Chapter 01

Author's Notes: The phrase "in annulo" is an heraldic term, referring to an object or group of objects 'lying on a ring'--literally, to form a circle. Figuratively...well, we'll see if it's the truth or not, won't we? ~Lotm

I.

Hermione had never been so glad to see the almost banal normality of her home. She'd just spent a very uncomfortable day at the Dursley's, Harry's relatives in Little Whinging, Surrey, and was very grateful to be able to Apparate to her parents' back yard. It was twilight, and she could smell the scent of something delicious wafting through the open kitchen window. Mounting the steps, she tapped the doorknob with her wand to make sure it was unlocked, and stepped inside the enclosed porch, levitating her trunk in her wake.

The mud porch wasn't much, but it did let into the laundry room via a rather squeaky door her dad had never gotten around to fixing. The laundry room led to the kitchen, and when she deposited her trunk so that her laundry could go straight into the machine, released Crookshanks from his cage, and opened that door, her parents had set down the supper dishes they'd been washing at the sink, since her mother said it seemed foolish to load up a dishwasher for just a few cups and plates when there was only the two of them.

Seeing her mother, with that riot of chestnut curls, an apron tied around her blouse and slacks, Hermione felt a wave of homesickness rising inside of her, and made a beeline straight for those welcoming arms. She said nothing, just wrapped her arms around her mum, letting the tears squeeze out of her eyes. The young witch would've given anything to be able to believe that, with a hug and a pat and a comforting word, her mum could make it alright again. But she couldn't. Releasing her mother, she hugged her father equally fiercely, wishing he could fix all the things that had been broken. But he couldn't repair her shattered innocence, and he couldn't mend her broken dreams. All he could do was hug her and stroke her wayward hair.

Their loving embrace was enough to heal some of the pain. Not all, but some. She hadn't told them much in her letters home, but that didn't matter; their daughter had come home hurting, and Hermione's mother and father just let her take what comfort and solace she could find in their arms. Finally, though, she stepped back, sniffing and wiping as discreetly as she could at her eyes.

"How are you, dear?" Daphne, her mother, asked her gently.

"I've been better," Hermione muttered. "I need to sleep, then gather my stuff. I'm going to be very busy, very soon."

"Trying to cram in a whole summer full of activities with your friends, before you go back to school for one last year?" Jeffrey, her father, enquired lightly.

"--Oh! The letter!" Daphne interjected while Hermione was still trying to find a tactful way to tell her parents she wasn't going back. That she was going to follow Harry Potter and Ron Weasley through to the undoubtedly bitter end of the wizarding war boiling around them. "Jeffrey, dear, fetch the letter from the study! It came by owl-post just a little while ago. One of those strange wizarding things, I suppose."

"A letter?" Hermione repeated, curiosity drawing her out of her grief. "From whom?"

"We're not quite sure," her father stated, coming back through the hallway, a folded scrap of parchment in his hand. "The outer letter was addressed to us. It said that we were to keep this for you, and to hand it to you directly, and not forward it on or anything."

"Though we're not sure why we couldn't," Daphne added dryly, lightly. "If we didn't know where that cross-post station was, downtown, making it easy to send things between regular and wizarding mail, we'd never know how to call down one of your wizarding owls. Still, it's rather nice to be able to do that."

Taking the somewhat lumpy letter, Hermione turned it over in her hands, examining it. The handwriting was textbook-quality, suggesting some sort of copying spell. Someone didn't want their handwriting recognized, perhaps? This one simply had her name scrawled across the front surface. No return address or anything. Wary, Hermione crossed to the breakfast nook, set the letter on the surface of the table, and prodded it with a couple of revelatory charms, delivered at wand-point. Nothing happened.

Still cautious, she popped open the unstamped seal, and unfolded the parchment, which had been turned into its own envelope. The inside of the letter was relatively short, rather shocking, and came with a smallish, golden circle. A ring, chased in a subtle, sinuous pattern of scales.

Returning her attention to the letter, she read the oddly addressed note, since it used her middle name, not her given one.

'Jane;

Ex Votum Irruptus'

It was a very strange letter. Starting with the use of her middle name for the salutation, and running through to the use of Albus Dumbledore's middle names...well, some of them, and a bit reversed in order...it was a very strange sort of letter. Hermione didn't know whether or not to believe the writer. She didn't know of anyone in the Order named 'Russel', and she didn't know of any spies, other than the traitor.

Of course, if he'd used her middle name, and the late Headmaster's middle names, it was conceivable this was his middle name, too. She didn't know everyone in the Order, after all. Not that closely, at any rate. She could make enquiries, but was torn. If this was a spy in the Dark Lord's organization, as the writer seemed to imply, she'd never heard of any spy other than Professor Snape. But on the other hand, wouldn't it be wise to have more than one spy, and prudent to not tell all and sundry about the existence of the second one, let alone reveal that wizard's identity? But...why pick her? True, the only unattached female she knew of in the Order was Tonks--who was now in a relationship with Lupin--but Hermione wasn't even technically in the Order, yet, and it would be difficult to get the Order members to believe her.

She needed to know if this letter, this ring, and this offer were all genuine, or merely part of some elaborate ruse. Was it really a genuine offer, and a genuine way to smuggle information out of the Dark Lord's camp? Or was it all just a lie? And why would they lie to her? Would it be for something even more sinister than to trap her and her friends somehow?

Professor Snape's treacherous defection had been a terrible blow to her trust; she'd always respected the man, and tried her best to defend him...but now her naivety and trusting innocence were shattered and could not be reformed.

"Sweetie?" Daphne Granger prompted her daughter. "What's the letter about?"

Hermione scooped up the ring and tucked it into her pocket, adding the refolded letter. "Wizarding business. Mum, Dad...about next school year. Um...I'm not going back."

"What?" Jeffrey Granger exclaimed, stunned.

"You can't be serious!" her mother added, shocked.

"I am. There's been a lot of things that've happened in the wizarding war, and...I do want to pass my N.E.W.T.s and get smashing grades that you could be proud of," Hermione admitted, doing her best to keep the tremor out of her voice. She'd made the offer almost impulsively to Harry, back at Professor Dumbledore's funeral, but knew it was the right decision. She'd had plenty of time to reflect on her choice. "But I'm needed outside the school a lot more. And before you protest, I'm seventeen. That's legal age, in the wizarding world. I've given it a lot of careful thought, and there are just some things more important than textbooks and grades. My friends need me, and I'm going to be there for them."

Jeffrey and Daphne exchanged looks. Hermione braced herself for the barrage of disappointment and questions...but to her surprise, her parents sighed, and moved to embrace her on either side. Her father addressed her confusion. "We've never been more proud of you, Hermione."

"We've always been a little worried that you'd bury yourself in your books, thinking that was the most important thing in life," her mother added. "But you've just shown us you're all grown up, now. You know what's really important."

"We raised you right," Jeffrey added, squeezing and releasing his daughter. "Now, tell us about what's happened. You just wrote a brief letter saying the Headmaster was killed during an attack on the school--"

"--I've never been so frightened in my whole life, when we read about that!" her mother interjected, hand pressing to the base of her throat. "An attack on the school! I want to tell you to stay in the Muggle world, to let this wizarding thing settle itself...but I know that's just a futile attempt at a mother burying her head in the sand..."

"Yes, so let's hear the whole thing out," her father insisted, gesturing for all of them to take a seat at the breakfast nook.

Taking a deep breath, her hand stealing briefly into her pocket to touch the strange ring...Hermione began. She wouldn't, and couldn't, tell them everything, of course. Certainly not about the Horcruxes. If word got out that someone was looking for pieces of Lord Voldemort's twisted soul and intended to destroy them, it would go badly for her and her friends. Very badly, if the Dark Lord himself heard about their quest. Instead, she aimed her revelations more towards the fact that, with the Headmaster gone, they desperately needed every agent of the Light they could get into the field, then played up the fact that Harry was bound and determined to fight, and that she and Ron were equally determined to watch his and each other's backs, since they were far more effective as a team than as individuals.

Her parents tried to understand, and tried to be supportive despite the concern and worry seaming their faces; Hermione was grateful for that. Her road wasn't going to be easy. She would do what she could to make sure her parents were as safe as possible, but even a threat to her parents' lives was not going to stop her from doing what was right. All she could to was to make sure they knew she loved them, and to try to make them understand why she had to leave school, without giving away any secrets.

Whoever Russel was, if his offer was genuine, Hermione felt sympathy for him. She wasn't lying to her parents, but she wasn't telling the full truth, either, and it wasn't easy to lie by omission. Who knew how much more difficult his own situation must be?

...

She almost missed the first ring-message. She'd been taking a shower, and when she came out and wrapped a towel around her hair, her gaze fell on the ring. The scale-like pattern had vanished, replaced by letters and numbers. Blinking, Hermione frowned, then snatched up the ring, ignoring the gravity-borne tug of the awkwardly half-wrapped towel on her head. She stared at the warm metal, turning it carefully in her fingers. Alphonse Lubbock, 126 Bridgetowne Pla...

The rest of the tiny writing broke apart and reformed itself into the original scale-pattern; she hadn't gotten to it in time.

Bridgetowne Place? Bridgetowne Plaza? Hermione wondered. And what does it mean? In her distraction, she almost pushed the ring onto her finger, then grimaced and pulled it away. I've got to find a better way to hold onto this ring than just carrying it in a pocket...and if that bit about the 'unbreakable betrothal' is true, I definitely don't want to end up wearing it!

Retreating to her room once she was dried and dressed, Hermione rummaged through her jewelry box. It didn't take her long to find what she wanted: a long rope-chain, gold-plated and suitable for hanging something that she could lift and look at, yet hide under her clothes. It wasn't the chain that had come with the Time-Turner, of course; that had been a part of the Time-Turner itself. But she'd liked the length of it, and had sought for a Muggle version to hang pendants and watches and such from, and had ended up buying this in the summer after her third year.

Opening the clasp, Hermione strung the ring on it, then looped the chain around her head and tucked the ring into her cleavage. The unnatural warmth had faded. The circle of gold nestled between her breasts comfortably; in a few moments, Hermione could hardly tell it was there. She'd developed quite a bit from the minor curves of her third year; no one would know the ring was down there, only that she wore the chain.

Wondering who Alphonse Luddock was, and worrying over what might happen to him, Hermione focused on packing the last of her things. After spending the night at his aunt and uncle's, Harry would be going to the Burrow with Ron, today. Having met the Dursleys, Hermione was quite happy to have spent the night in the much more loving arms of her own family. But she couldn't stay long; they had a wedding to prepare for, after all.

Maybe she could ask Molly Weasley who this Lubbock person was.

...

"...Lubbock?" Molly asked, brow wrinkling in thought. "Alphonse Lubbock? Now that's a name I haven't heard in ages... Why do you ask?"

"Um...I heard someone mentioning his name, and that he lived at 126 Bridgetowne...um, Bridgetowne," Hermione pretended to fumble. "Oh, I can't remember the rest of it."

"126 Bridgetown Place, Lincoln. Yes, I remember now," Molly nodded. "That was the address he Floo'd to, when Arthur went to pick up our clock, the last time we had a new hand added to it." She smiled in fond memory. "It was three days after Ginny was born. I was still a frightful mess from the birth, weak as a kitten--but so proud to finally have a little girl in the family! First female Weasley to be born in three generations, you know..."

Her brow wrinkled again. Hermione realized Mrs. Weasley was looking older than before. The war, the threat to all of her children, the death of Professor Dumbledore, all were taking their toll on her. Freckled skin was beginning to wrinkle a little more, and not just in the places where smiles would carve their mark. That red, curly hair was now visibly salted with grey. And there was always a worried look in her eyes, no matter how happy she seemed.

Hermione prayed the ring wasn't a lie; she would do almost anything to make Molly Weasley smile again, in that moment of realization. Annoying and bossy and naggy as the woman could be, fussy and overprotective...she was like a second mum to everyone. Impulse made Hermione hug the older witch, who startled, then wrapped her arms around Hermione, too.

"Thank you, dear," Molly murmured, giving her an extra squeeze. "Actually, I'm going to do something. I am going to call on Mr. Lubbock, and see if he cannot fix that clock of ours. I'm sick and tired of it spending almost all of its time pointing at 'Mortal Peril'! It's not very informative, pointing twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week to it, when we're actually off shopping, or at school or work. 'Mortal Peril' should be a direct threat, thank you very much."

Dusting off her hands dramatically, Molly headed for the hearth. Hermione recalled why the ring would give the wizard's name, and quickly cast around for some sort of distraction. "Er--Mrs. Weasley, you've got lunch on the stove. Why don't I give Mr. Lubbock a Floo-call? I'm not very good at tending to meal-making the magical way, I'm afraid, otherwise I'd do it for you."

Molly, stopping at the hearth, glanced over her shoulder and smiled. "That's very sweet of you, Hermione dear...though we'll have to correct such a ghastly oversight in your witchly education. Alright, then; go ahead and give him a Floo-call for me. Tell him it's Arthur Weasley's Locator Clock, and that we're sick and tired of it pointing to Mortal Peril--I wish I could do something about the real peril we're all in," she added with a touch of grimness, "but we're doing the best we can. We don't need a bloody clock reminding us about it all the time."

Smiling, nodding, Hermione approached the large hearth cautiously. While Molly was distracted with the potatoes and chicken she was roasting, Hermione drew her wand, doing her best to shield its presence from the other woman, in case Mrs. Weasley turned around. Taking a fistful of Floo-powder from the holder by the hearth, she knelt down, cast it on the flames with her left hand, and called out, "126 Bridgetowne Place, Lincoln!"

As soon as the flames roared high and green, Hermione poked both her head and her wand cautiously inside. She hated the dizzying, spinning sensation, but had the spell she wanted on her lips, bursting out of her the moment the spinning stopped.

"Probitelalumis!"

Light exploded from her wand. Several voices cried out, something crashed, and Hermione worried she'd just blinded poor Mr. Lubbock's family. Squinting against the gleaming web-work, the first thing she saw was an old man shuddering on the ground, several pieces of overturned furniture, and a trio of dark-robed, silver-masked bodies. Death Eaters. They were physically trapped by the web of light, two of them smashed back into the sofa, and a third pinned against the wall near what looked like the front door; that one had overturned an end-table and shattered a candle lamp when the spell had hit, which thankfully wasn't burning at the moment.

Thankfully, there weren't any other Death Eaters in the room. The spell could only handle up to five Dark wizards or witches at a time. It continued to pour from the tip of her wand, like a Muggle laser light; all she had to do was hold onto it with her willpower, and it would keep them pinned in place.

"...Hermione?" a voice called through the Floo, faint and barely able to reach Hermione's ears. It was Molly. "Hermione, what's going on in there? Did you just shout a spell?"

Hermione thought rapidly. She didn't dare withdraw her head and her wand; the Web of Light spell had to be maintained in person. A break in her physical presence or her concentration, and the threads of light pouring out of her wand would cease to imprison the Death Eaters in Mr. Lubbock's parlour. Calling back over her shoulder, she called, "Death Eaters! They've attacked Mr. Lubbock!"

"What--what? Death Eaters?"

"Get Harry and Ron! I've got 'em pinned, but I can't retreat!" Hermione ordered her. The silver-haired man on the floor had stopped shuddering, worrying her as his age-lined face went slack. Either he was dead, or unconscious, but she daren't step through to find out herself; she needed to maintain the Web. What she needed was backup.

"Come out of there, girl, before you're killed!"

"Get Harry and Ron!" Hermione yelled, frustrated. "Now!"

The webbing of light flickered. Firming her concentration, Hermione ignored the tugging at the leg of her jeans, until a different pair of hands patted on the small of her back. "--Hermione?"

That was Harry.

"Three Death Eaters, Harry! I've got 'em pinned, but I can only go forward, not back! And I think Mr. Lubbock is hurt!"

"We'll be right behind you," Ron's voice asserted, his voice more muffled than Harry's. "Mum, what's the address?..."

"...Got it. We're ready," Harry told her, patting her. "Go through; we're right on your heels!"

Scrambling through, ignoring the twisting dizziness as it passed from her shoulders through her stomach, hips and legs, Hermione kept her attention on her spell-bound captives as she righted herself on the far side and stepped out of the way. Harry came through next, wand drawn and ignoring the soot staining him from tee-shirt to trainers. Moving to the other side of the heart as Ron came through after, Harry almost tripped over a still form lying by the fire tongs stand.

It was a dog...gutted, burnt, mauled, and patently dead. The two wizards eyed the web-work of light spilling from the tip of Hermione's wand, and the three Death Eaters responsible. Ron dropped to his knees by the wizard on the floor. "He's passed out, but he doesn't look harmed--maybe Crucio, I think."

"Accio Wand! Accio Wand! Accio Wand! Argencustoda!" Harry commanded, as soon as all three Death Eater wands flung across the room and into his hand. Silvery ribbons shot out of the tip of his wand, wrapping themselves around one of the masked Death Eaters on the couch. He did it to the second one, then to the third. The web-work didn't pin either him or Ron; it was meant only for those who were Dark at heart. Those who shunned the Light could be trapped by it, or so the creator of this obscure little spell had asserted.

"Ennervate!" Ron asserted, crouching by the wizard on the floor. The older gentleman gasped, eyes flying wide. He started to struggle, flinching away from Ron, but when the freckled young man patted his shoulder, soothing him, he quieted. "Easy, easy; we're here to rescue you. Is there anyone else in the house?"

"N-No, just me and my dog. I live alone. Who are you?--I know you! How do I know you?"

"I'm Ron Weasley. You're Mr. Lubbock, aren't you? The wizard who made our clock?"

"Weasley, yes, the clock...oh, my house--my workshop--they must not get into my workshop!" He urged Ron to help him up onto his feet, just as the fire flared green. Harry whipped around, having secured the last Death Eater. Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped through the fire, followed by a witch and a wizard none of them knew, but whom both had a tough, no-nonsense look about them.

"What's going on, here?"

"Hermione knows what happened, Mr. Shacklebolt," Ron offered, supporting the old wizard they'd rescued.

Hermione wrinkled her nose at having the responsibility of explaining dumped on her shoulders, but now that Harry and the two newcomers had their wands trained on the prisoners, she cancelled the Web of Light spell. "Molly Weasley wanted her clock looked at by Mr. Lubbock, here, so I said I'd give him a Floo-call, because she was busy fixing our lunch. And when I poked my head through, these three were torturing him. So I pinned them in place with a spell, and got Harry and Ron to come through and finish capturing them."

"And I must thank you, and Mrs. Weasley, too, for thinking of calling me! You've rescued me from a fate worse than death," Mr. Lubbock asserted. "That is, if they haven't broken into my workshop, yet! I need to check on everything..."

"Violetta, go with him. Mr. Weasley, you go, too. Mr. Lubbock looks like he need someone to hold him up. Once we've secured the house, however, you'll need to go to St. Mungo's to be looked at, Mr. Lubbock."

"Yes, yes...and maybe now the Ministry will see the need to perform the Fidelius Charm on me," the silver-haired wizard mumbled as Ron helped him to move. "One taste of the Cruciatus Curse is more than enough for me...oh, my poor Libby!" His gaze had fallen on the mangled corpse of the dog. "Those foul beasts murdered her most cruelly, trying to get me to talk..."

...

Hermione felt a little guilty, later, when everyone back at the Burrow praised her for mentioning Mr. Lubbock, and for being so quick on the draw, thus saving him. She didn't feel guilty for mentioning him, nor for saving the old wizard, but she did feel guilty for her vague 'I heard someone mentioning his name', and the assumption that she'd had to draw her wand quickly, instead of having it already drawn. She was still skeptical about why she'd been given the ring...but whoever had sent it to her had indeed apparently sent a message meant to foil a Death Eater attack.

Of course, that made Hermione feel guilty that she hadn't done anything immediately about the message she'd received. Between packing, saying goodbye to her parents, Apparating here, putting her trunk in Ginny's room, and coming back downstairs, she'd wasted almost half an hour. Everything had worked out, more or less, but she still felt guilty for being almost too skeptical.

It helped to distract her thoughts when Molly insisted on teaching some of her favorite kitchen charms, to help prepare the rest of their lunch. She knew some, of course; Professor Flitwick had taught basic household charms to his students. These charms went beyond the basics, however. They were designed to feed a small army of people in as efficient and tasty a manner as possible, and Molly Weasley was good enough at what she knew to have taught Filius Flitwick a thing or two. Then again, with her brood, she'd had plenty of practice.

Bill wasn't yet home from St. Mungo's; the Healers there were doing the best they could with cosmetic spells to ease the wounds he'd received at the hands of the werewolf, Greyback. Fleur was thankfully staying with him through the latest procedure, and though she was annoying at times, Hermione had to admit the French witch did love the eldest Weasley son. The wedding would be in two weeks, plus a couple days. With the twins at their shop in Diagon Alley, that left Molly, Charlie, Ron, Harry, Ginny and Hermione to sit down at the kitchen table with chicken and potatoes, carrots and peas, home-made bread and fresh-squeezed pumpkin juice.

Seated next to her, Ron daringly slipped his left hand onto her thigh, beneath the cover of the table. Hermione felt a little thrill at the touch. After so many years of having a bit of an on-again, off-again crush on the redhead, and the horrible way he'd slobbered all over Lavender Brown this last year, it was nice to know he was finally paying court to her. Covering his hand, she pressed it to her thigh, squeezed, then released it so she could pick up her fork and knife to eat.

At least she and Ron could have a relationship. Ginny had already confided to her that she and Harry had broken up, to keep Ginny less of a target by their enemies. Hermione had spent some time comforting the crying younger witch up in the girls' dormitories at the school, just before they'd left. As it was, it was kind of painful to watch the two of them, the way Harry and Ginny's eyes would linger on one or the other between bites, how those gazes would meet, then skitter away in discomfort, before going back to sneaking covert looks a few moments later.

Hermione knew that if she lost Ron, she'd have a hard time recovering. She didn't know if what they had was true love, not this early in their relationship, but she wanted both of them to live long enough to figure it out. Given who they were and what they were going to do, it was a bit much to ask, but she wanted to ask anyway. Not that it would be easy, under the gimlet eye of his mother; at a questioning stare from Molly, Ron slid his hand from her lap and up to the table, where he used it to eat his meal.

The fire flared green, while the boys were clearing the table. To their surprise, it was the female Auror, Violetta, and Mr. Alphonse Lubbock. They dusted themselves off, and while the woman sort of faded into the background in a posture of watchful silence, the elderly Mr. Lubbock greeted Molly with a smile and a handshake and a kiss on her cheek that made the much younger witch blush. He had a toolbox with him, and with Charlie and Ron's help, they got the clock down and set on the kitchen table

"Mr. Lubbock used to work as an Unspeakable, in the Department of Mysteries," Molly whispered to her children, as she fluttered them out of the kitchen with flapping fingers. "He's one of the best chronomages out there. Now, leave him alone to work, and we'll see if we can get that ruddy clock to stop pointing to 'Mortal Peril' when it's not directly perilous. Go play Quidditch out over the garden, or something."

Distracted by that thought, Harry, Ron, and Ginny asked Charlie if he could stay long enough for a game. With his duties at work light for the moment, the second-eldest Weasley agreed, and they headed off to fetch their brooms and playing gear. That left Hermione at a bit of a loose end. She watched them play for a while, admiring and smiling at Ron, but grew bored. She much preferred Apparition to broom-flight, even if the squeezing sensation was a bit horrid.

Wandering back into the house, she watched Mr. Lubbock work from the entry to the kitchen, carefully staying back out of his way. She wanted to ask him questions about his work, but didn't want to intrude. Since she'd seen plenty of Quidditch before, but not anyone working on a magical clock, she was content for the moment.

"That was a spectacular spell you cast, young lady. What was it, exactly?" Mr. Lubbock asked her, his nose almost buried in the workings at the back of the clock.

"Erm...the Web of Light spell."

"Extraordinary! Never heard of it--can you hand me that mini-spanner, there? The one with the red tape around the handle. And don't touch the ends; they're hot."

Edging closer, Hermione peered into the toolbox, found what was wanted, and carefully handed it over. "Here you go, sir."

"Thank you."

"Erm...I suppose I should leave you alone, now, and...and not ask you any questions," she murmured, trying to be respectful of his need to work, but vastly curious about what he was doing.

"Nonsense! I love chatting while I work. Used to drive my fellow Unspeakables batty. Mind you, I could confine my conversations to inane subjects, such as the weather, or the latest Quidditch scores, but I love talking about my work, too. Now, if you'll keep in mind that I cannot give away any of the Ministry's secrets...ask away, and I'll answer those questions that I can."

"Okay...what are you doing? At this moment," Hermione clarified. "I do realize you're fixing a rather extraordinary clock, of course."

He chuckled, and fiddled with something on the inside of the clock. "Loosening the Peligrometer."

"And what's that?"

"The danger-sensor. Would you be a dear girl and look at the front of the clock? I've just got to get this last casing off--" he grunted, and Hermione now realized his arm was embedded in the clock past the elbow, when the case itself was not much deeper than the length of his long-fingered hand; such sights always seemed so magical to her Muggle-raised sensibilities, "--and then I can fiddle with it. I need you to tell me the very instant the hands on the clock stop pointing to 'Mortal Peril'."

"Certainly, sir." Moving around the table, Hermione stared at the collection of hands, all of which pointed to the 'hour' in question.

"Your name is Hermione Granger, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Didn't you apply for a Time-Turner, a few years ago? I do keep a hand in the old office gossip, still."

"Yes, sir, in my third year at Hogwarts. I wanted to study a broader selection of subjects than time would normally allow."

"Yes, yes, quite extraordinary. And you handled yourself well, I hear; no mucking about with time, no breaking the law..."

If one didn't count freeing a supposedly convicted murderer and a hippogriff from a pair of unjust death-sentences, Hermione thought, but kept that thought carefully to herself. Instead she merely demurred, "Well, I try to be very responsible, sir."

"An admirable quality--there we go. Watch the hands, now!"

Several seconds passed. Hermione tried not to blink. Finally, the hands twitched and started to separate. "Now, sir!"

"Excellent! The ruddy thing was overly sensitive, but then I designed it to suit Mrs. Weasley's distinctive mother-hen nature," he muttered, extracting his arm long enough to grab the various plates and screws needed to reassemble the innards he'd dismantled. "...Marvelous woman. Did she ever tell you she saved my life, once? Didn't even know it, of course, but she gave me a Floo-call about fixing one of her mother's clocks when she was about your age, and interrupted me before I could take a bite of a fruitcake I'd been sent by a nephew. My cat Friskums ate it instead, while I answered the Floo-call. Poor thing died on the spot. Turned out the bugger wanted his inheritance a little early," Mr. Lubbock related with a matter-of-fact aplomb that bemused Hermione. "Gave him an inheritance of a ten-year sentence to Azkaban, instead, and wrote him out of my will. So, when young Molly married Arthur, I thought this family-tracking clock would make a nice gift in thanks."

Hermione smiled. "That was a really nice gift, and very kind of you. And practical, too, given how many children they ended up having. It's a very good way of being able to keep track of everyone."

"Yes, well, it's one-of-a-kind. I don't hand out my special inventions to just anyone, you know. Or as I like to say, they'll all be handed out in due time." Extracting his beaky nose for a moment, the aged wizard gave her a merry smile, before returning to his work. "Blue-tape spanner, please, and watch the ends, it's cold--mind the red one as you put it back where you found it, as it's still quite hot."

Content, Hermione played 'surgery theatre nurse' for him, handing him tools and putting them back as requested, wherever he described. Finally, he extracted his arm and screwed the back plate back into place, then pulled out a handkerchief and gave the clock what looked like a loving dusting, his age-spotted hands caressing the carvings with the linen. Snapping the dust out of the kerchief, he tucked it back into his pocket, then stood and moved over to the toolbox, peering over Hermione's shoulder. He poked at the contents, eyeing their placement, then nodded.

"--Excellent! Everything exactly where it should be. You have a very organized and logical mind, young lady. Have you ever considered working in the Department of Mysteries? They could always use bright, intelligent, apprentice witches such as yourself."

"I've given it some thought, yes," Hermione found herself admitting. "But with the war on, and everything...I'll be kind of busy with other things for a little bit."

"What, with rescuing old wizards like myself?" Mr. Lubbock grinned. He dug into his pocket, angling his body so that his back was to the bored Auror sitting on a stool by the pantry door, reading what looked like a paperback romance. The aging wizard pulled out a bracelet, dropping his voice to a whisper. "...Here. It's not quite a magical clock, but in these times of trouble, you might find it a bit more useful."

Hermione took the bracelet with a puzzled frown. It was a ring of gold, banded about the middle with what looked like twenty four segments of dark blue abalone. Looking up at him, she asked under her breath, "...More useful? What does it do?"

"It's another of my own inventions. I call it the Velocitemplet," he whispered with a hint of pride in his voice. "Go ahead, move the middle band around."

Eyeing the armband, Hermione gripped the gold edges in one hand, and shifted the section with the inlaid shell. It clicked, moving the distance of one segment. Nothing happened. She clicked it again, moving it two segments. Still nothing. When she looked up at him, he smiled, flashing his straight but age-yellowed teeth at her again.

"It's not charged, yet. What you have to do is pick a time of day when you have roughly half an hour of doing absolutely nothing scheduled. Then you click the band all the way around until it stops. It's best do to this in the evening, just before going to bed. In a safe place by preference, of course.. It will slow you down for twenty-four minutes...or however many minutes you need to recharge the thing. For each minute charged, the abalone will transform into mother-of-pearl, so it's a quick visual clue as to what's charged and what's been expended. You gauge where it is by the way these two thin onyx bands...here, on the gold outer band, and here, on the center bit...line up to each other. But, so long as you do not take it off your arm...you can get back the time that you gave up to charge it.

"Not literally, of course," he murmured, shrugging. "You won't reappear in your pyjamas in your bed. Nor will it turn back time like a Time-Turner...which I couldn't give out anyway, since that's strictly Ministry-controlled...but it will speed up time. For up to four minutes at a go, at varying rates. You will be able to move and interact with your environment at a much faster rate than the rest of the world normally travels at...though you'll be exhausted afterwards, and if you try Apparating in either condition, slowed or speeded, you'll splinch for sure. Keep it charged, keep it on your wrist, and you'll be able to act with remarkable haste, should you ever have need. And hopefully that will save your life one day, as you have saved mine."

A pat on her shoulder, and he reached past her to close up the toolbox. As soon as it was closed, he raised his voice. "--Molly? Your clock is fixed! I'm on my way home, now! Give my best to Arthur when you see him!"

Auror Violetta jerked to attention, quickly marking and tucking the book out of sight in the folds of her robes. Mrs. Weasley came bustling out of the living room, feather duster floating behind her. "Must you go so soon?"

"Yes, I must; I need to be there when they perform the Fidelius Charm on my house. Can't be too careful, these days. I don't even want to think about why You-Know-Who wants an old chronomancer under his control...ah, well, I'll be back for the wedding! Make sure you have a small photo of the bride-to-be ready for me--and those delightful twice-baked potatoes you make!"

Eyeing the bracelet, Hermione tucked it over her wrist. It rested there for a moment, then tightened just enough to her skin that it did not slip or move. That would allow her to manipulate the shell-band one-handed. She wanted to experiment with it, but it would be best to wait for evening. She was also unsure whether or not to tell the others about the bracelet. The fewer people who knew about such an advantage, the better.

She shouldn't keep secrets from her friends...but there was the letter, which had faded to blank parchment by now, and the ring strung around her neck. As far as Hermione had ever known, there had only been the one spy in the Dark Lord's service. A traitor in the end, to her shock, outrage and sorrow. If she told Harry or Ron about the ring, or about this Russel fellow, they might let it slip to someone else. As it was, Professor...and Snape knew too many Order secrets. The fewer who knew about the ring, and the bracelet, the less chance there was of the enemy learning, too.

The bracelet, she decided, she would keep silent about. At least, until she'd had a chance to test its properties. Harry and Ron would undoubtedly have a bunch of questions about it, and she wanted to be able to answer them, before she had to answer. 'Know-it-all' might be considered an insult, but it could also be considered a compliment...but it took a bit of work to be one.

...

The bracelet worked, but it came with a couple of caveats, Hermione discovered. While she was 'charging', she was as petrified in place as if she'd been hit with a Freezing Charm. She could think and breathe, but she couldn't move, and couldn't react, not even when Crookshanks jumped up onto her lap and rubbed himself against her. All she could do was breathe, though it took some effort, and blink with equally stiff effort. And when Crooks head-butted her, seeking attention, he couldn't budge her. Even the rumpled folds of her pyjama top were hard for him to move, Hermione gradually realized. She was literally slowed in time, for those twenty-four minutes.

With one exception: if she kept her fingers on the shell-band at the center of the bracelet, she could just manage to move enough to un-click a minute's worth of time. One click at a time. Until, rather than twenty-four minutes' worth stored in shades of mother-of-pearl cream, she ended up with about seven, the remaining unused minutes still marked in abalone blue. She finished filling up the bracelet, figuring it was easier to keep a full bracelet on hand--or rather, wrist--at all times, but kept that option in mind, if she ever had to terminate the 'charging' effect early. One of the other drawbacks appeared each time after the charging session: she felt like she had hyperventilated, a bit of dizziness mixed in with that tingling feeling she got whenever she breathed too much, too fast. It was definitely a wise idea to do the recharging minutes while lying in her bed

As for 'spending' the minutes...it was difficult to tell how fast time passed in the dark hours of the night, when everyone else was asleep at the Burrow. But seconds ticked by like minutes, and everything appeared to be moving slower than treacle poured from a jar stuck in a snow-bank. The bracelet's stored minutes came in six speeds, too. She could use up to four minutes' worth of time at a stretch, by her own reckoning of time, but she could move up to six times as fast, if she used all twenty-four minutes, or three times as fast as the baseline, if she used only twelve.

In fact, when she watched a game of Quidditch being played by the others while testing the double-speed option, when she experimented with full-speed, even the wings of the Snitch slowed to an icy-treacle movement. The drawback to using a burst of speeded-up time was a depleting exhaustion that followed; the more time she used, the more exhausted she was, and the faster that time flew, the more drained she felt. Either clicking repeatedly every few minutes to get twenty-four minutes' worth at the first level of speed, or ratcheting the bracelet all the way around all at once for four minutes of full-speed, left her literally falling-down tired.

The Velocitemplet was not something meant for casual use, Hermione decided, after the second experiment left her drained and bruised from collapsing on the floor of her bedroom at Headquarters. In the end, that was what kept her silent on the decision of whether or not to tell her friends. They might want to use it for the silliest of things, or have her use it frequently. Between the dizzying stillness of charging the bracelet, and the draining expenditure of using it, she wanted to keep it for a last-option sort of thing. Like the ring, it was also definitely something she didn't want their enemies to know existed.

At least with the kindly Mr. Lubbock, she didn't have to worry nearly as much about his motives for giving it to her. The ring didn't grow warm in the days following his rescue, but she kept it tucked down her shirts, just in case. Ron noticed the chain, of course, mostly when they were kissing. Not that they had much opportunity for kissing, since his mother seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to interrupting such moments, but he did tug playfully on it once, asking, "What have you got tucked down there?"

"Er...just something I got at my parents'," Hermione dismissed, and distracted him with a bit more in the way of kissing.

She felt a little guilty at the minor deception, and a little guilty from something else. The letter had said that the ring could be used as a 'powerful form of protection', if she remained chaste. If it had been given by someone who was honestly on their side, she could trust that protection would be there if she ever had to don it to escape a bad situation. On the other hand, if it was a deception meant to lull her into trusting the giver...she didn't know why that person would bother warning her about donning it and thus binding her in an 'unbreakable betrothal'.

If he wasn't a spy for her side, wouldn't it be more advantageous to not tell her about the potential for the two of them to be bound together? She didn't know much about archaic magical betrothals, but Hermione guessed he might have a fair bit of control over her. Not her mind, of course, but being able to do things like snog other men, and so forth. Unless, of course, he just didn't want to be bound to a Muggle-born witch who was going to be skipping her seventh year of school...

A witch who would be going up against masked and robed Death Eaters in the near future, one of which might turn out to be him. Vacillating between being skeptical and wanting to believe, Hermione kept her silence on the whole matter. Her own doubts were more than enough to deal with; she didn't need to add Harry's and Ron's to the mix.

...

Fire seared her breasts, making Hermione gasp. Ginny, busy trying to twist her red hair into a sophisticated, upswept style, frowned at the other young witch. "What? Does it look horrid?"

"Uh...well, you missed a bit in the back," Hermione blurted out, unable to think of anything tactful to say, when all she could think of was yanking the ring out of her cleavage. She wasn't a member of the wedding-party, but she was supposed to be getting ready, too, and had already fixed her hair and face. They were both still in the jeans and shirts they had worn through most of the morning's preparations, fixing up the Burrow for the outdoor ceremony. Which was a good thing, because she had to take care of her little problem. "Um...I've got to go to the bathroom. I'll help you into your dress in a bit, okay?"

"What, Phlegm's 'Tradishunall Frensh Wedding Breakfass' disagreeing with you?" Ginny quipped mockingly.

"Er, something like that."

"She's still a bit snobbish, and I don't like her cooking...but at least she does love Bill," Ginny sighed as Hermione headed for the door. "And he loves her, though his wits seemed to have drained out of his head at some point in the falling-in-love process."

Mumbling an agreement-like sound, Hermione darted out of the bedroom. She didn't bother to descend the steps, but pulled the ring out of her bra and tilted it towards the light coming from the window at the end of the landing. The message etched there made her heart skip a beat in fright.

Creevey - 18 Cadfael Lane, Shrewsbury

The Creeveys. Colin and Dennis Creevey. Muggle-borns, like her. Hermione's mind raced right along with her heart. Hurrying down the steps, she leapt them two and three at a time, and emerged in the kitchen with a breathless thump. Arthur looked up from the cufflinks he was trying to fasten onto his shirtsleeves, surprise widening his eyes.

"Hermione? I though you were Ron, or maybe Harry? What's making you take the stairs like a boy?"

"Um...how quickly can a Floo connection be made to a Muggle hearth?" Hermione asked, still trying to come up with a way to explain why she was asking.

"It only takes a minute or so--did you want to invite your parents?"

"No--" Her gaze fell on the clock, which was now pointing at either 'Getting Ready' or 'Traveling' for most of the family. In specific, her eyes met the smiling faces of the Weasleys marked on each of the clock's nine hands. "--No, actually, it just occurred to me that you haven't hired a photographer for Bill and Fleur's wedding!"

"By Merlin...you're right! How could we overlook recording our eldest son's happiest day? I'll go and see if I can find that Muggle camera I have--"

"--Actually, Mr. Weasley," Hermione interjected, stopping him with a hand on his arm before he could hurry off to his work-shed, and distracted him physically by finishing the fastening of his cufflinks for him, speaking as persuasively as she could, "you're going to be far too busy as the host and the father of the groom to be taking photographs...which is why I thought of the perfect person to take pictures at Bill's wedding: Colin Creevey. He's a Muggle-born like me. Knows all about cameras, and does a truly good job of taking pictures, too. I know it's really short notice," she asserted, trying not to babble in her need to convince him as quickly as possible, and probably failing from the way he blinked at her, "but I was thinking, what if we invited Colin and his family--all of the Creeveys--to the wedding? His family have never seen a wizarding wedding before, I'm quite sure, and I think they'd be delighted to attend. And it would be a wonderful way to pay Colin, and perhaps get him commissions for a career as a wizarding photographer, once people see what he can do with the pictures of your son's wedding--what do you think?"

"...Muggle-born, you say?"

"Yes, both him and his brother, Dennis," Hermione agreed. "And if they brought their family, and stayed for the reception afterwards, then you could ask bona-fide Muggles all sorts of questions while they're enjoying your fine wizarding hospitality. And so I was thinking, if a Floo-connection could be made quickly to their house, they could come right over with their finery, get dressed here so as not to worry about ash and soot, and spend the day with us. Colin could block out where the posed photos could be made, perhaps against Molly's bed of bluebells, and we could help Dennis answer any questions their Muggle family members might have, before the wedding starts."

"That's a splendid idea, Hermione! I'll go ask them...oh, bother," he grimaced, looking down at his finery. "I just got dressed. Hand me that jacket, there," he ordered her. "I'll Floo work right away! I hope they don't have a fire-plug thing, like those dreadful Dursleys had..."

Anxiously, unsure of just how much time they had left before the attack was made, Hermione waited by his side while he contacted his friends at the Ministry, and fed him the address. Molly came down, and Hermione found herself in the awkward position of explaining why the older witch's husband had his head and torso poking through the fire, when he was supposed to be keeping himself neat and clean to welcome the guests, who would be arriving in half an hour. She thought Hermione's idea was 'sweet', and ordered Arthur to take care with his clothes while fetching the Creeveys.

When Arthur stepped across with a spare bowl of Floo Powder, Hermione snatched a fistful of powder for herself and crossed right behind him, wand once again clenched in her hand, ready to defend or attack. But all she got, once she stepped around Mr. Weasley's back, was a shocked set of Muggles, and a puzzled Colin and Dennis.

"--Hermione?" Dennis blurted out, overriding Arthur Weasley's stammered explanation of his arrival, which was hindered by all the shiny Muggle gadgets within sight...such as the X-Box the Creevey boys had been using to play video games right before their arrival.

"Hello, Dennis! Hello, Colin! You must be Mr. and Mrs. Creevey; hello!" Hermione quickly asserted, and gestured at herself and her wide-eyed companion. "I'm Hermione Granger, a school chum of Dennis and Colin's, and this is Mr. Arthur Weasley, the father of our friend, Ron. We're here because Mr. Weasley's eldest son, Bill, is getting married today...and we kind of forgot to book a photographer!" She gave the stunned parents a wry smile and shrug. "Well, the first person I thought of, naturally, was Colin, who has a real knack for both normal and wizarding photographs. So, Mr. Weasley is here to ask if you--as in, all of you--would like to come to a real wizarding wedding, replete with reception and dancing in the evening, today."

She nudged Mr. Weasley as discreetly as she could, and he cleared his throat, getting over his awe and getting down to business.

"Quite right. I know it's very short notice, madam, sir, but it's going to be a lovely ceremony, the food will be very tasty, and everyone there will be very friendly and welcoming...or I'll see to them personally if they act otherwise," Arthur added, flashing them a smile. "Nothing but the best for my eldest son's biggest day. Ron's actually spoken very well over the years of the young Messrs. Creevey, here; it would be an honor to have Colin take the photographs of my son Bill, and his bride-to-be, Fleur. And it would be a good experience for him, if he's thinking of entering the field of wizarding photography. You can make a lot of contacts at a wedding, and impress a lot of people, if the pictures are done right."

"--Mum? Dad?" Colin asked, rising from the floor in front of the sofa so that he could look at his parents, who were seated at what looked like the dining table in the section of the room behind it. "Could we go? Please? Ron's a friend of mine, and if they think I've got what it takes, I wouldn't want to disappoint them!"

"Well..." Mrs. Creevey hedged, looking at her husband. "We were going to go to the movie theatre, this afternoon..."

"The movies will still be there tomorrow," Hermione coaxed as charmingly as logic could allow. "But how many chances will you get to see a real wizarding wedding? Aside from maybe when your own sons are ready for such things, if they, um, ever choose a witch for a bride..."

"What kind of a ceremony is it?" Mr. Creevey asked, suspicion creasing his brow in a frown. "Tree-worshipping Druid stuff? We'll not be expected to go 'sky-clad', or whatever those bohemian types call it?"

"No, no," Arthur hastened to reassure him. "Anglican ceremony. The whole family's solidly Anglican, and have been since Good Queen Bess's day." His brow wrinkled for a brief moment as he added in an aside, "Well, I think Fleur's actually a Lutheran...but we try not to hold that against her! Will you come? Please?"

"Well, we'll have to get dressed, and...erm...get in the car..." Mrs. Creevey hedged.

"Actually, you just pack up what you want to wear in a bag, and step across the hearth, here," Hermione corrected her. "That way, your nice clothes for the wedding don't get mussed, like mine have," she added, dusting at a bit of ash on her shoulder, "and then you can get dressed at the Burrow, which is the name of the Weasley's home. And you can have your casual clothes with you for later, if you want to relax during the reception. It's going to be a sort of summer barbecue thing, so only the wedding bit will be really formal."

"Well...I suppose I could give traveling the wizard-way a try," Mrs. Creevey allowed, some of her doubts fading away. "And Henry can't say 'no' to a good barbecue--will it be alright if our little girl comes along? Or should we get a sitter? She's only fourteen months, and liable to cry throughout the ceremony, I'm afraid."

Arthur Weasley unwittingly came to the rescue, for that one. "By all means, bring the baby along! Good heavens, you cannot have a proper wedding without a little one crying in the background! Boys, go get your dress robes. Hermione, go help Mrs. Creevey pack up what she and the baby will need. We should have you back by midnight or thereabouts, and the Floo connection's going to be open until tomorrow morning, but if you end up too tired to Floo home, well, I'm sure we can find a corner to tuck you into for the night, and a means to get you safely home again. I really do appreciate you being able to come and help us out on such short notice. And I'll definitely pay young Mr. Colin for the film and the photograph paper, and the chemicals and so on and such..."