A/N: "Now" is the night before the previous chapter, Midsummer, The Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts. "Then" is AD 1951, London.


Now


Hermione has never felt particularly safe on the astronomy tower. It cantilevers out from a cantilever, exposes itself to whiplash winds, and gives no promise of shelter. It exposes too much. Tonight, it shows the hills outside Hogsmeade scattered in flame. The Forbidden Forest seems to swarm with a thousand blast-ended skrewts as large fires and small, great bonfires and lanterns, torches and wands gather in a constellation around the centaur clearing. Drums beat a low and slow entrainment. She and Minerva lean against the high ramparts and watch as the rites of midsummer are celebrated all over the countryside.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" Hermione asks.

Minerva wraps them both up in her midnight blue cloak and rests her lips next to Hermione's ear. "What doesn't matter?"

"Midsummer or midwinter, in the clearing, in a tent or in a tower-that isn't the important bit."

"Likely not, no."


And she explodes. Her body collapses upon the rough stones because her legs are momentarily unable to support her weight. Minerva adjusts to keep the pressure between her legs constant, but Hermione's weight, the odd angle, and the sweaty, come-slick wetness between her legs make it impossible. Her mound throbs, untouched, cooled by an errant breeze and ready for more, even in the aftermath of fulfillment. The next thing Hermione is aware of is Minerva's cloak draped over her shivering body and the fact that someone is laughing aloud.

"You seem happy, as well," Minerva observes.

"Oh. God. Morphine," Hermione says.

Minerva affectionately swats her bare bottom and sets about locating Hermione's discarded clothing. "Hurt yourself?" She asks.

"Had help," Hermione protests. She has located a low buttress upon which to perch until her clothes are found.

Minerva offers trousers and bra, socks and a shoe. The shoe does not belong to Hermione. "And, Pet?" Minerva says.

Hermione looks up at her and squints. There is something in Minerva's hand, something proffered that is not a shoe. It is silver.

"Midsummer or midwinter, in the clearing, in a tent or in a tower. I would fuck ye in a boot," Minerva says, "I would fuck ye wi' a goot."

Hermione's slack-jawed astonishment inspires Minerva. Her accent suddenly goes verra, verra Burns.

"I will fuck ye in th' rain. In th' mirk. Oan a train. In a moturr. An' in a cabre."

"A what?"

"I wi' fuck ye in a box. I wi' fuck ye wi' a fox."

"Ow! Ow ow ow. Don't make me laugh. No laughing." Hermione holds a hand against her lower back and groans as involuntary giggles jiggle all her recently tenderized parts.

"I will fuck ye in a hoose. I will fuck ye wi' a moose. I will fuck ye haur and thaur. I wi' fuck ye anhywhaur."

Hermione holds her sides and bruised ribs together with her hands, but the laughter convulses her abused body, and she finds she must lay down on the cold paving of the astronomy tower floor, knees bent and slightly apart to relieve the pressure on her lumbar spine.

"Not right this minute, though," Minerva says, looming.

There is a sudden scuttling movement from the door leading downstairs, and the sound of feet making a fast retreat.

The two women go silent and still. Presently, Minerva says, "There are no students about."

"No current ones," observes Hermione.

"No one powerful enough to breach my wards,"

"One or two."

"Oh, my."

"Well, if you're going to go around declaiming your wedding vows from the top of the astronomy tower, this sort of thing will happen," Hermione says.


Then


"No," Jane Puckle says. Albus Dumbledore stands near the ragged edge of a crater blown into the fabric of London. There are many such about, many more than "Jane" realized as a schoolgirl reading about this war. She has decided, and Dumbledore has agreed, that the alias will do as well as any. She has no idea how he has explained this to Minerva. She suspects that he was not especially convincing, given the glower with which she is greeted when the girl crosses her path.

The girl. The damned girl.

"I insist."

Jane rubs the ring on the third finger of her left hand. "Absolutely not."

"She is the only one with the skills and talents to get you where you must go," Dumbledore states.

"That's as may be, but," she pauses and ponders the blast perimeter, knows that Dumbledore has taken her here for a reason, "In fact, that's the problem. It is almost universally true."

She feels him reaching out to her with his mind and she slams that door shut with a force that pulls him up short physically as well as mentally.

"You must trust me, Hermione."

"Must I?"

The bustle of the city around her makes her smile. Oh, it was a long, hard slog, but we did it, didn't we? The war lasted so much longer than the battles. They always do.

She turns to him squarely. "I do trust you, Albus. And I have told you everything you would want me to tell you, because I know you much better than you know me. And I know this situation much better than you know it. So you must trust me. We could go to Godric's Hollow and consult Bathilde, if you need reassurance. Or we can go down to Aberforth's basement and ask Ariana's portrait what she thinks."

She hears his sharp intake of breath. "Aberforth has a portrait of Ariana? But how?"

"He's a much more powerful wizard than is generally known."

Dumbledore whistles through his teeth.

"Goats notwithstanding."

"Your ring," Dumbledore says.

She does not bite.

"Is a navigation device."

She does not show shock.

"Or, rather, it is a homing device."