Hermione couldn't believe she had agreed to this. Sure, she needed a vacation, but she hadn't been planning on spending it hunting down Charlie Weasley.

Charlie Weasley was a dragon tamer – a good dragon tamer. His colleagues had said he was the best, by far the most devoted to his work. But even they couldn't quite understand why he had taken off to the bitter cold of northern Russia, let alone without notice. A letter home to Molly Weasley said he was tracking down rumors of a few villages whose livestock had been slaughtered. The town heads had sent a message to the reserve he worked at, begging for help, and Charlie had packed his bags that evening. Then he was gone. Even if it turned out to not be a dragon, he wanted to find out what it was.

Every member of the Weasley family, including their spouses, children, friends… they had all visited Charlie, trying to convince him to give up the search. He turned them all away, claiming he was on to something here, and wouldn't be returning until he found the creature. In desperation, Molly had contacted Hermione at work. She had a vacation planned for a week from then, but the desperation in Molly's letter convinced her to unpack her swimsuits and beach clothes and start packing thick sweaters and long underwear.

So here she stood in the kitchen of the Burrow. She carried no luggage, though in fact she had several trunks worth of food and supplies for herself and Charlie in her pocket. Hermione prided herself on undetectable extension charms, and this one had been difficult. The pocket of her wool parka was filled with all manner of items, from socks to warm mince pies. She pulled a hand-knit cap over her short curls and tugged on her new gloves. Molly looped a scarf around her neck, gave her a hug, and threw some Floo powder into the kitchen fireplace grate.

Kissing Molly on the cheek, Hermione stepped into the fireplace and shouted 'Novym Vchera!" Tucking in her elbows, Hermione zoomed through the Floo network. She landed unsteadily on her feet in a small fireplace. Ducking under the mantle, Hermione emerged in a small bar. The woman at the bar smiled at her, and Hermione greeted her in rudimentary Russian.

"Dobry den. Zdravstvuyte kak dela?" (Good day. How are you?)

The woman smiled and responded in heavily accented English, "Good evening, my dear. Are you the one here for the dragon tamer?"

Hermione nodded, and the kindly woman poured her a shot of vodka. Hermione downed it quickly and reached to pay, but the woman stopped her.

"No, no, no. You do not pay here, my dear. Your dragon tamer is trying to save homes. You do not pay here."

"Ti takaya dobraya." (You are so kind)

"Your guide should be here soon, my dear. His name is Mikolai, very good guide. He'll have you to the dragon tamer before you know it."

Hermione thanked her and accepted another shot of vodka. She sipped at this one, waiting at the bar. Before too long, a snow covered man stepped into the empty bar. His coat had a fur collar, and his boots were caked with snow.

"Mikolai?"

He nodded gruffly, and beckoned her to come with him. Hermione dashed off a quick goodbye to the barkeep, who called after her to give his regards to the dragon tamer – "Tell him Domna hopes he is well!"

Hermione tried to start a conversation with Mikolai, but his English was bad, and her Russian was far worse. They passed most of the half hour trek in silence, and when they finally reached the small camp, Hermione paid the man and he left with an abbreviated bow.

Charlie's camp was a singular tent, smoke rising from a hole in the roof. Tentatively, Hermione called out Charlie's name, her voice barely carrying through the snow. There was rustling in the tent, and after a moment a head of flaming red hair poked out of the tent entrance. Charlie seemed surprised, and beckoned her in. Hermione shot him a grateful smile and settled herself on a low slung couch in the magically enlarged tent. They sat in silence for a few minutes as Charlie puttered in the tiny kitchen, making tea. Accepting her cup gratefully, Hermione stripped off her coat; the tent was rather warm, and the many layers Hermione was wearing were proving too much.

"My mother sent you." It wasn't a question, and Hermione nodded in response.

"Yes, she did. I didn't have much of a choice, really." Hermione sipped at her tea – chammomile – and waited for Charlie to break the silence.

"Let's hear the speil."

"Your mother's, or mine?" Hermione grinned.

"I hope you have something new for me, because I've heard my mother's speech more than a dozen times now."

"I don't think you should go home."

Charlie looked up at her, shocked, and Hermione continued. "I understand why you're here. It's the passion and love you have for your career, your dragons. I think your mother wanted me to come because I'm devoted to my work as well, but it's kind of backfiring on her. You need to be here, pursuing this lead, because it's what you do. I feel the same way about my research. I didn't leave my lab except to eat for almost two months when I was making that breakthrough on the Weedosoros poison antidote."

"I heard about that. You got some great publicity."

"Yes, as if I needed any more publicity. However, my point is, I understand why you're here, though poisons are, admittedly, vastly different from dragons. I don't begrudge you your passions, but you are unfortunately stuck with me for the next couple of weeks – your mother made me promise to work on your return home."

Charlie nodded and was silent for a moment. Then, 'Thank you, Hermione. It does ease the anxiety to know that you understand and won't be forcibly removing me from this wasteland. I just need to figure out if the creature attacking the villages is a dragon. Even if it isn't, I need to give the villagers some information. There aren't any dragon species native to this part of Russia, and if another species is migrating, the reserve and the Ministries need to know about it. I admit I should have brought a team with me, but I think I have a better chance of figuring it out on my own. I think I've finally tracked the creature to its home, and I'm going to try and catch it tomorrow. Actually, it's getting pretty late. I was getting ready for bed when you showed up."

Hermione apologized, and Charlie led her to the small bedroom. A cot-sized bed stood against one wall, and a trunk sat at the foot of it.

"You can sleep in here. I'll kip on the couch."

"Nonsense, Charlie." She pulled out her wand and waved it. As the bed grew, Hermione continued matter-of-factly, "I know how uncomfortable it is to sleep on a couch or on anything in a tent, really. I was camping all over Great Britain for almost a year, and the cold only makes the hard beds feel worse. Look, the bed is plenty big enough to share, with room for pillows between us. There's no sense in you sleeping on the couch, or me, for that matter."

Charlie sputtered a protest, but Hermione cut him off. "Charlie, I am twenty-six years old. I am no stranger to sleeping with men, I assure you." She started to take off her sweaters, and Charlie only managed to make it out of the door as she pulled her t-shirt off. He caught a glance of her freckled shoulders and curvy hips as he made it into the main room of the tent.

When he was sure Hermione would be dressed, he reentered the room. Hermione was sitting on the far side of the bed, square-rimmed reading glasses perched on her nose and her body wrapped in silky-looking pyjamas. She had a Muggle ballpoint pen between her teeth, and there was a sheaf of papers on her lap.

"What are those?" Charlie asked as he slipped into the other side of the bed, already in his nightclothes.

"Believe it or not, they're Severus Snape's personal research notes." She looked up at him over her frames, and scrutinized him. He bore evidence of being in the wilderness – a cut above the eye, stubble, and a general air of being unkempt. He had taken off his overshirt, and his tee slid up to reveal a long, faded scar that crossed his chest and dipped dangerously into his pyjamas.

"How'd you get a hold of them?"

"Legally. For all that Snape was a right git when he was teaching me, he left all of his personal research, potions paraphernalia, and the entire contents of his extensive library to me in his will. His will mentioned something about there being potential in my mind even if I was constrained by contemporary instruction – I wasn't much of an experiment undertaker in school. It's been four years since it was released to me, and I've yet to make it through a tenth of his research. It's informed a lot of my own personal work. His variation of the Weedosoros poison was my starting point for the antidote of the conventional brew. I owe the majority of my success to this man, as cruel as he was to Harry."

"He picked the right person to bequeath it to, then."

"I'd like to think I'm doing him justice. I've had his research on the Draught of the Living Death and a new restorative potion made public. He is getting credit where credit is due, even if he isn't around to take joy in it."

"Congratulations, Hermione."

"Thank you, Charlie." She made a small notation on one of the sheets, and slipped the sheaf into a file by her feet, which she bound with a leather thong. Tossing the folder down by the foot of the bed and her bag, she took her glasses off and placed them on the bedside table, stretching across Charlie to get to it. Her body briefly pressing against his told him she was not wearing a bra.

Hermione and Charlie settled into the enlarged bed, a pillow barrier between them. Murmured goodnights were soon replaced by steady breathing. The last thought that flitted through Hermione's head was that she would really rather like finding out what other scars Charlie had on his body.