Seven: In which participation at certain festivities is disincentivised

Seven: In which participation at certain festivities is disincentivised

“I thought you were going to have a lie-in.”

It was the Easter holidays, and Hermione was down at Elland's place. Considerably more ancient than Hogwarts, it nevertheless felt comfortable and home-like to her. It was, in essence, a large barn-like structure with a few outbuildings, solid, like a weight pinning down the undulating Berkshire countryside, and within a wonderland of carvings and smithcraft and warmth and fun. Berkshire and yet not Berkshire – it was a reality existing alongside her own, with few of the inconveniences or annoyances of her modern world, and to which she was granted access as a favoured guest of the Smith. There were advantages to being a god, she thought, such as being able to live half a step to the side of what most people perceived as real. She hadn't worked it out yet, but for once she thought that knowledge could be postponed. Investigation would puncture the holiday air of being otherwhere; besides which, here she was accepted for what she was, with no expectations or demands, and it would be rude not to reciprocate.

“I'm still in bed, aren't I?”

“Well, let me just look underneath all these books and scrolls to see if there is a bed in here ...”

Hermione grinned. “I'm having fun. And you've been out working, haven't you?”

Smith's broad shoulders and muscled arms glistened with sweat, and a trickle ran down his throat and chest to disappear behind the heavy apron.

“Just mucking about – holiday stuff. After all that iron, it's good to play with precious metals for a while.”

“Ditto – mucking about. Though some of this is making me think ...”

“What doesn't make you think, lass?”

The Smith pushed her books aside and joined her on the bed. She ran a finger down his arm to his hand. She traced the nicks and scars it bore, the toughened skin on the knuckles, the calluses on the fingers and palm.

“Why do you do this?” she asked, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. “You don't have to bear scars, or sweat, or even have a heartbeat.” She laid her own palm against his chest. “So why?”

Smith paused before answering.

“It's a price,” he said, finally. “I don't have to pay it, being what I am, but anything gained, or anything made, should exact a price in effort, in toil, in thought. Or it is worthless. Your ideas, now, that come rushing like cool water from a spring, you pay for them with this line that's coming on your forehead, or with the hunch you're getting from study, or the amount of time you're on your own. Don't cry, lass – they're the badge of something worthwhile, like the scars you're gathering yourself from smithing.”

She gave a wobbly laugh. “And whoever would have thought I'd take to that? It's always been theory, theory, theory with me ...”

“Theory's but a barren cow without it be put to breed. You've a talent for putting thought into action, or you wouldn't be the witch you are, but you're one who needs to get her hands dirty to really show what you can do. Your pure academics like McGonagall don't really understand that.”

Hermione blinked rapidly. “Let's not talk about me,” she suggested.

“And of course the other reason,” continued Smith as though she hadn't spoken, “is that I've noticed you've a liking for freshly sweaty brawny men ...”

“What girl doesn't?” she giggled, then shrieked as he tumbled her back into the furs. “My scrolls!”

“Bugger the scrolls.”

It was probably around teatime when Smith thought to mention that Wayland was expecting a guest for the Easter weekend. Hermione was a little miffed that he got around to mentioning it only when Wayland and his guest were actually standing at the foot of the bed looking down at them. There was informality, and then there was waking up tousled and smelly with the brain on a three-second delay.

Still, she reflected, once the grey cells had caught up with the fact that the eyes were open and the mouth was talking, if the guest in question finds nothing inappropriate in the situation, then she herself could probably outlive the embarrassment.

The woman Wayland had brought to see them was built on the same statuesque lines as Ms Lapanne, and was as beautiful, but there the resemblance ended. Where Ms Lapanne looked as though she spent twenty-five hours out of every twenty-four at the beauty salon, this woman was utterly natural. Her dark hair tumbled freely around her shoulders and down her back, soft and lustrous yet unbrushed and starred with flowers that were not artfully placed but looked as though they had just been caught up by happenstance. Her robe was of simple green homespun, belted with a broad, flat braid bearing every colour a flower had ever shown, her arms flashed with simple gold bracelets, her feet were bare and dirty with fresh earth. Hermione found herself entranced, and though she blushed when the woman leaned forward to cup her head and play with her hair – it was an intimate gesture – she knew that there was no criticism. Perhaps a little amusement at Hermione's mess of curls and frizz, but no disapproval.

“Dear girl.” The voice was light, yet wild. “You make me happy.”

She dared to look right into a pair of eyes as grey as storm clouds and knew the statement for simple truth.

“You ... you make me happy, too, ma'am,” she stuttered.

The woman smiled. “Then that is as it should be. I am Eostre. Your eyes are the colour of horse chestnuts. So pretty. I think you must not stay here for my party. Not this year. You are not ready. Not yet.” Her hand still cupping Hermione's head, she bent and kissed her full on the lips. Hermione trembled. “Soon, little one, soon,” said Eostre. “Smith, you will remain here.” Then she took Wayland by the arm and left.

“Buh,” said Hermione. “Buh.”

“She does have that effect,” said the Smith. “But she's right – the spring rites can be ... extreme. I wouldn't be much of a protector if I kept you here.”

Hermione was still shaking, though she could not yet tell if it was fear, awe, arousal, love, excitement, or a mixture of the lot which was coursing through her. The smith held her close.

“We tend to hide it a bit better round mortals,” he said, “but Eostre's never had much time for manners. Spring – real spring – isn't a very mannerly time of year.”

“I noticed that. You know, I think that this year I will be quite happy to sit in the sunshine with nothing but a chocolate egg for company.”

“Belgian chocolate?”

“Swiss, please.”