Consequentially Yours

Consequentially Yours

Or

A Gentleman's Duty

Chapter Four ~ So, Where Were You Planning On Putting That, Exactly?

"Oh, fuck."

This is really not good. The moon was well and truly up by now, and if he didn't hurry back Charlie was going to come looking for him - and as much as Oliver liked and trusted him, this was something he wanted to keep quiet until he had had a chance to think. Besides, he definitely didn't want Basil or Anita involved here.

Well, looks like Michael wasn't overreacting after all, does it Perce? Oliver thought ruefully. Being involved in most of Percy's more clandestine operations, he was perfectly aware that this needed to have a rather large lid nailed down on it, at least until they had a chance to prove without a doubt, that Voldemort had absolutely nothing to do with it. People were panicky enough as it was, without adding to their worries. Secrecy was still something that sat uneasily on Oliver's shoulders, even after serving under Percy in conjunction with the Order for most of the war.

There, lying on the ground, sprawled where the scattering Nifflers had left it, was a body. A very dead body. Oliver could be very sure of this, because live ones usually had more blood on the inside.

Grimacing in distaste, he bent to examine it closely. What the hell where the Nifflers doing with it? The skin looked pale and grey in the moonlight, with a moist, waxen quality to it that made Oliver want to retch. Thankfully for Oliver's nerves, the body didn't appear to be too far gone; (He could be someone's father) it showed few signs of decay, bloating or damage from being left out in the elements. The man appeared to be on this side of forty, with dark hair faintly frosted with grey above his ears, and a long jawed face with only a few lines to mark it. The skin looked leathery, like it belonged to someone who spent a lot of their life outdoors in harsh weather, though Oliver wasn't sure if this was a result of how the body spent it's time before it came to lie here; or just the effects of the elements afterwards.

The chill moonlight made the whole scene that much more macabre, bleaching the colours, and causing the blood that had congealed along the man's visible wounds to glitter and sparkle obscenely. The strange light made it look more like quicksilver then life-giving fluid. Wait jus' a minute... Oliver frowned in disgust, but reached over to run his finger over the wound that spread with spidery veins just under the skin all along the right temple, and across his cheek. Pulling the digit back, he rubbed the thick fluid between finger and thumb. He was by no means an expert on this sort of stuff, but he had seen a fair few bodies during the fighting last year, and blood was normally, well, sticky. It definitely shouldn't feel like cold phlegm in one's hand. (Is someone still waiting for him to come home?) And now that he examined it, it was sort of ... glistening. Like metal.

He released the clasps on the front of the heavy burgundy robes, and tried to ignore the gnaw marks made by the Nifflers' sharp teeth as they had dragged the heavy, shiny, weight towards their hoard. (Did he volunteer on Sundays to help the old lady down the street with her shopping?) Somehow Oliver just couldn't seem to keep the inappropriate thoughts from intruding - preventing him from focusing to closely on the reality in front of him. (Will his wife be waiting all alone, staring out the window each night, wondering what had happened?) He had always really liked Nifflers; they reminded him of badgers a bit, and always looked at you with a sweetly intelligent expression that made them endearing. The Scottish man was uncertain if he could ever look at them the same way after tonight.

Its chest - thinking of it as a problem to be solved instead of a once living, laughing human being made it much easier - had three circular marks about eight inches in diameter right above the sternum. The puckered flesh (I wonder if he played Quidditch?) was a mess; a mass of angry raw meat with blackened edges that glistened and shone with massive networks of silvery veins, like an infection working its way towards the heart. Well, now I know what brought the Nifflers. The arms, he found were a mass of silver and scarlet, with ridges of blackened, open tissue interspersed along the tender flesh of the underside of the forearms. Scrapping a small amount of the ... blood into a couple of vials was an extremely unpleasant task, but Oliver was grateful Percy insisted all teams go out with a full field kit, including sample vials, no matter the mission.

Tired and edgy, he risked a small bit of transfiguration at this point. He wanted to get out before Charlie came looking for him. Getting unsteadily to his feet, he began examining the slope on the far side of the gully. It didn't take him long to find a crease between two outcroppings of rock that he thought he could seal. It even had a couple of gorse bushes nearby that he was able to weave roughly together into a crude screen. Grabbing the cadaver under the arms, he dragged it as quickly as he could to his chosen sight. After hauling him upright and forcing him into the cramped space he had found and settling his screen in front, Oliver muttered a quick prayer to Merlin, or anyone else who may be listening, that the dragon wouldn't feel this little spell of his as he began to transfigure the framework into something solid. Ceramic was a lot easier then stone, or glass, and at least it was easy to miss against the rest of the rocks from a distance. Once he had sealed his discovery in, he put a small picture of three spheres rising from straight rods of unequal lengths at about eye level on the new wall. Satisfied that it was now safe from further animal damage and would be there for the Retrieval Unit Percy would send, he scrambled to get back to camp, and away from the nightmarish scene as quickly as the darkness allowed.

-..-

"We're in for some nasty weather. Lucky for us, really," Charlie observed as he touched down by the fire Basil had set to guide him in the rapidly falling darkness. It appeared Charlie had stopped to ogle her after all, so hadn't noticed Oliver's absence. Thankfully the man was obsessed, and could be counted on to amuse himself. Anita was still out, setting markers on the lee side of their camp for the retrieval unit tomorrow.

"Lucky? From where I'm sitting, we still have to baby sit the beastie until the removal unit arrives, and if we're heading in that weather, I imagine tha' they'll find in more convenient to wait somewhere dry 'till it passes, so I think we'll be the lads gettin' wet tonight." Oliver's response was distracted at best, as his mind still picked at the mystery laying about 400 yards up the tree line.

The shorter man gave him an amused look for his trouble. "It's the bad weather that drove her to try and find shelter in this crevasse to begin with. Lucky for us, yes? Besides, we should be past the season for snow by now, even here. I can stand a little rain, I suppose."

"Yeah, right up until it's your turn to cook in the morning, and then I'll hear the grumbling the whole way back to London." Oliver pushed his hair out of his eyes as he bent to add more fuel to their scant fire. They would still avoid magic as much as possible for tonight - no need to stir her up any more then necessary. If Charlie was right about her seeking shelter, then with any luck, she was already curled up in some cave down there, and hadn't even realized her predicament yet; or, hopefully, paid any attention to his little spell earlier. With a great effort, Oliver dragged his thoughts back from his hidden discovery, to focus on his plans for Hermione. After nearly a week of pondering Charlie's advice, he finally knew what to do.

-..-

The flowers really hadn't been necessary, Hermione thought bewildered. The display in the dorm room she shared with the other seventh year girls was definitely considerate. She only wished that he hadn't chosen navy blue and gold; somehow, she found, it took away from the excitement of it to realize that he had sent you flowers in his team colours. Oh well, at least he didn't favour the Chudley Cannons. After nine years with Ron, the bookish girl found she could no longer bear the colour orange.

It felt like time was slipping through her fingers. N.E.W.T.s were fast approaching, and Hermione spent every evening and weekend ensconced in the library until Madame Pince finally kicked her out every night ("Really Miss Granger, I appreciate enthusiasm, but your going to wear out the words if you keep reading them like that!") The only breaks to this routine were the few occasions that there was a Gryffindor Quidditch game; she had to cheer her three friends on, after all, but she still brought her books with her to study during the boring bits (the very thought that she found that there were boring bits caused Ron to begin muttering mulishly). The main advantage of her study schedule (which she kept track of via colour-coded notes; she really didn't see why Harry and Ron wouldn't let her do the same for them), was that she was far too tired and preoccupied to worry too much about her Contract situation. Every time thoughts of her predicament came to haunt her, she would make sure to burry herself in her Arithmancy or Charms notes until she could no longer remember the questions. The truth was, she was absolutely terrified, but now she found that her main worry was what would happen if Oliver lost the challenge.

Having his Contract to look forward to in place of Goyle's reassured her far more then she wanted to admit. It was now more than two weeks into her grace period. Two weeks, and other then one rather strange letter, she hadn't heard from 'His Royal Quidditchness' at all, she mused irritably. Until this morning, that was, when she had woken up in a miniature jungle of dark blue and gold blooms that sent her easily swayed roommates into a rather foolish swoon of delight. Huffing slightly at the silliness of it all, Hermione had pushed her way clear to clean up in the Prefects bathroom on the fifth floor just down the hall from the statue of Boris the Bewildered. The bathtub in there was the best in the whole school, and she fancied a nice long soak to try and stop the rather annoying fluttering in her stomach. Must be something she ate last night.

Feeling much more like herself once she joined her friends at the Gryffindor table for breakfast an hour later, Hermione had already put things like fragrant masses of roses and violets out of her mind in favour of trying to remember the list of implements involved in blood magic, an obscure, and somewhat arcane branch of potion making first practiced in ancient Arabia. Professor Snape had mentioned it as a side note in classes last week, mentioning how terribly precise it was, and what kind of horrible things could go wrong if the caster made the slightest error. The sallow faced professor had been as unpleasant as usual about it. "Which rules out the possibility of any of you brainless dunderheads performing it, but you must be aware of the theory at least, as it is slightly possible that at least some of you will be questioned on it by your N.E.W.T. examiner, so I think the more intelligent of you will chose to study it."

"Oi! Hermione, that ruddy bird's going to go spare in a moment if you don't take your message!" Ron's mouth was mercifully breakfast-free when he imparted this bit of advice, as Hermione was sitting across from him today, and didn't fancy a porridge shower. Looking up, she found a lovely tan and white barn owl standing in the middle of her copy of the Daily Prophet that she hadn't quite gotten to yet (though it appeared Harry and Ron had, in her distraction. They were looking up the team standings in other parts of the world, as they couldn't very well follow their beloved Cannons at the moment. Apparently a team called the Moose Jawed Asteroids or something like that, was a heavy favourite for the World Cup next year, and occasioned some very fiery discussions in the common room. The bird's chosen perch explained Ron's indignant exclamation, anyways). Taking the note curiously, she offered the beautiful bird her crusts as she unrolled the note. In the middle of the roll, was another navy rose. Where is he getting roses that colour? she thought distractedly as she cursed the return of the stomach troubles that had plagued her earlier. Maybe she was allergic to flowers. That was a likely explanation. She most definitely was not being foolish about a boy.

There was also a blindfold.

She put that away hurriedly, before Ron could see, and cause a scene. He took every possible opportunity to rag on Oliver since he and Harry had found out about the whole thing. (She still hadn't forgiven Harry for snooping in her personal correspondence, but had let it go in favour of the bigger things she had to worry about.) They had gone positively spare when Hermione had reluctantly told them that his was actually the second Contract that she had received, and that the first one was from Gregory Goyle. They had been absolutely furious with her, and hadn't spoken to her for a whole day, before relenting to hear her reasoning. ("Because, Ronald - I knew that you would feel obligated to try and help. It's not fair that you should have to file a Contract for me. It's your whole life you would be giving up, and I couldn't let you do that for me. You'll be able to fall in love, and be with someone you really want to be with, and as it stands, it won't be so bad for me. Oliver's a nutter, but he's not nearly as horrible as Goyle!")

Dear Hermione,

Surprise!

You do like flowers, don't you? I hope they're okay - I asked Harry if he knew, but he said

you never mentioned that kind of stuff, probably because you have two guys for best friends.

I would like a chance to speak with you, if you're agreeable, tonight. Meet me outside the

Gryffindor common room before dinner, say about 5:30ish?

Oh, I got back from Norway just three days ago, and guess what was waiting for me?

There was a parchment was waiting on my stoop. Unfortunately, it was being carried

by the most obnoxious bird I've ever dealt with. Bugger nipped me three times as I tried to

get him loose. It's not like it was my fault that he had to wait for nearly a week to

deliver his letter, now is it?

The Goyle family has chosen a Wizards Duel (big surprise there), to take place

at Hogwarts (I insisted on that bit - there's now way in hel- that won't erase, will it? Well,

there's absolutely no chance I'm going to let them pick some dodgy place surrounded by their

kind of people) ten days from today. At least this way I'll have Dumbledore there to

ensure I've got an even break - Harry has agreed to try and help me brush-up on my dueling

technique. There's all sorts of fiddly rules involved, and I don't know the half of them. I'm

not too sure Harry does either, but at least he can help me practice a bit.

I hope to see you tonight, at 5:30pm by the Fat Lady.

Oh, and bring the blindfold.

Yours in Circumstance,

Oliver Wood

Now, what in the world had he been doing in Norway that took almost ten days? Hermione's studying of Blood Magic was distracted at best throughout the remainder of her morning meal.

-..-

It was with great trepidation that Hermione found herself being lead by Oliver through the School halls, blindfolded, that evening. Lessons had been an unusual torture for her that day; alternately whizzing by as if sped by the hands of a time-turner, or dragging on, as if Professor Binns had suddenly possessed all of her teachers. He had met her outside the portrait hole at precisely 5:30, dressed in a nice set of navy robes that looked very sharp against his black turtleneck. Hermione was suddenly glad that she had left her school robes on, as she really didn't have any clue as to what to expect, and this way, didn't have to worry about it. He had asked her to wear the blindfold, and had been gently leading her by the elbow lower, and lower into the castle, until he lead her through a set of doors that must have lead outside, as she could suddenly feel the damp air on her upturned face.

It is very nervous business being led around like that, especially if you don't know the person doing the leading all that well. The trip seemed to take an age to Hermione, though afterwards, she knew it had been under ten minuets. Oliver kept up a litany of gentle encouragements the whole way that she found incredibly thoughtful, as it did provide a distraction from the feeling that you were going to step in a pothole or something equally distasteful at any second, and fall. He absolutely refused to answer any of her questions as to where he was leading her, saying only that it was 'somewhere she should recognize'. Well that didn't answer much. After seven years at the school spent in the company of Harry, Ron and the Marauder's Map, Hermione didn't think there was much she wouldn't recognize here any more.

Oh, that last door had taken them back inside. The wind stopped, and the sound quality was different, the way it gets when there are walls fairly close by. Hermione was amazed at all of the things she could pick out, now that she could no longer see. Maybe there was something to that theory after all, the one about other senses being stronger?

She could feel Oliver's calloused hands brushing her hair back as he prepared to remove her blindfold. The soft touch felt nice against the sensitive skin behind her ear, and caused a small shiver that was only partially due to the chill night air.

As the blindfold was removed, Hermione blinked a few times at the sudden flash of light. Oliver moved to place his hand in front of her eyes, shielding them, but still allowing some of the light to penetrate.

"You ready now?" Hermione didn't think she had ever heard his boisterous voice like this. Soft and somehow shy. She nodded. To say that she was stunned by the sight that finally met her eyes would probably be an understatement.

It was the boys' loo.

Well, more correctly, the Gryffindor boys change room. But still, a bathroom, when you got right down to it - just a bathroom with additional benches and lockers. And currently, a table set for two, surrounded by floating candles.

Charming.

Why in the world would he bring her here? As for something she'd recognize ... really, here? The only time she had ever been in here had been --

Oh.

Oliver had obviously put a lot of thought into this. He had tried to come up with something personal for the two of them. This just happened to be the one and only place that they had ever spent any sort of meaningful time together. It was sweet, if you looked at it the right way. She thought she understood. The last (and only) time she had been here was to tell him off for his lack of sensitivity; it had been right after the disastrous Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game in her third year. Harry had scared the life out of her as he fell off his broom while he was flying fifty feet up in the air, landing with a sickening thud that she felt more than heard from her seat in the Gryffindor stands. Harry had been horrified; it was the first game he had ever lost, and he had felt miserable with guilt as he lay in the hospital wing, recovering. When she over heard Fred say that 'Wood was still in the showers, trying to drown himself.' she couldn't believe someone could be so ... infuriating as to take a game so seriously. When she had returned to the common room sometime later, and hadn't seen Oliver she had asked Fred about him, only to be informed that they thought he was still attempting to sprout gills. For some reason, the revelation that he was out there, making his team feel even worse with his attempt to keep his disappointment from them, when she had had the scare of her life had infuriated her - before she quite knew what it was that she was doing, she had marched the length of the castle grounds, and begun banging on the change room doors, demanding, shrilly, that he let her in. When that had failed to achieve the desired results, she had pulled out her wand, made short work of the locking spells (and left a smoking hole where the knob had been), and proceeded to ball him out while the poor man had been standing there in only a towel. (A fact she had not recognized in her agitation.) He had been blushing horribly, caught trying to hold up his towel while attempting to defend himself against a bushy haired fourteen year old girl he only really knew as the 'bookworm friend' of his prized seeker. "You can't plan for everything, Wood. And staying in here to drown your disappointment so you don't make any of your team feel like you blame them for the loss, is only making things worse for them. They go out there and try so hard for you, you stupid prat. Somehow, with your terrible lack of sensitivity, and horribly skewed sense of the appropriate, you've made them all see things your way; and if you don't get to the Hospital Wing this instant to tell Harry that it's not his fault, I will personally research a suitable hex to give you boils on your arse every time you even think of setting it down on a broom. Now march, Captain!"

The encounter still brought a smile to her face, even now. She felt Oliver relax next to her at the gesture. He obviously wasn't sure how she'd take his surprise.

He glanced at her slyly, from the corner of his eyes. "You know - tha' towel seemed like very little protection that day."

A much more adult Hermione couldn't resist the urge to smirk at him.

Dinner was nice. Not exactly comfortable, but nice. When Hermione expressed some concern at having someone walk in on them, Oliver smiled his slightly crooked smile at her, and told her that he had enlisted Harry to ensure that none of the team bothered them. Much to her surprise, Hermione found that they managed to have conversation throughout the meal, without Quidditch being mentioned once. She would have thought the strain of it might kill Oliver, but she found he had surprising depth, and was able to converse on a variety of subjects - but anytime they got close to discussing anything really connected to current Wizarding affairs, he seemed to change the subject, or suddenly revert to inane small talk, which Hermione found horribly frustrating. She was now convinced that he was deliberately playing 'dumb jock', and she couldn't for the life of her figure out why. Maybe he was merely trying to avoid anything that might result in another explosive disagreement. Despite everything, she found it difficult to enjoy the evening.

Her resentment at her situation kept bubbling up, pushing at her control like steam in a kettle. The whole evening just felt like a mockery to her; it wasn't like either of them had a choice in this. This wasn't a first awkward date, or a romantic lover's meeting, but some kind of consolation prize, mocking her in her trapped predicament. She defiantly refused to acknowledge the rather traitorous thought that she might possibly be so upset because he was attractive, and had actually seemed been rather quick-witted and smart, and the only reason he was here, was because he had to be.

Once the meal had wound down, Hermione made sure to thank Oliver for the thoughtful surprise; he really had tried hard, for her sake. Getting up to return to Gryffindor Tower before she missed curfew, she was restrained by a gentle hand on her wrist. She looked over, to see Oliver gazing at her intently, as if trying to figure out what position she would do better at.

"Hermione," he began. The tone in his voice sent another shiver down her spine. Maybe she was coming down with a stomach flu after all. He looked at her, as if for inspiration on how to continue. She cocked her head at him, as if to say 'Well?'

He let out a deep breath, and seemed to collect himself. "I know this has got to be incredibly hard for you. At least I had some say in who I Contracted. You're a wonderful girl, with strong opinions, and the brains to defend them. An' honestly, I'm not surprised at all that you were Contracted so quickly." He paused for a moment, staring intently at her; in a way that made her wonder if she had food on her nose. She tried to covertly brush it with her hand, disguising the motion as a yawn. Where was he going with this?

Releasing her wrist, Oliver reached across the small table to take her hands very gently in his. He seemed to be concentrating intently on using just the right words to express what he was thinking. "I'd like the chance to become friends, Hermione. We have a whole lifetime ahead of us to get to know one another, and I swear I will provide for you, and protect you as you deserve, but I'd like to be able to be your friend. I wish I could say you had some choice in this whole matter, but I understand that there isn't any real option here for you - I don't think you could ever accept a life with someone like Goyle. I wanted you to have this - as a symbol of my commitment to make you as happy as I can - as happy as you deserve." Sometime during his speech, Oliver had reached inside his robes, and had withdrawn something which he now lay in Hermione's hand, which he still held loosely in his. Releasing her, so that she could examine his gift, Oliver watched her face intently for her reaction.

In her hand, Hermione held a flat silver broach, about three inches long. It was an irregular shape, and the edges of the antique metal were worn smooth with age, and handling. Someone loved this, once, she realized. Running one finger over design, she noticed that it featured two intertwined hearts that seemed to grow all but organically out of the surrounding pattern, almost as if the artist had not meant to put them there at all.

"It's called a Luckenbooth. It's... well, it's usually given as a betrothal gift by a groom to his bride. This was my Grannie's, once. I wanted you to have it. Will you wear it for me?"

With a shaking hand, Hermione laid the beautiful piece on the small table in front of her. This couldn't be happening - it just couldn't. "You want me to wear a visible symbol of your claim on me? Just a tad barbaric, don't you think?" She almost didn't recognize the voice speaking now - it was cold, and brittle. She tried not to notice how Oliver's face fell. She was not going along with this foolishness, really, what did he expect? "It's bad enough I don't have any say in this contract business, but you now want to brand me too, like I'm some sort of property?" Malfoy's words of a few days earlier came back to haunt her, and she could feel the tears behind her eyes burning to escape - she suppressed them ruthlessly as she got up to leave. It would have been nice if this had been real - but Oliver had no right to lay a claim on her, beyond what the law gave him already.

Oliver really didn't know what to say to this. Was that honestly what she thought of him? He had worked so hard, trying to come up with something meaningful, instead of some 'canned' romantic moment used in cheesy love stories by men intent on getting into some bird's knickers. He'd been trying to create the illusion of choice for her, to try and make her feel less like a commodity to be traded, or fought over. Apparently, he'd failed miserably. Mentally taking a deep breath, he tried to push aside his hurt feelings, and rising anger at her lack of appreciation. Really, Hermione had had a lot to deal with in the last few weeks; if she wanted to keep things strictly impersonal, then so be it.

A small part of him couldn't help but wish she felt otherwise, though.

"Hermione," Oliver's voice didn't sound like he was angry at her, at least. She stopped, but didn't turn around. She wasn't sure she wanted to see his face at the moment. Guilt was trying to push its way to the forefront of her feelings, and she was struggling with the feeling that maybe she had over-reacted. "Hermione, keep the broach. I want you to have it." She could feel him standing right behind her now. Two hands came down on her shoulders, and gave them a reassuring squeeze, before gently taking her hand, and placing the silver charm into her palm. "You never know, you may feel that you want to wear it yet."

He watched her go, and for some reason he found himself feeling inappropriately hopeful. At least she didn't chuck it at me.

-..-