The Length and Breadth of Skyrim: A Witch's Tale

by Baked The Author

Cast into an unfamiliar world, with only the memories of her spells and best friend, can Hermione beat the odds and find a way home? AU on both sides of the fence.

14. Chapter 12: The Betrayed Part 2

In case it isn't clear, I don't own anything I write about, other than the plot and OCs.

Super-sized chapter to make up for the long wait! Enjoy!

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Chapter 12
The Betrayed Part 2:
Darkfall
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20th Second Seed, 4E201
Darkfall Passage, Chantry of Auri-El
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Despite the shimmering, warm light on the edges of the portal, there was no feeling of resistance when I moved through it; it was no different than stepping into another room, though the action left a slight bit of warmth in my body, which, I found, would linger in my bones as long as I lived.

On the other hand, the smell awaiting me was, unfortunately, dreadfully familiar.

As was the waxy figure dressed in black chitin, taking a crap not three feet in front of me.

It barely had a chance to be surprised by our sudden appearance before I buried my right gauntlet in its face, Scales following up with a goring charge. The wayward Falmer's life ended with a soft crunch against the wall; I was already moving forward.

Too dark, barely able to see, I whispered, "Lass Yah!" One contact, looks like another Falmer, about forty feet away; nearer to me, some type of tube-like flower grew out of a craggy rock, giving off a soft pink glow that barely illuminated the winding passage. On the ceiling, the same blue-gold glittering crystals I'd seen in Blackreach provided just enough light to see the black-grey-striped shape of Scales lurking near the cavern's entrance and the broken archway I'd just come through.

Which disgorged, in order, Farkas, Serana and Drevas, all of them tense and moving carefully with weapons drawn; my mentor used Aura Whisper almost immediately upon arrival, eyes whipping to the same pink cloud I'd seen before searching for other threats.

Staring down that dark tunnel while my companions readied themselves for this gauntlet, I mentally refreshed myself on the Falmer's capabilities, both from memory and subsequent studies in Breezehome, 'Acute hearing bordering on echolocation, allowing them to use archery and ranged magic with unnerving accuracy; can use tools, and therefore are skilled with weapons, strong enough to give most opponents trouble; not very dangerous individually, do not get swarmed… unless your armor can handle their (usually) chitin weapons and armor, which mine should be able to… still, don't take the chance; excellent sense of smell and direction; shamans are, usually, magically adept, deal with these before engaging large groups.'

To say nothing of the Chaurus, enormous insectoid horrors that, unlike Hagravens, aren't something discussed in polite society, mainly due to how terrifying they can be for children or those of weak constitution; ranging in size from a small dog to as large as a daedroth, the multitudinous stories and official reports Master Drevas has collected on these creatures, while differing in tone and verse, all agree on one thing: barring the Falmer who raise them, they are too dangerous to either tame or capture, kill on sight.

I had no problem with that.

Still, I wasn't about to go into this without being able to see, and even with the Night Eye spell, the cavern was dark as Vaermina's basement. Luckily for me, I had Kresh.

'Kresh. Can you help me see in the dark?'

Yes, mistress, but I won't be able to otherwise assist you in battle if I do.

'I'll take that chance.'

That cool, furry feeling rippled up my body again, like during the dragon fight, and the world around me became lit as though it were a sunny, foggy day. At least I could see now; the tunnel I was looking at curved right after about twenty feet, and then we'd run into the aforementioned Falmer… which, if the pink clouds were correct, was now scratching its ass.

Readying Stormbringer and glancing at Scales, I began making my way carefully forward, trying not to think about the smell of this place.

Shit, piss, blood, mold, and… that musky scent was familiar, though only recently so. I didn't want to think about what it entailed.

Drevas, however, spoke up, his quiet rasp not carrying beyond our party and confirming my thoughts, "Figures that portal would lead us right into the breeding hive," I fought down a shiver of revulsion as he continued, "Be ready for a fight. Once they figure out we're here, they're going to fall on us like an avalanche."

Splendid. The second Falmer died silently, to Scales once again, and we continued through the musty, dark, twisting cavern. Drevas and I used Aura Whisper every once in a while, but there weren't many of the buggers about, only lone lookouts that were dealt with easily…

Not until we made it to the first chamber of this place, nearly an hour in, where the Falmer were keeping a goodly number of their Chaurus.

That, and the resident shaman, on the other side of the domed cave, let out a shriek of warning as soon as Scales got near the entryway.

I paid her back with a bolt of fiery lightning in the face, courtesy Stormbringer. Then a bug the size of Scales spat a stream of acid at me.

Between Kresh and my field experience, it wasn't hard to dodge, and Scales was already leaping into the pit the bugs were ushering from like a black chittering tide, chitin and insectoid viscera flying through the air as the clannfear merrily worked through their numbers; Stormbringer's rapid fire took out their first line before Farkas let out a roar and leapt at the critters, Dwemer greatsword cleaving through them easily, my Nord friend deftly avoiding claws and streams of acid.

'He's clearly done this before,' I thought, turning my attention back to the Falmer as an arrow missed my face by inches.

In the corner of my eye, a Falmer that was about to shoot me took a black-feathered arrow to the face, one of its guards dying similarly before Drevas rushed forward, mace drawn to meet them. Another Falmer, in heavy armor running at my left, was bisected by a red ribbon, Ana stepping up herself. I claimed another kill, one that was dragging a steel greatsword toward Farkas-

SKREEEEEEEEEEE!

-and a Gods-awful scream echoed from all around us, seeming to come from everywhere! It echoed in my ears long after it went silent, but there was no mistaking the cry's purpose.

A signal, an alarm that intruders were afoot, a call to arms…

'Shite…'

Out of a hole, high up on the wall to my right, three more Falmer leapt forth, one of them letting loose with a fireball that missed Scales by inches; this was repeated in three other barely-seen holes around the chamber, the blind creatures rushing us from all sides!

The little fuckers ambushed us!

Spinning around, I take out two before the third leaps at me, swinging its sword with a hateful hiss; I leap away as the sound of Starfall shattering its enemies rings out, deftly holstering my crossbow and drawing the White Fang for the first time.

It sings in my hands, the magic of the deadly spear feeling less like a weapon and more like a musical instrument; not delicate, never that, but with twanging 'strings' running beneath the crisscrossing ebony grips, calling out to me, the Fang singing happily at being wielded by one worthy of its might.

Now wasn't the time to think on how I knew such things; besides, it was a Daedric Artifact. That I was getting such a feeling from it wasn't all that surprising, on the whole.

A tickle at the back of my mind signals Kresh lending me his knowledge of how the Fang should be wielded, the Alpha of the Wild Hunt speaking calm encouragement into my mind:

The Wild Anthem, mistress, is in your heart and magic, and the White Fang is your instrument. Play.

So knowing, I start calling on my magic and plucking the 'strings' inside the Fang as my opponent lunges at me, leading with its shield and screaming like a banshee.

A faint line, grey in the yellow mist of Kresh's night-vision, appears in my sight, the Fang seeming to want to move toward the line with a clarion trill of magic that touches my soul, spurning me towards haste.

I oblige.

The chitin shield parts like paper in the Fang's wake, along with its victim's arm; screaming with pain and fury, the creature stabs wildly at me.

Still plucking the 'strings' with a rhythm that sings a song of valor and glory in my heart, I deftly dance around and past the Falmer and meet three more, one aiming an arrow at my face; I duck and stab blindly backwards, almost kneeling as the arrow flies an inch over my head and buries itself in my first opponent's throat as the Fang's blade pieces it's heart, before lunging in counter to the charging creatures.

Line, slash; two steps left, one forward, stab low, slash upward; right one step, forward dash, and swipe.

I twirl as the song reaches a victorious crescendo, smiling at the warm, free feeling in my soul, all three Falmer crumpling to the ground in my wake, but a slight discordant note makes itself known, urging me to swift action…

Again blindly, I hurl the Fang at the source of discord at the end of my twirl; a heavily armored Falmer, armed with a crackling Daedric shortsword, gets the spear in the chest before it can sneak up on my Ana… who turns away from where she'd been admiring me to see the fiend, her awe turning to shock.

The song ends, as does the fight, with a distant KREEEEE and the sound of the other Falmer retreating; a check with Aura Whisper confirms this.

"Damn, Hermione," grins Farkas from where he's stood over the gutted remains of what looks like the bastard mix of a dragonfly, wasp and praying mantis, "I knew you were good with a javelin, but shit, that was smooth."

I blink as the soothing feeling of the Fang's song starts fading, resulting in a feeling of… fear, and want. Reaching out with my hand and magic, I whistle and pluck those wanting strings…

Ching. And, with a grey flash, it's in my hand again! Wow!

Out loud, I comment with a grin of my own, "This. Spear. Is. Awesome!" I toss it into the air, letting it spin and feeling a joyful trill leave its haft to warm my bones, before I catch and sheathe it with a single motion, calling over to my girlfriend and lover, "Ana! Are all Daedric weapons like this?!"

"Oh, sure, ignore your well-travelled mentor who happens to be an expert on the Daedra," drawled Drevas before Serana could answer, "To answer your question: it depends on the maker. The Spear of Bitter Mercy could return to the wielder in the same way the Fang just did, so it's probably Hircine's doing…" he trailed off, glancing at me with a suspicious frown, "I have to ask, though: is Kresh guiding your movements? You were fluid like water, just now." Serana blushed a little behind her helm; oh, so that's why she was watching me!

The Alpha of the Wild Hunt spoke up then, happily, excited even! Tell the Dunmer that I am not, mistress! The White Fang is but the instrument; you are the conductor, and those who were Most Favored before you are the sheet music, the Wild Anthem!

As much as I love magic, sometimes it gets weird; this was one of those times. "Uh…" I haltingly explained that to my companions, but it was Serana who seemed to understand the best.

Seeing as she simplified Kresh's fanaticism, "Oh, so the weapon is a conduit to the Hunting Grounds… and probably the Vales of Twilight, given that it was also forged by Azura… so those they've Favored in the past assist the current wielder in battle. That's… quite the amazing item!" she smiled at me as we moved to the exit tunnel, "No wonder the Snow Elves revered it so; they must've thought the spirits of the former Knight-Commanders lived on in those blue runes."

True enough, the tiny runes on the Fang's black-banded grip seemed to be glowing a little brighter than before; I smiled myself, still on a bit of a high from the wonderful feeling that had flowed through me! With something like this at my side, clearing these caves shouldn't take too long!

But… Kresh said it was in my heart. Did that mean the souls of those Most Favored, who came before me, were connected to me? Was it through Kresh, or my title? Or was it some trick of Oblivion's nature?

Goodness, that was a little heavy, and we were only just getting started! 'I'd better wait till we can catch a long break, so I can question Kresh and examine this connection in full!'

My mentor reflected my thoughts "Discussions on the amazingness of that spear aside," his face was grim, Starfall's haft creaking as Drevas' grip tightened, "The Falmer have fallen back and set up regular ambushes; the cavern seems to be irregular from here on, so footing will be treacherous, and, as this is the Falmer we're up against, there'll be traps aplenty… I'm taking point, now; given how heavily armored I am, these buggers'll be more annoyance for me than anything. Scales," the clannfear chirped questioningly, "Rearguard; make sure none sneak up on us, kill any we miss. Everyone, scarves up; they might've put down poison clouds. Wouldn't be the first time I've run into such a measure," I pulled mine up from my collar, the rotting smell of the place instantly cut off by the 'fresh air' enchantment on the fabric, "From here until the next chamber, just kill anything that looks unfriendly."

Farkas cleared his throat pointedly, raising an eyebrow at the heavily armored Dunmer.

Which made my Ana and I share a giggle and Master Drevas roll his eyes with a humored sigh, "That isn't me, if you please," then he drew a glass boot dagger, eyes becoming dark red; I felt a pulse of magic ripple outward from his body before he spoke again, voice like steel on stone, "Let's go."

. . . . .

The next three hours of my life were lost in the blur of terrifying, desperate fighting through that twisting cavern; the Falmer sprang from their hidey-holes whenever we got close before rushing us blindly. Chaurus, both the ground-bound variety and their horrific second iterations that fucking fly, seemed to just pop out of the floor and the walls, always coming at our flanks, the horde we were walking into trying its level-best to slaughter us at every turn.

In fact, if it wasn't for our preparations and Master Drevas, I doubt we would've made the second chamber.

I quickly discovered, in the first minutes, that using Stormbringer was just a bad idea; there wasn't enough space to use any of its settings effectively, and the Falmer were falling on us with enough regularity to render ranged weapons inert.

Not that I was complaining, because the White Fang was one incredible weapon! So long as I infused my magic with my intentions (in this case, kill all the Falmer, protect my Ana, take no prisoners) the Fang was happy to dance to my tune, making my body tingle in this way to adjust my grip on it, or in that way to swerve around a blow.

But it wasn't perfect; no weapon is truly perfect, after all. If there was a perfect weapon for every situation, the Oblivion Crisis would've been extremely brief, the Legion tearing Mankar the Wanker (as history remembered him) apart before he could even open one Gate to the Deadlands.

Arrows rang off my armor, mace swings digging small gouges whenever they got close enough, my chainmail becoming dirty with blood and grime from my victims as their bodies fell against mine. Footing was indeed treacherous, more from the rivers of spilt blood and organs left in our wake than the rocky terrain, though the latter certainly didn't help. I must've stubbed my toe on every rock in the cave, going forward!

Still, I danced with my Ana and Farkas, Serana's blood ribbons streaming around the party to tear into any Falmer that got too close, my spear and Farkas' sword darting out and around, felling our opponents even as the fiends occasionally scored a hit or two. By the end of that terrible gauntlet, which saw the liberal use of fire to destroy dozens of Chaurus egg sacs and more than a few Reductors thrown into their ambush holes, my body felt like one giant bruise, even with the occasional healing spell, and both my Ana and Farkas looked similar: dinged up and pissed off that our nice clean armor was now covered with Chaurus bits and Falmer blood!

But Drevas didn't dance with us; no, my mentor, the Dragonborn, moved ahead of us, making himself a target for the brunt of the Falmer's assaults while Scales moved in the shadows behind us, making sure we weren't followed and that our victims stayed down. He danced to his own tune, a terrifying display of the raw power and experience he held, every move precise and deadly.

Like some terrible god of war, the ebony-clad Dunmer waded through the Falmer like he'd been born to it, Starfall shattering bodies, armor and weapons alike, the dreadful black hammer leaving streaks of blood and flames in its wake as my mentor swung it again and again; at one point, a Thunderbolt hit Drevas in center-mass, but it didn't even slow him, his Masterwork armor absorbing the magic. He just slashed the air with his boot knife, a ribbon of molten malachite whipping through the air and cutting deep into the brains of the shaman that dared attack him. When the knife was, eventually, spent, he buried the pommel into a Chaurus Hunter (the flying terrors) that'd tried to creep up on him through one of the many cracks in the cave wall, before drawing another dagger and roaring his challenge to the fiendish creatures assailing us:

"C'MON THEN, YOU HALFLING S'WITS! BOETHIAH'S PROVEN HAS FOUND YOU! COME AND BLEED FOR THE GOD-ANCESTOR!"

Fuck, but Drevas is scary sometimes. I didn't comment on his behavior, though, partly because I'm not one to judge (Hircine's Most Favored and all), partly because I knew he was just doing that to draw the Falmer's attention, but mainly because I was fighting for my life!

Hundreds of Falmer must've died in those hours; by the time we reached the final, uphill approach ('May the Nine damn these fuckers to the Abyss!' I thought while Shielding the party from a shower of large stones), the scents of death were heavy on us all, even our scarves overcome by the sheer volume of bodily fluids caking our persons.

Near my entire body was slathered in blood and worse, and my companions were no better; but the Falmer were hanging back, around the next bend, at the top of a steep incline twenty feet away and up, so we took the breather for what it was, Scales standing guard and taking a piss on the wall near the bend.

The resultant furious screeching from above us told me our… hosts didn't much appreciate that.

"Whew!" laughed Drevas, unslinging his Toolbox and laying it in a relatively dry spot, "Gelebor wasn't kidding, there's a lot of these fetchers about. More than last time I ran into a breeding hive. Oh, thanks Hermione," he added when I cleaned his armor off with a wave of my wand.

Gulping down a few breaths, I pointed out, "He… said a few thousand… we must've made quite the dent, just now." Farkas nodded, but his eyes looked unsure.

My mentor shook his head, red eyes narrowing as he removed green bottles from the Toolbox, passing one to each of us, "No, we've only killed a little over two hundred. Which is weird, as we're in their breeding hive, which are usually more heavily defended than this… something's wrong, here…"

When he lapsed into thoughtful silence, I looked at the label of the bottle he passed me:

HY (SF/R; HF/R; MF/R) (PR)-12H

"Uh…" What?

Serana came to my rescue, pointing at each group of letters, "High yield, stamina, healing and magicka fortifier and regenerator, with poison resistance, twelve hour release. He explained it to me," she added when I sent her a questioning look, "on our last adventure." She sounded a little winded as well, but Master Drevas had given her a blood potion to go with the green bottle; once she'd downed the red potion, she looked a bit better.

Farkas was about to uncork his potion when my Ana stopped him, "Wait until we're about to attack before drinking that; trust me, once you drink it, you won't be able to sit still for twelve hours." Then she turned an expectant gaze on my mentor, who was fiddling with the dial on the Toolbox, still lost in thought.

Huh. I looked at the bottle again before putting it in one of my knapsack's pockets. This is what I'd be capable of, if I became a Master of Alchemy like Drevas.

Which also begged the question: where did he learn Alchemy? It was a difficult, time-consuming area of study, and as far as I knew, Drevas never stayed in one place long… Deciding to pass the time with analyzing this mystery, I ran down the timeline of his life in my head, as far as I knew it…

'His skill speaks of long experience, but he was a street rat, then a locksmith, before Vvardenfell, so it was afterward. Then… Elsewyr? No, he said he was an explorer there… but he puzzled out the Falmer potion without much effort, so he was already learned in the subject… Black Marsh? Possible, a lot of potions ingredients come out of that place. He doesn't talk about his time there much, aside from how he met Scales and a few other tidbits… I wonder why…'

Before I could think on it any further, the subject of my thoughts let out a frustrated sound, "It doesn't make any sense. The ambushes, sure, but with the numbers they have, the fetchers should've overrun us by now."

"You're not actually complaining about having it easy, are you Drevas?" my Ana snarked teasingly, Farkas giving an agreeing grunt. I was on their side as well; if the little monsters aren't swarming us while we're in the middle of their hive, that's a good moment in my book!

A Chaurus tried to ambush Scales then, darting down the hill and trying to take a bite out of our Daedra friend; the clannfear alpha ripped it apart with almost casual ease before going back to his silent watch.

The brief distraction gone, my mentor turned baleful red eyes on us all, "You don't get it… We're in one of their nests, where their young are conceived, birthed and raised. Twice, I've ended up in one of these places; the Falmer defend them with almost reckless abandon. None of you probably noticed, but there were twenty-three traps leading up to this. Easily disarmed, but that's not the point; overwhelming numbers aside, not only is the lack of traps almost insulting to someone of my caliber, it doesn't fit with what I know of the Falmer. Given previous attempts over the years, we should've been buried in scores of traps both magical and mundane, to say nothing of the little buggers themselves."

He glared suspiciously at the way we should be going, "On top of that, there was the alarm we heard earlier; I'd bet every Septim I have they have a Warmonger, an intelligent organizer and master of ambush tactics… but that wouldn't be surprising given the size of the settlement. What's alarming is the lack of constant attacks, which a Warmonger usually orders when an enemy arrives at the hive. They're expecting the next ambush to take us, which is stupid, even for the Falmer, and especially since," he paused, removing his scarf and taking a whiff of the air, lip curling in disgust before he replaced the fabric, "We're not far from the birthing chamber. They should be attacking us constantly."

Birthing chamber. The suggestions that the name brought made my skin crawl.

While in Breezehome, during that single day where Drevas and Serana were away, Lydia, at my request, let me look at some after-action reports regarding the Falmer. They painted a grim picture that, unfortunately, explained why the corrupted beings survived for so long, answering the question I'd asked myself a million years ago, in the cruel dark of Blackreach.

Why were they still around, with most of the Dwemer's defenses still active?

Kidnappings. Mainly of women, but they weren't picky. The Companions, Imperial Legion and various Hold militias sometimes managed to rescue the poor souls; if they were lucky, they even managed to find them before the monsters killed them.

There were thousands of Falmer here, and Gelebor spoke of kidnappings in the past. It wasn't hard to arrive at the bitter conclusion: horrors greater even than those of Shriekwind were ahead, and we would bear witness.

But even with the numb cold of disgust and fear running through me, there was now a fire in my belly. The Falmer were a plague, a blight on the otherwise beautiful land they inhabited.

For those who'd been violated by them, killed by them… I will bring their souls peace.

For the Falmer, I had only one thing to bring: justice, the sword unsheathed. I'd worry about Drevas' misgivings later.

Farkas was of like mind with the last, snarling hatefully, "Great, and because we can't fucking leave until this mad task is done, we can't even help anyone out of this accursed place," my mentor nodded grimly as he rose, "So what's the plan?" the Falmer shrieked again, right before a pile of stones came tumbling down the slope, crackling the whole way with arrows flying into the dirt a moment later, "The blighters seem ready for us."

As an answer, Drevas rolled his shoulders and murmured, "Serana, mind calling up some help?"

My girlfriend smirked before clasping her hands together, as though in prayer, "We take the potion right afterward?"

"Mmm," my mentor hummed agreeably, then looked at Farkas and I, "Stand back a moment, you two."

Magic thrummed from Serana's body, her joined hands pulsing with bright purple-black flames; slowly, her hands parted, a sphere of aether swirling over each finger, eyes pinched in focus but with a small smile on her face. Next to her, Drevas closed his eyes for a moment before a sphere of his own blazed into existence in his left hand; unlike Serana's, it held a core of white that reminded me of starlight.

My Ana finished her spells first, whipping her right hand out, then her left, leaving two lines of five purple discs along the boulder-covered floor of the cave.

A red flash came, revealing what she'd summoned.

Hungers. Five Hungers stood where Serana's right hand had cast, sending a trill of dread through me at the sight of the pale Daedric horrors; resistant to magic and most weapons, they were utterly terrifying, their long claws capable of tearing through ebony like wet paper. If not for Scales and Stormbringer, the one in Shriekwind probably would've killed Farkas and me.

Behind them, four daedroths, green-scaled skin shimmering with protective magics, let out laughing howls of challenge from where they flanked a titanic mass of heavily muscled grey flesh, massive horns at the top of its head nearly scraping the ceiling, a black and red warhammer taller than Drevas held in one hand, tusked mouth curved into an angry frown beneath shining void-white eyes.

A Xivilai. The Dremora's answer to the Redguard and Orsimer berserker-knights that defended the Battlespire, which were deployed in great numbers during both that fateful conflict and the more recent Oblivion Crisis.

My mouth hung open as the platoon of Daedric creatures charged up the incline with primal battle-cries, the Falmer shrieking in terror and rage at the fell host's approach. The sounds of clashing weapons, dying screams, and crackling spells echoed down to us.

Then my Ana stumbled a bit. I rushed to her side, giving her my shoulder to steady herself. "Are you alright?!" I shouted; it was getting rather loud, above us.

Serana nodded, looking grateful if somewhat winded, "It's… ah… been awhile… since I used, whew, that much magic!"

Then a buzz of magic made my teeth itch; everyone's eyes whipped to Drevas, whose face seemed carved from stone such was his focus, the orb of violet flames in his hand audibly whining with raw power.

He cast it over where Serana had summoned her host, but this one spell looked like it took a lot out of my mentor, as he staggered and used the wall to support himself right after it left his hand. The reason why became immediately apparent, the purple flames clearing almost before the being they called into Mundus was fully formed.

Standing at nearly Farkas' height was an ashen-grey feminine being with bird's talons for feet, wings for arms, and a long, barbed tail longer than the Daedra was tall waving behind it; currently, its wings were folded in front of it, but the face that stared balefully at us was gaunt and cruel and knowing in a way that I'd never seen before. Its purple eyes seemed sprinkled with the same starlight of the summoning spell, and there was a presence about it that I'd not truly felt since the Underforge.

A Winged Twilight, one of Azura's elite.

Then a voice rang out, a chorus of bells tolling in our minds, Your bidding, summoner?

Drevas' answer was raspy with exhaustion but grim and steady with purpose, "There is a Falmer breeding hive somewhere above us, and the little buggers put an army between us and it. Kill as many as you can before the geas wears off."

The Twilight nodded once before turning that piercing gaze to me, Hail, Most Favored of Hircine. When this journey has concluded and the Grand Champion of Molag Bal is felled, seek my Lady's altar near Winterhold, for she has expressed a desire to parlay with you.

And then she was gone, leaving me reeling with the implications of such a message. Azura wanted to talk to me?! Going so far as to have a Winged Twilight deliver a personal invite?!

I glared at Drevas, who shrugged, eyes calm, "At least it's not Malacath or Mora, and I doubt the Lady of Twilight would do anything to harm you. Now," he growled, tipping the green bottle toward us in toast, "be aware that once this potion wears off, we'll have to sleep for eight hours and go a day without before drinking another. On the bright side, barring a beheading or lost limb, it'll heal any damage you take." And he drank.

The sounds of screaming were still coming down towards us, but with less Daedric shrieking than before. 'Damnit, of course it won't be that easy,' ripping the seal off the potion I'd been given, I glanced at Farkas, who'd already finished his before breaking the bottle on the ground.

"Whoa!" the young Nord shivered, grinning and looking at his hands, "That's got some kick, old Mer!" he looked at me, "Drink it Hermione. This is great!

Shrugging, I toasted, "For Tamriel, then," and drank, Serana doing the same a second later.

As soon as it hit my gut, I was suddenly vibrating with… ENERGY. Boundless, unlimited ENERGY.

By the magnificent trees of the Hunting Grounds and the sweet breath of Kyne, I felt like I could take that dragon from two weeks ago and tear it apart with my bare hands! Screw Brynjolf and his stupid elixir, I needed to know how to make this potion years ago!

I was practically bouncing in place by the time my Ana (who I could now smell, and she smelled fantastic underneath the scent of blood and rot) drew her daggers with a flourish and Drevas let out a satisfied "Ah!" before drawing his mace with a feral smile; now feeling quite impatient, I blurted out, "Canwegonow? Igottagetthisoutofmysystem!"

Grinning, my mentor replied, "Certainly!"

And up we went!

. . . . .

I didn't much pay attention to the ruins of the cavern above us, barely sparing the scores of Falmer and Chaurus corpses a glance even as I clambered over them. There was no sign of the Daedra beyond the screams echoing towards us from another black hole in the walls, which we made for with Alchemically-induced haste. Although, the cluster of chitinous cribs on one side of the chamber, burning with unearthly flame and surrounded by the eviscerated bodies of several female Falmer, did draw my attention for a moment.

But we couldn't tarry, not for loot or closer investigation of this grim place; none of us needed either, and we were all eager to see the light of Magnus again.

Another twisting cave, this one slowly spiraling up, was the site of our next challenge; unlike last time, however, we didn't have to fight through all of it, though we were slowed by the sheer volume of corpses left in the wake of Drevas' and Serana's summons.

Halfway up, nearly an hour later, we found out what happened to the summoned Daedra.

Only the Xivilai and the Winged Twilight remained, drenched in blood and viscera, fighting like the demons they were, though not for long; right as we arrived, a Chaurus hunter leapt off the wall and buried its scythe-like claws into the hulking Daedra. Before it vanished in a swirl of purple light, it bit the head off the large bug, killing it even while becoming a pincushion as it shielded the Twilight from retaliation with its body.

As the bat-winged Daedra twirled in place, tearing any who neared it to shreds, I aimed Stormbringer's corsairs past it, at the top of another incline, and screamed out, "SURPRISE, YOU LITTLE BLIGHTERS!"

Cha-BZZK! Cha-BZZK! Cha-BZZK!

And it all started over again, two more hours of grim work passing us by in the chaos of battle and death, though with greater ease than before, the Winged Twilight doing most of the work; screeching loud enough to wake the dead, it held the center of our steady advance, body twirling in a brutal dance of death. Any Falmer or Chaurus that came close was shredded by its claws and wings.

Happily, this meant Ana and I could hang back and fling spells and crossbow bolts over the heads of Master Drevas and Farkas as the men held the flanks, Scales watching our backs.

We'd nearly made the next (and hopefully final) chamber when the Winged Twilight took a Dwarven arrow in the face, dispelling it. Looking for the source, I found it'd been fired by…

"Intruders!"

"Protect the Masters!"

"Protect the Breeders!"

Seven men and women, clearly malnourished but hardy enough to fight, charged into the fray with mindless screams; their eyes were empty of rational thought, bespeaking the unthinkable, mind-flaying tortures that only the Falmer could produce.

Mistress, you cannot save them, came the empathic voice of Kresh between my ears, the Shepherd having saved my life more times than I could count in these dark catacombs, Their minds are lost!

Grim resolve took me, blowing past the wonderful feeling of the potion coursing through my veins like the North Wind, 'Then we will give them the peace of death, and pray Hircine, Mara and Arkay are merciful.'

The first died to Stormbringer, along with four Falmer around it, before they could reach our counter-charge.

Two through four ran afoul of Drevas or Scales as they, along with Farkas, clashed with our enemies. The world was screaming.

I holstered my bow and drew the Fang as Farkas cleaved down three Falmer in a single swing, the remaining Falmer slaves dying to a razor-sharp ribbon of red as Ana and I leapt into the fray.

Still, the Falmer didn't give an inch, fighting us for every step. They weren't coming from behind us this time, a combination of my and Serana's spells destroying their ambush holes, but it didn't matter; the sheer press of bodies and blades in front of us was slowing our progress significantly. For every one we killed, five took their place; even Scales couldn't break a path through the deadly wall of pale flesh and chitin barring the way.

"Drevas!" Serana shouted over the cacophony of battle, "They'll bury us at this rate!"

A tearing streak of lava ripped through four before my mentor shouted, "Hermione! Fire Breath! FUS!"

Wha-oh. I brought the flames up while slashing through another attempt to end me.

"RO!" Farkas howled in fury and bloodlust, his greatsword carving great swaths through the Falmer.

"YOL!" Kresh tore the tendons out of every ankle for ten feet in front of me, making them easy prey for Serana's razor-whips and the red-white blur that was Scales

"DAH!" "TOOR!"

The titanic wave of force clove through the Falmer's lines like a stampeding mammoth, blasting into the area beyond, dragging the Falmer with it, both living and dead; right behind it, a swirling ball of dragonfire roasted those who were knocked down by Drevas' Shout before barreling into the wave that preceded it, right in the middle of the next chamber.

The result was… well, anyone who knows anything about Dragon Shouts knows that they're extremely powerful individually. But when you combine the Shouts…

KAROO-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Mistress! Ow! I've been deafened! Good thing I closed my eyes, because holy shite, that was some explosion!

'I'm alright, Kresh! Did we get them all?' Hurry up and heal, hurry up and heal!

Nay! There are ogres within, and… Mistress, focus! They return!

Ogres, of fucking course! Ignoring the incessant ringing, which was fading as the potion worked its magic, I rushed forward into the final chamber, Farkas and Scales flanking me.

Green, fell light from flickering torches shone in various areas around the room, illuminating worryingly humanoid forms tied to the walls, but that wasn't my primary focus. No, that was on the eight hulking, grey brutes charging at us with guttural war-cries and the countless Falmer running at me with death in their faces.

The lines appeared, along with the Song.

Starfall flew past us with a woosh of displaced air and smashed into one of the ogre's faces, my mentor having thrown the bloody thing! His war-cry mingled with mine to shake the walls around us as he ran in with two burning daggers, Scales charging forward with a roar that matched Farkas', the hulking Nord leaping into the fray fearlessly, and my Ana blurred along the left flank, tearing through the company before us.

My challenge to the Falmer? "COME AND MEET HIRCINE'S WRATH!"

And Drevas' furious cry? "HAVE AT THEE, YOU BLIGHTED N'WAHS! PRAISE BOETHIAH!"

An unintelligible scream of corruption and hate was our answer as my friends and I clashed with them.

My world narrowed down to each enemy, ignoring the sounds around me, the constant battle and the Song my only focus.

Line, cut; dodge the ogre, slash, spin, stab, stab, block-parry-slash-

'I have to survive!'

Three lines, too many, two steps back, dodge, chain lightning, cut-cut-stab-

'I have to get back home! This is why I'm fighting!'

An axe smashes into my shoulder, pommel in the face, slash, ogre towering over me, dodge, "YOL!" pirouette, stab, waxy faces, sharp teeth, all around me, slash, block, dodge, roll with the hit, parry, slash-slash-slash-

A pregnant woman's scream is cut off into a wet gasp as she falls, covered in bruises and filth, opened up from hip to collarbone by my last cut, the sword sliding from her limp fingers, blood and guts and something sloughing from her gaping belly-

I roar in hatred, tearing into my opponents with renewed fervor and righteous fury, a building pressure behind my eyes-

. . . . .

The stern-looking woman with the warm smile concludes her speech, the two blurry forms in the room stiff with disbelief, "You are a witch, Miss Granger."

I don't miss a beat, taking up the list I made right after I got that letter in the post, "Well, that's all well and good, Professor McGonagall, but I have a few questions for you…"

. . . . .

His eyes were wide, as was his warm smile; all the same, his stillness was creepy, unnerving, made me wish Professor McGonagall wasn't waiting outside with the other Muggleborn students.

"Hermione Granger," his voice was old, reedy, and somewhat pleasant… but… with an undertone of knowing.

How did he know me? Wait, of course! This was the wand merchant, every new student needed wands, so, logically, he'd know who was coming for a wand; maybe he had a list? We were going in alphabetical order, after all!

"Um, yes sir," I sketched a slight curtsey, as I'd seen others perform on the streets outside, "I'm here to purchase a wand, um, if you please."

Mr. Olivander chuckled warmly, "If I may correct you, dear: you are here to find your wand. The price you pay in gold, you will no doubt discover, is a paltry sum when compared to the worth of your partner in all things magical," and with that, he snapped his fingers and turned to the rows of boxes behind the counter.

Meanwhile, I tried to stay still and attentive while several strips of measuring tape wound about my body, taking in the length of my arms, legs, and… well, it all seemed rather excessive, honestly!

Clearing my throat softly while Mr. Olivander returned carrying an armful of wooden boxes, I queried in curiosity, "Partner, Mr. Olivander?"

"Yes, my dear. Without a wand, your magic will have no fine focus, and you'll find it quite difficult to use; likewise, without a hand to direct it, give it purpose, the magical potential of any wand cannot be realized. As you learn," he said kindly, snapping his fingers again, which made the tape measures zip back behind the counter, "so will you discover that a wand is not a stick to make pretty lights and turn beetles to buttons, but the baton that directs the orchestra to great movements."

Well, that was rather grand! But I shouldn't get excited; odd things happened when I got too excited, and this shop had a lot of delicate-looking things in it! No need for a repeat of the 'Teakettle Incident'. The breakfast nook was never the same, afterward.

Still, the wordplay was better than any I'd received thus far in the magical alley, so I smiled and replied, "I've skimmed a few of the spell books we're to learn from, at Hogwarts, sir; forgive me, but they don't seem much like the works of Chopin or Mozart. Honestly," I nodded, assured by the knowledge I'd gained these last two weeks, "it all seems quite straightforward."

His eyes twinkled with merriment, "A single note, briefly played, is not a symphony, Miss Granger. Perhaps you may write your own one day, with a mind as clever as yours. Or you may find yourself with the talent of the conductor rather than the composer, and, standing above the crowd, inspire. Perhaps you will become both, as Merlin and the Founders were, but only time will tell, and you'll need a wand to learn how, regardless." And he drew the first wand from a box, a white affair that glowed slightly in the dusty room, "Ash and griffon feather, ten inches, rigid."

It didn't work for me; it just felt like wood in my small hands. Three other wands followed it into the 'no' pile; a glance outside showed the blurry faces of my future classmates. I hoped it wouldn't take much longer; there were so many more books to buy and, subsequently, explore!

"Hmm… I wonder…" Mr. Olivander brushed aside some of the newer-looking boxes to reveal an older one, dust clinging tight to the wood grain, its parchment label faded to near-illegibility.

But when he drew the wand forth, I felt something in me twitch as that spiraling slender length of green and gold was presented to me, Mr. Olivander saying, "One of my earlier works, this: bluebell vine and dragon heartstring, twelve-and-three-quarter inches, nice and swishy."

My slightly shaking fingers wrapped around the handle, lifting the wand, my wand, from Olivander's knobby fingers, a resonating thrum running from deep within my belly to warm my whole body. I blinked-

-Golden, slitted eyes, white scales, staring at me from beyond time-

-and, with a sound like rushing wings, I waved my wand through the air, a stream of golden sparkles rushing from it like a fountain! A grin exploded across my face; my wand! I'd found my wand!

Mr. Olivander laughed merrily, clapping his hands in joy, "Ah, yes! A fine match, indeed… hmm," his face took on a pensive expression as he mused aloud, "Dragon heartstring and vine, yes. You, Miss Granger, no doubt have the makings of a powerful witch."

"Really?!" I was still grinning; that feeling had been wonderful, but it meant I'd be great at magic?!

He nodded with a pleased hum, shuffling over to the register, "Believe it or not, I haven't even tried to match that wand for over fifty years," and Mr. Olivander chuckled while I listened attentively, wondering why, "No matter who took it in hand, it ignored them all. Vine and dragon heartstring, a powerful match, but, Miss Granger, power alone would not be enough to wield this wand."

I blinked, wondering whatever he meant by that, "Then… what do I have, that makes it enough?"

Garrick Olivander's eyes twinkled merrily as I hung on every word this wise, if somewhat creepy, gentleman spoke, "For the answer, Hermione Granger, I ask you a question, one which your clever mind will no doubt solve before long:

"Were you to come across a dragon, would you tame it with steel, magic, or compassion? Now, enough philosophy; that will be 12 Galleons, if you please."

. . . . .

"Holy cricket! You're Harry Potter!"

"Uh, yes, who are you?"

"Oh! Um, Hermione; Hermione Granger. I've read about you!..."

. . . . .

"Fascinating."

'You can talk-! Err, I-I mean…'

"You have a fine mind, Miss Granger. Were it not for the bravery and cunning I see in your heart, I'd Sort you into Ravenclaw."

'I-I'd much prefer Gryffindor, um, Mr. Hat.'

"Oh, I am well aware, Miss Granger; a pity, really. Were it not for the poison worming its way through Slytherin, you'd be Sorted there in a heartbeat. A clever, cunning mind like yours would do quite well in such a House, but I'm sure you'll be quite happy with-"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

. . . . .

-"Neville's got a Remembrall!"

-"I can't remember what I've forgotten!"

-"…a terror! No wonder she doesn't have any friends!"

-"Hermione, RUN! HELLAS INCENDIO!"

-"Wingardium Leviosa!"

My wand, aimed at the floating club, the burning troll, "Depulso!"

. . . . .

"You… Y-you saved me."

"Well, of course we did… we couldn't just let it-oof!"

Scoff, a murmur, "Already gettin' hugged by witches… oh!"

"Thank you… thank you both!"

"Err, n-no problem, Hermione."

"Um, can you let us go, please?"

Embarrassed laugher, wipe the tears away, "S-sorry!"

"Eh, it's no trouble." Harry smiles. I blush.

"Yeah, just, I dunno… not so hard, next time…" Ron's bashful look says he doesn't mean it. I resolve to hug the stuffing out of them at every opportunity.

After all, they were my first friends ever!

. . . . .

The newborn dragon scampered about Hagrid's table. I watched it, fascinated, while Ron waxed poetic about the species' rarity.

It looks up at me.

Blink. What pretty eyes it has…

Little Norbert lets out a screeching roar, raising… her! How do I know it's a girl?! Well, it is larger than the books said a male dragon should be at birth… Why is she raising her wings like that?

Norberta, as I've renamed her mentally, flaps her wings and lunges at me!

"EEK!"

"Hermione!"

"Blimey!"

"Ah! No! Bad Norbert… huh. Would'ya lookit tha…"

Clinging to the front of my robes while I'm desperately trying not to freak out, the little dragon starts… purring?!

Harry laughs, "Looks like he likes you, 'Mione."

"Figures," Ron drawls with a smirk, "she's got the temper of a dragon, so of course the boy dragon would be interest – whoa!"

The tiny fireball misses Ron by inches, Harry staring wide-eyed at the little dragon glaring at the other three men in the room, Hagrid moving very slowly toward me with an oven mitt.

While I have two things on my mind: one, dragons are illegal to own in Britain, so Hagrid might get in trouble.

And two: it's a pity, really. Little Norberta seems quite taken with me, if her lashing out with a tail and squeaky, adorable, protective snarl at Hagrid's questing hand is any indication.

Clearing my throat, I express my misgivings, a small kernel of a plan forming in my mind, "Hagrid, you do know that dragon breeding is illegal, don't you?"

The large groundskeeper looks like he's going to protest, or wave off my concerns, but Ron pulls him up, "Yeah, Hagrid. Sorry to say it, but I don't think you can afford the fine… or the fire hazard," he glances around the hut pointedly while Harry and I glare at him for his usual lack of tact.

"B-but ee's jus' a baby!"

Norberta makes her displeasure of Hagrid's statement known with another fireball, aimed at his great bushy beard; while he puts that out with water from the teapot and Harry moves slightly away from me, I lightly swat the newborn over her triangular head and chide, "No! Bad dragon! Don't burn people!"

Her bright, silvery eyes look up at me, seeming to water, the poor little flying death lizard not understanding my displeasure. Also, d'awww!

'No, Hermione!' I think, before I can get sucked in by the reptilian bundle of cute, 'Mom and Dad won't let you have a cat, let alone a ruddy dragon!'

Sighing, I look to my two friends, "Ron, could you get in touch with your older brother before Norberta here gets too large for me to hide?"

Hagrid splutters, "B-b-but-"

I raise a hand, before placing both on my hips, "Honestly, Hagrid, your house is wood, and female dragons are highly territorial, even when young! No," my bushy hair shakes with my head, I absentmindedly swat Norberta's curious talon away from her try at my tie, "either you take her to the Headmaster so he can put her up with her own kind – please don't touch that, dear – or I'll hold onto her until Ron's brother comes to pick her up." And I nod, because that's that!

Harry, though, has a very good question, "Hermione… how do you know it's a girl?" Ron looks curious too, as does Hagrid.

I huff, smiling slightly, "Really, you three, only a girl dragon would be offended by someone repeatedly calling them male! Also, the size. See, male dragons are usually smaller…"

. . . . .

Tears fall down my cheeks as Charlie and his friends fly away into the night, the small steel box between them receiving another dent from within, accompanied by a furious screech. Harry rubs my shoulder in comfort and Ron shoves his hands in his pockets, both my friends frowning unhappily.

Three days we took care of her, hiding the little, adorable, angelic, highly dangerous death machine in various places throughout the castle, only for the dear to find her way unerringly back to my school bag every meal time, trying to steal chicken from my nightly salad and bacon from my breakfast plate! So many close calls, including a brief fire in History of Magic, brought the three of us nearly to wit's end, as well as uncomfortably close to expulsion!

All the same, the nightly excursions to the kitchens under Harry's Cloak to feed her, playing fetch in an abandoned classroom, siccing her on Peeves, and trying not to laugh at Ron truthfully telling Professor Snape, with a completely straight face, that a dragon ate his essay (completely worth the ten points our House lost), meant that dear Norberta would always have a fond place in our hearts.

Then the tender moment of farewell was utterly ruined by Malfoy and Filch. Sod, blast and damnation.

. . . . .

The forest, rising high over my head, should've been filling me with dread, like my two friends and the little weasel accompanying us.

But it didn't. The nighttime sounds of the Forbidden Forest weren't scary, and the idea that something out here was killing unicorns, while frightening, made me ever-so angry, though I didn't know why…

The forest wasn't that scary. What the forest held, beneath its sheltering eaves… that was a different story…

. . . . .

The Stone. Quirrel. Harry's softly spoken confession on the train. Voldemort.

. . . . .

I have the Potion book! That was easy. Stupid Lockhart with his stupid, forged books! Did he really think that no-one would check his story timelines against back-issues of the Prophet and other international papers?! And to think I admired the ruddy peacock! Arse-biscuit, as Ron called him! At least he's gullible, though, which helped us with our mission to find the Heir. The sooner, the better! Poor Colin…

Another book draws my eye, though, as I make my way out of the Restricted Section, the title arresting my attention briefly…

Nine Diamonds, Sixteen Rubies

Blinking and shaking my head at the odd title, I make my way out of the Library with a spring in my step, already formulating a timeline for the Polyjuice and forgetting the strange, old-looking book.

. . . . .

Heart thudding like a drum in my chest, I angle the mirror around the corner, the Ravenclaw Prefect beside me shaking in fear-

BIG

YELLOW

EYES

. . . . .

The lights flicker in the compartment, an odd enough occurrence that I stop pretending at reviewing my Runes textbook as a cover for admiring Harry's nicely tanned skin and broadening shoulders; the train was slowing down…

Ron looks up from the chess game, which is taking longer than usual, and looks out the window, "Wonder what's up?"

With a shudder, the train halts. The lights go out, plunging us into near-darkness. Hedwig shrieks indignantly.

"Ow! Ron, my foot!"

"That was me, 'Mione, sorry." Harry's wand lights up, followed by ours. The man in our compartment shifts in his sleep.

A loud, wailing chorus of screams suddenly starts echoing up and down the train, my breath coming out in a burst of mist-

-the troll's roar of anger, beady black eyes staring hungrily down at me-

-Ron whimpers, shaking and looking about fearfully as the window freezes in the sudden all-consuming cold. Scabbers shrieks and hides in one of his pockets, Crookshanks yowls and buries himself beneath my bag, and Hedwig lets out an unearthly growl.

Worried at the course of events, I look at Harry. He's pale as a ghost, stock-still and staring with dread at the door to the compartment.

"H-Harry?" my voice is high and fearful-

-the sound of scales sliding against the cobblestones, the grey monotony of Petrification, the screaming of the Basilisk echoing through the school, the shaking of its death-throes, the diary's scream-

-and the door opens with a rattle.

...tattered black, sucking away all light…

And I see…

…a bony hand reaching for us, for me…

I see…

…colder than the grave…

I….

…no hope, it's all gone away…

…Dementor…

H

A

I

L

FEEDUSSOWEMAYPLEASEOURFATHER

S

I

T

H

I

S

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

. . . . .

"MOVE AND I'LL BLOW HER FUCKING HEAD OFF!"

. . . . .

Nine stars, shining though the endless light…

My spell strikes Pettigrew's back, sealing his fate. I killed him, but I don't care. I need to escape!

. . . . .

"…the third such reviled spell is the Killing Curse, for to slay with your magick is…"

Avada Kedavra.

"…and… then there's this… flash of green. And then it's quiet… but someone's still screaming….and…" My heart breaks to see Harry's haunted, furious eyes, "…and I think it's me, c-crying for my mom."

. . . . .

Harry James Potter, my best friend, my love, the Boy-Who-Lived

Voldemort, the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Tom Marvolo Riddle

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

I am Hermione Jean Granger

Gryffindor

I am Hermione the Griffoness

Dragonborn

. . . . .

Blood sprays from my nose, the pressure all leaving at once; a funeral bell tolls in my mind, the sound of a slamming door echoing through my senses, a full body shock-

-the White Fang kills the Falmer that just electrocuted me, Kresh moving my unresisting arm, MISTRESS! You must focus! I cannot protect us both!

With what feels like a great effort, I take my stance again, flicking the strings of the Fang, searching for new threats…

But the Falmer are running. 'No. They don't get to leave,' I think with bitter hatred, sending another Lightning Helix into their backs, remembering Blackreach in full for the first time since I woke up in that stone bed.

In the middle distance, between two waterfalls, a Falmer in more elaborate armor than the others, a shining white shield in one hand, its body bristling with weaponry, waving a sword and screeching, directing the others.

It must be the Warmonger Drevas mentioned…

Drevas…

"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead – Outside that door, expect no mercy – Be without fear in the face of your enemies – not that our feelings matter, in the eyes of the Gods."

No… I have to focus. Warmonger, Warmonger, what do the books say about you, Falmer Warmonger?

A Falmer Warmonger is amongst the most dangerous and intelligent opponents any adventurer may face; some use magic, others do not, but that is not where their danger takes form. Rather, they are capable of directing large hordes of this horrid race with great precision, to such a degree that, if one is located, a Legion Tactician must be called in to organize a purge…

The rest is irrelevant. My feelings toward them are personal.

They took my memories. They polluted this holy place. They raped and impregnated women to boost their numbers. They are in my way.

I kill another that tried to attack from my blind spot without looking, drawing my wand in the same motion.

The Warmonger points his sword at us and screeches; arrows fly haphazardly at us. Annoyances, nothing more; I weather the pointy rain. I have seen worse. I have faced worse.

I am Hermione Jean Granger. I helped kill a troll when I was twelve. I've seen the eyes of the Basilisk and lived, aided in its destruction while Petrified. I am one of the three youngest Patronus users in history.

…and I am Hermione the Griffoness, of Whiterun, Most Favored of Hircine, Knight-Aspirant of the Skywatch, student of the Dragonborn, beloved of Serana Volkihar, and friend to the Companions.

I have nothing left to fear.

Standing in blood, afterbirth, shit, piss and so much worse, in another world, the gargling cries of wounded and dying enemies filling my ears…

…the gurgling cry of a babe reaches my ears, rattling away into death a second later…

…I can't think of a reason to hold back anymore.

…for, to use this, the third reviled curse, you must hate your target with all your being…

Hardly an issue; my wand rises.

"Do you ever think about what we'll do, after we graduate?"

I huff, "Well, jobs for one… oh, Harry, don't make such a face! Of course I'll still be with you."

"Really, 'Mione?" his smile warms me.

I kiss him, "Really. Now, homework."

I aim my wand at the Warmonger, who turns a snarl of hate on me.

A fearful voice rings in my head, …M-mistress?

But I ignore the voice and the glare, for my hate is greater, my fear nothing in the face of all that they've taken from me; my memories, my innocence, my peace of mind, my choice in life, all taken away, one by one, by this mad, bloody world.

I couldn't remember my parent's faces, the shape of their eyes, the way they sounded and smelled, the feeling of their arms around me.

Gone, gone forever, and the cause was before me.

'Give them back. Give them back! I HATE YOU!'

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The fell, emerald light filled my vision…

My magic roils with awful pain, Kresh howls in horror.

…and I understood, on a deep and personal level, as the Curse lanced at the Warmonger…

A grieving sound, vibrating from my wand, 'What have I done?!'

…why that spell is Unforgivable.

. . . . .

Swatting yet another arrow aside, Drevas' red-tinted vision fixed on his target, the Warmonger, and grabbed at the Aubris for lightning. It couldn't be allowed to live, not for another bloody second! He took careful aim-

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

-and the old Dunmer felt something he'd not sensed since…

Black sand, swirling all around them, dragging Minka from the battleground as she screams in terror-

The tendril whips down as Dagoth Ur screams in fury and hate-

Black magic ripples from the fell tentacle, filling all with primal fear and mortal dread-

Glimmer-Void dodges it nimbly, the magic tearing into the sands with the scream of death, and the Spear takes a leg in recompense-

Green light flared from Hermione's wand, streaking toward the Warmonger with the cold promise of the Void, Drevas looking on in horror, 'Kill spell… no, Hermione, you idiot girl!'

The fiend she's aimed at raises the white kite shield to block the spell-

GONNNNNNNNNGGGGG!

-and the green light splatters against the gleaming obstruction, the artifact taking on a golden glow, vibrating with a sound that rattled Drevas' armor and bones in equal measure. The Warmonger doesn't fall…

It grins over the rim of its aegis, tensing to bash the shield against the air.

Dread fills him, making Drevas feel like he was before the horror in the wastes once again, like he was running desperately towards the column of smoke in Hammerfell again, 'NO!'

Starfall slips from his grasp, shaking the cavern as it hits the ground. He darts forward, a million years to reach his apprentice-

The Falmer slams the shield forward with a victorious cry, a wave of black light blasting the waterfalls aside, ripping up the soil as it barrels at his unmoving apprentice-

Drevas is in front of a stock-still Hermione, raising his hands against the finality bearing down on them-

His magic leapt to his fingers with a thought and a prayer, 'Father Stendarr, show forth your glory! Give me the strength to protect us!'

A wall of glimmering silver light leapt effortlessly from Drevas' hands as the wave reached them-

-black-

-and he's awake again, two seconds later. Still standing, but feeling like he'd just been run over by a bloody Ogrim; hands numb from taking such a baleful hit but otherwise fine to keep going, Drevas' red eyes searched for the Warmonger, pyroclastic flame crackling in both hands…

Gone. Buggered off. The little fetcher scampered!

With a frustrated growl, Drevas whirled on his foolish apprentice, a biting lecture on proper use of magic on the tip of his tongue…

Only to have all thoughts scoured away by the look of self-hatred and grief on Hermione's face; tears streamed down her face, lips quivering beneath her scarf, the White Fang slipping from her hand to fall in the polluted morass at her feet.

'Hells and heavens, why did she use a fucking kill spell? She should know those can pollute your magic,' he thought, emotions warring violently in his mind; stooping, he picked up the Fang as a blood-soaked Scales came over with a fearful whine, nudging his crying apprentice's wand hand, getting no response. Before she could break down further, Drevas plucked the wood length from her hand and stowed it in the wand case on her belt.

Then he gripped her by the breastplate and tried to meet her eyes, "Hermione?!" she didn't reply beyond hanging her head and letting out a defeated sob. 'Julianos and Boethiah, grant me wisdom and strength,' to a warily approaching Farkas he said, "Pick her up, gently."

"Hermione? Love, what's wrong?" Serana, approaching swiftly as Farkas took the young woman into his arms in a bridal carry, the vampire's face taut with care and worry; still his apprentice didn't respond beyond another bitter sob. Glancing down, he saw Kresh spiraling beneath Hermione, letting out quiet, pitiful whines.

"Serana, leave behind a Hunger to clean up," Drevas ordered as he collected his mace and made briskly for the stone bridge between the waterfalls, using Aura Whisper as he went; no contacts… good. He didn't need another fight. Not now.

Their vampire companion didn't seem to understand; given her feelings for the young woman in Farkas' arms, Drevas couldn't blame her, but this wasn't the time or place for such a discussion, "Drevas, what's wrong with her? Hermione, please-"

"Serana!" concerned glowing red coals met steadfast pools of blood, "She used a kill spell steeped in black magic," horrified understanding exploded across her face, but Drevas wasn't done, "I can cleanse the taint away, but not here," he pointed at the gore-filled chamber with Starfall, trying to keep his gorge down at seeing another breeding hive; he'd hoped and prayed to never see another again after the horror beneath Elsweyr, but such was life, curse the Gods, "Not… not in this place, Serana."

Turning, he stormed in the direction the Falmer disappeared to. Glancing about on the other side of the narrow bridge, Drevas noticed… nothing. The little n'wahs were gone.

Something was very wrong about that. Thousands of Falmer, but they were holding back? One of their number was all but catatonic with shock, Serana wouldn't be able to focus with Hermione out of commission, which left them with three (four, counting Kresh) stopgaps against the horde.

Drevas knew he was good, as was Farkas, and it would take more than a few hundred Falmer to put Scales down for good…

But bodies built up on a battlefield; eventually, they'd be buried in the buggers, and then it'd be a slit throat for Drevas of Mournhold. And that wouldn't do; he planned to die warm in his bed between one breath and the next, far from this filthy place, surrounded by loved ones; failing that, in battle with Alduin, each slaying the other, with someone there to bear witness and tell the story of his end so the Bards could make a good song of it.

Oh, and bring the Toolbox to Lydia once he croaked. But not here. Not today. Not Hermione, Farkas, Serana, Kresh or Scales.

"Make sure they all get home, lad."

Ever and anon, whoever stood by him, he would. Elenwen's foolishness be damned.

He whispered the Words of Power again, moving into another winding tunnel; still noth – was that a sabre cat?!

Well… that wasn't nothing; it was life that wasn't Falmer, which meant other life that wasn't tainted by the little buggers.

It was something, which was infinitely better than the horrific charnel house they were leaving behind. Drevas stomped further into the dark, thanking whatever God had given them this break even as he cursed them for their lateness, his companions and fraught apprentice following.

. . . . .
Very early morning, 21st Second Seed, 4E201
Darkfall Glade, Chantry of Auri-El
. . . . .

An hour and some strange-colored sabre cats later saw the party making camp on a grassy knoll in a chamber that uncomfortably reminded Drevas of Blackreach… and he wasn't the only one, unfortunately.

Serana's arms were wrapped about a terrified and hyperventilating Hermione, rocking and shushing her kindly, "You're not there, my 'Mione. You're not in Blackreach, you're not, love."

The young woman's only response was another meek, wretched sob.

Lips pursed in concentration, Drevas laid the Toolbox carefully amongst some small flowers and blue-lit grass; he'd collect some of the flowers, after, see if they held any Alchemical properties.

Of course, he could eat one, but without knowing what they did, and with what he was about to do, Drevas couldn't risk it. Opening the Toolbox, he removed a silver pitcher and sniffed it; clean, good, that'd save him some time.

"Farkas," the Companion looked up from the fire he'd just started, worried eyes trying not to look at the poor young lass he'd protected and taught for nearly a month, "Take this pitcher over to that waterfall and fill it, please."

When Farkas came close enough to speak quietly, he asked, "It'll help?" Drevas nodded surely. Nodding back, Farkas loped off while the old Dunmer removed a silver bowl edged with nine rubies.

'Seventy years since I used this ritual for any purpose, one-twenty since it was used on me,' he thought solemnly, hearing a newborn's cry in his mind, a soft giggle, warm purring; smiling at the bittersweet memories, Drevas took a velvet rag and wiped the dust from the bowl.

As Farkas returned with the water, "Serana, get her out of her armor." Drevas looked over at his apprentice, who was staring at him with mind-shattering fear; he assuaged her with a warm smile, "Don't worry, lass. You'll feel better once this is over."

He took the water from Farkas with thanks, pouring it carefully into the bowl, not spilling a drop. Next, Drevas took out a clean linen towel and a wide jewelry box with nine white stars painted on the lid.

Then he waited, kneeling in the soil; bowl, box and towel. The clinking of Hermione's armor being removed, piece by piece, mingled with her sporadic sobs. Scales huffed the air, crowned head ever searching for threats. Farkas glanced around, but kept near, in case he was needed. Good lad.

Drevas meditated, calming his magic and mind. Once both were calmed and placid, he prayed.

Lady Kynareth, let flow your breath, hallow this water, make it pure.

A warm wind caressed the islet, making the waters ripple and grasses hiss-

-and Hermione screamed, and tried to bolt away, like a deer that suddenly came face to face with a Hunter.

"Hermione!" Serana tackled the partly armored girl to the dirt, Kresh's shadow clamping his teeth on the girl's ankle, "Hermione, please stop! Drevas is only trying to help!"

His apprentice shrieked horribly, eyes lost in distant terror, "Please no! NO! I can't! I can't be helped!"

"Tosh." Drevas' voice felt alien, even to his own ears, with a surety and deepness that he'd not heard since… he shook his head; now was not the time for remembrance, not of then, "All can be helped. Have faith."

"You don't understand!" his buck-toothed apprentice started breaking down in sobs again, even as her beloved knelt on her back and worked on unclasping her greaves, "It's unforgivable! I'm… I'm unclean! It won't just wash away-y-y!" and she dissolved into self-loathing despair, weeping as her remaining armor continued to be removed by Serana's shaking hands, the vampire's eyes wet with empathic tears.

He ignored them. She may have spoken with a Daedra, but of the Aedra, she only had Sister Danica and Lucia to give her guidance, along with what books on the Nine he'd managed to save over the years. Drevas rarely spoke of them, mainly due to his… other devotions. But no tome, in these grey and distant days, spoke of the God's true power, what could be done with ritual and belief.

No, such things were only recorded in the few writings of cultists… and the book the Nerevarine willed him, Nine Diamonds, Sixteen Rubies, and that was hidden in the same box he'd found it in, in a special compartment in the Toolbox, the key to its box carefully hidden. All else was either suppressed or destroyed over the millennia by the Elder Council and the Imperial Cult, or watered down for the masses and preached by hypocrites who asked farmers for Septims every Sundas.

Belief. The crux of all things. Without it, Tamriel would've been lost to chaos and destruction long ago.

The medallions came next; one by one, draped over the lip of the bowl, each with their own prayer:

Arkay, bring your peace, that she may calm.

Zenithar, bring your bounty, that she may flourish.

Julianos, bring your wisdom, that she may understand.

Dibella, bring your light, that she may see.

Mara, bring your love, that she may remember.

Stendarr, bring your mercy, that she may heal.

Talos, bring your strength, that she may persevere.

Kynareth, bring your glory, that she may soar.

Akatosh, bring your flame, that she may be purified.

Last came the linen towel, folded square and gently submerged in the cool liquid, which had taken on a subtle, but not unpleasant, shine.

There. Drevas looked up from his work to look at Hermione; she was curled on the ground, clad only in her leather pants and silk shirt, still weeping, still afraid. Were it not for Kresh still holding her in place and Serana stroking her face caringly, she'd likely have tried to bolt again.

Drevas sighed; he understood the lass' pain. He'd been there before, the one crying like a baby on the ground, feeling wretched and dirty.

"Calm, Drrrevas, my darrrling. We arre herrre."

"We're away, Dre; you're not there anymore. Don't worry. We have you now."

Blinking away the memory, he removed the cloth towel reverently, wrung it out, and passed it to Serana, "Clean her armor with that," as the Daughter of Coldharbour didn't burst into flames or collapse into a screaming heap on touching it, Drevas figured the Nine would suffer the vampire this, at least.

Or was it that they were in a holy place? The old Dunmer supposed it didn't matter, so long as it worked.

To Farkas he said, "Remove your armor," even as he did the same, moving quickly; there were too many mysteries here, regarding that awful spell, and Hermione held the answer. But first, she needed to be cleansed of the taint, and the longer it was bound to her soul, the harder it would be to remove.

He knew better than most what the result could be, if it was left unattended.

Laughing, cold, green eyes bored into him, blood splattered across golden skin, "Surrender, Dre. It's over."

Once they were both stripped to their underclothes (canvas trousers for Drevas, leather for Farkas), the Dragonborn bid the Werewolf, "Bring her," and stepped into the water surrounding them.

All the while, Hermione moaned, "No, no, please no," and other variations against any sort of help in her plight; Farkas seemed to hesitate as he walked into the water and Hermione began struggling against his great arms, pushing against the young man's muscled chest, but a look from Drevas had him moving again, until he was waist-deep in the water.

Drevas removed the medallions, collected the bowl, and walked up to Hermione, who looked at him with a bitter, loathsome gaze; she was pale with fear and the corruption trying to bind her soul, the whites of her eyes held a yellow tint, and she'd worried her lip raw. The strong young woman he'd known and taught, who'd faced down whatever threat that dared cross her path, looked more like a pathetic animal as she tried to scratch and punch Farkas away. She even kicked out clumsily at Drevas, trying to spill the bowl.

'Can't have that…'

So Drevas hit her with a mild Paralyze spell, stilling her movements, "You'll thank me in a moment, lass." Then he held her face in a hand and completed the ritual, "O Nine Divines, bless this child in your light, and wash away the darkness of her life, that she may greet the new day with open eyes and a full heart," and poured the water gently over her forehead, emptying the bowl in a steady stream; as he did, the color in her skin returned, the yellow tint in her eyes leaving rapidly.

'Bloody Gods, if I ever find out who taught her such a spell, I will kill them. Slowly. With a butter knife.'

Hermione regained movement with a shudder-

-and socked Drevas in the gut, "Oof!"

"You Paralyzed me, you arse!" wiggling, she all but knocked Farkas on his ass and fell gracelessly into the pool; she rose with a wild splash and gave Drevas a glare that would've been more intimidating if she didn't look so much like a drowned rat, "Gah, what is wrong with you?!"

Drevas grinned, relieved both that the ritual worked and that Hermione seemed more herself again, "Welcome back, lass."

. . . . .

I shuddered, staring at the grinning Dark Elf; the feeling of pure despair, of filthiness, was… gone.

But I could feel where it'd tainted me, like a fresh, painful scar on my soul and magic; weakly, I whimpered, "It… it still hurts."

He gave me a look of understanding, "I know. It'll go away, in time. Also," his brows slammed together, and the warm feeling fled in the face of cold fear, "don't ever use that spell again."

And he walked briskly past me. A towel hit the back of my head a second later.

Oh, hell no.

I whirled on him-

-and I saw Serana, my Ana, someone who I trusted, loved just as much as Harry, the one I'd given my virginity to, looking at me in great concern and relief, crouched over my armor and weapons…

The sight made me forget the horror of using the third Unforgivable, the soul-staining Killing Curse.

My armor. My weapons.

I am a killer.

"'Mione?" Farkas.

"Are you sure you want this life?"

I felt my gorge rise, but I bit it back, 'I watched a burning troll sink to the ground with a club buried in its chest, had a dragon see me as its mother, listened helplessly as the Basilisk died, and looked a Dementor in the face,' a shuddering exhalation of air later, I squared my shoulders and walked with as much dignity as I could muster onto the islet.

Serana was frowning at me now; I ignored it, staring at a greenish-brown deer on a cliff nearby while toweling myself off. Its eyes were blue, pale horns spiraling from the back of its head. Beautiful. From what I understood of this world so far, as well as my position as Most Favored, Hircine would probably want one in the Hunting Grounds, and would be doubly pleased with me for sending one there.

'I am the equivalent of a High Priestess in a demonic cult, have slain a dragon and dedicated the kill to said demon, and… and I have killed dozens of people. I killed a child. I killed a pregnant woman.'

"Are we monsters, Drevas?"

He paused in the buckling of his boots, but not for long, "No, and I'll thank you not to think like that. I've seen real monsters, Hermione, and real monsters would've reveled at the grim sights we've seen, rather than put paid to the crimes of the Falmer. If we were monsters, we'd have raised those dead and sent them ahead of us to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. No, Hermione," he sighed sadly, "those men and women came against us because they wanted to die, even if the thought wasn't in their heads at the time." The person who ensured I'd survive this awful world raised his head and fixed me with a sober look, but I was busy looking at a weird purple flower behind Serana, "Or would you have thought something different, were you in their place?"

I didn't answer, at first; instead, I slowly turned my head and looked him in the eyes, brown meeting red for a very. Long. Time.

I hated him, hated what he'd made me into, and hated how uncaring he was in the face of death…

But I understood. Without preparation, I'd have died… or worse. That didn't make me feel much better about the whole situation.

And, as much as I hated Drevas of Mournhold for turning me into a child soldier, for ensuring I'd be comfortable with taking a life, I hated Peter Pettigrew infinitely more for making it necessary. I hated the bandits I'd faced, hated what they'd done to people. I hated the Falmer for taking my memories and the horrors they inflicted, the Forsworn for their perpetuation of the cycle of violence that defines this world, and Ulfric Stormcloak for fanning the flames of war, for giving Lucia nightmares about the man razing Whiterun with the Voice.

Harry would've wept and raged at the sights I've seen, and Ron…

…once he got over the cart-sized spiders, Ron would've stood at our side as we… what?

What could three Third Year students do against… all this?

Endure. Survive. Thrive.

Ironic, that I hated much of what I'd found here, yet was comforted by the words of Ysgramor gave to the Army of Atmora before their decisive battle with the Snow Elves.

For three years, that's what we'd done, Harry, Ron and I. Endure Malfoy's idiocy, survive the horrors that seemed determined to crush us, and, in enduring and surviving, we thrived.

Small wonder I'd done so well, was still alive, after all the grim business being an adventurer, a Knight, entailed.

So I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath through my nose, "Drevas?"

"Hmm?"

"You're an incorrigible, complete arse, you know?" Farkas snorted and murmured something that sounded like, 'Obviously.'

Drevas chuckled dryly, "Aye, lass, my wife used to remind me of the fact each day, while she lived," he reached for the silver bowl, no doubt to put it away, but I held out a hand to stop him.

"Do you know a ritual that… purifies enchanted items?" I truly hoped he did because… my poor wand…

He nodded, eyebrow raised, "You wand, I presume?" Bloody – can he read minds, too?!

Pursing my lips in irritation, I nodded curtly and walked over my gear, laid out near Serana; after picking up my wand case and tossing it over to Drevas, I whispered in response to my girlfriend's searching gaze, "We'll talk later," and picked up the White Fang. It was covered in drying blood. A dip in the water surrounding us cleaned it of the grime.

'It really is quite the weapon,' I mused, turning it over and over in my hands; ebony, from what I understood, was a kind of metallic ore, but the white of the Fang… it didn't feel like moonstone, the most common white material used in crafting, 'Kresh? What is the handle made of?'

Azura crafted the handle, mistress, while father made the blade… If I remember correctly, it is the bone of some great beast, though its name has been lost. I was born long after the Fang was created, you see, but father might know… he paused, then continued in a concerned tone, Are you feeling well now, mistress?

No, I most certainly wasn't feeling well at all. Those poor people we slaughtered… but given the alternative… no, it didn't make me feel better; there was justice, there was mercy, and then there was necessity. What we'd done was the third, and it was cold comfort, even knowing they'd suffer no more.

Then there was my ruddy hair; it was a thicket, sure, but it'd took me years to grow it out, and I was proud of my hair. Now it was gone, another point against the Falmer, and I couldn't get it back… and there was an idea. A mad idea, positively insane, honestly, but it was better than being nearly bald and looking like a boy all the time…

…and my Ana might appreciate having something to run her fingers through… bugger it, I'll try.

'I will feel better soon, Kresh.' I stabbed the Fang into the ground and removed my dirty shirt, checking my bindings; nice and clean, as usual, but wow, I've bulked up a fair bit! Odd that I'd not noticed my progress, but I was already in great shape when I arrived in Blackreach, and there were more important things going on. Still not bodybuilder muscly, but holy cricket, I could probably wrestle Crabbe and Goyle, at the same time, and win! I looked good, too; not all pretty and voluptuous like Lavender, but at least I wasn't an awkward stick anymore! 'I have two things to ask you, though.'

I will answer to the best of my abilities, mistress!

I chuckled to myself, humored by eagerness; collecting the Fang, I then sat on a boulder, facing the campfire and ignoring the glances of my companions, staring at the weapon in my hands and Kresh's shadow at my feet, 'Have you ever seen animals like that deer, or that sabre cat, in the Hunting Grounds?'

Nay, mistress; none of father's faithful have come this way, I would wager, his tail wagged happily, No doubt he would be pleased if we were to send him some, mistress!

Smiling down at him, hoping my plan would work, I then made a request, 'Kresh, stop calling me mistress.'

His head tilted in confusion, which I felt in the back of my mind, Is… there some other title I should call you?

I felt a wave of fondness at his hesitant tone; demonic creature though he may be, we'd slain a dragon and fought through a small army together, and he'd been ever so helpful… minus that first night, but that was ancient history, now, and having my first time by a waterfall was just… perfect. I was glad we waited.

'Call me Hermione, Kresh. You've earned that much, for keeping me alive, and helping me on my path,' grinning at his bashful and stuttering acquiescence, I looked to Farkas, who'd finished cleaning his armor and was now checking his greatsword for nicks.

He reminded me of Ron. Steadfast, loyal, brave, honest… and deathly afraid of spiders.

Rising from my seat, I looked at my bare feet… bugger it; the less armor, the more likely this would succeed. Fair playing field and all that, "Farkas."

"Hrmph?" came the attentive grunt of the young Werewolf; blimey, what would Professor Lupin think, me working with a warrior Werewolf?

I shook my head; now wasn't the time for woolgathering or worrying about what everyone in my world would think. They weren't here, they weren't me. "I'm going hunting. Come with me."

He didn't respond at first, fixing me with a piercing stare for a few seconds, getting my measure, before giving a gruff reply, "Okay." He got up, sheathing his sword and recovering his pack.

Serana was still worried, though, "Are you sure you're feeling okay, 'Mione?"

My heart fluttered in affection, 'No wonder I love her. She reminds me of Harry, so compassionate.' I gave her a watery smile in response, but kept my head held high, "No, my Ana, I feel wretched. But I'll be okay after a brief hunt, to calm my nerves, love. I need to do this, and then I'll be back in your arms, don't worry." It didn't look like my words helped much, given her steady frown, but, hopefully, I'd be able to get my head on straight again soon. I didn't want Serana to suffer so because of me.

Then I looked at Drevas, my smile falling away; he was looking at my wand, submerged in the bowl, with pursed lips and a furrowed brow, "Problem, Master?" the second word felt almost alien on my tongue, now, with my restored memories, but I ignored that sensation too, not wanting to worry the others needlessly…

The old Dunmer shook his head, "No, no, it's working just fine. I just need to keep a close eye on the process, is all; oh, if you manage to bring down a deer, I'd appreciate it if you'd bring me the antlers. Potions ingredients and all that."

I hummed in understanding, then, "Drevas?" he looked at me askance, "My amnesia's gone."

Then I turned and made for the stone bridge leading further into the dark, back straight and eyes flicking side to side, searching for a fine specimen to send to Hircine, Farkas loping quietly behind me and Kresh reveling at my feet, overjoyed that my mind was whole again.

. . . . .

Serana watched her love walk away without a second glance or explanation, Farkas following her like a loyal dog, straight-backed and sure of step, a legendary weapon held in one hand.

The statement, that her beloved's memories had returned, hadn't assuaged the worries raging through her unlife regarding the young warrior-witch, Serana's 'Mione; it was in her eyes, a deep pain, a scar that wouldn't heal after a single hunt or a visit to the Temple.

It reminded Serana of her own eyes, after… Coldharbour.

"Stop that," she turned her gaze to Drevas, Hermione and Farkas having vanished into the gloom; he wasn't looking at her, wiping water from Hermione's wand. "You've seen her fight, you've fought at her side. You've shared your bed with her, loved her. So stop worrying, woman. She's stronger than you think, and loves you still."

"I can't help but worry, Drevas," returning her eyes to her beloved's armor and remaining gear, now cleaned of muck to their former shine, if covered in scratches and dents from the running battle, Serana felt like weeping, "She… I care for her, so much… and, damn my mind, if she remembers her life-"

"She loves you still," repeated Drevas, rough voice filled with surety.

But Serana wasn't wholly convinced, especially considering the source, "You say this, Drevas, but… well, you don't seem very loving, so forgive me if you're not all that convincing. No offense," she added when he turned an unamused look on her.

He held that stare, then…

"You remind me of my daughter."

The six words struck her with surprise, "Your…"

He went on into that pause, still holding her gaze, "She worried overmuch about how her beloved felt for her, as well. Considering the lad was rarely at home, what with his duties as a castle guardsman, I wasn't too surprised, nor was her mother, but worry herself she did, nearly to the point where she'd have stopped taking care of herself, were it not for my intervention.

"I asked her, when she was five months pregnant, what my son-in-law did when he came home to make her feel such a way. Do you know what she told me?" Serana shook her head, wondering where he was going with this, "She told me he'd kiss her, hold her for a time, and fix their dinner. They'd lie in bed, and he'd tell her of his day, and she'd tell of hers, and they'd fall to sleep in each other's arms. Every day, the same thing. Sometimes, he'd have to stay at the castle later than usual, but he'd still come home by sunset. And still she worried about how he felt about her, because they argued at times, and at times he was distant, lost in thought.

"I told her that was a normal thing, in marriage, that she knew her mother and I fought at times, that I'd woolgather at length at times; these things are normal. Still she worried. I found that she worried he might not really love her, that he'd only married her for the baby and the benefits of status that came with her being the daughter of a Knight of Hammerfell. I told her that I was certain that wasn't the case, and she, just like you just did, asked me how I knew.

"And I told her, truthfully, that the way the lad acted was the same thing I did, every day, for her mother; I went out, did what my station demanded, and came home. But the house, the Knighthood, the trinkets and baubles I'd gathered, the people who tried to become closer to me to raise themselves up… none of it mattered, because her mother was everything I ever wanted or needed. Additionally, there's no way in all the hells I'd allow my own flesh and blood to marry some rake, but that's beside the point. The point of this story, Serana, is that though Hermione will sometimes need her space to do her own thing, and you won't always be able to walk alongside her on her path through life, she loves you dearly, and will come back to your arms again and again, her love for Harry Potter be damned.

"Hermione may be hurting right now, but she still loves you, Serana. Don't doubt that, and be there for her when she returns." With that, Drevas turned to his Toolbox, removing foodstuffs and cooking implements, leaving Serana to think on his words.

Serana thought on that for a time, while arranging Hermione's armor and preparing their party's sleeping arrangements, and found Drevas had a point; Hermione had long known of the relationship waiting for her, of the boy that loved her dearly and missed her terribly, but even then, Hermione loved her, without hesitation, as though the barrier of worlds and experiences that stood between them didn't exist.

It maddened her, how… illogical it all was, the way they were going about this! Hermione fought through the Falmer, waded through blood and worse, all to help Serana save the world for her insane father, and here she was, doubting the young woman's feelings!

But Serana knew, deep in her black soul, that she loved the young witch, would happily follow her anywhere, even beyond the realms and back to Hermione's Mundus; what did that say about her, that she only doubted now, when hardship presented itself? It wasn't fair to Hermione, her beloved.

Sighing, she said quietly, "I'll have to apologize for my lack of understanding, once she returns."

"Bah, just kiss the lass, woman," waved Drevas dismissively, focused on making several of those spiced Khajiiti wraps Hermione was so fond of, "Better yet, just be there for her. No doubt having her memories return scared her more than the fight we just went through…" then he looked at her with a confused expression, "Another question: she doesn't usually hunt to distract herself, she usually-"

"Buries herself in a book, or keeps trying to figure out why her spells don't work wandlessly?" smiling, Serana adjusted her bedroll so it was a little closer to Hermione's… and pulled out some toiletries, along with a jar of beeswax; the water felt warmer here, and, after all that grim business, a bath sounded divine, more so with Hermione present, "This isn't exactly the time or place for experiments, Drevas, and… well, a book might make her feel better, now that I think about it," a brief rummage through 'Mione's pack produced a copy of The Complete Mystery of Talara, which Serana placed next to Hermione's pillow.

A few minutes passed in silence, only broken by Serana handing Drevas a vial of boar's blood for her wrap; apparently, Hermione had a box containing dozens of such vials, with a note on the inside lid: For Ana's food.

The sight brought a blush to Serana's cheeks, 'So thoughtful, my 'Mione.'

Taking his advice, Serana reached for her braid, figuring she should let her hair down; it'd been nearly ten hours since taking the potion, and, though she still felt the Alchemical energy flowing through her, it wouldn't be long before she crashed.

Hopefully, Hermione would be back soon… and then they could... relax. Yes, they could relax together. There was steam coming off a part of the pond surrounding them, so the possibility of a nice warm bath seemed likely. Relaxing sounded good, after… all that.

. . . . .

'Even the deer look weird in this place,' mused Farkas, watching one such creature nibble the dark green grass that grew down here, crouched next to a half-naked Hermione.

Once she'd found the deer, she'd crouched in the dirt, put the pommel of her spear into the ground, and leaned it against a shoulder. For five minutes, she hadn't moved, simply staring at the lone deer, rubbing the haft of her weapon.

A glance at her shadow showed Kresh was equally still, beyond the odd flick of a tail and twitch of an ear.

'My amnesia's gone.'

Shifting his stance slightly, Farkas leaned closer to the young woman, "That bad?"

Her shoulders twitched slightly, "What is?"

"The memories," he clarified, keeping one eye on the deer; it hadn't noticed them.

Another twitch, "Oh," she went still again, "…Have you ever wondered why… why you're a Companion?"

Farkas grunted; figures her head was in the wrong place, questioning herself again. As her Shield-Brother, however, it was his job to keep her alert, aware, keep her focused. Given where they were, having the lass distracted could be fatal. Having fought at her side, he knew that, unless all four of them stood together, their odds of getting through Gelebor's gauntlet were low.

Farkas and Hermione, plus Kresh? There wasn't any way they'd get to the end without some intervention from the Gods.

Drevas and Serana, plus Scales? They might be able to do it, carve through an army of Falmer to reach the bow, but Farkas doubted they'd be in any condition to finish off that vampire lord they were gunning for. The Dragonborn was… well, the fucking Dragonborn, but he was old, older than Kodlak.

But her question… did Farkas ever really think about what he was doing, how it affected him?

He answered truthfully, "Yeah. I did that once."

Silence, save for the strange keening of those huge mushrooms. Farkas didn't blame Hermione for being freaked by the place, creepy as it was.

"And?"

The young Werewolf shrugged, "Dunno if you noticed, but I really like hitting things. Bandits, Forsworn, draugr, Falmer, dragons; the tougher the fight, the more…" he struggled to find the words, "the more... life makes sense, I suppose. I know it ain't like that for you," he added when her head started turning toward him, "but that's no issue. You're you, I'm me. I know why I fight."

"Hm… so what's your reason?"

"Three reasons. One, I'm a Companion. Beyond our duty to the Harbinger, who sets the rules we have to follow, my life is in service to Skyrim, and if those goldskins ever try taking her by force, I'll defend my home till my body's ripped apart; sure, there's other threats, but the Holds each have their own defenders to protect the little people. I get called in when there's a real fight to be had, I get paid to do it, and I'm happy to defend my people and homeland, proud to be a Companion. That's one.

"Two, Vilkas. He's my brother. He might be a flowery little shit at times," the corner of Hermione's lip twitched, matching Farkas' own expression, "and he drinks even more than I do, but that's because he's got a mind like yours; he's better at talking to nobility than me, better at dealing with clients or the Jarl. Some people say I got the strength of Ysgramor, while Vilkas got his smarts. Dunno about Ysgramor, but I do know one thing: Vilkas took the Wolf's Blood because I did, and, of the two of us, he regrets it. Probably because he hears the howling of the Hunting Grounds whenever he tries to sleep, like every Were who's ever lived. I don't mind it much, because it means I'm better at fighting and providing for my brothers and sisters, but I don't hold it against Vilkas. He's delicate, I'm not, but he's also my little brother, so I'll protect him. Always. Even if it means fighting through an army of Falmer to get some shiny bow."

'Even if it means running from our burning home and dying parents, my crying brother slung over a shoulder, and fighting my way through the Reach to get to Whiterun.'

Farkas cleared his throat gently, so as not to spook the deer, and gave the third reason, "Three… I don't really what else I can do. Sure, I'm not a dumbass or a milk-drinker, but I'm good at fighting for others. I may not be able to quote the Poetic Edda at you (and, really, that story's boring as shit compared to The Night of Tears), but if you need someone put in their place, or you got bandits runnin' around, or your kid got kidnapped by the Falmer, I'm your man. Because I've got the strength of Ysgramor, and I'm not afraid of the shit getting shoveled around Skyrim. If it gets between me and my goal, it either moves itself, or I move it."

Then it was quiet again. The deer still hadn't noticed them, which irked Farkas slightly. The deer around Whiterun and Riverwood were a lot more skittish than these… but that was probably the fault of Aela and Scales running amok.

Finally, Hermione spoke, softly, "I have to get back home. But now it's… complicated."

"Serana?" she nodded. Farkas huffed, "So take her with you."

"What if I can't?" her knuckles whitened on the Fang's haft, "What if – ow."

Farkas popped her gently upside the head, taking care not to cut himself on the spear's tip, "Stop that, asking 'what if' all the damn time. If you wanna do something, Hermione, fuckin' do it. If it doesn't work… well, go tell someone what you did and ask what went wrong, then do it again once you know."

She stared at him like he'd told her Tiber Septim wore dresses and sang lewd songs in public, "That… was rather wise of you, Farkas."

He shrugged, "S'what I was taught, when I joined the Companions. Kodlak told me that, when I was having trouble learning how to fight… without getting hurt, that is. Keep trying, keep learning, and you can do anythin'."

Hermione hummed thoughtfully, then returned her gaze to the deer. She went still again, but Kresh shifted, the Shepherd's head looking at her, which meant they were talking to each other again.

Maybe. It'd happened before, and Hermione usually told them what Kresh was saying afterward.

Farkas let that go on for a minute before asking, "Not that talking to you isn't nice, what with the view that comes with it," she snorted as he shamelessly checked out her lithe, fit body, "but why're you hunting this deer?"

She gulped softly, rolling the Fang off her shoulder and preparing herself, "Gotta ask Hircine something, and request a boon."

Oh. "Uh, we're in a holy shrine to an Elven God, and you're gonna summon a Daedra? That, uh, doesn't seem safe… for us, that is."

"I said ask, Farkas, not bring down from the stars," huffed the young woman as she shifted her stance, now looking like a runner getting ready to move, left hand down, right hand occupied with lining up her throw, "Hircine takes on many forms, and all of Nirn is His palace," Hermione's voice was almost reverent as she spoke, body of corded muscle still and tense, "More than that; He is the God of the Wild, of Beasts, of the Hunt. He watches over the forests, for they are a part of the Wild. And the Wild stretches further afield than merely Nirn."

That… was more than Farkas had ever heard or suspected on the matter of the Huntsman, and he'd read the fucking book. It sounded, to his ears, that Hircine was known in Hermione's world, and asked, "Were you a follower, where you came from?"

She laughed dryly, "I was an innocent schoolgirl before Blackreach. Now… now I am more."

Then she spoke, voice resonating with magic and power, "Hircine, my Patron, God of the Wild, Bless this Hunt, and take my Prey unto your breast in the Hunting Grounds, that they may enrich your demesne and live forever in your Paradise."

Farkas watched numbly as Hermione's muscles practically creaked as she moved, darting forward in a short sprint and hurling the White Fang at the deer, which noticed its mortal peril only too late.

It was beautiful, the way she moved like that. Predatory, smooth and powerful.

The spear struck the heart of the deer; it shifted away with a small cry of pain, then fell with a sigh to the ground.

A clean kill. Aela would've wept with joy to see it. As it was, Farkas, stood calmly and holstered his bow and the arrow he'd nocked, in the unlikely event Hermione missed, and watched the beautiful young woman walk with regal grace to her kill. In the months since he met her, she'd gone from being lithe like a deer, if somewhat short, to shooting up three inches and gaining the figure of a powerful warrior. Beautiful, and deadly.

Farkas shook his head and walked over to a rock to watch what came next. Were she a bit closer to his age, and not besotted with Serana, he'd make a try for her. As it was, she was his sister in all but blood. He'd protect her, like Vilkas, from the things in the dark.

A presence descended, bringing a golden glow above the felled deer and the smell of endless evergreen forests, with a hint of blood. The golden light resolved into the form of a great stag with eyes of starlight, which fixed Hermione with a piercing stare.

"Hail to you, Lord Hircine," though she wasn't facing him, Farkas felt the smile in her voice, "Thank you for watching over me and mine. I offer you a deer of the Chantry of Auri-El, and ask for a small Boon."

The God of the Wild replied, a conglomeration of many voices and bestial calls, Hail, Hermione Granger, my Most Favored. It brings me joy to see your mind whole once more, in addition to your continued devotions as one of Mine. Speak your mind and desire.

Farkas was already drawing out his wineskin; he'd seen offerings like these with other Hunters around Skyrim. Usually they asked for a small blessing or token of Hircine's favor, always something they could use. Why Hermione was doing this, though, he didn't know; she already had Kresh and the White Fang, so it must have something to do with her memories… maybe.

He didn't expect what she actually asked Hircine for.

"Could… could you regrow my hair, and send Lavinia to braid it, please?"

Both Farkas and the Stag blinked at the young woman, but it was Hircine who spoke, sounding surprised, Your… hair?

She nodded, "Yes, my Lord. It was important to me, something I took great pride in. I'd like it back." Ah, that made sense to Farkas. He'd be pretty irked if he lost his own shaggy mane, after spending the last five years growing it out and keeping it trimmed.

Hircine huffed, Very well.

Fwoof!

Farkas almost spit the mouthful of wine he'd just sipped as a thicket of bushy hair suddenly burst from Hermione's scalp; shoulder length and, from what he could see, of a shrubby texture, it almost shone gold in the light of the cavern.

'I may have just witnessed history,' the young Nord thought in amazement, 'A Hunter who could've asked Hircine for anything and received it, and she asks for hair.'

A moment later, the deer at Hermione's feet glowed; she removed the Fang before it could vanish to the Hunting Grounds. In its place, a book appeared.

And a young girl. A very familiar young girl, dressed in a white skirt, bare chested, her form edged with silver light and smiling beatifically. Lavinia, the young Were Hermione slew in Shriekwind.

She smiled at Hermione, who'd stilled, "I know. It's okay, Hermione; you set me free. There's no need to apologize."

Nodding jerkily, the young woman knelt, laying the Fang at her right side and reached for the book, "What's this?" she asked as Lavinia moved to her back, running ghostly fingers through her hair.

Hircine answered, Your position as Most Favored, as you've no doubt realized, is similar to that of the followers of the Nine. Therefore, I bestow you with the gathered knowledge of rites and rituals unique to my Pack, my Hunters, those who walk in the Wild. Howl to the Moon, is the book's title, and it is the only one in any world, Hermione Granger, my Most Favored. Take care of it.

"I shall, Lord Hircine," said young woman breathed happily, hugging the book to her chest; her hair was now sticking up in a bushy globe under Lavinia's ministrations, much to Farkas' slight amusement.

Then the ghost snapped her fingers.

And Hermione's hair twirled into tight, narrow braids, falling in a jaw-length ropy curtain about her head.

While Hermione felt at the tight braids, the ghostly Werewolf turned her star-blue eye to Farkas, "I never got to thank you, Farkas, for killing Sinding. Thank you, oh, thank you so much!" she darted to him, giving the young man a kiss on the cheek. It felt like warm rain in the spring and fresh mead after a long day training.

Around a heavy blush, Farkas gruffly muttered, "No trouble. Just doing what was right."

Lavinia smiled brightly, and then vanished in a flare of silvery light.

Oh, and Hircine was looking at him, You are no doubt wondering, Farkas, my Favored, when your reward for slaying my Shamed Champion will be presented to you. It shall be soon, my son. Be vigilant, and do not waver. The Stag looked between the two Hunters, one Blessed, the other… Holy, Either of you. Your trial is only beginning, and there will be much blood and sorrow between here and your goal. Wield the White Fang in my name, Hermione Granger, and send these fiends to the Abyss they deserve for defiling this sacred place, holy to more than Akatosh!

Tucking the book under her left arm, Hermione stood, the Fang in her right hand, "We shall endure this trial, Lord Hircine, and fell these beasts… one last question, before you depart?"

Speak.

Farkas stood as well, and loped to Hermione's side as she, in a mildly curt voice, asked a question that'd been bothering him since the dark tunnels, "Do you know why, exactly, Azura wishes to parlay with me?"

The Stag straightened its neck and spoke in a forbidding tone, I am aware of the reason, Hermione Granger, but cannot relate it to you. Even the Daedra have limits and rules they must abide by, as you well know. Nevertheless, I counsel you: go to Her, and listen. In the coming days, you shall know the voices and doings of many of my brethren; but, ultimately, the choice to accept aid offered is yours and yours alone, my Most Favored. Fare you well.

"Farewell, Lord Hircine," bid Hermione softly. The Stag vanished in the next breath, the presence fleeing the dark cave.

Allowing the silence to go on for a few moments, Farkas broke it by nudging the lass with his wineskin, "Drink?"

Shaking her head, she replied in a voice thick with emotion, "No, thank you." She paused, "I'd like to get back to Drevas and Serana."

Humming and putting the wineskin back, Farkas observed, "You didn't ask him to send you home."

Hermione huffed, and glared at Farkas as they made for the bridge leading back to camp, "You really think I'm just gonna leave you to Drevas' tender mercies? Or leave Drevas all alone, with no Lydia to keep him in check? Or abandon Serana?"

Smiling, Farkas glanced down at her, "Yeah. And I'm glad you didn't." he ruffled her hair. It was softer than before. "It'd be weird, if you weren't around." Mostly because of the vampire, but also because Drevas was strange.

She punched him in the side, laughing, "Arse."

. . . . .

"You what."

"Asked Hircine for my hair back. It looks nice, right Ana?"

"Ah, yes. My goodness, those are fine braids… but, Hermione…"

"Hmm?"

"You called on a Daedric Prince to give you back your hair, when you could've asked for, I don't know, virtually any Artifact Hircine could give!"

"Yeah, I could've, but my hair's more important than having more firepower. I have enough of that anyway, between Stormbringer, White Fang, and my wand."

"Well… I suppose…"

"You okay, old Mer?"

"…"

"Drevas?"

"Oh, don't mind him, my Ana. He's just trying not to think about what I've been doing."

"…You, Hermione Granger, are the most entertaining smartass I've ever had the pleasure of travelling with." A chuckle. "Your hair is a Daedric prize, wow. Just… wow."

"Um, thanks?... I think?"

"…Hey, boss. That means you can ask that one you call on Boethiah for, like, a new face or something right? It's gets kinda painful lookin' at your ugly mug all day, ya know."

"Pfft!"

"Hehehe!"

"Fuck off, boy, and get some sleep. Same goes for you two. I'll take first watch. We'll move on tomorrow."

"Goodnight Drevas, Scales, Farkas."

"Night, lass, Serana, boss."

"Breck!"

"Whuff!"

"Oh, night, Kresh. Good work today, mate."

…

…

…

…

…

…

A whisper, barely heard, "I love you, my Ana."

"And I, you, my 'Mione." The soft smack of a tender kiss, the shifting of blankets as the two lovers got comfortable...

The spark of a flame, and the crackle of the campfire. Drevas stared into them, one hand on Starfall, the other on his pipe, Scales' head on his lap.

He glanced down, "Wake me if there's trouble," his old friend huffed softly, blue eyes alert and watching, while Drevas of Mournhold finished his pipe and drifted off into a well-deserved rest.

He had a feeling he'd need it.

.

.

_\|/_

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A/N:

This chapter was hard to write. So much to put into one chapter, but I ended up going well over my word limit. The goal was 15 thousand. This chapter is just over 19 thousand. I hope you all like it.

So, Hermione has her memories back. Most of them, anyway. You'll have probably noticed her behavior didn't change much. That's because her experiences, even when meshed with what she had before the amnesia, have already changed her. In pretty significant ways, at that. Plus, she doesn't want to worry Serana and her friends. About the only changes will be a slight hesitance to kill people who aren't Falmer or draugr or, well… you'll see how it goes, once we're out of this mad gauntlet.

Not much of a Serana scene here, mostly because she's a hopeless romantic when not in combat, and I'm trying not to make this whole mini-arc a fluff-fest.

The fallout of this chapter (Hermione's restored memories, mainly) will be dealt with at the beginning of the next, so stay tuned.

Also, people keep saying it, so I'll go into a little detail:

Tamrielic vs HP-Verse magic:

Enchanting: Tamriel wins by a landslide; we don't see much enchanting in HP, so, yeah.
Practical magic: HP wins; who cares about your Fireball and your Reflecting robes when I can transfigure a coin into smoke and make you choke on it.
Potions/Alchemy: straight-up tie; HP has the Philosopher's Stone and Liquid Luck, Tamriel has potions that do virtually anything. I'm not going with Skyrim Alchemy, BTW; I'm going with Oblivion and Morrowind, because those games' mechanics weren't nerfed in favor of stupid ragdoll physics and shitty storylines.
Versatility: HP absolutely destroys Tamriel in this category. A wand is less diffuse with its spells than the (generally) AOE spells of the ES-verse; standing two inches away from a passing spell, in game, hits you anyway. In a realistic scenario, this is because the magic of the body draws the magic of the world inward, creating a sort of ethereal gravity well… but with magic. HP doesn't have this; if you miss, you miss, but the odds of you missing with a conjured block of granite that you just banished at the heavily armored guy who can't Apparate are pretty fucking low.

THEREFORE: An outright war between the two magical societies, even after taking things like militaries and readiness into account, would see present-day Tamriel getting a curb-stomp from the ICW. That's my estimation. If you'd like to discuss further, or have a counterpoint, I'm happy to debate you in PMs.

Also, can you imagine me throwing someone else, like Bellatrix, into this world?!

…Damnit! Now I'm thinking about it! Let's do some reviewer responses before I get carried away with a random plot bunny again!

Simianpower: … Who's writing the story here, me or you? Begone, n'wah.

The-Only-Temporary-Name: You'll be seeing Elenwen again soon-ish, and R'siiri again at the end of the arc. There is a reason to Elenwen's apparent bitchiness, which is alluded to in this chapter, but there's a lot more to it than just the Nerevarine being a promiscuous lizard when she was younger. Thanks for reviewing!

Everyone else… thanks for all the kind reviews! I'm glad you like! I put a lot of work into writing it!

Anyway, I'm off to work on my other stories! See you all in May (at the latest)!

~Baked

Up Next: The Betrayed Part 3: The Forgotten Vale