Chapter 06

Author's Notes: Warning, naughty disciplinarian scenario ahead. ~Lotm

VI.

...And I will palm and lift the weight of one luscious breast, cradling it gently in my hand...

Fingers groped and pinched, squeezing her breast uncomfortably.

...While my tongue licks in little laps along the curve of your upper lip, as if it were a rich, dark chocolate eroding under my touch as I seek that first taste of your creamy, heady centre...

The flavour of watercress, ham and mustard assaulted her senses, along with the poking and prodding of a tongue.

...My teeth will nibble your bottom lip with a delicate scrape, stimulating the need for more...

Their teeth bashed together. Grimacing, Hermione pulled back, wanting to end the clinch. Ron tightened his grip, grinding the lump of his erection against her hipbone with uncomfortable pressure. Straining back, Hermione gave up and wedged her hand between their mouths, cutting off their kiss. Ron loosened his grip, finally allowing her to step back.

"...What's wrong?"

Where to begin? she thought. But how do I put it tactfully? "Ron..."

"What?" he repeated defensively. Great. Once he got defensive, there was no way to get through to him delicately. Hermione sighed and said what was on her mind.

"You...well, you're mashing my breasts like they're boiled potatoes." She winced even as the words escaped, but it really was the best description. The offended look in his eyes didn't help. "And...it wouldn't hurt to brush your teeth after eating ham and watercress. The mustard's not too bad, but I don't like ham, and I don't like watercress," she found herself babbling nervously as his brows drew down. "Not second-hand, at any rate. And, um...I'd really appreciate it if you also didn't try to stick your tongue down my throat like that."

That forced a disgusted noise from his throat, and his hands flopped up and down, slapping against his denim-clad legs. "--Hermione, we were French kissing! You're supposed to get your tongue down the other person's throat!"

"Well, not by shoving it! All that did was make me want to clench my jaw, so I wouldn't gag! Kissing should be... It should be done with a lot more finesse, care, and consideration!"

"--Are you trying to tell me I don't know how to kiss?" Ron blustered. "I've had a lot more experience at it than you, I'd wager!"

"I'm just trying to tell you that I like a little more refinement in such things!" Hermione shot back, irritated by his comment about 'a lot more experience'. She didn't need a reminder of all the time he'd spent playing suck-face with Lavender Brown, during their sixth year. Shifting forward, she grabbed his crotch, ignoring his flinch. "You were doing this to my breasts!"

"--Hermione!" the freckled wizard all but shrieked, yanking his groin back out of her squeezing fingers. "Dammit, that hurt! You could've maimed me!"

"You were hurting me," she pointed out, feeling a small twinge of guilt, but only a small one.

"It's not the same thing! Breasts don't hurt like bollocks do, when you grab 'em roughly like that!"

"How would you know?" she challenged him tartly, shifting her hands to her hips. "You don't have any, Ron! How would you know what hurts or what doesn't...unless I told you? And I am telling you it hurt!"

"--You know what? I'm not in the mood anymore!" Turning, he stalked out of the library. It had a dismal atmosphere for reading, but not too bad a one for snogging. Or so the two of them had thought. Sighing heavily, Hermione sank onto the loveseat, trying not to stare at the section of rug where Remus and Tonks had lain the other night.

As if timed by the hand of the devil, her ring grew warm, inside her shirt. Crossing to the writing desk, she pulled out a sheet of paper, a quill and an ink jar, since she didn't have her tablet with her. Words spilled across the page as soon as she pressed the ring to its surface.

The Naughty Secretary Scenario

What the...? Hermione stared at the words, taken aback. It sounded like he was in a frisky mood...and it was the descriptiveness of their last couple of sessions that had caused the dichotomy between what Russel had promised and what Ron could deliver. She wasn't in the mood for this, and dipped her quill in the jar, ready to tell him so. More scrawled into view, further confusing her.

This is the fifth time you have been late for work, Miss Janeson. You should know better than to disrupt my office with such juvenile antics.

Miss Janeson? Why would he call me...oh! Someone must be looking over his shoulder! Her weariness with the whole snogging-and-sex situation evaporated under the awareness that she was expected to perform like a piece of adult-shop novelty stationery. Pen to page, she wrote back dutifully, I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Fawkeson. Isn't there any way I can make up for what I've done?

Yes, sir, she wrote back, feeling a little uncomfortable at the scenario. She just wasn't very experienced in such things yet, despite the handful of smut-conversations they'd held. He'd said he might have to perform such a thing for real, to disguise why he was in bed with quill and parchment. Hermione had always thought that was just a flimsy excuse for titillation. Now, she couldn't tell if this was real or not.

Now, fold your arms, put them on the desk, and put your head on your arms. Do it!

How high, sir? Hermione wrote. She hesitated, then added, Up to the backs of my knees?

N-No, Hermione carefully scripted, to simulate a stammer. She tried not to squirm in her seat. Just like the other times, Russel was demonstrating his ability to describe an erotic moment in an uncomfortably arousing level of detail.

Oh, really? What if I were to rest my hand on your bum? I could slap it--thus!--and watch your flesh quiver from the blow. And again--so!--and watch the pale, creamy curve turn pink under the soothing caress of my hand...and if I were to slip my hand down between your thighs...oh, you're wet, aren't you? Crisp pubic hair covering warm, fleshy folds...and the wetness you're trying to conceal. Move your feet apart, Miss Janeson--now!

Unsure what to write, Hermione settled for an ambiguous, Oh, sir...

Oh, yes, you're very wet. I think you like both. Well, I still have to ensure that you'll never mess up again in my office. Shall I pound it into your head? ...Or into your cunt? Your cunt, I think; how naughty of you to still have your skirt lifted high.

--SILENCE! he slashed across her words. Do you feel that? That is the touch you will submit to, if you expect to retain your employment status with my company. I could get a dozen witches in here to take your place, and if you want to stay gainfully employed, you will submit to being spitted on the pike of my prick!--There! Take that and like it!

OW! It was all she could think of to write. Her face was flaming; she didn't know what to do about this part of the scenario. Being bent over a desk and taken from behind sounded titillating and even thrilling in the trashy romances she'd read over the last few weeks, but to actually go through with it in practice? The guy would have to be rather short-legged, she decided.

Never had anything so big, so deep, have you?

Please...deeper, sir! H-Harder... Fuck me, sir! Hermione wrote with unsteady fingers. She was biting her lower lip again, but this time from the heat of the scene they were describing. Every time Russel tempted her into role-playing like this, he tapped deeper into her imagination. Like that crystal powder florists sold to be put into vase water, he fed her flowering sexuality, encouraging it to bloom.

He was certainly a lot more successful at arousing her than Ron was, with his breast-mashing and tongue-gagging antics, sad as that fact might be.

God, yes! Take it, you little slut! Take all of it!

The ink of his dicto-quill wobbled, and creamy white seeped through the paper. Setting down her quill, Hermione hesitated, then lifted the paper, ring caught against the surface under her left palm, and licked the liquid he'd spilled. It tasted odd, musky and bitter, salty and something else, with a chaser of wood-pulp, but it seemed like the right thing to do in the heat of the moment. She always felt utterly naughty doing this, even slutty, but after having done it once and not minded, it seemed a bit hypocritical to refuse to do it again.

"...Hermione? Why are you licking that paper?"

Hermione shrieked and slapped the paper onto the writing desk, thumping her ring with a clunk on top of it. Heart pounding, she peered wide-eyed over her shoulder at Harry, who was halfway between her and the door. Somehow he'd entered the room so quietly she hadn't even heard him. A moment later she jumped again as the parchment flashed and vanished in a brief wash of heat.

"What's going on?" Harry asked her, coming closer.

"Oh, er...just practicing some magic," Hermione hedged breathlessly, giving him a smile and a noncommittal shrug. "You startled me. What's up?"

"Ron. He's sulking and says it's your fault."

That made her snort, "More like his fault. Ham-handed...!" Mastering the urge to glower, since Harry wasn't at fault, she sighed and shook her head. "All I did was make a few observations and a couple reasonable requests about how he was...well, I tried to suggest how he could snog a little better, and he took offense. He'll get over it, I'm sure."

"Hermione...you don't go telling a bloke he could snog a little better," Harry told her, wincing at the topic.

"Harry, if I don't tell him what I don't like, how will I get him to do something else?" she shot back.

"I don't know--by telling him what you do like?" Harry offered.

"Well, he stormed out of here before I could get to that part," Hermione retorted darkly. "And I'd rather not talk about it right now."

"Alright," he agreed, dropping the subject. "I came in here to tell you that Mrs. Weasley, Tonks and the twins will be escorting us tomorrow when we go to get our formal dress robes. Or rather, Molly and Tonks will be escorting you, and Ron and I will get Fred and George. We'll separate after visiting Gringotts. I was figuring we'd need about four or five outfits to fit in, though I'm not quite sure what to get. D'you have any idea what a...a swanky wizarding weekend would require?"

She shook her head. "Not exactly. Something to wear during the day, and something else to wear during the evening that's fancier. And...something we can move in, if anyone attacks the place."

"That's what I was thinking. I think I saw an upscale shop near Fred and George's place, in Diagon Alley." He gave her a wry smile. "I don't know if Madam Malkin's has formal robes that are formal enough. I've never been to anything like this."

"None of us have," Hermione agreed. "What time are we leaving, tomorrow morning?"

"Seven o'clock. Ron and I have our Apparation license tests to take, at the Ministry of Magic. Shacklebolt set it up for us."

"I'll be ready," Hermione promised. The ring, still trapped under her palm, heated up again. Thankfully, Harry left with a nod, closing the door behind him. Peering at the gleaming metal, she saw no scales, and rummaged for another sheet of paper.

Sorry about that. My highly unwanted roommate got nosy, and I had to cover my tracks as to what I was doing in bed with paper and pen. You performed brilliantly, by the way.

Hermione wasn't sure what to make of that request. She decided it couldn't hurt to hear what he had to say. To the best of my own judgment, she wrote, I will stay my hand until I deem the moment is right to act.

Hermione read between the lines and wrote back, Let me guess: Mr. O will be under the influence of the Imperius Curse...and a couple of your fellow 'idiots' will be going along with him as his invited guests?

And Ron, she admitted. We're attending as Professor Flitwick's guests.

It's very likely, she returned carefully, hedging as truthfully as she could, that if the wand is in the possession of a collector and recognized for what it is, it'll be brought to the exhibition as a marvelous centrepiece for that person's collection. They won't be able to resist showing it off.

We know. We'll be on the lookout for it, she promised him.

So...are you addicted to the flavour of me, yet?

She blushed bright red, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone. That's a rather intimate question.

Yes. Brown eyes, curly chestnut hair, average height, average curves, nice smile. Oh, yes, and according to the traitor's description of you before the monster leading us, you're an insufferable, hand-waving, book-parroting know-it-all, with no imagination, no talent for improvisation, and an inability to think for yourself. I hate him.

Hermione hated having Snape's opinion of her addressed so bluntly. She'd respected the man for his knowledge, and had even admired him for his work in the order, but now... How much trouble would you get into, if you gave him a Whirling Wedgie Jinx for me?

Russel didn't answer for a few moments. Then more ink spilled out from the ring. Damn you--I laughed out loud. My stupid, loathsome roommate wanted to know what was so funny. I lied, of course. Thank Merlin he won't be going on this mission. No charm or potion could disguise his ugly mug for long, and far too many people would want to kill him for the deaths he's caused... Unfortunately, I must go. But...

Goodnight, Russel. ~Jane, she returned, and sighed as the second sheet immolated itself.

...

Marselle Mansion was what Hermione expected Malfoy Manor to look like. Not that she'd ever seen the latter edifice, but by counting the glow of the windows in the evening gloom, this one had five wings, four floors above the ground level for the main buildings, several towers extending a couple floors above that, two dozen house-elves within immediate view, actual wizarding servants--guards hired for the event, she suspected--and a very vigorous screening process just to get in the front gates. There were three queues: one for exhibitors and their collections; one for male guests; and one for female guests.

Having arrived in the meadow between the gates of the mansion and the cliffs in the distance--the estate had an anti-Apparation charm laid on it much like Hogwarts did--the four of them had been separated into their respective queues, Flitwick levitating the chest containing his treasures as well as his trunk of clothes, and Harry, Ron and herself levitating their trunks. Her trunk passed inspection, but when the magic-sniffing device was passed over her body, Hermione had to reveal both the ring and the bracelet. The witch scanning her pressed a white, roundish stone into Hermione's hand.

"That's a Truthstone," the middle-aged woman stated. "State what the objects are for, one at a time, and be truthful about it. Any lies, and they'll have to stay out of the compound."

Hermione wondered how Russel and the others were going to get past this part of the procedure. Maybe Polyjuice potion or something... Clasping the stone in her palm, she stated quietly so that Ron and Harry in the next line over wouldn't hear, "The ring is a betrothal ring. The bracelet was a gift from a friend."

"What does it do?"

"It's supposed to help me manage my time better. But I haven't really needed to use it so far," Hermione added as dismissively yet vaguely as she could.

"Let me see the stone," the witch commanded. Hermione opened her fingers, displaying the all-white stone. There was a faint, palest grey impression of her fingerprints wrapped around the curved hemisphere, but the witch didn't comment, just tapped the stone with her wand to scour it completely white and nodded at the gates behind her. "You may pass."

Grateful her friends hadn't noticed, Hermione closed the lid of her trunk and floated it in her wake as she walked onto the mansion grounds. Harry was already waiting, and after a minute, Ron joined them, looking a little sour at having to leave behind some of his brothers' Wizard Wheezes creations. It took another five minutes before their former Charms professor made it through the inspection of his own luggage and person.

As they waited, they watched the other wizards and witches being permitted onto the grounds. All were wearing upscale wizarding robes, and seemed to come from a wide variety of backgrounds and continents, including Africa and the Americas. But finally the short wizard managed to join them, and they headed up the drive to the sprawling, oversized house. A couple house-elves commandeered their luggage, all save for the large, hovering chest that Professor Flitwick guarded jealously, glaring fiercely at the one house-elf that dared squeak anything about taking charge of that piece of his luggage.

It didn't take long for them to be shown to their quarters in the main wing; it was a suite of rooms, a sitting room, a bathing chamber, and two bedrooms connected by a changing room. With a few flicks of his wand, Filius claimed the changing room, changing the day-couch to a four-poster in a show of Transfiguration that would've done his colleague, Minerva, proud. A poke of his wand at the 'master' and 'mistress' chambers to either side settled where the other three would sleep.

"Harry, Ron, you will sleep in the master chamber. Hermione," he added, having asserted that they could call him by his first name for this trip, since they weren't on the school grounds and didn't need to maintain his dignity, "you will take the mistress' chamber. Since none of you are married, it wouldn't be proper to have the arrangements any other way. I shall take the dressing room for three reasons:

"To provide a chaperone buffer for Miss Granger; to ensure that anyone trying to come at me and my collection in off-hours has to first breach the wards on your own rooms--and you will put up suitably complex wardings," he warned his former pupils, "--and, well, because I'm told I snore half as loud as Rubeus Hagrid, which is far too loud for anyone else to get any sleep. Now, hurry up and change into your evening robes. Dinner will be served sharply at eight, and I want us all looking at our best. You will dance attendance upon me, and display every possible courtesy and sign of respect around me; I want to impress my fellow collectors, and you will assist me in doing so. And ward your chambers!"

Bemused, Hermione did as she was bid. Who knew Filius Flitwick, the kindly Charms professor of Hogwarts, would turn into such a fuss-budget over a simple wand-collection exhibition? Still, she donned the dark blue gown Harry had bought for her in her room, taking care to charm her hair into an upswept style that flattered the slender line of her throat, and the strapless neckline of the gown. The velvety material had been scattered with tiny magical rhinestones that glimmered in an exact match to the heavens overhead, sans clouds. As the evening progressed, so would the slow slide of constellations across her bodice and skirts. Harry hadn't let her ask the price of the gown, just dickered in private with Madam Clarke for the whole of their clothes, the owner of the couture shop they'd visited.

The skirt was fitted over the first few inches of her hips, then flared in folds to an uneven hemline, short in the front and long in the back, not quite baring her knees and not quite trailing on the ground. She'd picked out sensible navy flats to go with the gown and matching tights; if she had to fight or run, Hermione wanted to be able to run. Strappy sandals might've been more flattering, but they were impossible for running. Tucking the gold chain of her ring-necklace into her cleavage, hiding it behind the sweetheart neckline, she checked her image in the enchanted mirror in her chamber. The mirror-Hermione eyed her body, smoothed her hands down her curves, then reached up and tugged on her bare earlobes.

Earrings. Right. Digging through her jewelry box, she pulled out some abstract shell earrings her mother had given her. They came in three segments, one dangled behind the other; the smallest was a creamy mother-of-pearl, the next a sort of opalescent shell she didn't know, and the third a blue abalone. Strangely enough, she'd bought them back in the summer before her fourth year, and had almost forgotten about them, but the oval shaped dangles would go nicely enough with her currently entirely mother-of-pearl inlaid bracelet. Slotting them into her ears, she checked her reflection. They weren't high-society diamonds, but they did look nice.

She worked on her makeup last. Foundation, a hint of rouge, eye-shadow and eye-liner, and just a little bit of lipstick. She didn't need mascara to make the most of her lashes; they were short, but thick. A knock at the door came just as she was starting to apply the finishing touch of lip-gloss. Ron's voice penetrated the door.

"Hermione, are you ready?"

Slicking her lips, Hermione pursed them, smiled, and tossed the tube of Muggle make-up back into her toiletry bag. "Ready!" Crossing to the door, she opened it, displaying herself with a flourish. "Ta-da--oh, Ron!"

He was clad in a midnight-blue tuxedo. It went well with his colouring, as did the hints of coppery threads in the lapels, cummerbund and bow-tie. Certainly better than the black-and-white of Harry's own tuxedo would have been. As it was, the hints of blue made his hair seem even redder in a vibrant way. Hermione blushed, closed her mouth, and enjoyed the way that he gaped at her, too. Tucking her arms around his elbow, she guided him away from her bedroom door, pausing just long enough to pull the door shut and activate the warding runes she'd traced on the other side, earlier. Eyeing Harry, who looked spectacular with those touches of green in his cummerbund and tie, picking out the green of his eyes, she freed her hand and held it out to him.

"I couldn't have asked for two more handsome escorts, tonight," she praised both of them. "I'll feel like a princess at a ball, in your company."

"Just do not forget, Hermione, that I as your host get the first dance with such a lovely young witch!" Filius asserted, coming out of the boys' bedroom and shutting the door with a thump and a trace of his wand. He was clad in cream piped with dark red; it looked fabulous on his small frame, and seemed to make him look a little bit taller. His hair had been braided into a queue down his back, and even his beard had been neatly plaited. He grinned at them. "I used to cut quite a rug, when I was your age. I might even still be able to do the Charleston... Come! Supper awaits!"

This time it was Hermione who mouthed silently, trying not to giggle aloud as the Charms professor led the way, "...The Charleston?"

...

The huge dining hall had been arranged in five long tables with damask table cloths, real silver and fine china table settings, bowls of flowers, and candelabras with white taper candles enchanted with pastel-hued flames. Fairies darted in and out of the chandeliers overhead, and a ghostly quintet played soft chamber music in a gallery niche over the main hearth along one long wall. There were fireplaces at either end as well, and the mass of bodies and crackling flames kept the whole chamber comfortably warm despite the chill in the corridors leading to the hall. Gowns and robes and suits of every hue gave the congregation a bright look, and jewelry glittered on females and males alike, though the latter were more likely to wear commendation medals and ribbons, or perhaps heirloom brooches, and more than one sleeve cuff glittered with a hint of a bejeweled wand-sheath.

The four of them had been assigned to seats along one side of the table nearest the main hearth. Glad her gown was sleeveless and gloveless, Hermione sipped from her goblet of ice water to cool herself down, and discreetly whispered directions to Ron as he stared in dismay at the plethora of forks, knives and spoons laid out to either side of the plates, telling him to start at the outside and work his way inward with each course. There were still bodies assembling, and the seats on her left and across from the two of them were empty, though Filius was chatting amiably with a dowager-jeweled witch who had been seated across from him and Harry.

A thin figure with a shock of grey hair entered the hall with a pair of younger men. The normally intense stare of Roland Ollivander had been softened by a smile, and it only broadened as most everyone near him rose to greet him and shake his hands, while the rest of the room called out greetings. Word eventually trickled their way of Mr. Ollivander's plight in Canada, tending to a terminally ill great-uncle who had passed away, and whose estate had been willed to the famous English wand-maker. With him were two younger wizards, the middle-aged Redmond Ollivander, the nephew, and a younger fellow Hermione hadn't seen before.

It didn't make sense. There were only three of them, and Russel had implied that he and at least one other Death Eater would be in attendance. In fact, the implication was that there would be several Death Eaters disguised among the guests. So the stranger had to be Russel, but where were the others?

The house-elf guiding the trio led them straight up to the three empty seats, one next to Hermione and two across the table. In the scrum of well-wishers standing to welcome Ollivander Senior back, the younger of his two guests peered at the place-cards, then slipped around to the other side of the table. Heart thumping in her chest, Hermione peered at the card for the plate next to hers. Rorik Ferguson.. Not Russel Fawkeson, but then it was probable he wouldn't use the same pseudonym for this mission that he used in his correspondence with her. The initials were the same, but that was about it.

She glanced at the approaching wizard, studying him more closely. He was relatively young, maybe in his early thirties at most, with long sandy blond hair that hung in two thin plaits to either side of his face and in soft, loose locks down his back. 'Rorik Ferguson' had grey eyes framed by thick eyelashes, a golden tan that stood out among the English-pale faces of his two companions, and a lean body to match his lean face. That body was clad in a royal blue shirt, and a blue-and-green tartan kilt. The black, fur-flapped pouch that was his sporran hung in front of his hips, and his calves were covered to the base of his tanned knees in blue knit socks. With black leather shoes on his narrow feet and his wand slung like a dagger in a silver-and-sapphire sheath at his side, he looked rather handsome.

"...This must be my seat."

Hermione stared at him as he pulled out his chair. That wasn't an Scottish accent. It wasn't even an English accent. Noticing her curiosity, he held out his hand. "Rorik Ferguson, London, Ontario. And you are...?"

"Canadian," Hermione murmured, sliding her fingers into his. He smiled and she blinked. "Er, I mean, you're Canadian, I take it?"

"Yes. London, Ontario. As opposed to London, England." Bowing over her hand, he released it and sat down, then made a show of peering at her own place-card. "Hermy-own Granger. A pleasure to meet you."

"Her-MY-oh-knee," she corrected. "It's Greek."

"Ah. You're from Greece, eh? I got the chance to visit there, once, but it was several years ago."

"No, I'm from Oxfordshire. England."

"Ah. So I'm sitting next to a bona fide English Rose," he teased her, shaking out his napkin and laying it over his lap. Under the edge of the tablecloth, his hand caught hers, making her look at him sharply as he dragged it onto his thigh. "How marvelous. I was afraid I'd be seated next to a Plain Jane."

Russel. Her face flamed. Hermione struggled to control her reaction, reaching for her water goblet with her free hand. Ron leaned across, almost bumping into her elbow.

"She's with me."

Of all the times for the redheaded wizard to be possessive... Russel...Rorik...leaned forward, then back, and finally stuck out his arm behind Hermione's velvet-covered spine, offering his hand. "Rorik Ferguson, London, Ontario. And you are...?"

"Ronald Weasley. London, England."

"Weasley? You aren't related to the Busby Clan of London, Ontario, are you?" Rorik asked Ron. "Because you look a lot like Gerald Busby. He runs a Quidditch Supply Shop in Bunyan Square...no?"

"We don't have any relatives in Canada," Ron dismissed.

"Right. Well, there's lots of redheads everywhere, I suppose. Do you know Roland? It seems like everybody around here does," Rorik continued amiably, gesturing at the man chatting with Filius Flitwick now, discussing his 'stay' in Canada. The Canadian at her side used his left hand; a glint of gold on his third finger drew Hermione's attention briefly to the scale-patterned ring he wore. "I met him when he came to stay with my next-door neighbor, Osmund Halifaxton. A sad shame when the old fart died; he was just getting the hang of curling."

"...Curling?" Ron asked.

"Curling! It's a stone-on-ice game, sort of like shuffleboard--it's in the Winter Olympics," Rorik added pointedly. "It's one of the indoor games."

"Sorry, mate; I play Quidditch, and that's it," Ron dismissed.

"Let me guess; you're a pure-born. You know, you wizarding-world-only types are missing out on some really fun games." Shaking his head, Rorik took a sip from his own goblet, then tucked his hands in his lap. Covering Hermione's hand, which was still resting on his kilt-covered thigh. "Besides, Hali was a little too old to go zooming about on a broom. Quidditch is a game for the young and athletic. Curling is a game for the strategist."

"So is chess," Ron pointed out. Hermione felt like she was turning into a fenceline between two bulls, each taking turns to snort at each other through her.

"Yes, but chess is between individuals. Curling is a team effort--I'm sorry, are we boring you?" Rorik asked Hermione abruptly. About as abruptly as the warm, lean, callused fingers caressing the back of her hand. "You put two wizards together, and you're going to have to expect sports-talk sooner or later, I'm afraid."

"It's alright," she murmured, glancing at him. The neckline of his shirt gaped a little, revealing something black and shiny. He caught her staring and twisted to face her a little, releasing her hand so that he could tug his collar aside.

"Translation pendant," he explained as she stared at the cameo-like object. It was a cabochon of jet carved with a raven caught in mid-flight, wings outstretched and head turned slightly to one side, strung on an inch-wide velvet ribbon. "It'll translate any language within hearing distance, though it's only useful for about twenty yards in a crowd like this."

"Did you make it yourself?"

"I didn't carve it; I'm not that artistic. But I did enchant it. When I heard Roland was hurrying to get the estate settled so that he could make the exhibition, I shamelessly begged to come along. I'm just an amateur collector, only a few minor pieces so far, but a chance like this doesn't come along more than two or three times in a lifetime, eh? Are you a collector?" he asked her.

"More of a fan of wand-collecting, I suppose you could call it. I'm actually a former student of Professor Flitwick's. He's one of the exhibitors," Hermione allowed, trying to treat this moment as casually as the wizard on her left. "We couldn't resist begging to come along, either, but then one of his wands used to belong to a dear friend of ours."

"Ah." Before he could say anything else, someone rapped a fork against a crystal goblet, cutting through the chatter in the grand dining hall. The last few attendees quickly took their places as a plump but stately witch gave the opening speech of the 116th Triennial Wand Collectors Exhibition. Hermione tried to pay attention, but the woman's rolling tones were not suited for oratory in such a large chamber. They weren't suited for oratory even in a smaller room, really.

It didn't help that Rorik continued to touch the hand still resting on his thigh, sliding his fingertips over the backs of her fingers, dipping occasionally between them in a stimulating yet soft caress. Hermione didn't know what to do with her hand; she knew she should probably remove it, and yet it felt embarrassingly good to leave it there. She was Ron's date, after all; if anyone should have put her hand in their lap, it should've been Ronald Weasley, not 'Rorik Ferguson'. But a glance to her right showed Ron nibbling on a wand-shaped bread stick. And when the mercifully medium-short speech terminated and the feast appeared on the tables, much like it did back at Hogwarts, Ron's attention was firmly fixed on filling his plate and his stomach. She did get to extract her hand, however, in order to join the applause of the other guests at the end of the plump witch's speech.

The dishes were a little strange, and came in small but very artistically arranged portions. There were nearly a dozen courses, too, but it was all well-paced, and there were guest speakers who stood and addressed the others with the use of the Amplification Charm. Mr. Ollivander was one of them, and he seemed so normal, so self-possessed and in his element, Hermione was hard-pressed to think he was under the control of someone's Imperius Curse. But as he sat down again, Rorik leaned close and whispered in her ear while everyone was still clapping.

"Ollivander's nephew is a fan of puzzling fellows. Do not be alone with him, ever. There are two others as well."

The plump witch stood at that point, tapping her goblet once again for attention. She announced in her deep rolling tones that dessert would be served in a buffet in the chamber adjoining the grand ballroom, and that the guests were free to linger at the dinner table, or to start heading in that direction. Exhibitors would be allowed two hours to set up and display their wands in the morning, and then the exhibits would be opened at ten o'clock sharp. The woman added in her stentorian tones that a chalkboard could be found outside the ballroom, which would double as the exhibition hall tomorrow, detailing the schedule of demonstrations and question-and-answer sessions for the featured collections of this year's exhibits.

At that point, the supper ended and the attendees started chatting, some staying in their seats, others rising and drifting towards the ballroom.

"Yes, yes, my scheduled time will be one o'clock tomorrow afternoon, in the prime slot right after the luncheon buffet," Filius' voice rose in an important squeak as he addressed a question. "I'd love to talk with you more on your own collection, Nimue darling, but Miss Granger has promised me the first dance, and I'd be remiss if I didn't twirl her about the floor so that she could be free to dance with her two swains."

"Er, actually, Hermione and I are more like brother and sister," Harry interjected quickly, blushing. "She's dating Ron, not me."

"Young love," Filius chuckled as he hopped down from his chair. "It's so hard to keep up with these things. Mr. Weasley, would you be so good as to help me escort Miss Granger to the dance hall?"

"Certainly, sir," Ron returned respectfully, rising quickly and helping Hermione shift her seat back from the table. Hermione hastily nodded a goodbye to 'Rorik', placing her hand in Ron's as the younger wizard guided her out of the ornately carved chair.

"Look, Ronald--there's Jens Yorsen!" Filius asserted a moment later, patting Ron's free arm, since Hermione clung to the other one. "You simply must challenge him to a game of chess, this evening! I have every faith you'll be able to last at least fifty rounds with him!"

Harry, Ron and Hermione found themselves guided over to the Danish chess master and wand-collector. It didn't take more than a few moments of polite conversation before Filius was offering a challenge on Ron's behalf to a game of chess with the older wizard, later in the evening. Hermione felt Ron's arm stiffen and saw his adam's apple bob with a swallow, but he extended his hand for a firm, brave handshake with the older, somewhat portly man.

"...I'd be honored, sir," he managed, and managed to stand bravely in the face of Yorsen's dismissive look.

"Speed chess, in one hour, in the glazed atrium just beyond the ballroom?" Yorsen offered dismissively. "Fifteen seconds per move?"

"You're on. And...fifty Galleons says I can last at least fifty rounds against you--and a Galleon more for me, for every round beyond that."

"And a Galleon more per round for me, for every round below that," Yorsen drawled, looking like a sandy-blond version of Draco Malfoy when the Slytherin prefect had been mock-bored with some trivial wager, never mind that he was about ten stone heavier and four inches taller.

"--And a hundred Galleons, if I win!" Ron retorted. Hermione bit her lip and tugged on his arm, trying to get him from backing down from such a reckless wager.

"If you can win, I'll double however many rounds it takes, and add that to the hundred Galleons," Yorsen dismissed. With a last, derisive look, he strolled off. Hermione realized that Filius looked like a miniature version of Ron, with fisted hands and furrowed brow.

"Arrogant bugger," the Charms professor muttered. "You'd better last fifty rounds, Ron; I've got the money to cover it, but I'd hoped to do a little wand-shopping, this weekend..."

"I'll cover him," Harry offered, making Ron give him a grateful look.

"...Thanks, mate."

"Just remember, I'll take it out of your hide, if you don't last those fifty rounds," Harry warned him.

"Well, it's something to look forward to, at any rate. Come! I'm still feeling the urge to dance away some of that splendid meal. Even a wizard of my age has to watch his waistline!"

Bemused, the trio followed. It took them a little while to reach the ballroom, as Professor Flitwick just had to stop and chat with fellow collectors, and the occasional previous Hogwarts student or Charms colleague. But they did reach the ballroom, and with a flick of his wand, Filius lifted himself into the air, as if standing on an invisible platform.

Holding out his hands, he beckoned to Hermione. "Come, Miss Granger--you do know the waltz, don't you?"

She did, and it was the sort of music currently playing. It was a little strange, dancing with a partner who was 'walking' on an invisible, magical floor at about mid-thigh level relative to her, but he was quite talented as a dancer. With just a few subtle cues with his shoulders and the way he held her hand, he guided her around the dance floor.

"You're a rather wonderful dancer, Hermione," her former professor praised her as they twirled past Ron and Harry for the second time. "Did you take formal lessons?"

"Yes, when I was younger. My father paid for lessons at the local Muggle dance studio."

"Yes, well, Muggles do know how to cut a rug!"

When the dance ended, he brought her back to Ron, and found himself requested into a dance with a grey-haired witch whom he greeted with great delight, chatting with her like old friends. Hermione watched them go, then found herself drawn onto the dance floor by Ron's hand around her waist. He was a bit better as a dancer than he'd been, or rather, hadn't been back in their fourth year. Not nearly as polished as Professor Flitwick, but he certainly didn't step on her toes. And it felt nice to be held by him.

"You look very beautiful tonight, Hermione," Ron whispered to her as they paced slowly around the room in a simple foxtrot. "I wanted you to know that earlier, but...it was more important to make my legs keep working so I could stand and walk with you, than to make my mouth work, too."

For a fumbling sort of compliment, it was very sweet. Hermione reached up and pecked him on the cheek. "Thank you, Ron. You made my knees weak, too. You look very handsome, tonight."

"I feel handsome, with you on my arm. What was up with that Rorik fellow, though? He kept flirting with you. I didn't like that," Ron added with a frown.

"Well, he did say he was grateful to not be seated next to a Plain Jane," she offered. "Some men flirt with anything that catches their eye. I don't think he was serious, though. It might've just been that he was Canadian, and they might do things differently, in Canada." She shrugged eloquently. "Or it might've been a touch of homesickness alleviated by the sight of a friendly face, or maybe the fact that the majority of the witches at the exhibition here are all old enough to be our mums..."

"I suppose," he shrugged.

"Besides, I'm dancing with you. I'd rather think about being in your arms right now, thank you."

He smiled at that and pulled her a little closer. When the song ended, he brought her to the edge of the dance floor. Harry caught up to them, looking a little flustered. "--Mind if I dance with you, Hermione?" he asked her in an urgent hiss, glancing over his shoulder. "Only I'm being hunted by a flock of witches who want to dance with the ruddy Boy Who Lived, and they're scaring me--they're all your mum's age, Ron, but they keep wanting to touch me!"

"Touch you?" Ron repeated?"

"Two of them pinched my bum!"

Hermione bit back a giggle. It was a very nice bum, from an aesthetic point of view, but she didn't think he'd appreciate her pointing that out at the moment. "I'll take pity on you, Harry." Holding out her arms, she accepted his awkward leadership onto the dance-floor. It really wasn't the same, dancing in his arms. In Ron's, she felt like a female. In Harry's arms, like a relative. It reminded her of a conversation they'd held not that long ago. "You know...we never did get around to discussing that whole brother-sister thing."

Harry looked up from their feet, green eyes wide behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. "Brother-sister thing? Oh, yeah. At Gringotts, that one time. I do think of you as a sort of sister. I even kinda wish you were my sister, for real."

"I feel the same way about you. I mean, I always wanted a sibling; I never wanted to be the sole focus of my parents' familial ambitions," she related with a shrug. "It put a lot of pressure on me to perform, academically."

"Whereas I always wanted a family that accepted and loved me," he muttered, guiding her with a minimum of fumbling around a slow-moving couple.

Hermione smiled at him. "I do love you, Harry. As a sister to a brother."

The smile he gave her would've melted the coldest heart. "Thanks. I feel the exact same way--brother to sister. D'you suppose...do you think there's a way to adopt each other?"

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "We're wizards, Harry. I've heard of a blood-binding ritual that'd literally make us blood-relatives, and I'm sure Professor Flitwick knows the details, or where to go to look them up." Her smile faded into seriousness. "Do you want to do that? Make it official?"

"Make you my sister for real?" Harry stopped moving, forgetting to dance for a moment. A couple almost bumped into them, but he didn't even flinch. The fierceness in his gaze was tempered by the caring she saw accompanying it. "I think more than anything. I can't count on my aunt and uncle, and my cousin's a joke...but you're not a joke, Hermione. You're family, to me."

"Then let's make it official," she agreed with a smile. A slightly watery smile, but then it was an emotional moment for her. They started dancing again, and when the song ended, Harry brought her back to Ron, who had fetched cups of punch from the buffet. He handed one to Harry and the other, half-drunk, to Hermione. Hermione looked at Harry over the rim of her cup, giving him an encouraging you-do-it look.

Harry cleared his throat. "Listen, Ron, mate...um...Hermione and I are interested in doing that blood-relative spell-thing. To be officially brother and sister. You, er, don't mind, do you?"

Ron's brows rose. "Do I mind? I think that's a smashing idea! D'you think Professor Flitwick knows the spell?"

That made Hermione giggle. "I'll ask him."

"I'll ask him. You two go dance. But not for long," Harry added, peering at the ornate clock over one of the doors into the atrium. "It's almost time for your chess-match."

"Right," Ron agreed, taking Hermione by the waist and hand again. "A twirl around the floor for good luck...and maybe a kiss or two," he grinned at his partner, "and then I'll show that Danish Disaster that I'm the newest chess-master!"

How she resisted rolling her eyes at his doggerel, Hermione never knew.

...

"--Excuse me, Mr. Yorsen?"

Jens Yorsen broke off his conversation with the svelte brunette witch standing at his side, clad in a feather-trimmed black evening robe. He'd barely paused to glance at the board since the first move, almost negligently calling out the moves of his pieces. The game had barely begun, and it was clear to all who were watching that he wasn't going to waste any more attention on his youthful opponent than necessary. Now that Ron was seeking his attention, he arched his brow superciliously. "What is it? Do you need more than fifteen seconds per move?"

"No," Ron countered, tucking his hands into the pockets of his tuxedo trousers. "I just thought you should know I have you in check...mate. That'll be one hundred twelve Galleons. Since I defeated you in six turns, and you did say a hundred plus double for every round I lasted."

Yorsen frowned. "What are you talking about? You couldn't possibly have me in..." His gaze, falling on the waist-high pieces, puzzled out the undeniable, irrevocable pattern they formed. "...checkmate..."

"In six moves, mate. You really shouldn't let your arrogance get the better of you," Ron returned with just a hint of smugness. "Or be distracted by a lady, however pretty."

The brunette at Yorsen's side sniffed, but not overly disdainfully. Yorsen stared at the pieces. "I forgot to move my pawn... I can't believe I forgot to move my pawn!"

"One hundred twelve Galleons," Ron reminded him.

"I demand a rematch." Yorsen looked up at him, this time with a little more respect in his gaze, and a lot more focus and determination. "A rematch, double the money!"

Ron opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking. He looked over at Harry, who shrugged, then at Hermione, who also lifted her shoulders, letting the choice be his. Squaring his shoulders, he faced his opponent. "I'll take the hundred-and-twelve, and we'll leave it at that. But I will play another game with you, without any stakes...if you promise to give me your full attention, this time. Speed-chess."

Yorsen folded his arms and rested a finger on his jaw, considering the redhead's offer. "No stakes? Just a game of wits?"

"Just you, me, and the board."

"Alright. I still don't think you can last twenty-five rounds, let alone fifty."

"I don't think you can last fifty, either." Kissing Hermione on the cheek, Ron muttered, "You might find this a bit boring; I know chess isn't your thing."

"...I'll go peruse the dessert tables for the first few rounds," she agreed. "Just promise me you'll still be going strong by the time I get back."

"I promise," he vowed, and kissed her lips before letting her go. "I won't let you down, Hermione."

"Don't let me down, young man," Filius muttered from nearby. Ron flashed him a grin, and ordered his pieces back to their starting positions. With a granite rasp, they took their places.