Chapter 09

IX.

"Ronald! Hermione! Stop that, this instant!" The whip-crack of Minerva's voice cut off any further actions between the two. "You quit the school because you said you were adults, and had adult responsibilities to carry though. Start acting like adults! We're all on the same side here, and I shouldn't have to remind you of that!"

Hermione bit her tongue against the urge to respond snarkily that she was acting far more like an adult than the redheaded twit. Doing so would've only proven otherwise. She settled for returning the tablet and pen to her back pocket. Ron subsided, too, but refused to look in her direction. Harry, caught in the middle of the feud between his two best friends, looked miserable as he sat and said nothing.

"...We need to know what we're going to do about this Russel fellow," Minerva asserted into the silence following her demand. "And whether or not we can trust him."

"I remind you he's helped the Order save several lives," Hermione interjected as calmly as she could, given that she was still angry with Ron. Forcing herself to set her emotions aside with the discipline of her Occlumency lessons, she continued. "And I told you; he is trustworthy. At least as much as any of us can be trusted. The rings enforce truthful communication, and he has told me flat-out through our ring-communications that he's spying on the Dark Lord for the sake of the Order."

"Then why haven't we heard about him?" Minerva challenged her.

"He said no one knew what his true mission was, except for Dumbledore. And it makes sense, to have two spies who didn't know about each other. We know what happened with Snape," she dismissed, "but if Snape didn't know about Russel, that was one secret he couldn't betray to his master, when he...you know. Russel didn't want me telling anyone about him so that word wouldn't get back to the Dark Lord, but having to don the ring kind of bolluxed that option. We haven't got anyone left who can spy on the heart of the enemy forces. If we lose him, we'll be completely in the dark about our enemies' movements."

"That may be, but what are we going to do about him, and you?" Minerva asked her. "Right now, you're a danger to the Order, if even the slightest brush against someone will conjure a...a man-eating guardian-dragon!"

"I don't know! I suspect that's why I have to meet with him," Hermione returned pointedly. "I doubt the ring is causing him similar problems, since it seems to be a relic from a time long before the Suffragette movement. But while I do trust him, I don't trust meeting him without a wand in my hand. And my wand was taken by the Death Eaters. And in order to get a replacement, I have to risk going to Ollivander's, and Mr. Ollivander might still be under the influence of the Imperius Curse."

"Actually, he's not," Shacklebolt interjected. "The fellow who was portraying his nephew, Redmond Ollivander, was one of the ones who fell in the battle. His body reverted to its natural shape after what looked like a dose of Polyjuice Potion wore off. It was a fellow by the name of Burke Hodgekins who was playing the role of Roland Ollivander's nephew, for who knows how long."

"Burke Hodgekins!" Molly exclaimed. "But...he was a Hufflepuff! Only two years behind me!"

"Not all Dark wizards come out o' Slytherin, Molly," Rubeus Hagrid reminded her. "I remember that Hodgekins feller; he was right stuck-up, fer a Hufflepuff. But a good 'and with a wand. If I recall it right, 'e took the Artificing classes right up into Advanced levels. 'E'd be able to fake bein' a wand expert, wi' that in 'is background."

"However it may be, Mr. Ollivander is now free of the influence of the Imperius Curse," Minerva asserted, looking at Kingsley for confirmation. When the Auror nodded, she continued. "Then we'll just have to escort Hermione there. It'll have to be a contingent of females...mostly of females," she amended. "and Harry, too; I believe you said you can touch her without triggering the guardian-dragon?"

"Yes. Hermione and I undertook the Brothers-by-Blood ritual, late Friday night," he related, looking at the others. "We're now brother and sister."

That caused another commotion, but at least it was a happy one.

"Oh! Congratulations!" Molly squealed, heaving out of her chair and bustling over to kiss Harry on the cheek. She picked her way through the chairs to Hermione, grabbing and hugging her, too. Under the cover of the hug, she hissed, "I could hate you, for breaking my little boy's heart...but he is being an arsehole about this whole business! Just keep the dragon from biting his head off, dearie...but you can hex off his tallywackle, if he gets snippy like that again. I would've picked the same choice, had I been trapped and in such danger, like you."

Deeply grateful to the older woman for her support, Hermione hugged her back fiercely. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I wanted to be with Ron, but...erm...not while he's being an arse. And obviously not under these circumstances."

"Well, this Russel fellow had better treat you right, or I'll give him what-for," was all Molly said.

Arthur was behind her, and he gingerly held out his hand. Hermione took it equally gingerly. Both of them sighed when the dragon didn't appear. "I'd hoped to see you as a daughter-in-law, one day, but...erm...well, you're a good young witch, Hermione. I wish you good luck with this Russel fellow."

Hermione wanted to shout that her fate wasn't sealed to Russel's just yet--but she honestly didn't know if it was or not. Certainly she'd have to talk to him about how to break the betrothal, if such was possible. Releasing Arthur's hand, she found herself faced with Fleur. The French witch wrinkled her nose a little, but held out her hands.

"Bill sayz 'e will not even try, since 'e loves me with all his heart, but zat I am to give you a hug for 'eem and 'eez brozzers, since they cannot try."

"Er, thanks, Fleur." They embraced briefly, then parted. Fleur held Hermione's arms for a moment more, giving Hermione a serious look.

"'Arry eez a good man. Young, but good. 'E eez very 'eroic; you will have to zit on 'eem to keep 'eem in line, sometimes. But you are zee elder of the two of you, oui? It eez zee job of zee elder sibling to always do so."

"...Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." Hermione couldn't help smiling at the blond's advice.

"Back to your seats, everyone! Well...it seems as if her escort will be Arthur, Harry, Molly, Fleur...and Tonks, perhaps? That should be enough, I think. Some of you will be out in the open, and the others should be hidden. After having what probably looked like a pet dragon biting off the head of one of his Death Eaters, I doubt the Dark Lord will be very happy to see you out and about in London," Minerva added dryly. "And you will contact the Order the moment this Russel fellow tries to communicate with you again."

Her finger heated. Hermione controlled her reaction to the ring's change in temperature. "When are we going to Diagon Alley, then?"

"Right now, I think. The rest of us can discuss the events of the wand exhibition, with Ronald's assistance as an eyewitness," Minerva asserted.

Harry muttered something in Ron's ear. The redhead stiffened, but nodded with visible reluctance. Hermione had to move out of the doorway to let her five guardians out of the room. "I've got to visit the lavatory," she told Mr. Weasley. "I'll meet you downstairs in a moment."

He nodded, and she hurried up to the first floor. Shutting the door, she warded it and pulled out her tablet and pen again.

Are you still in the meeting?

No, she wrote back. We need to talk about what's going on with this damned ring.

That was an odd thing for him to say. Kidnap me? Why?

Actually, I'm about to go to Diagon Alley. Under escort.

Why? Russel asked her.

To get a new wand. Rumor has it Mr. Ollivander is no longer under the Imperius Charm. Is it true?

Good, she replied, relieved. I'm afraid to ask you to get me my wand back, in case the Dark Lord does something to it, or stealing it gets you caught. But I didn't want anyone tampering with a replacement wand from Ollivander's, either.

Hermione had to agree with that assessment. If she was going to talk about her betrothal to him, she didn't need the others butting in with their own opinions of what to do. She certainly didn't need them to hear any details of what she and Russel had done romantically...and she didn't want Ron finding out about those little interludes. If her circumstances with the ring angered him, telling him about that would make him explode.

We need to discuss the ramifications of what you had to do to save yourself. And it will take quite a bit of time, because it's going to come with a lot of explanations, among other things. But don't tell anyone that I'm going to kidnap you. They might be watched by the others when I close in to take you, depending on where that is, and their reactions should be genuine while they're being observed.

Yes, he confirmed. What we'll have to discuss cannot be discussed in front of any witnesses, on either side. I'm asking you to trust me, Jane. Do you?

Hermione blinked. Somehow, she didn't think he'd meant to write that. I think you just tried to lie to me.

...Yes, it is, she wrote after a moment of thought. Thank you for clarifying your honesty.

Thank you for saving me from the Dementor's Kiss, she added.

Thank you in turn. Why did you cut off your Patronus, like that? And what did it pounce on?

He didn't know about that. Hermione wasn't about to enlighten him about the Horcrux. I can't tell you that.

How will you find me? Hermione asked him. Should I be in a specific place at a specific time?

It's not necessary. The rings act as Apparation-like Portkeys, now that we're both wearing them...which I'm sure you've already realized, vanishing like that. You probably have to go, now. Remember to shriek convincingly, when I kidnap you. But don't hex me too hard. I've had a rough night.

Hermione could only imagine what Voldemort's temper must have been like, losing the wand, several of his followers, and the prize of herself, pried by unexpected, golden claws from his grasp. The page flared and vanished, taking all possible trace of their conversation from the tablet. Using the lavatory, she washed her hands and headed down the stairs, trying to figure out how she could stall the whole matter. Gringotts, I think, she decided. I do have some money in my account, enough for a wand and a couple of other matters. And I'll refuse to let Harry pay, if he has the cash for it on hand, though I don't think he does.

"We'll have to go to Gringotts," Harry stated as she reached the ground floor, joining the others. Hermione almost kissed him for having practically read her mind. "I'll pay for the wand--consider it a happy-sister-present."

She smiled, warmed by his offer. And suddenly she had an idea of what to do, or rather, where to go, to stay 'out in the open' long enough for Russel's plan to work. "Alright. And for your present...we'll go to my parents, after Ollivander's."

"We shouldn't stay out too long in the open," Tonks reminded her, almost as if following her thoughts.

Hermione shook her head. "I'll have my wand, by then. And this is important. They're his family now, too, and Mum and Dad need to know they've picked up a son."

"Actually, I wouldn't mind visiting with Mr. and Mrs. Granger," Arthur offered. "I quite liked them, the few times we've met."

"You just want to ask them about their dentistry practice, and other Muggle stuff," Molly chided her husband.

"Can't keep a man from having his little hobbies, my dear," Mr. Weasley jested, and kissed her on the cheek to quiet his wife.

...

"Hermione, my baby!" Daphne Granger swept her daughter into an embrace. "It's been too long! If you're not busy with school, why aren't you coming home more often?" She released her daughter and pulled Harry into a hug, next. "And Harry! We haven't seen you since, what? Your fifth year? Longer than that?"

Harry blushed, but Jeffrey Granger had already hugged Hermione and was shaking Arthur Weasley's hand. "Come in, come in!" Jeffrey ordered them, leading them into the parlour from the front hall. "I hope this is a social visit?"

"That, and more, sir!" Arthur agreed in a jolly voice, as Molly hugged Daphne and Tonks was introduced. Thankfully, Hermione's parents took the younger witch's vivid green hair in stride, her mum even going so far as to hug the young Auror.

"Mum, Dad, I've got some big news," Hermione stated as soon as everyone had settled into the living room. She wasn't quite sure how to put it, though. "Harry and I..."

"--Harry and you?" her father asked, his brows rising.

"I thought it was 'Ron and you'!" her mother added, bewildered.

Hermione coloured, slashing her hands through the air. "No, no! Harry and I...we've always felt like we were brother and sister. And that feeling has only gotten stronger, through the years. So when we found out there was a...well, it's, um..."

"There's a ritual, in the wizarding world," Arthur filled in when Hermione faltered. "It's called Brothers-by-Blood, and it's a very powerful piece of ancient magic. It literally joins two disparate bloodlines as one. There are certain magics that flow through the bonds of blood-relations, and through Brothers-by-Blood, those magics can be utilized. Protective magics, for one. Lines of inheritance, for another, and even certain cures for magical ailments that require assistance from a direct relation, if the ritual is applied beforehand."

"I know I should've consulted the two of you before going through with it," Hermione apologized to her pensive-looking parents, "but we had the opportunity, we really felt that strongly about it, and, well, we did it. Harry and I are now literally brother and sister, bound magically by blood. Mum, Dad...you now have a son!"

Jeffrey and Daphne stared wide-eyed at the two of them, Hermione and Harry. The clock ticked on the mantel. Daphne closed her mouth and swallowed. Jeffrey blinked.

Harry winced. "Er...if you don't want me, I won't come around and pester you; I mean, I'd understand perfectly...I'm not exactly what any parent would want..."

"...Not want you?" Daphne repeated, finding her voice. "Not want you?"

"I don't know how this magic stuff works, but...if you're good enough for our daughter, Harry...you're good enough for us!" Jeffrey stated, pushing out of his chair. Harry stood as well, and found himself pulled into a bear hug. "I have a son," Mr. Granger muttered, hugging the younger man tightly. "I have a son... I thought I'd get a son-in-law, eventually. I mean, it's a bit of a shock and it'll be an adjustment, but...I have a son!"

"...We're still working on that," Hermione muttered to herself, thinking of Russel, the ring, and a future son-in-law as her mother embraced Harry next.

"Well, sons can be a right handful," Arthur offered with a smile. "I should know; I've got six of them."

"I look forward to finding out," Jeffrey returned. "And I'm not just getting a son; I'm getting a wizard! Now we've got two of them in the family!"

"--Jeffrey, we're going to have to find out how much it costs to adopt someone! We can't have it legal in the wizarding world and not in the regular one," Mrs. Granger chided her husband. "When is your birthday, Harry? And your middle name? I know your birthday's somewhere in the summer, late July or early August, isn't it?"

"July 31st, and it's James," Harry answered, blushing. "Harry James Potter."

"Harry James Potter-Granger. Potter-Granger? Granger-Potter? Urgh, that's a mouthful!" Jeffrey grimaced. "Well, I suppose we can adopt you with whichever surname you'd like to keep, yours, ours, or some combination thereof--Hermione said you have your own house, I believe," Mr. Granger added as Harry stared at him with increasing shock, "But I think we can clear out the sewing room and make you up a room of your own for when you come home for the holidays--oh, I like the sound of that! I have a son, who can come home for the holidays!" He grinned at Arthur and Molly Weasley, hugging Harry with one arm around the shorter male's shoulders, and exclaimed, "I have a son! And it's really by blood, isn't it? Not just a sort of wizarding adoption?"

"He really is now Hermione's brother, which makes him your son. It's not very commonly done," Molly replied, smiling back, "but Harry is an extraordinary boy. An extraordinary young man," she corrected as Harry rolled his eyes. "We, er, wouldn't have minded adopting him ourselves, but...well, not to put any pressure on you, Harry dear, but we always thought you'd make a better son-in-law. In a couple years, perhaps?"

He blushed even harder, mumbling, "I'll keep that in mind."

Hermione couldn't help herself. This was the perfect opportunity to officially tease her best friend, sister to brother. "Harry's in love! Harry's in love!"

"--Hermione!" he squeaked, embarrassed.

"Harry's in lurve!" she drawled, and shrieked as he lurched away from her father, swiping at her as she escaped.

"I'm going to dip those curls of yours in the nearest inkwell, for this!" Harry mock-growled, chasing after her as she escaped the parlour with a laugh.

"Hermione! Harry!" her--their mother--chided as Harry chased Hermione into the kitchen.

"Children, behave yourselves!" their father bellowed after them.

Giggling madly, Hermione whirled and caught Harry, embracing him even as he skidded to a stop. "--Did you hear that?" she whispered in his ear as they balanced themselves. "He said children! Not child!"

"--Don't make me ground you on your first day as our son!"

To her surprise, tears welled in Harry's eyes. They spilled down his cheeks, and he tore off his glasses, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He didn't say a word, didn't make a sound, just shuddered in her arms, but Hermione could guess what was happening to him, based on what she knew of his miserable childhood with the Dursleys. She knew how loving and generous her parents were, and had taken only a small gamble in the fact that they'd accept him into the family.

After her mother's hysterectomy, Jeffrey and Daphne had discussed adopting a second child, but in the end had chosen to raise Hermione alone. But they'd taken each of the friends she'd made in the local primary school into their home with a warm welcome, treating them as honorary daughters, before she'd found out she was a witch and had to go off to boarding school. Hermione had never brought home a boy as an honorary brother, just female friends. It was a calculated risk to bring him home to her parents as their new son, but not a big one.

She could guess how much their warm welcome meant to him, though. The coldness, indifference and cruelties of his aunt and uncle, the bullying of his cousin, that was all a far cry from being embraced and welcomed and told he would have his own room in the Granger household, even though he was now an adult and living on his own in the wizarding world. He sniffled, twisting his head to rest it on her shoulder, and mumbled in her ear.

"...Are they really going to give me my own room? It's not just an act?"

"It's not just an act, Harry. My parents are the most loving and generous parents in all of Oxfordshire. They always treated my friends like honorary daughters, when I was little. And you deserve a happy family life."

He stiffened a little, pulling upright and blinking red-rimmed eyes. "Now I'm almost afraid of what will happen to them. I've never had a happy family. Mum and Dad were murdered, Sirius was thrown through that doorway, even Dumbledore died... I don't want to endanger them."

"...Oh, put a sock in it, Harry! They're in danger just because they're my parents," she chided him pragmatically. "Adding you into the mix--what's that honestly going to do? Make Voldiebutt shout 'Avada Kedavra' all the faster? Now, you listen to me, Harry James...Harry James Whatever," she improvised, since her father was right; Harry James Potter-Granger was a ruddy mouthful. "I want you to enjoy being the son of Jeffrey and Daphne Granger. I don't care if they're going to die in the next sixteen minutes! Life is meant to be lived, family--the good kind--are meant to be loved, and even if all we have are the next sixteen minutes, or sixteen days, or sixteen years, it'll be worth it.

"Now, come on back to the living room, before Dad grounds you for real."

Harry snagged a paper napkin from the holder on the kitchen counter, wiping at his eyes and his spectacles before blowing his nose. "D'you think he'd really do it? Ground me?"

"In a heartbeat. Though he'd be more likely to assign you a chore, like mowing the lawn or vacuuming the stairs," she added drolly. "And if you're really bad, he'd make you do Divinations homework!"

"He would not!" Harry shoved playfully at her, and she shoved him back.

"--What did I say about the two of you fighting in this house?" Jeffrey admonished them as they reentered the parlour.

"Yes, Dad," Hermione muttered. She elbowed Harry, who jumped, blinked, then caught on to what he was supposed to do.

"Er...yes, Dad. Sorry," he added sincerely, and received a beaming smile from the curly-haired man.

A thump and puff of air accompanied the sudden appearance of a lean figure in a blue-and-green kilt and a dark blue shirt. Tonks yelped and scrambled to her feet, Arthur and Molly grabbed at their wands, and Harry gasped, "--You!"

"You must be the Grangers. Don't mind me," he added with polite aplomb as Jeffrey and Daphne gaped. His hand snaked out, grabbing Hermione by the waist and yanking her up against his body, pulling her away from Harry with a breathless bump. "We're just passing through."

"Hermione--!" Harry shouted, reaching out for her.

Darkness squeezed in around her, as Russel Apparated before anyone could stop him from taking her. Glad they'd arranged this together beforehand, since she might've struggled and risked a splinching in the process, Hermione found herself unsqueezed into what looked like a tastefully decorated bed-sit, with a living area, a very modest kitchen, a small dining table, and, tucked into a nook next to what looked like a bathroom, a queen-sized bed. Still caught tightly against Russel by his left arm, she craned her head and spotted a door with a peephole, locking bar, and a hanger on the lever-like handle that said 'Room Service Requested'.

This wasn't a studio flat; it was one of those kitchenette hotel rooms, the kind that were rented by the week, not by the day.

"Where are we?" she asked Russel, looking up at him. "A Marriot Inn?"

"Somewhere like that. We need to talk. Do not touch the front or patio doors," he warned her. "They're warded against entry or exit. Don't use any major magic if you can help it, either; I've warded the room against detection, but it's not permanent, and I'd rather not test the defenses by drawing attention."

"Are you going to let go of me?" Hermione asked, trying to ignore how...nice...his body felt, pressing into hers.

Releasing her, Russel caught her hand and drew her to the loveseat sofa that formed the sitting area, along with an armchair and the telly cabinet. "We've got a lot to cover, and to decide. I'm in a Situation, with the Dark Lord--and please, do not speak his name."

"I won't," she promised, finding herself tugged down next to him. "Russel, what are we going to do about this...this ring-thing? That dragon nearly ate three more people! And they're the ones on our side! We need to stop it, somehow, or at least figure out how to control it!"

Russel studied her for a moment, then twisted to face her, leaning back into the cushioned arm of the divan. With one knee drawn up onto the loveseat, the posture emphasized the fact that he was wearing a kilt. It wasn't that she could see underneath the pleated wool, just that his bare knee brushed her thigh with the maneuver, drawing her attention to his rather nice, tanned legs.

"The betrothal cannot be broken. You were informed that donning the ring would form an unbreakable betrothal between us," he reminded her dryly as she drew a breath to argue the point. "And that doing so would essentially give you my protection...in exchange for becoming my bride. Had you been ignorant of these facts, the ring could've been removed. Of course, the protections would have been extremely weak or even non-existent. But you put it on your finger with the intent to use the protections it conveyed. You put it on, plighting your troth to me. Pledging to be my wife.

"It was a calculated risk. I put on my own ring knowing it was a risk," he reminded her, lifting his left arm from the back of the small sofa and waggling his fingers, making the golden ring on one of them gleam in the afternoon light seeping through the gauze curtains covering the glazed patio door. "I am plighted in troth to you. Irrevocably." His gaze dipped, leaving hers long enough to travel down over her pale blue blouse and faded blue-jeans before returning to meet her tawny eyes. "Before you squawk and protest, you'll need to know just how much damage control we both have to do, above and beyond that guardian-dragon. But let's start with him, eh?"

Hermione held her tongue. He still sounded like a foreigner. Maybe he really was from Canada, though she'd never actually encountered any wizards from across the Atlantic, other than during the World Quidditch Cup a few years ago. Wondering who he was had to wait for another time, however. "Can we at least get him to stop trying to eat people? And all that stupid yelling?"

"The dragon isn't going to be controllable until we consummate our betrothal," Russel told her bluntly. His fingertips rapped softly on the back of the loveseat, drumming briefly. "Its entire purpose is to ensure your chastity. Once that event happens, however, you will be able to control him by his name, and with my assistance, moderate his protectiveness...provided you don't try to snog anyone else, or try anything more provocative than a hug. The purpose of the guardian of the ring is to ensure your fidelity and safety. That aspect will never change."

Hermione avoided the question that she was going to be stuck with him as her only lover, for the rest of her life. Instead, she addressed a more serious concern. "So it confines my fidelity to you. What about yours to me? The parochial society wherein these sorts of rings were made almost never cared about the man's fidelity, only the woman's."

Russel arched a light brown brow. "Would you care so much, if I were unfaithful?"

She narrowed her gaze. "I'm not ignorant enough to think there aren't any sexually transmitted diseases in the wizarding world! And if I'm expected to be faithful, whoever I'm supposed to be faithful to will also have to suffer the expectations and boundaries of monogamy!"

He mulled over her demand, rubbing briefly at his chin. "...Very well. I will be monogamously faithful to you."

Hermione didn't quite trust such an easy capitulation. The glint of his ring as he lowered his hand again gave her an idea. "Swear it upon the ring."

His brows knitted together. "I beg your pardon?"

"Swear you'll be monogamous through the ring. That way I'll know whether you're telling the truth, or a lie."

Staring at her, Russel said nothing for a long moment. His fingers flexed into a fist, then relaxed. A soft breath escaped him, not quite a sigh. Lifting his arm, he twisted his hand, showing her the touch of his thumb against the band snugged at the base of his third finger. "Hermione Jane Granger..."

Her ring warmed on her finger.

"...I swear to you that, if you and I consummate this betrothal, I will be faithful to you as husband to wife, until either my dying breath or yours, whichever comes first."

Lifting her own hand, Hermione stared at her ring, watching the words scribing themselves out of the scales in tiny script. It wrapped around the ring several times, but all of it fit. None of it was altered. He was telling the truth.

Unable to just accept it, Hermione lifted her gaze back to his grey eyes. "...Why?" At the arch of his brow, she expanded her question. "Why are you willing to tie yourself to me? You hardly know me, and if our...if our situation is uncovered by the Dark Lord..."

"That is the Situation I needed to discuss with you. He knows about us," Russel revealed. Hermione gasped, and he lifted his hand, forestalling her shock. "Not about my status as a spy for the Order. He knows about the rings. I've convinced him that the ring you're wearing must've fallen out of my sporran at some point during the weekend, and that you picked it up, recognized that it was a powerful piece of magic, strung it on that chain you discarded, and took the risk that it would help protect you somehow when he ordered your torturing.

"He realized it was a betrothal ring, one of an unbreakable nature, and was ready to have you killed to free me from your Mud-blooded influence--his words, not mine," Russel amended, lifting his hand to reassure her, "--when I offered the suggestion instead that I seduce and claim you. I reminded him that sufficient sexual ecstasy would be enough to turn even the most levelheaded witch's attention away from what was really happening...and that the best secrets were often spilled in the intimacy of a bed."

"You told him that you'd use sex to beguile and interrogate me?" Hermione summed, taken aback by the idea.

"An extension of what I was apparently doing this weekend, trying to uncover information about the Boy Who Lived, and why he was at the wand exhibition." Russel wrinkled his nose, unhappy. "I don't know what he wanted with that wand, but he was very unhappy to hear it had been broken. Very unhappy, more so even than over the loss of several of his followers."

Hermione held her tongue on the fact that it had been a different wand that had shattered, an oak one patterned in a zigzag pattern from the Art Deco era, not in feathers from the turn of the previous millennium. Flitwick had not announced that fact publicly, however. He'd allowed everyone to think that the Ravenclaw wand had been ruined, and with the help of his two remaining students, had hustled his collection back to the school. In fact, the Charms teacher had been adamant about hiding it and his remaining wand collection for a while, until the war with the Dark Lord was over. Most of the collectors were apparently going to do that with the surviving pieces of their own collections, too.

"I've been ordered to get into your good graces far enough to ask questions about your activities," Russel continued. "Things that you might be looking for, and any places that you're trying to investigate. Essentially all the things I'm supposed to be investigating him for."

Hermione's breath caught. If Voldemort figured out what they were searching for... Hastily shoving those thoughts into oblivion--if Russel had studied Occlumency, he had probably studied Legilimency as well--she asked carefully, "...And so you're under official orders from the Dark Lord to consummate this betrothal?"

"One way or another, I am to ensnare you, and use you to spy upon you and your companions. Those are my orders, and they are not negotiable." The corner of his lip curled up in a sneer. "He even went so far as to suggest my borrowing the skills of his pet Potions Master, to drug you into compliance if my own charm isn't up to the task. I pledged that my seductive skills would be more than adequate. I don't want that bastard to 'accidentally' poison you, or worse...like giving you more than the bare minimum needed to distract your attentions and bewitch your affections.

"That is the situation we are in, Jane. If I am unable to properly seduce you, I will be punished. You will be attacked and killed, as a dangerous liability. I will not be able to find as easy a manner of reporting back to the Order as I currently do through you, even if they now know about me. I doubt they'll be quick to believe in me, thanks to the unconscionable treachery of their last known spy, and without that necessary level of trust, they might be slow to act...and more lives would be lost."

He finished speaking in a quiet, subdued tone. Most of his tanned face was neutral, shuttered, but Hermione thought she saw a hint of regret, and maybe even remorse in his gaze. Letting his words sink in, she mulled over their choices. They didn't have many, and most of them weren't really viable. It wasn't that they had no other options at all; she didn't believe that there was only one choice, one path. There were always options to be considered. She did, however, admit that there were times when there was only one good choice to make. This was one of them.

"How soon..." She paused and licked her lips. "How soon do we have to...consummate the betrothal?"

His eyes warmed, tiny lines appearing at their corners. It took her a few moments to realize he was now smiling. Just a little, but his mouth had definitely curved into a smile. A lick of his lips made her heart skip a beat, then thud in recovery. He hesitated a little more before answering, drawing out her anxiety. "This room is rented for the next three days."

It was a strange sort of answer. Did that mean they would be waiting until those three days were almost up, or making love for almost three whole days? Hermione watched him thrust up off the seat with unexpected energy. When he turned and thrust his hand at her, she hesitated only a moment before placing her fingers in his. Pulling her up, he didn't pull her against him, though she expected it. Instead, he tugged her over to the kitchenette table, where she realized several boxes and books had been stacked.

Two of the boxes contained jigsaw puzzles. Wizarding ones, judging by the movement visible in the descriptive pictures on the box. Another box read Factoid Folly, and two more appeared to be decks of cards, one the normal kind of cards, and one some sort of game she'd never seen before. The books were even more eclectic, ranging from The Hobbit to something with a handsome man on the front cover. The model looked remarkably like Russel did, save that the man on the cover had darker, longer hair and a somewhat shorter nose, and was wearing a military jacket as well as a kilt; the jacket was hanging open, along with the shirt underneath it, baring a delicious slice of tanned skin. In the background was a star-field, suggesting it was either a sci-fi novel or some alternate universe. The publisher's mark on the spine, she realized, was for a popular Muggle romance-genre company.

"Shall we play a game of Factoid Folly? Read a book? Or go straight to the puzzles?"

"Er..." Taken aback by that lurid dust-jacket, Hermione looked up at Russel. "Games? Books? Aren't you, erm, going to snog me within an inch of my life?"

"Later," he dismissed, pulling out a chair for her. After seating her, he pulled out the chair opposite and separated the largest box from the rest. "Have you ever played this game?"

"Factoid Folly? No," she admitted, shaking her head. "What's it about?"

"You have these game pieces that you roll the dice and mount the levels of the pyramid, going from stone to stone depending on the direction, number, and colour of the dice rolled. Whatever you land on, that's the category that you have to answer the question. If you get it right, you move on, and if you land on the keystone squares and answer the questions correctly, you get to play with a different set of dice, which might or might not improve your chances of making it to the top of the pyramid, which has to be an exact landing to win.

"All of the factoids are based on information found in the wizarding world," Russel told her, setting out the board, the dice, and a block of cards, which he shuffled with deft fingers and placed next to them. He grinned at her. "I thought it would be interesting to test your knowledge of magical errata, and see if you really are the 'know-it-all' that my bastard roommate disparages. Shall we roll to see who goes first?"

It was rather odd to realize she was a little bit disappointed that he didn't want to snog her. Studying the brightly coloured board, with its smallish squares and their tiny, moving pictures, Hermione found herself realizing something important: she was only going to be as ready for sex as she made up her mind to be. Which meant, if she started making her mind to be ready for sex, she'd find it all the easier to make love to the wizard across from her.

It helped that she did find herself attracted to him, as her mother would say.

"It's really quite easy, once you figure out how the dice work," he coaxed her, passing her a reference card from the box detailing how the dice worked.

Hermione set the card down. "I'll play...but not for points or anything. Anytime one of us gets an answer right, the winner gets to claim a kiss from the other person."

He stared at her a long moment. Head tipping slightly, he asked, "You're serious?"

"Very," she replied bravely.

"You're definitely a Gryffindor. I picked playing games and reading books as ways to get to know each other, and to relax in each other's presence," Russel admitted bluntly, standing up and moving his chair to the side of the table, perpendicular to hers. That, she realized, would make claiming kisses a lot easier. It also made it easier for him to read the board, by tipping it at a slight angle as he continued. "But that suggestion takes a lot of courage, given that you told me just yesterday morning that you weren't ready for physical intimacy."

"And what House were you in?" she returned. "Slytherin?"

"Being poor sometimes gives a burgeoning young wizard ambitious thoughts of attaining great wealth and power," he answered obliquely, rolling the dice. "Even if those ambitions lead him into stupidity. I should've asked the Sorting Hat to place me in Ravenclaw."

"Did you ever attain that great wealth and power?" Hermione asked, taking the dice and rolling them, too. He won the toss to see who would go first.

"No. I wound up in a mind-numbing job I hated for a pittance of a salary, and far less influence than I thought I'd have. My superior liked me, but my peers snubbed me for being far too young to be so talented, and my inferiors loathed me. I'd rather not talk about it."

"So what should we talk about?" she asked as he rolled the dice, consulted the quick-reference card, and moved his piece.

"Red - Romance," he directed her. "What we'd do if we indeed had a great deal of wealth, and/or influence in the wizarding world. Since I doubt you have any of that either, being, what, only seventeen?"

"Eighteen. My birthday was in September."

He grunted. "I'll have to get you a belated birthday present. Well? Read the card!"

Hermione drew the first card, and looked along the red-tinted line, reading the black lettering out loud. "What year was the famous Ipicrys Incident of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, involving the ingestion of a lust-potion by most of the staff and older student body?"

"1517."

"Wrong! It was in 1417," Hermione corrected him. She hadn't even needed to consult the answer line on the card, since she remembered it clearly enough from reading Hogwarts: A History so many times through the years. But she didn't tell him that.

"Damn. Your turn. You roll these dice, first," he directed her, handing her the same set of poly-sided objects.

Obligingly, she rolled them, consulted the reference card, and moved her game piece. "Green – Healing."

"...Which wizard was the inventor of the entrail-expelling curse?"

Hermione knew that one. She was sure she'd read it somewhere before. Closing her eyes, she cleared her mind, then concentrated. She could picture a face with the information...a portrait...a plaque...a sensation of echoing corridors and lime-green robes, and...and--St Mungo's! "The answer is...Rackharrow!"

"Merlin's undershorts, you got it right! I never would've guessed that one correctly," Russel praised her. "Maybe you are a know-it-all, Jane."

"I only remembered it, Russel, because I saw a portrait of the fellow while visiting St. Mungo's, once," Hermione pointed out. She reached for the same dice again. Russel covered her hand with his own, stopping her action. Looking at him, she asked, "...What?"

"Aren't you going to claim your prize?" he asked her.

Oh. The kiss. Blushing, Hermione shifted closer, then hesitated. She'd been about to give him a quick, chaste peck on the cheek. Or maybe the lips, to be daring. But somehow, the thought of doing that felt like a cheat. He'd been rather straightforward in his dealings with her, telling her bluntly that he was supposed to seduce her, yet allowing her time to grow accustomed to the idea, and maybe even to him. Yet there was nothing in the mythical rulebook of relationships that said he was the only one allowed to do any seducing.

Not that she knew how to seduce someone, beyond some of the ideas she'd read in her recent collection of smutty books, but Hermione wasn't content to be a passive observer, right now. Removing her hand from under his, she reached up and touched his jaw-line. A slight rasp against her skin told her that his beard was starting to grow again. She wondered briefly how often he shaved, every morning, every other morning...

Oh, god. This is the face I'm going to be waking up to, for the rest of my...wait a minute. Her brows drew down. This isn't the face I'm going to be waking up to, for the rest of my life! He's wearing a ruddy glamour-pendant! Her fingers shifted down to the side of his throat, searching for the clasp to the amulet. His hand snapped up to hers, the moment she touched the side of the ribbon.

"Do not remove that," he warned her sharply, holding her fingers tightly for a moment.

"But, why not?" Hermione challenged him. "I mean, if we're to through with this, we'll be married. How can I not know the true face of the man I'll be bound to for the rest of my life? How can you ask me to tie myself to someone I've never even seen?"

Pushing her hand away, he rose, spinning out of his chair. A few steps and he stopped, his back to her. The set of his shoulders was stiff, and she realized his hands had fisted at his sides. A subtle turn of his head, and he addressed her over his shoulder. "Are you familiar with the tale of Cupid and Psyche?"

His off-the-wall choice of topic made her blink. "Uh...yes. Cupid, the Greek god of Love, fell in love with Psyche, a mortal woman. He wanted to marry her, but...for some reason I cannot remember, he couldn't appear to her in a physical form. So he turned himself invisible and took her back to his home as his bride. And there he loved her, and made love to her in the darkness after nightfall, until one night, she lit a candle and looked upon his sleeping face...and he fled, having to abandon her."

"In some legends, he'd been cursed by Hera, queen of the gods, out of jealousy over his mother, Aphrodite, to never know happiness if he ever took a mortal lover and she looked upon his face," Russel quoted quietly. "It wasn't until Psyche was given a cup of ambrosia to drink, turning her into an immortal, a minor goddess, that he was permitted to rejoin his wife. I...I did a Divination, in deciding whether or not to send you my ring."

Hermione bit her lip against the urge to say that Divinations was nothing more than a load of silly, woolly guesswork. Russel seemed to be taking it very seriously. "And...?"

"And all the signs pointed to a disaster, if I ever revealed myself completely to you. Tarot, tea, even the i ching--I tested the whole gamut. Every single one of them pointed to disaster, if you saw my true face. So I crafted this amulet, rather than attempting to turn myself invisible. Cloaks can be removed, potions have side-effects...I've merely altered my appearance just enough visually to disguise my identity. And as I'd rather hope that I might actually escape this war alive and in one piece, I'd prefer it if you respected this one piece of my privacy...and not draw down a disaster upon both of our heads by violating my identity."

Hermione slipped out of her chair. She touched the back of his shirt, feeling the firm, warm flesh underneath. "Once the war is over, will you reveal yourself to me then?"

"I don't know. The odds of my surviving are very low."

Regrettably, she knew that possibility was all too true. "Then can you at least tell me if you're handsome, or not?"

Twisting to face her, he gave her a lopsided smile. "Why don't you just imagine the real me as ugly as a troll? I'm sure it'll keep you preferring this facade over any other I might choose."

That made her arch a brow and fold her arms across her chest. "Let me guess--you stole the idea for your appearance and wardrobe off the cover of that lurid romance I saw on the table?"

He flashed her a wicked grin, spreading his arms. "Guilty as charged."

"Can you answer at least one question?" Hermione half-pleaded, eyeing his clothing. "Why a kilt? Do you wear them normally?"

"No. I initially thought it would be distinct and different. Something to make me stand out a little, yet make people associate me with only a kilt, so that if I ever didn't wear one, no one would recognize me, eh?" He looked down at himself and shrugged. "I'm forced to admit that they're very comfortable. I think I might even wear one after all of this is over. If I survive."

Reaching up, Hermione cupped his cheeks in her hands. He lifted his gaze to hers, his grey eyes puzzled for a moment. They didn't stay puzzled for very long. Not when it was quite clear that she was pressing her lips to his, nuzzling their mouths together. It was a soft kiss, not a hard one, but it was also somewhat sophisticated. Aborted by the donning of the ring though her previous relationship had been, she had learned a few things about kissing from her time with Ron. Some of it negative, what she didn't want, and some of it positive, what she did.

She certainly liked the way he tilted his head into the kiss, seeking a better angle for the mating of their mouths. And the settling of his hands around her waist was nice; Hermione thought she was a little skinny and thus shy of a good hourglass figure, but he didn't seem to mind. Certainly his palms enjoyed stroking up to her ribs and down to her hips, finally circling around to her buttocks. Her own hands stroked through his hair, which was enticingly soft, then cupped his shoulders and tentatively caressed his chest. By now, her tongue had daringly touched his lips, coaxing his own out to play.

Play? No. Conquer? Yes. But only for one heated moment. He seemed to come to his senses after just a few seconds, for his hands shifted from that thrilling kneading her rump, gliding up her body to grip her arms and push her gently back. He licked his lips, as if to savour the taste of her kiss, then released her.

"I believe it is time for you to roll the dice, again."

Disappointed the snogging was over, for now, Hermione returned to her seat and restarted the game.

...

Hermione loved the taste of the sweat dampening his skin. She licked the side of his throat again, ending with a little flick of her tongue behind his ear that made him groan and twitch violently, clutching her backside and grinding her mound against the lump of arousal hidden beneath that kilt. He was a little musky back here, as if he'd applied a light touch of cologne, though Hermione was fairly certain all that she smelled on him was pure, unadulterated man.

The combination of sweat and scent reminded her of something else that was salty and musky. His semen, when she'd daringly, embarrassingly licked it from the pages of their communiques. Blushing hotly, Hermione found herself wanting to slip out of his lap, push back his kilt, and taste him directly. Instead, she teased the flesh she had in reach, not quite ready for such a daring move...though she was getting close. Hungrily, she caught his earlobe in her teeth, scraping it lightly while the tip of her tongue played with the soft, warm edge.

He shouted and bucked, bouncing her with the sudden thrust of his hips. His hands shifted, grabbing her arms with bruising strength, pushing her forcefully out of his lap. Gulping for breath, he hung his head for a moment, then pushed her back out of reach. "Play...the...game. And don't bloody do that again, unless you're ready for the consequences!"

The glare he shot her sent a tingle through her. Rather than detracting from the moment, it seemed to compliment the racing of her heart, the taste of him on her own lips. Seating herself, Hermione picked up the current allotment of dice, rolled, and moved her game piece in the requisite direction. She landed on a keystone square, but didn't care. "Orange – Legends and Rarities."

She notice his hand wasn't steady as he picked up the next card. "...What does a Philosopher's Stone do?"

Hermione nearly snorted, at that. "It transmutes base metals to gold, creating vast amounts of wealth, and it's used as the base for the Draught of Life, which essentially gives anyone who drinks the potion brewed with the Philosopher's Stone immortality. Until they stop drinking it, of course. I learned that one in my first year!"

The corner of his mouth had curved up in a smirk. "Right yet again, Jane."

Sliding off her chair, Hermione dropped to her knees next to him. He frowned in confusion, then widened his eyes as she pushed at his chair until he scooted it further back from the table and slightly to the side. Positioning herself in front of him, she slid her hands from his knees to his thighs. Lifting his kilt. His hands snapped down, manacling her wrists and stopping her from going any further.

"--What do you think you're doing?"

"Claiming my kiss." Hermione hoped she didn't look or sound nervous. She was a little uncertain, but the idea that had formed in her head was something she wanted to try.

"My lips are up here," he reminded her, tugging on her arms.

She clung to his thighs. "We never said the kisses had to be claimed mouth-to-mouth, Russel. And I definitely don't want to kiss your mouth, this time."

Air shuddered out of his lungs, and his fingers spasmed around her flesh. He stared down at her, lips parted, tongue wetting their surface absently, clearly taken off-guard by her meaning. Aware that his fingers were no longer clutching her tightly, Hermione shifted her hands out from under his touch, pushing the Ferguson plaid of his kilt higher.

The gleam of white cotton distracted her. Blinking, Hermione looked down at the clean, white briefs he wore. Disappointment seeped through her at the sight of such gentlemanly modesty. Of all the things she would've thought a daring fellow like Russel might do, not going 'regimental' under his kilt was not on the list. Wait a minute, Hermione, she chided herself. What are you complaining about? You get to undress him! Just pretend he's a belated birthday present!

That was an appealing idea. Slipping her fingertips up under the rumpled folds of wool, Hermione found and snagged the elastic waistband. Mindful of the lump underneath, pushing up against the fabric, she carefully eased the material up and over his erection. Revealing him all the way to his bollocks.

A penis, Hermione decided, was a very peculiar-looking thing. Sort of like a cross between a sausage, a flobberworm, and one of those geoduck-things from the far side of North America. Her mum and dad had once hosted a dinner for dentistry colleagues, and her mum had sprung for the exotic clam meat to impress their seafood-loving guests. She'd been only fourteen, but she had giggled with her mum over the rather phallic shape of the thing, whilst cooking it.

Russel was longish, slightly curved, nestled in a sparse thicket of brownish, crinkly hairs...and naturally tanned. In fact, Hermione realized that he was entirely naturally tanned. She would've expected his thighs to be pasty white, like a typical Englishman's, but no; from navel to knee, he was the same golden brown as his hands and face. The thought of him bathing nude on some Mediterranean beach crossed her mind...but the most likely explanation was that he had a mixed background, ethnically speaking. There was nothing wrong in that; it only made him seem all the more mysterious and exotic, in her mind.

Aware that his hands had shifted from lying on his thighs to gripping the edges of his chair, Hermione gently but firmly tugged his knickers down. He sucked in a breath, then stiffened his arms, lifting his rump from the seat. Pulling the briefs over his knees and down his calves, she eased them over his moccasin-style shoes and set the scrap of white aside. Returning her attention, she found him parting his knees and shifting forward in the chair. That splayed his thighs, keeping his kilt rumpled up out of the way. The position also made his scrotum droop a little, now that it wasn't supported by his thighs; the little ridgeline running between each testicle, stretching up to the base of his penis, caused his shaft to stand up straighter from the tugging weight.

She couldn't quite catch her breath. This was quite honestly the most daring thing she'd ever done. She'd committed acts of great bravery, and shown unflinching courage in the face of near-impossible odds...but this was just flat-out daring. Shifting forward, she gently touched his thighs, sliding her hands higher and higher, enjoying the contrast of textured leg-hair and soft inner skin. His penis twitched, and she watched the crinkled skin of his scrotum tightening slightly as she came within an inch of the creases separating his thighs from his groin.

Bracing her hands on his thighs, Hermione leaned in, breathing the musky, sweaty, male scent of his loins. There was something in the odor of him, something powerfully masculine. Something that reached into her senses, into her synapses...and it flicked a little switch. This wasn't daring, anymore. This was necessary. It wasn't a drug; it was just the primal scent of a man, intimately masculine, acting on the most primeval part of her feminine brain.

Acknowledging this fact, Hermione closed the last few inches between her and him, and pressed her lips to the little arrow-indent just under the tip of his shaft, marking the edge of its mushroom-like ridge.