The Sixth Ring
Hermione awoke with a groan, her head pounding like a drum. The remnants of the previous night's Legilimency training with Stryker clung to her like a hangover. She remembered the feeling of delving into his mind, the swirling colors and emotions, the fleeting glimpses of memories... then the sudden blackout. She'd been making progress, she was sure of it, finally managing to push past his mental barriers, when the world had abruptly gone dark.
Blinking against the dim light flickering from the fire, she saw Stryker sitting beside her on the ground, his eyes etched with worry beneath his mask. His usual stoicism seemed to have cracked.
"Easy there, Ember," his voice was rough with concern.
"I'm fine," she insisted, pushing herself up onto her elbows, ignoring the throbbing in her head. "Just a bit dizzy. Can we try again? I think I was close..."
Stryker gently pressed her back down. "No. You need rest. We'll continue tomorrow."
Frustration bubbled up inside her. "But—"
"No buts," he cut her off, his voice firm.
He didn't understand. She hadn't told him the real reason she needed to master Legilimency so quickly. She needed to be ready to use it on the king's inner circle during the ball, to pry from their minds the secrets of the magical shield protecting the palace. Killing the king and escaping to the Muggle realm – her ultimate goal – hinged on her ability to bypass the shield.
But she couldn't tell Stryker that. Not yet. Trust was a fragile thing, especially in their line of work. She needed to be sure she could rely on him before revealing her true intentions.
"Alright," she conceded, “Tomorrow. And no holding back."
She saw the smile in his eyes as he responded, "Wouldn't dream of it."
Hermione pushed open the tent flap, the familiar scent of damp earth and stale magic filling her nostrils. The sight that greeted her was unexpected. Stryker, usually found lounging at his desk, a glass of whiskey in hand, was instead hunched over a cauldron, his dark hair falling over his forehead. His left hand held open a thick, leather-bound book, while his right hand danced with a wand, casting intricate spells over the bubbling potion.
Intrigued, Hermione approached, her eyes drawn to the cauldron. The potion within was a strange sight - a thick, almost translucent liquid, shimmering with a golden hue. It bubbled gently, releasing wisps of steam that danced in the dim light.
As she drew closer, their arms brushed against each other. In response, Stryker looked up, his eyes dark and intense.
"What is it?" Hermione asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Without answering, Stryker dipped a ladle into the potion and filled two small vials. Each vial contained a single hair, suspended in the thick liquid. A puzzled frown creased her forehead.
He handed her one of the vials, his expression unreadable.
"Bottoms up," he said, his voice a low rumble. He turned away from her, his broad shoulders obscuring his movements as he lifted his mask just enough to tip the vial back.
Hermione's heart pounded. This was it. A chance to finally see the face hidden behind the mask, to see if the eyes that held such intensity matched the rest of his features. She held her breath, a silent plea for him to turn around, to give her just a glimpse. But no such luck. With a swift motion, the mask was back in place, concealing his identity once more.
He turned to face her, his masked gaze unwavering. A silent challenge hung in the air.
Hermione's eyes darted between the vial in her hand and Stryker's masked face. A wave of dizziness washed over her, a mix of apprehension and a strange sense of trust. He could have poisoned her, could have harmed her in countless ways by now. Yet, here she was, about to drink a mysterious potion he had brewed. The realization struck her with surprising force: she trusted Stryker. More than she probably should, considering their brief and unusual acquaintance.
With a deep breath, she lifted the vial to her lips and swallowed the contents. The taste was unexpected - a smoky sweetness with a hint of cinnamon that lingered on her tongue. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was certainly… odd.
She handed the empty vial back to Stryker, who vanished it with a flick of his wand. He moved towards his desk, the familiar creak of the chair accompanying his movements. He poured himself a glass of firewhiskey, the amber liquid catching the light, but he didn't drink it. Instead, he watched her, his masked gaze intense.
Hermione took the seat opposite him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The silence stretched between them, thick with anticipation.
"Stryker...what is going on?" She asked, her voice laced with confusion.
"We are going somewhere...to practice Legilimency...somewhere we will need to be properly disguised to blend in," he replied, his voice low and deliberate.
"I don't understand," she confessed, her mind racing.
"Do you remember the hand movements from last night?" he asked, his eyes boring into hers.
"Yes," she replied, her fingers mimicking the intricate gestures he had taught her.
As she lowered her hand, her breath caught in her throat. The hair beneath Stryker's mask was shifting, morphing from its usual dark hue to a lighter brown. His eyes, once a deep, mysterious brown, were now a lighter hazel, with a greenish tint. And then, he removed his gloves, slowly lifting his mask.
The face that was revealed was completely unfamiliar. A young man, perhaps in his early twenties, with a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks.
"Stryker?" she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.
"We've just ingested Polyjuice," he explained, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Your appearance will change soon as well. We will remain in these new bodies for the next few hours."
"So this isn't what your face actually looks like?" she asked, still reeling from the transformation.
"No," he said with a smirk. "I'm much more handsome than this bloke."
Hermione scoffed and rolled her eyes, but a part of her, the part that had always been drawn to the mystery surrounding him, couldn't help but believe him. She had always imagined Stryker's looks would live up to his name - striking, perhaps even dangerous.
Her attention was drawn downwards as she felt a tingling sensation spread through her body. Her slender frame was filling out, curves appearing where there were none before. She looked around the room until her eyes landed on the cauldron. Her reflection in its polished surface showed her dark, curly hair lengthening and straightening, transforming into a sheet of silky blonde.
She tentatively touched the unfamiliar strands, a sense of wonder washing over her. Her hands moved down to her stomach, feeling the new contours of her body. Finally, she met the gaze of unfamiliar hazel eyes staring back at her from the reflection.
"Well," she said, her voice sounding strangely husky and unfamiliar, "I've always wanted straight hair."
"I prefer the curls," Stryker replied, his masked face giving nothing away. But Hermione could have sworn there was a hint of appreciation in his gaze as he took in her transformed appearance.
Their eyes met, and a blush crept up Hermione's cheeks. Even though she wasn't looking at his real face, she could see his genuine reactions – the way his eyebrows furrowed and quirked, the slight upturn of his lips that hinted at a smile. It was oddly satisfying, a step closer to knowing the man behind the mask.
For a moment, the weight of their mission, the danger that lurked around every corner, seemed to fade away. There was only this shared moment, this strange intimacy born from a shared secret and a magical transformation.
Stryker stood and moved towards the tent flap, his long strides pulling Hermione along behind him. As he reached for her cloak, their fingers brushed, sending a shiver down her spine. The warmth of his bare hands against her skin was a stark contrast to the cold night air.
He draped the cloak over her shoulders, his touch lingering a moment too long. Hermione felt a blush creeping up her cheeks as she accepted his hand, their fingers intertwining.
"Shall we?" he asked, a slight tilt of his head.
She nodded, her heart pounding in her chest.
With a swirl of magic, they disappeared into the night.
They materialized in a dense forest, the soft glow of a distant village peeking through the trees. The sound of music and the tantalizing smell of roasting meat filled the air.
"Where are we?" Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible.
Stryker, still holding her hand, led her deeper into the woods. She didn't pull away; his touch grounded her, offering a sense of security she rarely felt. Usually, she was the protector, the strong one. But with him, she felt strangely vulnerable, yet safe.
"We're in the Sixth Ring," he replied, his voice barely a whisper.
"What are we doing here?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.
"Practicing your Legilimency," he said, his grip tightening on her hand as he pulled her towards the edge of the forest.
As they emerged from the treeline, Hermione's eyes widened in awe. The Sixth Ring was a stark contrast to the desolate Seventh. A vibrant tapestry of life unfolded before her. The streets were bustling with activity, filled with people going about their daily lives. Laughter, music, and the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat filled the air. The buildings, though weathered and worn, exuded a certain charm, their crooked frames and mismatched tiles telling stories of resilience and time.
Hand-in-hand, they made their way towards a lively tavern, its doors flung open, inviting them in. As they stepped across the threshold, the cacophony of sound washed over them. The air was thick with the scent of ale and sweat, and the floor was packed with people dancing and drinking.
Stryker leaned in close, his voice barely audible over the din. "The Sixth Ring is much larger than the Seventh. People here aren't as close-knit, but we still need to blend in. We're a newlywed couple, living a quiet life in the woods. Tonight, we've decided to venture out for a bit of fun."
Hermione nodded, squeezing his hand in acknowledgment. As they navigated the crowded tavern, she couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and trepidation. She was about to embark on a dangerous mission, disguised as a simple villager. But for now, she would embrace the illusion, lose herself in the music and the merriment, and hope that no one would see through their carefully crafted facade.
Hermione's eyes widened as she stepped into the bustling pub. The atmosphere was electric, a chaotic symphony of sights, sounds, and smells. A raucous band occupied a makeshift stage, their homemade instruments filling the room with an infectious energy. The dance floor pulsed with bodies, swaying and stomping to the rhythm. Rough hewn tables were scattered around the room, occupied by patrons engaged in lively card games or puffing away on hand-rolled cigarettes.
Burning torches, strategically placed throughout the pub, cast a flickering light on the scene, illuminating the impressive array of bottles lining the shelves and barrels behind the bar. A massive hog's head, mounted proudly above the counter, served as a macabre centerpiece. The bartender, a portly man with a jovial grin, bounced along to the music as he expertly filled pints with frothy ale for the eager patrons.
Stryker navigated them through the crowd towards the bar. Hermione, slightly overwhelmed by the sensory overload, followed closely behind. She couldn't make out Stryker's words over the noise, but she watched as the bartender, with a wink and a flourish, filled two glasses and slid them across the counter.
With their drinks in hand, Stryker led her to a small, unoccupied table. He settled into a chair, while Hermione perched on a nearby stool. Stryker's gaze swept across the room, taking in their surroundings. Then, without even looking at her, he reached out and grasped her stool, effortlessly sliding it closer until their arms were brushing. A warmth spread through Hermione as he wrapped his arm around her back, pulling her closer to his side. The casual intimacy of the gesture made her stomach flip.
His breath tickled her ear as he leaned in, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. "Ready to give it a go?" he whispered.
"What?" she asked, momentarily disoriented.
"Legilimency," he clarified, his gaze intense.
Hermione hesitated. It felt wrong, an invasion of privacy, to delve into someone's mind without their consent. But the urgency of her mission weighed heavily on her. She needed to practice, to hone her skills, to be ready for the challenges that lay ahead.
Her eyes wandered around the crowded pub, taking in the carefree atmosphere. Couples danced and laughed, their faces lit by the flickering torchlight. This was a world apart from the grim reality of the Seventh Ring, where survival was the only celebration. A pang of longing resonated within her, a yearning for a life less burdened by hardship and loss.
She wondered how different her life would have been if she had been born into this world, this ring of relative comfort and joy. Would she have suffered less? Would she have become the strong, resilient woman she was today? Likely not. But she also would never have met Pita, and for that, she wouldn't change a thing.
With a sigh, she took a large gulp of her drink. The fiery liquid burned its way down her throat, momentarily distracting her from her thoughts.
"Okay," she said, her gaze settling on a man engrossed in a card game at a nearby table.
Stryker followed her line of sight, a subtle nod of encouragement.
Under the table, her hands mimicked the intricate movements Stryker had taught her. She whispered the incantation, her voice barely audible above the noise of the pub. Focusing her intent, she visualized the man's mind, imagining a cord connecting them. To her surprise, there was no resistance. His mind was an open book, and she entered with ease.
"Well?" Stryker asked after a moment, his voice laced with anticipation.
Hermione emerged from the man's thoughts, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "He's cheating at cards," she whispered, unable to contain her amusement.
Stryker's gaze met hers, and Hermione felt a warmth spread through her cheeks. His eyes, usually hidden in shadow beneath his mask, crinkled at the corners, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. They practically glittered with amusement and something else... admiration? Hermione couldn't be sure, but the intensity of his gaze made her whole body tingle. She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, his approval, or a potent combination of both that was making her feel so giddy.
And so, their game continued. They took turns delving into the minds of unsuspecting strangers, each discovery more outlandish and amusing than the last. They turned their Legilimency practice into a playful competition, placing bets and turning it into a drinking game. Laughter filled the air as they clinked glasses and shared their findings.
Hermione had never experienced anything like this with a man. The men from the seventh ring had been so…disappointing. She'd spent time with the prince, of course, enjoying his company and witty banter. But this was different. With Stryker, there was an undeniable spark, a connection that went beyond mere friendship. She felt comfortable, at ease, and completely herself. She reveled in the camaraderie, the shared laughter, and the undeniable attraction that simmered beneath the surface.
As the night wore on, however, the inevitable end drew near. Hand in hand, they navigated the still bustling streets, the sounds of drunken revelry fading behind them as they reached the edge of the forest. With a familiar swirl of magic, they apparated back to the tent.
Stryker replaced his mask, his expression once again hidden from view. Moments later, Hermione felt the familiar tingling sensation as her body morphed back to its original form.
"Same time tomorrow?" Stryker asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Yes," she replied, a smile gracing her lips.
And with that, she stepped out into the darkness, the memory of their shared laughter and the warmth of his touch lingering long after he was out of sight.
The door to her room clicked shut behind her, the familiar scent of lavender and old books welcoming her back. Exhaustion tugged at her eyelids, the lingering effects of the Polyjuice Potion and the copious amounts of alcohol she'd consumed weighing heavily on her. But before she could even think about sleep, her gaze fell upon the journal lying open on her bedside table. A new message awaited her, scrawled in Stryker's distinctive handwriting:
Back safely?
A warmth spread through her chest at the sight of his words, a mixture of relief and something akin to affection. He cared. She watched the ink fade and disappear before picking up the quill and responding:
Yes. Goodnight, Stryker.
Setting the journal aside, she began to undress. The silken nightgown, a pale cream color, felt cool against her skin as she slipped it over her head. It was a far cry from the roughspun fabrics she was accustomed to in the Seventh Ring. She crawled into the plush bed, sinking into the soft mattress and fluffy pillows.
Despite her exhaustion, sleep eluded her. The events of the night replayed in her mind: the pub, the Legilimency games, and Stryker's lingering touch. Her body felt restless, her mind buzzing with a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. The liquor she had consumed churned in her stomach, making her feel lightheaded.
She tossed and turned, the luxurious bed sheets becoming tangled around her limbs. Sleep, it seemed, was a distant dream.
She kicked away her covers and hesitantly reached for the bottom of her nightgown, pulling it up to her waist. She allowed her hand to drift down and slowly traced her fingers over her overly sensitive center. Pleasure zipped through her as she began to circle her clit with her finger. It had been so long since she had touched herself in this way, and her pleasure was building quickly. As she got close, her head tipped back and her eyes fluttered closed. Her mouth hung open in a silent cry as he ground against her hand.
She felt a familiar warmth bloom in her core that had nothing to do with her own touch. She knew that she had received a new message from Stryker. She ignored the sensation, she would look after she was finished. She was so close.
A loud knock shattered her from her pleasure. Before she could respond or move the door flung open and a large figure burst through the door.
Hermione froze, her breath catching in her throat.
Her eyes met the prince’s.
He was frozen in place, looking as though he had just been hit with a particularly powerful curse. His jaw slacked, his eyes widening as he took her in.
A flicker of recognition passed across his face, his pupils dilating as he seemed to drink in the sight of her. She remained motionless, her mind reeling from the intensity and shock of the situation that was unfolding.
The prince's boots echoed against the floor as he took a hesitant step forward. Each movement was slow, deliberate, almost agonizing, like a man wading through deep water. His eyes, usually so bright and full of life, were clouded with an unfamiliar intensity, fixated on her as if she were the only star in a darkened sky. It was as if an invisible thread connected them, pulling him towards her with an irresistible force. He seemed to be in a trance, his body moving independently of his will.
His lips parted slightly, the breath catching in his throat. A name, a plea, some forgotten incantation seemed to tremble on the edge of his tongue, but no sound emerged. Only a silent, desperate yearning hung in the air between them.
Then, as if a spell had been broken, a flicker of awareness crossed his face. The haze in his eyes vanished.
He turned abruptly, his back stiff, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. With a sharp click, the heavy door swung shut behind him, leaving Hermione alone in her room, the echo of his retreating footsteps a cruel reminder of her mortification. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the frantic beating of her own heart.
After gathering herself and catching her breath, she grabbed the journal to see what Stryker had written earlier.
Is everything alright? Your heart rate is elevated.
Fuck. She had forgotten he could sense her heart rate and heightened emotions through the ring.
Yes, I’m fine.
The soft thud of the journal against the bedside table echoed the finality of her words. She turned onto her side, the cool cotton sheets a welcome relief against her flushed skin. With a determined tug, she pulled the covers over her head, creating a cocoon of darkness, a fragile barrier against the world and its judging eyes.
Curled into a tight ball, she surrendered to the wave of mortification that washed over her. Heat crept up her neck, staining her cheeks a fiery red even in the comforting darkness. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed the images away, focusing instead on the rhythm of her breathing, the soft rustle of the sheets, the distant hum of the castle settling into slumber. A silent plea escaped her lips, a desperate whisper for oblivion. "Please, let me sleep," she begged the darkness. Sleep, elusive and fickle, was her only solace now, the only escape from the agonizing replay of her humiliation.
******
"What? Tea with the Queen?" Hermione exclaimed, her voice laced with disbelief. "Why on earth would she want to have tea with me?"
Ginny, already bustling around Hermione with an armful of frilly dresses, barely paused in her task. "She's having tea with all of the remaining girls," she explained, "a chance to get to know each of you one-on-one."
Hermione huffed, blowing a stray curl out of her eyes. Ginny was practically ripping off Hermione's clothes and replacing them with increasingly elaborate garments. "Ginny," Hermione protested, "can you tell her I'm not feeling well? I'm really not up for this. She hasn't even looked in my direction during this entire selection, why is she suddenly interested in getting to know me now?"
"You have to go," Ginny insisted, ignoring Hermione's pleas. With surprising strength – no doubt honed from years of wrestling with six older brothers – she practically shoved Hermione onto a stool. "But," she added, her voice softening as she deftly braided Hermione's unruly hair, "my mother has invited you for dinner tonight with the family, so you can look forward to seeing Pita."
A genuine smile finally broke through Hermione's apprehension. The prospect of seeing Pita filled her with warmth. They had been keeping in touch through the enchanted lockets the prince had gifted them, but it wasn't the same as being together. She longed for Pita's infectious laughter, her sweet smile, and her warm hugs. The thought of seeing her gave Hermione the strength she needed to face the daunting tea with the Queen.
*****
Hermione sat across from Queen Narcissa, the delicate porcelain teacup trembling slightly in her hand. The queen's piercing blue eyes, framed by a cascade of platinum blonde hair, held her captive. Narcissa exuded an aura of power and elegance that both intimidated and fascinated Hermione. She knew this conversation was crucial; a good impression could mean staying in the Selection longer and she was desperate for more time.
"So, Hermione," Narcissa began, her voice a melodic caress, "tell me, what are your aspirations?"
The directness of the question caught Hermione off guard. "I... I haven't given it much thought, your Majesty," she stammered, "Before the Selection, my life revolved around survival. Ensuring Pita and I had food and shelter, that we were safe..."
"Pita?" Narcissa inquired, a hint of curiosity in her voice.
"Oh, yes," Hermione explained, "the young girl from the last trial. I'm her guardian, in a way."
A flicker of sadness crossed Narcissa's face, a brief shadow that vanished as quickly as it appeared. She took a sip of her tea, the clinking of porcelain against china echoing in the otherwise silent room. "And what of your personal life, Miss Granger?" she continued, her voice regaining its smooth cadence. "Had you ever considered marriage before the Selection?"
Hermione felt a warmth creep up her neck, staining her cheeks a delicate pink. "I haven't had much time for romantic pursuits," she admitted, her gaze falling to the intricate floral pattern adorning her teacup.
"Of course, of course," Narcissa said, her tone understanding. Then, with a subtle shift in her demeanor, she leaned forward slightly. "And what do you think of the prospect of marrying my son?" she pressed, her voice a gentle probe that held an underlying current of expectation.
Hermione's heart pounded against her ribs. She knew this was the moment of truth, the question that would likely determine her fate. Choosing her words carefully, she replied, "Prince Draco is... intriguing. Intelligent, and undeniably charismatic. Any woman would be lucky to be his wife." She hoped her answer conveyed the appropriate level of admiration without revealing the true complexity of her feelings towards the prince.
"He is also fiercely loyal and deeply passionate, once you get past his reserved exterior," Narcissa added, her voice softening with maternal pride. "He needs someone who can challenge him, someone who can see beyond the facade and appreciate the depths of his character."
Hermione took a sip of her tea, the delicate floral notes calming her nerves. She found herself captivated by Narcissa's words, drawn into the image of Draco the queen was painting.
"It is no secret that the Prince favors you, Hermione," Narcissa continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He has, since the very beginning of this Selection. From the moment he first laid eyes on you, it seems his mind has been made up." A small, knowing smile played on her lips. "Despite the efforts of the King to persuade him otherwise."
Narcissa leaned forward, her blue eyes sparkling with sincerity. "I have two great wishes, my dear," she confessed, "to see my son happy, and to see this kingdom thrive. I truly believe that you could be the key to both." Her gaze held Hermione's, conveying a deep sense of trust and hope. "Despite any doubts you may currently harbor, I sense a strength and resilience within you that is rare and precious. There is still much time left in the Selection, and I am sure difficult trials and tribulations lay ahead. But I encourage you to trust in my son, even when it may seem difficult to do so."
Hermione's heart swelled with a mix of emotions. She pondered the queen's words, a sense of unease settling in her stomach. Had there been a hint of disdain in Narcissa's voice when she spoke of the king? Could she truly trust Draco with her secrets, with her mission to assassinate his own father. To escape? Perhaps Draco's loyalty to the crown wasn't as unwavering as she had initially assumed. And maybe, just maybe, the queen harbored her own reservations about her husband's rule.
She lifted her gaze, intending to respond to the queen's impassioned plea, but something in Narcissa's demeanor stopped her. The queen had become eerily still, her piercing blue eyes clouding over with a distant, almost vacant expression. The vibrant blue of her irises seemed to swirl and distort, like a pool of water disturbed by an unseen force.
"My queen?" Hermione asked, concern lacing her voice. "Are you alright?"
Narcissa didn't respond. She seemed lost in a trance, her attention focused on some invisible point in the distance.
"My quee—" Hermione began again, but before she could finish, Narcissa blinked, her eyes refocusing with a start.
"Yes, my dear," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "I apologize. I seem to have drifted off for a moment." A fleeting look of disorientation crossed her face, quickly replaced by a mask of composure. "If you'll excuse me," she continued, rising from her chair, "I must be going."
Hermione stood as well, executing a deep curtsy as the queen departed the tea parlor without another word. A sense of bewilderment washed over her. What had just happened? The encounter left Hermione with a lingering sense of unease, a feeling that there was more to Queen Narcissa than met the eye.
*********
The aroma of roasted chicken and potatoes filled the air as Hermione stepped into the warm, bustling kitchen of the Weasley home, Pita curled under her arm. The Weasley family, with their vibrant personalities and infectious laughter, was in full swing. Mrs. Weasley, her face flushed with exertion, was ladling soup into bowls, while Mr. Weasley sat at the table, reading a recent royal announcement. The twins, Fred and George, were engaged in a heated debate about the merits of a new prank, their voices rising in a cacophony of sound.
"It's a brilliant idea, Georgie!" Fred exclaimed, his face flushed with excitement.
"Brilliant? It's a disaster waiting to happen!" George countered, rolling his eyes.
Mrs. Weasley, ever the peacekeeper, sighed and shook her head. "Boys, boys, settle down. Let's give Hermione a chance to enjoy her meal."
Percy passed by Pita on his way to his seat, ruffling her hair as he passed her. Pita giggled in response and Hermione smiled at the interaction. The warmth and chaos of the Weasley household were a stark contrast to the rigid formality of the castle.
As she sat down at the table, Pita never leaving her side, a plate of steaming roast beef and potatoes placed before her, the conversation swirled around her. Ron was busy recounting a particularly disastrous arrest he made recently, while Ginny was giggling at something Percy had said. Hermione listened, enchanted by the family's easy banter and infectious laughter.
“Does anyone want more potatoes?” Molly asked, holding the dish. A somber mood settled over the boisterous dinner table as everyone’s gaze fell on the potatoes. Hermione noticed the sadness in Molly’s eyes, the way her smile faltered.
Ginny, sensing Hermione’s confusion, leaned in and whispered, “That was Charlie’s favorite dish. It’s hard for anyone to enjoy it now, knowing he can’t.”
Hermione’s own eyes grew misty as she took in the heartbroken family before her. Her heart ached for their loss. Though she had never met Charlie, she felt the weight of his absence in the space around the table, in the lingering sadness that clung to the Weasley family.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Hermione said softly, her voice barely a whisper. “I can see how much you all loved him. It must be incredibly difficult.”
“He always did have a knack for finding trouble,” George said, a wistful smile playing on his lips. “But he always knew how to get out of it, too… until he didn’t.”
“He was fearless,” Percy added, his voice filled with pride.
“And loyal,” Ginny said, her voice thick with emotion. “He would have done anything for his family.”
A comfortable silence settled over the table, a shared grief binding them together. Despite their heartbreak, the Weasleys radiated a resilience that touched Hermione deeply. They held onto the love they had for Charlie, cherishing his memory and keeping his spirit alive in their hearts.
********
A lump formed in Hermione's throat as she hugged Pita goodbye, the little girl's arms clinging tightly around her neck. It tore at her heart to leave, knowing it would likely be days before they saw each other again. But as she turned to go, she witnessed a heartwarming scene that eased her worry. Molly Weasley, with her endless capacity for love, scooped Pita up in a warm embrace, gently wiping away the tears that streamed down the girl's face. She pressed a tender kiss to Pita's forehead and led her into the cozy kitchen, where Hermione could easily imagine the girl being showered with comforting words and freshly baked treats.
The sight brought a bittersweet smile to Hermione's lips. Though she missed Pita dearly, she knew the girl was in good hands. The Weasleys had embraced Pita as one of their own, providing her with the love and stability she so desperately needed.
With a heavy heart, Hermione bid farewell to the rest of the Weasley family, promising to visit again soon. Ron, ever the dutiful escort, accompanied her back to the palace, along with Fred, George, and Ginny. The twins' boisterous chatter and Ginny's cheerful presence helped to lift Hermione's spirits during the journey.
Back in the confines of her opulent room, Hermione quickly changed out of her clothes, her mind already strategizing her next move. She had noticed that Ron's guard duty followed a predictable pattern, with breaks occurring at the same time each evening. It was a vulnerability she could exploit, a window of opportunity to slip out unnoticed. With a determined glint in her eyes, she settled down to wait, biding her time until the opportune moment arrived.
An hour later, Hermione found herself standing in the familiar tent, her appearance transformed once more. This time, she was a different person entirely. Long, dark curls cascaded down her back, framing a face with soft, brown eyes. The features were familiar, echoing her own, but subtly altered. Her height, too, had diminished, making her feel smaller and more vulnerable.
Stryker, standing across from her, was equally transformed. His hair, now a jet black, framed his face with a gentle wave. His eyes, a deep shade of blue, held a mischievous glint. He was undeniably handsome in this form.
"Quite the upgrade, don't you think?" he teased, a cocky grin playing on his lips. "Even better than the last one."
Hermione couldn't help but smile. "I suppose you're right," she admitted, her gaze lingering on his transformed features.
Hand in hand, they stepped back into the boisterous pub, the familiar smells of ale and sweat washing over them. Hermione recognized a few faces from the previous night, their laughter and drunken revelry seemingly a permanent fixture in the dimly lit establishment. New faces, however, filled the gaps, adding to the vibrant tapestry of the Sixth Ring's nightlife.
Stryker, with a practiced ease, led her through the crowd towards the bar. The same portly bartender, his grin as wide as ever, greeted them with a knowing wink. He expertly filled their glasses, the frothy ale sloshing over the rims as he slid them across the counter.
They settled back at their usual table, the rough wood cool against Hermione's palms. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Stryker nodded towards a group huddled around a nearby table, their faces etched with concentration as they played a game of cards.
Hermione, emboldened by her success the previous night, dove into their minds with a newfound confidence. She navigated their thoughts with an effortless grace, peeling back layers of hidden intentions and unspoken desires. It was exhilarating, addictive even, to have such access to the inner workings of another person's mind.
"You're an enigma, Ember," Stryker breathed, his voice laced with awe. "I've never seen anyone master Legilimency so quickly."
Hermione blushed at his praise, a warmth spreading through her chest.
Suddenly, their intimate exchange was interrupted by a young couple approaching their table. The woman, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling, held a half empty bottle of ale. The man, tall and lanky, swayed slightly, his arm draped possessively around her waist. They both wore expressions of drunken merriment, their smiles wide and unfocused.
"Hello! May we join you?" the young woman asked, her voice a cheerful lilt that cut through the pub's noise. Her fiery red hair, even curlier than Hermione's natural mane, bounced around her shoulders as she spoke. Her kind hazel eyes sparkled with genuine warmth, inviting Hermione and Stryker into their merriment. The man beside her, a jovial blond with a broad, slightly lopsided grin, radiated an aura of good natured drunkenness.
Hermione glanced at Stryker, who responded with a welcoming smile and a gesture towards the empty seats at their table.
"My name is Eve, and this is my Husband, Martin," the redhead introduced, beaming at them.
"Hello!" Martin chirped, his grin widening.
"I'm Ford, and this is my wife, Agatha," Stryker replied smoothly, slipping effortlessly into their assumed identities.
"We've never seen you two around before," Eve observed, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. "Do you often come to Hogshead?"
When Stryker remained silent, Hermione jumped in, "No, not often. We live quite deep in the forest and don't make it into town much, except for the occasional trade."
"Ah, I see," Eve nodded, a hint of understanding in her eyes. "I grew up in the forest myself, before Martin and I were married. I often find myself wandering the woods, missing the lifestyle. It feels most like home to me."
Hermione smiled, a deep sense of connection resonating within her. She thought of her own humble cottage in the Seventh Ring, the sanctuary she shared with Pita. "I understand completely," she replied, her voice soft with sincerity.
"How long have you two been married?" Martin inquired, his gaze flitting between them with friendly curiosity.
"Six months," Stryker answered, his arm casually draping around Hermione's shoulders.
"Ah, newlyweds!" Eve exclaimed with a wink. "No wonder you never leave home!"
Stryker chuckled, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Hermione's forehead. His touch lingered, sending a shiver down her spine. Hermione's stomach did a flip flop, a flutter of unexpected warmth blooming in her chest. The gesture, though performed for the benefit of their audience, felt surprisingly natural, genuine even. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to imagine a reality where their charade was real, where the affection in his eyes was meant only for her.
The next hour flew by in a haze of laughter and shared confidences. Eve and Martin, with their easygoing nature and infectious enthusiasm, proved to be delightful company. They regaled Hermione and Stryker with tales of their childhood escapades in the forest, their favorite haunts, and the thrill of discovering hidden streams and ancient trees. More drinks were ordered, and the conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by bursts of laughter and playful banter.
Throughout their lively exchange, Stryker's hand rested casually on Hermione's leg beneath the table. It was a subtle gesture, a silent reassurance of his presence, and Hermione found herself leaning into his touch, enjoying the warmth and comfort it provided. She played her part, occasionally placing her hand over his, or leaning into him when she laughed, creating the illusion of intimacy for their audience.
As the night wore on, Hermione found herself caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She enjoyed the camaraderie, the easy laughter, and the sense of belonging that came with being part of this impromptu group. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to imagine a life where their charade was real, where she and Stryker were truly a couple, sharing a simple life in the woods. But reality soon crept back in, reminding her of the danger and uncertainty that lay ahead.
Suddenly, Stryker's voice broke through her reverie. "Would you like to dance?" he asked, his thumb gently stroking her leg beneath the table.
The music had shifted, the lively jig replaced by a soft, melodic tune played on a stringed instrument. Couples swayed gently on the dance floor, their movements mirroring the ebb and flow of the music. Hermione felt a warmth creep up her neck, staining her cheeks a delicate pink. The invitation, though part of their act, sent a flutter of excitement through her. She wondered if he could feel it through the ring.
Stryker stood, his hand outstretched towards her. She took it, feeling a spark ignite between them as their fingers intertwined. They bid farewell to Eve and Martin, promising to meet again soon.
As they moved closer to the band, the music swelling around them, Stryker placed his hands on Hermione's hips. She, in turn, placed her hands on his shoulders, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver down her spine. It was a stark contrast to the formal dances she had shared with the prince and Ginny. Here, the movements were fluid, the steps instinctive. She leaned into him, their bodies moving in perfect synchronicity. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them lost in the music.
They danced for three songs, their bodies swaying to the rhythm. Words were unnecessary, their connection unspoken, their emotions conveyed through the gentle touch of their hands, the lingering gaze of their eyes. When the music finally ceased, they parted reluctantly, their fingers lingering for a moment longer.
Without a word, they linked hands and stepped out of the Sixth Ring, their hearts still pounding from the dance, their minds filled with the lingering warmth of their shared moment.