Four

Chapter 4

21 March – 15 April, 1347

4.1 Plymouth to La Rochelle

Sir Harold Peverel and Sir Draco Malfoy – as the Prince of Wales had promised, Nicholas' nephew had been given the accolade as reward for his participation as well as to fulfill the parameters of the Prophecy to the letter, just in case it should matter – met at the Sleeping Dragon Inn in Plymouth shortly after St Andrews Church had tolled Sext at midday. Within an hour, they were having their first fight.

"I refuse to travel in squalor," shouted Malfoy, slamming his tankard of ale so hard on the table that half the contents slopped over. He impatiently Vanished the spillage with a wave of his wand. "It is beneath my status – I brought my escort for a reason!"

Peverel huffed and sat back down on the chair he'd abandoned earlier in his agitation. "I'd hardly call it squalor," he said, his clipped tones conveying his annoyance as well, if not better, than sheer volume ever would. "I'm just trying to tell you that a small group of travelers would be much less conspicuous than over a dozen men, armed to the teeth and going about with banners flying!"

"They would give us protection!"

"Why would we need that? For all that you're not a soldier, you are no slouch at defending yourself," Peverel countered. "Remember, I've seen what you can do at Hogwarts." He gave the other young man a look. "We're not a merchant caravan transporting valuable wares."

"No, just a tiny band of riders, if you have your way, venturing into strange and potentially hostile areas," Sir Draco muttered, refusing to be mollified by the earlier mild compliment on his prowess at Defense.

Peverel rolled his eyes. "In case you have forgotten, there's a war going on in many of the lands we have to travel, and while King Edward may also be Duke of Aquitaine and related to the House of Castile through his grandmother, this is not a guarantee that we, as Englishmen, won't be considered hostiles by large parts of the populace."

"I'm actually French," Malfoy grumbled sullenly, taking back his own seat.

"By ancestry maybe, but as your uncle swore fealty to the King and your father has been declared Heir ..."

Malfoy gave him a disgusted look since he couldn't very well refute the point. "Trust you to be logical about it," he grumped. "Like some bloody Ravenclaw!"

It took an enormous amount of self-control for Peverel not to burst out laughing. He just stared until the other looked away first.

"Oh, very well," Malfoy conceded grudgingly. "I'll send them back."

Harold knew when to be gracious. "I'm not saying you must be completely without company," he said, much calmer now. "I'll be taking my squire and a groom myself – how about you choose two of your men for an escort as well? That'd bring our number to six – a group small enough not to draw undue attention, yet safe enough to prevent random attacks."

Malfoy clearly didn't like it, but knew that between the two of them, the soldierly Peverel had more experience than him, a merchant – if a very successful one. He was quite aware that what was suitable for a commercial endeavor didn't necessarily mean it'd be the same on the kind of journey they were about to undertake.

"Oh, do what you will; much as it pains me to admit, you're the expert here," he gave in at last, if with ill grace.

Peverel grinned and refilled both their tankards without prompting. "That must've hurt," he said with a wink. "Just because I beat you a few times at Creaothceann and Shuntbumps while we were at school ..."

"It was nearly all the bloody time, and you know it," Malfoy replied with much less heat than before. They'd attended Hogwarts together half a decade ago, but had never been part of each other's circle of friends: One Saxon, half-blood, good at practical magic like Charms and Transfiguration, Gryffindor and from a family long entrenched in Christianity; the other of Norman descent, pure-blood, excelling at Potions and Arithmancy, Slytherin, his family still not-so-secretly following the Old Religion ... they hadn't hated each other, just didn't have a lot in common. Well, except for their mutual love of broomstick sports, which had led to a fierce rivalry on the playing field. "How you ever managed to walk, much less sit after the hours you spent on a besom ..."

"Practice and good extra-strength padding, sewn into my breeches," Sir Harold confessed cheerfully. "But you realise that's also the reason why we have to travel the Muggle way to pass undisturbed through Andalucìa?"

"Merlin, yes," Malfoy agreed fervently. "I love to fly, but the thought of covering nearly three hundred leagues on a broomstick – my poor arse!"

Even when they'd been at Hogwarts together, Harold had often noticed just how fine an arse Malfoy had in his tight breeches and well-cut robes, but kept his observation to himself. Maybe there would be an opportunity to find out more on this quest they were about to begin ...

He was brought out of his musings when Malfoy cleared his throat. "Tell me, though, why we can't use other ways to travel? I see why we have to sail into France, but surely there's a faster way? I mean, there's the Wildsmith woman's invention everybody's been raving about for ages ... It lets one travel through fireplaces, or some such?"

"I wish there was," Sir Harold sighed and drained his tankard. "I'm not looking forward to several weeks on the road, either. But to use Floo powder, the fireplaces must be connected to each other somehow, and nobody has attempted it yet over great distances. As for Apparition, not even Dominus Prewett could find maps accurate enough to provide us with destinations, and besides, even short hops would only exhaust us over that kind of distance."

"Which also holds true for Portkeys, I presume?"

"Unfortunately. For one, it'd be difficult to transport our luggage with a Portkey, and for another, we can't risk appearing apparently out of thin air within sight of Muggles. Not only would it frighten them and draw undue attention to us, it's also that the Pope and the Church are getting progressively intolerant of magic. I'd rather not call the Inquisition upon us, and our quest, just to save time and avoid some discomfort."

Malfoy grimaced. "Nobody's expecting the Inquisition," he said. "What do they have against magic, anyway?"

"They consider it heresy, or maybe apostasy," Peverel replied. "I never bothered to learn the difference between either, but whatever they are, it's supposedly against God and the natural order of things, or some such rot." The two shared an eye-roll. Every witch and wizard knew that magic always worked in accord with the Gods and Nature – and hadn't even the Christ performed acts recorded in the Bible that were indistinguishable from magic? Healing, Transfiguring water into wine, Conjuring enough food to feed a crowd from just a few pieces of bread and two fishes, even calming down a storm or walking on water – all things a wizard might do if he was sufficiently trained.

"That's ridiculous," Malfoy scoffed. "Don't they know that there are laws to magic that are perfectly natural?"

"If they do – and some must, or the King would never have sanctioned our quest – they don't care," Harold said. "Let's just be thankful that we can shrink most of our luggage and supplies, and hide our valuables from prying eyes by Disillusioning them."

"Can we at least use Muggle-Repelling Charms, do you think?"

"Certainly sometimes – and Notice-Me-Not Charms, too, I believe," Harold replied ... and just like that, they sank into a discussion on how to proceed that took up most of the day and went well past the evening meal.

¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨

Two days later, Malfoy had sent most of his men-at-arms back home; the remaining two, Vincent and Gregory, would serve them well on the journey. They were big, strong and taciturn; neither stupid nor especially bright, but good with horses, capable hunters and knew how to handle themselves in a tight spot with crossbow and knives if need be. Peverel brought his squire Ronald, a tall, lanky redhead with a fiery temper who was skilled at the longbow, and another groom who'd served him well on the last campaign he'd fought in the King's service – a quick-witted Irishman named Seamus whose life's ambition seemed to be to drown himself in as many casks of strong spirit as he could find, but he had healing experience and was utterly devoted to Sir Harold. They'd do tolerably well together, everybody agreed.

They sailed from Plymouth with the morning tide on the twenty-second of March; the sky was overcast and chilly, as it often tended to be in spring, but luck was with them and the sea remained mostly calm as the ship took them to La Rochelle, a well-defended harbour on the western coast of France guarded by two mighty stone towers.

The time of their passage was spent profitably, both in renewing their acquaintance as well as pooling what information they'd been given. Because of the deadlines the prophecy had set them, they hadn't been able to have long planning meetings with everybody involved in one place. Instead, Magister Dumbledore and Perceval Weasley had briefed Peverel, whereas Headmaster Prewett had accompanied Nicholas Malfoy to instruct the man's nephew on what he needed to know.

It was a reasonably sunny day in the Bay of Biscay when the captain informed both young men they'd be making landfall within a few hours – and indeed, the faint outline of shore was already becoming visible on the horizon. Vincent and Gregory immediately began to pack their belongings into sturdy trunks, surreptitiously applying Shrinking and Lightening Charms, Seamus readied their mounts and Squire Ronald stood watch, dividing his attention between his fellows and the two knights, ready to lend a hand wherever one might be needed. Peverel and Malfoy stood at the ship's bow, watching it pass the Île de Ré, the small island just a short distance offshore from La Rochelle. Their cloaks were billowing around their legs, the appliquéd arms nearly obscured by the folds.

"So what's the plan?" Malfoy wanted to know at last, his quiet voice almost drowned out by the snap of wind in the sails overhead and the shouts of the sailors as the captain eased into the harbour.

"Find an inn to stay the night to regain our land legs, buy provisions, pack up and leave as soon as possible," Peverel replied succinctly. He squinted in the sunlight, trying to make out what was going on at the wharf. He wished he could ask Ronald for a detailed description as was his wont, but decided not to draw unnecessary attention to his weak eyes.

He received a sardonic look in return. "As if I couldn't have thought of that by myself," Malfoy said. "Don't take me for an idiot just because you have more campaign experience than I; organising a trade caravan isn't that different, I'll have you know."

"I haven't thought you an idiot for quite some time now, Malfoy," Peverel said with a slight bow and a barely-hidden grin. The magical-versus-Muggle method of doing things had been a bone of contention between them since they'd set out on their journey, but the shouting matches had gradually given way to more teasing exchanges on both sides – a state of affairs that looked likely to continue. "Why, I believe it's been four days now – ever since you realised that just because we won't be able to use magic openly doesn't mean that we have to be totally uncomfortable. So, my apologies."

"If you go on insulting me – which you're doing quite badly, I might add – you may as well use my given name," Malfoy grumbled, making a rather unexpected offer.

"I'm sure I'll have ample opportunity to get better at it on this quest of ours." Peverel grinned. "But very well ... Draco." He held out his hand, which Malfoy shook. "Call me Harold – or better yet, Harry."

"What, not Hereweald?" Malfoy – no, Draco – smirked. "I seem to remember that's what you were named at the Sorting."

Harry groaned. "I'll never live that down, will I?"

"Not soon," Draco confirmed, chuckling. "What were your parents thinking, to use the Saxon version of Harold?"

"Probably a similar thing as yours when they named you dragon in Latin," Harry retorted. "But to answer your question – we'll head south, into Languedoc. Our first stop will be the Château de Montségur."

¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨

4.2 – Château de Montségur

They made good progress, but a bout of bad weather and the need to go around a skirmish near Toulouse turned the nine days it should've taken them into nearly two weeks of hard riding before they reached the remnants of what had once been a proud castle high in the foothills rising up into the Pyrenée mountains. The château had been half in ruins for a hundred years now, ever since the Pope's forces had laid siege to the ancient fortress. This siege had lasted over a year and only ended when two hundred and twenty Cathars were burned to death, choosing to walk into the flames rather than being put to the stake. The locals stayed away, fearing the ghosts of the slain, but one person still lived in the ruins – and it was him Peverel had been told to seek out by Magister Dumbledore.

He alighted from his weary horse in the centre of the former courtyard. One hand stayed wrapped firmly around the hilt of his sword as he looked around.

"Someone's moving in the far corner on the left, Sir Harold," murmured Ronald the squire as he came up to take the horse's reins. Harold sent him a quick, grateful smile – sometimes, due to his not-very-sharp sight, he missed things that could be dangerous. Thus Ronald had been acting as his 'eyes' since he'd left Hogwarts.

"My thanks, Ron." He turned towards the deep shadow. "Hello there! We mean no harm; Wulfric Dumbledore sent us," he called in French, his voice ringing clear among the crumbling walls.

"Pretty words fer a stranger carryin' a big knife." And out of an archway stepped a man that had Malfoy and his grooms reach for their wands. He was almost as tall as they were astride on their horses, with an enormous beard, wild long hair and was clad in rough homespun breeches and tunic. He was also holding onto the collar of a vicious-looking boar hound that well matched his master's size. His beetle-black eyes beneath bushy brows were watchful, but not hostile. "Maître Wulfric sent yeh, yeh said?"

"He did," Harry confirmed and quickly performed introductions. "And you would be ...?"

The huge man relaxed and signaled the dog to sit. "Good man, Dumbledore. Me name's Hagrid," he said, his French uncultured and accented, yet understandable. "If yeh'll follow me, I'll show yeh yer quarters fer the night."

"Right. Ronald, Vincent, if you'll see to the horses?"

"Oh, leave 'em here. I'll look after 'em right proper myself," Hagrid said and led them deeper into the half-ruined keep. "Be careful now that yeh don' stumble."

The six men followed, carefully taking note of their surroundings. "Merlin, he's big," Malfoy murmured in English, watching in half-horrified fascination how Hagrid pushed aside large, broken beams and chunks of rubble as if they were nothing but twigs and pebbles.

"Dumbledore suspects he's half-giant," Harry answered in the same language, keeping his voice low. "But he also said he's not dangerous ... if we treat him right."

Draco blushed slightly; he knew he tended to be arrogant, especially when dealing with those of lesser status. "Don't worry; I'm always on my best behaviour towards people who look as if they can crush me like vermin between their fingers."

"Oh, so size matters to you?" Harry said with a tiny leer even as he climbed nimbly over a half-crumbled wall. He'd been delighted to see that a bit of innuendo wasn't rejected by his new friend; in fact, Draco was beginning to tease him right back, and the possibilities inherent in that were ... promising.

Before the other could reply, Harry's wayward thoughts were interrupted as Hagrid stopped and pointed towards a battered wooden door in what might once have been the castle's kitchen. "Here yeh go. Sorry it's jes' two rooms; I canna keep up more or I'd be found out by folks we don' want pokin' around."

The chambers were low-ceilinged and the only light came from the doorways, but each had a decent fireplace, the floors were clean, and there was room enough to spread out their bedding.

"It'll do fine for a couple of days," Peverel decided, choosing the room to the right and motioning their escort of four into the other. "We need to rest the horses, after all."

"And to pick up a certain item," Malfoy started to say when he caught a slight shake of the head and warning glance from the other man. He subsided and waited until Hagrid had left to feed and stable their mounts, boar hound in tow, with a promise to come back later with food.

"Why did you stop me from speaking earlier?" he wanted to know as they lounged in front of a cheery fire, goblets of wine in hand. Ronald and the others had quickly unpacked and unshrunk a couple of stools along with their bedding and were now helping Hagrid prepare their evening meal. "Am I not to assume that it's here we're to collect that treasure the prophecy mentioned?"

"Yes," Harold said quietly. "But while I generally trust Dumbledore's judgement about Hagrid, I don't think we can be too careful about whom we tell about our purpose here. Others have been searching for the treasure in the past, and might still be doing so."

"Merlin, you soldier types are suspicious," Draco muttered. "But in this case, you may be right."

"Thank you."

"Don't be so effusive. One might almost think we're friends."

"Merlin, Morgana and all the saints forbid," Harry replied, sharing a grin with Draco.

They were interrupted by the others' return and stopped to partake of a simple yet tasty stew, accompanied by fresh crusty bread. Finished, they were left alone once more to share a last drink before retiring for the night.

"So, back to my earlier question?" Malfoy began.

"Ah, yes." Peverel unexpectedly drew his wand and quickly erected both Silencing and Privacy Wards around them. "First, I need your word that what I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room."

Malfoy slowly sat up from his comfortable slouch. There was a note in the other man's voice that sounded deadly serious, and he knew better than to counter it with their usual banter, especially given the spells just cast. He also reached for his wand and held it across his heart. "On my magic, I swear to hold your secret as mine," he vowed solemnly.

Harold inclined his head in silent thanks, then took a few moments to gather his thoughts. "You've heard the prophecy; we had to come here to search for Montségur's treasure."

"You know what it is?"

"Not precisely, but I have an idea."

"Mmmn. Those warrior knights ..." Malfoy drawled, sipping his wine. "Might they have worn white mantles, with a red crosse pattée, perhaps?" He kept his expression purposely bland, but there was a keen shrewdness in his gaze that told Harry he'd correctly deducted a significant part of why they'd come here.

"Well reasoned, mon ami." Peverel inhaled deeply and met the grey eyes of the man who was quickly becoming a close friend. "There's a connection with my mother's family," he murmured at last. "You know that she was Muggleborn, yes?"

"Everybody does," Malfoy waved it away with a casual gesture. "Uncle Nicholas cares about this kind of thing more than I do. Admittedly, it's not something I'd choose for my own family, but from all accounts she was a competent witch, devoted to your father, and her ... um ... unfortunate background doesn't seem to have impaired your talent. Well, what there is of it, of course."

Harold smiled fleetingly. The disparities in their backgrounds had led to quite a number of debates so far, mostly good-natured if with a hefty dose of mockery from Malfoy which Peverel usually countered in a similar vein. Instead of causing more fights like at their first meeting in Plymouth, these arguments strangely served to draw them closer. "Thanks ‒ I think. What not everybody knows, however, is her family history."

"Oh? Something more scandalous than Muggle origins?"

Peverel made a rude gesture which Malfoy returned by giving a small, slightly mocking salute with his goblet.

"My mother's father was a Templar Knight born not far from here – at Angoulême, to be exact," Harold divulged at last. "His ancestors had come from Britain with Richard Lionheart and stayed after the Third Crusade to serve as mercenaries to the Sieur of Mirepoix, the patron of this area.

"Forty years ago, grandpère had gone to Paris on an errand when the Templars were disbanded overnight by Philipp of France and Pope Clement; he managed to leave just in time to escape being burned at the stake as a heretic. He was injured, though, and fled north to Lille where he ended up at a béguinage. It was there he met my grandmother; she nursed his wounds until he was hale once more, and when he left for his ancestral Britain, she followed him as his bride. Of course he had to set aside his vows, but ..." He shrugged eloquently.

"Can't have been an easy decision," Malfoy said. Vows of any kind were a serious matter, whether magical or Muggle.

"From what I hear, it wasn't, but anything else just wasn't safe, so ... anyway, they settled near Clwyd in Wales, where St Mungo had lived for a time, and when my mother was born and turned out magical, applied for protection to Rhydion Evans, their head of family. Rhydion agreed and even offered them the use of his name, which my grandfather gladly accepted to better hide his Templar past from the Church's persecution. In time, mother gained a place at Hogwarts; it was there she met my father, and, well, the rest is history, as they say."

Malfoy wasn't well-versed in Muggle affairs, but even purebloods knew of the Knights Templar; quite a few wizards had actually joined the Order's ranks in the past. And many a mediwitch went to hone her craft in a Béguine establishment; the women choosing to live there often were competent teachers and Healers, dedicated to good works and supporting themselves by hard, honest work – a reason why the Inquisition seemed inclined to take them under scrutiny as well. An independent woman was all but anathema to the Church, who preferred them to stay in the house and be subservient to their menfolk's rule. From all he'd heard about Lilia Evans Peverel, she hadn't been that kind of woman until the day she and her husband were killed by Scotsmen's hands during a border raid while Harold had still been in his first year at Hogwarts.

"Right. Now, are you finally going to tell me what this treasure the prophecy mentioned is?"

"So impatient," Harold teased, but gave up on levity when he saw his companion's frown. "It's something the Knights Templar hid here at Montségur on their way back from the Holy Land after the very first crusade, and it fell to my family line to protect it. People think it's lost to all, but ... there's a legend."

Draco groaned in mock horror. "What, you're dragging me halfway across Aquitaine – without letting me use magic, either! – just because there's a bedtime fable about a Templar treasure?"

Harry smiled slightly, thinking of one specific story he'd grown up hearing. "What's mere legend to one can be family history to another." And he wouldn't say more on the matter for the rest of the night, and all of the next day.

¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨

Their second night at Montségur, Harry woke Draco only a few hours past midnight, ignoring the grumbling behind him as Draco sleepily stumbled out into the castle's courtyard in the chill pre-dawn air.

"Will you keep quiet?" Harry hissed. "We don't want the world to know that we're up and about, much less what we're going to look for!"

That woke Draco up better than an Aguamenti in the face. "We're searching for the treasure? Now?"

"Yes – but quietly, if you please!"

"I'll be as quiet as a mouse," Draco promised, shrugging deeper into his gambeson as he followed.

Harry couldn't help himself, he had to chuckle. "Don't you have the wrong rodent there?" he asked, referring to the time when a stray misfired hex during dueling practice had turned the other into a ferret.

"Shut up, knave!" Draco sent Harold a poisonous glare. "I'm still not convinced it wasn't you who did that to me!"

"In fourth year? Hardly. Today would be another matter, though, if you'd like me to try?" Green eyes sparkled under black, messy hair cut short to facilitate wearing a helmet.

With a sniff, Draco finished fussing with the fastenings of his padded jacket and quickly tied his own long, blond hair back with a piece of ribbon. "You wish." He waved a dismissive hand. "Never mind; where are we going?"

"Just beyond the west wall," Harry pointed.

As stealthily as possible, they picked their way through the ruins until they stood outside the old keep. The hollowed-out and partially-broken windows stood in sharp contrast to the slowly-brightening sky as the stars winked out one by one.

"Any minute now," Harry murmured. He reached into a pouch tied to his belt and fastened a silver torc around his neck, blinking furiously as he activated the runes engraved on it with a tap of his wand and a whispered spell. "Video meliora!"

"I thought you hated that thing. Doesn't it give you a headache?" Draco asked softly.

"Yes. Can't be helped, though – I need to see what I'm doing." Harry sighed, wishing not for the first time that there was a device or whatever that could enhance vision permanently. He could use magnifying glasses to read and for close-quarters work that only needed one hand, but it was a cumbersome way of doing things. Certain spells helped, but they were often unstable or tended to wear off fairly quickly, and the 'eyeglasses' some Italian Muggle had invented some fifty-odd years ago that could be worn on one's face were useless for far-seeing. So until and unless someone found a better solution, he was stuck with his torc and the runes ... and unfortunately a blinding headache after each use. Still, he supposed it was better than nothing.

The two young men waited, watching the sun rise from behind the distant peaks of the mountains. "See that wheel window in the top right corner?"

"Ye-es," Malfoy said after a few moments, identifying the half-broken spokes at last. "What about it?"

"The legend says that if the right command is given at the right instant by someone of the Guardian's blood, a beam of light will fall through the central oculus and reveal where Montségur's treasure is hidden."

"Right ..."

They both watched with bated breaths as the sun rose inexorably, bathing the jagged walls in golden light. Harry moved a few careful steps now and then to adjust his position, telling Draco with sparse gestures to keep closely by his side. As dawn gradually gave way to true sunrise and the circle in the middle of the broken wheel window began to blaze bright with sunlight, it seemed to Draco that the legend might be just that, a tale told to children at bedtime, or around the fire on a winter's night. Strangely disappointed, he was about to say so when Harry suddenly gripped his arm, hard, and lifted his wand.

"Lucem Revelo!" he whisper-shouted, pointing his wand at the stone frame silhouetted in stark black against the cloudless sky. His aim was perfect and true. Struck mute with awe, Draco watched as sunlight mingled with spell, both turning crimson edged with gold, and against all laws of Nature veered off at an angle towards a hill not too far away.

"Quick, memorize the point of impact," Harry instructed, his hand as steady as his voice was shaking. "It'll be over in a second!" As he spoke, so it happened. The red beam died as quickly as it had appeared, and the last of the morning's mist shrouding the walls of Montségur was burned away by glorious light.

¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨

The sun was high in the sky once they'd first scrambled down the rocky cliff and then back up the moss-slippery hillside where the red beam had guided them, but it took them the better part of an hour to find what they were looking for. It was Draco's sharp eye that discovered the carved shape of a Templar's Seal underneath the grayish lichen on a flat stone shaped into a crude shield, and Harry's strong yet sensitive hands that pried it loose with very little fuss. The stone covered a deep crevice, and behind it sat a large lidded clay pot, of the type used to store perishable goods since the days of the Roman legions. It was rather heavy, but a cautious shake as they lifted it out of the crevice produced neither sound nor movement from within.

"Well, it's obviously not empty," Draco commented, stretching his back. "Heavy enough to hold gold or jewels, too."

"Somehow, I don't think so," Harry said, letting his fingertips glide lightly around the rim of the lid. When he got to the edge, he startled, paused and then bent to take a closer look. Soon, though, he straightened again and yanked the torc from his neck with a muttered oath.

"Damn this thing! My eyeballs feel as if they're filled with shards of glass, and I still can't see well enough to –" He sighed, motioning for Draco to take over. "I think there's some kind of carving here; it might be runes, or something. Will you take a look?"

"Of course." The blond head bowed low over the pot as he, too, traced the lid's edge with sensitive fingers. "Not runes," Draco determined after a few moments. "But definitely a type of script."

"We'll examine it tonight," Harry said. "I'd rather not do it out here, where anyone can hide behind a rock without us noticing."

"Agreed. Also, food? It's nearing midday, and I'm starving!"

The rumble of Harry's stomach was answer enough, as was his rueful laugh. They re-covered the crevice, hiding its place as best they could, bundled up the pot in Draco's jerkin for protection and carried it back to the castle and their room.

¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨

That night, they again waited until their escort and Hagrid were asleep before they made a closer examination of the pot. Draco declared the script around the edge to be Latin. "Let's see ... it's badly eroded, but I think it says ...'Sana me Domine et sanabor salvum me fac et salvus ero quoniam laus mea tu es,'" he deciphered haltingly as he traced the tiny letters.

"'Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed; save me, and I shall be saved, for you are my praise.' It's a verse from the Bible," Harry murmured. "Old Testament – Jeremiah, I think."

Draco's breath hitched. "That's ... eerie."

"Really?" Harry shrugged with a nonchalance he didn't truly feel. "I find it ... fortuitous," he replied.

"You don't find it suspicious that we're on a rather nebulous quest to find a cure – which we don't even know exists, made by someone whose identity we're barely sure of, for a yet-to-be-defined plague, have to retrieve an artefact supposedly hidden centuries ago by Templars, in a ruined castle with a very dodgy history, to help with that ... and when, against all odds and by means of a legend and some rather risky spellwork, we actually find said artefact, it just happens to have an inscription about healing on its cover?"

"Amazing. You didn't even have to breathe while saying all this."

Draco sent him a nearly murderous glare, which Harry returned with a wry smile.

"No, seriously, why?" When Draco started to sputter incredulously, Harry held up a placatory hand. "Look, I agree it's a strange coincidence – very well, several coincidences, if you insist – but the prophecy specifically directed us here, towards this –" he waved, the gesture encompassing both keep and artefact, "‒ and if we start questioning every little detail just because things seem to fit a little too well, we might as well turn back and go home."

"I'm beginning to question your sanity," Malfoy grumbled. "And possibly my own, too, or I wouldn't be here to begin with." He glowered for a minute at his companion, then heaved a resigned sigh. "Oh, all right, go on then." He gestured towards the clay pot. "Might as well be mad along with you."

"At least it wasn't a warning," Harry said cheerfully, then donned his torc once more, took a thin and needle-sharp dagger from his pack and carefully started to scrape at the mix of resin and clay that had been used to seal lid and container untold years ago.

Draco continued to mutter to himself about mysterious treasures, foolhardy Gryffindors and stupid ventures, but Harry noticed that his wand, lit with a bright lumos to help them see, was held steady as a rock, and that Malfoy was clearly alert and watching out for any sign of trouble that might arise.

Eventually, Harry succeeded in prying the lid loose without breaking anything. Gingerly, he opened the sturdy container. Inside, packed tightly in fine sand, lay a plain reddish-brown cup – about as high as a man's hand, with a low-stemmed base and a wider flared edge on top. The potter had scratched a few decorative vines into the outside before firing the clay, but otherwise it was wholly unremarkable.

That is, until a clearly disappointed Draco laid his wand aside and lifted the cup from its protective bedding, only to feel a wave of indescribable power wash over him, strong enough that he nearly let it fall.

"Merlin!"

"No, not him," Harry contradicted softly. Gently, he took the cup from Draco's suddenly unsteady hands and set it on the small tripod table between them so that they could both look at it. "Try someone else."

"What?" Uncomprehending grey eyes met green.

"You don't invoke Merlin over this cup, Draco," Harry said, still with that same hushed voice. "You're an educated man; think a little. The legend of Montségur says that a Templar Knight was tasked by St Bernard of Clairvaux himself to guard a treasure from the Holy Land – a treasure that once was touched by a king."

Draco's breath caught as his mind assimilated these further details of the legend. "But ... it's so plain," he murmured. "Surely ... a king's ... possession would be of gold, or alabaster ..."

"Not this king's. He was the humblest of men and didn't own much. From what we know, even the plate he used for supper probably belonged to someone else."

Something wondrous yet dreadful began to rise within Draco's heart as his conclusions solidified.

"Whom did they belong to?" he whispered, almost inaudibly, knowing the answer even before Harry gave it to him.

Harry's smile grew wistful, and he brushed a finger along the rim of the cup. "Joseph of Arimathea."

The silence between them was heavy. Joseph of Arimathea was said to have founded the abbey at Glastonbury – a place that had meaning both for Christians and those who still followed the Old Religion. If this cup was what Draco was beginning to think it was, and they were to use it in next year's Beltane Ritual, at Glastonbury itself–

Merlin, Morgana and all the saints, preserve us!

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A/N: Creaothceann (Scotland) - Popular in the Middle Ages, probably the most dangerous of all broom games. [...] Shuntbumps - popular in Devon. Similar to jousting. (Both old-time broom sports mentioned in "Quidditch Through the Ages", via the HP Lexicon)

Crosse pattée is a cross, the arms of which are narrow at the inner centre and very broad at the other end; the device was the official seal of the Knights Templar. The Order was officially disbanded in 1314 by King Philip IV of France and Pope Clement V, and its Grand Master burned at the stake.

The Château de Montségur exists, complete with a legend of treasure hidden there. I've altered the legend slightly to suit the story.

In the early 13th century, the Cathar movement gave birth to the Medieval Inquisition; 400 Cathars were besieged at Montségur by a 6000-men strong Papal army. 220 of them chose voluntarily to walk into a burning meadow rather than being put to the stake by the victors in 1244.

One league equals roughly 3 miles/4.5 kilometres.

A score is an archaic word meaning twenty; thus "eleven-score" equals 220.

Béguines were Christian lay religious orders [...] in the 13th –16th centuries. Their members lived in semi-monastic communities (béguinages), but did not take formal religious vows. That is, although they promised not to marry 'as long as they lived as Béguines', to quote one of the early Rules, they were free to leave at any time. Béguines were part of a larger spiritual revival movement of the thirteenth century that stressed imitation of Christ's life through voluntary poverty, care of the poor and sick, and religious devotion. (from Wikipedia)

Clwyd/St Mungo: another real place. Scottish missionary Kentigern settled briefly on a ridge between the rivers Elwy and Clwyd. Kentigern eventually returned to Scotland (where he is known as St Mungo); found at BritainExpress

Hagrid's accent is courtesy of the Hagridizer

"oculus" = Latin for "eye". The round central opening in a wheel window.

"Video Meliora!" = Latin for "I see better!"

"Lucem Revelo" = Latin for "show the light"

The Old Testament quote is from Prophets; Jeremiah 17:14.

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