Chapter 5

Thanks to Machshefa for the beta.

Disclaimer: Not mine. No money being made. Don't sue. Please.

Chapter Five

Hermione is overwhelmed by the sheer number of redheads at Molly's birthday party.

She loves the Weasleys, she really does. Molly is sometimes a bit too free with unsolicited advice, and the twins wreak destruction in their wake anytime they set foot in her house, but they have been a surrogate family to her in the wizarding world since she was 12. They took her in and cared for her as if she were their own, and it sometimes seems that marrying Ron did not mean becoming a part of the family as much as it meant making it official.

Yet it is hard to walk into the Burrow after almost a year; all of her warm childhood memories are now polluted with the memory of Ron's wake. She can still remember the skin crawling sound of Molly's wailing and the cloying claustrophobia as one mourner after another approached her to give their generic condolences, to ask insincerely if they could do anything for her, to comment with the smug wisdom of the living on the waste of Ron's early death.

She is assaulted first by the scent of the Burrow – the clean, flowery smells of Molly's air freshening spells, the lingering scent of roasting chicken and baking sweets, the tangy odor of too many boys, now fading since the children have left home – then by the twins, who come at her from both sides while she is trying to take off her coat, as stealthy and silent as Crookshanks stalking prey. She ends up crushed between them in their joint bear hug, with her face pressed into Fred's chest and one arm crooked awkwardly between her body and George's.

They both smell like freshly mown grass and questionably legal potions ingredients. She very much wishes they would let her go.

"Oi, Fred! Look who it is!"

"Seems to be our sister-in-law, George! But I can't be sure. It's been so long since we've seen her."

"Get off, you two." She can only speak out of one side of her mouth and she sounds much less intimidating than she strictly prefers. "You're smearing my make-up!"

"Oh no, George. Her make-up!"

"It's smearing, Fred."

"What a tragedy!"

"A disgrace!"

"A..."

"So help me, if you two don't let me go, I'll hex your bollocks off."

"...good idea to let her go, George."

"I agree completely, Fred. I do so like my bollocks."

"Shall we take the lady's coat and send her in to see our Mum?"

"Splendid idea! As our Mum would also hex our bollocks off if we didn't do just that."

Hermione is quickly relieved of her coat and released to find Molly, but on the way she keeps getting hijacked by Weasleys. First by Bill and Fleur's twins, who run up for hugs, calling her Auntie 'Mione and telling her in their adorable French accents how much they miss their Oncle Ron, then by Charlie, who introduces her to his lovely new wife, a tiny, dark haired thing named Mara, then by Arthur who gives her a hug and tells her sincerely how much he has missed her. Finally she is stopped by Remus, who is not a Weasley, but certainly understands the overwhelming force that is the Weasley clan. He gives her a gentle smile and a glass of wine, both of which Hermione is extremely grateful for, and sends her towards the kitchen where Molly is holding court.

"Hermione!" Molly exclaims when she sees her and comes for her with open arms. She has dressed in shimmering green robes that flatter her hair and skin tones, and she beams at Hermione, and it is all Hermione can do not to bolt. "It's been so long!"

Hermione accepts the familiar and enthusiastic hug as gracefully as she can while holding onto her wine; Molly smells like mint and chocolate and some kind of flowery perfume.

"Why have you been such a stranger? You know that you are still welcome here, even after..." Molly's eyes fill with tears, and the exuberant welcome is dampened by the memory of her grief. "You're still a part of this family."

"I know. It's just that I've been so busy at work...." They both know it's a lie, but Molly only smiles at her and pats her consolingly on the arm. "Of course you have, dear. Now come sit with me and tell me how you've been...."

Hermione obliges, joining her at the kitchen table. Minerva McGonagall is there as well, as is Hestia Jones and Augusta Longbottom. Hermione sits with them, answering questions about her life, listening to their gossip, and drinking wine, but as soon as Molly attempts to turn the conversation towards Ron, Hermione excuses herself to use the loo and does not return. She roams among the innumerable party goers instead, all somehow stuffed into the Burrow. She knows many of them, but others are acquaintances, and several she does not know at all; now that the war is over, the Weasley parents and their children have an overwhelming number of friends, and they all seem to be here, stopping her at every turn to greet her and inquire after her well being and, to her horror, attempting to draw her into their reminisces of Ron.

Every time she turns around there is a cluster of people talking about Ron: Ron in school, Ron at the Ministry, the time Ron threw himself in front of that Semprarictus hex, the time he and Harry got caught practicing Crushing Curses with boxes of Muggle cakes during Auror training. Worse, people want to reminisce with her, want to ask her how's she's doing, why she sold the house, was there anything they could do for her...

It's horrifying and overwhelming; Hermione untangles herself from these conversations as quickly and as tactfully as possible, only to encounter another not long after. She purposefully has glass after glass of wine; she has been to enough Ministry functions to know that alcohol really is a social lubricant, and she needs something, anything, to get her through this endless nightmare of insincere and nosy small talk and reminiscing mourners.

Then she comes face to face with Viktor Krum.

She stares at him in shock, her stomach twisting in knots, her mouth suddenly gone dry. She hasn't seen him since lunch with Harry and Oliver, has not received an owl since that night either, and has hoped it would stay that way. Why he's at the party she has no idea, but she's drunk enough to entertain the idea that he might be there with the sole intention of seeing her. There's something creepy about that, but she's can't quite put her finger on why.

"Herm-own-ninny!" he cries, flashing that smile at her, so open, so full of teeth, so not the Viktor she knew. "There you are! I was wondering if I would see you tonight."

"Viktor," she says and quickly glances over her shoulder, searching for an escape. He's trapped her in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room, where she has just escaped group of Ron's Auror friends. Going back the way she came isn't an option; that same group is blocking her way. "I wasn't expecting to see you here, either."

"I was not expecting to come, but Bill Weasley invited me this afternoon while I was at Gringotts."

"Oh. How nice." She nervously sips her wine because she really can't think of anything to say. She wishes he would get out of her way, and where exactly is Harry when she could use his excessive protective streak?

"Yes. Very nice." He steps closer and lowers his voice, fixing her with solemn, hurt eyes. "Tell me, Herm-own-ninny, have I done something wrong?""

Hermione bites her lip nervously. "What do you mean?"

"I have owled you, and you have not replied."

Hermione throws back the rest of her wine to buy herself a few seconds time. She's been a coward about dealing with Viktor so far, but here is her opportunity to sort him out, to make it clear that whatever he wants from her, he isn't going to get. She already feels nauseous with guilt – though of course she shouldn't – but doing it now would be for the best. It is like pulling off a Muggle plaster: the pain will be sharp and sudden, but quickly over with. However, it does not prevent her from wanting to be anywhere but here at the moment.

She takes a deep breath, draws together her courage. "No, you haven't done anything wrong, exactly. But Viktor, it has barely been a year since Ron..." Hermione pauses, licks her lips. "Since Ron died, and here you are, pursuing me..."

Viktor frowns at her in confusion. "Pursuing you?" Then she sees understanding bloom on his face, and he looks appalled. "Oh, you do not think...? Oh, no, Herm-own-ninny. I merely wish to be friends. If it has seemed otherwise..."

"Well, yes, it has."

"Oh, allow me to apologize," he says, but his body language is not that of an apologetic man. He has not stepped back or put any kind of distance between them to demonstrate his disinterest in anything romantic. In fact, he moves in closer and places his hand on her shoulder. Hermione flinches, but he doesn't seem to notice. "I only wished to be friends again, now that I am living in England."

Hermione steps away from him, pulling gently from his grasp. "I see."

"It is my fault, truly," Viktor continues. "Perhaps I can take you to lunch next week? As friends, of course."

"Perhaps," she says, lifting the glass to her lips to prevent herself from having to commit, only to abort the motion a few seconds later when she realizes there is no more wine.

Viktor give her a relieved smile and holds out his hand. "May I bring you another drink?"

"Yes." She places the glass in his hand. "Thank you. I was drinking the red."

"I shall return in a moment, Herm-own-ninny."

Hermione watches him until he disappears into the kitchen, then bolts from the hallway, slipping past the Aurors who are going on about the various things Ron and Harry blew up while out in the field, and out through the front door.

It is cold outside, so cold that everyone is choosing to remain inside. She slips around the front of the house and hurries towards the back garden, careful to keep low as she passes the kitchen window. The back garden is thankfully empty. Fairy lights are strung around the perimeter, and someone has set up a jack-o-lantern on the picnic table; it looks very pretty and would have made a lovely place for everyone to congregate, but for the cold.

Hermione stays in the shadows, rubbing her arms through her thin jumper, hoping that no one comes looking for her. She feels ridiculous, hiding in the garden in the freezing cold. It isn't as if the party and the Weasleys and Viktor won't still be there when she goes back inside, but she's just so tired and overwhelmed and unable to cope with them. Just a few minutes in the fresh air, a chance to sober up a little, and she'll go back inside to say her goodbyes.

She shivers and looks up at the sky. She can see Cassiopeia and Pegasus and Andromeda amongst the stars, but the rest of the constellations are practically invisible in the light pollution of the fairy lights and the Burrow itself.

"Pretty, aren't they?" says someone off to her left.

Hermione peers into the darkness beyond the fairy lights and sees a floating, disembodied head, but as she moves closer, passing beyond the strings of luminous lights, a body materializes under the head, and Hermione realizes it's Luna Lovegood.

"They are," Hermione agrees. Luna drives her mad most of the time, but as long as she isn't talking about fire mages or the Rot Fang Conspiracy, she can usually tolerate her. "I have a better view at home."

Luna turned her protuberant eyes on Hermione. "Oh yes, you moved to Glastonbury, didn't you?" She is nearly breathless with excitement. "Have you seen the King of the Tor yet?"

Hermione sighs; she should have known Luna would ask that. "There is no such thing as the Tor King."

"You shouldn't say that. He'll loose his hounds on you."

"Right, I'll keep that in mind."

That seems to appease Luna, because she lets the conversation go. They stand together for a while, watching the sky. Hermione shivers again and wishes she had brought her coat out with her; Luna takes out a spyglass and examines the stars. There is a loud explosion from inside the Burrow, followed swiftly by Molly's screeching. Neither woman so much as flinches at the sound.

"My father says he met him a few years ago, you know," Luna suddenly says.

"Met who?" Hermione asks absentmindedly. She is drunker than she originally thought; the world has started spinning, and she can't seem to stand without swaying a little.

"Gwyn ap Nudd. The Fairy King."

Hermione huffs in exasperation. "Oh, not this again."

Luna seems oblivious to Hermione's animosity and keeps talking. "Father was investigating the reports about Arthur's procession from Glastonbury to Cadbury for The Quibbler on Christmas Eve a few years ago. The procession was rubbish, of course, but father met a nice old man in the pub with three hounds who took him up to the Tor to see the labyrinth. Father says the terraces glowed like a furnace, and he could hear the dead whispering inside the hill. He said my mum's voice was the loudest. That's where the Veil in the Department of Mysteries goes, you know."

Hermione looks at Luna sharply, her heart beating wildly in her chest. "Yes. Yes, I've heard that," she says with more calm than she actually feels.

"Oh, then you know that the glow means the gates of the Underworld are opening and spilling their light out over the Tor. Dad said it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, next to the flock of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks he encountered once, of course." Luna sighs with longing. "I'd love to see it. You're quite lucky to live so close. You'll have to let me know if you ever get a chance to see the Tor glow. Oh, and take a picture. Dad would love to publish a photograph in The Quibbler."

But Hermione isn't paying attention to Luna. Her mind is whirring. The Tor, the Veil, the old man with three dogs - this has to be a coincidence. It must be, especially since Luna is the most unreliable source of information she's ever met. But she's seen it herself – the Tor, glowing. And the old man with the three hounds, she's met him, and he said the same about the Veil.

She closes her eyes, shakes her head, ignoring the dizziness it stirs up. She is too drunk to deal with any of this right now. Besides, it was a dream. The old man and Luna and Luna's father are all sharing a special kind of madness, and Hermione refuses to be a part of it.

Dead is dead and that is the way it is.

Hermione suddenly feels empty and lonely and numb. She looks up at the stars again, wheeling above her in the night sky. She shivers and rubs her arms, then starts walking, away from Luna and away from the Weasleys and away from Viktor and the throng of people inside, invading her grief.

"Where are you going?" she hears Luna call after her.

"Home," she replies and, reaching the edge of the Apparition barrier, Disapparates without another word.

*****

"You're in my way."

Hermione looks up from where she is huddled on the stairs in the foyer. Snape is standing over her, arms crossed, radiating impatience and exasperation.

Hermione decides not to acknowledge his presence because he's a miserable git and he's cruel and he has the emotional maturity of a sullen eight-year-old. She closes her eyes and presses her forehead against the banister, willing him to go away. She doesn't want to deal with him right now because her head is swimming and her stomach is threatening rebellion. Attempting to climb the stairs was obviously a mistake.

Snape sighs irritably. "Do you plan to spend the night there?"

"Maybe."

Snape huffs and steps around her, his long coat brushing against her arm. Hermione catches a whiff of cigarette smoke and chocolate as he passes; she briefly wonders if he smokes or if he's just come back from the pub.

A moment later his door slams, and she is alone again.

"Miserable bastard," she mutters.

Hermione allows herself to drift in the peace of solitude and the spinning sensation of heavy inebriation, not even considering climbing the stairs again. It's easier not to fight it, and if her head is spinning, she doesn't have any time to think about glowing Tors or crazy old men and even crazier former school mates.

Then Snape shatters her carefully established equilibrium by throwing open his door and stomping down the stairs. "Granger, I have something for you."

Why is he still bothering her? She feels his presence hovering just behind her, and she wishes he would just go away and leave her alone.

"Granger!" Snape barks when she does not answer.

"Just sod off, Snape," she mutters. "I'm staying right here and that's that."

There is an indignant sigh, then Hermione feels something hard pressing against her shoulder.

She jerks away and pulls out her wand. Snape doesn't even flinch at the sight of the wand aimed in his direction. He just holds up a small brown bottle and says, "It's a sobering potion."

She slowly lowers her wand, eying the bottle suspiciously. "And you're giving it to me?"

"Yes."

"That's... uncharacteristically nice of you."

"Believe me, it is purely in my own self interest." Snape's cheeks are still ruddy from the cold, and she thinks that the extra color flatters him, as does the stone he's gained. "I don't fancy stepping over either your unconscious body or a puddle of vomit tomorrow morning."

And Hermione herself doesn't fancy spending her Sunday in bed with a hangover. Nor does she fancy the way the foyer is tossing about gleefully before her eyes, or the way her stomach feels like it wants to crawl up and out of her throat, or the distant pressure of an oncoming headache.

So perhaps she shouldn't be looking the gift horse in the mouth.

Hermione takes the bottle from him and uncaps it. "If this is poisoned..."

"I'll gladly go to Azkaban. Drink it, already, Granger. I want to go to bed."

Sobering potions always taste foul, and she grimaces at the old sock, cottony taste on her tongue. She drains every drop then hands the bottle back to Snape, wiping her mouth sloppily with the back of her hand.

The potion soon hits her blood stream and washes through her; she shivers as the alcohol is burned out of her system.

She looks up at Snape to thank him and finds him staring at her legs.

It's the last thing she expects, and Hermione is suddenly all too aware that her skirt is hiked up over her knees, showing more thigh than is entirely appropriate. She blushes and quickly stands, letting the hem slide down over her legs.

At her movement, Snape's eyes jerk upward guiltily, and they stare at one another for a long, tension filled moment. A flush of warmth spreads through her body; Snape's eyes are heavy lidded and predatory as he watches her, his lips slightly parted. Her heart pounds, and she remembers the dreams: Snape between her legs, his tongue, his hips, the tingle of her body after waking...

She turns away abruptly and starts up the stairs.

"Thank you for the potion," she says over her shoulder, trying to get away before... before... before what, she has no idea. She just needs to be away, and she needs to be away now.

Snape doesn't reply.

As she turns at the landing, she glances at him furtively. He is still standing there, the empty bottle in his hand, his dark eyes following her every move. Hermione swallows thickly and looks away, not daring to contemplate the weakness in her knees or the heaviness between her legs as she flees.