Chapter 18: Conjecture

Author's Note: An important point for chapters here on out. Occasionally there will be one or two references made that contradict directly something JK has stated. Please note that this story was conceived and begun before these relevant statements. Also, there will be extremely debatable subject matter in this and subsequent chapters. In rare cases I have altered facts/legend for my own purposes, or (more often) have gone with whichever version best suits the story. At no time is any of it intended to be offensive or lecturing/preaching. This is the only time I intend to state this.

With that in mind, please enjoy the story as it is written. It is, after all, only a story.

Thank you!

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

Chapter 18: Conjecture

Maudlin thoughts plagued while tapping quill marred the checklist of documents, proposals and attendance list lying before her. Parchment adjacent revealed a copy-by-memory of Harry's message, the current translation below. Yet even that held little attention. Hermione could not keep her mind on work. Lunch with Zelda had left her befuddled with unanswered questions, and worse yet, answers which only led to more questions.

Once voice had been regained, Hermione had asked the portrait again as she had at the Gala. Who are you? This time, however, it was Zelda who had answered.

"She is Nimüe, High Priestess of the Isle of the Blessed. A mystic, you see; has the gift of foresight. My Bubby was a good friend of hers, though she and I never met. He once pointed out this very portrait to me, many years ago, when I had accompanied him to Agatha Pallet's studio. Quite talented artist she is. Was painting Bubby's portrait, just at the time he took on the post of Headmaster at Hogwarts.

"I suppose that's why I bought it; it reminded me so of Bubby." Wistful smile had softened her glistening blue eyes.

Zelda had continued on in this fashion, sharing once more times afar, yarns which existed now only in memory. But attention had fallen from the stories to Hermione's own memory, one of the night she had first seen that very portrait. Even then its aura was mysterious, only speaking to Hermione four words, these in deference to her one question of identity: "I am your gift."

Hours later this long Monday, she sat contemplating still, the nagging sense of an undesired answer quelling her usual enthusiasm for finding solutions. Not the meaning she had been looking for, no, but no other fit. Sensible, clarifying, but not wanted. No. Hermione Granger did not want Nimüe's words to explain her own dreams, her own visions.

No; Hermione Granger was the one witch alive least desirous to endure such a trait as that of Merlin's great-something granddaughter. She did not want to have the gift.

Of foresight.

"Ms. Granger!" Hermione snapped back to present with the call. Chelsea Chamberlain dashed into her office, overflowing book bag in tow, hopefulness lighting her face. Not seldom were her escapades throughout the halls of the Ministry, her father often neglecting parental duties for those of government. Sigh of resignation escaped before Hermione could check it. Chelsea never noticed.

"Ms. Granger," she repeated, reaching her desk in breathless state. Forced into politeness, Hermione turned attention from her scribbled travel plans and cryptic notations to the teenager, tight smile in place. "Dad said I should come ask you if you would mind to try and help me with a summer report I sort of forgot to do."

Doubtful it was a matter of forgetting – more likely a choice of ignoring – but now was not the time to draw out the interruption. Quicker point-making made quicker exiting. Hermione stifled the tick at her eye, choosing instead consideration for the poor girl. After all, her father obviously was not helpful.

"Sure, Chelsea. What's it on?"

Giggles of relief bubbled to the surface, Ms. Chamberlain jumping in a manner of joy. "Thank you so much, Ms. Granger! I knew I could count on you. I've got to finish it before start of term, and that's only two weeks away! And if I'm late with it, it'll be detention, at the very start of term of all things, and Dad will never let me attend the Samhein Ball. And I've got to ace this, too, or he'll use that as an excuse for me not to go, and I've waited so long to be allowed, but I'm dreading this particular assignment. And I just bought that new set of dress robes just for the occasion where everyone who's anyone will be." Sudden stop for breath.

"All well and good, Chelsea," Hermione answered while intermission lasted, "but you still haven't told me what you need me to do, and your subject matter."

"Oh, right. Um, it's a two foot-long essay on Merlin's errors in judgment. I know, I know," she quickly added, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Merlin, of all wizards, didn't make mistakes. But Professor Binns seems to think we should consider the fact that Merlin wasn't perfect. Though I don't see how."

Hermione's brows shot together. When had Binns started teaching anything more than direct historical facts? As he was a ghost – and a monotonous one at that – why would his curriculum change? Voicing her concern, Chelsea replied almost as afterthought.

"Oh, Professor McGonagall had a chat with him, I heard, suggesting he give us all essay subjects for summer holiday that'd make us think." Indignant snort broke her explanation, another eye roll accompanied with a long-suffering sigh. "It's History of Magic; what could possibly require thinking?"

It was Hermione's turn to roll her eyes. Never was she this obnoxious as a teenager. Never. Bypassing the bait, duties requested became her focus.

"What do you need me to do? Proof your work? Help your spelling? I'm not writing it for you, if that's what you think." Recollections of her boys and their cajoling flashed across her mind's eye, reminiscent grin tugging at her mouth. But Chelsea was not one of the boys, and Hermione had neither time nor inclination to go that far to grant good deeds.

"Oh, no. No, I can write it, all right. I just need help with the research. Right crap trying to find something on the greatest wizard ever botching up!" Half laugh, then, "Really, I'm pants at research. Don't have access to Hogwarts' library, so I've been out interviewing a few Ministry personnel, but they're not much help. Dad even took me to a Muggle library to find something in their old myth and legend stuff, even helped search old newspapers and such, but of course they didn't have anything about Merlin doin' somethin' stupid. Just went on and on 'bout his little tricks with the Muggles, whole sword in the stone stuff."

Girlish pout followed annoyed scowl, entreating with big eyes. Horrible face, really, but at least partially sincere. "If you could just gen up something for me...?"

Virtues such as patience were growing more rare for Hermione as time ticked away for her friends. She didn't have time for this; she didn't have time for anything. But the girl had been helpful concerning Raj, and she couldn't turn her down now. In fact, a break from that damn cryptic message might just give her a clear perspective.

"All right, then, I'll help you. But," she continued at Chelsea's jubilant cry, "I will only gather some information for you. The write-up is in your hands, completely. Do we agree –"

Interruptions came in all sizes and shapes, but the walk-in distraction this time sized up in above-average height, lean build and unreadable intentions. Raj MacGregor entered her office without fanfare. In fact, without acknowledgement a' tall, stepping past both witches directly to Bailey's door and, to both her and Chelsea's astonishment, waltzed right on in with a solid click of the door closing.

Moments passed, but Bailey did not shout for his removal or impudence as he would at any other time, any other person. Curious, that. Hermione stared at the silent door, barely registering Chelsea's observations of young wizard-flesh, polite inquiries to her desktop of work, eventual monologue of gratitude or subsequent departure. How the bleedin' hell did he just do that? And get away with it?

-o-

So young Harry Potter had sent Hermione Granger a message after all... en code. Apparently Avery's guess had been correct. Rather interesting. And useful. If only she wasn't so paranoid with her possessions now. But then, my last search left little to be desired in way of subtlety. By the sound of it, he's in hiding with his mother's friend – some Muggle, no doubt – and has figured out what the Dark Lord intends. Such a bright witch. Such tenacity and apparent contacts. Perhaps locating Potter and the sacred might now be as easy as keeping watch on the Granger lass.

Easy enough, with the right talents...

-o-0-o-

"Where're you off to?"

Sirius was pulling on distressed leather in bomber jacket style, cantering down the last few steps from his bedroom. Freshly shaven but for the two-day growth encompassing refined lips and chin; tousled hair still wet and glistening from showering; blue denim and black boots; navy, silk button-down un-tucked, wafting about his lithe form. He felt good, relaxed. Would more so by the end of the evening, if all went well, he reminded himself.

A smirk played across his face as feet hit the main floor. Adjustment of jacket collar, tuck of the head to sweep the ever-lengthening tresses from leather.

"Pub crawl with the boys first, to keep up appearances as Stubby. Then a date with an adoring fan." His lips curled even more in anticipated events this Friday evening. A redhead with legs up to here, and pouty lips just begging to be thoroughly kissed. "Being a rock star does have its advantages, you know."

Hermione scowled. Lecture forthcoming, he knew. He loved his godson as much as she, and Ron was like a second godson to him. He cared about them dearly, but he also knew from experience – the first war with Voldemort a wealth of experience – that all work and no play drove one mad, allowed outside distractions, faltered focus and confidence. But when one's needs were met, that hierarchy of shelter, food, drink, companionship, rest... well, one was much more inclined and able to do their part. She wasn't old enough to recall that, to have learned that. And it wasn't in a sodding book.

"You can't go out tonight," she reprimanded, not meeting his eyes. "We've more research to do, more plans to set up for finding Ron and Harry." Search the paneling, the hardwood floor, the polished stairs...

Barked laugh. More walking as he darted about in the hallway, grabbing up keys and pocketing items. Light humor flooded his words, his mood definitely whimsical. She looked so frustrated and angry, and yet so vulnerable. A child not sure if she could command in real life the debating skills learned upon bound parchment. It was entertaining, actually. But she was bantering in seriousness with the wrong person. Well versed in both the fairer sex and gift of tongue, Sirius knew how to handle Ms. Granger. All veneer of courage when it came to her own people, she was. Intellect alone the world did not make.

"Hermione, love, Remus has some ideas he's discreetly running by Kingsley tonight, without telling him about me or Harry's predicament." Logic began his rebuttal. "Plans to rescue and retrieve the boys cannot be construed until we know their precise location. I've Dobby doing some pirating of Dumbledore's old records up at Hogwarts. So at the moment, there's really nothing more we can do. We've had three weeks non-stop at research. I'm tuckered with it and need a break, as I'm sure you do as well." He paused from his rifling of a cabinet drawer, pocketed a preemptive-strike item, then turned to face her with a direct stare, brows high and inquisitive.

She met them. He quirked higher in false innocence, light-hearted, gearing the casual, bare-factual statements that would indeed close her slightly waspish mouth.

"I need a drink with some fun-loving mates and to get laid. So unless you're game for a bottle and a right hot shag with me tonight..." Amusement sparkled in his gaze, talented lips barely reined in from another bark of laughter. Unabashed tease. Self scolding with a mark of appreciation. Hesitation for comment... Nothing. "I'm nipping out for a piss-up and totty." A moment again he gave her for response, eyes bright, big and laughing. Baiting.

Jaw fell slack, her eyes widened. Blanching replaced immediately by girlish blushing drew even more expression from him. He knew he'd embarrassed her greatly – as was his plan – and was delighted in the aftermath of prim and proper innocence in shocked dismay.

If only he had known what she was really thinking.

-o-

But damn, he looked enticing.

Stomach clenching was not a familiar reaction to her; not when it was due to jealousy, particularly mixed with desire. Inviting to the eyes, appetizing by scent. Hard swallow cleared her throat. Professorial indignation rose in effort to conceal these violently clear thoughts. Casual attitude toward sex was expected, she supposed, when referencing Sirius Black, charm boy extraordinaire. But thrown in her face that he was leaving here tonight to pull some ditzy buxom blonde (well, all those chittering fans were, weren't they? Ditzy and simple. She couldn't give them credit to be anything but, and still retain her sanity)... It wasn't acceptable. Dashing, exciting, sensual... All described Sirius. And she was... well... she was herself. Hermione. Bookworm. Rule keeper; logistics calculator; practically mechanical in her dealings with the opposite gender. Yes, that was her. And no one – not even herself – expected otherwise. But to have it pointed out to her, so blatantly, so...

Cruelly.

Instant intention was more shocking than his words. It was not until later the hurt seeped in, slowly and with amazing accuracy. But that was later, later when she was alone, stroking a content Crookshanks and reading text for Chelsea Chamberlain's essay in an effort to muddle the distinctly clear and all-too-real feelings and emotions drenching her spirit now. Here, now, appealing lips suggested such powerful images as to be palpable. Embarrassing, yes, but not for the reasons most who knew Hermione J. Granger would conceive. Not out of innocence did she first pale, then redden. Out of the materialization of dark fantasy did she go near faint. Honestly, who ever expects their deepest, wildest and most improbable desires to come to fruition? Even in jest, the challenge lay bare upon the heavy air between them; Sirius noticed nothing.

But then she blushed in shame, in self-consciousness. Recalled to who and what she was, the sudden spitfire of courage that welled within diminished. Alluring retort of, "Who said I'm not game?" or, "You never asked," disintegrated upon her lips. Who was she kidding? Certainly not herself, and certainly not any more. Sirius knew better, knew it a joke, knew her the loyal, intelligent, fight-for-her-friends Gryffindor she was. And the stalwart figure, never to swear un-seemingly from virginally pure lips.

So she stood, unmoving, silent but for punches of exhalation. Choked on hints of approval, stimulation of agreement, acceptance of offer spoken, her jaw dropped slightly but no words issued. Everything raced through her mind, but force of will lost against petrification of nerves. And instead of humiliation of being caught in wanton thoughts of him, she looked scandalized by his cavalier announcement and dirty suggestion.

Just what he had expected.

Laughter swallowed her as he threw an evening closure over his shoulder, swaggering out the front door, chuckles still shaking his broad shoulders. Heavy clunk announced desolation to the proud, dilapidating house. Even the portraits had fled for the evening.

Fearing the welling of shameful tears, so would Hermione.

-o-

Driving rain pelted the bay glass, the cushioned window seat the stage from which to view an audience of conifers and daffodils. Blurred by endless water flow, their heavily grown limbs merged into shadowed faces of Hermione's life – present and past. Tears had long since ceased, leaving a sense of apathy in their wake. She was a coward. And a failure. Acceptance of the facts left her numb.

Even if she should succeed in locating Harry and Ron, succeed in delivering them from harm, succeed in helping them destroy Voldemort once and for all time, succeed in ridding their world of Death Eaters... Even if all great tasks should come to pass, she would still be a failure in her own life. Any hope of returning to Ron had long since evaporated in the stark light of Sirius Black. Held in limbo was not fair to Ron. Half a relationship – for half was all Hermione could offer, her physical presence in lieu of emotional – deprived him unjustly. No one deserved that.

Coward she was, as well, her inability to speak up, reveal to Sirius her affections only made her realize the other fault of her failure. Grown, vastly experienced wizard. Strong minded, strongly opinionated, well versed man. No place for a wallflower as herself in his life. He'd reminded her of that fact this very evening without once stating it, without once realizing her vying for such a position.

Merlin's Quest for Camelot slid deeper into her lap, her drawn knees too steep to allow the tome secure seating. Only half attention did she give it, her hands automatically going to steady its movement. Forehead corner against cold, damp glass; eyes still fixated two stories below into her parent's back garden. Sanctuary of familiarity she had run away to, Grimmauld only taunting her with her solitude. Absentmindedly her left hand felt again for Crookshanks, the half-Kneazle perched precariously on the narrow shelving beside her.

Booming clap of thunder rattled the house, jarring Hermione from sorrowful wallowing. She did have a promise to keep, and after several days of minimal fruit, she was glad to find the text she had left here, the gift of Raj's she had forgotten in the madness of the past month plus.

There was another realm she need not dwell within. Raj MacGregor was an enigma, one she both feared and found fascinating. Original gut feeling that he was hiding something had been confirmed within their numerous meetings, though Zelda had sworn Albus Dumbledore had wholly trusted Raj's family, particularly his father and grandfather. But suspicion lay all about Raj himself. Six or seven months at the Ministry, without explanation of his past accomplishments, posts or education. Privately tutored, nomadic living, keenly powerful in his magic. Respect he commanded should his ability be known, but she felt that such knowledge was limited to only a few. He was treated as she, for the most part, by officials at the Ministry. His was a paying position whereas hers was merely stipended for living expenses, yet beyond that he appeared to be regarded solely as efficient staff.

Love bite à la demanding kitty broke her newest brood, drawing once more her attention to the book. She really needed to regain her sense of concentration, and act upon logical perspective, such as refusing to waste time or heart on men and their mysterious ways.

Merlin's fondness for defining Muggle worthiness based on enchanted weapons was a lasting moniker for the great wizard, growing in strength of legend centuries after the downfall of Camelot. Nowhere was this better displayed than with the sword of Uther, Arthur's father. To transition Arthur's status to the great leader of Britain, Merlin had, years before, turned Uther's sword Caledfwlch into a rock, from which only the true Heir Apparent could draw it. He engraved upon it the words, 'Whoso pulleth out this sword is by right of birth King of England.' Of course, it is this sword Arthur drew, twice, reclaiming his lineage. This is not to be confused with Caliburn, or Excalibur, which was given to Pendragon after this lineage sword broke in battle with King Pellinore. Caliburn was gifted to the Muggle king as unbreakable by the Lady of the Lake.

As with Caledfwich, the Sword with the Red Hilt was etched elaborately on its blade, stating, "Only the greatest knight in the world shall draw this blade from its stone scabbard." And the block of marble was set adrift, floating endlessly for all the Muggle world to see. Vanity may be a downfall, but a wizard as great as Merlin had rights above all to indulge in such a sin.

Sin of Vanity, eh? Hermione scrounged beneath her raised knees for her legal pad and felt-tip pen, easily transferring to the Muggle implements as the only ones available in her parents' home. Yes, she could definitely note that as a mistake on Merlin's part. Apparently even the greatest of wizards had ego and vanity, she acknowledged, a reminder of Sirius' arrogance earlier coming to mind in a rush. Abruptly she shunned herself, admitting weakness and desperately attempting to change her course of thought. She reverted back to the book, seeking out further weaknesses of the great Merlin. If even he could be faulted, perhaps she would not condemn her own self so.

Skimming, she realized his penchant for theatrics could be great. In spite of herself, she snorted in amusement. Men. Further in she decided he was no matchmaker, either. Though he discouraged Arthur from taking Guinevere to wife, he did not stop it, either. Though Arthur loved her completely and blindly, she soon fell in love with Sir Lancelot – Arthur's champion. Lancelot loved Guinevere, and a fateful affair was started between them, thus beginning the downfall of Camelot. But Elaine, magical daughter of Pelles, loved Lancelot, as well, and used deception to have him. So in the end, no one was happy. Most hurt was Arthur Pendragon, who was completely innocent of illicit affairs.

Great. Another true-to-life love story. Hermione's hopes were ever soaring now. Hardly. Ever-deepening frown held at bay the tears that threatened. Read, Hermione. Just read. One can always get lost in a book.

Pages... chapters... hours later, mind drifting in fits of heartache, self-anger, and slight interest in the story before her. Hermione fought to keep focused on Merlin's plans, only too aware of the parallels between his command of Camelot and that of Albus Dumbledore. The latter had been murdered before victory could be achieved. Was tragedy the only legacy of the Wizarding world?

Apparently Merlin had had high aspirations for Pendragon and Camelot; even Lancelot had been chosen especially to lead Arthur into victory. Judgment can be skewered, however, and people can disappoint. Only Lancelot du Luc's illegitimate son by Elaine of Corbenic, Galahad, had lived up to expectations.

Like Pendragon, he had drawn a magically incased sword to prove his worthiness, this at the feast of Pentecost in AD 487. Later he used his purity and chastity to lead him to success where his father had failed in the quest for the Sangreal. Was this Harry's fate? Would history repeat itself? She read on...

Merlin most feared its discovery by enemies of Camelot, its power too great in the hands of one's foe. Documented only marginally correctly by such Muggles as Malory and Chrétien, the Sangreal offered in a single drink the gift of everlasting life –

"Oh my God," Hermione whispered reverently, cutting off her own reading. Head popping up from its study position, eyes wide and unseeing. Grip fell from the text; the valuable volume slid down her legs, caught crookedly at her stomach, twisted and fell to the floor. Hisses from ginger fur exhibited all the attention this garnered. Hermione sat oblivious. Throat suddenly dry, body shaking, blood drained from her face. Barely audible came her words of astonished wonder.

"I now understand. Everything."