Chapter 32: Mystics, Legends & Fate

Author's Note: Very long chapter indeed, and the next will be short. We're approaching the end, my dears, and I do hope you've enjoyed the journey. Please stow your carry-ons and prepare for our descent. Only three more to go after this.

-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-

Chapter 32: Mystics, Legends, & Fate

Cornish pasties and scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam was not a particularly elegant meal, but all the same they were comfortable and filling. The fact they acted as Hermione's birthday luncheon mattered little; Zelda's kindness and recollection of the significance surrounding the Tuesday more than elevated the common fare to great exaltation. They left Plunk & Pop with nearly a half hour to spare before they were due to return to the Ministry. And Zelda had insisted they make a little stop beforehand.

Hermione eyed her companion curiously as they turned toward the door of Paints Preserve Us, the location once full of Ollivander's quality creations. Pangs pulled at her heart in memory, a sadness for the stark changes unintentional. She'd always imagined what it would be like when she'd bustle her own children in for their first wands, fitful glee and trepidation radiating from them upon first entering the hallowed shop. And no one had ever fit that role but Ollivander's. But it was not to be, now.

Assailed were her senses upon entering, tinging announcing their arrival with resounding efficiency. Biting scents of oils and acrylics and some essence similar to turpentine filled her nostrils; Hermione grimaced in slight recoil. Oblivious her discomfiture, Zelda flitted deeper into the room toward the empty oaken sales counter, leaving the birthday girl to peruse alone amongst gilded frames, fluttering landscapes, nosey subjects. Freestanding canvases dotted the lemon oiled hardwood floor. Each seemingly haphazard in their location, but slyly calculated so that a patron would be lured throughout a maze in effort to seek out a particular piece.

She'd paused before a particularly menacing piece of striking sordid images when mingled voices distinguished themselves to a single call.

"Hermione, dear! Yoo-hoo!" Zelda beckoned from beyond levitating screens of tittering maids and sneering warlocks. Weaving about animated subjects and their yet greater animated gossip, Hermione made her way toward the counter. Zelda stood in chipper mood, eyes alight with some girlish mischief as she murmured to the vaguely familiar woman opposite the counter.

"Hermione, dear... let me introduce to you Agatha Pallet." Spry eyes set deep within cobwebs of age lines appraised Hermione carefully. An odd expression passed her worn face before an easy smile broke the study. Brief greetings polite and pleasant passed between the ladies. "Aggie here is the artist of that painting of mine you enjoy so much," she added with an indulgent smile. Hermione's brows creased in momentary bewilderment. Just as she was about to ask, Zelda realized her need and clarified rapidly.

"The Mystic of the Mists. " She looked expectantly at Hermione, grin of claimed surprise fading against growing concern. "The painting in my boudoir; of Nimüe... You were quite taken with her..." Brows creased with further worry against the younger woman's blank expression. Until...

Blood fled her cheeks, leaving Hermione's face flush, head dizzy and light. "Oh," she managed, voice high, thin with emotion. The painting. The one that had haunted her since the Gala; the one through which Hermione had been claimed to have a gift. A gift of which she could not accept its validity. A gift she did not, thank you, want. Never before had she believed in the wooly branch of magic dubbed Divination.

"Sorry for the sampl'n willy-nilly," Aggie chimed in, breaking Hermione's disconcertion to bring her back to current. Sweeping gesture crossed the shop's front entrance, then broadened to include the high, bare ceilings. "Tom'd promised to assist me ready the shop, but bugger it, the Cauldron's got'im too cornered, faffing about."

Realization dawned quickly this time, and Hermione's face bloomed in understanding. This was the woman old Tom at the Leaky Cauldron had been mooning over her last trip in. The trip during which she'd come to accept that Ron was not her future husband. This epiphany, even though she'd not yet known Sirius was the man she'd fall hopelessly for. In fact, at the time she hadn't quite believed him alive.

"Shall we have look, Hermione?" Zelda inquired, breaking her from a path of thought known to be dangerous. "Pick anything you like," she added in chuckle. "Your birthday present, my dear; any painting you've a fancy for."

Several minutes fell wasted in trying to deter Blue's grandmother from such a generous gift; the little time left before work demanded their presence was spent meandering the shop, Aggie personally guiding. By this time, however, remembrances of last night had taken root from earlier consideration, and Hermione could not remove Regulus Black's image from her mind in lieu of artistry.

Rather, she could not remove the feel and taste of him from her lips.

The kiss was not one expected. Nor could she say it was desired. Yet truth demanded that – at least to herself – she admit it was not exactly a hardship. It simply made matters more... complicated. Part of Hermione could not move past regret that it had not been Sirius bestowing elegant – if not brief – ministrations. Sirius, however, had never shown even the slightest of consideration for her in that manner. He'd admitted once only that she was a woman, and he'd been in a bit of a pinch for female companionship that night in her dormitory. Momentary lust did not equal tenderness of the heart.

Regulus' kiss was not a matter of hell-bent lust. Hesitant in its offer, he'd proceeded guarded and unsure. Her blood might well be his dilemma, or even his over all irritation with her since his exposition in Zelda's kitchen or their tiff on the streets of Cairo. One definite truth: there was more to Regulus Black than Sirius had always made out to be. And willingness to seek out those hidden truths was rapidly gaining ground in Hermione. If one avenue of life were closed...

"What do you think?" Jarred from continuing onslaughts of unsettling gray eyes, Hermione started at Zelda's question, realizing belatedly the elder was seeking Hermione's opinion on a particular painting they'd paused before. Pretending a critiquing eye, she roamed sight over subtle shades of sage and cobalt, the waterfall landscape lovely in its own right, but failing to hold her attention.

"It's quite lovely, really," she finally offered with a small smile. "But –"

"But it's not Nimüe," Zelda supplied, an understanding smile brightening her words. She turned to Aggie. "Have you any additional pieces of the High Priestess, Aggie? Or perhaps of the Isle of the Blessed itself?"

Concentration held the artist's lips pursed, eyes averted as though conferring with a directory behind her forehead. After a long moment's pause, a nod began, her attention back to the woman beside her. "Yes, I believe I have one. While awaiting my mistress' arrival from across the loch, I'd busied myself with a small landscape, centered on a fruit tree in full bloom. But I can't imagine you'd adhere to that one, girl," she added, turning to Hermione. "Not so as exciting as a hippogriff in flight or as breathtaking as Merlin's lineage."

Sigh of resignation crossed her aged mouth as she spoke once again to Zelda. "Normally I'd never drop to so common a subject as apples, but as Avalon is known for its exquisite and unique breed of them, I felt they deserved some recognition. After all, they seem always a grand gift to the convent at Glastonbury Abby, who often offer them as blessings of welcome to dignitaries and the faithful and some such."

She waved her hand dismissively and moved on, Zelda keeping step and Hermione lagging behind. Honestly, she did appreciate the thought behind Zelda's desire to purchase a painting from this grand artist. She recalled reading about Agatha Pallet whilst searching with Ginny through Flourish and Blotts on the ability to bring back the dead, or at least draw someone in return through the Veil. But now Hermione's heart simply wasn't in it; other images and needs preoccupied her very tattered and cracked heart at the moment, thank you. Birthday gifts diminished against firm lips shockingly soft and gentle.

"Ah, here we are, ducks." Aggie had ceased meandering before a meter-wide canvas splashed in violent strokes of dark hues. Midnight, crimson, navy, ebony... bright flash of yellowed ivory struck across at intervals as storm clouds announced their fury in heat lightening. Two wizards before them were dueling heatedly, angrily, upon bare rock and craggy hillsides of Scottish wilderness. Surprisingly, they did not stop their rather bloody battle for the women. Too ingrained in deeds of destruction... agility and cunning and pure luck their guides.

"Vivid detail, excitement... a girl with a nose for history should find the spell casting particularly interesting," Aggie continued, arched brows questioning.

"Yes, it is quite... educational," she answered, squinted at the piece, part horrific fascination and part simply horror.

"You know, Aggie," Zelda thought aloud, "this one in the mauve robes reminds me a bit of Bubby, the way he flicks his wand more with finger flourish than forearm. Might you have any left of him – Bubby, I mean – perhaps in one of his demonstrations? I don't have any photographs of him in action." Soft chuckle of remembrance followed as Hermione fought to draw her eyes from the increasingly graphic scene before. Ron and Harry would love this, she considered morosely.

"Sorry, duck." Aggie shook her frazzled gray haired head, small frown pulling at her weathered skin. "What I would've given to have captured Dumbledore's fight with Grindlewald, I tell you. No duel could ever have come close to matching that one, and right shame it's not immortalized in oils." She sighed heavily, and Hermione broke her gaze from the painting to peer curiously at the woman. Something she said...

"Ah, my Bubby was a talent no one could match, indeed," Zelda replied, gazing unseeingly into the vision framed before her. "Why, that of all defeats should have been seen by the world. But not a soul witnessed it. And Bubby never would speak of it. I mean, I've no idea even what spell he cast to finish Grindlewald off. And with Bubby gone, there's no way to ever know, I suppose. Pity, that."

"If it were the last spell he cast, as history tells us, then a simple Prior Incantato would retrieve the spell," Hermione jumped in, ever drawn instinctively to discussions needing technical answers for hypothetical questions. "All you'd need was the w–"

Abrupt cessation of speech. Face suddenly void of expression but for that of incredulity. Heartbeats passed, white noise clouded her ears, swirling images her eyes. Like mirror shards in the midst of Reparo, the fragments came together with flush interlocking. She looked up slowly at Zelda, casting an appreciative glance to Aggie. Both women had gone pale, worry marring their faces, for Hermione did indeed seem to have succumbed suddenly to a curse or illness. But the young witch could only allow an open smile to creep out, eyes lighting

"All you need," she began slowly with a sense of revelation. Apples. "Is the wand..."

-o-

"And she said that the only way for a soul to pass uninvited to the other side was to offer something proving your connection, your right to passage." Throat parched from her story, Hermione downed the last of the Sangria Raj had offered her. Half hour of explanation nearly non-stop had left her weary and anxious. Initially it had been a leap from 'greatest wizard's defeat' to Avalon. But Aggie's mention of apples had reminded Hermione of preposterous dinner conversation back in Ireland, when Mortimer Bailey had driveled on about the apples from Avalon, the same location where Albus Dumbledore's battle wand had been stowed in nearly shrine-like state.

Raj MacGregor stood before her, brows creased in deep thought, curled fingers tugging slightly at his bottom lip in musing. Though invoking a sense of pressure upon him by staring, Hermione could not turn from him even as she set her goblet to the shale-topped table beside her Victorian chair. To look to her right would bring Sirius into view, and less-than-honorable thoughts of him these past nights could not allow her to catch his glance without blushing. To stray sight to her left meant capturing the unreadable smoky grays of Regulus. That, too, would lead to Gryffindor crimson upon her cheeks, albeit differing, more substantial reasons. So instead she remained face-forward, watching for any indication a solution had come to his mind.

"I was thinking perhaps your grandfather's journal," she offered, both as suggestion and to break the tense silence of the flat's sitting room. Jingling echoed from below, the Muggle antique shop welcoming new patrons. The new sound merely brought into stark relief the utter silence while Raj searched his mind for answers.

Were she to chance a look at either Black brother, Hermione could well guess they still glared at the other, though what incident caused such unspoken row was still as of yet mysterious. Since their arrivals, each had taunted the other in tone and facial expression, reserving their right to keep others out of the feud by denying any issue lay between them. Coldness was left in their battle of wills, and Hermione felt not only an intruder to their family closet of dirty laundry, but oddly a particular pawn as well.

"No," Raj quietly answered. A second passed before Hermione realized what question he'd been answering. "I believe, rather," he started slowly, finally bringing his gaze to encompass all three his seated subjects, "I know what will gain us passage and acceptance from the High Priestess into Avalon. You are right about one thing, Hermione: it must be something once belonging solely to my daid, something that marks itself as his, and his alone."

All three now looked expectantly at Raj, and he offered a slight smile to Hermione before turning to step to the wall behind him. And there he gently lift from its tartan display the broadsword that first had enraptured Hermione her only other visit here.

"Ond 'r 'n fwyaf farchog i mewn 'r byd shall arlunia hon eginyn chan 'i carega gwain," he whispered reverently. Raj looked to Hermione from under his long, black lashes. "'Only the greatest knight in the world shall draw this blade from its stone sheath.'"

Breath caught on her lips. It all made sense now, though how such a full circle could come back to her as witness...

"The Sword of Avelion, first brought to Camelot by the Lady Lile of Avelion. Merlin himself had embedded it into a block of marble after Balin died, setting it adrift amongst the world. Only Galahad could draw it, and did so at the Feast of Pentecost in 487. It will be our passage into Avalon, Hermione, where you will find the wand that cast Grindlewald from his power..."

"And learn from it the spell that fulfilled the greatest defeat known to wizard kind," she ended in hushed tones. "To defeat the greatest fear now known to all."

-o-0-o-

"Muggles fancy themselves clever, ye ken," Argus commented to no one in particular. The soft rocking of the Solomon IV – its namesake having carried Galahad himself in his Grail quest – lulled Hermione in its gentle rhythm toward the sleep she so desired. Heavy predawn velvet blue allowed only for silhouettes of the island not far before them. Mount's Bay was startlingly quiet this day, the twenty-second of September, allowing easy glide toward the imposing fortress. "The masses believe 'tis Glastonbury where the Muggle king was laid to rest, being cross point of more'n a dozen ley lines. But 'tis St. Michael's Ley such that links the Tor, Burrow Mump, the stone rings of Avebury... the Mount. And the Mount begins it."

Argus' Scots brogue softened as he continued recounting the wonders of St. Michael's Mount, the stories surrounding the 250-foot high island. Legends of visits by Jesus and Joseph of Arimathea, of a place of sanctuary for the Grail, of slain dragons and visions of the archangel himself. Melodic tales and shushes of water to boat soothed her frail nerves, lulling her body into half sleep against Harry's solidness. Perhaps her best friend was the only one beside whom she could relax without some sense of guilt. Ron sat to her other side, silent, straight and still as the others. Brooding was a possibility, though it was far too dark to tell; Hermione would not venture to stare directly at his familiar, freckled face. Neither their first meeting ten days past, nor the one yesterday involved welcoming reminiscent of those attached. Hugs, smiles, friendly pats... nothing in his demeanor, however, was that of a lover. Nothing more than school friends with familial overtones, and Hermione could not help but wonder at the change. Of herself she knew, for Sirius Black had stolen her heart; his brother held a lien. Yet Ron could not know that.

Could he?

Behind her she knew Regulus and Sirius held court of terse connection, the cause of which she'd still not learned since Tuesday. Raj sat before her next to his standing father, crouched in assistance to Argus. Like herself, he had weaved a tale of family emergency to explain his multiday absence from the Ministry. She had pled the same from school.

All were unmoving but for their guide, a man of cartography whose maps could not be duplicated. A man whose maps led to the most magical of places, those unplottable. Including the place he'd once come close to visiting as a child, left behind on shore with Zelda Foncé-Luminare while his father and Albus Dumbledore crossed the Bay to the hidden realm of Avalon. There the wand that defeated Grindlewald was laid bare in treasured display.

Fifty-five years it had been. She wondered what – if anything – had changed since that time. Would they be able to find the entrance into the land? Would the Mystic of Annwyn grant them access? Would she hear their plea and offer assistance for the greater good, assuming little Hermione Granger's deductions were correct? Too many worries drifted about her head, claiming energy and sapping strength. More heavily she leaned upon Harry, allowing weary eyes to drift shut, holding out reality for a bit longer.

She slept. She knew she slept only by drastic changes of scenery when once more eyelids drew open in what must have been only minutes later. Inky depth had given way to misty gray of earliest dawn. Slightly distant island had grown to nearly accessible with one good leap from the boat. They'd begun to skirt the island on the eastern side, drifting away from the cobblestone causeway she knew to be hidden 'neath the high tide. As the water fell later in the day, tourists and visitors would step out from the mainland of Cornwall and make their way to the shops at the northern foot of the aged castle. But themselves... they hugged the sloping shoreline, slipping round to the southern side where no one was allowed, where the edge of the island rose in cliffs behind the medieval stone structure at the sharp peak. Were it Saturday instead of Friday, they'd be left in peace for no Muggle shops would be open to the public on that day.

Regardless, if all went as planned, they would see no Muggles this day, either, tide low or commerce open. Slip in before complete sunrise, and leave under cover of darkness. 'Twas the plan, anyway, assuming they'd not be caught by wizard or Muggle. And that they could locate the secret cleft in the cliffs. And do so without crashing into the island. And...

It was a moment before Hermione noticed they'd ceased advancement. Jostling more quickly now, the boat was being held several yards from rocky shoreline, Raj fighting current with the oars, his father muttering a spell with graceful arcs of wand toward a wall of impenetrable stone. She sat up straight, unable to look at the others, though she knew them as well to be intent. Rays of sunlight peeked from their right, a sense of urgency driving within Hermione to be out of sight before the sun's rising. Watchful eyes upon them, she felt. And then –

Oddity of nature, a strange, subtle fading that whispered of tricks to the eye. And they were moving forward into – into – the narrow cliff. Sense of being awash in a cloak of secrecy, bathed in cool, soft wind as entrance progressed into darkness... tunnel... light emerging.

A small inlet greeted them, and only yards from their revisit with the sun did they pull upon ground. Argus leaped out, securing the vessel to a sturdy oak whilst Raj assisted the others in transferring to solid ground, his MacGregor plaid swishing in the breeze. Hermione had to admit him a curiously manly sight, the woollen kilt of green dress so different a version of him. Once the boat and supplies had been cleared, he reached back in for the long, slender package wrapped in heavy, crimson brocade. The sword was going home, she thought poignantly.

"Mind yer step," Argus warned as they moved into the massive hardwoods and heavy foliage. He seemed to know his way down a path that did not reveal itself, and slowly they moved along in single file, quiet against birdsong and distant rustle of branch and leaf. Hermione found herself not surprisingly between Ron and Harry, though once more neither made conversation. Solid half hour passed, twists and turns of the forest requiring concentration for safety.

Rounding a bend over trickling brook, Hermione turned slightly to a snapping noise at her left. Misstep of right, slippery pebbled slope, out from underneath her her foot flew. "Oh!" she cried, surroundings a blur as she dropped helplessly above the stream.

Sudden arrest jerked her body to a jolting stop, and Hermione felt not the cold soaking of the water but the weightlessness of hovering, the warm solidity of strength around her ribs, pressing tight against her backside.

"Steady, pet," his half-whisper came in a rush, warm breath brushing her ear, blushing her cheek.

"Th-thank you," she stammered, pulse racing for but both the near fall and insanely intimate feel of Regulus Black's hold about her. Harry had stepped around her, trudging on in his own thought, leaving Regulus to dart around in a flash of action. Fleetingly wistful was her soul that it had not been his brother, but then resolutely she pushed such inconsiderate thoughts away. Sirius had made it plain he saw her as nothing more than a familiar from his past still, and to linger upon him with wishful yearning in her heart was only to torture herself further.

Casting an apologetic smile at her savior whilst resuming balance, Hermione caught on her turn not Regulus' controlled expression of concern, but his brother's clouded eyes behind him, ripe with warring emotions. A thistle of fear and excitement darted down her spine. Overtones of anger mingled with exasperation, flavored with something entirely unreadable. Sharp, piercing gaze met her own bewildered, then Regulus' masque of resolute defiance confronted his brother's. Breaths hung in time for long moments before a voice ahead called back in a hiss, "Come along!"

Leaving the moment, Hermione turned, stepped out, forced her own breath. Silence resumed. Eyes remained forward, intent on Harry's broad back, noting only shifts from normal stride that indicated matter to step over, around, upon. She could not allow her mind to wander elsewhere, to dissect the power of a mere glance upon her body.

Their one intimate venture between Ron and herself – more than a year past – had left her disappointed, bereft of sensations expected. Yet here and now her skin fairly tingled with awareness and... need. Loath to admit it, Hermione needed Sirius, not just wanted. And Regulus was simply a second choice substitute, neither fair to him nor herself. No denial was there that Regulus instilled senses of attraction and magnetism in her, but Sirius elicited phenomenon beyond vernacular definition. He piqued her ire. He stirred her blood.

Lost in musings, she stumbled in breaking the woods, impact of surroundings astounding her speechless. All had ceased their step but for Argus, his stout form crossing the beach-like clearing to enticing laps of gentle waters. And though heavy mists had descended upon the land, its identity was not lost to her. Upon the loch before them, from an unseen place in the distance, would arrive the mistress of Avalon. She'd seen it in the painting... she'd seen in her dreams. The same dream that brought her to –

Him.

Suddenly Hermione could not breathe. She choked air into her lungs, demanding desperately they fill. But if he was here... Her eyes flashed to Raj, hovering near his father, speculating with furrowed brow. Mists weaved and fell, cloaking him for a long moment. She'd heard him in her dream, right behind her. Excuses had come that it was due to his continued unsettling presence in her life at that time, but if the dream had been foresight, as the painting had suggested, then perhaps Fate had different plans.

"How did you meet him?"

Hermione turned abruptly, startled. Harry's words had been polite, curious, his gaze lingering on the younger MacGregor.

"Over your name, actually," she replied, returning watchfulness over MacGregor's emerging figure. "We were at a conference of sorts. In Ireland. Dinner conversation had turned round to you, of par, and I wasn't up to all and sundry knowing our friendship. When Mr. Bailey prattled that knowledge off... well, I left in a hurry. Raj followed to check on me." She paused, dry amusement shifting her words.

"Funny enough," she continued, "it was the same dinner conversation that told me where to find the answer to defeat Lord Voldemort."

Any reply Harry might have had was cut off by the former subject's approach. A crowd drew as Raj met her, his face devoid of particular expression. Senses of expectancy and nerves hung heavily in the damp air.

"I've sent a message to her," he stated flatly, his eyes never leaving Hermione's but for courtesy sweep of the group. "By Patronus. She'll already have been alerted our presence, so it was merely a formality and humble request for audience. My intent, milady," he added just above a whisper, his mystical eyes holding trance with her own wide, anticipatory ones, "is to explain the situation to the Priestess... then enter the island... with you."

"Preposterous idea –"

"I don't think –"

"Couldn't someone else –"

"Would it not be better –"

"Hell no!"

Of all immediate protests surrounding, it was the last outburst that gouged into Hermione with raw anger and authority. It also silenced every other cry of dissent.

"She's just a child, MacGregor," Sirius continued, jaw tight and set, features dangerous. "You're not going to throw her into some bloody warped scheme of yours just because she's fancied herself a right little investigator throughout this mess."

Shock turned to indignant anger, and Hermione scowled at the bare insult. All notions tender fled under Sirius' attack.

"She's done your brain work," he noted further, threat lying just beneath the words. "Regulus or I will go with you, settle this matter. If there's any trouble, we can deal with it. Leave the kids be."

-o-

Challenge lay in his tone, in his stare, but Raj knew the delicacy behind choice of companions, and Hermione would be the only one allowed accompaniment, he was sure. Enlightening discussions with Auntie Zelda had defined that option; the High Priestess had spoken to Hermione, and to Hermione only would there be an extended invitation. Now was not the time for ill-placed machismo, though Raj had discovered over the weeks Sirius Black's energetic, rebellious and hellfire manner. Rationale would seek like to reason with him, and the man was fuelled by all but rationale at the moment. Still, Raj had to try.

"It is not up to me, Sirius. Nimüe has a connection with Ms. Granger – please don't ask for details now," he cut in with a head shake before Sirius could interrupt. "Suffice it to say that she views Ms. Granger with favor, and it is, after all, her understanding that has led us thus far. She will know what more may be needed when we arrive."

Everyone present held collective breaths, unsure the direction Black's unbalanced fury would go. But perhaps more frightening than unleashed anger was his further narrowed gaze to Raj, then sudden transition to straight, unreadable face. Pseudo flippancy rose his brow, pursed his lips. Sirius turned his attention to Hermione, quipping.

"Rose to tea and cakes with legendary mystics nowadays, have we? Such an elevation in status, Ms. Granger. I must have missed your debut into society."

Hermione's own glare drew thin, chin raised in restrained temper. "Yes, well; you've been gone, haven't you?" she answered coolly. Despite obvious agitation, Raj swore he denoted a flicker of hurt in her eyes as well before rapid blinks erased such signs of weakness. She cared what Sirius thought, and though Raj wished it otherwise, he knew the older man's blatant barbs pierced her too fragile self esteem. Black's opinion of her meant a great deal, far greater than Raj's or Harry's or, as he'd only of late learned, her boyfriend Ron's.

Defiance shone in Sirius' stare upon her, then settled into bland belligerence when she broke contact and stomped off toward the shore in a huff. Raj felt rather than heard exhalations of tension released about him.

"Sirius," Harry tentatively broached, "don't you think you were a bit harsh?"

Sirius turned a dark look to his godson. Brusquely he answered, "No." Flashed glance back toward Hermione's retreating back, then he himself walked off toward the other end of the clearing.

"Merlin, but he's changed," Ron murmured in shock, turning from Sirius to Harry to the group at whole.

"No, he's not." Regulus' flat statement brought all eyes to him, but he was staring hard after his brother.

Tension had returned, and it only made Raj edgier than he already was waiting for Nimüe. He couldn't shake the feeling there was ill about. Needing to separate himself for a bit, he took a last look at Hermione's stone still form and proclaimed resolutely, "I'm going to have a look about."

Instead of immediately setting out, Raj cautiously approached Hermione. Ramrod straight her posture, arms crossed defensively at her chest. She stared unseeingly into the heavy mists across the loch.

"Ms. Granger – Hermione... His words were uncalled for," he began, unsure how to alleviate the pain so apparent on her lovely face.

"No, it's all right, Raj," she replied in a small voice, refusing to face him. "I – I'm not upset over Sirius. I... I'm just worried. About everything. This place, it's – it's unnerving. I felt like we were being watched before we slipped through the crevice. I've an uneasy feeling about it."

Raj nodded slightly, too familiar with the feeling himself. "I've time enough; I'll have a look behind us, ensure we're not being followed. Would you feel better, then?" he inquired softly. Her childlike nod gave him all the encouragement needed, and with a whispered, "I'll return straight away," he left her to solitude and entered the forest, green and white kilt dancing in the subtle breeze.

-o-

Lying was never her strong point. Yet how could Hermione have admitted to Raj MacGregor, or any other soul there, how much Sirius' harsh words tore? So she stood there upon the grassy sand mutely, beseeching the mists about her to swallow her whole, enshroud her from her foolishness. Sirius Black never felt a thing for her, never saw her as more than a child of unusual talent and heart enough to assist an escaped convict flee for his life.

And she did not want his love out of gratitude.

Turmoil had become her life the heartbeat Sirius Black had stepped back into the land of living. But at the very least he had awakened her to the injustice she'd laid upon Ron Weasley. No return would there be to the way things were, after all chaos and adventure were over. They would remain friends, yes, but Hermione could see in Ron's eyes his own realization and acceptance these changes. Time to bury the past.

An hour passed this way in musings. Both sets of brothers lounged about, their chatter indiscernible around her. Argus moved nervously, speaking to the others quietly, coddling the sword in reverence. Hermione, however, had not moved, vision fixated upon the shrouded waters before her. She seemed to drift in a hypnotic state, birdsong and human speech fading in the distance.

Hauntingly pale had grown the vision, thick mists dissipating above the living waters, parting as a veil to ethereal figures drifting nearer. Fading into corporeal existence, the lady grew defined, real. Serenity and strength exuded from her statuesque form, standing in command upon the bow. More exquisite than before, radiance a tangible magic sought and envied.

Dreams.

It wasn't a dream. Not this time. In truth she was standing upon the loch's edge of which she'd dreamed for months. Fog lifting before her revealed the enchanted woman in heavy velvet robes, blues and violets and mystique all around her. And she was real, too. And the man behind her – she felt him there – he was real. Him. And she froze, suddenly fearful and excited and full of trepidation and overwhelmed in a collage of awareness, hunger, longing, life force...

Soft breath filtered down to flitter across her ear, neck, his aura mesmerizing her every sense. No longer did she account for the lady, the lake, the woods, the sun. Body heat warmed her back as though the Yule flame in winter's grasp. Her own breath shallowed, faltered. Nerves throughout her being stood alert, quivering, yearning his touch she knew was coming.

And it was. Eyes falling half closed in emotional state, only her breath hitched at the graze of fingertip at the hollow below her left ear. So tense, Hermione wavered, grew lightheaded. Then though expected, his renewed touch was a surprise, nearly her undoing. This time her chin; deft, calloused fingers lightly gripped, cupped it, tugged round with gentle insistence. Over her left shoulder, tilted upward. Unshed tears threatened to spill as she allowed the guidance, shifted her weight to turn as he brought her around to face him.

"All is well, milady." Raj's voice flowed to her from somewhere far away, but it was only the solid body right before her that drew her notice. Eyes forced open against the moment, rays of sunlight blinding her until his movement shadowed the light. And she peered up into stormy gray irises full of power greater than any wizard's spell. Cornucopia of emotions swirled in his gaze, leaving Hermione with only the knowledge that it was him, it would always be him, and no force on Earth could ever change her heart's decision.

-o-

He'd come to apologize, to admit foul mood and immense worry and fear for her safety had led to his biting remarks. But she peered up at him with tear-filled eyes and trembling jaw, and the words of regret fled his mind. Sirius' hands found themselves slipping across her skin, holding her face in gentle caress, and he could not tear away his glance even as he knew the arrival just meters down the shore was of extreme importance. Only this young woman of greater character than he could ever aspire mattered now, and he'd brought her pain.

Allowing the impulse to wash over him, he drew down his head. Lower, lower... her eyes closed unwillingly of fatigued fashion. He felt her breath slow further, lips relax, part... So close his voiceless whisper blew a stray curl from her across her mouth. Her image had grown blurry, so close... so close...

"He was a friend of my father's." Harry, down the shore.

Reality gripped Sirius in a flash. Guilt of a man who should know better flooded him, and for once good conscience commanded the upper hand. Steeling himself, he pulled his head back slightly, then redirected the nearly condemning kiss to her forehead. A light but lingering caress of his unsteady lips, full of meaning that could not be deciphered... for he did not know himself what he meant.

"Be careful," he whispered painfully across her temple. Then Sirius turned abruptly, walked across the clearing, and lost himself in the solitary protection of the forest.