Horatia's P.O.V

It was different this time, there was no vineyard, no grand villa or white sun. In fact, there was hardly anything, just a lack, a disappointing remission of senses. No smell, no taste, no feel, just muted grey vapour. She was in between now, caught, not here, in the land of pain and fear, the real world, but neither fully there, in the clutches of peace and undying sunshine, the unnameable land of serenity. It felt like she was treading water, frozen in a moment of falling, foot still on the floor but balance shifting, seconds from jumping but just not quite there.

She wasn't alone.

In the endless fields of grey, no horizon, no sky or floor, just infinite grey, Albus Dumbledore was standing next to her, facing out into the vast nothingness with her. She didn't turn her head to face him, she didn't feel the need to, as she spoke to the fog.

"You took me from them."

It wasn't a question. There was no hesitation, no doubt. She may not have the quick, almost infallible memory of Hermione, nor did she have the pull of the gut instinct like Ron, but she had her own sort of wit. She knew people. She knew how they thought, how they would act. She knew Albus. She knew what she had saw, what she had witnessed. It wasn't hard to put the pieces together. The truth, however, still wounded.

She wasn't, and never had been, a Potter.

"I did what I thought I must do given the dire circumstances the wizarding world found itself in."

She only needed to know one thing.

"Why?"

There was no falling silence, no moment of misgiving or reluctance, as Albus answered her straight away.

"The real Horatia Potter died the night Voldemort attacked of fever. I used the time turner I would later gift your friend, Miss Granger, to try and right it, but nothing I did worked. No matter what, Horatia died. So I traced the bloodline. No relative, as far back as his line started, would not be missed from James Potter's lineage. However, Lily's line proved to be diverse. I was surprised to find a few wizards in her ancestry, though, none of those gentlemen would work, as it had already been recorded that her and James Potter's child was a girl. But then I found her, a witch, just one. A distant ancestral cousin. You. I went back, I took you, and I placed you in the crib that night to face your destiny. I always hoped you would find your way back to your home. I am glad you succeeded."

Horatia sighed.

"It wasn't my destiny, though, was it? You made it my destiny. You needed someone to fill in the role, to be your pawn, to play your game. I'm glad you succeeded."

She couldn't stop the venom from dripping, couldn't bite back the snarl. Control. She had never had control over her own life. Never. From birth to death, to death again, her life had been mapped out for her, planned, sequestered, taken and abused. Yet… Yet, could she really fault the man standing beside her? In the face of total damnation, destruction, the loss of her people, the good in them, the rise of someone like Tom Riddle to utter supremacy and domination, would she not go to the same lengths Albus had to stop the darkness? To save all and everything she loved? Yes, she would have. She would have sold her soul to the devil, if she had to. Perhaps she and Albus weren't so different after all. The thought made her feel a bit sick, truthfully. Dumbledore echoed her, sighing.

"No, not a pawn. Hope, Horatia. I, we, the wizarding world needed hope. Hope, Harry, hope is the way to win a war. With no hope, soldiers fall, heads roll and governments crumble. You brought the hope back."

Harry's hands clenched at her side. She may understand his reasoning, even emphasize with the monumental burden he had carried on his shoulders, leading him to take the actions that he had, and perhaps, in his shoes, she would have taken the same decisions. But she hadn't been in his shoes, she could reason only as much as her own painful experiences let her and empathy fell short when the one thing, the only damned thing, she had ever wanted, family, had been snatched from her for the greater good.

"And I am the only one to pay the price. You took me from my real family. Stripped me of any normal life I could have had. You plucked me from a home to-… To dye."

And that was it, wasn't it? The root of her pain? No, it wasn't death itself, she had long ago come not to fear that beast of blackened fur, but to be whittled down, carved, branded as a lamb for sacrifice, even before she could fully talk, left her feeling… Secular. Only good for one thing. Something that had outlived its purpose. Just a tool, not a human, not a person with thought or feelings of their own, not a girl, not a child or woman, but an instrument for others to use. A lifeless, cold, rudimentary utensil. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dumbledore turn to face her.

"I am dearly sorry you had to live through what you have, do not ever doubt that, but I am not sorry for what I did. Without you, without someone to play the part you did, the war would have been lost. Many more than what already have, would have fallen. The wizarding world would have shrivelled and died under Tom Riddle's shadow."

That was her life, wasn't it? Always about someone else. Tom, the Dursleys, Albus, Lily, James, the greater good, but never actually about her. She was just a background character to her own life.

"I sort of hate you."

She did, she really did, but not fully. Never fully. She could never bring herself to hatred entirely. She saw what hatred had done, saw what that emotion had twisted and wrought in the form of Tom Riddle and she never, ever, wanted anything to do with it. Furthermore, if this would have never happened, if she had never been abducted from the Borgia's, her family, plunked into a time not her own, a destiny not her own, a life not her own, she would have never met Hermione, never met Ron, Luna, Neville, Remus, Sirius, dear, beloved Sirius, and even if it was but for a brief time, they had made her life worth something fighting for, living for. She would go through what she had a thousand times, each more brutal, bloodier, if only to meet those people, love those people, again.

"I'm never going to see Hermione or Ron again, am I?"

She felt Albus's gentle hand on her shoulder more than she saw the movement. Oddly, she knew, even without her, Hermione and Ron would be okay. They would hurt and cry, but they would heal, they all would and, one day, they would laugh and dance and get on with their lives. They would be happy. One day, they would think of her and it would not bring grief or sorrow for a lost friend, but joy and mirth and that… That was all she wanted her memory to bring. Stranger still, she knew her time in that place, with them, was over. Finished. That book was being closed and really, she was okay with the final chapter.

"Perhaps in the afterlife. But you have a new adventure ahead of you now, a new book to open, Horatia."

Harry wanted to be happy too, more than anything, and here was her chance, right there, the one thing she's always wanted, thirsted for, pleaded for. Family. It was right there, at her fingertips, ready to be taken, seized, she just needed to reach out and…Then why did her hand hesitate when she stretched out to grab it?

"The wizarding world will be fine without you Harry. They will rebuild, live on and grow. Your family, however, need you. You need them too."

Harry swallowed hard.

"I-… I'm scared."

She was. Terrified really. What if they didn't like her? What if they grew to hate her like the Dursleys? What if, being from the past, they could not accept her as she was? Damned her for her magic? Cast her out for her differences? For, she would not, and could not, lie about what and who she was. Her life had been nothing but lies, hidden and erosive, and she would not bring that onto others, or herself, again.

No more lies.

Worst of all, what if having the promise of family right at her fingertips, she awoke to find it all but a dream, the fantasy of the desperate, one last wish she would never get to have? She wouldn't be able to take that pain. The hand on her shoulder moved, patting her reassuringly.

"There is only one happiness in this life, Harry. To love and be loved in return. They have missed you, dearly. You too, have missed them without ever fully realizing it. Do not turn your back on a chance to heal that wound, for you or for them, even in the face of your fear."

Harry turned to face Dumbledore for, what she knew, to be the last time. She may hate him, loath his choices, but he stuck to his decisions, painted himself as the villain if it meant saving his, their, people, and while he was willing to give others lives to the greater good, he held himself to the same standard. She could respect that, deeply. He was, after all, only human.

"Tell me one last thing."

Harry croaked. Family is all she has ever wanted, and if that prize requested a leap of faith, one last dash into the unknown, then she would freefall with a smile upon her face. Either she would awaken to Tom's victorious face scowling down upon her, or she would see the family she had been denied from the very beginning. It was one or the other. A fifty-fifty chance. For Harry, in her life, those were good odds indeed.

"Is this real? Or has this all been happening inside my head?"

Dumbledore's smile was fond, otherworldly and so kind as he winked at her from over his half-rimmed glasses. She would miss him, in an awful sort of way.

"Of course it is happening inside your head Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"

Then he was pushing her and she was falling.

Subiaco, Italy, April 1492.

Juan Borgia's P.O.V

She resembled a Grecian tableau, his sister, a woodland nymph reclining in eternal rest, Pan singing her to slumber with his flutes, as she laid still upon the large bed in a thin shift, thick sheets of linen tucked up to chest, pushed up against the open windows, morn sun kissing her pale skin with golden lips. She was a clash of colours then, after the ash, blood, grime and dust had been washed from skin and hair, rags stripped and burned in the hearth. Black so dark it seemed blue, draping over stark white pillows in lapping waves, skin so pale it was like fresh milk, dusky pink kindly coming back to hint at cheek and lip. The only colour missing from her pallet was the emerald green, though, Juan knew that colour was currently hiding behind closed lid.

The last eight hours had been a rush of frantic frenzy as a physician was hurried to her side to try and stem the bleeding and seal the wound slicing her abdomen, spilling her out like a dropped wine goblet. Juan, in honesty, couldn't recall much of those last hours. He only remembered movement, a whirl of mind and thought too fast to catch, following the physician and his fathers' orders as they called for more sheets, more heated wine, thread and all manner of things.

Yet, here they were, a lifetime of fear later, awaiting the doctor's verdict on Horatia's fate. His mother, Vannozza, had taken to pacing the length of wall, gaze flicking back and forth from limp body to window, riding a groove into the floorboards as she chewed upon thumb, fretted and sighed. His father, Rodrigo, sat in the seat closest to the large bed, chin resting on clenched hand, eyes far away, lost to thought or memory, as he fiddled with that strange stick, knobbly and thin, that Horatia had dropped.

Lucrezia stood at Cesare's side, by the door, wide-eyed and worriedly ringing her hands, bouncing from seat to window to Cesare's side in dizzying intervals, like a flightless bird caged. Cesare himself, stood still, statue-esque, his face an impressive blank slate of disciplined control. He didn't move, he didn't groan, he simply watched, unmoveable. Little Joffre had been sent away by maid and servant to his own chambers, away from the disheartening blood and limp body. And he, Juan, well, he was where he should be, sitting on the edge of the bed, as close to Horatia as he dared, staring down at the stranger who was so achingly familiar.

It was strange, so bizarre, that even after all these years, after baby fat had been shed, bones stretched and features personalised, that now he could still so very clearly see the babe he used to play with as a child himself. Would he recognize her on instinct come another fifty years? When she was wrinkled and grey? When her eyes had lost the sparkle of youth? If Cesare or Lucrezia or Joffre were the one to be abducted, should they have come back, would he have been able to recognize them as easily as he had Horatia? There were no answers to be found, just that stretch of tender awareness piercing his chest, but he didn't think so.

Oh, he loved his family, he truly did, but that barren coldness, that feeling of being an outsider, had always permeated his mind. Even from birth, Lucrezia had been the apple of his mother and fathers' eye. She would smile and ask, and they would bow and bend, no matter how jovial or menial her request was. She would always follow Cesare everywhere, hanging onto breech or skirt, listening, joyful. He loved his sister, dearly, but he was never the one she went to, the one she ran to, that role had been taken by Cesare, and perhaps that was what had caused that tiny splinter in their relationship. Mayhap in all his relationships.

He could never live up to Cesare.

Cesare, despite his brothers own misgivings, was his fathers' favourite, no matter how Juan taunted him at times when bitterness clogged his throat. His father had chosen him for the church, to follow in his own footsteps, to become the holy progeny. His father saw himself in Cesare, and when he looked upon Juan, he knew, just knew, Rodrigo saw something lacking, just short in reaching his father's immense shadow.

Vannozza doted on Lucrezia and Cesare, and Joffre, since his birth, was never far from mothers' skirts. In the end, it left Juan with the sour taste of simply not belonging, not needed, an interloper. But that hadn't always been the truth. There was a time once, long ago, when someone had wanted him, needed him, looked to him.

Horatia.

Juan was the first person she had ever let hold her without bawling her eyes out. He was the one to get her to laugh and babble and play. He was the one mother would hand Horatia over to when she needed to be quietened, soothed and calmed. Not father. Not Cesare. Him. No one could take that from him, claim his achievement, deny him this one truth. For once, just once, he had been chosen above someone else, and not simply because that someone was unattainable.

"How is her health?"

Vannozza asked as soon as the physician pulled away from Horatia's lifeless figure, the subtle rise and fall of her chest under bed sheet the only sign of continued life. Juan's gaze flickered to the robed physician before skittering back to Horatia, half impatient for the answer, half hesitant.

"The wound was intensive, but clean and clear. I have done all I can, rest and gods prayer will have to do what I cannot. However, the bleeding has stopped, colour is returning to her cheeks and her fever has broken. All good signs, my lady."

Vannozza stumbled to the free chair Lucrezia had vacated, sagging into it with a puff of dark crimson velvet skirts and shaking hands. Lucrezia leaned upon the wall by the window, looking up to the ceiling, almost in reverent thanks to the sky. Cesare, his normally composed brother, sighed as he seemingly danced upon the spot, unsure of his footing, whether to sit, turn around or sag. Even Juan could feel his own muscles loosen, unaware they had ever been tight and locked in the first place. Rodrigo, his father, placed elbow on knee as he leant forward, tapping that strange stick across his leg, turning it around and around and around, as he spoke.

"What more can you tell us doctor?"

The physician coughed into his fist, clearing his throat, as he delved into a tirade so cold, so detached, so clinical, that it made Juan irrationally angry, a hot poker in the lungs, a twist to his intestines. How could he speak so unemotionally as he was, when the topic was so… Intimate? It was their sister, their child, Horatia, he was speaking of, not some dissected pig on a cold slab in an auditorium.

"The scar on her forehead is old, healed, inflicted upon her in early childhood, perhaps infancy I would hazard a guess. It's position, depth of the scar and paleness lead me to believe it was a killing blow she survived. She has a few other scars of interest. One on her right forearm, a bite of some kind, large with prominent fangs. I believe it to be reptilian, or more succinctly, snake. However, the most interesting scar, in my opinion, happens to be on her left hand…"

The doctor, almost too keen in his need to show his findings, scuttled over to the bedside near Rodrigo, plucking up her resting hand to hold to view, and Juan bit his tongue. His English was not the best, nor did he particularly want it to be, French had more practical uses, but he knew English when he saw it. However, still, even in the face of this, his first reaction was to deny what he could clearly see with his own eyes, even when the doctor went on to confirm what he saw.

"It is written in a form of English, the spelling a little peculiar, but there is no doubt it is English. I must not tell lies. A brand of some sort? Punishment? Either way, it was inflicted by an outsider and not herself, as her callouses prove she is left handed. Furthermore, I believe Horatia here has been, and likely kept, in England for these many years."

Father had no quarrels with any Englishman. Why would they take her? Why would they brand and scar and try to kill her and… Nothing made sense. Before Juan, in an act not fully thought of, could reach over and take Horatia's hand away from the doctor, away from his gleaming eyes and sharp, uncaring tongue, his mother was speaking up behind him.

"Is she… Is she… Intact?"

Once again, confusion blanketed him before the biting pinch of realisation settled over his features, constricting, thinning. There had been an hour, right after the wound had been sown shut, that he, Cesare and Rodrigo had been ushered out of the room, pushed into the hallway like errant hounds, for Lucrezia, mother and the physician could clean and re-dress Horatia. Perhaps naively, Juan had thought that was all that had taken place, not that the doctor had conducted more… Invasive examinations.

In point of fact, the possibility that Horatia, his little sister, could have been taken for-… For-… for such a thing, to be used in such a base manner, defiled and raped, had never once crossed his mind, but now that the seed of that idea had been planted, he could feel it's oily, horrid buds unfurling. Thankfully, the physician came and cut that tree down before it could fully grow in its most grotesque manner.

"Perfectly intact. She has not been bedded by consent or force."

You could taste the relief in the air, sweet, light and lingering. Rodrigo sighed as he stood from his chair, clapping his hands together and rubbing palm against palm.

"That will be all doctor."

The doctor gave a severe nod, picked up his bag and put his big book of remedies underneath his arm.

"I shall be back tomorrow morn for a check up, if that pleases you Cardinal?"

Rodrigo nodded and waved his hand in dismissal as the physician gave one last bow before swinging out of the chambers. As soon as the bulky, oaken door clanked shut, Rodrigo was addressing them all.

"She is here, in relatively good health, alive. That is all that matters."

Juan turned back to Horatia, but he knew what was coming, even before the footsteps of his brother stalking closer rang out. Cesare was always planning, scheming, could never leave the puzzle alone, could never just rest, for one moment. He just couldn't help himself.

"If the English did abduct her, they could try and strike again. We need to know if-"

For being a man of the cloth, Cesare's mind was most often on war and battle. Juan, while understanding Cesare's stand point, for he too would like answers, knew when and where to take his respite, to enjoy an instant, without being concerned of tomorrow. Could they not be simply glad, for such a little time, for their sisters return without darkening it with blood and vendetta's? However, despite Cesare's impassioned reasoning, Rodrigo would not be budged on this.

"Then they will fail. Your sister is in no condition to be questioned, neither should she be! Look at her, truly look at her, does she look like she has had an easy life? No? She will come to us with her tale when she is ready. No sooner, no later, mayhap never."

Juan glanced over his shoulder, back at Cesare, and watched. Only Juan saw the defiant sharpening of the shoulders, the clench and release of his jaw as he fought back a retort, the flex of his fingers at his side, before he eventually sequestered to their fathers wishes and glanced down to the venetian rug. Perhaps Cesare did know when and where to pick his battles after all.

"I only wished to protect her from any further attack."

As always, his father smiled at Cesare and patted his cheek lovingly. Was Cesare correct? Could Horatia be a target to further attacks? No. Juan would not venture down that road this day. This day he would find joy in her return, not dismay. Rodrigo, for once, was in the same mind of Juan rather than Cesare. Today really was the day of oddities for the Borgia's.

"I know son, but we are Borgia, and Borgia's stick together. She needs a warm, welcoming family more than an inquisition right now, and that is exactly what we are going to give her. Aren't we?"

Lucrezia was the one to answer Rodrigo, all angelic smiles and exuberant enthusiasm.

"Of course, father."

However, what came next was pure accusation.

"You know."

Juan's gaze skidded to his mother, Vannozza, as too did Cesare's and Lucrezia's, as the normally calm, gentle mannered and affable woman turned dark, features shrill and livid. She jolted from her chair, a flare of force, stalking forward as Rodrigo took a precautionary step backward.

"Vannozza, my love, not here and not now."

Juan had never seen his mother this way, this twisted, this thrown to anger, as she crashed against Rodrigo, hands balled, as she wailed upon him, thumping his chest and arms, anything she could reach, with her tiny, delicate hands. Juan pushed himself up the bed, closer to Horatia, as if he could protect her unaware slumbering form should any undeserved, errant attention come their way. Lucrezia gave a short, surprised cry as she pushed herself back into the wall behind her, away from the scorching wrath of their mother. Rodrigo managed to just grasp onto Vannozza's arms, at the wrists, to stop the onslaught as Cesare dipped in, wrapping a stiff arm around their mother's waist, trying to pull her away from their flustered father, but she would not be diverged from her blistering fury.

"Not now? Not now! When? How long have you known? Where has she been Rodrigo? Where has she been!"

Juan's fist clenched into the bed sheet underneath him. Surely their father had not known? Juan, dazedly, remembered his parents searching, the letters they would send out, the sound of his mother crying behind closed doors when she thought no one could hear her. If father had of known, why would he do so? Why would he let it continue?

"Stop this foolishness! I have been as ignorant of her location as you have."

Rodrigo said but it was not enough, not nearly enough, to slice through the spinning distraught his mother had been imbibed with.

"No! I know you Rodrigo Borgia, I know you better than you know yourself, and you would not let this go so easily if you did not know already! How long have you known?"

Cesare succeeded in getting the irate Vannozza away a step or two, but no further as she wiggled and jerked herself around.

"Believe me, my love, I swear I have been as in the dark as you for all these years… Until I saw her drop this…"

Rodrigo held out the stick, the strange twig, long, with little balls and knobs jutting out from its skinny body. It reminded Juan of the tree, the one at the very edge of their vine groves in Subiaco, with little white flowers blooming. The tree he, Cesare, Lucrezia and Horatia would play below, under the watchful eye of their mother. The elder tree his father refused to cut down, even if it did strangle their grape vines within ten feet of it. At the presentation of the twig, Vannozza grew as befuddled as Juan had.

"A stick? What has a stick got to do with-… Pedro."

Vannozza stopped her struggling, her jerks and kicks and all anger, that dark cloud that blackened her face, lifted as something profound clicked into place. Rodrigo smiled at her as he lowered his hand, though most gazes in the room still drifted to the bizarre stick.

"You remember my cousin then?"

Slowly, knowing the anger had washed away, Cesare released their mother from his lenient grip. Gradually, Vannozza made her way over to Rodrigo, lifted her own hand, as if to grab the stick, before the limb fell back down with a swing, unsure whether she wanted to follow through with the action or not.

"It seems almost impossible to forget a man such as he… Do you think she is like him?"

Rodrigo shrugged.

"How could I not? She comes baring the same wan-… This. It cannot be a coincidence."

Juan frowned as he mentally tried to recall anything, something, that would make sense of this conversation and its abruptly inexplicable turn. He remembered Pedro, his fathers cousin, vaguely. He was a joyful man, always smiling, laughing… A lot like Horatia, in truth. However, from what he remembered, Pedro Borgia died when they were still young, before Lucrezia's and Horatia's birth. No… Yes, it had something to do with a fight, he believed… Or a duel, a contest that had broken out in a tavern on a dusky night, over a this or that belonging… A theft? Yes, Pedro was murdered when the assailant thieved something from him.

"This… This changes everything."

Vannozza muttered, almost reverently, as she stared bottomlessly at the twig. Juan could keep quiet no longer. If this… Stick had something to do with Pedro, if Horatia was carrying the same stick, if one had died and the other was abducted, stabbed, nearly murdered to, what did that mean for Horatia now?

"I do not understand father. What is the relation between Pedro, the English and Horatia's abduction? Did they play a part in his death to?"

Vannozza is the one to answer him.

"Your sister is special. Very special… Gifted."

Gifted? That word, so genial, benevolent, really, in most everyday use, became something dreadful to Juan then. There was a humbleness to his mother's voice, dusted with awe but there, in the curl of her vowels, there was a pit of fear too. It was that fear that quickened his heartbeat to pounding levels. Was Horatia safe? Would she be attacked again? Before Juan could voice any of his concerns, his father was intervening, addressing them all with a sweeping scan of the room before his sight dropped and sealed onto a still slumbering Horatia.

"By the divine itself. Such gifts are often attached to not so sympathetic reactions. Those of jealousy, fear and unease. That is why this-"

Once again, Rodrigo was holding out the stick, voicelessly ordering them to look at it, recognise it, absorb his words.

"Will not be spoken of outside this family. No matter what you witness or hear, none of it, and I mean none of it, will be spoken of outside this family to anybody. Do I make myself clear?"

Lucrezia's voice was cautious, fearful, as she drew herself away from the wall she had backed into, hands bunched into her skirts as she sidled up to their father, doe-eyed and flushed.

"Will they hurt her if they, other people, find out about these gifts?"

Rodrigo's stern face crumbled as his hand fell to his side, point now made, as he wrapped an arm around Lucrezia's shoulders, tugging her into a warm embrace to his chest.

"Oh, little dove, come here. No, no. We won't let them."

Lucrezia smiled dotingly as she hugged him back, reassured by their fathers placating tone, where their older brother, Cesare, only became more intrigued by this whole ordeal.

"These gifts, they are not… Ordinary, are they? She is not just merely good at her numbers, or languages, or sowing-"

Juan cut him off.

"Does it matter? She's our sister. Gifts or no gifts, she has returned."

Cesare slashed him an inquisitive look, one, for reasons unknown to Juan, he had to look away from. It felt intrusive, too heavy. Still, from the corner of his eye, he saw Cesare grin and nod.

"Alone, we are strong. Together, we are stronger. Isn't that what you so often tell us, father?"

Rodrigo unwound an arm from Lucrezia to slap Cesare on the shoulder as the older man chuckled indulgently, deeply. Cesare too, pulled their mother to his side, to hug her with one arm as she smiled up at him. The image was bittersweet for Juan.

"Exactly, my son! And now more than ever!"

Finally finding it in his will power, Juan heaved himself up from the base of the bed, tottering over to the table near the door, where the wine and goblets were kept, to pour himself, in his own mind, a well-deserved drink. It didn't pass his notice, as it never did, that his mother, father, Lucrezia and Cesare formed a tight circle, condensed together in their happiness, huddled and he, the ever intruder, cast to the corner of the room, looking in.

An eternity passed as hush lapsed upon them, as one drink became two, and then a third. It seemed they had all been put in purgatory, unsure, unsteady on what to say or do now that the physician was gone. Cesare, Lucrezia, Vannozza and Rodrigo found comfort in their close proximity, Juan found an imitation, cheap and disdainful, in the bottom of his goblet. The wine tasted vile in that moment.

And then, there it was. Just a shuffle, a ruffle of sheet sweeping sheet, but it came. A voice, dulcet, broken, croaky and dry but utterly resplendent in its own confused but almost tenderly desperate calling of a singular name.

"Juan? Juan?"

His cup fell to the table as he dropped it into place, careless and rushed, as he twisted around. Horatia, with her eyes so foggy, blinking swiftly, was trying to heave herself up onto her elbows, grimacing deeply from the pain clearly emanating from her stomach, but still trying to search the bright, sunlight filled room. His name… She was calling for him, her first thought was of him, in her moment of confusion, pain and dislodgement, it was him she was appealing for. Him.

Before anyone else could move or intervene, almost mindless himself, Juan was at the bedside, by her hip, slipping down upon knees so he could be eye level. Her arms were trembling cruelly from the effort to hold herself up, and so, he went to grab her biceps, to ease the stress and strain, to take the weight, and he felt her jolt as she reached up to grapple onto his own arms, those unfocused eyes beginning to clear, as they drifted and fastened upon his own.

"Juan?"

She smiled then, all tooth and dimple and it was so vivacious, so spirited, it was almost blinding in its extraordinarily glorious exquisiteness. On instinct, he found himself mirroring her smile, as if they were just reflections bouncing off one another, one being, definite. Nevertheless, that sweet, sweet moment was broken when her significant eyes grew wet, her lip, in the very far corner, quaking, her nostrils quivering as they flared to suck in a jagged breath and her hands, clutching at the velvet of his doublet, began to shake like a grand castle crumbling.

"I thought I dreamt it all."

Heedful of her Stomach, Juan eased himself closer, onto the edge of the bed, folding her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her shaking form as tears started to fall. Her own arms automatically braced around him, one digging into his back, persistent, the other wrapping into the locks at the base of his neck, tight, scared, fearful as if she was terrified that should she let go, him, this, all this, would float away like an afternoon cloud. Juan ran a hand, gentle, through her curly hair as he murmured fondly to her, as he once did, long ago, when she was a babe.

"It isn't a dream. I'm here. I've got you."

She sobbed harder.

WOO OR BOO?

A quick question:

1. Whose P.O.V do you want to see next? The choices are Rodrigo, Lucrezia or Cesare (as we've already seen Vannozza's, Horatia's and Juan's, and I thought it might be fun to dabble into someone else next.)

ON UPDATES: I'm currently bogged down with heavy university coursework, but I'm trying to publish at least on chapter a week. I'm going to aim for Wednesday's, but if that fails, the update should (fingers crossed) come on a Friday.

All spelling, grammar and mistakes in general, are all mine. I have no beta-reader, and, well, most of this is written on the train at half-six in the morning while I commute to Uni, so most of it is coffee driven, so one or two mistakes are bound to pop up here and there. I do proof read, grammar check and spell check, but I'm sure one or two slip through. I hope this doesn't bother many people.

NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER:

1. The Borgia family was renowned for their ambition for power. This, of course, made me think of the Elder wand. When I came up with the idea to mix a magical line, Lily Evan's to be exact, into the Borgia family, I knew I wanted to have hints already present before Horatia, so she didn't just spring up from nothing, and so, I came up with Pedro (Although, Rodrigo, in real life, did have a cousin that was called Pedro who died in his early years, mid-twenties I believe.). Having Pedro in command of the Elder wand at some stage of his life, likely due to that thirst for power most Borgia's show, the wand plucked by death from the very tree I mentioned in this chapter that grows at the edge of their vine-grove estate, seemed to fit poetically for Horatia's story. The Elder wand, like Horatia, ventured out into the unknown, faced death, fear and war, only to end up right back where they were birthed. Ironic, and a little bit sad too, which I thought fit perfectly with the tone I wanted in this chapter.

2. I know Cesare seems a bit... Cold, this chapter, a bit cautious, questioning, and detached, but I really wanted to add that in as this chapter is, after-all, told through Juan's eyes, so it isn't exactly none biased. He sees Cesare as the overbearing, stern, always questioning older brother, and so, that is all he sees (At the moment). I also see Cesare as the most guarded Borgia. He's good at masking his own emotions, disciplining them into submission, hiding his true thoughts and intentions and, that too, I wanted to be written in. So, when we do get to his P.O.V, it will really feel as if we're looking through his eyes instead of another interpretation of Juan's thoughts.

3. The myth Juan thinks of when he is first looking at Horatia, of Pan and a woodland nymph, was quite appropriate, I thought, and underlies the oncoming inappropriate feelings. (I.e... Incest XD). The myth goes, (the version I have read, at any rate. For there are many versions) very simply, that Pan, the maker of panic, trickery (a nod at magic in this fic) and wilderness (I think both Horatia and Juan can be classed as wild), ran across a woodland nymph. He soon became infatuated (as all Greek gods do lol), and chased after her. She, thinking it was a game, ran away. A game of catch me if you can ensued. However, she was good at hiding (hinting at Horatia's own disappearance), but the memory of her kept Pan chasing for years. (How Juan still thought of Horatia and their bond throughout the years.) Eventually, her woodland nymph sisters grew jealous of her attention from a god, and turned her into reeds. Pan searched high and low, but never found her. Eventually, he did find the reeds, and hearing the wind blow through them, he heard his lovers voice once more and cut them free, tying them together so he could play them, thus creating his iconic pan flute, so he could cherish her voice for eternity. (underlying Juan's reaction to hearing Horatia calling his name first, after awakening). Not only did I think this, in a rather subtle way, pins what's really going on, but I will probably be adding more Grecian and Roman myths to this story as the renaissance, which is where this is set, was the revival of Grecian and roman myths, literature, art and architecture in Italy. Plus, who doesn't like playing around with mythology? No? Just me?

A MASSIVE THANK YOU TO EVERYONE! Silent readers, followers, favourite-ers, reviewers, if I could, I would all give you a hug, but I'm afraid my thanks will have to do.

As always, please drop a review if you have a moment, they keep the muses chattering.