Chapter 33: But Once

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Chapter 33: But Once

Bereft.

Cool air prickled her flesh, his disappearance leaving her bereft with longing. Hermione's eyes opened to find just what she had expected: nothing. He'd gone, vanished in lieu of facing her after making such a fool out of her. No, wait; that was unfair. She'd done quite all right making the fool of herself... herself.

"Ms. Granger," Raj called from further down the shore where he stood with comrades and their benevolent host. "It is time."

Pluck it up, Hermione. Your fabulous Gryffindor courage is cued for the set. Breathing deeply, Hermione sighed, turned, and made her way to the waiting adventure. It wasn't for Avalon she knew her inner strength was called; it was for acceptance, for walking away.

From Sirius. And her heart.

-o-

Sirius Black was not a coward. Never in his thirty-six – or whatever – years could he ever have been called a coward. And walking away from Hermione Granger and some semblance of ill-fated moment of derangement wasn't an act of cowardice, either. He was convinced of that. It was, rather, an action born of maturity and wisdom. Yes; that was it. Gripping stomach pangs were adrenaline, the unsteadiness of anticipation. Answers achieved across the loch meant an end to Voldemort, and he was merely ripe with hunger, with expectancy. Nothing did they have to do with blurred coherency and far too young lips far too close. That tug of unexpected desire was not the cause of his jumpy status or his departure. Raj had been correct; they needed to keep watch about them, and a foray into the trees was a measure of safety.

His gut would relax once this fight was over.

Tension slowly seeped from his body, the moment of internal warring releasing him to here and now. Damp bark and shimmery, deep green leaves came into focus, brushing all hazy recollections aside. Forty minutes of trekking tended to lose one's stress in the mundane. Taking a breath, Sirius glanced around to ensure he was not far off the path they'd previously taken. It wouldn't do to become lost. Anything could happen, needing his assistance. After all, how much did they actually know about this mystic of Avalon?

All right; so he was concerned for Hermione's safety. After all he'd been through with Peter and Azkaban, Sirius wasn't one to be prematurely trusting. He felt responsible for her well-being; a save-over from his days in Grimmauld where he – like the other adults – was responsible for the care of the kids.

But she's not a child anymore, Sirius. Admonishment echoed in his head with a voice uncannily similar to Remus'. Sirius shook his head to clear it. No, she wasn't quite a child. Not in years, at least. Muted chuckles escaped. Had she ever been her age? Visions of a fifteen-year-old schoolmarm flitted across memory. Harry had often bemoaned her take-charge behavior. Often the chit was more a nanny than friend, it seemed.

But then, she had indeed grown up. Harsh words of his own tongue slapped back, inundating conscience with guilt. Nearly to tears she'd been, and he'd gone to apologize. For he knew she was no child, but protective instincts had ignored a timeline, had insisted she was far too young for such reckless endangerment. Words of sorrow had caught in his throat at watery eyes wide and round and full of hurt, staring at him. Beseeching him. Seeing past his rebel façade to a man who felt responsible for everyone close in his life, who berated himself for failing to save them all. Even Peter... from himself.

Twigs snapped ahead; bird twittering ceased abruptly. Senses heightened in Sirius, and he slowed his steps, wand drawn. Further rustling drifted from the path to his right, and carefully Sirius crept through underbrush toward the sounds, caution slowing breath and easing step.

Reaching a stride from the foliage bent and downtrodden – the only sign of their passage hours before – Sirius Black fell back into the shadows to observe. Steady, calm... movement from down the way, nearing the bend only yards from him. Nearer, nearer... halt. Contemplative pause with higher brush movement. Resume steps. Reaching the bend... Sirius' eyes focused, his breath tight.

"Oh, shit..."

-o-

An island within an island. No, Hermione thought; a world within an island.

Stark beauty reminiscent of the Greeks blended with Renaissance detail and lush, virgin landscape. Crags and outcroppings dipped and over-shown shale paths and timeless stone and timber buildings. What appeared monastic commanded Hermione's attention to deeper inland from the beach they'd just alighted. Size dominated all other shelters, but not by width and breadth alone did the centerpiece capture.

Richly intricate in detail and masonry, the multi-story cross betwixt solarium, abbey and fortress drew Hermione as a moth to flame. Soothing, welcoming... and as they neared the two-tiered entrance under Nimüe's guidance, an atmosphere of quiet strength grew, compelling a feeling of security and peace.

Through the entrance hall, colorful tapestries lining walls, carpets deep and plush draping flagstone. Parchments littered a secretariat in an alcove to the right; soothing splashes filled the air about the wall fountain to the left. It was not long before they broke from the empty hall into an inner courtyard, resplendent in deeply hued flora and abundant fauna.

And activity. Ladies moved about with purpose, platters endowed in fruits moved to trusses being draped in pale linens. Garlands of holly and ivy fell in symmetric layers from tent frames to center poles, fireflies burrowing in the strands, casting twinkles of light. Chatter filled with laughter and beauty filled the ambience as gauzy materials swept up in folds and drapes about the frames, creating curtains of shimmer and sheer tents of timeless mystery.

Hermione stopped short, Raj nearly colliding with her from his position behind and left. He caught himself against her, steadying sword and her with his usual grace. Apparently sensing their hesitation, Nimüe turned, a bewitching little smile lighting her eyes.

"We are preparing for the Feast of Avilon," she explained in her soft, light voice. "I believe it is celebrated in your world as the Witches' Thanksgiving."

Ah, yes. Hermione recalled that Chelsea had the much-anticipated masque ball tonight. Pity Raj would not be there for her to impress with silks and chiffons, but he had more pressing an engagement. He had to save the world.

"It is all so... enchanting," she managed, overwhelmed by the sights, sounds and scents of the garden on the verge of celebratory bliss. Raj, too, seemed speechless.

"Yes, it is," the mystic agreed. "You are most welcome to stay for the feast this evening. Once we have completed our task..." Subtle was her reminder their purpose in coming here, and reluctantly Hermione propelled her legs back in motion.

Leaving excited bustle and chatter, the three continued deeper into the island. Straight path left the grand courtyard garden through a stone archway and onto a gravel walk, winding and rising into thick tree line. Bright hues flashed past in outspread wings and fluttering tail feathers. Calls of exotics echoed into this ancient forest, noises of the island's human inhabitants eventually fading to nothingness behind.

Perhaps another ten minutes had passed when Hermione realized their footing had changed from broken rock to heavy stone, well worn and smooth. Walls of bark and limb gave way to tended lawn edged in thick nature. The clearing was small, no more than one hundred meters square. Before them, digging out from within the sharp rise of rocks was a gently flowing stream, carving its gentle wash through speckled granite. Before it stood a low altar, the stream flowing beneath its bridge-like stance then seeking refuge once more into a quarry of rock, fleeing underground.

Nimüe stepped in with a soft glide, her bare feet easy on the dew-kissed grass. Hermione watched her approach the altar, and only then did the younger woman notice the single item placed upon gathered eggplant velvet atop the carved stone. Daring a few steps herself, she grew close enough to discern it lay not upon the rich fabric, but just above it. Hovering as though spellbound was a wand. Simple in design, long, perhaps ash by its pale tan and off white color. Dumbledore's wand.

Mesmerized, she drew close to examine the artifact, always refraining from its touch. Ivy draping the wall of earth and stone behind rustled in the breeze, tickling the splash of water, floating above the wand. So this was the instrument that felled the last greatest affliction to wizardkind? Appearances were unremarkable, but an elegance so like Albus Dumbledore himself cast an aura about the wood. Charismatic, entrancing.

She was kneeling, moisture seeping into her trousers, wetting her knees and ankles. Reverence hung in the air, and Hermione could not quite bring herself to cast her claim upon the piece of history. Worth was not something she felt – not upon this venture. Not for this rite.

Casting about her eyes for reassurance from Nimüe, she realized suddenly the woman was gone. Frantic glances revealed only herself and Raj in the refuge. Raj, however, was not just behind her as last she'd looked. The wand bearing Grindlewald's defeat was not of interest to the young man. No. Rather, Raj MacGregor was on the far side of the clearing, kneeling before a limestone encasement of great width and depth. Perplexed, Hermione rose and quietly neared him, casting off easily the decision of the wand for at least minutes more.

"Raj?" she whispered, fear of disturbing the integral peace forcing her voice at half measure. Strides more and she reached out to offer a hand to his shoulder, his bent head hidden by broad back and shoulders. Fingers moved to touch him –

Closer inspection was all she needed. Hermione froze, respect and loss washing over her in a cool trickle. Before them lay a humble tomb, low and unassuming, intricate only in the relief carving in life size atop it, a knight with shield and chalice. Welsh epitaph need not be understood to know this man of centuries past. His figure held not his weapon, but it had been brought to him this day by his own lineage.

Raj remained bowed before his daid, the blade shed of its cloth bag and placed upon tip near Raj's knees, his hands grasping the sheath below the hilt. The sword had come home.

Tearing her eyes from Galahad's tomb, Hermione noticed further into the trees three more such slabs, these of lighter marble and more elaborate. Even from a distance, the moss-splotched designs depicted their inhabitants, and she knew there lay the Lady Guinevere, flanked on each side by the loves of her unhappy life. It crossed the young witch's mind then the heartache of the missing tomb beside this great knight at her feet. Evangeline should have been lain beside him in eternal repose. Instead, he was once again left alone, bereft of his love.

Like her.

Pulling her hand from the almost touch, Hermione retreated back to the altar. She could not allow her thoughts to drift to Sirius, or the heart that was breaking within. She had a job to do, to do her part in saving the wizarding – the entire – world. She'd best get on.

Steeling herself, Hermione once more knelt before the altar, closed her eyes, breathed deeply, slowly... Fingers wrapped securely about the wood, unnaturally warm to touch. The altar released its grip upon the treasure, and Hermione opened her eyes as she pulled it back to her. Staring with awe, she forced from her lips the hushed Latin.

"Prior Incatato..."

-o-

Deletrius had little more than ended her search into the past when Hermione sensed the Lady Nimüe near her. Setting the wand once more upon bed of air, she rose and turned, finding the mystic watching her, a soft, knowing half-smile quirking her features. Nimüe slid her gaze to her left, and Hermione followed. Raj was now standing, the sword held aloft in flat presentation upon outstretched palms. Offer of heritage, the image seemed to say. And with no fanfare Raj MacGregor lay the sword upon the tomb, its blade running along the statue's sternum.

He stepped back, and a glow began to encompass the weapon, pale and misty and evolving. Clearing after but moments, the view granted warmed Hermione's heart a mite. The sword was now stone, now ingrained into the carving on the tomb, was now in fealty grip of its true master.

"It is time." Hermione started at the soft words from her hostess' lips. "We must begin our return journey. The sun is past its zenith; the celebrations will begin soon."

Nodding absentmindedly, Hermione fell in step with the Lady, Raj materializing empty handed beside her in silence. Slightly pained features suggested his inner turmoil. Hermione could only assume seeing his ancestor's tomb and the resulting gifting of the sword to its rightful owner the cause of his solemnity. She could only imagine the sense of loss he must feel. After all, his life's purpose had been completed: protect the Grail. After generations of covert guardianship, he had nothing left to sacrifice for. His sense of identity had been returned to its origin. Galahad now rest with the blade that had revealed his prophetic stature centuries ago. Without lineage to uphold, Raj was now simply... Raj. Raj MacGregor, bright, honorable, handsome young wizard. Assistant to the Undersecretary of Finance in the British Ministry of Magic. A man now without direction.

Would that be Harry in the near future? she wondered. Lost, empty, feeling of absence within the world?

Doubtful, she realized. He had purpose beyond saving lives and justice. He had Ginny; he had a child on the way. He had a life waiting for him.

"Do your visions still bring you fear, Hermione?" A smile laced Nimüe's question.

Hermione stumbled, righting herself in confusion and shock. "Visions?" she asked. How could this woman know of the dreams she had had repeatedly for weeks.

This time she laughed softly. "Yes, Hermione; I know of your visions. I know of many things." A glance cast over her shoulder, eyes bright with unsheltered amusement. Turning back around, Nimüe continued with light step, ethereal in all movements.

Their entrance back into the courtyard was met with gaiety and welcome. Preparations seemed near completion, and only then did Hermione realize the time lost on their venture. At least several hours had passed, though truthfully it seemed so less a span. Fragrant sweet lifted the air as freshly pressed grapes gave way to older stores of wine, so prominent a tradition of the harvest during the month of September. Or so explained Nimüe.

"Today is known by many names," she continued to teach as they were seated beneath an open tent of chiffon-esque white material. Standing torches were already aflame, though the sky was still quite early in its light.

"Wine Harvest is but one of them. Non-magical mortals know it only as the Autumn Equinox," she added, taking a sip of the burgundy liquid placed before her moments before. A glance entreated both Raj and Hermione to do the same. They obliged.

Rich, sweet... enticing. Hermione could understand better the appeal, as before she had never found much particular enjoyment of the drink. However, reason was soon comprehended.

"This is one of our apple wines," their hostess pointed out. Ah, the famous apples of Avalon. Was there any doubt now as to such delicious flavor? "The grapes you can scent were harvested more than a week prior under the full moon. Thus, its name of Harvest Moon."

Another easy smile, her quiet confidence vaguely unnerving. Finding nothing to say, Hermione continued to drink, hoping Raj would find his missing tongue. Thankfully, his hunting skills were as brilliant as his deductive ones.

"Milady..." Words hesitant, humble. "How has it come to be that the maiden Evangeline was not laid to rest here, in Avalon, next to Sir Galahad? She was his one true love."

Knowing smile and ever-so-slightly quirked brow told Hermione that Nimüe knew exactly who Evangeline was, and how no maiden was she.

"The hand maid Evangeline chose to remain in the mortal world to raise her son, her grandson... her great-grandson. Upon her death, she was interred by her own request in a grave accessible to all her descendents... to all the peoples. She had taken on Galahad's promise to watch over the Chalice, and did so until her passing. Her marker bears the sign of the Grail, and all who pay her tribute are reminded of it, as she wished, as would have Galahad."

"Where is she buried?" he questioned, sorrow parting in lieu of curiosity.

"In a hidden grove on St. Michael's Mount, well behind the castle her lineage constructed much later." Denoting the completion of offered information, Nimüe allowed herself a hand sweet of pastry with pistachios and honey. Baklava entreated her attention, putting an end to her answers. Hermione, however, could not abide the silence. Something unsettled her; the power and effervescence of the woman before her not the least cause.

"Why was the Grail moved from here?" she asked, honestly baffled. "This was obviously the safest place for it."

Nimüe bestowed her an indulgent expression, as though a wise adult to a clueless child. Yet Hermione did not bristle, for in this case, the comparison was quite accurate, she felt.

"All things must take their leave in turn, dear one. Everything is a cycle, and to each life force there is movement, a purpose, play that must be allowed its time. The Grail lay safe here until such time as it could be cared for appropriately. Galahad's line finally was able to procure it once a proper place was established. It was time for its journey to begin, its path toward reunion with its home."

At Hermione's confused features, the Lady expanded her allusion.

"As with nature, there is a time to act, and a time to hold still. While the Chalice lay dormant here, it was still, awaiting only the proper moment to act, to commence. It is as with the seasons. One acts in the spring, planting. One tends during growth, and one harvests at the ripening. That is our action. But this evening marks our transition into stillness, Hermione." She paused, visually seeking acknowledgement that her words were clear. "Tonight our sun enters Libra, the Lion. It wanes, giving dominance over to the moon. Day gives leave to the night; light to the dark. Autumn has arrived, and with it the season of rest...."

More was said, but Hermione did not hear it. Chills flushed down her body as comprehension dawned in a way she had not considered. Pulse racing, she turned abruptly to Raj, barely able to speak through excitement and panic.

"That's it!" she cried, all around her falling to background, even Lady Nimüe. "Raj, that's it! That's what the riddle meant!" Jumping to her feet, she paced but steps in each direction, hands flailing and desperation speeding the divulgence of epiphany. "Tonight! The Equinox! 'Before the balance of light and dark tips to the night.' That's it, Raj – the Equinox. When the day and night are exactly twelve hours long, but at sunset, we've entered the stage where the night is longer until spring. Tonight is equal, but tomorrow falls short the day."

She stopped abruptly, horror clenching her. "The Witches' Thanksgiving Ball," she murmured, eyes seeking Raj's, and finding them wide with the same conclusion. "That's where he's going to attack. All the leaders of the wizarding nations. All the innocents... Chelsea."

-o-

Harry stared at the arriving vessel. He didn't know what he would say. Somehow, he had been prepared for this. Knew something like this would happen; it was fated somewhere, some reason. But what he would say to her...

They stepped from the boat, speeding toward them. He stepped forward to greet her, determined to speak before she saw within the gathering behind him. Muscles sore, screaming against movements after heavy abuse. Ragged clothing she'd notice; skewed appearance, she'd question. Trickles of blood she'd fret. But behind him...

"Harry!" Hermione called in a dash to him. Already words bubbled forth in intermittent coherency. "It's tonight! Voldemort's going to attack tonight! The Ministry's ball for the Witches' Thanksgiving. You've got to hurry; you've got to be there before the Equinox! It's at twenty-seven past five. Please, hurry! We've got to go!" Confusion marred her pretty face; she could not understand why he simply stood there, staring at her sadly.

"Hermione," he said softly, voice raw with overuse and emotion. He couldn't tell her.

"Harry, what are you waiting for?" she cried, opened her mouth to say something more, then suddenly stopped, taking in his appearance. Bewilderment and anger changed to a growing fear, and the knot in his stomach tightened.

"Oh, no," came whispers of slowly building panic. "What happened? Something dreadful happened, Harry. Tell me what it was? Where's everyone?" She asked this of Harry, but no longer was she gazing at him and his grimy, sweaty face. She was looking past him. He closed his eyes, holding breath from forthcoming sounds of pain. He didn't want to tell her.

Utter silence broke with the softest, "No." Directly on its heels...

"No!" Never had Harry heard Hermione Granger shriek in such deep pain. Death Eaters had attacked her, had nearly killed her, yet never did she fall apart with such anguish. But he'd known this time she would.

Footsteps fell hard as she darted past, varying degrees of "no" falling in her wake. Harry's eyes opened to face Raj before him, the elder man's solemn gaze meeting his in understanding and silent question.

"They'd followed us. Nearly a dozen. Your boss Chamberlain – he'd figured it out when both you and Hermione were unable to be found due to family emergencies. He knew where to start, and traced us to the Bay. They watched us enter, and some dark magic brought them through the crevice."

"And...?" Raj asked, unable to complete his sentence. His attention flitted back to Hermione, and Harry turned slightly to see her now breaking between Argus and Regulus. He couldn't watch.

Harry shook his head. "We ran them out, but at a cost."

-o-

God no, please no... Mantras slipped through her lips even as Hermione shoved past Mr. MacGregor and Regulus, heedless of propriety or even slightest courtesy. They'd been gathered over him, speaking to him, obviously studying for some reason. But Hermione could not abide any studying; only pure panic and unabashed emotion wrenched from her. Knees protested their violent force into the ground, but no notice did she take. Only could she gather his head into her arms, one hand grasping lapels in a mixture of accusation and encouragement. His gaze was weak, unfocused. Breathing, shallow.

"Sirius, noooo..." she moaned into the narrow space between his chest and her face, so doubled over to him she was. Blurred vision through tears took in without conscious notice the now four men hovering uncomfortably around her. Regulus had been kneeling, himself, but at Hermione's appearance had stood and given a step.

Her world had dropped out from beneath her. Vices squeezed her chest, nausea welling up.

"Not sure what the curse was," Regulus was saying to Raj. "We just don't know what else to do for him."

His phrasing forced her remembrance that Sirius was indeed still alive, though tone suggested that might not be much longer the case. She'd pulled back enough to face him, granting her sternest voice and most forceful glare.

"Sirius Black, you will not die. Do you hear me?" Slowly his shuttered eyes shifted to hers, ghost of a smile passing his lips. Sobs were checked as Hermione attempted to remain in some sort of command, demanding Sirius to prove himself the talent he was rumored and rise and walk. He was Sirius Black; he was meant to elude demons and evade blemish in battle.

Hermione Granger, being the woman she was made, fell in desperation to her fallback: logic. Strangled analyses squeaked out as she cradled him in shaking arms.

"You cannot die, Sirius. You're above that. Only cowards die multiple times, and you're no coward. You're brave, Sirius. So very brave." Her voice choked, and she struggled to plead, eyes never leaving his. "'The valiant never taste of death but once,'" she quoted, "and you've already been there. You can't die, now; you can't! You can't leave me. Not when I've finally found you..." Weeping found its way into instruction; fingertips carefully plied back tendrils against his damp, fevered brow.

Sirius' eyes were but slits now, and Hermione felt his muscles tense, convulse, then relax. His body grew heavy, and she knew he was fading.

"No! No! Don't leave me!" Hysterics grew. Fear she had never known tore at her, and she gathered him to her breast, rocking through waterfalls of tears. "Wake up, wake up! You must wake up..."

"Hermione..." Raj was kneeling beside her, his voice soothing. "This may help. I cannot guarantee anything, but you may try. It is at least hope."

A vial was being pressed into her right hand between palm and lapel.

"Give him a small sip every hour until it is all gone. Keep him warm, his fever down. That is all I can offer," he said, resuming his feet. "We have to go, Hermione. We have to stop Lord Voldemort, or no one will survive."

Peripherally she took in the gathering of the men near the trail out. Raj hesitated. "I've cast a protective shield about the clearing. It will give you twenty-four hours. By this time tomorrow, you must follow the path we will leave for you and wait at the pool. My father will return for you then. You must meet him there directly at noon." Quiet pause. Soft whisper. "With him... or without."

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"Cowards die many times before their deaths;

The valiant never taste of death but once."

- Julius Caesar (Act II, Scene II), by William Shakespeare

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