary of the river Tena, the largest of Norway’s northern rivers gurgled and splashed its rough passage in its banks.

“I think I’ve got something you should see, Oliver,” Hermione’s voice was muffled as she crouched low over something on the ground, beyond the trees. Dead leaves crunched under his boots as he made his way over, trying to peer over her shoulder, but her unruly hair nearly obscured everything.

“Wha’ is it, lass?”

“Dragon tracks,” she stated calmly, shifting to give him a clear view. Deep impressions had been pressed into the soft ground here, but the rounded, weathered edges nearly obscured the details and told him that they had been here for months. Movement somewhere beyond his left shoulder alerted him that Krum was making his way to join them.

He smiled, tiredly, his thoughts still more than half back in camp enjoying hot biscuits. “Dragons are a fairly common sight in these parts, lass. I’m afraid we don’ have the wizards we need t’ keep them all locked doon the way we’d like, anymore.”

Hermione smiled, patiently. “Yes, but Oliver, these aren’t Norwegian Ridgebacks” When he didn’t immediately show any greater interest at this, she blew out a sharp breath. She had a smudge of dirt on her chin, he noticed absently. Of course, Viktor had already knelt down beside her, immediately showing concern in her discovery. Hermione beamed at him.

Oliver could feel the skin on the back of his neck and forehead tightening, and remembering last night, he forced himself to take a deep breath before he said anything.

“Dragons are running loose all o’er the place, it seems. Look, I’ll admit, we’re a bit oout of their range, but—”

“Is definitely not Velsh dragon, either,” Viktor cut in, as if he hadn’t been speaking. “Hungarian, maybe? See, here, and here?”

“That would put it thousands of kilometres out of its range, Oliver,” Hermione pointed out softly.

He blew out a breath. Of course, he really should know by now to trust her instincts. But why the bloody hell did The Menace have to have learned that lesson so much better than he had? Nodding his head, trying not to simply reach over and knock Krum’s head from his shoulders and save himself future aggravation, he spoke slowly, trying to share her enthusiasm by offering, “When Charlie and I were up here the first time, we were tracking a dragon…”

“Yes, I remember you mentioning that,” Hermione replied vaguely, busy taking measurements and discussing toe spacing with her good friend. Oliver would bet his best broom that Krum knew no more about dragon tracks than his fat Uncle Auolstine.

He tried counting to ten. Then he clenched his teeth together for good measure to make sure he didn’t yell as he spoke. “Yes, but we were tracking a great big ruddy Hungarian Horntail at the time.”

Krum jerked up in surprise, scowling. “You might haff mentioned that before, English.”

“Wha’! Me? You might try keeping—”

Hermione stood with a glare, effectively ending their argument before it could really gain any satisfying steam. When she was sure they were going to be quiet, she turned her back on Viktor, much to Oliver’s private enjoyment, despite his suspicion that she was only marginally less annoyed with him right now, and asked in a carefully even tone, “Did Charlie have any ideas as to what might drag a Horntail so far?”

“The beastie wa’ barking. We had t’ track it withoout magic for weeks in weather far worse than this. He had nay idea wha’ would ha’ driven it so far, but it dinnae stop for anything—”

“Without magic?” she asked intently.

Oliver had to suppress a small smile. She was wonderfully sexy when she was intent on the trail of something, not that that was probably something he should be appreciating at the moment. “It was nursing – apparently tha’ makes them a might tetchy where magic’s concerned.”

“You track dragon across Norvay and you didn’t think this important thing?”

Oliver glared. “I track a lot of things. Nay, this one didnae seem all tha’ more important than any other. Besides, there really is such a thing as coincidence in this world. It’s no’ so surprisin’ tha’ I would find the body in the same sort of vicinity as the tracks, as that’s the thing I was bluidy well following at the time. That doesnae make them related.” He was just being belligerent with that last bit, because he sure as hell knew that Hermione thought they were related.

“But it would take an awfully tempting distraction to draw a nursing dragon so far out of its range; a broken spell would do it.” Hermione’s voice was soft, but carried sharp and crystal clear in the cold air between them.

A broken spell. The image of Hermione, crumpled halfway across the room flashed before his eyes; that had been a fairly small incantation. Dear Merlin. Some nutter wa’ out here mucking with spells that made big enough booms to draw dragons thousands of kilometres…

“You’re going home t’ Marr,” he growled to her before he could stop and perhaps think of a better way of approaching the sudden protective urge that momentarily took over his thinking.

“Excuse me?” she asked, quietly. If she had been angry, he thought he could have handled it better; but her whole frame was shaking, trying vainly to suppress her feelings at his sudden dismissal.

“Hermione, I—” But he didn’t get any farther than that, before she turned on her heel, and made for her broom.

He’d taken no more than two steps in her direction, when he felt a restraining hand on his shoulder. A very strong restraining hand.

“Let her go, Vood. Camp is not far from here; she needs time to cool down. And so do you, before you make another stupid suggestion.”

There was probably some wisdom in tha’, he thought, despite his surprise that it was coming from Viktor Krum, of all people. Let her go back to camp, have a few minutes to rant and throw things, before he attempted to reason with her. Of course, any possibility of getting her to go home was shot to bollocks now, he realised. Instead, he’d have to focus on damage control; get her to at least agree to some kind of safety measures. Ideas blossomed and spun, running useless circles behind his thoughts as he stood, still watching as the dark speck that Hermione made against the late afternoon sky faded from sight.

He was therefore startled when a harsh voice broke him out of his revive.

“She luffs you, Vood. Herm-own-ninny. She does not realise it yet, but she does."

This is a rather surreal conversation. “Loves me so much she’d like t’ take her wand ta me at the moment, no doubt,” Oliver dismissed, remembering his behaviour last evening, uncomfortably.

Strangely, he felt better; his worst nightmare was coming true – that Hermione would get dragged into something far too dangerous because of her unflagging loyalty. But, in the midst of it all, he was beginning to truly understand her, and maybe some of his hope was justified. And, she had to have expected his reaction.

She couldn’t be too mad, right?

Unconsciously, he sped up, making quick work of the remaining distance to the brooms and rapidly checking his gear before throwing a leg over to mount. No sense giving her too long to chew on things.

"Oh, and Vood?”

Oliver turned, somewhat impatiently, to where Krum stood a few feet away, looking slightly awkward on the ground as he always did, but no less serious in this moment for that.

“You're a fery lucky man – and if you don't realise your good luck, I vill realise it for you.”

Oliver nodded once, before lifting off.

***

Overgrown bully… how dare he try to shut her out. Her hands were actually shaking by the time she landed, making getting out of her harness take three times as long. In the end, she simply used her wand with an irritated huff, satisfied to have shown the assortment of leather straps just who they were messing with. “I’ve faced Voldemort, after all,” she seethed at them, “And battled Death Eaters! And not to forget one very large and irritable Devil’s Snare.” She jammed her wand into her back pocket, for once unmindful of Professor Moody’s long ago advice involving lost buttocks, and stalked into camp proper. “I do not need to be left behind like unwanted baggage – while he goes and tries to play hero!” Without even bothering to pull out her wand, she had the fire lit with one angry glare. “He can’t be – I mean, he couldn’t—” but he could, of course.

He could get hurt.

Her steps slowed. Damn it.

She didn’t want to face this yet; she’d rather stay safely angry. It was a lot less complicated, and didn’t promise quite so much heartache at the end. Wearily, she scrubbed her face with one hand, not entirely surprised to find it damp with frustrated tears.

He could never come home.

Home to a rather haphazard cottage in the Highlands; home to a lonely village in Marr; home to Brighde Wood’s rather suggestive nosiness.

Home to her.

The thought of never being able to finish working things out with him, of nurturing what they’d started to build… Of never finding out what it would feel like to be really held in his strong arms, or of finding out if their children might someday have his kind eyes, or unmanageable Quidditch obsession…. Never getting to love him.

Her aimless pacing changed direction, and by the time she’d reached their bed, she was practically running. She could feel a choked sob crawling up the back of her throat, but she ruthlessly clamped her teeth around her lip against it. In one lunge, she’d scooped up his pillow and crushed it to her, burying her nose as deep as she could, letting his scent permeate her lungs. She needed something of him right then, needed to believe that everything was somehow going to be okay.

Hermione wasn’t sure how long she stood there – it couldn’t have been long; not nearly long enough, when she heard the step behind her, and a voice quietly drawl;

“Hello, Mudblood.”

She turned slowly, finding herself every bit as angry as before her pillow therapy.

There, in all his arrogance, stood Draco Malfoy, though for once, there was no evidence of his trademark smirk on his carefully controlled features. His grip on his wand was deceptively lazy, and Hermione had no doubt that it would come whipping up like a striking cobra if she made one wrong move. Beside him, close to the floor was the glowing blue nimbus of a Patronus, and curiosity momentarily got the better of her when Hermione felt her eyes slide down to get a better look at it.

Anger was quickly replaced by shock, and she could feel her heart stutter and pick up a little faster.

Watching alertly from Draco’s side, the pointed furry face almost seemed to leer at her, revealing needle sharp teeth. She’d only seen the creature once before, but it was enough to recognise it for what it was—

It was a marten.

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