Chapter 04

Author's Notes: Today, Ronald Weasley comes of-age in his mother's eyes. Merlin help the poor sod... ~Lotm

IV.

The ring didn't burn until late that night. She was on the verge of sleep when she felt it heating the skin of her right breast. Dragging herself back to consciousness, Hermione enchanted the candelabra by the bed to life, grabbed pen and paper, and pressed the ring to the tablet with her thumb as she held the spiral-bound pad in her hand.

Sorry for the delay; I was interrupted by the Furious Fiend. I'm one of half a dozen people stuck in this house most of the time, right now, and that means a limited audience he can rant at. Luckily I wasn't the one he tortured, today. But I feel sorry for young Malfoy. He was bleeding at the mouth, by the time it stopped.

Hermione stared at the bald words written on the tablet, horrified. She'd never liked Draco Malfoy, but Harry had admitted the platinum prat had lowered his wand at the end, unable to hex and kill Professor Dumbledore. There was some good inside of the prat, so surely that was worth something. And yet now Draco was being punished for something he hadn't done. It evoked in her the same sort of pity she felt for Kreacher, the kind that twisted its way around her revulsion and side-stepped her distaste.

She couldn't think of anything to write, other than, I'm sorry to hear that. I never liked him, but no one deserves that.

It was suggested by the Rat that young Malfoy be allowed to 'escape', to flee to the school, and thus allow us an agent on the inside, once it's sealed. I am happy to report he was tortured, too. I cannot abide him--he sold out his only friends, and for what? Umpteen years as a rat, a magical hand, and the fact that he's still despised by everyone who knows him?

That creased her brow. Not that Pettigrew was tortured, but that his idea was shot down. Why isn't that a good idea? Getting Malfoy back into the school, I mean?

Try to think about it, Jane. For a start, it's known by too many on the other side that he let the Dark Servants into the castle. They'll never let him anywhere near the Hogwarts Secret Keeper for that reason alone. For another, no one will ever think a student is innocent anymore, thanks to Malfoy's complicity. The students will be watched, as will the staff, thanks to the Moody/Crouch incident, Russel wrote to her. She had to read quickly to keep up with his writing, since it was scrolling up the sheet of the smallish tablet, just to fit it all in front of her eyes. They'd have to figure out who the Secret Keeper is, and then attempt to get that person off the school grounds. I suspect this person will not actually leave the grounds, but instead each student and staff-member will be personally handed a revelatory note by someone who knows them...and only after they pass a rigorous screening process. Or am I wrong?

You're probably not wrong, she wrote back. I know Professor McGonagall is going to be extra cautious with her students' safety, this year. I suspect Hogwarts will be harder to break into than Fort Knox--that's a Muggle reference.

I know what 'Fort Knox' is.

Hermione eyed the neatly penned script. It had wobbled in the middle. Are you using a dicto-quill charm?

Yes; I would think that obvious.

Well, your last sentence wobbled a bit. Was something wrong? she wrote, curious.

I was repositioning myself.

She smiled at that. Back to hiding under the covers, are we?

Something like that.

Curious, she prodded, What do you mean, 'something like that'? Either you're hiding under the covers, or you aren't.

You don't want to know that, Jane.

That did it; she couldn't resist the challenge. Yes, I do, actually. You roused the curiosity in me, and now you should be a gentleman and satisfy it.

Her words faded and the page remained blank for a moment before he replied. I'm not being a gentleman right now, though I am attempting to 'satisfy it'.

That didn't make any sense. I don't get it.

Jane, are you really that ignorant? Or should I say, that chaste?

No, she wrote back, trying to be honest, just really that confused.

I'm masturbating.

Oh. Cheeks flushed, Hermione stared at those two blatant words. They seemed to linger an inordinate amount of time. Finally, she couldn't help asking, ...Why?--Aside from the obvious reason of pleasure, of course.

Because I have a scrap of paper stuck in the leaves of a naughty wizarding book, and am titillating myself with the feather end of my quill pen. He paused, and she absorbed that idea, then Russel added more. I quite like the sensation, really. I'm also having to share my quarters at the moment. The traitor has been made the Secret Keeper of Riddle Manor...and I have a roommate that I cannot abide. They won't let the Secret Keeper be alone even for an instant...though my roommate doesn't know my coverlet has been enchanted to dampen ambient noise. Such as the scratching of a quill pen against paper. And my head isn't under the covers; they're just drawn up to my ribs, this time. I'm being quite brazen at the moment, writing-to-you-wise.

Her heart leapt in her throat. You'll be caught!

Hardly. The bastard in the other bed is snoring hideously at the moment. I do wish the wizarding world had heard of Muggle nasal-strips. The only thing I have to worry about at the moment is that damned snake. I swear, the thing can read! And after what I saw today...I needed to talk to someone normal, someone sane. Merlin knows I'm not, stuck in my situation as I am. Thank you, by the way.

Again, a touch of compassion for his situation thawed some of her wary reserve. Well, I'm here for you. What do you want to talk about?

Anything. Nothing about the Enemy, at the moment; I don't want to rouse suspicions if I'm observed. Actually... His words trailed out, then he asked, This is a terrible imposition, but...you're of-age, right?

Seventeen, almost eighteen. Why?

I want you to 'talk dirty' to me. Or rather, 'write dirty'. That way, I get to interact with someone who isn't an enemy, and yet our conversation will look merely like some novelty paper picked up in a joke shop.

Her face burned hotter than the ring under her thumb. I can't do that, actually.

I don't know how.

You're of-age in the wizarding world, and you don't know the first thing about talking sexily to someone? Merlin's arse, don't tell me you're a virgin, too!

I AM, actually, she scrawled back. And I'm not ready for sex! If I'm not ready for snogging on my bed with Ron, what makes you think I'm ready for talking sexily with you?

...My apologies. But you should learn. It would make the perfect cover as to why I have pen and paper in bed with me. And I need these moments of sane conversation with you. Trite Muggle cliche though it might be, I need to reach out and touch someone, and be touched by them. In a communicative/interactive sense, that is. If I just wanted to fuck someone, there's any number of warm bodies I could get my hands on, if I wanted. (Pardon my language.)

I'm sorry, she wrote back. I don't think this is such a good idea.

--Don't stop writing! Please!

Hermione shook her head, though she knew he couldn't see it; he'd misinterpreted her meaning. Getting up from her bed, she sat down at the vanity-desk, resting the tablet on its surface. Holding it in her hand was alright for a short conversation, but not this longer one. No, I meant the talking-sexy thing. I wouldn't have the first clue of where to begin, and I'd have to study the subject, and I'd feel really weird, almost like I would be cheating on Ron.

It's not actually cheating, Jane. It's nothing more than a ruse, should anyone discover me writing in bed. Besides, if you're that inexperienced, wouldn't you rather get some experience under your belt before you set about seducing your boyfriend? Even if only by discussing it in theory? Trust me, he won't disrespect you for being knowledgeable in this area. At least one of you should have a solid clue as to what to do. I doubt he has much experience for this sort of thing.

That made her think of all the time Ron had spent 'playing suck-face' with Lavender Brown, this last school year. He's got a bit of experience in kissing.

He's a teenaged boy. He's got enthusiasm, stamina for repetition--though probably not for duration, yet--and he probably cares about you, but that's about it. Trust me; I'm not so far from his age that I don't remember what it was like to be a teenaged boy, all hormones and no self-control. I don't know why God messed things up by giving a high sexual drive to inexperienced male teens. A true lover takes his time, stimulating all six senses and satisfying his partner several times, before striving for his own moment of bliss. But that takes time and experience to learn.

...What do you mean, all six senses? Hermione enquired, frowning at the tablet in her hands. There's only five: sight, sound, taste, touch, and scent.

You're a witch, Jane; you have a sixth sense. It allows you to sense the presence of magic, and to utilize your own power when casting a spell. But since it's one of the last things to develop fully in a teenaged wizard or witch, at the tail-end of puberty, it tends to be taught in seventh year so that the boys have a chance to catch up with the girls. It's part of what makes Apparation possible, and how you can tell if someone has enchanted your door to play a prank you, when you start to reach for the knob. You'll learn, if you have a competent Defence teacher. Of course, with the teachers you've had the last few years...well, everyone knows what a disaster most of them were.

Only some of them, Hermione defended. Professor Lupin was very good, though he had to quit because of his condition. And though he was an impostor, so was Barty Crouch Jr., when he was pretending to be Alastor Moody. And...to be absolutely fair, so was Professor Snape.

Her words faded from the page, with no immediate reply.

...Brave words, considering what the bastard traitor did.

Scrupulously fair, rather, Hermione countered. I will not condone what he did. I can't even understand it. And though his teaching methods were too harsh towards others and too partial towards his own House...he knew what he was teaching, in Potions and Defence. A million bad deeds cannot revoke the benefit of a single good deed, she wrote, picking her words carefully. Conversely, a million good deeds cannot always compensate for a single bad deed, though it's easier to gain forgiveness through a serious effort at making amends. I don't know what drove him to do what he did, to think as he does, but he was a good teacher, in my opinion. I will not cast aside what he taught me, just because he was the one to teach it.

You are far too forgiving, Jane. I just want the traitor dead. Brian was my mentor, and my friend. This betrayal is unforgivable. The only 'amends' to be made should be the biblical kind. An eye for an eye, a life for a life. He owes the world the life of the most powerful, benign wizard in three hundred years! How can he make amends for that?

I don't know, she replied, nibbling on the end of her pen. No one knows the full truth of a situation while that situation is happening. You may call me naive for doing so, but I shall cling to the thought that there's a reason behind his betrayal. A logical, if not necessarily understandable, reason. If there aren't reasons, then the whole world is mad.

You're a Muggle-born who discovered that magic was real, in a world that doesn't believe in such things. Didn't you think the whole world was mad, when you were first told? Russel asked her.

A bit. But it also made the inexplicable things in my life suddenly sensical, instead of nonsensical. What about you? I presume, if you're a...you-know-what, she amended cagily, about to write 'Death Eater', you're not a Muggle-born. But have you ever had a bizarre mystery in your life plaguing at your sense of logic, and then suddenly had it revealed and explained, and everything finally made sense in that one shining, glorious moment of comprehension?

Silence for several seconds, long enough for her words to fade, then ink spilled once more across the page. Yes. Speak to me of what makes you most animated, Jane. Speak to me of your academic interests.

That quirked her brow. Why?

You're very passionate about the subjects you like. Fairness, logic, intelligence... Which is your favorite subject in school? he wrote.

That made her pause on her side of their written conversation. Finally, she penned, ...Almost everything, really. I didn't like Divinations--at least, not as Professor Trelawney taught it--but I loved Potions, Transfigurations, Arithmancy, Runes, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms... Mostly, I liked the synthesis of different sorts of magic. The way Arithmancy could be used to calculate the probable outcome of a Potions project, how Runes could provide defensive or offensive protections against the Dark Arts, how Charms and Transfigurations could be moulded to work hand-in-hand...

Past-tense? Are you not looking forward to your classes in your final year?

Hermione didn't know how to answer that one. On the one hand, she didn't want to lie to Russel; if he was genuine, lying to him would hurt him, because she was getting the feeling he was trying to reach out not only for contact, but for friendship. But on the other hand, if he was loyal to the other side and lying to her, would it be wise to tell the other side in advance that she, Harry, and Ron would not be returning to Hogwarts?

...Well, naturally I would love whatever I'd learn in them. I just thought you wanted me to reply from the heart of my experience, and all I've experienced so far are my first through sixth years.

There; that technically wasn't lying. It was merely conditional. She would love learning...if she were going to attend her seventh-year classes.

True. What do you think of Charms, as a discipline?

It's quite interesting. Possibly the most useful of all magical disciplines, in everyday situations. Potions would come second, I think. Transfigurations and Runes aren't quite as everyday in their usefulness. But Charms has to be the most practical-applications class I've run across. From boiling a cup of tea to summoning a good book, it's very practical, and yet very magical, though I suppose that's my Muggle-born nature showing through. What about you? Are you Pureblooded, or half-blooded?

Half-blooded. Though I try not to tout that aspect. How often do you use Charms, in your life? Do you still cling to all or most of the Muggle activities that could be done more easily and efficiently by magic? Or have you succumbed to your gifts, and use magic for all sorts of things, from tying your shoes to fixing your meals in the summertime?

Well, I couldn't use magic at home, until this summer. I turned seventeen on the nineteenth of September last year, and by then, I was already enrolled in school. And I really haven't been home, this summer. She debated a moment, then risked a tiny lie. I don't think I'll ever return; I don't have anything in common with them anymore.

The words faded and were replaced by his own. If you love them so strongly, why haven't you returned, when you clearly long to?

Hermione stared at Russel's reply. What? That wasn't what I wrote! She didn't think he was being sarcastic. Erm, sorry, could you tell me what I just wrote to you?

A long pause, then he responded, You just attempted an outright lie, didn't you?

...Yes.

No outright lies can be exchanged via this form of communication. They're betrothal rings, Jane. They're designed to foster honest communication between a couple, from back in the days of arranged marriages, where the bride and groom often met in person for the first time at the altar. You can hedge and twist the truth all you like, but you cannot outright lie to me. What did you try to say to me?

I'd rather not say, Hermione wrote back bravely.

Then I shall extrapolate. You said you longed to return to them, that you still had much in common with them. Ergo you were trying to say you weren't going to return to them, that you had no ties to them, perhaps trying to make me think they wouldn't be very emotionally strong targets. No doubt in the hopes that, if you appeared to be estranged from your family, I'd have no reason to tell my fellow idiots to go after them, to hurt them in order to hurt you. Because you don't fully trust me.

Well...yes. She blushed as she wrote it.

You're very wise to reserve judgment, Jane. I shall not take offense. I would do the same, were I in your position, and did not yet know the person with whom I was communicating. After all, I do know a little bit more about you than you know about me, but such is the nature of my position, hidden as I am.

Hermione stopped nibbling on her lower lip, surprised by his leniency towards her attempted deception.

Russel continued. Now that you know, however...try to be a little more precise in how you twist the truth. Obviously, you do have quite a bit left to draw you back to them.

Well, of course I do. They're my parents, and I love them. I'm not really ever going to be able to fit back into their Muggle world, but they're my parents, and I love them. And I'll hurt anyone who hurts them. I can be quite inventive, you know!

I'm sure you can be. You do not know how lucky you are to love your parents, and know that they love you. Most of the families of the sort whose children get sorted into Slytherin aren't nearly as loving and nurturing. Let's discuss something else, so you won't feel concerned over any interest of mine in them. How about something utterly absurd, like clothing?

That made her laugh. ...Clothing? Are you a fashion-hound, Russel?

I buy tailored clothing, as opposed to off-the-rack, if that's what you mean.

I look best in blue, I think. Or a dark red, but I have to be careful to not pick one with the wrong undertone. Greens are only so-so, with my complexion and hair-colour, and I avoid cheerful shades, such as yellow and peach. I like jewel-colours, not pastels. And you?

Hermione thought it a little odd to be discussing fashion with a Death Eater, even if he was supposed to be a spy for the good side. I don't look too bad in jewel-tones, either. Pastels aren't my thing. But I like best colours like cranberry red, forest green, twilight blue...

You're insane.

Hermione took offense at that. Considering I'm talking to a man who's dictating to a quill in the middle of Death Eater Central while masturbating--!!

She blushed right after scribbling the second exclamation point with an emphatic thump of her Muggle pen. In fact, she wished fervently that she could take it back. Unfortunately, the only reason why her words faded from the page was because the ring she pressed to the page made those words fade. Not because they never reached him in the first place.

...So, what colour are your knickers? Lacy bra, or plain?

Gaping, Hermione stared at Russel's words. She was so tempted to snap, Neither! Keyhole! But that would've been a lie. Instead, she scrawled, What makes you think I'll tell you that?

Because I'll tell you what colour mine are?

Absolutely not!

Not even a hint?

NO!! She thought about underlining the word, for good measure.

...Pity. I suppose I'll just have to imagine you naked, then. Naked, and sprawled on your bedsheets.

...Yes, she reluctantly allowed, not quite trusting him.

Then I'll just have to imagine tugging your nightgown sleeve aside and kissing the curve of your shoulder.

Her face burnt with heat. She could almost feel what it would be like for a hand to tug her shirt free, and for warm lips to caress the tender, ticklish skin of her abdomen. But she wasn't about to confess that. Then you can also imagine me whacking you on the nose with a scroll, like a misbehaving puppy!

Oh...go wank yourself silly! I'm going to bed, now--ALONE!! FULLY CLOTHED!!

Three times, he wrote back as she started to set down her quill. I'm smiling, which is not a wise thing to do, where I am. But chatting with you is a lot more fun than it ever was, chatting with Brian. Goodnight, Jane. Sweet dreams.

She had just enough time to remove the ring before the top sheet of the tablet flared and vanished. Thankfully, it didn't take the whole tablet with it. That would've been awkward.

She wanted to chide Russel for attempting such a scandalous topic with her. She didn't really know him, and he certainly didn't know her! Yet, at the same time, Hermione knew she couldn't really deny her curiosity. His comment about gaining at least some experience was valid; if she knew more about sex and sensuality, perhaps she wouldn't feel quite so uncomfortable with the subject.

There was another point to consider. While she might worry about looking like a fool in front of Ron for wanting to do some research on the subject first, it was highly unlikely she'd ever interact with Russel directly. Even if he survived the war and the good side won, he'd probably be happy to fade into obscurity, or return to whatever life he'd had before mucking it up by getting mixed up with Voldemort and agreeing to risk his life as a spy. She'd never see him again. Hermione knew it was quite valid, psychologically, to 'experiment' sexually by discussing theory with a complete stranger. The internet was becoming quite popular for things like that, in the Muggle world.

By picking someone unfamiliar and unlikely to be encountered in everyday life, a person wouldn't have to worry nearly as much about embarrassing themselves, because they wouldn't be reminded through daily encounters with that person. All they'd have to do would be to stop visiting that chatroom or whatever. Of course, she couldn't exactly leave Russel in the lurch during the war; if his offer was genuine...

Hermione stilled. If his offer was genuine! He'd basically said that the rings were enspelled to abort absolute lies, revealing the truth instead. They could write to each other a skewed viewpoint on the truth...but it had to be the truth.

Unless...unless he was lying about that aspect...

It was possible; she could point to the fact that he'd seen through her lie as a proof that the rings prevented lies. But even a typical Slytherin could've guessed that she loved her parents and still had strong ties to them and the Muggle world. It was therefore equally possible he had simply guessed and took a risk that she'd been trying to fake him out on that topic.

Her head hurt.

Unsure of his intentions, unsure of his motivations, unsure if anything he'd said was the truth or part of an elaborate lie, Hermione rested her forehead in one hand, the fingers of the other toying with the chain that held the scale-patterned ring.

To trust, or not to trust... Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous uncertainties and potential lies, or to take up the facts, and by comparing, oppose them... Huh. Mum would have my ears for mangling the Bard like that. Sighing, she stood, stripped, and crawled into bed. The fact is, I can only do as I've done. Reserve judgment, hope to heaven and back that his offer is genuine, and keep one hand on my wand, just in case...

There was only one problem. After extinguishing the candles, Hermione lay in the dark for a long time afterwards, trying very hard not to think of a wizard curled up in a bed somewhere, stroking himself as he looked at the pages of a book filled with naughty wizarding pictures. It definitely didn't help that she hadn't the faintest idea what Russel looked like. It might've been easier to deal with her curiosity if she'd had a face to go with to such a potentially erotic image--preferably an unattractive face

How could she possibly be curious about Russel, when she wasn't ready to be curious about Ron?.

...

Ring of Truth sent two more messages, before the start of the new school year. Hermione, Harry and Ron didn't board the Hogwarts Express at Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. Instead, they were each personally handed a note by Headmistress McGonagall, in a handwriting they didn't recognize, telling them where to find Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry two days beforehand. And on the night before September 1st, when Molly and Arthur brought Ginny Weasley up to the Black residence so that they wouldn't have far to go to get to the rail station...the truth came out, regarding the trio's intentions.

It started with Mrs. Weasley, of course. Ron had diverted his mother on the subject of new school supplies by saying his sixth-year robes were fine, and that Harry was getting him his books and supplies and such for an early birthday present. But it was the coward's way out, and when her voice echoed up the stairwell, Hermione saw him flinch.

"Hurry up and get your trunk packed, Ron! Your father wants it downstairs tonight, so it'll be quick to load into the Ministry car for tomorrow morning!"

"You're going to have to tell her," Harry reminded his best friend. His and Hermione's concentration were shot by that imperious, motherly demand. They'd been trying to practice Occlumency versus Legilimency, but it wasn't easy. Only Harry had ever had actual lessons with a trained Occlumens, and he'd been so antagonistic against his teacher--with good reason, it had turned out--that his lessons weren't worth much. It hadn't helped that Professor Snape had also hated the young wizard. Having Molly Weasley yell up the stairs at them didn't exactly lend itself to their struggles.

"Ronald? Did you hear me?"

Ron winced, and rubbed the back of his neck, shoulders hunched. "Why is it mums never use your full name unless they think you're in trouble."

Hermione clasped his shoulder and steered him towards the door. "Brace yourself for your middle name, too, Ron."

"I don't want to do this--Harry, why don't you tell her?" Ron pleaded. "She likes you!"

"Sorry, mate." Harry put his hand on Ron's other shoulder, assisting Hermione in pushing the tall, lanky redhead towards the door. "Today is the day you become your own man."

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "By standing up to her."

The look of horror and dismay on his face was comical. Reluctantly, Ron let himself be pushed out of the room just in time to see his mother climbing the stairs.

"Ronald, dear, I told you to pack up your trunk and get it downstairs!" Mrs. Weasley chided her son. "You're old enough that I shouldn't have to do everything for you! Now, go pack your trunk!"

Ron straightened. He swallowed before speaking, but he seemed to gain strength from her words. "You're right, Mum. I am old enough. I'm of-age, and capable of making up my own mind on what I should or shouldn't do. And...I am not going to Hogwarts for my seventh year."

Molly Weasley's mouth dropped.

Ron, ever the strategist, leapt into the silence boldly. "You heard me! I'm not going back. In fact, I've already talked to Professor McGonagall, and turned in my prefect's badge. Hermione's turned in her Head Girl badge, too."

Her stunned hazel gaze shifted to Hermione, standing behind and to one side of her youngest son.

"And Harry's not going, either. We've got far more important things to do."

His mother blinked, recovering slowly...and then rapidly. "...The hell you say! No son of mine is--"

"--Mrs. Weasley!" Harry's voice cut through the start of her diatribe like a sword-stroke. Hermione felt proud of both of them, Harry and Ron; they were proving their mettle as men, these days. Still somewhat young, but men. "Professor Dumbledore charged us with a task, which we have to take care of, this year. We cannot do so while confined within the walls of Hogwarts!"

"We're all of-age, Molly," Hermione added quietly but firmly. Like Professor McGonagall, she chose to use the other woman's first name, to underscore their status as equals. "We have weighed the pros and the cons of the task we were assigned, and we have concluded that what we must do is vital for the war-effort. I realize you long to protect your son, but you cannot coddle him forever. He is a man. He is a man," she repeated, "and a wizard grown, and you should be proud of him. And proud of yourself, too. You raised Ron to know what is right, and what is the right thing to do."

"We're not going back to Hogwarts," Harry repeated. "We're going to follow Albus Dumbledore's instructions, and help end this war."

"And you can yell all you want, Mum," Ron concluded as Molly looked back at him again. "My mind's made up. The only thing you could do to me is to banish me from the family. I don't think you'll do that; we've already lost one of us. Percy was an arse and walked away from us of his own volition, and banished himself by it, but I'm not going to walk away. I'm going to do what I know is right, and do all I can to protect our family, and I'm going to help Harry bring an end this war. I'm not going back to Hogwarts as a student. Now, either you can accept that fact," he finished, squaring his shoulders, "or you can be silent. Because no amount of yelling in the world is going to change my mind."

Molly Weasley stared at her son. Hermione thought she looked like she aged five or six years, just standing there, staring at her son. Tears glistened in those hazel eyes. Hermione, unable to take any more of watching the normally redoubtable mother crumbling in silence, shoved Ron forward with a hand planted on his spine. He got her hint, and wrapped his arms around his mother, gingerly pulling her close. A choked sob, and she collapsed into his embrace, hugging him back fiercely.

It was uncomfortable, watching Ron deal with his mother's grief. A glance at Harry showed him disconcerted, too, glancing away as if seeking some place he'd rather be. Hermione caught his eye after the third time, and tipped her head towards the pair. Reluctantly, awkwardly, he joined her in flanking the two of them, and together they sort of enveloped Molly Weasley in a group-hug. It did seem to calm her down a little faster, and when she stirred, the three of them released her. Harry even dug up a handkerchief and offered it to her.

"...I don't know how I'm ever going to tell your father about this," Mrs. Weasley muttered. "And I'm terribly disappointed in you, Ronald. But I cannot do anything about it--and you lied to me!" Her fingers snatched the curve of Ron's ear, making him wince and grimace as she shook his head with it. "You said Harry would be buying your books and things!"

"Technically...it's not a lie," Hermione hedged for him. That only got Mrs. Weasley's glare fixed on her, but she withstood it as much as she could. "He said would be. If we were actually going to go back to the school, I'm certain he'd buy whatever Ron needed."

"Yeah," Harry agreed quickly. "As it is, we really don't need much in the way of funds, at the moment. We've been eating here at Headquarters, and doing chores about the house for Mrs. Figg, in exchange for her cooking--on the promise that she'd never cook anything with cabbage in it," he half-muttered. "I smelled cooked cabbage too many times through the years, whenever my aunt and uncle foisted me onto her during some outing of theirs."

"You know Fred and George would give us jobs in their joke shop, if need be," Ron coaxed his mother. Hermione felt good about the way he lowered his pride a little on the whole money issue, just to reassure his mother. "And we do plan on handling this matter as quickly as we can."

"Well...what is this secret mission the Headmaster set for you? And why did he give the task to you?" Molly demanded, recovered enough from her grief to start poking and prodding at her son's decision. "Why not an adult...I mean, why not an Order member?"

Hermione was glad the older witch had changed her wording, however belatedly. And she was even more glad Harry fielded that question "If we could tell you, Molly, we would. But the fewer people who know what we're up to, the better. You're just going to have to trust us."

"And trust that we'll keep each other safe," Hermione added, slipping her hand into Ron's.

As she'd hoped, his mother noticed the stealthy movement with a keen gaze. Speculation ran across her face, along with suspicion, before it melted into wonder and hope. Mrs. Weasley didn't say anything directly, however. "Well, you'd certainly better. I've effectively lost one son, and nearly lost another. I'm not going to lose a third. And you, young man," she added, poking Ron in the chest with a warning finger, "are going to be the one to tell your father that you're not going back to school!"

Ron winced, but allowed his mother to prod him downstairs, Harry and Hermione trailing in their wake.

...

So. How much of sex and sensuality have you researched?

Hermione stared at Russel's words, taken aback by their bluntness. He'd caught her in the bath, and she'd been forced to dry off her hands before picking up the tablet. Wondering how to avoid the question, she finally wrote, Why do you want to know something like that?

You're an over-achiever, from what I've heard. And devoted to knowledge and learning. I would be highly surprised if you hadn't researched the subject in some depth. So. How much have you learned?

Sighing, she wrote the truth, as boldly as she dared. Quite a lot, in my spare time. In fact, you interrupted me while I was reading a wonderfully smutty romance novel. I'd just read one of the good parts, too.

Not according to the novel; women masturbate, these days. 'Frigging' is an old-fashioned term. Besides, a good lover would lick her until she screamed with pleasure.

Her face felt hotter than the water, writing that. Russel didn't seem to take offense, though it took him a few moments to reply. Indeed. And have you tried any empirical experimentation, with your newfound knowledge?

Hermione snorted, sinking a little lower in the bath. Hardly. Anglican. But I was raised to not treat it casually. Sex shouldn't be about humping whatever's in sight. It should have meaning, and be an extension of caring.

So you don't think there's any point in going at it like a pair of rabid kneazles? You believe that sex should be always tender, gentle, and missionary-style?

Hermione pondered his point. No...I think that, in the right mood/context/whatever, shagging like rabid kneazles might be a lot of fun. And the more positions, the merrier, probably. I'm just saying I'm not interested in sex without a relationship.

That's a rather realistic thing to say, Russel wrote back. The moment some manipulative, scheming male realizes you can be bought by words of affection, he's going to attempt to ensnare you by them. I'm just giving you fair warning. A declaration of lust is a lot more genuine than a declaration of love.

Affronted, Hermione scrawled back, And what have you against love? Love is the most powerful force in the universe! I'll be you've never felt a single scrap of love for anyone!

Romantic love? No. But I loved my mother, and I loved Brian. He was the father my own should have been. And I'll bet you've only ever felt scraps of infatuation and affection for another, and never felt an actual, true, deep, abiding love.

Hermione started to write a scathing reply, then paused and absorbed his words as they faded from view. ...Is that one of those lines you say some scheming, manipulative male will try to pull on me? Sorry, Russel, but 'deep, abiding love' just doesn't sound like something someone in your position would be saying.

Do not make assumptions about me, Jane. You do not know me nearly well enough to make such sweeping statements.

Chided, Hermione nibbled on the end of her pen. Grudgingly giving in to her good side, she wrote back, Sorry.

Forgiven. And to answer your question...at the time, no. I was speaking honestly, not manipulatively. But I'll keep it in mind for an option.

And to her shock, he drew a winking smilie-face, the ink spreading cheekily across the surface. Swiftly debating how to answer, she drew a smilie face with its tongue sticking out, replete with little drops of spit. ...Cheeky bugger.

What, no animatory spell?

Hm. So. What are you wearing tonight? What colour and shape of nightgown, I mean?

What are you yourself wearing? Hermione countered.

Blue blankets, white sheets, and my fist.

Holy...! The breath left her body, making her sink a little lower in the bath. An image flitted into her mind of a lean, strong back, a body curled on its side, propped up by an elbow, knee slightly drawn up, and fingers fisted around an unmistakably erect prick as its owner peered into a paper-bookmarked tome, watching the naughty moving wizarding drawings in between answering her replies.

Naughty Jane--don't you know it's polite to reciprocate? Let me guess. It's not too terribly late, so you'd still be in jeans and a tee-shirt, right?

That made her decide to have fun with him. Nope. Guess again.

She laughed at that. Nope. Try...bubbles. Lots and lots of bubbles.

Silence, as her words faded. Then, Ohhhhh, Jane, you're going to give me a heart-attack...now I'm imagining you in the bath with your hair piled on top of your head, a nipple peaking through the foam like a miniature version of your knee...and that you'd love to do naughty things with that quill in your hands. Naughty strokings of the feather-tip against your quim...

Muggle pen. She grinned as she wrote it. Makes writing on the spur of the moment a lot easier, if I don't have to fuss with an ink jar.

Come now, how are you ever going to learn enough to be able to seduce the wizard of your dreams, if you don't practice? Haven't you ever touched yourself? Felt that sweet ache low in your abdomen, that slow rise of burning need? Breathless anticipation, twisting muscles, fingers flying as you strive to bring yourself to completion?

She'd touched herself, before. She'd even given herself a good orgasm or two, before. But the thought of touching herself while he...well, he couldn't exactly watch... Feeling rebelliously naughty, Hermione wrote, Well, I have touched myself before, and gone all the way about it, and had a good time. But you spoke of gaining experience. How would you have me do it?

It took him a moment to reply. ...Are you going to follow my instructions?

Why not? I'm feeling adventurous. And...a good orgasm is an acceptable substitute for a fine-quality chocolate, I suppose.

Again, you threaten to make me laugh. It's good to know your priorities lie aligned with the chocolate. Let's see...you're in the bath, presumably on your back. Wand nearby, I trust?

Good. Enchant your quill--sorry, your Muggle pen--with a Dictation Charm. You'll need one hand free for this, because I'll want honest feedback, yet the other one needs to keep the ring in contact with the paper. And I presume you've learnt how to enchant things wordlessly by now, so all you have to do is think firmly enough, and the pen will do the writing without you having to speak. Just in case you're not alone in whatever house you're occupying.

Blushing, Hermione enchanted her pen. It poised itself over the tablet in her hand. Thinking firmly, she tried three times, before getting the knack of it firmly enough that the pen wrote, Ready!

Touch your lips. Feel how soft they are. Nibble on your fingers, and gauge the sensitivity of your lips as opposed to the pads of your fingertips. Stroke your face from brow to chin, detouring around either side of your eyes, so that you caress your cheeks... Are you complying?

A bit of effort, and the pen wrote, Yes...

Good. Now, tip your chin back a little and lightly stroke your throat. Make a little circle in the hollow at the base...and stroke your collarbones...now back up to your lips...and back down to the slope of your left breast. Lightly wiggle your touch back and forth, until you get close to your nipple, then circle down under it. Don't touch it just yet; we don't want to rush your pleasure. Are you circling just beyond your nipple?

Yes. It took less effort this time to make the pen move, but then she'd always been a quick study, and it really was just a variation on wordless magic. Her areola was shriveling under her touch, sending pleasant tingles through her nerves. I like it.

Oh! She hadn't meant for the Dictation Charm to write that, but it had felt so startlingly good.

Now, stop, and move the back of your thumb to your other breast, and rub the smooth surface of your nail against your right nipple--and just the nipple.

She complied. Oh! That feels different...

But good, yes?

Perving over the thought of me playing with myself, are we?

Nice to know you're enjoying this, too.

She laughed out loud, hushing herself belatedly. The bedroom she shared with Ginny was next-door, and the girl needed her sleep, since she was getting up early to go to the train station. Loud noises this late at night also ran the risk of waking someone else up. Like Ron. It was one thing to perv, as it were, over a bit of enchanted writing with a near-stranger. It was another to be caught doing so. Ron might think that was either a 'cheating', or an indication that she was ready for sex with him. This might've been a form of cheating, but she still wasn't ready for sex just yet.

I feel incredibly naughty, doing this. Guilty, and bad.

But it also feels good, does it not? Letting go of your inhibitions... Touching yourself... Seeking and delivering pleasure to your body...and a woman's body is MADE for pleasure, Jane...now, slide your hand down your stomach, smoothing out any bubbles in its path, until you reach your mound. Cup yourself firmly down there, and wriggle your fingers a little. Then...withdraw them with the lightest and most teasing, scraping touches. Feather your fingers through your pubic hair, and tug ever so slightly on them.

OH! That was unexpectedly pleasurable!

Now, slice your finger quickly through your nether-lips!

"Oh!" That felt too good to end it there; it felt as if she'd just scorched herself with a sexual fire. Arching her body, Hermione swirled her finger over her clitoris, flicking and rubbing and prolonging the stimulation, burning her nerves as she brought herself to a trembling peak. Oh...oh god, yes...oh yes oh yes...ohhhh--YES!

Body bucking, bubbles sloshing, she came. Shuddering, sagging against the sloped back of the porcelain tub, Hermione forced her eyes open. There, just beginning to fade, were the words she'd been thinking, written in the blue ink of her ball-point pen.

...ohhhh--YES!

Oh, dear god...

Oh, dear god...

Embarrassment flushed her face, her throat, even her upper chest with scarlet heat. Marshalling her thoughts with the same discipline she was trying to use for Occlumency, Hermione glared at the paper. She wished she could glare at the source of her wanton little adventure, but she didn't know where he was, nor even what he looked like.

A moment later, something seeped rapidly up out of the surface of the tablet sheet. He'd spilled something on the page, and it had come through to her end of things, via whatever magic allowed the rings to communicate like this. Tilting the tablet closer to her face, Hermione peered at it in the candlelight. It was white, and kind of creamy-looking, and it smelled rather musky at that close range...and her cheeks burned a second time as she realized what it was. Semen. Jism. Ejaculate.

Russel's cum now stained the surface of her tablet. As she stared at it, unsure what to do, ink seeped into view, angled off to one side of it. Taste it.

She wanted to protest; she wanted to exclaim that the very idea was nasty, and that he was a total pervert for asking her to do such a thing...but the young witch didn't. Instead, hand trembling, she brought the tablet even closer, and licked it from the sheet. She thoroughly licked it, too; in fact, Hermione made absolutely sure that the page was marked with a tongue-sized swath of her saliva, and watched it fade from her view with smug satisfaction.

Oh God!

She smirked, imagining him getting hard again at the thought of what she'd done.

--Tell me how it tastes!

Yes, she could see him trying to prolong his pleasure by having her describe everything to him. So she did. It's a bit stingy, musky and salty and a little bitter...but not bad. Not that bad at all. I might even be willing to try that on a real man, licking it directly from his skin.

Unsure what else to add, Hermione took a page out of what she'd read in the smutty romance book lying neglected on the bathroom floor, and described one of the scenes that had intrigued her. I would catch you while you were asleep, early in the morning. Gently ease back the covers, so as not to awaken you. I would admire your masculinity, no doubt somewhat hard from a morning erection, she silently dictated, blushing at her boldness, and then I would lean down and inhale your scent. I imagine it would be very musky, with distinct hints of myself left over from our recent nocturnal activities.

OH FUCK!

More pearly drops seeped through the page. Hermione didn't hesitate, but licked that from the page, too, before leaning back and dictating, Mm, thank you. That was tasty, too.

You'd win that bet, Hermione acknowledged, trying to ignore her burning cheeks.

Don't be embarrassed. You did well. Thank you for the pleasure...and thank you for being so bold. House Gryffindor, right?

You're welcome, Russel, Hermione wrote back, blushing one last time.

The paper flashed, incinerating itself. Disenchanting the pen, she set it and the tablet on the floor and relaxed into the tub. Idly, her hands traced patterns over her torso, echoing what he'd told her to do. Feeling herself growing aroused again, Hermione almost stopped, embarrassed by what she'd done, exactly as he'd predicted.

Part of her mind rebelled, however. Why shouldn't she experience sexual bliss? Why shouldn't she revel in her sexuality? There was nothing wrong or immoral about masturbation, really. And, well...Ron technically hadn't asked her to go out with him; they'd just started snogging and cuddling, after he'd broken up with Lavender. So it wasn't entirely cheating.

And it was kind of thrilling to know that she, a virgin, had made a man climax twice. In rapid succession, no less, just from a little bit of the magical equivalent to cybersex! Hermione finished her bath feeling rather brave.