Chapter 11

XI.

Hermione woke abruptly, warm and sweaty from the jumbled images and sensations of the most erotic dream she'd ever had. Her body ached with unfulfilled need, and for a moment, she thought that everything had been a dream, some parts just far more lucid than others. But her eyes fastened on the metal disc of a pop-down fire-sprinkler, and dark-patterned curtains hanging from ceiling to floor in a muted red, hiding the patio door, and her ears pricked at the soft sounds of breathing nearby. Cautiously turning her head, she found herself staring at the back of Russel's head.

He lay on his side, angled away from her, and the drape of the bedsheets showed a small strip of his spine and shoulder-blade below the tangled mess of his light brown hair. It wasn't a dream. They'd really made love, gotten magically married by it, and were now husband and wife. That was a thought almost enough to kill her ardor. But then he rolled onto his back with a sigh, lashes resting against his cheeks, and he just looked so...manly, that she couldn't regret too much of it, though her inability to come up with a better word made her want to snort.

Refraining, Hermione remembered how those thin lips had suckled her toes until she'd screamed herself hoarse with her unsuspected foot-fetish. How he'd plundered her body until she was sore, then had cleaned them both with a flick of his wand, pulled from her hair. She'd been carried to this bed, limp and exhausted, and he'd pulled her close and held her in the curve of his arm as she'd drifted off to sleep. Not exactly cuddling her, but holding her, yes.

Now she wanted him again. It wasn't fair; he was resting like a tanned...well, not a tanned angel; the man was more like a tanned incubus-in-training. She'd never quite believed those smutty books when they'd all but proclaimed the hero a sex-god. The fact that someone actually was that good in the sack astounded and aroused her.

Staring at her husband, Hermione faced facts. She might love Ron more, but even if she were released from this marriage, she knew she wouldn't go back to him. There just wasn't enough desire between the two of them. Now that she knew what passion really was, she just couldn't give it up that easily. Maybe that made her shallow, but she could at least be honest with herself about it.

And honesty demanded she admit she wanted Russel now. Wanted to feel the warmth of his skin, the flex of his muscles, the weight of his flesh...the thrust of his body. A glance down his body showed a lump under the covers. It could've been a wrinkle in the bedding, but Hermione flushed with the hope it was a morning erection. Needing to look but not want to wake him just yet, she shifted her hand stealthily towards the edge of the covers slanting across his chest.

His hand snapped up, catching her forearm in a bruising grip. Hermione sucked in a pained breath, glancing at his face. Those short, dark lashes had slitted open just far enough to catch a gleam of his grey eyes. His grip gentled just enough so that it didn't hurt, but his fingers remained locked around her wrist like a living manacle. "...What were you doing?"

Mind blank in shock at how quickly he'd moved, Hermione gave him the truth, unable to think of anything less embarrassing. "Um...I wanted...to see if you...you know...had a...a morning--" she swallowed, "--stiffy."

His eyes squeezed shut, a pained look quirking his brows. "A morning...stiffy."

"Well...yes."

"Dare I ask why?"

Flustered, too embarrassed to admit she'd been having unbearably hot dreams about being with him, Hermione tried to tug her hand free. He held on for a moment, then released her. And shocked her by whipping back the covers from both of them with a sweep of his arm, twisting onto his side so that his erection jutted unmistakably at her hip.

"Is this proof enough, wife?" Russel growled, his left hand shifting to cup one of her breasts. His forefinger and thumb lightly pinched her nipple, then spread out as he slid his hand down her ribs, along her stomach, and over the crisp curls of her mound. A questing finger slipped down between her nether-lips. His hand stilled, his eyes widening in disbelief. Grey eyes piercing brown, he studied her, and moved his finger. Delving deeper. His lips parted, his tongue came out to lick them, and he dragged in a ragged breath. "Up. On your hands and knees. Now."

His tone was gentle, but his words were commanding. Hermione twisted over onto her stomach, pushing up onto all fours as her lover shifted quickly to his knees. Moving behind her, Russel gripped her hips for a moment, then removed one hand with a sliding caress. She found out why, as she felt him rubbing the tip of his penis against her drenched folds. In a rush of renewing desire, the disjointed, lusty images from her dreams returned to her. When he finally pushed into her, she was so wet, her body offered no resistance other than its natural tightness.

Again, it stung to have his thickness stretching her flesh. But it felt so good, she couldn't help the groan that escaped as he rubbed against that spot she'd thought he could only reach with the heel of his hand. Russel pushed in that last little bit, seating himself so fully, she could feel him pressing against her back wall, deep inside. That made her bite her lip and moan.

"...Jane?" he asked, concerned.

Caught up in the eroticism of the moment, Hermione forgot delicacy, let alone caution. "Fuck me! Oh, god, fuck me!"

Breath hissed out of him, at that. Fingers tightening on her hips, he rocked back and plunged in, hard. That rubbed him against that one spot on the way in, and knocked him against the limit of her vaginal depths. She groaned hoarsely. Both sensations were weird, but undeniably stimulating--one, the urge to pee; the other, a pain that was a pleasure. Bracing herself, Hermione rocked back against him as he went still, probably thinking that he was hurting her. But he wasn't, unless it was in the 'hurts so good' category.

"Don't stop!" she gasped, wriggling in his grip.

Once again his hands clenched, then he seemed to make up his mind that she really wanted this. Not only that she wanted it, but that she wanted it hard. Thrusting into her, he let his thighs slap against her buttocks, grunting with each stroke. The sounds and sensations made Hermione feverish. She clutched at the bedding, grabbing a pillow and balling it under her chest for added support. Then clutched at the sheets, half burying her mouth in them to muffle her grunts and groans.

He was turning her into an animal, a cat in heat, interested only in rutting and quenching the fire within her blood. Unfortunately, he didn't last long enough. Almost, almost he made it, rousing her to the edge of a sharp peak--and stiffened, stabbing into her with a hoarse cry of, "Jane!-- Jane! Oh, god, yesssss! "

Frustrated, she bit the pillow, muffling her sobbing cry of incompleted passion. The fluttering, tickling sensation only added to her misery as he slowed, then stopped, breathing heavily. A whimper escaped her. One of his hands caressed her spine, stroked her flanks, and she whimpered again, squirming her hips in the attempt to rock back into him. For a moment, Russel was still, then he bent over her, hooking his arms under her breasts. Lifting her upright on her knees, he eased her back over him, letting her sink a little more onto his slowly softening shaft.

Right hand lifting, he brushed her hair back from her shoulder enough that he could kiss the muscles there, then glided his fingers down over her breast, pausing to twist and pluck at her nipple. Hermione whimpered again, her head dropping back onto his shoulder. That hand teased its way down to her navel, circling the dimple of flesh. Two fingers quested down through her nether-lips, slotting to either side of her sensitive clitoris. Rubbing both it and the base of his prick, he teased her until she was whimpering with each breath, thrusting subtly until he had to stop, too replete to re-harden so soon.

Withdrawing, he ignored her high-pitched, wordless, frustrated whinge, easing her onto the bed on her side, then onto her back. Ignoring her clutching hands, he slipped down between her wide-parted thighs, licked her juices from his fingers, then gently inserted them into her body. As Russel probed upward, he lowered his head to her mound, and started licking. And pressing. And sucking. And rubbing. And...and she couldn't think anymore; the pleasure mounted right along with the cries of her voice, from quiet, needy whimpering to loud, demanding cries.

It was a slow, steady rise. A tiny corner of Hermione's brain observed dryly that, if this was the way Death Eaters tortured female prisoners into converting, it was a very effective method. She was quite ready to do anything he wanted, sink to any sexual depravity, if he'd only finish the bloody thing! And then, at the highest point of her sexual ache, when she thought she'd go mad, he stopped, scrambling up the length of her body. She floated in a sort of frustrated free-fall for a second or two, then he grabbed her by the knees, threw her calves over his back, and thrust into her.

That set her off. Screaming from the force of her long-delayed release, Hermione clawed at his back, bucking uncontrollably. Her whole body convulsed, nearly dislodging him with the forceful spasms. Stars blinded her vision, and blackness crowded in after them. But her convulsions eased with the draining of all that built-up pressure, until they were shudders, then shivers, then limp-muscled twitches as he finished pumping with another grunt of her name and a trembling slump of his body over hers for a hot sweaty moment. Shifting to the bed at her side, he groaned into her shoulder, one arm and one leg still draped over her curves.

After that, nothing broke the silence in the room but the faint rumbling of the heater unit in the corner of the room, and the huffing of their unsteady breathing. Until her stomach rumbled. Loudly. She hadn't eaten or drunk anything other than water since her lunch yesterday, and it was probably well after breakfast by now. Unfortunately, Hermione couldn't bestir enough energy to turn her head to look at the digital clock, let alone rise and find something in the kitchenette area. Letting her eyelids shut, she drifted off, not caring at that moment if she starved.

An unknown time later, the scent and sounds of something frying deliciously woke her from her lethargic, repleted slumber. Her stomach rumbled again, louder, and her mouth tasted fuzzy, in need of a good scrubbing. But she had enough energy to sit up--albeit with a barely suppressed grunt of effort and a near-groan of sexually strained muscles--and peer over at the kitchenette area. Part of it was obscured by the corner of the bathroom wall, but she could see Russel moving about the kitchen. He flipped what looked like pancakes with a graceful flick of the wrist lifting the pan, used a spatula in another pan to stir what smelled like scrambled eggs with cheese and other things, and went back to what looked like hand-mashing orange halves to extract their juice, twisting his wrist with efficient grace.

And he did so, the gorgeous bastard, while wearing nothing more than that kilt of his. A shirtless, lean, bare-footed, perfectly tanned Russel Fawkeson--or whatever their last name might be--was a sight guaranteed to wake up any red-blooded woman, heterosexual or not. She was most assuredly heterosexual, enthusiastically so after the last twenty-four hours...and her blood definitely ran red in her arteries. In fact, it positively raced, pumped by her fast-beating heart.

She made a noise, a grunting sound, and he spun, seeking her position on the bed with a smile. She'd clutched the sheet to her breasts instinctively, a sheet he must've pulled over her body to protect her modesty while she slept. Either that, or he'd pulled it into place to protect himself from a resurgence of overactive libido between the two of them.

"Good morning," he offered, accompanying it with the sort of smile a man might give a woman the morning after he'd pleased her very well.

Hermione managed a mumbled reply, still not fully awake. Her stomach rumbled again, embarrassing her. He took it as part of her reply, thankfully.

"I've made scrambled eggs, pancakes, hashed potatoes, and opened a tin of fruit-cup. Do you like orange juice?"

"'Love it," she managed to mumble somewhat coherently. Her bladder had woken up at last, and though it wasn't rumbling or anything, its internal complaints were almost as loud as her stomach. Stiff and sore as she was, she needed to use the lavatory. She didn't have anything to wear, however, not without donning yesterday's clothes. Looking around, she spotted her things neatly stacked on a nearby chair. They'd been tossed on the floor, last time she could remember.

Russel followed her gaze. "I spell-washed our clothes. Unfortunately, kidnapping you for three days of wild, mind-altering passion with only a few hours' notice doesn't exactly leave one time to pack properly. But I did Transfigure you a bathrobe, if you like."

Following the direction of his gesture, she found a white dressing robe draped over the bedding and the bench-seat at the foot of the bed. Snagging it, she slipped out of the bed and shrugged into the terrycloth robe. It was short, just reaching the tops of her knees. On his longer frame, it would've hit mid-thigh, and been shorter than that kilt of his. Of course, it would've also covered up his chest...

He distracted her with that chest, padding over to her, muscles flexing subtly. They flexed even more when he slipped one arm around her waist, pulling her snugly against him. The other arm lifted, fingers spearing through her tousled hair to toy with some of her curls. Hermione clutched at his biceps, enjoying the feel of his warm, naked skin under her hands. Smiling lazily, he nuzzled his lips against hers, then claimed them in an open kiss. She returned it with equal enthusiasm, lifting her hands to his hair to keep him from ending the kiss too soon. But it did have to end, and she still had to visit the bathroom. He released her with a last, chaste, close-mouthed kiss and a not-so-chaste squeeze of one buttock, before returning to the kitchenette area.

Feeling rather warm and liquid-y, Hermione snagged her clothing and sequestered herself in the bathroom. The sight of a large, reddish hickey on the side of her neck made her clamp her hand over it protectively, reflexively. Blushing, she spent a little bit of time charming and combing the snarls out of her curls after using the facilities, though she did more combing than charming, mindful of his warning yesterday about not using magic excessively. A bit of artful arranging of her curls, and they mostly covered the mark on her skin. Putting on her clothes, she padded back out in her socks, leaving off her shoes for the time being. Russel, she noted, hadn't donned his shirt. Instead, he was still setting the table in nothing but his kilt. Hermione felt oddly overdressed, seeing him still mostly naked.

Apparently he thought so, too, for after setting the second plate down, he came over to her with a mock-frown and a waggling finger. "You are overdressed, wife. This is our honeymoon breakfast, and informal wear is a must." His fingers began unbuttoning her blouse, brushing away her own hands. "You may retain your underthings...for the time being...but you cannot wear your shirt or pants."

"It's not overly warm in here, Russel," Hermione pointed out pragmatically. It was mid-October, after all.

"You can wear the bathrobe," he conceded, sliding her blouse from her shoulders. He kissed from the side of her throat to partway down her upper arm, tickling her with the soft fall of his hair. Nibbling his way back up again, he did something with her shirt, then started unsnapping the waistband of her jeans. "And since I'm only wearing one article of clothing, you should only be wearing one...so your underthings have to go, too."

He slid his hands around her hips and down over her buttocks as he said this, fingers delving under the waistband of her knickers. His mouth captured hers, quelling any protest she might've made. Not that she felt much like protesting, sliding her hands up the naked length of that naturally bronzed torso. No, this wasn't anything like her affection for Ron. Affection, but not passion. Realizing she needed both in her life lifted some of the burden of guilt from her shoulders, permitting her to wrap his chest-length hair in her fingers, tugging his head back so that she could kiss her way down his throat. Some of the guilt remained; she was beginning to like Russel, and that meant feeling affection for him, but she'd only just met him a short while ago, even counting from the moment she'd received his letter back in June.

As Hermione suckled on his throat, wanting to leave a mark on his tanned skin, she thought about her situation; it wasn't easy, concentrating through the wonderful kneading of those talented hands on her spine, but she was used to multi-tasking. In one of the smutty romance novels she'd been reading this summer, researching lovemaking, she'd read a puzzling line of advice given to the heroine: Some people fall in love and get married; others get married and fall in love.

It had seemed silly to her, at the time. One should fall in love, and then get married. That was the logical progression of things. Wasn't it? But here she was, married but not yet in love. And yet, she felt like she was falling...just like the denim of her jeans to the floor. And the cotton of her knickers...and her bra. She'd moved back to kissing his mouth at some point, or maybe he'd coaxed her; she wasn't really sure. Their embrace was all gliding hands, clutching fingers, nipping mouths and tented wool.

Pulling back from her, he drew his wand from the waistband of his kilt, flicking it silently. The terrycloth robe came winging out of the bathroom, and as he exchanged soft little kisses with her every few seconds, Russel helped her into the dressing gown. A tug of the sash, an adjustment of the lapels, and he had it arranged to his satisfaction, with a deep vee of exposed cleavage, practically to her navel. She moved to tug it together, and he pulled it back. Frowning softly, Hermione started to tug it closed again. Catching her hands, he kissed her knuckles, and urged her to take a seat at the table.

"Eat, wife, before it gets cold."

Actually, it wasn't losing heat; he'd wrapped each plate in a subtle warming charm. Picking up a slice of buttered toast, Hermione eyed it warily. Russel, seating himself at an angle to her, arched a brow in silent enquiry.

"It's...warm."

"Of course it is. Toast is supposed to be warm. That's how you get the butter to melt."

She gave him a bemused look. "You haven't lived in England very long, have you? Toast is supposed to be cold."

"Longer than you'd think," he corrected her. "I told you I was a Slytherin. And toast is supposed to be hot."

"Have you ever actually been to London, Ontario?" Hermione asked, curious. "And it's supposed to be cold."

"Hot, and yes, I have visited Canada in the past. How do you think I got the accent down?"

"I was thinking by your translation pendant. Cold."

"Hot!"

It was an absurd argument, and she knew it was absurd, but Hermione felt like testing the waters of his temperament over something trivial. "Cold!"

"Hot!" A gesture with his fork at her food and Russel argued, "--And if you don't hurry up and eat, the rest of it will be cold, too!"

Smiling, she set the triangle back down on the edge of her plate. "I'll just wait 'til my toast gets cold, and eat the rest while it's hot."

"You do that," he muttered, before taking a bite of his pancakes, pre-slathered in syrup. "Though you're missing out on a real treat."

The eggs, she discovered, were not only fluffy and cooked to perfection, but lightly seasoned with garlic, pepper, and cheese. The pancakes had been soaked with real maple syrup, and the hashed potatoes were also flavoured with garlic. The fruit cup was a fruit cup, but the orange juice was fresh and perfect for thirst-quenching. It was almost orgasmic, not having to drink pumpkin juice for breakfast.

By the time she got to the toast, she discovered it was still warm, thanks to the charm on her plate. Shooting him a suspicious look and seeing him focused on savouring the last of his potato hash, not secretly waiting to gloat, she nibbled on the toast. And discovered the flavour was more intense than usual. Drat him! It did taste good, this way. She started to take a second bite, muttering under her breath, "Damned Yankee..."

"Canuck, Jane. A Yankee's an American."

Swallowing her food, she stuck out her tongue, and took a huge third bite. That made him laugh and salute her with his orange juice. They finished breakfast at roughly the same time, both sitting back with sated sighs. Hermione eyed the dishes with a wince. "I suppose, since you cooked, I have to scrub up?"

His grin was the definition of smugly unrepentant. And damnably sexy, seen over the rim of his glass. "Why do you think I cooked, eh?"

"Can I use magic? Or would that be too much for the defences on this place?"

"Might be better to not risk it. But I'll wipe and put away, if you'll wash and rinse," he offered chivalrously.

"Thank you." She eyed the tableware again, then contemplated her stuffed belly. "...Do I have to move immediately?"

He smiled. "No. But I'll take it as a compliment to the chef."

"It was delicious, yes," she agreed, adding a belated, "Thank you."

"Well, it was either feed your starving belly, or rodger you to death, and since I do like you, I thought it'd be prudent to make sure you lived."

"You had no trouble cooking the Muggle way?" she asked. "You said you were half-blood, if I remember right."

"Yes. My Muggle parent insisted I learn how to do everything the Muggle way, and my magical parent insisted I learn how to do everything the magical way. It was unpleasant at times, being caught in a tug-of-war between the two worlds," Russel muttered, staring across the room at the unopened cabinet hiding the telly. "I chose the Wizarding world as soon as I could. I saw no point in doing things the Muggle way for the longest time--I was a fool, for rejecting my heritage. There's value in the Muggle ways."

Hermione knew that, being fully Muggle-born, but she arched her brow, encouraging him silently to continue.

"Karkaroff--I think you met him at the Triwizard Tournament?" he reminded her. "He managed to hide for quite some time, by turning completely Muggle and not using his magic, beyond the initial amount used to disappear and construct an identity and some funds. They found him, of course, after he was forced to use his magic at one point. But he was Pureblood, and couldn't cope with Muggle life. He just didn't have the tools."

"Viktor--Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker," Hermione added as he gave her an enquiring look, "--once told me that they didn't teach Muggle Studies at Durmstrang past the fifth year level. No Advanced classes in it."

"Yes, I've heard they consider it a poor-taste joke, for an academic subject. Most Purebloods and wizarding-world-raised half-bloods cling stubbornly to the magical world. Which is a good thing, as far as the war is concerned; that means a large portion of the Dark Lord's followers are ignorant of many aspects of Muggle life, and Muggle ingenuity. They reject the Muggle realm as soon as they're adults, and don't keep abreast of new developments.

"If I said 'internet' to one of them, they likely wouldn't know what I meant," Russel stated, flicking his fingers expressively. He really had graceful hands. "But though that's an advantage for our side in some ways, there are some half-bloods who do actually know what the Muggle realm is like, and who can ape its culture sufficiently well enough to blend in and survive for quite some time unnoticed...or who can use their knowledge of the Muggle world to wreak havoc that appears to be Muggle in nature, allowing them to commit atrocities that even the wizarding world would flinch from, upon hearing what happened."

The downward turn of the conversation didn't sit too well with her full belly. Hermione sighed and shook her head. "As fascinating as this is, hearing the war from a more wizarding perspective--"

He snorted and interjected, "--That's a polite way to put it."

"Would you have preferred 'from a more asinine perspective'?" she quipped back. "As I was saying, as fascinating as this is, it's a bit heavy for right after a really good meal."

"What should we discuss, then? Nothing that would take too long, I trust," he warned her lightly. "You shouldn't let the breakfast dishes sit too long with bits of egg upon them; if it dries, it will be a pain in the kilt to scrub clean."

The game from last night had been put away, when he'd tidied the table for breakfast. Her gaze fell on the stacks of boxes and books. The paperback at the very top caught and held her attention. "...Why don't we read something together? You've a lovely voice, you know."

"The Hobbit, then?"

Reaching for the stack of books, she snagged the paperback. "I was thinking this one, rather. Captain of My Heart," she read off the cover, and flipped it over, reciting the words of the back-cover blurb. "Captain Jeremy Raider, scion of a powerful free-merchanter clan, wasn't expecting trouble when he picked up a cargo on Tarseti V..."

"Your own voice is quite pleasant. But you'll only get one chapter out of me," Russel warned her, tugging the book out of her grip. "Then you'll have to do the dishes, since I cooked. And if I remember right, the odd-numbered chapters are from the good captain's point-of-view; the even ones are from...ah, yes, 'the mysterious, alluring Vivian Onidine, secret agent of the deadly Secarius...'" he quoted, reading the blurb even as he rose from his seat. "So it's only fair that you read the even-chapters, if I read the odd, eh?"

"I suppose that's fair," Hermione agreed, accepting the hand he held out to her. Together, they moved to the love-seat, where Russel stretched out one leg on the cushions and pulled her down into his body, turning her so that she could put both of her legs up and lean back against his chest. It wasn't every day that a man was willing to read a romance novel, after all. Sighing, Hermione settled back against her living chair to listen to him begin the science-fiction romance. It was rather enjoyable, actually, as Russel spoke in a soft but compelling voice, holding the book in front of both of them and turning the pages with gliding flicks of his long, tanned fingers...

...

"...Oh God, yessss! " Sweating, panting heavily, Hermione slumped forward as Russel finished shuddering up into her. "Ohhh, yesss... Oh god, Russel...oh god, yessss..."

She was going to have bruises on her hips, but it was worth it. His hands relaxed their grip, then stroked up to her ribs and back, caressing her as he, too, struggled for air. Since her weight was mostly on her elbows and knees, Hermione didn't think she was suffocating him, but she couldn't be sure. Shifting to move off of him, she found him pulling her back down. "No...stay," he murmured. "For a moment more."

Resting her cheek on his collarbone, Hermione obeyed. She didn't want to move, but both of them knew this was the afternoon of day three of her 'kidnapping'. She would have to go back soon. Exhaling, she nuzzled his throat a little. "When exactly do I have to go back?"

A twist of his dark blond head allowed him to peer at the glowing numerals on the alarm clock. "Anytime... In an hour or two. No rush, but no real need to delay, either."

Inhaling to suggest a time closer to evening than mid-afternoon, Hermione caught a whiff of the two of them. Sweat and musk, male and female, the distinctive odors of passion and intercourse coated them. Her mind ticked over the evidence. If I go back smelling--reeking--of sex, Ron's bound to notice. And he'll go ballistic. "Mind if I shower, first?"

"Mind if I play with you in the shower?"

Her cheeks grew hot. "Um...I was hoping to be tactful upon my return, and not smell like I'd...like we'd been...you know. Shagging. To within an inch of our lives."

A sigh heaved out of him, half-mocking in its drama level. "I suppose... But I'll have to mark my territory on you some other way."

That made her bolt upright and clamp her hand over her neck, where he'd left that huge suction-mark from their first time. It had finally faded to a little yellow bruise with a judicious bit of wand-waving. "Not another hickey!"

Chuckling, Russel pulled her back down over him. One of his hands played with her curls as he murmured in her ear. "No, I meant the ring-guardian. Now that you're my wife, I can set its protection spells to specific parameters."

No one should be able to say 'specific parameters' and have it sound so damnably sexy, Hermione thought, distracted by the feel of his softened erection slipping from her depths. Unable to resist, she twisted and pressed her lips to his jaw-line, nibbling along his slightly stubbled skin. He stopped her with a slight tightening of the fingers in her hair, preventing her from reaching his sensitive ear.

"Careful. I'd love to go another round, but I'll need to recover, first. And by then, you really should be headed home."

"They'll be worried over me. Being out of touch for three days, and all," she added, murmuring the words against his throat. The black velvet band of his amulet tickled her lips. "I know it was necessary, but..."

"I'm sorry," he apologized, twisting his head just enough to kiss her temple. "But it's necessary. And I'll have to kidnap you in the future, too, though hopefully for only an evening at a time. We'll have to arrange through the rings when I can come upon you when you're out and about, without it seeming like I can communicate with you."

"It would almost be easier if you could just Apparate into Headquarters, and steal me from there," Hermione muttered.

"I don't ever want to know where the Order's Headquarters are located. I especially don't want to know who your new Secret Keeper is," he asserted. "The less I know, the less can be extracted from me."

She couldn't fault him for that. "It was just a thought..."

"I know." He stroked her hair for a moment, then nudged her. "Time to deal with the dragon."

"Shouldn't we shower and dress, first?" Hermione asked as she shifted to move off of him.

His arms wrapped around her, keeping her in place. "I think it will be more effective if the guardian has tangible proof of our marital status."

She arched a brow skeptically, at that.

"...Alright. I don't want to let go of you, until I absolutely have to," Russel amended. Hermione smiled and dipped down, dropping a kiss on the tip of his nose. Grey eyes blinked and studied her for a moment, then he smiled wryly. "Here goes...

"Sigurd! You are summoned!"

The sharp bellow made Hermione wince twice. Once, for the volume at point-blank range, and twice for the results of the sudden surging of golden sparks out of both of their rings. The glittering cloud coalesced into the dragon, which filled the chamber, crouching over the two of them and their bed. Floorboards creaking, the dragon puffed a reply, making Hermione shiver from the warm, damp, but otherwise scentless wind.

"MASSSSTER."

Hermione unsquinched herself somewhat from her third wince. "--Can you do something about the volume, while we're at it?"

"Sigurd. We are both now your master and mistress," Russel informed the dragon looming over both of them. "You will size yourself appropriately to the danger of a given situation, and speak in tones appropriately to that same situation, and do so for all future situations, when summoned directly or indirectly."

The dragon shrank, placing its paws upon the mattress beside them as it diminished down to the size and shape of a cat, if a cat had molten gold scales instead of fur, bat-like wings, and an extra long neck and tail. "Yesssss, Massster."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak. Russel covered it with his fingertips, his attention mostly on the dragon seating itself much like a cat next to them, tail wrapping around its haunches. Apparently he didn't want her interfering with his parameter-setting. Keeping quiet, she listened as he continued.

"You will continue to defend my wife, but with the following caveats: when a threat comes to her from one of her friends, you will seek first to warn them, and you will not kill them, nor maim them, nor cause permanent harm; if circumstances demand that you must do more than merely defend her from any harm willfully or accidentally instigated by her friends, you will instead seek to Portkey her to a safe location. You will also obey her commands in these circumstances, and her intentions."

"Yessss, Massster."

"If she is attacked by her sworn enemies, those who intend to do her grievous harm, such as maiming, raping, or even killing her--including those among the Death Eaters who are merely following the Dark Lord's will and would not otherwise seek to harm her--you will defend her to the absolute end of your means." Russel paused, eyed her, then added, "And if she so commands, you will secondarily do what you must to protect her friends, following her directives and so forth, so long as they do not conflict with your primary task of defending her life and her sanctity as my wife."

The cat-sized dragon bowed its head. "Yessss, Masssster."

"For all others, those who are merely acquaintances or who are of a mostly neutral stance as strangers or unconcerned citizens, you will focus on defence more than attack, and you will aim more towards warning than harming, and harming more than maiming or death, when and where possible, the same as you will do for her friends. You will also follow her directives and intentions in how to act, as you would when dealing with her friends."

"Yesssss, Massster."

"For the defence of our children, you may be more aggressive in the area of harm in these three categories of friends, neutral acquaintances and enemies, but you will also focus mostly on removing either the child or the threat from the vicinity of the other, again heeding my wife's commands on how to behave. These things you will do, Sigurd, as I have outlined them to you."

"Yesssss, Masssster," Sigurd agreed, again bowing its head.

"And lastly...my wife has a cat. You will get along with this cat, and with any other familiars or pets that may occupy her place of residence, wherever that may be, unless that creature turns hostile towards you, her, myself, or our children. In which case you are to ignore it by preference, warn it secondarily, and chase it off tertiarily. Only if it attacks to maim and kill her, our children, or myself may you attack to hurt, maim or kill, depending upon the severity of the threat-level to your charges."

"Yesssss, Massster."

"Excellent. Sigurd--" Russel paused, a thoughtful look creasing his brow for a moment. "...If my wife is unconscious, paralyzed, or otherwise unable to respond or give you directions, your primary duty is to protect her, as stated...but you may obey directions delivered by her friends at your discretion, provided they do not conflict with your primary concern of ensuring her safety. And for the purpose of defining 'friends', that is to include the members of her immediate family as well as her close friends, and the members of the Order of the Phoenix as well."

"Yesssss, Masssster."

"Sigurd, you are dismissed," he finished.

A bow of that scaly neck, and the dragon vanished in a glittering stream of gold.

Hermione moved Russel's fingers from her mouth. Kissing the tip of his longish nose, she smiled down at him. "That was a nice thing you did, adding my friends and all into the rest."

He shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable at the praise. "They're our allies, and I know they don't mean you harm. Why shouldn't they be included?"

Hermione studied the man under her. She didn't know who he was, but she was beginning to understand what he was. Again, she dipped her head and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. "Thank you, Cupid."

The warmth that seeped into his grey eyes at the use of the nickname mesmerized her. His hand slide from her ribs to her hair, brushing it back from her face. "You're welcome, Psyche...but we do need to shower, now. And I should take you back to your parents' home. You've been gone long enough."

She did and yet didn't want to leave. Sighing, Hermione slipped off of him, and sat on the edge of the bed. A mirthless laugh escaped her, short and soft. "Well, you've succeeded in seducing me. That should make your master happy."

"He's not my master." Rising, Russel held out his hand to her. "Up. We'll shower, and dress, and I'll take you back to where I found you, to make sure it's safe for you there. You'll be able to Apparate from there safely back to Headquarters, right?"

Accepting his hand, Hermione nodded as he pulled her upright. "I'll be surprised if Harry isn't waiting for me. At least he'll have had plenty of time to get to know my...our parents."

"As soon as word of that gets back to the Dark Lord, they'll be in danger," he reminded her, still holding her hand as they padded into the bathroom together. At a pointed look from her, Russel amended, "Even greater danger."

"I know. And Harry knows. And Mum and Dad know...more or less," Hermione returned, twisting the tap to start the shower. "We'll just have to be extra-vigilant, that's all."

...

With a compressive bang, they reappeared in the Grangers' parlour. Hermione, opening her eyes, watched in surprise as several figures in the room bolted up out of their seats. One had dark, tousled hair, one had vivid red hair, one had lurid blue hair, and one had sandy blond hair touched with grey. Harry, Ron, Tonks and Remus? Behind her, she felt Russel jerk, then tense, but didn't hear him vanish, even though he released her.

Harry approached, wand lifted but not quite aimed at the wizard behind his blood-bound sister. "The house has been warded; you can Apparate in, but not out, at the moment. We wanted to have a few words with you, 'Rorik', and why you kidnapped her like that."

"It's Russel, not 'Rorik'," Russel corrected calmly, not touching Hermione but not moving out from behind her, either.

"You did it, didn't you?" Ron added, his blue eyes anguished as he started at Hermione and Russel both. "You completed it. The two of you!"

Noise behind them made Hermione glance over her shoulder. Russel's shoulder half obscured the view, but she could see her parents in the archway leading to the hall. Daphne and Jeffrey eyed her and her kilted companion with relief and worry.

"Hermione! Where have you been? And who is this man?" her mother demanded. "Harry's been refusing to tell us what's been going on, until your return."

"I'll tell you what's happened," Ron stated bluntly. "Mr. and Mrs. Granger, meet Rorik Ferguson. Your son-in-law."

Jeffrey Granger's eyes widened. "Our...what?"

"It's been seventy-two hours," Ron continued, holding Russel's gaze over Hermione's head. "Before seventy-two hours have passed from the point of...completion, most betrothal ring marriages can be annulled, under the right conditions. Which is why you waited full three days to return her, isn't it?"

"Wrong," Russel stated calmly, as Hermione tensed with apprehension--there was a way to have ended their betrothal? He continued, pushing her towards Ron. "It's only been seventy hours, not seventy-two...and our marriage cannot be broken by annulment."

"You stole her seventy-two hours and thirteen minutes ago!" Ron growled, fists tightening at his sides.

"Ron--" Hermione tried to interject, and felt Russel touching her shoulder.

"It's alright, Jane. Perhaps he doesn't realize how indecorous this subject is, when discussed in front of your family. And I don't need to Apparate to leave."

Hermione glanced back at him again, just in time to see him nodding courteously to her parents.

"Mr. and Mrs. Granger. I regret not having the luxury of time, else I would stay and converse with you." A glance at Hermione and he continued, facing her parents. "Rest assured, I leave her well-protected."

His hand glided down her spine from her shoulder down to the waistband of her jeans and the top of the book tucked into her back pocket, leaving a trail of goose-spots in its wake through the cotton of her blouse. His other hand opened the flap on his sporran, reached inside...and he vanished, with that streaking blur that Hermione associated with Portkey travel, as opposed to the squeezing pop of Apparation.

"Hermione, what is going on?" Daphne Granger demanded.

"What did he mean by 'son-in-law'?" Jeffrey added, staring at his daughter.

"An' where did he go?" Tonks added.

Hermione rubbed at her forehead for a moment. Russel might've left her in Sigurd's protection, but that would only be useful if someone tried to snog her. It did nothing to help save her from all the questions that lay ahead. She wanted to ignore the matter, to beg that everyone just leave her alone...but she was an adult now, and had to play by adult rules. Which meant pulling on the gardening gloves and shoveling the fertilizer that had been dumped at her feet. "If we could all sit down, and be quiet, I will explain. I will explain," she added as Ron drew a breath to speak. "In my own words, in my own way. Got that, Ron?"

His mouth compressed, but he nodded stiffly. Since there weren't any spare seats with her parents, Ron, Harry, Remus and Tonks in the room, Hermione Summoned a padded chair from the dining table in the next room, and placed it between her parents on the loveseat and Harry, Tonks and Remus on the sofa. Ron sat in the easy chair across from her, the length of the coffee table providing enough distance between them that she didn't feel overwhelmed by his upset emotions.

When everyone had settled and she'd cleared her mind with two deep breaths, she began. "The ring you see on my finger, Mum, Dad, is a magical betrothal ring. There's all kinds, in the wizarding world, though they're relics from long before the Suffragette movement, and so they're thankfully out of fashion these days. They're, um...they're designed to protect the chastity of a betrothed," she continued, clearing her throat a little at having to admit that much. "Most of them provide some sort of protection for the witch who dons them. And this weekend... I was kidnapped and threatened with violence of an indelicate sort. So I donned the ring before it could happen, and the ring protected me.

"But it caused problems," Hermione continued. She paused, trying to find a way to explain, then shrugged. "It conjures a dragon that protects me. But while I was merely engaged to the owner of the ring--that's Russel--I couldn't control the dragon. It nearly attacked Ron, and some others. Russel realized I'd donned the ring, knew that the guardian-dragon would threaten and possibly even harm my otherwise well-meaning friends, and so he came to get me and deal with the problem."

Ron snorted; Hermione sent him a quelling look before continuing.

"There's a bit more to it than that, but it's better if you don't know all the details. Suffice to say, the only way to control the dragon was to...to go through with the purpose of the ring. To...complete...the magical marriage." She didn't know if she was blushing; the topic was difficult enough without adding visible embarrassment to the equation. "It's indissoluble. And I'd really appreciate it if all of you left off arguing on the matter."

"Violence...of an 'indelicate' sort?" her father asked faintly. "Just how 'indelicate'?"

"Enough to prefer a forced marriage to one over a rape by many," Ron stated bluntly. That made Hermione's face burn, as her mother's hands flew up to cover her mouth. She drew a swift breath to castigate him, but he held up his hand, stopping his friend. "--I've had time to come to terms with it. And I'm sorry I've been such an arse over the matter. It's just...I wanted to be the one to give you that sort of ring. And if the marriage cannot be annulled...I'm hurt," he admitted, "and I don't deny that, but you didn't hurt me; these damned circumstances did. And I'll try not to hate him for it, or blame you for it. I'm just...I'm not happy.

"I'm not happy at all," the freckled wizard finished, slouching a little in his chair.

What does he expect me to say to him? Hermione wondered. That I'm not happy, either? I'm not exactly upset with my situation, is the problem. Does he expect me to wish it was him in that hotel room with me? Not after having tasted passion in Russel's arms. Does he think I'd annul the marriage in the, what, hour-plus we have left?

I could not do that to Russel, she decided, even if it were possible. I won't leave him in a bad position in the enemy camp.

"So, where did he go?" Tonks asked Hermione.

"Where do you think?" she returned sharply. Tonks was a member of the Order; she'd heard about Russel's position as a spy. Hermione just didn't want to drag her parents into that part of this mess. "Look, there's nothing that can be done. I made my decision on how to save myself, I took a risk in doing so, and this is how it turned out: I'm married. End of subject--I'm sorry if it doesn't play to anyone's expectations."

Rising from her chair, she turned around and hooked her arm through the unpadded back, taking it with her physically back into the dining room. Her mother followed her, as the others murmured amongst themselves. "Hermione, dear... I'm still trying to wrap my head around what happened. You were attacked, you put on this ring...and somehow that made you married?"

"More or less."

"Is that how wizarding weddings work?" Daphne asked her daughter, following her into the kitchen. Hermione wanted to get away, but her mother wasn't letting her retreat. Turning, she faced the older woman with a sigh.

"That's how they used to work. These sorts of rings are very old-fashioned," Hermione corrected. "With Bill and Fleur's wedding--that's Ron's oldest brother and his wife--it was just a normal Anglican ceremony. About the only thing magical in their rings were the way how they automatically sized themselves to their owner's fingers." She looked at her hand. "Then again, a model like this was bound to have been very expensive to make. It's not the sort of thing the average witch or wizard could afford, nowadays."

"Well, at least it's an heirloom, and not some cheap piece of plastic-gilt," her mother tried to joke. "Erm...what's this about a dragon? I've never seen a real dragon. It's not going to appear and try to burn down our house, or something, is it?"

"Sigurd, you are summoned," Hermione stated in lieu of a response. Gold sparkled out of the ring gracing her hand, gold that coiled itself around her folded arms and swirled up onto her shoulder. It solidified with actual weight a moment later, forming the long-necked, long-tailed, cat-bodied creature from before. Sigurd's head rested on her shoulder, his body sloping down the length of her arm, and his tail wrapped around her other arm, providing him with a secure perch.

"Oh! How adorable! But, that cannot possibly be a guardian-creature," her mother pointed out. "He's far too small for that."

"Sigurd, without actually harming anything, assume the size necessary to deal appropriately with a threat to my person," Hermione instructed the creature. He glittered, ghosted over her shoulder, and filled most of the kitchen with his wings and his tail, and the hunching bulk of his body, the upper half perched on the butcher's block in the center of the kitchen. It was sort of like having a polished brass gargoyle in one's kitchen, save that this gargoyle blinked calmly at the two females. And that it out-massed them by at least four times their combined bodyweight.

Daphne Granger's eyes widened. "Oh, my..."

Hermione heard someone approaching and murmured, "Sigurd, restore."

Gilded light flowed over her shoulder, the gargoyle-dragon re-solidifying into the monkey-like clinging of a much smaller dragonette. Harry entered the kitchen, Ron at his heels. Daphne eyed the flushed face of the taller, freckled wizard, and cleared her throat. "Well, let me know if it needs to eat anything..."

Harry shifted forward. Cautiously, he lifted his hand to the dragonette. Sigurd sniffed, then thrust his head under Harry's fingers, seeking a scritching, almost exactly like Crookshanks would've done. That reminded Hermione of her pet. "How's Crooks? Is he alright?"

"He got into a snarl with another of Mrs. Figg's cats," Harry offered. "I tested one of those Healing Charms we studied on him, and he's good as new. The other cat's got a torn ear, but at least it's healed."

"Hermione..." Ron started, then trailed off, apparently unsure what to say. She gave him a neutral look, not hostile, but not exactly warm, either. He looked increasingly miserable as the silence stretched between them, until the youngest male Weasley finally blurted, "--I hope you'll be...happy."

The platitude certainly didn't make Ron look happy. Harry stepped into the awkward silence, daring to ask what no one else had asked, yet. His enquiry was quietly voiced, at least, barely reaching her own ears. "Hermione, he didn't...force you, did he?"

"No, he didn't."

"You mean you actually liked it?" Ron hissed, distress creasing his face. "But, you didn't like it when--"

"That's enough, Ron," Hermione warned him.

"But--"

"Don't even go there," she ordered. "That's none of your business."

"As your boyfriend--" he spat in an undertone, "I think it is!"

Hermione knew what he meant, even though he wasn't her boyfriend anymore. Rather than getting angry, she gave him a sad look; had their roles been reversed, Hermione knew she would be feeling just as frustrated and shut-out as he was. But the adult thing, the mature thing to do, was to deal with the situation as it was, not how one wanted it to be.

"Not any more, it isn't. All we can be now is friends, Ron...and as close of friends as you and I are, I'm not going to discuss those sorts of things with you. With either of you," she added, glancing at Harry, who had stopped scratching Sigurd's head. "Just...I wasn't forced, I wasn't hurt, I wasn't enchanted or drugged or Imperio'd. That's all you need to know. Now, can we please change the topic?"

Ron's mouth tightened for a moment, then he complied. "The Order's in an uproar over your kidnapping. They don't know whether to trust the fellow. I can't say as I'm inclined, either. He could've warned us."

"He didn't know if he'd be stealing me away in public," Hermione returned. She and Russel had discussed some of this during their three days together. "The object was to make Rorik Ferguson seem like a dashing fellow, swooping in and hauling me off like some romance-novel hero to, er, seduce me into thinking that being his wife was a great idea, and thus blind me to who he really is and what he's really up to," she explained, conscious of the half-read paperback tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. "It's a double-blind maneuver. Something to throw our side off, and something to throw their side off."

"'Cause he can't afford to let anyone know he's really on our side," Harry agreed. "But, how do we know he's not going to pull a Snape?"

"You mean, aside from the way he told me through the truth-enforcement of the ring that he wants to destroy the Dark Lord?" Hermione responded pointedly.

"There are spells to get around that aspect," Ron told her. "Harry and I researched them, waiting for you to return."

Hermione hadn't known that. Doubt crept in at his words, but the deed was done: she was Mrs. Russel Whoever, now. "If you can't take the word of the ring as the truth of his intentions, then we don't know. Either I'm married to a man who honestly wants Voldiebutt dead, or I'm married to a man who is going to betray us all. I hope you don't mind if I prefer to cling to the more optimistic version of his character, since there's no way to annul this marriage."

"So he says," Ron stated. "Look--there's a way to get it annulled, if it's that sort of ring. All you have to do is say the Unbinding Spell in front of the man you love and who loves you, and repudiate your so-called husband with all your heart."

Sigurd tensed in her arms. He didn't hiss, but he did show enough sentiency to crane his head up towards hers. Hermione held Ron's gaze steadily, knowing he expected himself to be that man, to have her love, and answered from her heart. "I'm not going to do that, Ron. I choose, of my own free will, to believe in Russel. I will have faith in him, and I will do nothing to jeopardize his position."

"He's a double agent!" Ron protested. "Just like Snape!"

"He's saved lives," Hermione countered. "They may just be pawns on a chessboard in this war, Ron, less important than the lives of Order members and such who are the rooks and the knights, but they're still lives. People who would be dead, or under the Imperius Curse, if he hadn't acted to save them. Or do Colin and Dennis mean nothing to you?"

He lowered his gaze, flushing.

"I don't think they mean nothing to you, Ron," Hermione pointed out before he could protest defensively. "But you've got to let go of me, romantically. This war is demanding sacrifices of all of us, and frankly, this is the least little thing you've had to give up. You've lost a brother, in Percy's defection to the enslavement of politics. You nearly lost another one, in Bill. Your family home has been threatened, your father's life was threatened two Christmases ago, all three of us have been threatened time and again ourselves... You're losing a briefly-held girlfriend, yes. But you're not losing your best friend. There's nothing that Russel could do or say that would turn me against you. Only you could do that, by your own words and actions."

Ron exhaled heavily, lifting and running his hands through his carrot-red hair. Hermione fell silent, and Harry stayed silent, giving their lanky, freckled friend the time to think. His shoulders slowly slumped. Finally, he shifted forward and cautiously lifted his hand to the dragonette in her arms. Sigurd extended his neck, sniffed, and huffed, but didn't bite, and didn't retreat. Daringly, Ron stroked the scaly top of his head, scratching behind the horns and the ear-fans.

When Sigurd permitted it, Hermione knew Ron had accepted her fate. Uncoiling one limb from the golden guardian-serpent, she shifted forward herself, pulling him into a brief, one-armed hug. "I've been your friend, Ron, a lot longer than I've been a wife. And I hope to continue to be your friend for a lot longer."

A mirthless laugh left him. "Yeah. I could always get lucky. The prat could end up dead, by the end of the war."

Sigurd hissed, but it was Hermione who attacked, whapping him on the back of his head with her hand. "You're the prat, Ron, for that comment. I'm not going to wish anyone dead just because I'm married to him."

"Yeah, but what if you were married to Moldiedork?" Ron shot back, lifting his head to look at her.

"In that case, I'd be wishing him dead because he was Voldiemutt, not just because he was my husband--and let's not joke about that possibility," Hermione added with a shiver, releasing her friend. "That's too horrifying to even contemplate."