A/N: Ancient mythology and folklore is regrettably filled with horrifying behaviour. I do not excuse any of that (I'm looking at you, Zeus). However, I would remind you that most myths are unfortunately vague and use euphemisms that might have more than one meaning. It may mean exactly what it says, or it might not. In addition to that, in one myth Herakles is the beloved of Hera and acts rather like a champion on her behalf. In another myth, she tries to have him murdered as a baby. It depends on who is telling the myth and who is the audience for the myth.
I have absolutely no impulse control. Either that or I'm so excited and happy to be able to write *anything* that I've gotten carried away.
The legends linking smithies and magic were rather vague. Hermione had read one or two in her library excursions, but nothing had prepared her for what she saw that night. Everyone in the room: Flint, Pucey, the Ministry official, the smith, and his wife all turned their attention to the great anvil and stone in the centre of the room.
The smith's wife moved forward, chanting in a language that Hermione suspected might be a craft secret among smiths. Sigils on the great stone began to glow brighter and brighter. Then the smith began to chant in the same language and sigils upon the anvil began to glow, too. They turned to the Ministry official and nodded to him; he cleared his throat and turned to Hermione. Flint and Pucey moved so that they flanked her.
"Hinc colligimus partes ad nuptias," The official began. He continued in Latin. "Hermione, daughter of Magic, do you enter this marriage of your own free will?"
"Volo," Hermione agreed, and if her voice was a little shaky no one blamed her for that.
"You have not given any previous oaths or promises that forfeit any promise made here and now?" The official asked her with a stern expression.
"I have not," Hermione swore.
"Do you speak for the House of Granger?" The official asked.
Hermione paused in surprise and turned to stare at Flint.
"Political matches always involve Houses," Flint pointed out.
"Are we… does this marriage create a House of Granger?" Hermione demanded in a shocked whisper.
"In a way," Pucey hissed in reply from her other side.
"Hermione, daughter of Magic, do you speak for the House of Granger?" The official repeated with a severe frown that he directed at all three of them.
"Volo," Hermione replied, her voice cracking.
"Will you accept the alliance offered by the Houses of Flint and Pucey?" The official asked.
"Volo," She agreed.
The official turned to Flint and repeated the initial questions—determining if he had the freedom and agency to enter into a dynastic marriage. Finally, it was Pucey's turn to swear that he was not previously promised and that he spoke for his House. The entire anvil glowed briefly before returning to its previous state, the sigils burning brightly with magic against the cold iron of the anvil.
"This marriage will create a treaty of understanding between the Houses of Flint, Granger, and Pucey," The official intoned solemnly. "Where before there was mistrust and doubt, now let these Houses learn of one another and sow the seeds of trust. Where before there was anger and prejudice, now let these Houses understand one another. May love and peace grow between these Houses, and may that peace spread to the wizarding world as a whole."
"So mote it be," the three of them murmured together.
With another glance at the three of them, the official turned so that he was facing Hermione. Flint and Pucey both pulled out their wands and carefully set the tips so that they were touching the anvil; Hermione followed suit.
"Do you, Hermione, accept Marcus and Adrian as your husbands, forever uniting the Houses of Flint, Granger, and Pucey?" The official asked.
"Volo." Hermione stared as the tip of her wand glowed.
Sparks of red and gold showered the anvil and it glowed in response to Hermione's magic. Then the official turned to Pucey.
"Do you, Adrian, accept Hermione as your wife, forever uniting the House of Pucey to that of Granger?" The official asked.
"Volo," Pucey swore with a confidence that Hermione envied.
"And do you further accept Marcus as your consors in marriage, uniting the House of Pucey to that of Flint?" The official continued.
Pucey turned slightly and exchanged a brief glance with Flint before turning back to the official. "Volo," he replied.
The tip of Pucey's wand glowed and eddies of silver and green magic swirled about the anvil, which glowed in response just as it had to Hermione's vow. The official nodded in satisfaction and then turned to Flint.
"Do you, Marcus, accept Hermione as your wife, forever uniting the House of Flint to that of Granger?" The official asked.
"Volo," Flint swore.
"And do you further accept Adrian as your consors in marriage, uniting the House of Flint to that of Pucey?" The official looked up from his book. Flint's fingers seemed to tighten on his wand before he replied.
"Volo." His reply was quiet… almost subdued.
Where Pucey's magic had appeared to move in eddies, Flint's moved in currents. Silver and green wrapped around the anvil in a caress of magic and the anvil glowed for a third time.
Each time, Hermione had felt a strange tug in her chest. She had a feeling that it was her magic responding to her vows and to the vows that Flint and Pucey had each made to her. The part of her that was always curious that always wondered, wished that there was a way to examine her magic and see how the vows had altered it, but the rest of her focused on the moment.
Magic swelled in the room, surrounding all of them, pressing in on them, and Hermione almost felt overwhelmed by it. It had not felt like this when she had attended the wedding of Bill and Fleur; perhaps because she had not been a participant? She would ask Flint and Pucey later.
"May Magic bless this union," the official finished.
"So Mote it be," the three of them murmured in reply.
"Very good," the official said with a sharp nod for all of them. "I'll just make sure that this is filed with the Ministry." He gave a deep, respectful bow to the smith and his wife. "Thank you for blessing us with your presence."
With a sharp crack of Apparition, the official disappeared.
At that point, the smith and his wife stepped forward again. Both of them began to chant again, and Hermione felt the magic in the room respond to them. The smith had a hammer in his hand that glowed with magic. His wife moved her hands in complicated pattern and then she pulled a thread of magic from the anvil. She pulled two more threads and handed them to her husband. Between the two of them they braided the threads of magic and then the smith struck his hammer to the threads.
When the smith was finally done, three gleaming bracelets lay on the anvil. His wife stepped forward and gestured to Hermione.
"Come," she called and Hermione felt compelled to step forward.
"Who are you?" Hermione asked before she could stop herself.
The smith's wife smiled and her eyes glinted in amusement. "I was like your husbands," she explained. She glanced toward Flint and Pucey and then turned back to Hermione. "My father was greedy… evil. My husband fought against him and defeated him, and I was given to him in marriage. Some said it was revenge for what my father wrought. "
"Was it?" Hermione bit her lip and wondered at her own audacity.
"Do not believe everything you read," the smith's wife cautioned her. "I will admit that it took him years to look at me and not see my father." She slid the bracelet over Hermione's hand and onto her wrist. The bracelet automatically resized itself. "Do not let anger rule your heart, daughter of Magic."
"I won't," Hermione promised. She stared at her bracelet and then up at the smith's wife. "What is your name?"
"Others have called me Beadohilde," the smith's wife replied coyly.
Recognition flared in Hermione and she stared in shock. Beadohilde laughed and patted her on the cheek before gently turning her so that she faced Flint and Pucey. The smith… Wayland… was speaking to both of her new husbands. All three of them had solemn expressions.
"Husband," Beadohilde called.
"I bless this marriage," Wayland said in a deep, gravelly voice that spoke of centuries of bellowing in a forge. "May the bonds forged today strengthen your union."
"Thank you," Hermione whispered.
"Thank you," Flint and Pucey echoed.
"Why us, sir?" Hermione asked before she could stop herself.
Flint snorted and Pucey sighed.
"Several reasons," Wayland said. He looked to His wife and His eyes softened. "The Isles need what your union will represent, but the three of you needed Us. You needed to know that a marriage formed by necessity can still hold love and caring."
"You need to know that despite what others will say about your marriage—you three will know the truth of it, and that is all that matters," Beadohilde added with a soft smile for Her husband.
"Treat each other with respect," Wayland offered. He paused and glanced at His hands, twisting His hammer in them. "Gift one another with honesty."
"We will," Pucey said.
"We will," Hermione replied after him, and Flint's deeper voice spoke in unison with hers.
Wayland held out his hand and Beadohilde moved forward to take it. With a great flash of light, they were gone. The anvil and stone vanished, leaving Hermione, Flint, and Pucey standing on the village green.
"Is that… is that a normal part of the pace nuptias?" Hermione asked a little breathlessly.
"Not exactly," Flint muttered.
"There are stories of gods blessing certain unions," Pucey explained. He shook his head and sighed. "I had always assumed it was a figurative or metaphorical sort of blessing."
"Was it… is it because your House is Flint?" Hermione asked curiously, turning to look at her new husband.
"We've had one or two smiths," Flint admitted. "But that was a long time ago."
"I should go home," Hermione yawned. "I'm exhausted."
"Erm, about that," Pucey said hesitantly. "We… it would be best for us if you… if you lived with us."
"Lived with you," Hermione repeated.
"Your own suite, of course," Pucey added. He glanced at Flint and then back at her. "Maybe Flint Manor?"
"We have to make it look real," Flint reminded her. "You living in your own flat doesn't make it look real."
"Right," Hermione muttered. She chewed on her lip for a minute. "My own suite?"
"Of course," Pucey huffed. He glared at her. "You are our lady wife. Where did you think we would put you? In an attic nook?"
"All right," Hermione agreed after a moment. "We'll need to stop by my flat. I'll need to change."
"Of course," Pucey and Flint replied.
/\/\/\/\/\/\
Apparating to Flint Manor had been disorienting. Since Hermione didn't know the location, Flint had been forced to Side-Along her. She stumbled, but Flint's strong arms kept her from falling on her face. A wave of nausea swept over her and Hermione fought for control. Throwing up in front of her new husbands was probably not the best way to forge an alliance.
"Gonna be sick?" Flint asked her.
"No," Hermione retorted. She took a deep breath in through her nose. "No, I'm fine."
"Good. We need to add you to the wards," Flint said. He tugged her toward an imposing-looking gate.
"This should be interesting," Pucey muttered.
"What does that mean?" Hermione demanded.
"They're blood wards," Flint explained. He frowned at her. "You should probably be the one that does it."
A carefully performed slicing hex made a shallow cut on her palm. The pain was less than she expected, but when Flint and Pucey both winced she remembered why that was. Flint scowled at her hand, and then gently took hold of her wrist. The broom callouses on Flint's palms made gooseflesh break out on her arms.
Flint's wand movements were powerful, but they were also imbued with an unexpected grace. Hermione watched as the gateposts glowed. Flint led her forward and pressed her bleeding palm to both gateposts.
"There," he said with grim satisfaction. "The wards recognize you as my wife. You'll be able to come and go whenever you want."
"Give me your hand," Pucey said and plucked her wrist from Flint's grip. He already had his wand in hand and used it to cast a healing spell on her palm. The shallow cut closed, and newly healed skin appeared. Pucey ran his thumb over her palm and nodded to himself. "Much better."
"We'll have to do it again at your place," Flint said with a scowl.
Pucey shrugged. "Yes, but not tonight."
Both wizards seemed to know exactly where they were going. They walked quickly through the darkened halls, and Hermione struggled to keep up with them. They both stopped outside a door.
"Your suite," Flint explained. He waved a hand at it. "You can change it around if you want. Plenty of stuff up in the attic to trade it out."
"Thank you," Hermione whispered.
"Just get some sleep," Pucey said with an encouraging smile. "The next few days are going to be busy."
The suite that Flint had assigned to her was like something out of a period drama. Hermione stared at the room in shock. The walls were covered in delicate peach and cream striped wallpaper. Scattered about the room were settees and chairs. In one corner was a resplendent writing desk with delicate-looking inlay. There were two doors, and Hermione moved toward the farthest one.
Inside the farthest door was what appeared to be a walk-in closet and dressing room. The room appeared empty—no robes were hung and the shelves were bare. Hermione backed out of that room and headed to the other door.
"Oh," Hermione breathed softly.
It was the sort of bedroom that she had daydreamt about as a girl. A huge four-poster bed with soft peach-coloured bed hangings stood in the centre of the room. One wall was covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves, and every 6 feet there were large bay windows with window seats where one could curl up and read. The other wall was covered in a great magical tapestry. Hermione watched as carefully embroidered creatures moved across the tapestry.
There was one final door, which revealed a well-appointed bathroom with a positively sinful tub. Living with Flint and Pucey to convince the Ministry of the veracity of their marriage was worth it for that tub alone. Hermione spent several happy minutes fantasizing about bubble baths before she performed a mouth-cleansing charm, and headed back into the bedroom. Her bedroom.
Carefully, Hermione sat on the beautiful bench that was set at the foot of her bed. She took off her shoes and her stockings, and wiggled her toes in the luxuriantly plush pile of the carpet. A modest nightgown of cotton lawn lay across the bedspread. Hermione carefully took off her robes and folded them neatly on the bench. Then she put on the nightgown and turned in a circle watching the fabric swirl about her ankles.
The bed was ridiculous. Hermione had to get down on her knees and peer under the bed. There she spotted what she was looking for—a small step stool. After she managed to climb up into the thing, she collapsed back on the pillows and sighed gustily. The mattress, the pillows, the blankets themselves, all felt absolutely heavenly. She snuggled down into her bed and hummed in contentment. Pucey had been right—he and Flint might be Death Eater bastards, but they could definitely be gentlemen.
End Note: The Latin…
"Volo" means "I do." The bit that begins
"Hinc…" just means "we are here to join these parties in marriage."
"Consors" is spouse, consort, etc.
