Disclaimer: Not mine, all non-profit work, rights are fully owned by JKR, WB and others.
A/N: Once more, this is a stand-alone piece whose 'ship was requested by Violettachan – a fic with one of the Weasley brothers (who is not Ron) and Hermione. Please enjoy and, of course, review!
Out of Ashes
Ash poured down around her like hot rain, sizzling where it kissed her hastily-cast shield charm, the air shimmering, the heat still stifling in the immediate aftermath of the eruption.
Only an ex-Death Eater would tie a curse to a volcano, Hermione Granger thought irritably as she sank another nail into the rock above her head, a sharp tap with her tiny hammer securing it as her next handhold.
She had always assumed that watching an entire mountain blow its top off would be spectacularly impressive – red-orange lava flashing against a bright blue sky as rock tumbled in all directions. She supposed that fancy came from her parents' postcards of Hawaii, featuring magnificent geysers of flame backed by crystalline cerulean.
But up close and personal, it was merely grey. Grey smoke spitting grey ash onto grey stone.
And hot. Sweat had long since plastered the curls framing her face into straggly clingers running steady streams of moisture into her eyes, over her nose and down her chin. She shook her head to clear her vision, grabbed her newly-placed nail and hauled herself up one more dangerous step, feeling her palm slip on the rapidly-warming metal and cursing aloud. There was too much magic in this region to levitate herself to the top of the active volcano, use a broom or Apparate. She felt her simple protection charm flickering, wincing as tiny flecks of ash drifted through the fluctuating shield, burning her skin
I should have known, she reflected with some resignation as she searched the scorched rock for a place for her next grip. Her boss had been so...uncharacteristically enthusiastic...for her to take this particular assignment. "Granger, simply no one could handle this one like you," he declared firmly. "They need someone of top class with NEWTs in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes."
Hermione could have pointed out that in order to join the Cursebreakers Division of Magical Law Enforcement, one had to have NEWTs in either Arithmancy or Ancient Runes, so the fact that she had both was hardly unique, but she had allowed her damned hopefulness to interfere. Komez had always been distinctly chilly in his attitude towards her, she had yet to establish why, and she had taken his unbridled recommendation as her long-awaited signal that he was finally warming to her and her outstanding record in his department for the past six years.
I'd say he's warmed to me. Searingly, in fact, she thought angrily. Why had he been so eager to see her take this assignment? The complexity of the job made it a weeks'-long endeavor to dismantle anyway. Now that she had set off the mountain, it could take months and a full team instead of her solitary efforts...and it wasn't as if she had been draped across the staff couch making Floo calls to her non-existent boyfriend before being sent to this damnable island. She had been engaged twelve hours a day in researching a particularly nasty and well-covered-over piece of inner-Ministry history – a period some three months prior to the death of Voldemort in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, when a stack of extremely valuable parchments and artefacts had gone missing, including the sword of Godric Gryffindor. An as-yet-undiscovered traitor had spirited away the information and valuables, supposedly to be given to the Dark Lord. Ginny Potter, Minister Shacklebolt's chief aide, had discovered a passing reference to the mystery several weeks ago and mentioned it to her friend. Komez had told her she was wasting her time, but the Head of Magical Law Enforcement had over-ridden him, demanding that her boss allow Hermione to set her mind to tracking down the person or persons responsible for the "disappeared" items.
I wonder if I was getting too close to someone with that? When first given her orders to pack her bags and leave for the island, Harry had teased her that someone higher on the food chain wanted her inquisitive nature and sharp mind out of the way. She had laughed at the off-hand comment, pretending offense as she finished her light packing.
But she had triggered an explosion with a Stage One, noninvasive, almost undetectable, diagnostic spell of her own, private design. The magical backlash from the eruption made almost all further use of her wand or any kind of enchantment impossible. In the space of a few moments, she had been neatly snared in a precarious position, incapable of moving swiftly either to complete her job or to escape. And the shadow had been growing in her mind as she hauled herself Muggle-fashion inch by bloody inch up a mountain straight from Dante's Inferno – had she been getting too close to a secret that someone important wanted left buried? No one had been prosecuted for the missing items, and it was entirely possible that whoever was responsible still worked for the Ministry – and knew exactly what she had been doing.
And there was no denying that this deceptively serene mountain seemed to have been...expecting her. Her skills, her pattern of work, her signature magic. The personalized spells that were supposed to give her an edge precisely because they were secret, not endanger her because someone knew how to counter them. Expecting indeed – and ready to strike.
Hermione Granger was not given to belief in conspiracy theories. But she was beginning to see too many uncomfortable facts to write everything off to bad luck.
She bit her lip as she brought the hammer down on another nail, leaning back perilously and feeling her stomach clench at the feeling of so much air behind and below her. The crackling, released power in this area would ensure her fall a fatal one, and though she had brushed against death many times, she had never felt the pressure of its existence so keenly. Death Eaters were, after all, human. Many of them had hesitated, showed weakness or even mercy during critical battles. But the ground would not yield to her because she begged, nor the air suddenly become solid simply because she wished it.
A final tap with the small head. Her fingers reached, grabbed, slipped and even as her feet began to scramble on slick stone, she felt herself lose all contact with the mountainside and begin her free-fall back to earth, her stream of expletives lost to the heat and uncaring rock.
Seething air ripped past her as she tumbled, bringing stinging tears to her eyes. The mountain hurtled upwards, growing larger in her vision at an alarming rate she plummeted. As she twisted to see the unforgiving ground hurrying to meet her, instead of reviewing her twenty-five years that would be ending literally in seconds, her mind submitted an absurd thought:
I don't get paid nearly enough for this. I wonder if Gringotts has any open positions?
888
Her head was pounding, the coppery aftertaste of blood slid across her tongue, and as she breathed, pain caught in her ribs, tearing at her lungs and forcing out dry coughs.
She was, unmistakably, if unexpectedly, alive.
"Glad to see you're coming round," said a friendly, strangely familiar voice. She squinted her eyes open, intending to ease their adjustment to light, only to find it unnecessary. Stars glittered above her instead of the brightness of sunlight, and the shadows flickering over trees and rock were the result of a fire to her left. An experimental movement of her head neither eased nor increased the pain she felt, so she slowly tilted her face to find the owner of the voice.
The eyes that met her vision were the same bright blue as her ex-boyfriend's and the man she had once thought might be her father-in-law. When the firelight threw relief on bright-red hair, highlighting gold streaks, it startled the name from her lips.
"Ron?"
A deep laugh, lower in pitch than the one she knew from her days at school, and she saw the flames play over features too lined and too lived-in to be her best friend's.
"'Fraid not, Hermione. It's just Bill."
"Ah. Do I have you to thank for waking up to this migraine?"
He laughed again, and she felt her own smile stretching in response to his obvious concern and relief. "Making jokes, so you can't feel too badly. I suppose it is my fault that your head did hit the ground – barely, considering the speed at which you fell, but enough to risk a mild concussion. You gave us quite a fright, plummeting out of the sky like that."
"In the future, I'll spare your nerves and be sure to fall to my demise in a more secluded area," she quipped.
"I greatly appreciate the consideration," he responded cheerfully. Then the good-humored blue clouded slightly, the way Weasley faces always betrayed incoming bad news. Hermione's gut clenched, even the headache beating around her temples subsiding in the wake of her fear and worry. Had she rendered the curses unbreakable with her mistake?
"We haven't found your partner," Bill was saying gently. "Were they on the mountain with you, or did you have a base camp?"
Hermione blinked at him. Partner? She shook her head, forcing herself to take a deep breath in spite of the pain in her abdomen. "I don't have a partner." She paused to breath again. "I'm the only one the Ministry sent."
Bill's eyebrows hit his hairline, but before the stream of questions ripping through his gaze could find their way off his tongue, a young woman with a long sheet of silvery-blond hair, a flawless complexion and sea-blue eyes that could hypnotize a cobra was shoving him aside.
"'ave you given 'er somezing to eet?" The accent was undeniable, as were the refined features. But what interested Hermione most was the savory smell of stew coming from the wooden bowl in the quarter-veela's hands.
"It was important to determine whether we needed to be digging someone else out of the mountain, Gabrielle," Bill replied seriously.
"Yes, and now you know your job is done. It is time for 'ermione to eet and sleep." Though the young woman had to be almost fifteen years Bill's junior, there was no room for argument in her tone or her bearing. Bill smothered a smile and stood.
"As you say, madam. Far be it from me to argue with the camp mother." He gave Hermione a warm smile. "I'll be back to check on you – there are five of us here, so you'll never be alone. If you need anything, holler."
His strides faded as he was swallowed by the dark and Gabrielle Delacour settled herself next to Hermione's mattress.
"Men," the young woman said haughtily, flipping her hair back over her shoulder in a gesture so reminiscent of her older sister that Hermione stifled a smile. "Zey 'ave no sense of priorities. First, food, zen questions." Her pale hand lifted the spoon as Hermione struggled to right herself, sitting up in time for the stew to meet her lips, sending the aroma of beef, vegetables and potato wafting up her nostrils. Her stomach grumbled eagerly, and she opened her mouth, grateful as the savory mouthful overpowered the remaining tint of blood.
"Thank you," she said as she greedily took the last spoonful. Gabrielle fluttered a hand in dismissal.
"Of course. We must take care of our own, no?"
Hermione stared at her, trying to make sense now that her stomach was satisfied of a puzzle that not only had missing pieces but seemed to be morphing under her feet. Both Gabrielle and her sister had been invaluable during the war effort – brave, cunning, talented, and Hermione had vastly changed her opinion of the veela from her increased contact with the two Delacour daughters in those last, desperate months.
Still, what Gabrielle was doing here, camping in unsafe conditions in the British Virgin Islands, with her ex-brother-in-law when Bill and Fleur had divorced almost three years ago, was completely beyond the exhausted young woman's grasp. She drew breath to give voice to her famous curiosity, only to have the striking young part-veela silence her with a glance.
"You will 'ave many questions. I know Bill 'as a great deal to ask you. But now, you will sleep. Just like 'im, questions can wait for ze morning."
With a full stomach, a still-pounding head and fatigue rapidly claiming all the limbs of her body, Hermione was ill-inclined to argue. She nodded, stifling the yawn that had emerged on cue.
She barely felt her head touch the pillow.
888
Hermione dragged the back of her hand across her forehead, squinting at the mound of rock. It looked as black, imposing and impenetrable as the rest of the rock now encasing the quiet-once-more volcano, but their Dark Sensors practically screamed when brought within three hundred yards of this area. They could only presume that whatever the Ministry wanted, it was under this patch of rock.
She absently massaged her side where her newly-healed ribs throbbed with a dull ache. She had risen from their rough, makeshift hospital two days prior, refusing offers of an owl to notify the Ministry of her accident and asking to join the team. They had unanimously accepted her help – one of England's best was not to be turned away, regardless that the company was compounded exclusively of experts.
"Ribs bothering you?" Bill asked cheekily, taking a swig out of his canteen and passing it to her automatically.
"You wish," she snorted, dropping the fingers that betrayed the truth and pouring tepid water down her throat. She had to hand it to the party or parties responsible for this curse job – seven days in, a fully-equipped team comprised of witches and wizards with top qualifications in every major magical field, and they still had been unable to remove the curse that blocked the use of everyday magic – like keeping one's water cool and dust free. They could now level enough power to obliterate the mountain, but a basic healing charm was out of the question.
"If I weren't injured you wouldn't be able to keep up with me, old man," she teased. Bill pretended to look affronted as he snatched back the water, and she turned, making a show of checking her ropes while observing his easy manner, watching the way he lounged about on the freshly-hardened lava field as if it were his bedroll at camp.
Almost a decade her senior, Bill Weasley was tall and muscular, the scars Fenrir Greyback had inscribed on his face fading to rakishness after so much time...and the glint in his eyes told everyone watching that he was clearly just hitting his stride in the wizarding world. There was nothing old about him, and wouldn't be for at least another three decades.
He had also carried the title of the most formidable mind in the field for many years. With Outstanding NEWTs in Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and Transfiguration (even her own Arithmancy NEWT had equaled – not bested – his), the eldest Weasley son had made himself the go-to man for anyone not wishing to consult the Ministry to solve the problems of cursed heirlooms, traps and even whole residences. As powerful curses often guarded dangerous or valuable items, there were quite a few people interested in avoiding the Ministry cursebreakers– who, after all, worked in the same building as the Aurors and down the hall from the Hit Wizards. Though he officially worked for Gringotts, Bill had composed a team of his associates both at the bank and from other spheres to answer these specialty clients.
It added variety to his job; forced him to invent spells, potions, and equations for each newly discovered curse and had made him, by far, the wealthiest, as well as fittest, member of his family.
Fleur's an idiot, Hermione thought suddenly – and stopped herself, shocked and slightly horrified. Where had that thought come from? She had, of course, heard the reasons for the divorce, being practically family herself, and had fully agreed with them. She still did.
"Hermione?" His tanned hand touched the back of hers, and it took the reflexes trained in combat to keep her from jumping and betraying her single-track, if wayward, train of thought.
"Sorry..." she trailed off, unable to think of a single reasonable excuse to have been tuning him out.
"Arithmancy. We can't get this rock out the way without doing some equations for variables in mass and how to move it."
"What if we Transfigure it," Hermione offered slowly. "Into water. And then it would simply flow away."
Bill stared at her, blue eyes going wide. "That's brilliant...as long as we could channel the tide into the sea. We don't want a flood on our hands." He grunted as he tasted the warming water in his flask again. "And assuming we can reverse this piece of work – genius, really, to ensure whoever tries to unlock this mountain has to do so in the least comfort."
"It's kind of like camping out as a Muggle," Hermione said with a laugh. "Your dad would love to be here."
"Indeed," Bill grinned at her. "When we tell the story next Christmas, we'll have to remember every detail. He'll salivate more over the missed opportunity than Mum's cooking."
888
"And that's it!" cried Kevin O'Reilly, his wand forming the last flourish in the pentagram. Hermione felt the air charge with magic...
And the power dissipated. With a whoop, three of them cast simultaneous Area Cooling Charms, causing everyone to shiver as the temperature rapidly dropped to sub-zero. Laughing, Hermione and Choj Tanaka retracted theirs, joining in the general shaking hands and expressions of glee. It had taken a week and a half to dismantle the ward against simple magic, but in the meantime they had navigated the more draining task of actually cracking the mountain open, and now it was only a matter of days until they retrieved what was inside.
Hermione felt strong arms pulling her off the ground, swinging her in an arc of enthusiasm. "Absolutely perfect work, Hermione," Bill murmured in her ear. "A pentagram? And here I thought Professor Binns never taught us anything useful."
The young witch laughed, and was surprised by the gaiety of the sound coming from her mouth – a lighthearted note that the stress of her life had long since subdued. As the tall man set her down again, the lithe young woman was suddenly, exclusively, aware of the hands that nearly circled her slender waist, the heat of his fingers as they met each other over her lower back, the weight of his palms pressed against her sides. Breathlessness swamped her and she swallowed as she nerved herself to meet his gaze.
The blue snapped with amusement...and a heart-quickening interest. Hermione had long shared an easy familiarity with all of the Weasley brothers – even the third, after he had joined the Final Battle on the side of the Order – and had been fondly viewed as a second little sister by Percy and the twins, who had been with her at Hogwarts for several years. Her conversations with the oldest brother had been few and far between – he had been distracted by Fleur and work, she by Ron and school, and though their brief contact had allowed her merely a glimpse of the formidable mind buried under the long hair and "cool" persona, she had never sought him out, assuming that he viewed her in the same light as his younger siblings.
But there was nothing brotherly about the gentle massage of his fingers on her spine, or the intensity of his stare.
"Hey, Weasley! No fraternizing on duty. That's what the victory parties are for!" announced Choj, breaking them up effectively by wrapping his own arms around the young witch who had so unexpectedly been added to their team. Choj winked at his boss as he shattered the moment and Bill released Hermione with an easy smile, neither so quickly as to give the impression of being caught out nor so slowly that his hands lingered. But the speculative gleam to his eye did not fade as he turned away to have his back slapped by the rest of their enthusiastic colleagues.
888
"Hermione..." Bill's easy-going voice echoed taut and unreadable in the musty air swirling in the middle of the mountain, wonder, anger and a sense of betrayal imbuing his words. "Look at this."
Hermione turned in the tiny chamber, swinging her wand with her so that the glowing tip spewed light in an overlapping circle with the beam emanating from his. "What-" she gasped. Silver flashed in the brilliance of her Lumos, egg-sized rubies catching and reflecting the light like fresh-fallen blood. The relic that had saved Ginny Weasley all those years ago. The item they had so desperately desired while destroying the Horcruxes. Godric Gryffindor's sword.
The former members of the lion house stared at one another, completely non-plussed. "Did you know this was here?"
"No," Hermione whispered in a shaky voice. "I've actually been researching – are there any papers here?" she interrupted herself as she lifted her wand higher, the beam of light spreading wanly over the interior of the mountain.
"Why?"
"Because there were critical lists of those suspected of Dark activity that vanished with the sword. If it's here, they might be as well." As her eyes scanned the room sharply, looking for likely caches of papers, a question she had not yet managed to ask abruptly became one of complete importance.
She faced the man she had been working for over the past two weeks and felt her stomach flutter with nerves born of attraction and fear. She desperately hoped that the answer to her query would not destroy her fledgling feelings.
"Who contracted you for this assignment?"
"Actually, it was Gringotts. But this mountain has become sort of a cursebreaker's Holy Grail – seven different groups have tried to crack it for various employers and everyone has failed. Which is why the Goblins care about it at all, really. They're banking on the fact that if aristocrats who can afford the ridiculous price of private cursebreakers want what's here so desperately, then so do they. So they allowed me to bring my full team." He shook his head as he gazed at the razor-edged blade. "They'll give me the moon to have this back – one of the finest pieces wrought in the history of Goblin Smithies."
Hermione only half-heard his answer after he had confirmed that it was for the Goblins, relief drowning the rest of his words. As an emerging woman, righteous anger at those who had not bothered to lift a finger to defeat Voldemort obviously flourishing in the wake of his demise would have caused her mouth to pinch in disapproval and contempt. A few of the short, shrewd race had pitched in their lot on both sides of the conflict, but Gringotts had remained smugly untouched and unaffiliated, pristine Switzerland in the middle of war-ravaged Europe, and for a time after the collapse of the Dark Lord, Hermione had adamantly converted all of her money into pounds, protesting their neutrality.
But on this side of history, their staunch refusal to bend either way would prove useful. She did not have to fear that Bill Weasley would be turning the artefact over to those who would return it to the traitor or traitors. The Goblins would jealousy guard that which they had paid for – especially when they'd made it in the first place.
In the dark, she would have missed it had her foot not come squarely into contact with something bulky that was, nevertheless, clearly not stone. She knelt, swinging her wand downwards, and felt her pulse rise in response as her eyes flickered over an unprepossessing black valise, clearly packed with something. Hesitantly, almost reverently, she reached for the zipper – so long unused in the damp atmosphere that it was tinged with the dull red of rust – and slowly pulled it open.
Her face glowed as if she'd found the legendary City of Gold as she started to scan the annotated and cross-referenced lists, papers slightly mildewy from their incarceration on the tropical island, but still quite legible. "Bill, I found-" her triumphant cry ceased as she choked on air, shock rendering her mute, elation buried in an avalanche of surprised denial.
"No..." the copper-headed man heard her whisper as he scrambled over the uneven floor. His hand fell on her back, and she flinched automatically at the touch. He frowned as he dropped the offending appendage. Their flirtatious exchanges at camp over the past few days had made it only too clear that she welcomed such familiarity. What had she discovered that bothered her so deeply?
"Hermione?" he murmured, far enough away not to startle her.
"Those bastards," she hissed, and in a fluid motion, she was standing, several papers clutched violently in her fist, eyes wild, cheeks white and teeth bared. Bill almost backed away instinctively from this feral creature – not the warm human woman he had known for many years and had recently come to have a greater appreciation for, but a cornered and snarling lioness.
"Those BASTARDS!" she screamed, and the sound was primal as the man in front of her fought his desire to flee and stepped towards his suddenly-unstable friend. He grasped the papers she was crumpling in her fingers with one hand, the other going to her shoulder.
"Hermione, Hermione – breathe," he whispered as she began shaking, her tremors as fierce as a kayak riding white water. "Breathe. And give me these." Her smaller hand slowly flexed open, and he tugged the offending sheets away, smoothing them out one-handed against his side as he pulled her to stand next to him, his presence reassuring her, quaking subsiding as quiet tears took its place.
Bill glanced over the forms, and felt his own limbs go rigid, his eyes seeing red very briefly as his nimble mind connected all the dots, flashes of photos and announcements from the Daily Prophet enhancing his indignation. Hermione was right. Those bastards.
888
"Kalman Komez,Director of the Ministry's Cursebreaking Department, ordered Auror Nymphadora Tonks to hand over the extensive lists of those citizens on watch for Death Eater activity. After that, this important information simply 'disappeared.'" Hermione could hear the trademark anger that had passed from Mrs. Weasley to many of her sons bleeding into Bill's stiff voice and felt her throat tighten. Tonks and two other Aurors had been fired and placed on trial for this very incident. The daughter of pure-blood Andromeda Tonks neé Black had been released and spirited the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, but her compatriots, both Muggle-born wizards, had been sentenced to Azkaban.
"Apparently," the team's leader was continuing, "Komez sent them to Augustus Rookwood at the direct command of Rufus Scrimgeour," Bill said grimly, laying another sheet down on the paper trail spreading out before their stunned colleagues, a series of official documents punctuated by the unruly scribbles of hastily-written inter-office memos and personal letters. "Rookwood sent them to the French Ministry," as his long finger settled on a communique written in curly French, his sea-colored eyes darted to his ex-half-sister and protege.
The young quarter-veela seized the paper from the table, scanned it, let loose several exclamations that sounded quite vulgar in her native tongue and lifted blazing, crystalline eyes. "My fazzer must hear of zis. He works with Meester Rookwood's cousin, who 'as a place in our government-"
"-which would be how the Death Eaters knew that the Goblins were shipping some of their most valued items to our far more peaceful cousin across the channel. Including the sword," Kevin finished quietly, the group drawing a collective breath. Gryffindor's fabled weapon had been the most famous missing piece, but far from the only Goblin-made item they had discovered in the tiny room located in the heart of the volcano.
"How many people does this implicate?" Choj asked uncertainly.
"As near as we can tell, at least seventeen at various levels of our government – three of which, including Scrimgeour, are retired. And a half-dozen of the French." A low whistle.
"No wonder they never wanted this to leak...do we have a motive?" Tamara, their on-team Potions Mistress asked quietly.
"Helping Voldemort win, I presume," Hermione offered, ignoring the collective flinch at the sound of the ex-tyrant's name. Even after seven years, the mythology built around him persisted, a fact which both amused and disgusted her. Raising the man as inhuman would only inspire another brilliantly mad wizard to follow in his footsteps. But she wasn't the one writing the history books, so she simply continued to call him by his name. "The loss of these scrolls – damning evidence in and of themselves of more than one hundred open and covert supporters of Riddle, coupled with the loss of several highly magical Goblin-made items that could have been used to focus tremendous power – enough to, say, destroy a Horcrux, points clearly to treason. Everything that vanished represented a very solid threat to the rising Death Eaters."
"So..." Kevin let the question dangle in the air, his brown eyes fastening almost apologetically on Hermione. They had been hired by Gringotts, and their first loyalty had to be to their employer, even as they held hard evidence of one of the largest conspiracies ever to take place in the wizarding world.
"Gringotts will be informed of everything we have found," Bill said calmly, "and all of the artefacts will be handed to them. Most of them belong to the Goblins anyway. But the papers are property of the Auror Office. I believe Hermione and I have a friend we can persuade to be discreet about giving them to the Minister?" His blue eyes sparkled mischievously as they caught hers.
Hermione grinned.
"Shouldn't we simply send them to the Minister directly?" Tamara pitched in. "We wouldn't want them going astray again."
"Tamara – the friend Bill referred to is Harry Potter. They won't be going anywhere except into Kingsley's lap," Hermione told her with a delighted laugh. The ringing sound broke the tension and chuckles overlapped in the hot evening air as Bill waved a hand to return the precious documents to their moldering valise and thoughts turned from toppling governments to making dinner.
888
When he rose, the pre-dawn light illuminated a figure already standing, gazing at the mountain that had occupied the past month of their time, wind pulling the unruly curls that Rita Skeeter had described in so many unflattering ways back from her face. Her delicate, tanning features were a picture of relaxed concentration as tendrils of hair whipped around her and he was sure he'd never seen anyone so beautiful.
Bill Weasley suddenly felt extraordinarily unsure of himself. For the wizard in his mid-thirties, it was an uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling. Perhaps it was because his marriage to Fleur, while not disastrous, had, nevertheless, been a complete failure, and he had been skittish with women ever since. Or maybe he had simply never met a woman the equal of Hermione Granger.
He knew that his mother had practically planned the young woman's wedding to his youngest brother seven years ago, only to have that dream unexpectedly shattered when one day shortly after the fall of Voldemort Ron had turned around and said, "Marry Hermione, Mum? That would never work. After Riddle died we realized we simply didn't have enough in common – Harry and the war, yeah, but that's over. I love Hermione, but she'll be better off with some Arithmancer and me – I want to coach Junior League Quidditch and be with a woman who doesn't shy away from a baby as if she's afraid she'll break it by touching it."
Ron did coach Junior League, had gotten married two summers ago, and was practically bursting with pride as he gazed at his wife, now four months along with their first. Bill, knowing the torch Ron had carried for his best friend for years, had been surprised by his brother's mature assessment. Though not lacking in the brains that graced the rest of the family, Ron preferred sports and children to complex maths, letting his significant intelligence shine forth in his chess games and his wicked poker hands. Hermione, in stark contrast, spent hours buried in her solitary work, equally happy in the presence of friends and the puzzles that composed a cursebreaker's world.
She had been an unexpected bounty, dropped into his life for four weeks to push his mind, test his mettle, and tease him with a familiarity born of so many dinners shared in the same house, the knowledge that they had both worked for a common goal. Bill had always loved his job, but the past thirty days had been exhilarating in a whole new way – the true enjoyment of pitting his brain against an equal, of re-learning the balance of trust as they had scaled the treacherous rock to find new layers of magic again and again. Her mind never failed to astonish him, and he had been gratified to realize that she returned the sentiment.
"Good morning," she greeted him quietly and he realized that his feet had carried him to her side without his noticing, leaving him to stand slightly behind her shoulder, close enough to feel the hair on his arms rising towards her with their proximity, but not yet touching.
"Hi," he replied. The easiness of earlier conversations and flirting had evaporated, leaving awkwardness in its wake. He struggled to find something to say. "Work will be different when you get back," he finally managed to spit out.
She smiled even as he cringed at the bland obviousness of his statement. They should be having a fascinating discussion that she would insist on continuing by owl, and then perhaps over lunches and coffee dates when he was in London until they could...
And here he was talking about work.
"Actually, I won't be," she darted a glance at him, her tongue flickering out to wet suddenly-dry lips. "Going back, I mean. I'm submitting my resignation as soon as we arrive."
"But – I know you hated your boss, but what we've found will get rid of Komez. Surely you would be one of the people they'd consider as a replacement for him," Bill blurted. "Hermione – you're so good at this. And you love it. Why quit?"
Her mouth quirked. "I loved being here," she corrected him. "I do enjoy this work and what it takes to solve the problems we come across – my record shows that. But I despise working for the Ministry, not just for Komez. I loathe the internal politics and the constant heckling and jockeying for position and the paperwork...I've heard Tamara grumble a bit, but, believe me, the Goblins want nothing in comparison to the double-and-triple checked forms the Ministry require." She suddenly turned to face him as the first sliver of golden globe slipped over the horizon, illuminating half her face in liquid light. "Actually, I was wondering if Gringotts is taking applications. I would like..." her breath hitched and Bill felt his heart begin thumping erratically in his chest, "I would like to work with you."
For a moment, all Bill could do was stare at her, uncertain he could credit his ears, half-positive that he had slipped back into the world of dreams.
"What?"
Her guardedly-hopeful face crumbled at his exclamation of surprise. She had feared that she was not good enough, and although she had held her own well against the rest of the team, it was a completed unit without her. Why would he want to add someone eight years younger than the youngest member now, someone who, for all her experience, had no Master's qualification? She ignored the distinctly feminine voice of vanity and hurt pride that had expected a slightly more enthusiastic response from him based on the way their fingers had collided while cooking, their legs pressed together too often, the way his gaze followed her when he thought she wasn't paying attention.
Bill watched her honey-brown eyes shutter and knew he had to save the situation from his own blundering. Apparently, some things do run in the family, he thought in chagrin as he recalled Ron's many fond reminiscences of saying exactly the wrong thing to this girl, and the arguments that invariably followed.
"Of course," he corrected himself instantly, and he allowed one of his most disarming grins to crease his face. "I'll take you on this team anytime. As to Gringotts, I can make no promises, but I'll recommend you, and as one of their top cursebreakers, they'll take me seriously."
The smile that split her features, erasing all evidence of disappointment, stopped his breath in his throat. "Really?" she whispered, and a moment later, he was holding an armful of beautiful and wonderfully happy young witch as she squeezed him round his middle. "Thank you!"
The slender arms were clearly stronger than they looked. "Hermione, I can't breathe," he protested. Her embrace loosened briefly, and before awkwardness could swamp them again, she was standing on tip-toe, pressing her mouth to his.
The years worth of shyness following Fleur were incinerated in the instant, insistent boiling of his blood. Here was a witch who embodied everything he'd ever dreamed of – passion, brains, daring – her lips enthusiastically engaging his, her lean body pushed against him, making awareness of anything other than her absolutely impossible...
A wolf's whistle split the early-morning air, and the couple parted in embarrassment, only to see Choj grinning broadly as other sleepers stirred, blinking myopically as they struggled to rouse themselves for their last morning, following the direction of the Asian's gaze.
"Finally," Tamara muttered as she pulled her hair back. "I was wondering if you were going to let her walk away from you, Weasley."
Hermione could feel the flush burning through her tanned features, but Bill snaked his arm around her waist, pulling her back to mold against his side perfectly, as if she were the missing piece in his puzzle.
"Never," he laughed, and the blue eyes glittered with equal parts hope and seriousness as he gazed down at the wild-haired witch, whose head was tilted up to match the intensity of his gaze.
"Never."
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A/N: Sorry, I forgot to thank those who reviewed the Lily-Lucius piece the first time around - bad author!
Shogi: Yes, the Lily-Lucius piece was all for you - you guys have had amazing suggestions that I NEVER would have dreamed of putting together in a million years. I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Although I have not gone exploring the genre much, it's interesting that a lot of what you've read in that arena belongs to the non-con world. It's a twisted 'ship, but not that twisted. Anyway - I'm very gratified that it lived up to expectations!
BellatrixMarlaLovett: Wondering here if, by any chance, the Lovett belongs to Mrs. Lovett of "Sweeney Todd"...big fan of Stephen Sondheim. Thanks for reading a reviewing. Something with Bellatrix...now there's a character I have never focused on...definitely has some curious possibilities...
Katia Dashwood: Thank you! Until recently, when I fell in love with Jason Issacs for his role in "The Patriot", Lucius had always been my quintessential bad guy - more fun to play with than Voldemort, but completely unsympathetic nevertheless. I'm glad you're enjoying my view of a slightly more conflicted character. I think one of the several cans of worms that JKR opened in DH was the inner life of the Malfoy family, and they were a great deal more conflicted than I had ever given them credit for. Thanks for reading and reviewing!