Chapter 48: Wherein the Festival winds down.
Summary: January 2nd was bound to happen. And so it has.
The second of January dawned bright and clear and Dudley Dursley still had not read his newspapers. He was so excited at the prospect of getting them and reading them at least in theory, but really, there was so much to see and learn and experience right here and right now and really, but really, he could read them all when he got home. And he would. Even the Daily Prophet, which he'd decided yesterday to get, if only for the adverts and the Quidditch coverage. Because he might need the adverts. If he was maybe going to be (oh, God!) working in the magical world (sort of, at a magical-owned but totally non-magical winery), then he might need more than just an owl and some newspapers. He might need, you know, one of those suitcases. Oh, not the kind that's an entire flat inside, and certainly not a trunk - could you just imagine that on Britrail for heaven's sake? Or trying to deal with that on the National Express? They'd laugh you off the bus, ticket or no. But a tidy little piece of baggage only just larger than a standard briefcase? That carried everything you might possibly need?
Oh, sign him up!
But that was a bit pricey, and definitely something to discuss with Mum. Such a thing might make a very nice graduation gift in two year's time though.
And maybe, well, maybe he could convince Mum to have a day out in London and go to the magical quarter with him. Mrs. Berhe and Mr. Jackson had been explaining how they, as non-magical people were allowed in - how they got in, and got to the bank, exchanged money, and then got on with the business of shopping with and for their children.
He could just imagine trying to convince his mum to have lunch with him in one of the pubs there. "Come on, Mum, it's like Star Trek! Not the spaceship, but you know, landing on another planet, visiting another culture; different people, different expectations, same appreciation of alcohol."
Maybe he needed to work on his delivery, but maybe for Easter break he could convince her, especially if she took well to the stories he could tell from this weekend.
Oh, and the stories!
He'd taken some utterly brilliant pictures yesterday, and Harry even promised to organize the teams this morning for the pick-up game so he and anyone else with a camera could take pictures, again, provided he could have a copy, but that wasn't a problem. He was happy to have a full set of doubles made and just send one to Harry at school, which he would, but maybe with the non-magical address in a padded envelope, because Luke Skywalker was only so big.
And he'd gotten a few more souvenirs, just essential ones, really, especially after seeing the Dunblane Dementors lose so dreadfully to the Ely Inferi, well… he had to get one of the new Pendragon Inferi jerseys, hadn't he? It was absolutely essential, wasn't it? And he could just pass it off as a lark to his friends at school, just a fun little regional team a distant relative played on, and then he'd also gotten some of those postcard-sized photographs, the ones that didn't move (no sense in courting tragedy at home) and he just went ahead and got a full set, but his favorite, maybe, was with the couple in their coronation clothes and crowns and things, just standing in the midst of the standing stones, and there's Excalibur hanging at Her Majesty's waist, calm as can be.
But he had gone back yesterday and taken a picture. Just of the sword. In the stone. But he'd gotten permission first, from Harry, and also figured out how to actually access the inside courtyard of the castle.
Which was rather sneaky and brilliant, really, if you were right-handed.
And so he had approached. But with reverence.
After he had pulled the giant and solid wood door closed behind him, pulling heartily on the heavy iron ring, he'd turned around and felt totally humbled, like he was entering an ancient cathedral or something.
"Um, hello," he began, speaking to whom, he didn't know, but just in case it helped, speaking all the same. It seemed like it might.
"I'm really very impressed and I mean no harm. I'd just like to come in and admire the space and perhaps take a picture, if that's alright."
There were no storms of magical beings or lightning threatening to strike, no Merfolk swimming through the air over the castle walls screaming at him to stop.
He bowed before he moved, though, just to be on the safe side.
"This is a very beautiful place, and very… sacred, clearly, and I'm honored to be here."
At this point he was directing his words to the spirit of the stones. He didn't know if there was one, but just in case.
"And if you'd prefer I not be here, just, um, just say so and I'll get going. No need to strike me dead or anything."
He hesitated again, waiting for the barest hint of a whisper, anything. A sudden darkening of the clouds. An ominous feeling. A shiver running across his skin? But no, nothing. There was nothing.
"Well, then. Right. Thank you, um, for your, uh, forbearance. Very kind."
And then he decided to shut up and very, very carefully, walk into the stones. He avoided the center, just… just because. When magic was real, what was the place of superstition?
A thought for another time, certainly.
And then he just stood there, lost in a little bit of awe, not really thinking, not exactly. Dudley was calm and if he knew it, quite centered and focused on the present moment in the way that was all the rage in ancient religion and modern new age philosophy, both. But it was quite spontaneous for Dudley who was, though he knew it not, the intrepid hero of a story quite different than this one.
And he took his picture.
And he approached the sword in its stone with reverence. He thought to touch it but couldn't bear the audacity of it. His mother would have. His father would have tried to remove it, just for a laugh, and would have wanted a picture of the same. But Dudley was far too aware of the habitual assumptions he was trying to break and this seemed like an important moment to act with the utmost integrity, even though no one was watching.
Character was what you did when no one was watching. (Another dorm poster. Remarkably helpful, those encouraging posters.)
And so, knowing no one was watching, he just quietly knelt down in front of the stone with the sword in, and then bowed down further, and then in utter silence and stillness, kissed the ground on which the stone sat, and then quietly went away again, closing the iron-studded castle door firmly behind him.
And the spirit of the stone was satisfied with its choice.
Harry rolled out of bed expecting to be more sore than he was. They hadn't had this much sex since right after they got married, but that was school for you - if you wanted to get really good grades, and he did, there just wasn't that much time for making love. Happily, Ginny worked just as hard as he did on her studies and various projects.
He decided just then that he really needed to make more time for Ginny and encourage her to take more time for him, too. Maybe, maybe that was okay to do. Maybe she wouldn't be mad at him or call him selfish. Not that she ever did, but it was always a concern. He certainly thought he was quite selfish, getting so much, and for no good reason.
He stretched and cracked his back and stretched some more as he went to go fetch the cup of tea that Trip had left under a warming charm for them in the other room, in their rather gigantic sitting room.
Ooo, cheese danish!
It was a bit of a trek, naked in the the nippy air, out to the sitting room to fetch the tray, and then back into the bedroom to the cosy curtained four poster bed that was their home in Wales, but it sure as hell beat a dusty closet under the stairs with a tiny cot mattress on the floor and an outer bolt on the door. The stone floor was very cold when he walked on it rather than on the rugs that were here and there, but soon enough he was pushing back the curtain on the bed with an elbow and putting the tray carefully on the gigantic bed and then very carefully climbing back in and attempting to gently wake his wife.
His wife!
He was married. It was so bizarre, but also so wonderful.
"Good morning, beautiful," he whispered to his wife who loved him as he half-snuggled with her, mindful of the tray past their knees.
"Mm," and then Ginny slurred something that might have been 'morning Harry.
"I've got tea and cheese danish if you want some," he ended with a sing-song voice.
"You know, you're downright cheery when you've had heaps of sex," Ginny ground out, groaning and struggling to shift and become upright enough to drink tea.
He grinned. "And you are downright cheery when you've had heaps of sex and just a bit of tea. Here. I'll pour," he said, and then did so.
They drank their tea in silence, and it was the sort of silence you could only get during a power outage, or alone in the woods when everyone was asleep. It was so silent in their suite in the castle when they weren't chewing or swallowing that Harry could hear the silence itself. And it was amazing and quite wonderful to be able to share this with his wife.
His wife!
He was married. It was so bizarre. But also, it was so wonderful.
Draco sniffed and wrinkled his nose. And then his very sleepy brain engaged and pointed out that it seemed like something or someone was kissing his nose. Just the tip. And there it was again. And again. Perhaps attempting to open his eyes was called for at this juncture.
Oh, but he was so comfortable. He had slept so well, what sleep he had gotten. And a bit more wouldn't go amiss.
Draco shifted comfortably back into the covers, but then there was, ugh, a bit of a draft sort of thing around his shoulders. He moaned in discontent and then gasped in pleasure as the lips moved from the tip of his nose to the tip of his right nipple. Tongue? Tongue. Hot and wet, and then cold and breezy.
Draco gasped again, his eyes opening reflexively.
"Oh, so you are awake," said a dreamy voice that kept the nightmares at bay.
"I am now," he groaned out, smiling without realizing it, and then cleared his throat.
"Orgasm or first breakfast?" she asked and when Draco looked at his betrothed, he saw that she was already in her version of a bathrobe, which was actually a sarong.
"Croissants?" he asked in a sleep gravelled voice.
She shook her head a little, saying, "Cheese danish."
"Orgasm," he chose easily, pulling at the knot in the cloth above her breasts and then as the material floated down to the floor behind her, pulling her back into bed, under the covers, and on top of him. He hissed in pleasure to feel her skin against his, to feel her stomach pressing against his pinned cock, her breasts pillowed delightfully against his chest.
They shifted and moved against each other, and he couldn't get enough of her skin on his. They weren't engaging in penetrative sex, as they both wanted to do the wedding night ritual for a peaceful family life, but there was still so much to do even without penetration, really. So much to explore. So much to feel. And to sleep wrapped around her was to sleep without nightmares.
Perhaps being the nocturnal resident of her bed in Hogwarts would have some benefits.
Hermione had one leg wrapped around Viktor's waist and was sighing his name as he slowly worked over her and within her. The fingers of one hand were buried in the hair at the back of his head, scratching and rubbing while the fingers of the other hand were clenched firmly on his perfectly round and beautifully muscled arse. He was on his elbows above her and sometimes, and just then, leaned in to kiss her slowly, his tongue matching the languid motions of his cock.
"You are my sun," he whispered to her some moments later, "my moon, the stars of my sky. You are my home. I lack for nothing that is necessary, for you provide all that I need. I adore you, Myon."
Involuntarily she clenched around him and he gasped in response, his thrusts becoming just a little bit firmer and faster before he slowed them back down again, and gentled them, too. He smiled down at her ruefully and she grinned up at him.
"It's a new month," she said on a whisper between them. "What do you want for this month?"
He raised a single eyebrow. He responded slowly, with emphasis, each word on a singular and somewhat harder and faster thrust than before.
"I-
"Already-
"Have-
"Every-
"Thing-
"I-
"Need!"
Hermione gasped and clenched quite on purpose this time, rolling her hips around and begging him to go harder, but he refused, gentling his thrusts once more and instead shifting his weight all to one elbow so the other hand could be free to knead her breast and tweak her nipple just so.
But she was close, was the thing, so she kept clenching, kept writhing under him, kept swirling her hips around even as his thrusts stayed impossibly, irritatingly rhythmic and his breathing became ragged.
"My beautiful Myon," he gasped. "I love watching your pleasure." He gasped again. "I love feeling it from inside of you." Still he was gasping for air, and maybe for control. Still she writhed under him. "You- you want harder and faster, but then I would be imm- immediately lost. To my own pleasure. This way-" he said, breaking off, still gasping his air but staring so intently in her eyes that the look alone almost triggered her orgasm. "I get to watch, from inside," he whispered, and she couldn't parse the look he gave her except to know that it was overwhelming in its intensity and it did trigger her orgasm.
She came with wordless groans and sighs, her whole body clenching and shaking around him, and then he lost his rhythm, and the gentleness of his thrusts finally well and truly disappeared as he whispered her name over and over again. Myon.
Many moments later Hermione shifted and made to move off of him. "Breakfast?" she asked with a smile.
He nodded, but then his smile turned sexy again. "But first," he said, his arms pulling her up to encourage a very different sort of upright position, "I want my first cup of tea," he said, the innocent look in his eyes not in the least hiding his new euphemism for eating her out after sex, first thing in the morning.
Hermione's eyes flashed wide and all considerations of food faded away as she crawled up his body and positioned herself so he could eat her comfortably. Which he did. And then they got out of bed and had breakfast, though whether it was Viktor's first or second, Hermione remained undecided.
Sofia sat at the dressing table, putting her earrings in as her husband towelled off his hair.
"The air here is… quite invigorating," she said on a smile, looking at him through her mirror.
Gregor barked out a single laugh. "Hah! The air is nice, but not nearly so invigorating as home, my blossom. It's that damn ritual on the lines. I'd discuss it with Viktor, but his brain is much too addled by sex right now, and if my guess is right, quite a Herculean amount of sex. I'm almost surprised both of them walk upright without limping when they emerge."
Sofia chortled and moved to put her bracelets on. "Gregor, be kind. They are desperately in love and all tangled up in deep and ancient magics. And so were we, once. For my part, I'm surprised we see so much of them, though that might change as the Festival ends. Perhaps."
"I'm surprised they're waiting to take their honeymoon. It's never been clear to me that she actually needed her last year of schooling repeated. I'm sure she could have sat her final exams without them," Gregor said. "Not that staying in the incubator wasn't useful, particularly the last four months, but it will chafe, I think, for the next six."
"We shall see," Sofia said with a tiny smile that gave her husband pause.
He narrowed his eyes at her.
"What do you know?"
"You may be the spymaster of Bulgaria, my darling man, but we are not in Bulgaria right now and I have been cultivating my own informants," she said with a charming smile that did not entirely work on him. Entirely.
"You will not keep it from me if it is important, or if I ask?" he quizzed her, bordering but not crossing the line into interrogation.
"I would never," she answered in all sincerity.
A small smile appeared on his face as he bent down and kissed her neck. "In that case, enjoy your intrigues, my beautiful Sofia."
Narcissa tried not to think of Michael. The dreamless sleep helped immensely the night before, but of course her dose wore off at exactly four fifty-eight in the morning, as it should, and it only took fifteen minutes of sleep without aid of the dream-crusher to be deep in the throes of something that bordered between dream and nightmare.
Lucius was taking her from behind and Michael from the front. Lucius was being thoughtlessly cruel and heartless, as was his wont of the last ten years or so, and Michael was being so, so sweet and beautiful and kind. Her heart and her body were torn in two as the dream tipped resolutely into nightmare, and then there were two Narcissas, each being intimate with only one man, but she could feel them both, she was still both, even though she was separate. And the first Narcissa, with Lucius, was determined to enjoy her husband even if he was callous and cold, and that Narcissa grew even more callous and cold to match. And the second Narcissa, with Michael, was clinging to him as if he were air and food and life, and in the aura of his kindness and love she began to grow kinder and more loving.
And she was both. And somehow, somehow neither.
And when she woke with a painful gasp, the nightmare still living on in her mind for many long moments, her body throbbed, begging for sex. It would take the memory of Lucius, but would prefer the dream of Michael.
And so, just briefly, she allowed herself to dream.
Neville had needed to take himself firmly in hand quite a shocking number of times, now. It was fine enough during the day, and especially when there was so much to distract his attention, and there was always, always something that needed doing. But at night? Oh, Merlin.
In a way it hadn't helped that he'd lost his virginity just recently. Well, sort of. Not that it mattered all that much. And not that he'd planned to at all, of course. Things just happened at that Christmas Party that they threw for his - his team. Viktor's team.
Oh, damn.
Viktor.
It was better when Neville didn't think of his name, it really was.
He was shocked at his own behavior, really he was, whenever he thought of it, so he just tried not to think of it, but then in quiet moments, of course, it all came flooding back. He couldn't even remember their names. Wasn't that horrible? It was totally horrible and Neville felt dreadful about it. He felt even more dreadful that each time - every single time - one had her mouth around him (for that's all they said they wanted, and as far as any of them went), every single time he would close his eyes and picture rather a different mouth bringing him off and sucking him to completion and it was just so much better when he didn't think of his name.
And really, that particular bathroom saw quite a lot of varied use during the party.
They were sweet girls, really. Two out of the three said they'd just wanted to thank him for his heroism, just a quick thank you, just something personal so he would know they really meant it.
The first time he was shocked and almost fought her off. But in the end… he didn't.
The second time he wondered if they were colluding, but as he later considered, the prospect of free orgasms addled his brain.
The third and last time he was surprised to hear a different line and had gotten his first kiss. Well, his first, second, third, and fourth kiss. He almost remembered her name. Not quite, though. But it was the daughter of the Head Coach, that was obvious enough. So, Miss Something MacAster. And when she offered, he accepted. And afterwards when he offered, she declined, but she did it in a very charming way that perhaps promised more if he wanted it. Which seemed like a nice idea, except, well, except that half the time she kissed him and almost the entire time her lips were busy elsewhere he was desperately fantasizing about someone else.
Desperately.
Painfully.
Not a good way to begin a relationship.
But he tried. He tried to bring himself to completion thinking about Miss MacAster and her pretty eyes, the graceful way she moved, and it worked alright enough at the beginning, but about halfway through his fantasies always shifted and morphed and then it was quite predictably someone else.
Viktor.
Viktor.
Viktor!
Neville came with a gasp, again, and then a sob as his heart broke. Again.
He dashed the tears away and tried to pull himself together. He would get over this. He would. He would move on and it would be okay and one day, one day he would be loved intensely and beautifully by someone and he would be free to return their affection and all of this could just be a fond post-war mosh of memories.
Luna had her standard recording set up again at breakfast. This was the morning that Hermione would be opening the rest of her presents. The 31st was the presentation of the gifts of state, the 1st she opened the presents from people she knew, and the 2nd was slated to be the gifts from everyone she didn't know, and these had all already been checked by aurors who placed on every single gift or envelope a security tag and a charm that could only be opened by Hermione - and if the tag or the charm were off, she was to set the present aside without touching it and alert the aurors. Fleur had also looked over the pile of gifts with her curse-finding spectacles on and was seated somewhat close to Hermione for breakfast, continuing to wear them on the end of her nose and nodding to confirm safety each time Hermione opened a gift.
Honestly, Luna was slightly less interested in paying strict attention this time - oh, she would look over the annotated transcript but it would very likely be all quite predictable. The Great Houses who were favorable or neutral would send useful gifts the size of which would be dependent upon the wealth of the House. Those who were opposed to Hermione politically or personally would send token gifts that might be useful, or might be simply frivolous. The Lesser Houses would send gifts along the same line, but of a much smaller magnitude. And then there would be individuals who would likely follow the same format, though it would be interesting to note if Hermione received gifts from outside Britain that weren't state gifts. Given the current state of affairs, it wouldn't be at all surprising, especially from China. Given the large number of rather identical small trunks stacked against the wall, Luna would be surprised, really, if those weren't from the Great Houses in China.
Time would tell, and so would her transcript. But as Luna ate her muesli and basked in the glow of so many people still shining so brightly - not everyone of course, thirty-six hours later, but many people - she wondered how, exactly, she would be able to convince Draco to cohabitate with her at Hogwarts. Given the difficulty that was the Yule Ball, Luna knew that the question required some advanced planning.
The obvious answer, of course, was to get the Headmistress to agree to add a bedroom to the triad of rooms with the Pendragons, Potters, and Neville. There were several reasons why it was the best idea, of course, those suitemates being the only ones guaranteed not to hate her intended, and that suite containing the only discrete entrance via floo.
When the Headmistress came in and chose a seat at the other end of the table, Luna took her cup of tea and got up.
Approaching the Headmistress of Hogwarts was not something the average student did lightly.
"Good morning, Headmistress," Luna said politely, still several feet away and not presuming to sit.
A single eyebrow was raised. "Is it? I hadn't noticed," Headmistress McGonagall responded with a perfectly even tone. Given the amount of love in the air, Luna could guess at her problems and that they began and ended with every student past puberty that travelled with the Hogwarts contingent, looked after by the Heads of House and the Deputy Headmistress.
"If I promise to solve a problem even as I create it, might I sit with you for a moment?"
The Headmistress snorted delicately and poured the tea that had appeared just in front of her. "That would be novel indeed, Miss Lovegood. Yes, you may."
Luna spoke quietly, but the Headmistress had chosen a seat far from anyone else enjoying such an early breakfast, which was not all that difficult, given the hour. "Though we have not yet announced it, I have become engaged to a war veteran who does not reside in the castle. I will be applying to you for his residency when I return for the second term. But I do not imagine the Duke Black Malfoy will be well received in most suites, nor even walking the halls of the castle that would be necessary to attain most suites."
The Headmistress sighed. "I might have expected this conversation, I suppose. Have you asked Her Majesty, yet?"
"Not yet, though I'm sure she'll agree. She's grown quite fond of us both. But I didn't want her feeling like she had to ask you, and ask you for another favor."
A long sip of tea. A totally blank face. But Luna wasn't fooled by either one. The Headmistress' job was no easy walk in the park, and Luna knew she couldn't act on favoritism, even if she held it.
"I have no wish to relocate Mr. Longbottom, you understand," the Headmistress said crisply.
"Yes, he's a steadying influence, and now her personal secretary as well," Luna agreed.
"And it's just as well she have her brothers and her sisters-in-law close to her," the Headmistress seemed to consider aloud, but Luna knew she was just finding the right reasons.
"It's helping her to heal faster, which is in the best interest of, well, perhaps the world, right now," Luna pointed out.
Another long sip of tea as Hermione continued to open presents at the other end of the table.
"Secure Her Majesty's blessing before you submit your request to me, and do phrase it just so, Miss Lovegood, as it will go on record with the Board of Governors."
"I will not fail to do so, Headmistress," Luna said with a smile. "Thank you for your time, and I hope your morning gets better." Luna wondered if she should mention something about adjusting the wards of Hogwarts, but that could only occur on the solstices, and by that time the Headmistress would know full well what needed to be done.
Luna picked up her tea, which she hadn't drunk much of, and walked along the table until she approached her future mother-in-law, the Countess Black who also sat, at the moment, a bit isolated from others.
"May I, my lady?" Luna asked, and watched Narcissa's face bloom into a radiant smile.
"Oh, do sit down, my darling child," she cooed. "And none of this formality. I understand if you do not wish to call me Mother, but you must at least call me Narcissa," she said, and kissed her on the cheek as Luna did the same.
Luna sat back and merely smiled. She would have to think about the mother question. It tugged at the heart strings, a bit, but then her own mother had been dead for many years. Then, as Saucepot approached from his place coiled up to the side of Narcissa on the table, Luna leaned forward.
"I'll always treasure my very first proposal of marriage which came from you, Saucepot," she said quietly, and partially for Narcissa's benefit. "And so I wanted you to know before it was generally announced that I've chosen the human I wish to marry, and he's agreed, and it is the son of your beloved Narcissa, the man named Draco."
Saucepot said something unintelligible by either woman but also reared back and shook his head quite clearly.
"Yes, it is true, and though I am sorry you feel badly about it, I think he and I will suit very well, being the same species, and having some similar interests as well. But considering us, I hope we can always be very good friends, Saucepot, and I'll always be honored that you wished to marry me. Can we still be friends, Saucepot?" Luna asked, and offered her open hand close to the snake.
If a snake were capable of sighing, this one did, and then very, very slowly nodded his head and slithered into and against her hand, but then past her and off the table into Narcissa's lap where he curled up, possibly with another woeful sigh.
"It is difficult to be crossed in love, Saucepot," the older woman murmured down to her reptilian companion.
Saucepot said something in reply that each woman could only guess at. It would be quite wonderful at least to understand Parseltongue, Luna thought. Oh, well.
"Narcissa, I have no desire to plan my own wedding." Luna began, with her standard amount of candor. "If this isn't something you wholeheartedly wish to take on, I was considering asking Ginny for help, since she did such a good job with Hermione's, keeping it small and elegant. What are your thoughts on this matter?" Luna asked.
Narcissa smiled and Luna noted that it was honest, but somehow bittersweet, and Luna considered that whatever it was she was thinking it wasn't entirely and exclusively the question that Luna had just asked.
"I would love to plan your wedding for you and I would also love to work with Ginny. Perhaps we might do it together, if that is something she's willing to do."
Luna smiled softly, walking tenderly here because it was clearly evoking difficult emotions in her would-be mother-in-law.
"I'll ask her and let you know," she said.
Another tight smile from Narcissa that wasn't exactly insincere, but perhaps was covering up pain and sorrow.
"My dear, I'm so glad, so very glad-" and here the Matriarch of the House of Black stopped and tried to get her emotions under control and blink away the forming tears. But of course, she didn't have to say anything more. Luna knew. She and Draco would never treat each other the way Narcissa and Lucius had. There would be respect and love and very likely deep companionship. And it was very possible that Narcissa knew it, too.
The woman was, after all, grieving not just her recent dead, but also the wasted potential of her younger self. Not that it was a good place to dwell overlong, but sometimes one needed to grieve what might have been before one could move on to what would be.
Luna just laid her head on Narcissa's shoulder, like she had two months before in Hermione's study, after their second visit to Cair Paravel.
"I'm glad, too," Luna said quietly. And then after a long moment, she put a gentle arm around Narcissa's waist and spoke even more quietly. "Everything's going to be alright now, Mother. You'll see."
A little twist of grief in Luna's gut made itself known but she looked at it and smiled at it and let it go and in doing so could almost exactly feel her own mother leaning down and kissing the top of her head, offering her blessing.
One last tiny sniff and Narcissa changed the subject and they discussed briefly how Luna's interviews were going and how very impressed Narcissa was in even the abbreviated ones in the daily Quibble that morning and the last.
Luna smiled and they chatted quietly for a bit before she returned to her original seat and paid slightly closer attention to Hermione, now that she was getting closer to the interesting stacks of trunks that the elves were now moving to the table for her.
"Hmm, this one seems to be addressed to the Bright Light of the West. Hm. Very flowery language. Pretty. It's from the House of Chang. Hm. I wonder. Oh, my. I think it's a small grove of trees. Possibly an orchard. Really not sure. The card does not say. Oh, dear. Take this to the head farming elf, Tippy.
"Huh. This one is also addressed to the Bright Light of the West. It's from the House of Yi. Same style trunk. Nice trunk. I wonder. Anyway, this one is… Oh my. There's possibly quite a lot of tea sets in here.
"Oookay, this one is also addressed to the Bright Light of the West. I'm sensing a theme, Luna," Hermione said and Luna couldn't help but think that she really hadn't read her newspapers yet, and that it might help her significantly if she did so.
"Indeed, Your Majesty. You've made quite an impression in China," Luna serenely pointed out.
Hermione narrowed her gaze at her for a moment, probably trying to figure out what she missed. Luna grinned.
"What am I missing, Luna?" Hermione asked point blank and Viktor as well looked up from the other side of her. There was no one else close enough to hear their conversation except possibly Fleur, who was giving them a bit of privacy by going back to the breakfast buffet just then. They had complete privacy, then, so long as they weren't too loud. It would have been better, of course, if Hermione had had a chance to simply read the interview, brief as the first one was. It still got the point across, though of course the one in Saturday's Quibbler would be even better.
Luna sighed a little and gave her the twenty-five word version.
A coughing fit ensued possibly because Hermione seemed to choke on her saliva. When Luna glanced over to Viktor, she saw that he'd dropped his fork with a clatter and his jaw was gaping, which really didn't happen all that often.
"What?" Luna asked, once Hermione had stopped coughing. "You didn't see this coming? I know your not fond of divination, Your Majesty, but other people find it quite helpful sometimes."
Hermione drank fully half a cup of tea before responding. During this, Viktor called to a house elf and asked for the morning papers of the last two days to be brought to him. After several deep breaths Hermione finally spoke, and Luna was proud of her response; it wasn't nearly as emotional and irrational as it might have been.
"Well. Not that I remember too much of that reception with any clarity," she said, "but it does go a long way to explaining a few things that I do recall."
And then Viktor very quietly read out the abridged version of the interview, and Luna smiled placidly. It was a very good interview.
Today Elizabeth's escort and interpreter would be a Mr. Arthur Weasley who was apparently a wizarding expert on non-magical technology, and was in addition to this, Harry's father-in-law. But they weren't due to meet him until after breakfast in the salon set aside for their use, after which it would be off to see the pick-up Quidditch game, then a bit of break which Elizabeth wished to use perusing the downstairs library and perhaps taking some notes on interesting titles to order upon their return to Buckingham after the holidays.
And then Elizabeth was quite interested in watching one of the magical plays. Today's title was perhaps not encouraging, but Mr. Longbottom had assured her yesterday that The Hopping Frog was a classic of historical fiction chronicling the spread of magic east and west, meeting and in some senses clashing in the Swiss Alps. Certainly it would be very helpful to have a bit of side commentary from Mr. Weasley during that, if it could be had without disturbing other patrons.
That would lead up until lunch, and then after lunch Hermione and Viktor would have an opportunity to sit down with Elizabeth and Charles and just have a brief moment to talk.
And then they would be off and this incredibly fascinating experience would have come to a close.
And what a very unusual way to ring in a new year. Or a new millenia, she thought as she considered her breakfast options.
It was a day for a bit of streaky bacon, perhaps, just by way of celebration; both for a wonderful weekend, and the return home again.
She had missed Philip, and though she understood his choice, Elizabeth couldn't help but think he would have enjoyed the Quidditch and any number of other things, and that he would have gotten on well with Viktor and Hermione.
A few eggs, some fried tomatoes, and a bit of toast rounded out her breakfast. Extravagant, perhaps, and a far cry from her usual two-toast-two-egg, but sometimes extravagance was called for.
And rest.
That was a lesson, she considered, that Hermione needed to learn rather quickly or face some rather difficult consequences, even if they did come calling like bill collectors somewhat after the fact.
Perhaps she could recruit Viktor into the effort this afternoon, and so provide Hermione with a bit more accountability and support.
Elizabeth squashed the urge to smirk.
As a matter of fact, she was absolutely certain that that strapping young man was more than up to the challenge of distracting his lovely young wife quite regularly, indeed.
Ah, to be young and in love. It was a beautiful thing, and even more importantly, convenient to her purposes.
He caught up with her just as she was leaving the table. She was headed toward the Grand Staircase and obviously back up to her suite to freshen up before getting back to work and Charlie nonchalantly joined her on the stairs, just seeming to pass the time as he did the same. Or so he hoped.
Others were near, so he said nothing but a comment on the weather as they made their sedate way upstairs and when the others who were near peeled off to destinations on the first floor, Charlie sighed quietly in relief.
"Do you have a moment?" he asked and saw very clearly the warning signals in her eyes. "Please? Just a moment?"
Silently she nodded, but he noticed it was terse.
Charlie Weasley was a man who was well acquainted with the subtle signals of anger and annoyance in a woman, he had to be, given his mother.
She followed him to the other side of the castle where his bedroom was, where she had slept for her stay.
He had thought of dozens of ways to say what he wanted to say and thrown out most of them as being totally useless. He went through a phase last night as he had lain awake, trying to create the ideal way to compliment her, to explain how he felt and where he was, but it all sounded like so much dreck.
In the end, his heart in his throat, he just took her hand, looked her in the eye and asked.
"Will you let me write to you?"
Charlie watched a variety of emotions play across her face. Confusion. Thoughtfulness. Dawning comprehension, or so he hoped.
"Yes," was her simple, short reply and Charlie tried not to read too much into the brevity or tone.
He led her to the small but tidy little sitting room and the table he had laid his writing kit on.
As she sat down and picked up his pen, she said, "This is a non-magical address you know. No owls."
"I'll figure it out," he assured her with complete certainty. "And I'll find a non-magical address for you to reply to." And then he added, "Should you care to," and accidentally put his heart in the statement.
She finished writing only a moment later and recapped the pen, laying it down and standing back up again. She looked into his eyes with a clarity and directness that held not a hint of annoyance. "I would care to, so mind you find it quickly."
And then she kissed him and Charlie Weasley was right back where he'd been the last two nights.
"July is a very long way away," he breathed against her neck some long moments later. It wasn't that they'd confirmed anything between them. Quite the opposite. But she had mentioned she had time off in July, and he had hinted broadly that he would like to spend it with her, anywhere in the world she liked.
"Six months will fly by," she assured him breathlessly. "It always does."
He groaned and kissed her deeply, knowing there was no time for anything else. But he would, at least, have six months worth of letters to convince her to spend her vacation with him. He wanted longer than that, of course, but they lived and worked in different countries and they both were dedicated to their jobs. But this was perhaps the first step. Not a traditional first step, necessarily, but it worked for them.
Or, he hoped it would.
"Hi, Your Royal Highness," Tommy said, flying perhaps just a little bit unsteadily up to Viktor so they both faced the same way.
It begins.
"Call me Viktor, Tommy."
"Okay, Prince Viktor."
He sighed, still scanning for the snitch out of habit, though it was now crystal clear to him that he was going to lose this game, and possibly lose quite terribly.
"You can just call me Viktor while we play Quidditch, okay?"
Tommy gasped and Viktor made the mistake of glancing over at him. Dammit. He was the picture of perfect childhood innocence.
"Oh, no. I couldn't. My mum says its disrespectful."
Dammit.
Viktor sighed as Tommy chattered on for a moment about his mother's instructions to be a good boy and when he had the chance, Viktor changed the subject. The inevitable was upon him and he faced it with dignity.
"Have you played Quidditch before, Tommy?"
"This is my first time!" he beamed happily.
Doomed.
"Do you know all the rules?"
"Mm, no. But I know I have to catch the teeny shiny ball with wings. Why does it have wings?"
Already lost.
Viktor settled himself as well as he could into an hour long lesson in Quidditch and considered the drills he would run Tommy through as they flew high above the game. He wondered, idly, if he would actually have to point out the snitch to him and tell him to go get it when the time came.
"Hi, Ginny!" Negash beamed up to her, flying just a little too close to the keeper, but not enough to trigger Molly's wrath.
"Hey, Negash. Shouldn't you be chasing the quaffle?"
"I don't know," he said in a worried tone which was beginning to worry Ginny.
Viktor had mentioned this. Be strong! Be strong, Weasley!
"His Royal Highness's friends are… pretty big. And so are your brothers."
Counteract it! Counteract it!
"I don't know," she said, her tone upbeat and her eyes still on the action and watching her husband and Draco weave in and out throwing each other the ball like they'd been doing it for years. "Badgers are much smaller than lions, but they're pretty fearless. Tough little guys. Just like you."
"Yeah! Yeah! I'm a ferocious badger!" Negash yelled and it was the most patently adorable thing Ginny had ever witnessed.
Fuck.
And then Draco tossed him the ball as he whizzed by, Negash caught it perfectly, chucked it with stunningly good accuracy through the farthest hoop, and then threw up his hands in the air, whooped for joy and cried out, "ten points for Team Black! Hooray! We're on the board! Hooray!" He wiggled his arms back and forth as he cried out in joy, and nearly fell off his broom.
Fuck.
Ginny took a deep breath. "So, Negash. Which sport did you play before you left for Hogwarts?"
"American Baseball!" he beamed. He was happy, innocent, and as good as any countercharm in existence. Kryptonite, her husband would say. "I was first base! I mean, I started in the outfield when I was six, but by the time I left for Hogwarts I was first base! My favorite team is the Seattle Mariners," he burbled happily. "Which one do you like best?"
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Harry had Kryptonite. They were going to lose.
Negash and Tommy had each been given a little pocket money and set loose on the circus with solemn promises to come back and meet their families in the Curtain for lunch. They each still proudly wore their Team Black jerseys, which, with their mothers' permission, Madam Krum had charmed permanently.
After perusing the vendors for the best ice cream flavor - Negash bought Choco-Dreamy-Swirl, and Tommy Pistachio Pinchers - they headed toward the big tent, but Negash was worried.
"Do you think His Highness let us win?"
"Nope," Tommy said in complete certainty.
"I mean, we played just like His Grace, er, Harry said we should. And it was hard to keep talking and still make goals. Not supposed to do that in baseball. Talk during a game. Unless you're cheering your team on, of course. I guess that's kinda what we were doing."
"It worked just like Harry said it would," Tommy pointed out, somehow getting ice cream on his ears, and his left elbow. "Why are you worrying about it?"
"Well, if he let us win, then was it a real win?" Negash pushed, delicately eating his ice cream and getting it neither on his earlobes nor his elbows, though he had extra serviettes just in case.
"He didn't let us win. Harry said he would never let someone else win. He would just refrain from devouring us," Tommy parroted back.
"But didn't he tell you where the snitch was?"
"Yup. And then we raced there. And I won. He coulda won, but he didn't."
Negash looked at his friend askance.
"He let us win," Negash said, defeated despite the celebratory post-game chocolate ice cream.
"Nope," Tommy replied, all confidence. "He just refrained from devouring us. Big difference. 'Sides, you got all those goals fair and square. You've got a really good arm, Negash. Will you teach me how to throw like you do?"
And then their debated win was forgotten as Negash once more described the wonder and joy that was American baseball and both agreed that Tommy should get a glove with his parents so that they could play catch together when they got back to school.
Hermione was enjoying a quiet moment (relatively speaking) to wander the Festival with Viktor. She hadn't really gotten a quiet moment with him outside of their bedroom (and their encounter in the Roman Bath yesterday), unless you counted the actual wedding ceremony and the seating ceremony. Which she didn't. And it wasn't quite that this was private. But it was still enjoyable, and there were no professional photographers in sight.
They were at the circus again. Today's was The Most Wonderful Circus In The World and it was naturally American. If you'd asked Hermione in advance what she would be sure not to miss in the Festival, she likely would have told you the plays. They were all based in history, however many liberties would have been taken, and they were all stories that the magical community took for granted, much like she grew up with Monty Python, Star Wars, and Indiana Jones. It was a prime opportunity, she would have told you with great confidence, to learn more of the culture she had one and a half feet in. But plays largely required you to arrive at a certain time and stay put for hours on end in order to get their full effect. It was a luxury Hermione could not actually afford this weekend. What she had instead was a buzzing mind and very small chunks of time when she was not required to do something somewhere else. And wandering through a circus was just perfect for that.
The French circus on the first day was probably her favorite, for all that she was at it at the height of her anxiety. Still. No one was trying to kill her, nor Harry, and it just… it felt like the sort of thing they should have been doing all along.
But really, each one had its merits, not only because of the people she wandered with. The French circus with Harry. The British circus with Elizabeth. The American circus with Viktor.
"Have you ever been to the US?" she asked her… well, her husband quietly. Dear Lord, they were married. That would take a while to sink in.
"Mm," he answered with a little shake of his head as they watched the acrobats perform quite magnificently on aerial silk.
"Me neither," she whispered back, honestly not sure if she wanted to go. Odd place, America. But large, and diverse at least.
A little tell-tale pop of a house elf appearing next to her had Hermione looking down to see Tampy in her tie-dyed pillowslip with a letter in her hand. The house elf held it up silently. Hermione wondered who on earth- but how many people could- Narcissa, perhaps? Oh, dear…
Hermione took the letter and leaned down to whisper to Tampy, "Wait a moment, won't you?"
Tampy nodded silently her assent.
January 2, 200_
Cair Paravel, Wales
Dearest Sister,
Getting a quiet moment to ask a favor of you was a fool's wish, and I see that now. All the same, I'm hoping you'll allow Mr. Dudley Dursley to stay on another night. We get on remarkably well, he and I, and I think I can groom him to become my next vineyard manager in Burgundy, which he seems keen on, and which I am desperate for. Francois is quite seriously threatening retirement and I'm at my wits' end. I'll whisk him away tomorrow morning after breakfast to tour the fields and get to know people and I promise to figure out where he lives and get him back there in one piece, returning in time for dinner.
Also, I've accepted Miss Lovegood's suit, though we won't announce it until dinner tonight. Didn't want to steal your thunder. I have accepted that she may be the best thing for me, and that you are an insufferably correct know-it-all. Wallow in it, do.
Send your blessing via elf, would you?
D
Hermione tamped down her smirk and leaned back down to her house elf. "Please let Draco know it's fine."
Tampy nodded and disappeared with a small popping noise.
When Hermione was settled back next to Viktor, folding the letter back into shape, he leaned over to her ear and spoke quietly.
"All is well?" he asked gently.
She smiled and nodded, then handed him the letter. He read it quickly and folding it, handed it back. And then she lost herself again in the beauty and the form of the acrobats for a little while. But soon enough a tiny fractal of annoyance filtered up through the surface.
It did make sense, though. Draco had demonstrated maturity, remorse, a desire for a different way of being. Why couldn't Mr. Dudley Dursley?
Oh, so everyone who was a right arse to Harry can just get off free? A niggling little voice in the back of her mind would not let it go.
It was Harry who wanted him invited in the first place, she argued back. If Harry can forgive and forget, certainly I can.
Incoherent grumblings were all that was left in her internal space, but regardless of being right, it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like just one more inconvenient and uncomfortable reality of her life, somehow.
And she should have been happy. She really should have been. She was married to the man she loved, surrounded by friends and family, she had her parents back and they had forgiven her. She had strong women to hold her up on their shoulders, strong men to support her in doing good in the world, she was almost literally drowning in adorable kittens of every size, and she had just been given immense political power to be a force for good in the world. She had gotten more orgasms in the last seventy-two hours than she frankly could have imagined. She had pretty things, a comfortable life, and the prospect of an ancient library and another ten decades in which to study it.
She really should have been happy.
So why was she standing at a circus watching beautiful performers doing amazing things, mentally doing her own summersaults of anxiety and unhappiness?
Hermione shoved the tiny realization away again and continued to should on herself.
She should be happy. Therefore she would be happy. Right now she was going to be happy. Everything was perfectly lovely and Hermione was happy.
This was the exact moment that Viktor glanced over at her, frowned slightly, and with a brief look asked wordlessly if she was alright.
Hermione beamed back at him. Everything was perfectly lovely and she was happy.
Viktor only looked more concerned, but turned back to the performance in the circus ring, choosing, apparently, not to question the rather less convincing performance that was occurring right next to him. Or at least, choosing not to question it in public.
Father Michael Fielding was strolling through the merchant area and wondering at the whims of fate. Was it all immutable Providence? He didn't really believe that. His not-exactly-heretical and not-entirely-orthodox views on Universal Salvation aside, he believed very firmly in free will. Besides, Calvinistic Determinism left a bad taste in his mouth, like too much spellcasting and not enough sleep. No, he didn't assign an anthropomorphic personification to fate, but it was a convenient way of acknowledging the chaos created by so many people exercising their free will all at once, with all the attendant consequences.
Walking next to Father Michael Fielding, close but not touching, and both with their hands clasped before them in a very correct fashion, was Narcissa Black.
Well, Malfoy.
Internally, he sighed. What an utter prick Lucius Malfoy had been. A self-absorbed nightmare of good breeding, good taste, and absolutely shite morals. But it would have done no good to have warned the lady he courted about her other suitors; the whole point was that she had a choice to make and it was hers to make.
And he had had a choice to make too, though it came a little later. Could he have answered the call to priesthood with a young wife from an old wizarding family so set in their ways? Would she have supported his studies at Cambridge? Would she have taken the opportunity to… no. No. Such speculation lived in the land of what ifs, and the road there was filled with potholes and mantraps.
"So it all comes to a grinding halt at sunset. What, four fifteen?" he asked, continuing their occasional conversation.
"Yes," she agreed and he wondered if there was something in her tone. Wistfulness? Or was that his own desire to hear it there? "The merchants will have the same extra hour afterwards to pack up and evacuate to the exit zones at the back of the Great Lawn, the same as all those who have loaned housing to the semi- and non-magical folk. The large marquees will be gone in the hour after that, leaving only the Quidditch pitch and stage. In the third hour there will be the final auror sweeps and the reinstatement of wards for the property. By six thirty it should be more or less pristine once more."
"But that's not the end of the work," he prompted.
The quick smile she gave him made his heart leap. "No, of course not. Then comes the gestures of gratitude. Everyone who willingly came forward to help is on one list, they get a small token. Everyone who had their arm twisted is on another list, they get a short note. Everyone gets another mention in the daily news, though I think perhaps the Quibble. And then comes the tally of favors. No, it will be another month complete to sort it all out, I think. Time well spent, I should say."
There was silence as they walked, but the silence was very comfortable and filled with things that they were not yet close enough to say.
But there were a few things, perhaps, that it would be polite to say.
"May I inquire as to the period of your mourning?" It would be for her sister and her husband, and she could choose between discrete lengths of time that would have great meaning and speak volumes concerning her relationship with them. And she could, if she chose, serve her mourning concurrently or in serial fashion. If she had truly been devoted to each, she could spend two years dwelling on the past and mourning what might have been, two years for each. And if the relationship had been very hard indeed, she could spend three months altogether in order to sort out her life before moving on.
"A little under three months remains," she replied quietly.
Oh-ho! he thought in triumph without meaning to do so. But she had told him everything he needed to know for the present and inquiring further would have been both rude and pointless. The whole purpose of mourning, at least for those who are not in it, was to give space before the rest of the world intrudes again.
"I hope your time will be well spent," he said quite correctly, at least, correctly for those who have complicated grief.
"I'm sure it shall," she replied, and if he wasn't mistaken there was a note of self-satisfaction there that made him want to grin, however much he refrained in the moment.
They were quiet again as they walked, not interacting with any of the displays, nor purchasing any souvenirs, just walking, just looking, just refraining from saying all the things they had to say to one another. He considered remarking favorably on her son, but he hadn't really had a chance to speak with him much. He considered remarking on Hermione, but she didn't seem like the right choice for casual conversation in the midst of a crowd of strangers. He considered remarking on many things, but decided instead to let the silence lie still. He couldn't say what he truly wanted to, so Michael Fielding decided to simply refrain. It was enough to see her again, to have gotten an opportunity to reconnect with her, even if it was during her period of mourning.
And that would soon end. And then? Well, he would be around. If he wasn't very much mistaken, there was still the same chemistry between them, but what they both chose to do with that information… only time would tell.