Chapter 24

XXIV.

Hermione returned to the hotel room just long enough to drop off her two wrapped gifts, and change her appearance. A bit of wand-work, and her features were obscured behind a scarf-like veil; a bit more, and a coin was enchanted with the name of her ingredient. Hagrid had told them that all sorts came and went at the Hog's Head, and a good portion of them went veiled or hooded, choosing to not show their faces. It was a lot more run-down and cramped than the Three Broomsticks, the glasses were of dubious cleanliness, the drinks of dubious quality, and she had no intention of actually consuming anything while she was there.

In her fifth year, Hermione had made the mistake of thinking that a meeting held in here would be private. That was when they'd put together the Defence Arts club, or Dumbledore's Army, as they'd taken to calling it. A clandestine meeting in the noisy, boisterous Three Broomsticks would've passed by with far less notice; here, they'd been noticed by a couple different factions.

It was a lesson in hiding things in plain sight. So, when she Apparated back to Hogsmeade and entered the Hog's Head, Hermione didn't try to skulk. She just entered, made her way through the tables without hurry or delay, and took one of the seats along the pub's bar. Away from the other patrons by about four stools, but then more of the clientele were seated at the tables at this hour than were currently at the bar.

Unfortunately, the bartender was a younger wizard. Not quite young enough to have been in school at the same time as her, but young enough to not be the aged wizard she was seeking. He drifted her way after a few moments and grunted, "What'll ye have?"

"Old Abe."

"He's in th' back. What'll ye have?"

"I'd rather wait."

He studied her through her veil. "Why?"

Hermione adopted what she hoped was a suitably Slytherin air of pointed disdain--something she'd seen Pansy Parkinson do a time or two--and looked at him from under her brows. "Because he makes a better mixed drink than you. Go about your business."

A grunt, a sneer, and the wizard moved away. Hermione waited, pleased with how she'd pulled that off, but affecting a disdainful look, just in case anyone was watching her. The conversations were muffled, the place reeked of stale beer and barnyard straw, and she was afraid that the black lumpy things in that nearby complimentary-peanut bowl were cockroach clusters. Without the chocolate and caramel.

"What'll you have, missy?"

Hermione looked up at the elderly wizard. He was balding but long- bearded, and what there were of his teeth would've given her parents fits of both disgust and avarice. The beard was tied in several spots down to his waist with bits of thong, and his stained, brown robes were hitched around the paunch of his waist with a bit of rope, making him look like an ascetic monk. Ignoring the way her heart had leapt into her throat, Hermione lifted the hand that had been clenching her Transfigured Sickle, and set it on the counter, pushing it towards him with a finger. "I'll have a Sloe Screw Up Against The Potions Bench."

He took the coin after she removed her hand, eyeing the writing. His brow furrowed for a moment, his bushy white brows bunching together briefly in a single line, then Old Abe grunted. "How much?"

"A gallon. Within two months."

He snorted and set the coin on the counter, pushing it back at her. "Get on wi' ye. Two months won't cut it, an' you're too young t' have that much coin."

Hermione pushed back the coin, hoping her finger wasn't trembling visibly. "I said, I want a gallon's worth of an S L O E Screw Up Against The Potions Bench," she recited quietly but firmly, "delivered within two months."

Those brows drew together into a single, caterpillar-like line again, and he didn't pick up the coin, but he didn't reject it again. "Two and a half, maybe. Three Galleons apiece."

"One."

"Three."

"One."

Old Abe studied her a moment, then huffed a breath of air that could've been a laugh, and took the coin. "Stubborn fool. One, at two and a half months. Two, at two months. Take yer pick."

"One, at two and a half months." She didn't have to decide.

"...With one caveat," Old Abe stated, settling down onto his elbows as he leaned towards her. Something in his hard blue eyes softened, making them look a little concerned, almost soft, though the rest of him was still hard and coarse-looking. "I haven't been able to overhear anything on how he's doing, and I can't even get up into that damned castle that's disappeared. You get word to me on how he's doing. I don't care how you manage it, but I need to know how he's doing, if he looks alright, if he needs anything..." A hand waived away any questions between them. "I know, I know, he's in that damned painting, and there's nothing that I can do to change it, an' little chance in hell of you getting to see it in person, but I want 'im to be as comfortable as possible. Hell, I'd pay to have a cozy room painted for 'im. Maybe some books or something..."

Hermione had no idea who or what he was talking about. She would have to ask Severus. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good. I'll leave a note in your room when the gallon is made. Now, how's that young missus of yours?"

He must think I'm Severus in Polyjuiced disguise... "Fair enough."

"Things getting better, I hope?"

"We're working through our differences."

"Marriage is always rocky, in the beginning. Yours more than most. Still, she's pretty bright, from what I hear. Got a tender heart, too. Don't trample it, my boy," the bartender muttered under his breath. "When she finds out what happened, you'll want 'er on your side, that's for damned sure."

Hermione managed a curt nod before sliding off the stool. Something was going on here with Old Abe and Severus that she didn't know about. Wending her way back through the tables, she left the Hog's Head with a lot of questions running through her mind.

...

It was with trepidation that Hermione settled onto her seat behind the half-walled lectern and recited the day's steps. Twice, to be sure they both knew what to do. When she was done, she looked up at her husband.

"...This is the stage where I kept getting stumped," she told the dark blond wizard donning protective garments by the door. "After putting in the pulped horsetail ferns and stirring thirteen times clockwise, the cauldron always melted on me, and I don't know why."

Russel--she had to think of him as Russel, in that outfit--arched his brow at her. For a long moment he said nothing, then shook his head. "You really don't have a knack for potions-making, do you?"

"I was the best student in your classes!" Hermione protested, stung by the rejoinder. "I always made a perfectly acceptable potion!"

"Yes, and you can follow a recipe pedantically, but you cannot see the obvious, can you?" he retorted. "Ancient potions instructions weren't always written down step for bloody step, Jane. What do aspaecium root and dragon's bile do, when they're combined together and left to simmer overnight?"

"They form a gelatinous pyrotic, not too terribly unlike Muggle Sterno," Hermione recited, "except that it's self-igniting if it is exposed to iron. But this stuff isn't gelatinous, and it didn't ignite!"

"Only because of the addition of veela's tears," he reminded her, "which suspends the pyrotic compound. Until you add a silicate. The horsetail fern, also known as scouring rush, contains silicone in its cuticle, which is in the pulp! Once the silicate is added, it turns ferrosly pyrotic, albeit in a somewhat milder manner, and that's when your cauldron has a melt-down at the interface zone, where the potion rubs up against the iron."

"So how do we get around that?" Hermione asked him.

"Liquilevis. It's a spell you would've learnt in your seventh year, in Potions class. It has to be cast upon a container, as it uses the shape of the container itself to lift the liquid and cushion it by half an inch. And you have to be precise in stirring the potion contained within its magic," he lectured her, "because if you dip anything into the levitation zone, it collapses the spell. It is a pain in the arse to use because of that, but it is the only spell that does not interact magically with potions ingredients."

"Oh." Hermione felt a little better over her earlier failures, at hearing that. And terrible that she hadn't been studying her seventh year Potions text as assiduously as she had her Charms book.

"Yes," he agreed mockingly. "'Oh.' Of course, we shall take extra precautions with all future steps, in case there are other traps for the unwary... Recite the list again," Russel ordered her.

Dutifully, Hermione read the instructions. She wanted to ask him about Old Abe, but now was not the moment. She held her breath when they got to the pulped fern stage, but a tap of his wand against the cauldron caused the potion to lift and stay stable for the next hour, as Severus stirred carefully in the prescribed patterns, adding pinches of dried Troll Toe mushrooms at carefully measured intervals. Only when the liquid frothed and turned purple in hue did they both relax somewhat.

The next stage was to chill the ingredients with a cooling charm, and scrape off the foam once it had solidified. That would give them an hour or so in which to wait. Hermione marked their place in the Diary and closed it as he cast the necessary spell, and inverted an hourglass to give them an idea of how long before they could check on the cauldron's contents.

"Russel...when I talked to Old Abe, today," Hermione stated carefully, watching him strip off the uncomfortable, stiff weight of his dragonhide gear, "he said something very odd. Something he said was a part of the bargain--a gallon's worth of bezoars at a Galleon a stone, within two and a half months," she added. "I decided to fudge a bit on the time required, since it would've cost double for them to be delivered in two months."

"We do have the time for it. What did he say?"

"Something about needing to know how someone was fairing. Someone who was in a painting here at the school. But he didn't give a name, just rambled about painting a room, or maybe some books."

He stilled for a moment, then finished hanging up the dragonhide coat. "I'll handle it."

"Who was he talking about?"

"No one you need concern yourself with."

"If it concerns this school, it concerns me," Hermione countered. "Professor McGonagall told us that the price for using these facilities is keeping her abreast of what's going on, as much as we can tell her."

"This is something I cannot discuss. Not will-not, cannot." At her skeptical look, he touched his thumb to his ring. "Hermione Jane Snape, I swear to you that Old Abe's concern with one of the portraits in this school is not harmful to Hogwarts or its inhabitants... Will that satisfy you?"

Eyeing her hand, Hermione found the words written verbatim on the band. Sighing, she nodded. Then muttered, "If only there weren't so many bloody secrets to be kept, in this war..."

"That's what you get for being a straightforward Gryffindor. Slytherins always expect intrigues," he teased her with a dead-pan expression, then flashed a very Russel-esque grin at her. "So, what did you get me for Christmas?"

"You'll have to wait a couple more days, just like everyone else," Hermione retorted. When he was being a Master of Potions, she could see him as just a funny-coloured Severus Snape. But when he did things like that, it threw her, reminding her of who he had pretended to be. Pretended being the key word. There was a lot of 'pretending' ahead of them, in the next few days. "Russel..."

"Yes, Jane?"

"While we're at the Burrow...erm...how affectionate are we going to be? In front of the others," she clarified, risking a glance at him.

That lifted his brows a little. "...Is the Diary closed?"

"Yes." Hermione wasn't thrown off by the question. As she suspected, he moved close. In fact, he stepped behind the curving half-wall of the lectern and swooped her halfway into his arms, dipping her back on her stool in a dramatic kiss-me pose. That part was unexpected, eliciting a yelp of surprise from her, barely remembering which name to use. "--Russel!"

"Shall I pledge you the sun, the moon, the starlit sky, before the others as my witness?" he murmured, grey eyes gleaming with amusement before he pecked her face rapidly with several kisses. Pulling back, he intoned dramatically, "Shall I swear my undying devotion, your most humble servant, fit only to suckle your delectable toes?" His expression shifted from mock-adoring to mock-leering. "Shall I ravish you on the Weasley's floor, amidst the wrapping paper and tinsel? Unwrapping you like the glorious present you are?"

She couldn't help the laugh that escaped. "You wouldn't dare! "

His eyes glittered at the challenge. "...Oh, wouldn't I?"

"Not in front of Molly Weasley, you won't!" Hermione retorted, gambling that her threat would stop his outrageousness. Not that it wasn't fun...

He righted her abruptly. "...Thank you for cooling my ardor. If Marvolo were at least a decade younger than her, instead of older, I'd sic her on him, and have done with this whole Death Eater nonsense." For a moment, his eyes darkened, staring across the room at nothing. "If only it were that easy."

Not wanting to deal with a melancholic husband, Hermione touched his cheek, turning it so that he faced her again. "We're doing what we can, and that's all we can do." A glance at the hourglass, and she arched her brow at him. "Now, that overblown romance was absurd, and they'd see right through it for the, well...the playfulness that it is--don't scowl at me, Severus," Hermione stated firmly, using his real name despite his disguise to make sure she had his attention. "You, Severus Snape, have as much right to be playful and silly and happy as anyone else. I'm just thinking...no actual, all-the-way ravishments in front of anyone, and we should probably be somewhat discreet around Ron."

A scoffing sound escaped him. "Shall I spare your beloved's tender feelings, is that it?"

Hermione frowned at him, bringing up her other hand to hold his head still. "Quit it. I love Ron, but not in that way. No matter how much either of us would have wished it otherwise, when all of this began." Pinning his face between her palms, she held his gaze. "You taught me something about myself. That I will refuse to settle for tepid passion in a relationship, and that is all it was between Ron and me. Lukewarm, in comparison. I don't love him as a brother, as I do Harry, but I do love him as a friend. I've learnt I can't love him as anything more than that...but that doesn't mean I have to rub his nose in the fact."

She could feel the tension in his body, see the cloaking of his thoughts in his eyes. "And what are we, in your opinion? You say we have passion. Would you call us lovers? Or just fuck-mates?"

The dry scorn seasoning his tone made her tense, too. Hermione shook her head. "What we have is passion, yes, but I'm hoping we can also increase our friendship. I was friends with Russel. I see no reason why I cannot be friends with you. Passion fades, with time. Friendship endures. Your friendship is valuable to me."

He broke free of her hands, spinning away and raking his fingers through his hair. "...Oh, yes, I'm valuable to you. I'm the spy that only you and a bloody painting trust."

"Oh, sod off!" Hermione snapped, startling him into looking over his shoulder at her. "I admired you from day one, you snarky git! Here was an utterly intelligent, highly educated man who was passionate about learning--I just about wet my pants with excitement, when you gave that opening speech on my very first day in your class! That little speech encapsulated everything I felt about learning magic and the wizarding life in general, and everything I still feel.

"Yes, you were a bastard and a biased, greasy git who wouldn't acknowledge the meaning of 'fair' even if it was tattooed onto your hide, but I still wanted to be your friend. If I could put up with Ron and Harry being thickies for most of our school career because their good qualities compensated for their bad, I could certainly put up with your piss-poor manners, just for the privilege of knowing that ruddy mind! The fact that you have many other good qualities certainly helps to compensate for your worst traits, too! You don't take only the good parts in a relationship, Severus," she emphasized, holding his bemused gaze. "You take all of it, and lump it or like it. If I ever want to lump any of it, believe me, I'll let you know."

He closed the distance between them, lifting a finger to her cheek, caressing it lightly. "Your face is flushed with emotion...and your eyes look like polished amber... I should get into an argument with you more often."

Opening her mouth to argue the matter--contradictory as that might be--Hermione found herself being kissed before she could do more than breathe. Breathing, of course, was highly overrated when his tongue tangled with hers. If she'd known back in class that he could do far more pleasant things with that appendage than just flay the skin from his students' egos, she wouldn't have been able to concentrate nearly as well as she had. As it was, the pungent-pleasant aromas of the ingredients over on their prep tables mingled with his own musky scent, adding a new dimension to their kissing.

Now Hermione had an illicit fantasy of the man currently teasing her upper lip with little flicks of his tongue, a fantasy of him in his foreboding black robes, her in her school clothes...

Hands on her shoulders pushed her back, though lips lingered in reluctance to end the intimacies between them. Breathing unsteadily, he looked down at her with wide pupils. Clearing his throat, he stepped back, releasing her. "We need to keep our attention on the potion. No mistakes can be made at any stage, and no delays. Passion doesn't lend itself well to keeping an eye on the time."

"We need a safer distraction," Hermione agreed, heart racing faster than her mind. Casting her thoughts about, she finally concentrated with a soft frown. A greenish-covered book appeared on top of the Diary, a bookmark nestled between its pages. Another firm thought, and a love-seat appeared to one side, just wide enough for the two of them to curl up together. "...I believe it was your turn to read the next section of The Hobbit? "

...

Crookshanks' ears were flat when Hermione Apparated into the hotel room, an overnight bag slung over her shoulder and her Familiar in her arms. She was ten minutes late, because of him. He'd been very cranky about being shoved into his cage for transport, and Hermione had just given up after he'd managed to paw the latch free for the third time. Apparation didn't appeal to him, either, but not nearly as much as his cage, today.

She felt the same way about being squeezed like that, but knew that, even had she liked flying on a broom, her cat would not have stood for it. Not with claws still firmly sprouting from all four paws. But Apparation really was the easiest way to transport him, and he was mostly quiescent in her arms. Looking around, she found Severus in his Russel disguise, seated at the kitchenette table, working on a jigsaw puzzle. The bed was rumpled, suggesting he'd come here to sleep after they'd set the potion to simmer for the next five days and parted company around six o'clock that morning. Not that she blamed him; this was far more relaxing an atmosphere than Riddle Manor had to be.

"Erm...are you ready to go?" she asked him as he rubbed at his forehead, glancing her way.

"More or less." His tone was flat, unsociable.

"Is something wrong?" she asked him cautiously.

"Merlin's arse, woman! I'll live, now leave me be!" he snapped, sounding far more like Snape than Russel. At her chiding look, he grunted and rubbed his forehead again. "...I have a headache, and am consequently not in a holiday mood. I'll try to get into one."

Recalling how many holidays at the school she'd seen him sneer and grouse and glare unhappily, Hermione could believe it. She wished for a moment that she'd brought a bottle of painkillers...and then recalled something Poppy Pomfrey had said. I've gotten rather ahead of my stock, now that...well, now that Professor Snape is no longer among us. He used to get dreadful headaches every few weeks, almost like clockwork...

Setting Crookshanks down, she dropped her bag to the floor. "--I'll be right back."

"We're already late!" he protested.

"I know, this won't take a moment," Hermione promised, and concentrated, Disapparating back to Headquarters. Grabbing Floo powder from the pot, she swirled into Madame Pince's office, then from there to the Infirmary. From the exclamation that greeted her, she'd started Poppy. Blinking against the dizziness, Hermione patted the soot from her clothes and smiled at the mediwitch. "--Sorry for the intrusion, Poppy! Erm...do you have any more of those headache possets? The cinnamon-flavoured ones?"

"Why...yes, I do," Poppy admitted, rising from her desk. "Having headaches, still?"

Hermione didn't want to lie, but she couldn't tell the truth, either. "Well, sort of... Boxing Day is with my Muggle relatives, and they give me a real tension migraine, since I can't tell them about the wizarding world. I want to be prepared ahead of time, you know? Two bottles, if you please," she added. "One for my husband, too. He's never had to deal with the Grangers en force, before."

"I think I've got two..." Disappearing into her storeroom, Madam Pomfrey came back within half a minute, two small vials of thick, ruby potion in her hand. "How is the subscription going?"

"The what?" Hermione returned, mystified.

Poppy circled the air with her other hand as she handed over the vials. "You know, the issues with your husband?"

"Oh! Right. Well...we've actually worked out a number of our differences," she found herself admitting, feeling some relief that she could admit that much.

"--And the contraceptive thing?" Poppy asked her as Hermione turned back to the hearth to leave.

"Oh, um...it was, um...well, it was part of a potion experiment, but the potion was ruined by something, and erm...well... I'll be back for a check-up after the hols--Merry Christmas!" Hermione managed brightly, face burning in what she was certain was a lovely holiday red.

Two rapid Floo trips and a Disapparation later, she reappeared in the hotel room. Her husband wasn't at the table anymore. He was sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed, a dismayed expression wrinkling his tanned face, one hand gingerly petting the furball writhing in feline ecstasy on his kilt-clad lap. He looked up at her after a moment, and she choked on a laugh at the plaintive, dismayed, and even bewildered look in his eyes.

"What does this...thing...think it's doing on my lap?" Severus Selenius Snape demanded, flinching as her Familiar squirmed far enough up his lap to head-butt him in the stomach, clearly wanting more petting from the disgusted wizard. "It wouldn't leave me alone! I have seen this hairy excuse for a butterscotch pudding on the school grounds before, and it has always hissed at me! What. Is. It. Doing. On. My. Lap?"

Hermione stared at him. Orange fluff coated his knee-socks, proof that Crooks had rubbed against his shins repeatedly. More orange fluff clung to his kilt, and to his shirt. "Erm...marking his territory?"

It was all she could think of to reply. A sound of disgust escaped him. Shoving her cat--gently--onto the bench, he stood, eyeing his shedding-covered clothes with dismay. The pained look that pinched his brow made Hermione want to giggle. "So help me, if he piddles on me--!"

"Crookshanks wouldn't do that! Would you, Crooks?" Hermione crooned to her cat, approaching him. He sniffed at her fingers, enjoyed a brief scritching behind his ears, then head-butted the utili-kilted man next to her, demanding more attention.

"He's nuzzling me."

The disgust in his tone was the last straw. Hermione laughed. She laughed so hard that when she straightened, she staggered into him. At least he was enough of a gentleman to catch and hold her upright, though his disgruntled frown only made her laugh harder. Finally, her giggles wore down into chuckles as she wrapped her arms around him, hugging her husband. After a while, she stopped laughing with a deep sigh. "Thank you..."

"I'm so glad I could amuse you. But he is still nuzzling me. He never treated me like this at the bloody school!"

Hermione remembered how Crookshanks had viewed Snape. He had ignored the Potions Master, for the most part. Once or twice hissed at the man. But never had he displayed such...affection. "Um...well... Maybe he just really likes you, as Russel Fawkeson. The shopkeeper said he's half-Kneazle, so he's super-smart about who's trustworthy and all. I mean, he's hissed at Professor Snape, true, but he's just all over you, even though he probably knows you're a Death Eater, or at least that you've done terrible things in your past."

He rolled his grey eyes. "That doesn't solve my problem, Jane! What do I do with him?"

"Pet him! It's the Christmas hols for cats, too, you know!"

A pained look crinkled his eyes and pinched his brow, one that had nothing to do with his migraine...and then he started to laugh. Shaking his head, he dropped his forehead to hers, chuckling. "Only you, Miss I Want To Save the House-Elves, would consider it Christmas-time for a cat, too. Was I supposed to get him a catnip mouse while we were at Harrods?"

"Well, it would've been nice," Hermione admitted, and grinned when he closed his eyes, enjoying teasing him. "Come along, then; pick him up while I get our bags. We're late for Mum and Dad's. Oh! Here's a bottle of that headache potion Madam Pomfrey used to make for you. She gave me some a while back, and said she had a backlog of it. I've got another bottle if you need one, but only if you promise to sip, not gulp."

"Thank you for taking the fun out of my weekend. I could've passed it blissfully unconscious," her blond-haired husband quipped dryly. "You get the furball; I'll get our bags. It's the man's job to carry them...thank god," he muttered audibly. Taking the bottle she silently proffered, he sniffed at it, sipped some of the liquid inside, then tucked the vial into his sporran. "Thank you. For fetching the posset."

Grinning, Hermione scooped up her Familiar, who looked rather smug for a squash-nosed cat. Then again, all cats tended to look smug, but she cuddled him close while Russel--she had to remember to refer to him always and only as Russel for the next few days--picked up her overnight bag, the bags of wrapped and spell-shrunken presents, and a colourful tapestry carpet-bag for his own luggage. Coming back to her, he shifted the bags to one hand and wrapped his arm around her with the other.

"Would you rather do the Apparating? I'd be tempted to leave a few whiskers behind."

"I can manage all of us," Hermione promised as she managed to get one arm around him. She closed her eyes, concentrating. A bang, and three bodies--one of them with flattened whiskers and even flatter ears--squeezed into her bedroom on the first floor of the Granger residence.

A voice called out from downstairs. It was Harry's. "--Hermione, is that you?"

"Coming, Harry!" Holding carefully to Crookshanks, who wasn't happy at not being let down, Hermione led the way out of her room.

The damage to the house from when the Death Eaters had attacked had not been as extensive as feared; Muggle artifacts weren't worth much in the wizarding world, and the noise of the initial attack had caused one of their neighbors to summon the police. Luckily, the nearest patrol car had only been a few minutes away, and the attention had chased the attackers away. It wasn't that the Dark wizards attacking them had been afraid of the police that had chased them away, so much as they were unwilling to draw blatant attention to themselves.

Of course, her parents had been forced to cobble together a spurious story of having gone off to visit friends overnight to explain their absence--which was more or less the truth, since they'd gotten along quite well with the Weasleys, that night--but it had smoothed things over with the authorities. Now there were only a few differences to prove anything had happened: a new door for her parents' room, a fresh layer of paint in the upstairs hallway, and a couple absent, damaged knicknacks that hadn't been repairable in the end. Hermione was grateful the Death Eaters hadn't had time to do more damage to her family home. She was even more grateful to see her parents had decorated for Christmas, though they'd mostly be enjoying the garlands and ribbons on Boxing Day.

Her father was waiting in the hall, clad in brown trousers and his Christmas Eve jumper of creamy white with green trees decorated in red garlands and multi-coloured light-bulbs. Just seeing it made Hermione nostalgic; he'd worn that sweater every Christmas Eve from his teens onward, according to the family pictures hanging in the upstairs hall. It said Christmas Eve in a way nothing else did, to her. Of course, she had been able to go home for Christmas more often than Harry and Ron, but not nearly enough, at the same time. Hurrying forward, Hermione freed an arm from her cat so she could hug her father.

"Merry Christmas, Daddy," she murmured into his shoulder as he squeezed her back with both arms, making Crookshanks squeak in protest.

Pulling back with a chuckle, Jeffrey Granger scrubbed the top of the ginger tom's head with his knuckles. "Go on into the living room. I want a few words with your...husband."

Nervous, but figuring this moment would come no matter what, Hermione headed through the archway between the hall and the parlour.

"Jane?" She stopped and looked back over her shoulder, wondering why the kilted wizard had stopped her. He set his collection of bags at the foot of the stairs and walked up to her. One slender, tanned finger pointed upwards, and one light brown brow arched, confusing her further, until he murmured, "...Mistletoe?"

Glancing up, Hermione spotted the sprig hanging in the midst of the garland framing the archway, with its little berries and its lobed, dusty-looking leaves. She blushed at the implication. From where they were standing, the others--Jeffrey in the hall and Daphne and Harry in the living room--could see the two of them quite clearly. She was rather relieved when he did nothing more blatant than cup her biceps in his hands, lean over the cat in her arms, and press a gentle, chaste kiss to her lips.

It took her a moment to realize the loud purring in her ears was coming from Crooks, and not from her. She certainly felt like purring, when the tender-feeling kiss ended. She also felt a little disappointed that their kiss wasn't more passionate than that, but Hermione knew it wouldn't have been appropriate. Sighing softly, she turned and stepped into the living room.

Squirming free, Crookshanks leapt to the floor, trotting up to the silent, thoughtfully staring Harry and nuzzling his shins. The young man picked up her Familiar, cuddling him for a moment. Hermione had the feeling it gave Harry a chance to stop staring and compose himself, since he wasn't normally so affectionate with her cat. He let the cat go when she sat down next to him, hands folded between her knees. All three of them heard Russel and Jeffrey going into the kitchen, and the door being shut. The kitchen door was almost never shut completely, save for Serious Talks.

Daphne cleared her throat. "--Well. How have you been, dear?"

"Fine. Just fine." Hermione re-clasped her fingers. "So...how long is Daddy going to take? Because we really should be going to the Burrow, soon."

"Not too long. He knows we have a schedule to keep," her mother reassured her.

Silence passed, broken only by the faint ticking of the cuckoo clock in the dining room, heard through the archway. That, and Crookshanks purring. He'd curled up on the seat of her father's recliner, happily remarking the territory her mother had long since brushed free of his summer-shed fur.

"How's the, erm...you know, your project going?" Harry asked her.

"Oh, good, good," Hermione replied quickly. "We're at the first of the 'simmer for x-number of days' stages. And we fixed the problem with my cauldron melting. The instructions didn't include a potion-suspension spell, but S...seems that Russel knew about it. He'd been through seventh-year Potions, you see, and it's a technique you don't learn until then. I've kind of been studying Charms in my spare time more than Potions, at the moment."

"You should probably catch up on that," Harry encouraged her.

Another awkward silence fell. Whatever the two men in the kitchen were discussing, they were doing so quietly. Perhaps they had even stepped outside, into the cold night air. Or perhaps Russel had cast a silencing charm on the room, to ensure that any yelling, shouting, kitchen-implement-throwing and/or hex-casting on his or Jeffrey's part couldn't be heard by anyone else, at least until a victor could be declared.

"Crookshanks is looking a bit fat. What have you been feeding him?" her mother asked, filling the quiet in the living room.

"Oh, um, kitty kibble...and some leftover table scraps, tidbits of meat, mostly. I know I shouldn't, but I'm not always around, and I feel guilty about neglecting him," Hermione confessed. "Oh! And he's a father. One of Mrs. Figg's cats, Mrs. Spots, had kittens. Three of them, and they look just like Crooks."

"You should probably get him fixed," Daphne offered.

Crookshanks, curled up in a fluffy orange circle, reared his head with his ears laid back and hissed at Mrs. Granger.

"--I don't think that's a good idea," Hermione demurred carefully, as Harry's shoulders shook. She thumped him lightly in the ribs with her elbow, and he nudged her back, struggling with his silent laughter until it was under his control.

"Erm...the thing is, Mrs. Gra...er, Mum," Harry corrected himself at her look, "Crooks is half-kneazle, or so we think, and kneazles are really smart. It's not like he'd be fathering fuzzy little idiots. And I, er, would really pity the person idiotic enough to try."

"...I suppose there is that," Hermione's mother admitted faintly, staring at the cat snuggling back down for a nap on her husband's chair. "Forget I mentioned it, then."

The kitchen door opened. Hermione discovered she was holding her breath, and reminded herself to let it out silently, so she didn't look like a scared little twit. Two sets of footsteps allowed her to breathe more normally, loosening the tension that had crept unnoticed into her shoulders. The sight of her father's happy, beaming face reassured her further, though she wondered at the puzzled, uncertain edge to Russel's own smile.

"Well! Everything's settled. Shall we be on our way, then?" Jeffrey asked the others. They rose to start gathering their things.

Russel scooped Crookshanks off of the recliner, carrying him cradled against his blue jumper as he joined Hermione. Reaching for her cat, she murmured at him, "What did he want?"

He handed her the purring furball in his arms. "He just wanted to know if I'd behave in a civilized manner, instead of popping in and out like before, and then he asked me if I'd ever consider marrying you the proper Anglican way someday, rather than by some ancient piece of magic."

"And you said?" Hermione asked in a whisper, cradling her cat to her chest. She was curious about his answer.

"I said yes, of course. The man was standing right next to the knife block." Pulling back, he winked at her, his grey eyes twinkling for a moment. Almost exactly like Albus Dumbledore's had, in fact. Leaning down, he dropped a quick kiss on the tip of her nose. "I'll get the bags."

Harry delayed him for a moment, murmuring the exact location of the Burrow in his ear. Balancing Crooks in one arm, Hermione wrapped the other around her father's ribs on the side away from his overnight bag. Harry cupped her mother by the shoulders, carrying his and Daphne's bags. A series of sharp cracks, and they reappeared standing on trampled snow in front of the rambling structure that was the Weasley family home. Garlands of holly and evergreen branches had been affixed to every window. Even a couple strings of electric Muggle lights had been hung, outlining the door, though Arthur Weasley had made the visual faux-pas of mixing the larger, old-fashioned bulbs with the tiny, more modern ones.

Still, it was a cheery look, and the air, though crisp and cold and glittering with tiny, falling flakes, was scented with hints of Molly Weasley's spiced holiday baking. Harry opened the door, and warmth, sound and light spilled out, enveloping them as they entered. Happy to escape her arms and the nasty effects of Apparation, Crookshanks squirmed free and darted under the furniture. Bill and Charlie were laughing heartily at something the twins, still grinning, had apparently just said. Fleur was chatting with Ginny, who shouted and flung herself at Harry with a glowing face, impacting on his chest like a bag of flour dropped from the top of the roof.

As the couple embraced with a blush, Ron hurried forward to take the others' bags, stuffing the rest of a gingerbread man into his mouth to free his hands and mumbling something about room assignments. Hands were shaken enthusiastically by Arthur, and Molly called out from the kitchen that there were plenty of goodies on the table, and that they were to help themselves, since supper wasn't for another three hours. There was a bit of chaos for a while, everyone talking all at once, but the presents were brought out of luggage and stuffed under the Christmas tree stuffed into a corner of the sitting room, the luggage was taken upstairs by Ron and Ginny, and things eventually settled down.

Hermione enjoyed the sight of Molly Weasley fussing over Russel, nattering about how a man his size shouldn't be so skinny, and pressing yet another shortbread wedge or a frosted sugar biscuit on him, along with a tall glass of milk. She had to admit that, as a blond, he did look younger than his proper age...but he was still closer to Molly's age than to her own. To see the older witch mothering the man was very amusing. Grey eyes met brown over the rim of his glass; they narrowed for just a fraction of a second, letting her know that he would be getting her back for such unseemly delight in his 'suffering'.

She did delight in it, too...until Fred laughingly released a hexed Snitch with a sprig of mistletoe tied to it, and the thing zoomed over everyone's head, spiraled around, and paused with rapid silvery wing-beats directly over her head. Now it was her turn to blush as the others teased her. George reached for her with outstretched hands and puckered lips, though it was difficult to do so while he was laughing at the same time. Her ring flared with heat, a sinuous, golden body flashing into existence around her arm--dragonette-size, thankfully--and the redheaded wizard froze, the laughter dying down around them.

Long, tanned fingers snagged the hovering, greenery-burdened Snitch before it could move away. An arm curved around her back, turning her sideways with a sliding touch. Sigurd obligingly vanished, and Hermione found herself dipped backward over her husband's arm. Her own curved over his, clutching at his shoulder for balance. Ash blond locks slid down around his face, curtaining off the rest of the world. All she could see in the shadows cast by his hair was the way his eyelids drifted shut just at the moment his lips met hers. Her own lashes followed suit; the rest of the Burrow wasn't nearly as fascinating as the feel and taste of him.

A buzzing sound flashed by her ear, just before Russel's other arm wrapped around her back. Her free hand dug into his hair, massaging his scalp as their tongues played together. He tasted of butter biscuits and cinnamon; she like the way the spicy flavour mingled with the rich cocoa she'd been drinking. From the way he parried and played his tongue against hers, he liked it, too.

But as much as the moment of passion between them was enjoyable, even dramatic in its pose, it was an awkward position. Righting her, Russel traded smaller, lesser, sweeter kisses with Hermione for a few more moments, then lifted his head from hers with a sigh. This time, the silence that pressed on her ears was from embarrassment, not awkwardness. Flushed from more than just the kiss, Hermione tried to clear her throat. It took two tries to make a sound.

"...Well. I, ah, think I'm ready for some eggnog." A third clearing of her throat, and she repeated, "Yes, some nice, cool...eggnog."

Searching for anyplace to look other than the partially suppressed smugness of her husband's expression, Hermione's eyes wandered across the cheerful red-and-green decorations...and landed on the tight, pinched face of Ronald Weasley.

He'd said he was 'over' her, and had 'accepted' the fact that she was married. But he hadn't seen the passion between her and her husband. Hermione flushed for a different reason. Ron had just been hit between the eyes with proof that what little he had shared with her clearly paled in comparison to what she had with Russel. A candle to a bonfire. The knowledge looked like it was a little too bitter for him to swallow at the moment, like a lemon pie without the meringue.

The others glossed over the awkward moment, namely by turning to glance at the source of a giggle and a chuckle. Jeffrey and Daphne Granger were happily nibbling on each other in a clinch of their own underneath the hovering, humming Snitch. It darted away as Hermione flinched from the sight of her parents snogging the daylights out of each other, and zoomed over to Bill's head. Fleur smirked and kissed her husband; after five seconds of that, the little golden ball zipped on silvery wings to hover over Arthur's own reddish hair. Molly gave him a peck on the cheek, he pecked her back on the lips, making her blush...and the mistletoe-laden Snitch remained in place, buzzing determinedly over the eldest Weasley's head..

"It's no good, Mum!" Fred joked. "You'll have to slip him a bit of tongue, to make it go away!"

Molly blushed even harder, but took Arthur's face in her hands and thoroughly kissed him, until the skin under her fingers was equally pink. The Snitch took off, spiraled around the room again...and settled over Ginny's head. Mrs. Weasley spotted that as her own kiss ended, and her blush of embarrassment turned to a flush of anger. "--Fred Weasley! You catch that thing and get it away from your sister's head this instant! This game has gone on long enough! This is Christmas, not a kissing booth!"

Harry snagged the Snitch, since he'd been moving towards Ginny anyway. She in turn was pouting, but with his back to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, he brought the ball to his lips and kissed it, eyeing the youngest Weasley. Standing to the side, Hermione had a good view of her blood-brother's smirk, and Ginny's pleased blush. A soft, disgusted sound at her side had her glancing at her husband. He'd turned his face into her hair, one arm still around her ribs, and now muttered at her, his breath warming the curve of her ear.

"I did not need to see Potter doing that."

Suspecting he was trying to hide his expression from the others, since that sotto-voce snarl was far too Snape-like to be the sort of expression Russel would wear, Hermione hugged him around the waist with her own arm. "Now, now, Russel. It's just good holiday fun. And technically, you did start it."

"I would far rather be kissing you senseless," he whispered into her ear, "nibbling on either succulent set of your lips, than endure the sight of Arthur snogging Molly."

Her cheeks heated at his suggestive, purred comment. In fact, they burned, for he traced the tip of his tongue along the shell of her ear, his actions mostly hidden by her hair. Jeffrey Granger clapped his hands together, startling everyone and ending his son-in-law's hidden, seductive touch.

"--Well! Knowing that Arthur, here, loves Muggle things, I've brought a packet of regular crackers for everybody to pull. It's probably not as fun as the magical kind, but it's still fun all the same. Anyone interested?"

"Oh, I'd like to try that!" Mr. Weasley was clearly the most enthusiastic, but the others got into the spirit of things when Charlie stated he'd brought a large box of wizarding crackers, too. Hermione felt her husband resting his forehead against the side of her skull for a moment, no doubt gathering his strength before facing the oncoming torture with Russel-esque enthusiasm.

She didn't blame him; somehow, Hermione doubted Severus Snape had been invited to, let alone attended, very many Christmas parties in his past.

...

Eventually, Molly--being the mothering sort that she was--reminded everyone that Father Christmas couldn't come until they had all enjoyed a good night's rest. There was a mild sort of scrum as everyone wished everyone else goodnight, and started vying for the two bathrooms. Russel lingered downstairs, chatting with some of the other men; Hermione mounted the stairs, listening to him, Bill and Arthur laughing over something, and wondering where her things had been put. She encountered Molly on the first floor landing, chatting with her mum.

Waiting politely until her mother finished their conversation and disappeared into her assigned room, Hermione looked at her hostess. "So. Where are Russel and I going to sleep?"

Molly's smile froze for a moment. "Er...didn't we tell you? You're in Ginny's room tonight, and he's in Charlie's."

That lifted her brows. "I'm what?"

"Russel is sleeping with Charlie in his room, you're with Ginny in her room, your mum and dad are in...in Percy's quarters, Harry's tucked in with Ron... It's all been worked out, dearie!"

Somehow, Hermione knew instinctively the separation was deliberate. She arched a brow. "And is Fleur sleeping with us girls, while Bill's ensconced with the twins?"

"Don't be ridiculous! They're married!" Molly pointed out, flustered. "They're in Bill's room."

That crossed her arms over her chest. "And what, exactly, are Russel and I--treacle pudding? We're married, Molly!"

The normally unflappable witch spluttered and dithered for a moment, then blurted out her true opinion. "--No, you're not! Not in the proper way!"

That felt like a slap to Hermione. Like the older woman had called her a loose woman. Skin mottled somewhere between hot and cold, she glared at her hostess.

"Don't look at me in that manner, young lady!" Molly snapped, barely keeping her voice quiet as she hissed at the younger witch. "Until you are married in a proper Anglican ceremony, you aren't married in the eyes of the law!"

Hermione wanted to snap at the older woman, to argue the matter fiercely, but several factors made her bite back her words. One, she was raised to be polite; two, her mum was on the other side of the door right next to them; three, Molly probably wanted Ginny chaperoned, since after the Snitch incident, she'd done her best to keep Harry, who was of-age, away from Ginny, who was not. Hermione wasn't really tired enough to sleep, having done so in the latter half of that morning after finishing the latest stage of the Anima Te, but others were tired, and it wouldn't be prudent to disrupt the end of their evening with a big fuss.

"...I see," was all she therefore said, if in an icy tone that made Molly Weasley flinch. Hermione longed to say more, but settled for a curt, "Goodnight."

She heard an indrawn breath behind her as she stalked up the next flight of stairs, but wisely, Molly said nothing more. Stalking into Ginny's room, Hermione grabbed her pale blue pyjamas and her toiletry kit, and went to go stand in line at the upstairs bathroom door. By the time Harry came out a few minutes later, she was resigned to the situation, and was able to give him a hug and a quiet 'goodnight'.

Changing in the bathroom, she scrubbed and flossed her teeth, mindful that her dentist parents were in the house--she nearly choked on her toothpaste, giggling at the thought of her parents giving Arthur Weasley an electric toothbrush set--and rinsed carefully. She had hoped for a room of her own to share with her husband. Given his mental weariness earlier at having to deal with this rambunctious, redheaded family, Hermione figured he would have loved a private room in which to relax his Russel persona. But if it's not to be, it's not to be.

Ginny was already in her nightgown when Hermione entered the younger witch's bedroom. It was familiar from years past, when she'd stayed at the Burrow for holidays and the end of summer vacations. She climbed into the twin bed Molly had transfigured for her at some point, squeezed in next to Ginny's, and lay back with a sigh.

"Sorry," Ginny murmured, guessing what the problem was without being asked. "But I think Mum would explode like a cauldron, if I didn't have a chaperone." Squirming onto her own back, Ginny stared at her ceiling. "She likes Harry, don't get me wrong, and she's cheering for the two of us getting together...you know, after the war. Or at least after I'm out of school. But Mum's got this bug up her backside about my being underage, and finishing my education first, and all that..."

Hermione, staring at the same ceiling, snorted. "That's part of it...but she also said we're 'not properly married'. She should've just slapped me in the face and called me a whore, while she was at it."

Ginny drew in a shocked breath, squirming onto one elbow so she could look over at her friend. Before she could say anything, someone knocked on her door. "--I'll get that."

Rising, she crossed to the door and opened it partway, peering through the crack. A gasp, and she shifted back. Russel stepped through, clad in white-and-blue striped pyjamas, one hand hastily raised to shade his eyes from the sight of Ginevra Weasley in her ankle-length flannel nightie.

"Pardon me." Maneuvering around the young witch, he strode up the narrow aisle between the two beds, and scooped a startled Hermione into his arms, including the blankets draped over her legs.. "Grab your pillow and wand."

Twisting as he dipped, Hermione complied. Bedding and vinewood clutched to her chest, she found herself carried out of the room and down all four flights of stairs, right past a stunned Arthur Weasley. The middle-aged wizard followed them, spluttering, "--What do you think you're doing?"

"Going to bed with my wife; what does it look like?"

Reaching the ground floor, Russel carried Hermione into the living room, set her down, and snagged a cushion off of the sofa. A flick of his wand transformed it into the size of a queen mattress, though it still had the dark red velveteen finish of the original, feather-stuffed cushion. Taking the top sheet from Hermione's armful of bedding, he enlarged it and enchanted it to cover the mattress, then transfigured the remaining bedding into three thick eiderdown comforters..

Hermione tossed down her pillow as he worked, Transfiguring a second cushion from the couch into a pillow for him as well. No sooner had it landed on the bedding than she found herself scooped up again, laid down, and the comforters flicked over her body, enveloping her in downy warmth. A flick of Russel's wand extinguished all of the lights, save for the faerie-sparks someone had enchanted onto the tree in the corner, leaving them bathed in a gentle golden glow that would hopefully be dim enough for sleep.

Arthur hmphed as Russel slid under the covers next to her, but Hermione wasn't about to protest, or heed the opinion of anyone else in the legalities of her marriage. She just let her pyjama-clad husband snuggle up behind her, spooning with her, and sighed, closing her eyes. A few moments later, she heard Arthur's footsteps padding towards the stairs, and the creak as he mounted them to the first floor. The whole house creaked as everyone finished settling in for the night. Somewhere, one of the twins was laughing. Russel raised himself on his elbow long enough to prod the fire in the hearth, levitating more coal onto the embers, then settled behind her back again.

"...Arthur tried to claim we're not legally married," he murmured, warming her entire backside as he held her close with an arm around her waist. "But betrothal rings are still recognized by the Ministry as legal and valid, even if they are heavily antiquated. And I will not be stuck sleeping in a room with Charlie Weasley. For all I know, he snores like one of his dragons."

Hermione smiled involuntarily at that thought. "I didn't want to get into a screaming match with Molly...but her telling me we weren't married felt like she'd slapped me in the face."

"We are married," he asserted quietly, his Canadian accent--and dialect--tickling the nerves behind her ear. "No matter what any interfering hosers might say. And I will not let you go."

"I know," Hermione agreed quietly, thinking about their very strange marriage as the fire crackled and the faerie lights twinkled. "I know..."