Searching

Part VI

“You have no concept of staying out of trouble.” Draco batted away another tree branch. Nature. Why the bloody hell was it always Nature? Why couldn’t they stay indoors like normal, civilized people?

“Doona pretend ye are so perfect, Stranger. I know for a fact you are no angel,” she tossed carelessly over her shoulder.

Draco narrowed his eyes at her back. “Never claimed to be, but at least I have enough sense to keep from getting caught.” He kept a hand close to his wand holster. He peered around casually, reassuring himself that there really was no one spying on them.

“You are paranoid.”

“Cautious,” Draco corrected. Ha! He was getting soft. There was nothing wrong with paranoia. Hadn’t it kept Voldemort and other less-than-desirable wizards with aspirations for world domination alive just a little bit longer? Draco shook his head at himself. His father would be ashamed. Then again….

Hermione tossed her hair over her shoulder. On any other woman he would have considered it a flirtatious act. Fat chance of that with this one. She tilted her head up at him. “Only those with reason to be ‘cautious’ are so. Care to tell me your reason?”

Not in this lifetime, not if he could help it. “I’m six hundred years out of my element,” he said instead. “I’m a little jumpy, alright?”

He wasn’t lying, but neither was he telling her the truth. Hermione studied him with one fist on her hip. She carried a basket in the other, having brought him to the forest with the intention of gathering her final ingredients. He stood under her scrutiny, meeting her look for look, but Hermione thought she detected a new tension in his shoulders. He was hoping that she wouldn’t question him further.

For days now this man had been among them. He’d somehow transformed from that wild man upon his arrival, into someone who blended in with their way of life. Whenever he was not with her, Stranger was with the people. She’d watched him ask avid questions about everything, refusing to be ignored by the general population. The men had gradually grown to tolerate his presence in their routines. They’d even tried to incorporate him into their tasks, but Stranger had proved resistant. It had become quite clear, quite quickly, that Stranger considered his role that of observer only. The men had teased him at first. Eventually they’d realized that this was simply the way Stranger was, and nothing in the world would change his mind.

He’d even followed the women around. Most of them hadn’t been trailed by a handsome man in many years. It was therefore no surprise that they had only giggled and stared while answering his questions. Stranger had charmed them effortlessly.

The question still remained, however - Why?

She was responsible for every soul that lived within these walls. Why, then, had she not queried him more strenuously? It is not as if the thought had never occurred to her. Questions had been on the tip of her tongue countless times. It never failed that at the single moment she would open her mouth to voice them, the words would be stemmed by one reason or another. Hermione knew that Hannah hadn’t thought he was a threat, but shouldn’t she be giving the matter much more import, for caution’s sake if nothing else?

The truth of the matter was that she needed to believe in Draco of Nowhere. She’d been alternately angered and puzzled by the man, but only fleetingly suspicious. He could have harmed them at any time, but he hadn’t. This was not a man sent to destroy them. But there was something he was conflicted about. Hermione saw the struggle inside as Stranger grappled with issues she could not begin to discern. She wanted him to confide in her, to believe that she could be trusted. There was something good in him. It called out to her, tempted her, and reminded her that there was more to Hermione than the Lady of the Keep.

These were such dangerous thoughts. She had to ask, had to stop procrastinating for fear of shattered illusions. Hermione opened her mouth. Ask him, her logic urged. Ask.

Trust in him, her heart interrupted.

Truth, Logic argued.

Trust, Heart countered earnestly.

Words caught in her throat-- and died. Frustrated, deflated, Hermione snapped her mouth closed. She continued walking, her quick pace trying to take her away from her confusion.

Draco watched her go, then glanced down at his hand. He’d reached out for her instinctively. His lips thinned, and he clenched his fist. Things were becoming more serious with every moment he spent here. There was nothing he could do to stop it, short of finding a way back to his time and counting the hours until he died.

And that was something he could not contemplate doing.

He followed at a more subdued rate. He knew what she’d been about to ask. Hermione’s expressions were becoming far too familiar to him. His reluctance to reveal his deeper purpose was troubling to her. If their position has been reversed, Draco knew that he would not have tolerated silence for long.

She’d come to a stop underneath a particular cluster of trees. Sunlight played in her hair while she tied it back and checked the dagger at her side. He leaned against the trunk of one tree, an unfamiliar feeling tugging at him. Was this guilt? “I don’t mean to hurt you,” he said hesitantly. Gods, he felt like a ruddy teenager again. Only he had never felt this awkward even then.

She didn’t look at him. “Who said anything about being hurt?” She busied herself by kneeling on the ground and rummaging in the basket. Her mouth had tightened considerably. Before he thought, he reached down. Draco captured her chin, turning her face up gently.

He looked a little sad to her. “Don’t lie.”

“Is it a lie then, to not tell the truth, Draco of Nowhere?”

Her question found its mark. Draco stiffened, and dropped his hand. “Some things,” he told her as he leaned away, “are better left unsaid.”

She straightened, never looking away. “And some need to be said more than others.” She blinked then, releasing him from her stare. Hermione stepped back. “Do you know that plant?”

Draco looked up to where she’d indicated. “Mistletoe. Viscum album.”

“That is what we are here for. Grab yer dagger and start climbing. And don’t let it touch the ground!”

Draco shot her a look of reproach. “I am not new at this. I got very decent marks in Herbology, thank you.”

“Then be off with you. I have other things to collect.”

As quick as a blink he’d caught her arm. “You aren’t going to wander off by yourself.” His tone brooked no argument.

She glared in response. “I am the leader here, not you. That aside, I only go there for Hawthorne berries.” She tugged her arm out of his grip and stomped away. That left Draco with two options. He could pursue, giving into his frustration and starting a blazing hot row. Or he could strategically retreat for the time being.

Draco grabbed a branch and pulled himself up. Tempting though it was, a row would do neither of them or his cause, any good.

They worked in silence for some minutes, each lost in thought. What could he possibly be hiding? She wondered. In the limbs above her, Draco cut another bunch and thought, How much longer am I going to be able to keep this up?

“So why am I up in a tree, snipping mistletoe?” he asked after awhile.

“I need it for my amulets,” Hermione replied shortly.

That caught his attention, but he quickly masked his interest. “Amulets, huh?”

“Yes. For tonight.” Should she tell him more? Perhaps not all of it. Keep it to the bare basics. “It’s a festival night. There’s a game involved, and the amulets are the prize.”

Draco mentally tallied all the ingredients they had come in contact with today. Apple, silver fir needles, mistletoe, Hawthorne berries…Draco sat up on his branch. “You’re making love trinkets?” he asked incredulously. He was utterly shocked at the revelation!

If only he knew….“In a manner of speaking, yes, I am.”

“Love trinkets.”

“I just said that.”

“And yet I’m still amazed. Are you a romantic, Hermione?” As far as he knew, Granger hadn’t realized the opposite sex existed. Other than one girlish lapse in fourth year for Viktor Krum and that scourge-of-the-earth Lockhart in…what was it, second year? Anyway, other than those two incidents, Draco was pretty certain that Granger hadn’t been all that acquainted with love.

Hermione looked mildly offended. “There’s nothing wrong with romance,” she informed him heatedly. “True love does exist, you know!”

Draco slid off of the branch and dropped to the ground effortlessly. “I didn’t say that it didn’t.” It just damned well took its bloody time getting around to him, that’s all.

Hermione sniffed. “You don’t strike me as a romantic.”

Draco shrugged. He tucked the mistletoe in the basket. “I’m not. I’m the last person on this earth that will compose a sonnet or throw myself in front of a sword to declare my feelings. There are kinder, less deadly means of expressing myself, I thank you.”

“So where do you stand on the issue of love, prithee?”

He picked up the basket. “I see more of your bloody berries over there.” He walked around her. “I’ve seen love in all its forms. There is one that is truest of them all. It’s real. End of story.”

Hermione walked beside him. “Tell me what you’ve seen.”

~*~

Draco had spent most of his life guarding his thoughts. When he had chosen to say something, it had been either a complete untruth or simply revealed nothing about himself. He had discovered quickly that in this time, with Hermione, neither of these things held true. On at least two occasions he had let hours slip by him with no notice as he talked with Hermione. He now felt himself easing into a third, bloody well strolling and chatting about his life like a lovesick hero.

He was no hero. He barely qualified for anti-hero. He was more villain-struggling-with-belated-conscience material, and that was on his best days. He didn’t stroll, and he didn’t chat. He was Draco Malfoy, player of the Game. He ingratiated himself by performing tasks for women that ultimately led them into his bed. He had familiarized himself with all the right moves long ago, and had learned to use them well by the time he was sixteen.

Falling in love had only become a recent priority, somewhere around his twenty-first birthday. It was all Potter’s fault for getting married to that Lovegood girl. Draco had taken one look at the happy couple, then at his date, and had found what he felt for her so lacking that he had immediately taken her home. That night had been the first drunken-contemplation-party-in-the-library incident. Damn thing was becoming a birthday trend.

He glanced at Hermione. He had to admit that it had been a little bit worth it, this time. This thing with Hermione was no game. He had taken the basket because it had been heavy. He talked to her because it was easy. He listened when she spoke because he genuinely wanted to know what she had to say.

He was in such deep trouble.

He knew now that this was Hermione Granger. It wasn’t just her face. It was the soul. Dressed in fifteenth century garb and speaking with a Scottish lilt, Hermione had the same core character that Granger had had. But she wasn’t exactly the same, and therein lay a problem.

If this was what he thought it was…If he chose to accept the impossible, Draco knew that he would have to make a choice. If he pretended for a moment that the curse did not exist and that his decision to return to the future rested entirely on his…feelings for her, then Draco was faced with the intricacies of time. This Hermione and that Hermione shared qualities that centuries would never diminish. She was dependable, the pillar of strength that others looked to. She had courage, intelligence, and a need to learn. She had a quick wit and a sense of justice that made her the constant champion of the underdog.

But circumstances had shaped the person that Hermione was in each life. The Hermione Draco had known in school and wartime had had a quality about her that reminded him more of Hannah than the girl he now spoke with. This Hermione believed that good people were good, and bad people were bad. Good always triumphed over evil. Hermione Granger had not been so idealistic. Good should win, not would win.

He and Hermione stood by the river now. She had taken the basket from him to search out perfectly round rocks. He had started to help her, but had quickly been distracted by an impromptu stone skipping session. He was quickly lost to his wonderings.

Granger had always had an answer. If she didn’t have one, she looked for it. If she couldn’t find it, she was completely out of sorts. The world had to make sense, be categorized. This Hermione was, for lack of a better term, more naïve. Accepting of things she could not explain. She had essentially taken him at face value. She hadn’t actively interrogated him, or really blinked twice at his claims to be from the future. She was softer somehow. More burdened, a bit more serious, but not jaded. Not yet.

Hermione would change little by little in the next 600 years. He would not. If he went back to the future, would he find that Hermione was no longer someone he could…fancy? Would she outgrow him? Would she still need him like this? Did he…fancy only this Hermione, and not Granger?

His answer would ultimately decide his future, and that scared him. He didn’t have to return home. He could stay with her. Draco could live out his days with someone he was dangerously close to admitting he needed.

“-scrying the future.”

He froze in mid-motion. Draco’s head snapped to the side. “What?”

She looked back at him in surprise. “Do ye not know that method, then?”

“For scrying the future?” What had he missed? “Tell me about it.”

“Tis a silly game, I know, but those who lose the amulets as a prize like to take their chance with it. Water from the cave lake fills a cauldron and placed in full moonlight. One drops a coin in the water and in the moon’s reflection sees the future.” Hermione smiled excitedly. “On this night even Ican look!”

His blood froze in his veins when she continued, “Perchance I’ll ask the cauldron about you, Stranger.”

“No!”

Hermione’s smile disappeared at his unexpected vehemence. “Why?” she asked, confused.

Because you might see what I’ve done! He shouted at her silently. Because then you might see what I intend to do! He thought quickly. “Knowing your future, or anybody else’s, seems that it would be a huge burden.” He knew his tone was strained, but he continued for some semblance of normalcy. “What if you see something that’s really good? What if you tell the person about it and their knowledge changes things? It’s a lot of responsibility. I don’t want you to see something that might end up going bad in the end. “ Fool!

He captured her eyes with his and he poured ever single bit of willpower he had inside in that look. “Promise me you won’t look, Hermione,” he commanded softly.

Hermione stared back, entranced. “I-”

“Promise me.” He took a step closer, entreating her. “Please.”

Say no, Hermione! It is the devil asking you this favor!

Devil? Oh, Hermione, ye of all people should not think such things. Have faith. There is good in him. You see it.

He is hiding something!

As are you.

Heart pounding, Hermione struggled with herself. Her grip on the basket tightened. She felt like she was fighting against something so much bigger than herself. Lips trembling slightly, she nodded jerkily. “I promise.”

Heaven help me, she prayed, let that be the right decision.

Draco stood and watched her watching him…and felt like a villain.

He squeezed the rock in his hand brutally. What the hell did he think he was playing at? He was stuck in this time, in this place by a man he’d never met. A man who had put before Draco everything he’d ever wanted or needed but could not hope to have unless he did Aniston’s bidding. But what, Logic asked, would Draco be asked to sacrifice in the process?

“Bugger it all!” Draco swore. He threw the rock viciously away. It crashed into the water. Hermione jumped at his unexpected movement, almost dropping her basket. She caught it just in time.

“What’s the matter?” she asked quickly. What had just happened?

Draco gave a bark of laughter. “Everything is the matter. The whole world is the matter.” Before he thought, he’d snatched up another rock and hurled it with all his strength. Another quickly followed, then another, and yet another after that found itself flung into the river. He didn’t know what made him do it, but somehow it seemed imperative that he further destroy the harmony of the moment.

Hermione reacted instinctively. The basket fell unheeded from her fingers, and before it could hit the ground and spill her prizes, she was in front of him. She caught his wrist before he could hurl yet another stone, her other hand splayed on his chest. “Stop!” she cried out. He tried to twist out of her grip, but she hung on stubbornly. The end result was that he jerked her forward until she crashed into his chest. As quick as a blink he had her by the shoulders. She thought he would push her away, but he didn’t. Instead he stilled completely, hands curved over her shoulders, head bowed. Hermione thought he might be looking at her hand, but she wasn’t sure.

Unbidden, her own eyes fell to look at the appendage. It looked so small against his frame. Somehow she had managed to find the exact position of his heart, the organ beating steadily beneath her fingers, if a little faster than usual. She knew she was being too familiar with him, that she should move her hand, but she left it where it was. Strange comfort filled her that she had irrevocable proof; right here and now, that Draco of Nowhere had a heart like everyone else in the world. Sometimes he seemed superhuman, something more than anyone else in her eyes. Here was the evidence that he was mortal too.

Draco had gone silent, unmoving but for the slight flexing of his fingers. It was far removed from his explosion of energy but a moment ago. For some reason, Hermione felt fear creeping up, eating away at the comfort. He looked like a man condemned, she realized. Condemned and ashamed.

She brought her face closer, trying to look up into his eyes. He turned his head away. “Tell me,” she said in hushed tones.

“Why?” he rasped. “Why should I tell you? It would--it would make you look at me differently.” And gods help him; he didn’t think he could bear that. You fool. What have you done? He shook his head in swift denial.

Unexplainable alarm shivered up Hermione’s spine, a curious foreboding. She swallowed it down and forged ahead. “Are you not friends, Stranger?” she ventured tentatively.

He looked at her then. Piercing blue eyes connected with brown, unflinching. “Are we?” he inquired. “Are we friends, Hermione?”

Were they? “We can be,” she compromised. “If you trust me, Stranger, I promise I will do all I can to help you.”

“What if I told you that friendship wasn’t enough?” He didn’t know what forced the words out of his mouth, but no truer words had he ever spoken. They rushed out of him now. “What if I told you that I crave something more from you?”

Hermione was glad that the act of breathing was involuntary. She might have forgotten to do it otherwise. She hadn’t expected him to do this, give voice to that intangible something that had been steadily growing between them. Before she could think of responding, Draco dropped his hands and turned away. “But I can’t,” he continued. He rubbed his face in a frustrated gesture. He sounded defeated. “I’ve done something, Hermione. Something I didn’t want to do and now I can’t seem to stop it.”

The moment he had stepped away, she had felt bereft. Now his words chilled her to the soul. The breeze picked up, pulling her hair over her shoulder. She tried to blame her shiver on the wind’s antics, but knew it was useless. “Stranger. I’m afraid.”

The words had just slipped out. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud and even then they had emerged softly. They managed to reach his ears nonetheless. He turned back to her, saw that she had unconsciously wrapped her arms around herself. She looked like a waif ready to be taken away by the wind.

He knew then that no matter what, he would protect Hermione. Something inside would accept nothing less from him. Draco had never before been particularly brave, or noble, or self-sacrificing. But then, never before had he been in love.

There. He’d admitted it to himself. Draco Malfoy had fallen in love with this strange girl, who couldn’t do magic. A girl who had never seen his world and likely could not begin to imagine its reality. A girl who knew hardship and yet somehow managed to stay more pure than Draco could ever hope to be. A girl who inspired him to reach for something higher.

Hope. That was the word that came to mind when he thought of Hermione. Hope and belief. She had faith in him, more than she probably realized showed in her eyes every time she looked at him. It terrified him that one day he would fail her, that one day he might have to watch trust die out in brown orbs.

~*~
Aniston Malfoy contemplated the map before him. “Difficult,” he murmured to himself. “Tree line too far away. Might be useful to hide reinforcements, but this damnable field…Open ground, open ground, open ground…” Aniston tapped the tip of his dagger against the sheepskin. He repeated the action over and over, staring at the ink rendition of his prey as he had so often these past months. Tap. Tap. Tap. A slow, deliberate staccato that never varied in rhythm.

Aniston leaned closer to the diagram. His eyes devoured every line completely. He had it memorized. He had traversed every nook and cranny many times in his dreams. Yet Aniston was compelled to study it over and over, convinced that the answer he searched for would reveal itself in due time. If just looked at it long enough, listened hard enough…

“Where are you?” he whispered to his obsession. “Tell me where you are. Tell me how to find you.”

“My Lord Malfoy?” The soldier’s voice broke into Aniston’s solitude abruptly. Aniston didn’t look away from the floor plans on the table or give any indication that he had heard, but the soldier was unnerved nevertheless. No man or woman had ever disturbed him as Lord Malfoy did. Relatively new to the nobleman’s command, the soldier had been taken aback at the shiver of fear that had coursed through him when first he saw Aniston Malfoy in the flesh. The man had a look to him, a cold quality that froze a fellow to his bones.

After a long moment of silence, the soldier decided to forge ahead. “My lord, the Scotsman is here to see you.” Aniston raised icy blue eyes. It was like being stabbed with an icicle. “Show him in,” he directed, quietly exuding menacing authority. The soldier left as quickly as possible without actually running. The corner of Aniston’s mouth lifted in a sneer. Fool. He wore his fear on his face. Aniston had no need for such weakness in his army. When the time for battle came, Aniston would personally see to it that the coward would man the front wave of the attack. The first to rush in…the first to fall.

Aniston traced the illustrated floor plan. It was drawn as close to scale as possible, as per the Scots barbarian’s description. For his sake, he had better hope that it was accurate. Soon Aniston would be seeing those walls in person. Soon he would be able to touch the stones he had been itching to conquer ever since he had first heard that tantalizing conversation, mere months ago. To think, Aniston marveled to himself when he sat back, all this time the civilized world had thought the family extinct. For centuries they had survived in the barbarous wilderness of Scotland, and no one had ever known it. If not for a chance encounter, an overheard conversation, Aniston would never have rediscovered the existence of the fabled Guardians.

All thanks to a disgruntled Scotsman with a taste for gold.

Soon, he thought once more when the tent flaps parted. Soon the thing he wanted the most would be his. And this arrogant, greedy, backwoods son-of-a-bitch was delivering it without understanding exactly what he was handing over.

The secret to eternal life.

~*~
She shouldn’t have been able to read it. Logically, this book should have been linguistically incomprehensible to her. Bugger it; the book should not have existed at all. It was made of sheepskin, as much written material consisted of during the era it was said to have been bound…but no one would have sacrificed this many sheep for the sake of a mere diary.

Unless the contents were a matter of life or death. Only then would someone take the time and effort to bind the codex. Only then would someone have written the contents not in English, but Gaelic…a language Hermione had not been aware she would recognize, much less be able to read. The message she had found inside had been chilling…

Life and death.

Hermione lurched up, snatching the small chest and barreling through the attic. “Dad!” she screamed. She reached the top of the stairs, calling out for her father over and over while she ran down step after step. “Dad!” By the time she reached the main landing, a note of desperation had worked its way into her voice.

A man rushed up to meet her on the ground floor. “What’s wrong, Hermione?”

Hermione froze mid-step. “Uncle Nathaniel,” she said. Her eyes widened ever so slightly.

Her uncle looked at her oddly. “How is it you can always tell us apart?” Very few people could do it as Hermione, a fact that never failed to bemuse the family. But Hermione wasn’t listening. She was caught up in wonderment, confronted by something she had known all her life but had never truly paid attention to before now.

Nathaniel and her father were identical twins. As it often was, identical twins ran in their family…

“Hermione?” her father asked, entering the room at a quick pace. “What’s going on?”

The sound of her father’s voice broke the spell. Hermione finally blinked, her brain mobilizing once more. “Dad! I have to go to Scotland!”

~*~
Night had fallen, and the keep had come to life.

Garlands of flowers and ribbons festooned the side courtyard. Somehow everyone managed to cram into the space, a constant mobile mass that laughed and played among music, food, and drink. A place had been designated for the dancers. Draco watched in amusement, as the Scots didn’t dance in any fashion he was familiar with. Nobody really touched anybody else except for the hands as they were turning in a circle. Everything was precise and yet haphazardly done. It was something one had to see for one’s self to really understand.

They had a dance for everything. War, marriage, courtship, even anger. Women wore their best skirts and the men their best kilts. Draco had actively resisted the kilt, but Magda had managed to get him into a new pair of trews and a finely stitched leather jerkin. Jerkin, Draco discovered, meant over shirt. It was short sleeved so that one could see the white long sleeved shirt he wore underneath. He also had new boots, softer than anything Draco would have imagined possible in this era.

Draco rather fancied he looked like a bleedin’ Scottish Robin Hood, sans hat. Not half bad, though. He wondered if Hermione would like it?

Hermione. Draco crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, looking up at the stars. She hadn’t spoken to him all afternoon. They had walked back to the keep in awkward silence. He’d drifted toward and been caught up by men’s work, and she had disappeared into a crowd of femininity that even Draco could not penetrate.

Figuratively speaking.

Draco just didn’t know what he wanted anymore. Well, he did know what he wanted. He wanted Hermione, plain and simple. He wanted to stay here because she was here, wanted to be the one she talked to for all of her days. She was the One.

Perhaps a better summation of the situation at the moment was that Draco didn’t know what to do about her. He’d heard that honesty was the best policy. Never having practiced that particular philosophy before in earnest, Draco wasn’t sure how well that would apply to him and her. Say he did spill his guts about Aniston. She’d either kill him, have Conall kill him, or have Hannah think of something truly torturous to put him through involving fire.

That could, of course, be his insecurities speaking. His track record with women was dismal at best. If he hadn’t been using them (teenage Draco), he’d been losing them (adult Draco). Telling Hermione what his entire trip to this era was about had to be the fastest way to end a relationship before it had begun.

And gods, that touched on a new issue. Did Hermione love him? She felt something for him, that much he could see. She couldn’t hide that or her fears. But did it go as deeply for him as his did for her? Was Draco tormenting himself with all these damned moral questions only to be setting himself up for rejection in the end?

Bugger it all! This love rubbish wasn’t all he’d imagined it to be. It had emasculated his confidence in mere seconds, and he hadn’t even confessed anything yet. He’d always envisioned the One would swoon into his arms, he’d feel manly and protective, and that would be that. Ha!

“Looking a little sick to yer stomach, Stranger.”

Draco looked at the man addressing him. He looked familiar. “Do I know you?”

The man grinned. “I’m Donall. Conall’s brother.”

“Your father had no imagination.”

“He was a bit of a simple minded fellow. Rhyming names made them easier to remember which child was named what.”

Draco’s brow crooked. “How many of you were there?”

“Eleven. He couldna keep it in his kilt, as they say.”

And damned if they didn’t all look the same. Donall and Conall’s father apparently had never been able to hide his indiscretions from his women because of such strong resemblances in his sons. He’d started naming his children in groups depending on which woman they were from.

Draco eyed the youngest, Patrick, the only standalone name in the bunch. “Couldn’t find anything to rhyme?”

Patrick shrugged. “Only child.”

Fellow must have died or something.

Unlike Conall, Draco found this group of brothers welcoming. They laughed and joked in ways that made Draco wonder if Conall had simply been born without a personality. Draco sat and accepted a mug of…something. He really didn’t want to ask questions, having had an unpleasant encounter earlier in the week. It was impossible not to laugh at the bawdy jokes the brothers were making, but Draco still felt his attention slipping away to secretly search the crowd for a familiar figure.

“What are ya looking’ for, English?” Heath asked.

“A good time,” Keith quipped.

“Nay, lads, he’s looking for a good--” Leith wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, “--lass.”

Brady laughed. “I think our poor fool has already found such a lass.”

Grady agreed. “He’s been spending an awful lot of time in certain company. Who knows? Maybe tonight’s game shall decide it all.”

Draco looked back at the brothers. “What exactly is this game?”

Donall leaned back. “Well, it’s only for single men and women. There’s this pile of rose petals that everyone chooses from. That petal matches two found in each prize.” He spread his hands out. “Simple, yes?”

Nothing, Draco thought, was ever simple.

~*~
“Hannah, how did you know Duncan was the one for you?”

Hannah stopped braiding Hermione’s hair. She tilted her sister’s chin up and looked down into an uncertain face. “Hermione.” She quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t want to hear about Duncan and I. ‘Tis an old story.”

For once, saying his name did not brink back the rush of grief. Instead Hannah felt that familiar warmth he had sparked so many times since childhood. Duncan had not been the strongest, the smartest, or the most handsome man in the Highlands, but he had been hers. Duncan had been dependable, sweet, and loving. For a few glorious, that wonderful man had been Hannah’s.

Hannah dashed away a tear. Hermione’s face twisted. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, no. Ye didn’t upset me. It’s good to talk about Duncan, Hermione. He was a good man and I don’t ever want to forget him. It’s just that I miss him.” Hannah sniffed back another tear. “I’ll always miss him.”

Hermione searched Hannah’s face for signs of a lie. Finding none, Hermione turned back around and contemplated the table. Hannah returned to weaving the flowers in her sister’s lock. Hermione indicated the window. “They sound like they are having fun.”

“Hmm,” Hannah murmured in agreement, tweaking a blossom. Unbeknownst to Hermione, an amused gleam entered her eye. “I’m sure even Stranger might have found a pretty girl to dance with.”

Hermione tensed, then relaxed. “He wouldn’t dance,” she said with confidence. “Stranger must be a master before he will show off his skill, and he knows none of our dances.”

“You like him.”

“He’s pleasant to look at,” Hermione hedged.

Hannah tugged at a braid impatiently. “Don’t play games, girl. Ye spend all yer time with the man. Ye have begun to ask questions about romance, something ye’ve never shown interest in before. And,” Hannah finished with a triumphant smile, “ye are in here, prettying yourself up, instead of out there, dancing with Conall’s brothers like ye do every year.” Hannah gave Hermione’s hair a final touch and then plopped onto a stool with a sigh to admire her handiwork. “You are sweet on Stranger, and ye know it.”

Hermione looked frankly terrified. Hannah laughed at her. “Don’t look so, Hermione. People fall in love every day. ‘Tis a natural and wonderful thing.”

Hermione wasn’t entirely convinced. “What if it’s just an infatuation? What if he leaves? What if…” everything is not as is seems? she finished silently.
Hannah’s merriment had fallen away. She regarded Hermione soberly. “Life isna kind to mortals, sister. Falling in love with someone does not guarantee a happy ending.” She rubbed her protruding belly. “We are proof of that.”

“What do I do, Hannah?”

Hannah threw up her hands in a familiar gesture and exclaimed, “How am I supposed to know? ’Tis not as if I have the Sight!”

Hermione giggled at the old joke despite herself.

“Actually, I haven’t had a full vision in months. I’m sure the babe is taking up all my energy. But! Tonight we have this.” Hannah indicated the cauldron on the table, already filled and simply waiting to be taken outside. “Maybe if we just--”

“No!”

Hannah froze. “Why not?”

“Stranger made me promise.”

“He made you promise,” Hannah repeated flatly. Hermione nodded slowly. “I see. I think ’tis time for us to join the celebration.”

They got up, rearranging their skirts. Hermione, deep in thought, picked up the box containing the amulets while Hannah gathered the bowl of rose petals. They were at the door when Hannah turned to Hermione. “I doona pretend to know everything, or have all the answers. All I can tell ye is to do what ye feel is right.”

Hermione nodded in understanding. As she closed the door behind him, she looked back at the table. Her eyes lingered on the seemingly innocent cauldron still resting there, unable to look away until the door blocked the way.

~*~
Patrick whistled in appreciation. “Lads, will you look at that? A fairy princess!”

All the brothers turned to look at once, then suddenly began clamoring over one another before Draco could see what was going on. All around him people gasped and laughed and whispered till finally Draco’s curiosity could stand it no longer. Fairly certain his mother would have died of embarrassment at his disregard for decorum, Draco climbed atop the table to look over the crowd.

Beautiful. Simply beautiful.

The people faded away, and time slowed down. There was just him and her and endless minutes to drink her in. She smiled shyly around her, blushing at the new attention. Her gown was simple, a deep green that contrasted the multitude of flowers cascading through her hair perfectly. When her eyes connected with his, Draco felt a fluttering of pride. Even in a crowd of men fawning on her, it was Draco that she looked for. He smiled at her and bowed a little in appreciation. A smile flashed across her lips, and she ducked her head shyly.

Draco became aware that the crowd of men begging for a dance was increasing yet again. Time to do something about that.

~*~
Hermione grinned at Conall’s brothers indulgently. They were the worst dancers in Scotland, but still they pursued the activity with zeal. As yet, only Hermione would consent to partner them. It was a long standing joke that any other woman who danced with a Left-Footed brother would find herself wed before the tune had ended.

Hermione was about to say something affirmative to the nearest brother when a smooth accented voice cut in. “Leave off, lads. The lady’s with me.” Stranger playfully shoved Keith out of his way.

Leith shoved from the other way. “Find yer own dance partner, English! Hermione’s our partner!”

“Our?” Stranger repeated.

“Hermione is the only one up to par,” explained Brady. Grady and the others agreed heartily.

“They’re all very…exuberant,” Hermione murmured, a twinkle in her eye.

Draco could tell he wasn’t going to win this fight. “Meet me when you’re done?”

“It’ll be a while,” Donall warned, handing Draco a tankard. “Hold this.” With that, they absconded with Hermione en masse, leaving a chuckling Draco with the drinks.

Draco quickly discovered what “exuberant” meant--tone deaf and without rhythm. He sat back to watch, smiling at the proceedings. Even Potter hadn’t been this bad.

Suddenly a bowl was thrust in his direction. Curious, Draco took it. There was nothing but rose petals inside. One very much looked like the rest. He picked one and passed the bowl, looking at the petal assessing. “What significance do you have?” he asked it softly.

~*~
“The game! The game!” the party-goers called.

Two people were pushed up into the public eye. Draco could tell immediately that they were in love. The man spoke in the woman’s ear with a lover’s ease, making her blush prettily and giggle. He then held up his arms and called for silence.

“We will have our game,” he announced. He reached back and snagged the woman’s hand, looking at her warmly. “Now I’m not one for pretty speeches, so I’ll keep it short. As last year’s winners, it is up to Bridget and myself to present the new gift. Our prizes were these rings, symbols of unity. Tonight we present these amulets, symbols of two souls linking.” The man added his hand underneath the box along with Bridget’s. Together they held it up. “We hope they bring you as much happiness as our rings have for us.”

Almost before the man had finished speaking, Draco felt a surge of tremendous energy wash over him. The box suddenly burst open violently, startling gasps from the couple. As one, the amulets leapt out of the box and rose quickly about the crowd. They began to glow very, very brightly. Draco felt uneasy, his hand going for his wand. The amulets were humming discordantly, clacking together and jerking about as if attached to marionette strings. Hermione and Hannah looked at one another in confusion. This had never happened before.

Just when an explosion seemed eminent, the amulets suddenly fell silent. They drifted like leaves on the wind forward, over the crowd, easily their way over the people. This time, when they fell, it was as the heavy objects they were--straight into Hermione’s stunned embrace.

Hermione stared down. “But--I didn’t choose a rose petal,” she stammered.

“Go on, my lady,” a woman next to her whispered. “Kiss it.” Nobody else said a word.

Hermione hesitated. She didn’t want to do it. She was afraid to do it, but no one refused to play the game. Once chosen, the Giver had to play. But perhaps it wouldn’t work. She hadn’t become a player, so what were the chances of the amulets performing their task?

Cautiously, she brought one amulet up and kissed it.

It reacted immediately. Before Hermione could blink the pendant had leapt out of her hand and was zooming dangerously across the courtyard. People cried out in alarm and leapt out of the way to avoid injury. One moment Draco was craning his neck and the next he was flat on his back!

He sucked in his breath. What had happened? His hand reached for his chest, where the pain resided. He brought what he found up to eye level. The amulet.

The blood drained from Hermione’s face.

~*~
Hermione stared at the cauldron in indecision. Stranger had asked her not to look inside, and she had given her promise. But that had been before the game, before the amulets had made such an unexpected move.

Hermione knew the amulets were not wrong. They had performed their function, ignorant of the underlying issues that still rested between Stranger and herself. They had only made clear what Hermione had refused to acknowledge to herself. Until now.

It was up to her to make a decision. She could either follow her instincts blindly or she could look into the cauldron. The first assumed she would have faith that everything would work itself out. The second highlighted her distrust but provided her with invaluable knowledge.

And then there was the question of aftermath. Time carried with it many theories that bore considering. If what she saw inside was the future, was it set in stone? Would any action she took henceforth invariably bring the vision to pass? Or was time a changeable entity? If she saw one vision, could she make one key decision that would alter it? The Greeks told stories of men, that by denying their destiny, ultimately brought about their own doom.

They also had a story of a girl whose curiosity about a box had unleashed hundreds of evils on the world.

Knowing all this, did Hermione truly want to risk the consequences? Did she truly want to know what the future held? Biting her lip, Hermione rubbed the face of the coin with her thumb. Part of her balked. The Sight was Hannah’s gift, not hers. But the dread Hermione felt didn’t abate. Hannah’s gift had fluctuated over the course of her pregnancy. It was no longer reliable, except for those rare moments when she “knew” something. Who then could calm Hermione’s fears?

She doubted Draco of Nowhere would be forthcoming with the answers she sought. Or maybe she was too frightened to ask?

Damn these confusing thoughts! Annoyed and frustrated, Hermione stalked to the window and looked down at the celebration. Hannah was surrounded by women eager to feel the life growing inside of her. Hermione traced her twin’s face briefly before switching her attention to Draco.

Draco seemed to be having a time as well. He was avidly listening to the group of brothers, who wore jovial expressions. From the stunned look on his face and the way he reached for the amulet around his neck, Hermione knew that they had laughingly informed him of its meaning. It was a tradition almost as old as the castle. On one very special night, a night known only to those inside the walls, two charms were presented. They told the Giver, usually chosen by the rose, who his or her true love was. It was an old custom, one of the many secrets her family kept.

He was looking for her now. She had to act quickly. Hermione went to stand over the cauldron, positioned directly in the moonlight. The water within waited to accept the coin in her hand and reveal what she wanted to know. With a trembling fist, she held the coin over the mouth. Truth or trust, Hermione.

She thought of Draco.

Truth or trust. Choose.

She thought of Hannah.

Choose.

She opened her fist and watched the coin fall.

~*~
TBC…