A/N: I LOVE YOU GUYS!
It's official: TOPC has now officially reached (and passed) the 200 review mark. Thank you all SO MUCH for reviewing my little story. As a reward: FLUFF has been added to this chapter. Nothing major. I just thought you all deserved a little something for supporting me.
P.S. LIFE-SIZE GUMMY OLIVER TO MY 200TH REVIEWER!
Chapter Fifteen: A Little Gift
Previously in The Other Potter Child:
"Silencio," said Hermione, waving her wand to form a barrier around them. "I found it! The next Horcrux! I know where it is!"
"What?" asked Harry, staring at his sister's glowing face. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"It's the cup of Hufflepuff!" she said excitedly. "The next Horcrux. The one that that horrid old woman had, along with Riddle's mother's locket. It's right here, under our noses, here at Hogwarts!" Halfway through her statement, Harry began shaking his head.
"Hermione, Voldemort would never be stupid enough to put a part of his soul in Hogwarts," he said, but Hermione interrupted him, talking so fast that Harry and Ron were having trouble understanding her.
"It's a sort of final probe at Dumbledore and wizarding society. You see, he left it here when he went to Dumbledore about the Transfiguration position. He must've known that Dumbledore would never give him the job – one thing Voldemort is not is stupid – so, he left it here on his way out!" She finished with gusto.
Harry and Ron gazed at her with a glazed look in their eyes.
Silence.
Then . . .
"What the bloody hell are you talking about!" asked Ron and Harry at the same moment.
Hermione huffed, annoyed. "I quote, from the Sorting Song: "Kind Hufflepuff never knew of the grace her house hath grew, in it lurks the power unknown, come forth bearer and power shone." She looked up expectantly at her brother and Ron, who both had confusion scrawled over their faces.
"The power unknown is Voldemort's horcrux. The bearer is Hufflepuff's cup, and the power is . . . well, that's obvious. The grace her house hath grew is a direct reference to Hogwarts, A History." She pulled out the sheet, and pointed to a scribbled quote in the bottom corner. In her handwriting was written:
In the beginning, there were the four founders. Although Slytherin often complained about the blood of new students, for the first twenty years they lived in relative harmony. However, when his son and heir, Bénédicité came to Hogwarts in his first year, he began to resent the muggle-borns who surpassed his son's magical abilities. Bénédicité, which is French for 'grace', eventually fell in with a young muggle-born.
Slowly Harry was beginning to understand. "So, the 'grace her house hath grew' simply means that her heir is at Hogwarts. Well, we knew that already." Hermione was huffing.
"I wrote a translation of the stanza in the bottom." She pointed to another scribbled section.
Kind Hufflepuff never knew ------------------Helga Hufflepuff never understood
Of the grace her house hath grew ----------That her heir would return to Hogwarts
In it lurks the power unknown--------------At that time the final Horcrux would be revealed
Come forth bearer and power shone ------Hufflepuff's cup would be reached by the heir
Ron still looked confused, but he nodded because Harry was.
"Why would the heir be needed to reach the cup?" asked Harry. "I thought it would only react to Voldemort?"
"Ah," said Hermione with her usual knowing smile. "But they're not talking about just a horcrux, or just a cup. They're talking about the House Cup."
"The House Cup? But anyone can . . ." began Harry.
"Oh, really," snapped Hermione. "Not that House Cup." Their lack of comprehension was beginning to irk her, and the translation was trembling in her clenched fist. "The House Cup. There are four of them, one for each house. On the back wall of the Trophy Room. All Riddle would have to do was open the cabinet, transfigure his, and placed it there."
"But," said Harry, his head spinning with all the cups, "How could he touched the House Cup if he wasn't the heir of Hufflepuff?"
"Ah," said Hermione, her smug smile returning. "The original cup never left. He just shrunk it, and put the transfigured horcrux in it's place. That would fool the wards."
"But Hogwarts is smarter than that," shot out Ron. He was ignored, and Hermione yanked open the curtain to stalk towards the Trophy Room. Sharing a look of confusion, Harry and Ron followed Hermione into the tall chamber housing all the school's trophies.
When they entered, Hermione pointed to the back wall. It was covered from top to bottom in shining brass plaques, each about two inches long and four inches wide. In the exact center of the wall were four cups, placed in a diamond formation around a circular stained glass window.
The window was a moving portrait of the four house animals intertwined. As they approached, the snake tightened a tail around the raven. Eventually, Harry was able to make out the names on the plaques.
"Geraldine Kinsman, Evan Buldergock, 1876," he read aloud, looking, slightly alarmed, at the three lines. "What the bloody hell . . ."
"Head Boys and Girls," answered Hermione, moving forward. She pointed to a plaque closer to the bottom that was shinier than the one Harry had picked out. "Lily Evans, Remus Lupin, 1987," she said.
"Really?" asked Harry excitedly. He followed her finger to the small plaque where, written in loopy script, were the names of a werewolf and his mother.
Ron, meanwhile, had found the Hufflepuff cup. It was the one on the bottom. Harry and Hermione clustered around him, and they silently read the block print at the base of the cup. Helga Hufflepuff, Founder of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry does say that no Other than my Heir of Hogwarts may touch this Cup.
"Well," muttered Harry uneasily. "No need to encourage us so." Hermione's eyebrows furrowed together, and she took out her wand to experimentally tap the cup. It shimmered for a moment, and an awful smelling green mist shot out into her eyes.
Having anticipated this, Hermione ducked, and the mist flew in a clear arc across the room, where it hit a small silver trophy and dissolved it. Silenced, the trio exchanged looks. "Any more brilliant ideas?" asked Ron testily.
"Shut it," snapped Hermione, stepping back and surveying the cup with an admiring glance. "This is some amazing magic," she continued, as if Harry and Ron were not there. "I've never heard of this charm used before. Hypothetically, it exists, but there isn't a any wizard or witch on record who can produce it."
"Well, Hermione, you aren't just any witch," pointed out Harry. "Do you know how to get it off?" His sister sighed.
"Really, I have only one solution. We'll have to find Hufflepuff's heir, and get them to take down the trophy for us. Voluntarily – if we make them, it won't work."
"How in the name of Merlin do we find Hufflepuff's heir?" asked Ron. Hermione gave a haughty look.
"The library, of course."
"Of course," grumbled Ron. "It's always the bloody library."
Ignoring him, she explained, "There's a book of ancient wizarding bloodlines that magically updates itself."
"Well," replied Harry, checking his wristwatch, "The library'll be open for another hour. What do you say to Ron and I getting some food from the kitchens, you checking out the book and the three of us meeting back in the common room?"
"Perfect," replied Hermione, and they separated.
The spy of Voldemort's was not currently spying.
In the exact moment that the Golden Trio split, intent on finding the heir of Hufflepuff, and through that the next horcrux, she was locked in a deep embrace with her lover.
They shared another kiss, prolonging their departure, and then his voice broke the layer of silence that they usually met under.
"I've got something for you," he whispered huskily. Then her name.
"Oh . . ." she said, her voice lower than usual. "I love presents."
"I know," he replied, smiling into the silky skin where her neck met her shoulders. Out of his pocket he drew a black velvet jewelry box.
"Jewelry?" asked the spy. She took her arms from around his neck to take the box. "Oh, I love shiny things."
"Open it," he replied. She did so, revealing a thin chain on which rested a small locket. It was delicate, with her first and last initial intertwined in curly script.
"It's beautiful," she breathed, fingering the chain.
"I want to see it on you," he said, and unhooked the backing. She lifted her thick hair, piling it onto the top of her head with both hands. He slipped the chain around her neck, gently kissed her collarbone as he fastened the hook.
From her neck he let his hands wander down to circle themselves around her waist. "You look ravishing," he whispered into the back of her ear, and lay another kiss there.
She shivered, and let her hair drop so she could circle one hand around, and bring his face to hers. They kissed, a deep meeting of the lips, over her shoulder.
"I should go," he said against her ruby lips.
"Probably," she agreed, slipping her hand on his face to the back of his neck, and brought him in for another drowning kiss.
At that moment, when she whispered his name, turned, and wrapped both arms around his neck, Draco Malfoy forgot about everything except the woman he held in his arms.
"Ollie?"
Oliver turned to the door. Standing there was his sister, curly brown hair in disarray, a bright smile on her face.
"Rose!" he said, and she rushed forward to give him a deep hug. His always cheerful sister had an unnerving habit of finding him whenever his thoughts turned dark.
"How are you? Silly, you never sent me an owl about getting a position here!" she asked in a single breath, settling down in the chair next to his. He let his wand drop, as though he was exhausted, and charmed the opened bottle of Firewhiskey under the bed.
"Exhausted. And I'm sorry about the letter. Things got a bit frantic, and I had to stay at the Burrow." Rose wrinkled her nose in disbelief.
"Liar."
"Can't prove it," he replied, and stuck out his tongue. She giggled, and leant back in the chair. "Sorry," he said. "Momentarily transported back to first year there."
"Speaking of first years, how was your class?" she asked.
"You don't want to know," said Oliver, and she pestered him relentlessly until he gave her the story of the fighting Gryffindor and Slytherin.
"Sounds fun," she giggled again. Bright, cheery, always with a smile, Rose Wood was the perfect Hufflepuff. She wanted to go into a career in childcare, marry young, and have 'tons of grandchildren' (in her words) by the time she was sixty.
As comfortable silence descended over them, Oliver's thoughts drifted to where they had been before his sister arrived. Before she had appeared in the doorway, he'd been slumped over a stashed bottle of firewhiskey, his thoughts focused on only one thing:
Hermione.
It was incredibly stupid, how he continually thought about her. What the hell was he thinking? She was seventeen, obviously in love with Ron Weasley (whatever she saw in the senseless git he'd never know) and really the exact opposite of his type.
He liked them small, blonde, quiet. Yet, here she was, a know-it-all who could kiss like she was born doing it, and a mane of curls that had a life of their own. Rose had once tactfully pointed out that he didn't like women who were smarter than he was, and she was absolutely right.
Hermione Potter was not supposed to be the woman that he would fall in love with.
It was impossible, he argued with the universe. Who's bright idea was this?
And every time he railed with every spec of evidence that he had, his thoughts drifted back to watching her crumple in the field outside the Burrow, and the way her eyes still shined when they were stuck in three centimeters of solid ice. Sometimes they went as far back as his seventh year, when she'd saved his quidditch match, and he'd thought seriously about kissing her.
Now that he had – kissed her, that is – he was wishing that he hadn't waited four years to do it. What the hell had he been thinking? She was perfect. Hermione may not have been his type – but she was still perfect.
"Dammit," he muttered weakly. He found himself wishing that his sister would go away, so he could chug a little more of that secret reserve, and go over in his mind every memory that he had of Hermione.
"Damn what?" inquired his little sister.
"Nothing," he replied a little too quickly. Her eyes narrowed, but after a few moments of mental battle, she decided to let it go.
"Fine. I'll see you in a bit, Oliver." She left quickly. As the portrait swung closed behind her, Oliver debated whether or not to succumb to temptation.
"Accio Firewhiskey," he mumbled, and the bottle was in his hands within seconds.
Then he stood, took a little swill, and threw the brown bottle with all his might into the fireplace. It exploded, glass shards littering the stone, the liquor gleaming noxiously on the three logs piled there.
He turned on his heel, and walked out.
Hermione made it to the library with fifteen minutes before she had to meet Harry and Ron. She bypassed Madam Pince in a blur, and buried herself in the history section.
Like it's occupants, the history section itself wasregarded as ancienthistory. Piled in alphabetical order that was rarely disturbed were Hogwarts' collection of wizarding bloodlines, school yearbooks, and every copy of the Daily Prophet ever printed, all covered in a thick layer of dust.
Moving purposefully through the stacks, Hermione knew that she was alone. Everyone else in the school was at dinner, chatting with their friends, laughing, eating mashed potatoes.
They're not looking for a way to destroy Voldemort's soul, hissed a little voice.
"Shut up," she said aloud, because who would hear her?
Her statement echoed through the small corner, metaphorically rustling the Daily Prophet. Running her finger down the titles, Hermione squatted and searched with squinted eyes the bottom row. There it was, nestled between Hrtach and Humpherty was Hufflepuff. She pulled out the scroll, brushing the almost solidified dust off.
As she stood, choking a bit on dust, her vision was blurred. She didn't know what had caused it andshe knew why.
A second later shedid as shewas pressed against the bookshelf full of scrolls. Her head was resting between two labels, and then someone's lips were pressed on hers. She thought for a moment about screaming or struggling – but only for a brief moment, because at the next she was melting into a little puddle of Hermione.
It was as if she had stuck an electric current into her mouth and flipped the switch. But it was softer than that, and when someone's hands, calloused, gently rubbed her cheek, she closed her eyes and, dropping the scroll, wrapped her arms around that someone's neck.
Forgetting about air, forgetting about the fact that she was in a library, Hermione pulled that someone closer to her, because that feeling of jolts and happiness was familiar. This unidentified someone, who kissed like he knew what he was doing, was the same person who had kissed her in the hospital. She knew that.
His hands had left her cheek, and were on the small of her back, pressing her closer. She gladly complied, molding her frame against his, pulling his neck down, and arching her own to deepen this maddening kiss which seemed to be lasting forever.
"Miss Gr – Potter? I know you're here! Check something out or leave!" As she unhooked her arms, releasing the kiss, she opened her eyes. They were clear now, but when she tried to focus on the someone in front of her, he was gone, all that she could see a toe vanishing around the corner.
She dashed after him, but found herself facing an empty aisle. The next was empty as well, and with a leaden bullet sitting in the bottom of her stomach, she returned to the history scrolls. "Miss Potter!" hissed Madam Pince, appearing at the front of the aisle. "Haven't you heard me?" She looked, with narrowed eyes, at the displaced scrolls where Hermione's head had rested.
"Sorry, Madam Pince." In a peace offering, Hermione held out the scroll. "I'd like to check this out, if I may?" Grumbling, the librarian led the way to the front desk. Hermione looked in each aisle that they passed, in search of whoever it was that had kissed her, but he was no where to be see.
Gasping, Oliver turned the final corner to his rooms, and paused, to hold his ribs. He couldn't believe that he had done it again.
"Dammit," he muttered.
So . . . . there's this little thing called REVIEWING. And you do it if you value your life.