EWE, Slow burn, Soulmate AU, Reincarnation, Slash and Femslash pairs
Rated M primarily for swearing and vague references/implied sex (nothing graphic is depicted or described)
Don't own the characters, just this version of the idea. Don't like, don't read.
A loud crack of thunder in the late evening preceded the ethereal beauty that had appeared in the camp. One arm, a stump at the shoulder with a false limb attached, bearing the crest of the noble houses of her people. Protective sigils of her banner-men that had arrived to Albion's shores earlier that day to join the last great battle.
Her armor was little more than boiled leather and exotic skins molded to her lean, awkward frame. Long silver hair spilled down her back, caught in the breeze with her green cloak as she strode purposefully through the camp. Her head held high, grey-blue eyes starring straight ahead as soldiers and knights moved out of her way.
Many dressed similarly to herself bowed their heads and spoke softly under their breath as she passed. She came upon the tent bearing the banners of the noble houses of the rebellion.
And an inverted version of the High King Pendragon's banner. A red field bearing a golden dragon. Without a single touch, and with only the barest of thoughts, the curtains were cast aside and she walked right in.
Many men of rank stood around the central table, maps and parchments spread out as they planned their strategies for the final battle. But she focused on only one; a band of red and gold resting upon an unruly black mane. Sensing the new arrival he lifted his face to greet them. But it was shock and surprise that filled the emerald colored eyes.
"Vivian!"
"Mordred!"
"My lady, what are you doing here? A battlefield is no place for a princess."
"Then it is good that I am no longer a princess," she said defiantly, her shoulders squared and her face a perfect mask of indifference.
"You cannot be here!" snarled one of the generals at Mordred's side. "We do not need the aid of your foul, tainted kind."
"Then I will instruct the men that arrived to aid you that we should depart. And when the followers of the sorceress queen turn their magic upon you then you can die knowing that you made sure to send the 'wrong sort' back home to their nice warm beds."
"Control your wench, Mordred!"
She stepped forward again, her false arm seeming to crackle with an unseen force. "I may not wield a sword, Lord Cornwall, but I can fight as well as five fully trained knights."
"Of that I have no doubt, my lady but you are not part of this council," one of Mordred's advisers said. This one, she noted, had been at their hidden bond ceremony. This one had also been kinder to her when she had first come to Albion.
"As a matter of fact-" she began, but was cut off.
"My sworn ally," Mordred said, shocking most of his council, "has brought us reinforcements to combat the mystic forces of Queen Guinevere. Warriors that were once promised to my father the King."
"Exactly, sire. You cannot trust the words of fickle witches."
Mordred seemed torn. And tired. "Leave us," he said. "We have planned and plotted the most that we can. Spend the night with your men. Write home to your loved ones. For by this time tomorrow you could very well be dining with God."
She stepped to the side as the war council left the tent. Once they were alone, Mordred sighed and removed his crown and set it amongst the papers. She moved swiftly and with purpose, glancing at the maps and the parchments with only passing interest. "Mordred I-"
"You promised me you would remain with your mother. You're safest across the sea-"
"My place is here at your side, husband," she said, reaching out and taking one of his hands into the only one of her own. "I was compelled to come."
"You know there is no hope for us tomorrow. My mother's visions... your mother's visions... Even Merlin could not withstand the power of Guinevere and the hold she has over my father."
She smiled weakly, squeezing his hand before letting it go and reaching into a satchel at her side. "I have brought you gifts, husband. Call me superstitious, but I wish for you to have them with you tomorrow, for luck."
"Vivian..."
She produced a pendant and a stick. The pendant she pinned with practiced ease to his cloak, just beneath his chin. "This is the stone of the Black. To give you guidance and offer the wisdom of all those who have come before."
"The Pendragons weren't exactly known for their wisdom, my love."
"Quite. Bravely stupid, the lot of you," she said, then offered him the stick.
"I cannot take this. It was a gift to your brother-"
"Your father's wife snapped your wand. You are a powerful wizard in your own right, Mordred. Should you lose your sword in battle, Merlin would want you to have it."
"Merlin didn't even like me. Before he ever knew me, he hated me."
She smiled softly. "He did not hate you. He hated the destiny that stretched out before you. He spoke highly of your skill with a wand, despite your ignorance of your own talent." She paused, giving a gentle sigh. "Tomorrow, if I survive, then I am to be a widow. We cannot change the destiny that is laid out for you and Arthur. If he had not married that banshee of a woman then... who knows what path we may have been led down."
"Then why give me these gifts if you know they will do no good? Better to keep them safe with you, to protect you. Or better yet return to the Emerald Keep, to the safety of your mother's power."
"You know," she said, suddenly bright and cheerful as she forced him to take the wand of elder wood from her hand. "When I was a girl I used to dream of marrying a mighty prince. Of course, I believed he would come to the Keep rather than I having to travel so far away to Albion to meet him." She reached up to brush some of his hair out of his eyes. "But now, I gladly throw away my throne for just one more night with the only son of a puppet king. A bastard, no less."
"A bastard with a rightful claim, as all others in line before him were killed by the woman on the throne beside the father that begat him."
"True. I could have a throne again. And as king you would spoil me rotten."
"Your mother has done plenty of that for me," he said with a soft smile on his lips, allowing her to draw him into the fantasy of a future together. Alive and free.
"Come, my King," she said, cupping his face now before sliding her hand back, back to his neck and up into his dark hair. Gently she urged him forward to meet her halfway. Her voice low, husky with desperation and need. "Let us spoil one another for one more night..."
As he bent his neck down, capturing her soft lips with his own, he felt her release his neck and slide her hand down to his shoulder, over the fabric of his cloak as a cold shiver went down his spine. A sign of her magic, dark and dangerous - just as the bond that was between them.
Distracted as he was, he did not notice when the rich red fabric had begun to fade into white, then nothingness as her magic wove into every fiber and every stitch. Turning it translucent before it became invisible upon his back.
And if he noticed the burning sensation over his heart, where her magical brand had come to the surface, he said nothing. Just as she spoke no words of the fire that scorched her soul and marred the pale flesh of her breast, marking her as property of a true Pendragon.
Instead only their desperate gasps and the gentle rocking of a cot in Mordred's tent served as their voice while worshipful hands and reverent lips caressed the possessive marks between them.
oooo
Four times a week, every week, since he had turned eighteen.
It wasn't always the same dream. But it was one of the most frequent. It always left him hard and wanting and ultimately frustrated.
Harry turned his head to look out his bedroom window. "Looks like rain," he muttered under his breath, ignoring the stinging in his chest of his soul mark.
His mark was an annoyance rather than the blessing it was meant to be. The phenomena was nothing new the the pure-bloods, but to many muggleborn and half-bloods alike the mystical marking was a fascination to be explored and examined.
Three years on and they still hadn't found the culprit who had unlocked the ancient magic that had been cast over the magical world. Though if Hermione's research was anything to go by, and Harry had learned long ago that it usually was, then really all that had been done was the breaking of a curse, allowing whatever magic caused the marks to appear to run free as it once had.
Harry, on the other hand, hated it. It was one more thing in his life outside his control. A decision that was made for him rather than one he chose.
He banished these thoughts to the back of his mind nearly as soon as they had come, instead he rose from his bed and set about his morning routine. By the time he'd climbed into the shower, the problem he'd woken with had already subsided without intervention. It was fine by Harry. He really didn't have time to deal with it this morning anyway.
oooo
Ron looked up from the Daily Prophet when Harry reached across to grab a few strips of bacon for his sandwich. "You're up early," he commented.
"New bookstore opening in Cardiff today."
"Don't you usually do sports?"
Harry shrugged as he built his breakfast sandwich. "The usual guy met his match over the weekend," Harry muttered.
Hermione looked up from her book. "Wait... you're not talking about Monmouth's Mystical Manuscripts are you?"
"One," Ron said, "That's a mouthful. Two, is that really the name of the place?"
Hermione nodded as Harry shrugged again, finishing his sandwich making and heading for the door to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. "Harry wait!" Hermione exclaimed, rising from the table and closing her book. He stopped and waited for her patiently. She thrust the book at him. "Can you get this signed for me?"
He stared at the cover with a frown. "what-"
"The author's doing a signing there for the grand opening today and I... sort of already tried to wiggle out of going to work today but I wasn't the only one in the office who's been reading these and it would really mean the world to me if you could, since you'll already be there-"
"Not another of those trashy romances... 'Mione, he's not going for fun. He's gonna be working."
"I know that, but maybe, if you've got time?" she pleaded."I'll make it up to you, I promise."
Harry thought it over a moment, checked his watch, and rolled his eyes before he accepted the book. "The things I do for you people," he complained, but his tone showed it was only in jest.
He made sure the book was tucked safely in with his camera equipment before heading out for the day.
oooo
"Thank you so much for coming on such short notice," the reporter said, offering her hand to him. He accepted it, giving it a brief shake and a calm smile. "You have no idea how grateful I am that you were able to come. I don't trust the other photographers on staff but Dennis and Dennis... well..." She rolled her eyes.
Harry nodded curtly. "It's no problem, Leanne. So, where do I set up?" he asked, looking around, then he indicated the roped off area. "Is that where the line's going to be? I'd like to get some shots of the crowd just in case you need a bit of filler for the page."
She quickly walked him through what was expected of him during the signing, then what she needed of him after lunch. When she was finished, she left him to set up near the author's table where stacks of books had already been put out.
It reminded him a lot of second year when he had first met Gilderoy Lockhart. He took a few test shots of the empty table and the bookstore just to get a feel for the angles before the doors would officially open. He glanced at his watch and sighed, then cast his glamours and charms. They were slightly itchy and uncomfortable, but necessary.
He took up photography to hide behind the camera rather than always being in front of it. And it wouldn't do to have people coming to an event for one wizard but instead give all their attention away to the guy meant to be taking pictures of the proceedings. Once the public portion was done, then he could drop most of the spells. But for the next four hours...
"Okay, let's get this over with before I'm glued to a table for the next four hours," came a voice from behind him.
He turned, already bringing his camera up, ready to snap another picture when he stopped. His mouth went dry as he lowered the camera enough to look over the top. Ginny stood smiling, holding one of the books to her chest as a man in dark blue robes stood with quill in hand, signing another book. Then another.
He had signed seven in all, six piled in a stack before him. Quickly regaining his composure, Harry pushed thoughts of his ex to the back of his mind and snapped a few photographs.
"Thank you," Ginny was saying excitedly as Harry turned away, his job for the moment on pause. Leanne stepped up beside him, frowning.
"Contest winner," she said, answering a question he didn't ask. "Breakfast with the writer and a full set of autographed books."
"you could have told me she would be here," he hissed back.
"You wouldn't have agreed to come if you knew."
She was right. He wouldn't admit she was right. Things between he and Ginny hadn't exactly ended... nicely. That damned mark nonsense had seen to that. Harry sighed. "Let's just get this over with," he mumbled, getting into position as Ginny was led away through a side door. He took a few shots of the author at his table, looking for all the world rather bored as he balanced a quill on the end of his finger.
They both knew the moment the front doors opened as the sudden rush of young women (and some old enough to be their mothers) surged forward through the new bookstore. The author raked a hand through his dark brown hair before sitting up straighter and smiling. It wasn't until two hours in, and half the stack of books on the table had been signed and given away, that Harry realized the smile never reached the man's eyes.
oooo
Harry sat off to the side during the interview, having taken a few photos near the beginning and already trying to work his head around which shots he wanted to keep for his portfolio. He had already decided which ones to hand over to the Prophet for the article, and which ones to turn around and sell to the Quibbler when his thoughts were interrupted. Not so much by someone trying to get his attention, but by the shift in conversation once the formal part of the interview was over.
"I'd like the name of your photographer," he heard as he was packing away his equipment for the day.
"Uh..." Leanne said, glancing towards Harry with a slight frown.
"Oh no. No. Nothing like that, I assure you," the author said. "He's not your usual man, is he? He's very professional and stays out of the way, and I like that. I'd like to keep him in mind for any future events, or recommend him to friends. That's all."
Harry reached for the small pouch where he kept his business cards, fingers grazing the spine of the book Hermione had asked him to get signed that morning. He took out both a card and the book before crossing the room they had chosen for the interview.
"Here," he said, offering the card, which listed on the back the types of work he accepted. The front was plain, save for his name, or rather, the one he worked under. "
The man accepted the card, reading the name aloud. "J. Padfoot. Interesting name," he drawled. Then he glanced at the book in Harry's other hand. He raised a brow. "A fan?"
"Not really. A friend nagged me-"
"Allow me," he said, holding his hand and with the other pulling out a muggle pen. He clicked it, and Harry handed over the book. "So Mr. Padfoot, your friend's name?"
"Ah..." he rubbed the back of his neck.
"Ah?" he said, poised to write exactly that.
"No, I mean- Hermione," he said finally, not noticing the man's moment of hesitation before he nodded and put pen to paper. After scribbling a quick note he clicked his pen again and tucked it away before examining the book in his hand. "She's clearly read this a lot, hasn't she?" he asked, taking in the foxing on the edges of the pages. The numerous creases in the spine.
"It's a favorite," Harry admitted.
"There weren't many copies produced in the first printing. I'm impressed to see one in the hands of a witch or wizard. I used a muggle printing company for this run before it was picked up by a proper publishing house."
The two continued to chat quietly before Leanne gave a subtle clearing of her throat. "It's best we let Mr. Dredstone get back to his busy day. And you can hurry along to develop those for tomorrow morning's run."
"Of course," Harry said as Mr. Dredstone gave a small nod of acknowledgment. Harry returned to his equipment, tucking the book back in amongst his cameras as he readied himself to go.
By the time he'd finished, and arranged with Leanne his usual fees and a time to trade the photos for his payment, Mr. Dredstone was already gone, off to his next engagement. When Harry had dropped his charms and glamours before leaving, the store owner stopped him. "Ah... Mr. Potter?"
He sighed, turned and went to the counter. "Who do I make it out to?" he asked as he took out a pen and didn't bother looking up, ready to sign yet another damned autograph. Three years after the bloody war and he was still accosted by fans and well-wishers wanting to thank him and get their five minutes piece of him.
"Well, uh... no. This... Mr. Dredstone asked me to pass this to the photographer," he said, glancing at Harry's equipment bags. This caused Harry to look up then, spotting three books on the counter. Two identical to the one in his bag, though in pristine condition. And the third was one of the copies that had been on the table that morning.
"Thanks? I guess?" he said, accepting the books without another glance. Maybe the man was just wanting to be nice and give Hermione a new copy since her old one was, well, nearly falling apart. He shrunk them down to put in his pocket, and decided to worry about it later. He had rolls of film to develop.