Astraea
Date Unknown
Wake up.
Pain was the first thing Hermione felt. It radiated in her temples, striking like little lightning bolts with each throbbing pulse.
Wake up, Hermione.
She recognized the speaking voice as her own.
It's time to wake up, now.
Wake up?
She didn't realise she'd fallen asleep.
The pain was impossible to endure. It burned with fury in her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting nothing more than to keep them shielded from the light that suddenly shone above.
Get up now.
You're home.
Home?
She rubbed her eyes with damp palms. The pressure against her sockets caused bursts of colour to radiate and dance behind her closed eyelids like a scalding kaleidoscope that pierced with every vibrant pigment. Where was this? Where was she?
Had she failed the Initiation?
Hermione felt relief. She didn't want to be in that stupid cult anyway. After what she'd seen, she wanted nothing to do with those people. They let that poor woman endure a seizure like that and didn't cast a calming charm. They likely did the same to her, too! Bastards.
Still, despite that realisation, she couldn't deny her disappointment…
Who would capture Severus' assailants now? Who'd protect the wizarding world from Puritas? Not her.
Oh, but you will.
If only...
...you open...
...your eyes.
Light shone in, the pain dissipated, colours faded and mellowed. The sun blazed overhead, searing white. It was daytime, and Hermione was not where she expected. Tall grass surrounded her, giving her only partial protection from the imposing heat of the sun.
She pulled herself into a seated position. Through the grass, she could see the expanse of the blue sea. Mellow tides reduced the waves to gentle curves, glimmering with the golden light. She could smell the salt as the humidity clung to her forehead and cheeks.
Did they just leave her here like this? Did Pollux not take her away to somewhere with civilization, like he'd done to the rest?
She wanted to be angry, to feel the outrage that a wasted evening had cost her, but she couldn't. There was no such emotion to muster. Instead, she shut her eyes again. She let out a steady breath, squeezed her hands into fists, and willed herself to apparate.
Nothing happened.
It was like she'd forgotten how.
That in and of itself should have caused her to feel panic, but it didn't. In fact, her mind wandered effortlessly toward the soothing sounds of the ocean crashing against the rocky cliff. The gentle breeze washed over her and cooled the beads of sweat which freckled her nose and upper lip.
Get up , said the voice in her head.
She felt compelled to obey. It wasn't a magical compulsion, not at all like the sort of vampiric coercion that Severus had demonstrated on her once or twice before, the sort that you had to obey even if every fibre in your body fought against it. This was gentle, yet suggestive. It was enough to get Hermione on her feet and shuffling toward the voice, which felt everywhere and nowhere at once.
She seemed to somehow know what to do. She couldn't explain it, but her feet found the few footprints in the earth that had trampled the spears of dense, tall grass, left like relics in the earth for her. Whose were they?
Curiosity faded as quickly as it came, as her small feet pressed into the dirt paved by the mysterious ones who'd been here before her. They led, to her surprise, to a massive cluster of stones.
Hermione hadn't recalled seeing the standing stones the evening prior, but they would have been impossible to miss if they were there. They were towering beasts of stone that protruded like fingers piercing the earth, slick with seawater and desperately reaching towards God. Water dripped in serpentine motion down the weeping rocks.
Hermione could feel the ancient magic here. It buzzed with electrical energy that made the hair rise from her neck and arms. If she closed her eyes, it was almost as though she were in the midst of an unrelenting storm, crackling fiercely around her.
The sudden burst of magic around her made her compelled to reach for her wand, but her hand gripped at nothing. The wand holster which previously sat on her hip was not there anymore. Actually, there was hardly anything there at all.
She had no idea how it had gone unnoticed, but Hermione's entire attire had changed. Her thick winter outfit which had barely done its job the evening prior was now replaced with a thin barely-there linen chemise that reached her ankles. It was see-through and ivory. She could see the shadow between her thighs and the dark tuffet of hair on her pubis.
She should have felt naked, embarrassed in some way for being barely clothed despite being the only one in what seemed like kilometres in this open field, but there was no shame to be felt. No terror, either, at having discovered that she had no wand or means of protecting herself—or escaping, for that matter.
Hermione...
"I'm here," Hermione responded to the voice.
A little closer…
With each step toward the standing stones, Hermione felt more assured that this is where she needed to be. It was undeniable now, the sensation that she felt. Like a thousand little pricks of electricity found her skin cells and activated her whole body. They bit at her flesh and made a shiver trail down her back as she slipped around a massive stone and stepped into the circle.
The electricity faded away. The whir of magic rose from her skin and the air stilled around her as she glanced up at the boulders that previously seemed so imposing yet suddenly became pillars of fortitude, protecting her from the chaotic world outside.
Welcome.
Hermione jumped when she saw it.
Not it— her —sitting in the centre of the stones, silent and waiting. She was a mesmerising creature, with her all too beautiful face and bare breasts, long lines of a perfectly muscular feminine stomach, and arms that were as golden as the sea beyond. But where her navel met hips, her body was something else entirely. It was another sort of golden, covered in fur. They were the thick thighs of a lion, with dense sinewy muscles that could tear a prey into shreds with one swipe. The statue of the Sphinx sitting in the centre of the circle wasn't a statue at all. It had talked!
Do not be afraid, it said.
Though its mouth didn't move and the voice that she'd heard was still her own, Hermione knew, with a level of certainty that had no logical reasoning, it was the Sphinx speaking to her.
You're safe.
"Am I alive?" Hermione asked.
It seemed like a stupid question as it left her mouth, but the entire circumstance felt so surreal, Hermione couldn't help but wonder. Had she crossed into another plane of existence? Did the potion affect her so intensely that she fell and broke her neck? Why else was she here, without the ability to apparate? With a sense of calm that felt otherworldly in the presence of such a dangerous creature?
Yes, little one. You are alive, though whether you are asleep or awake remains to be seen…
"Who are you?"
I will be asking the questions, little one.
The Sphinx regarded her without expression. Even its eyes were golden, shimmering like the sun's eternal rays. Though the creature stood with the serenity of a statue, there was a fire in those eyes that—had she the ability—would have made Hermione want to run. Though calm, this was not a docile creature. It killed. Its sole purpose was to devour the unworthy, those foolish enough to contend with such a cerebral beast.
Step forward.
As Hermione obeyed, she felt the sudden unexpected weight of self-consciousness. It was as though standing under the scrutinising gaze of the Sphinx, which was all too human, all too feminine and beautiful, Hermione felt naked.
Who are you? It asked her. Though its features remained neutral, there was a subtle hint of amusement in its tone.
"My-my name is Hermione Granger."
And tell me, Hermione Granger, who are you?
"I—" Hermione stumbled for a moment, struggling to understand how else to answer such a question. "I'm a woman."
The Sphinx remained perfectly poised and statuesque in its stillness, waiting. It was clear to Hermione that it, too, was in many ways 'a woman'. How did that answer the Sphinx's question when Hermione's response could be attributed to that of a Sphinx?
"I am a woman from England. I am a Potions Mistress. I'm an alchemist, a writer. I'm, er, a d-daughter and a man's—a person's girlfriend."
The Sphinx sat up and Hermione almost stumbled back when it approached her. Hermione barely had time to notice the massive feather-covered wings tucked on the Sphinx's back. They were elegant and far too divine to fit on such a formidable beast that, even on all fours, reached Hermione's shoulders. It was increasingly obvious that there was no use in attempting escape. If the beast wanted to pin Hermione to the floor and claw her open, it could do so with minimal effort.
Answer me, Hermione Granger, woman from England, Potions Mistress, alchemist, writer, daughter and girlfriend, this riddle:
I am calm, and I am deep.
Souls I take, yet lives I keep.
I am the moon's many moods.
I am both earth and sky.
Tell me, little one, what am I?
Hermione's heart pounded in her chest.
A Sphinx's riddle was a dangerous thing. These creatures were known to guard treasures of one's wildest dreams, but, like most effective guards, those unworthy would meet an untimely fate.
Yet, there was an undeniable excitement, for Hermione loved riddles. As a child, she'd consumed book after book of riddles, sometimes dabbling in writing her own and testing them out on friends and family.
The Sphinx remained still, holding her gaze. Hermione thanked whatever the Gods had put in the potion that prevented her from panicking in the face of such danger.
"Okay," she breathed and drummed her fingers against her thigh. "Calm, yet deep. Souls you take, so death. But you also keep lives, beings, animals? Moods of the moon, so the tides? Oh! Both earth and sky, Earth meaning planet, not land. Sky, as in the reflection of the heavens in the water. I think… Yes, I'm certain. You're the sea."
And tell me, little one, what is it you see?
"What?"
Close your eyes.
Hermione's eyes fell shut without further guidance. It wasn't darkness that greeted her as her eyes closed, but bright sunlight. It was brighter than the sun that had been shining in the standing stones. It was hot, too. The sort of hot that was imposing. A noontime summer sun that beamed overhead, uncaring of how it stifled and burned life below.
It took a moment for Hermione to realise she'd been transported to the beach, right onto the shoreline. Her toes sunk into the hot sand. Seawater gently lapped at the shore. The water reached her feet every third or fourth time. It was lukewarm and crystal clear.
The beach was entirely empty, yet perfectly idyllic. Though it felt surreal, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that she'd been there before.
Do you see it? said the Sphinx.
The creature had appeared at her side. It sat like a calm housecat that was lazily peering out the window, assessing its neighbourhood.
Hermione had no idea what the Sphinx wanted her to see, but as she looked around, trying to place the odd feeling of familiarity that bordered on nostalgia, she spotted people she hadn't seen before.
On the sand, under a large umbrella, was a woman reading alone. Sand toys and abandoned half-built sandcastles were scattered around her feet with tiny little footprints that ran in uneven lines toward the water where two children were splashing around with two men. The happy summertime scene of leisure and play warmed Hermione's heart.
The Sphinx walked toward them and Hermione followed, perplexed at what exactly the Sphinx was doing or why they were even there. It all felt so unusual. This had to have been the oddest initiation ceremony—a casual stroll on the beach with a bloody Sphinx. How potent was that hallucinogen?
The Sphinx seemed to float with an irritating amount of grace against the heavy, hot sand while Hermione felt like she was treading in water. Her feet carved into the sand like heavy-handed brushstrokes. She was relieved when the Sphinx slowed its pace and allowed her to catch up.
"Oy! Hermione!"
Hermione's head snapped in the direction of the woman sitting on the sand.
"Wait—" Hermione gasped.
Suddenly she strode forward, toward the woman, as her heart started pounding in her chest at a thousand beats per minute.
" Mum? "
The word broke in her throat, cracked with emotion as, for the first time in seven years, Hermione saw her mother's face.
But it wasn't her mother, not exactly, not like she'd remembered. She was younger, lighter. The wrinkles on her face and the sprinkling of silver that glittered in her mother's warm mahogany curls were gone. There was an ethereal, youthful beauty about her that made Hermione want to leap forward and wrap her arms around her, hold her close to her chest and never let go. She must have been Hermione's age. Hermione could hardly believe her eyes, which were quickly growing blurry with tears.
"Mind your daughter, Charles!" Hermione's mother shouted as she peered over her book.
"Akh, she's fine! Aren't you, Hermione?"
Hermione's head snapped, now, toward the man. Charles. Hermione grew lightheaded from the sight of him.
"Dad…"
He was almost unrecognisable. Broad shoulders, tan, with a full head of golden hair. He had a ruggedness that had faded in Hermione's most recent recollections of him as the passage of time and chronic medical ailments had robbed him of all vigour and vitality, before…
Hermione swallowed the dense knot that formed in her throat at the painful memory of their obliviation. It had been nearly eight years, now, since she'd seen them last.
"I'm fine!" A voice squeaked from the water.
"Wait—" Hermione sucked in a breath.
Suddenly, she knew where they were: Côte d'Azur.
She hated it here.
Her stomach squeezed at the sight of the little girl. Even with waterlogged, salty hair, the frizz and curls were immediately recognizable.
She was tiny. For a seven year old, young Hermione Granger was skin and bones. The delicate little bumps of her spine were visible from where Hermione stood, and she watched as her younger self struggled to tread water. She was floating on her belly, her legs and arms curved and kicking like a nervous dog as she gracelessly rode the waves.
The discomfort in Hermione's gut worsened as she watched the tides, seemingly slow and relaxed from the shore, slowly drag the girl further and further away from her father who was too preoccupied tossing his nephew up into the air.
It could have been a benign afternoon, like one of many French summer holidays Hermione's parents and uncle's family enjoyed, lounging on the beach as their pale bodies soaked in a rare bit of sun. But this wasn't one of those afternoons.
"I'd like to leave," Hermione said to the Sphinx.
And where would you like to go?
She anxiously eyed the other adults, all of whom were equally preoccupied with their idle chatter, sunbathing, or romance novels to pay any attention to the little girl who'd floated far out from the rest of the group.
"Anywhere else but here."
But you aren't here.
"What? Please, I—" Her eyes shifted rapidly toward the sea.
Hermione's heart was pounding in her chest.
Even as a child, Hermione hated the water. She loathed most physical activity. She'd more than anything enjoyed sitting in her mother's shadow, reading her textbooks for the upcoming school year. She was very good at that.
What she wasn't good at was swimming, despite the little white lie she'd told her dad who, year after year, was increasingly pressuring her to accompany him in the water. Mr. Granger wanted a son, someone he could toss into the air and rough-house with, someone who could take a joke and would fight back.
Hermione was not a son. She wasn't tough and active, she was frail and cerebral. But Hermione cared deeply about her parents and wanted nothing more than to please them and obtain their approval. So, she lied.
"You okay, Hermione? Ooof—Arnold, careful, you nearly knocked off my glasses!" Hermione's dad didn't glance in her direction as he continued to throw his squealing nephew in the air.
"Y—" There was a small cough. "Yeah, dad!"
"I need to do something," Hermione said.
Why are you afraid, little one?
"Please—" Hermione looked at the Sphinx.
It stared back without concern or pity.
You know what happens…
Hermione knew in her rational mind that this wasn't real; she hadn't time travelled. The space around them was so altered, it hardly resembled reality. She was in a sort of dream state, no doubt, but watching it occur before her eyes was a sort of psychological torture she didn't think she could endure. It was like watching her own child nearly escape the grips of Death.
"I know, but—Oh, God." Hermione watched in horror as her younger self disappeared from view. She took several steps forward.
You've been touched by death many times, haven't you?
"I have to save her," Hermione said, her muscles clenching as she stared with panic into the ocean.
Where was the little girl? Hermione tried to leap forward, desperate to reach the girl and pull her from the predatory clutches of the sea, but to her shock, her body didn't cooperate. Her limbs had stiffened, like the muscles in her thighs. Her calves had calcified and feet became embedded into the sand. She was frozen in place.
"Please!" She turned to the Sphinx. "I have to save her."
The creature sat composed and calm. Its eyes remained on her.
Why are you frightened, little one? You know you survived. Why? Why do you think you made it out unscathed?
"Let me go!"
You know what happens, Hermione.
Whether it was a trick of the Sphinx or a visceral memory, Hermione could taste the seawater. She could feel liquid fill her lungs and sensed the panic she'd felt as a little girl when the riptides wrapped her up and the ocean swallowed her into its dark and silent belly.
Despite the terror, she fought against the limitations of her body. With two hands, she gripped at her thighs and tried to yank them from the earth, willing them with open desperation to abide by her will. She needed to do something, but—
Oh God.
Hermione let out a sob.
She still didn't know how to swim.
Why do you think you've made it out unscathed?
The Sphinx took a step forward and faced her now. It sat on its hindlegs, equally relaxed yet ready to pounce at a moment's notice. The way it looked at Hermione, still without emotion but with a slight tilt of its head, indicated to Hermione that this question was not rhetorical.
"I—"
Hermione sucked in a breath, and then another. She pressed her palm against her chest and felt her heartbeat. She willed herself to relax as her breathing grew erratic from the pain and stress of this nightmare.
Unscathed was not the word Hermione would use to describe herself. Unscathed implied a purity, a sort of pristine softness that wasn't ravaged by the terrors of war. Hermione wasn't unscathed. Yet, the Sphinx's question made the presumption that she was.
Sure, she wasn't as jaded or bitter as some of the other people who'd endured war. Ron, for example, had grown increasingly angry and hateful at Hermione's and Harry's success. And, it was true that while Harry was relatively well-adjusted for a man who had endured brushes with Death at least twice—having actually succumbed to it once—and had been the sole hero in charge of fighting the tyrant who'd threatened all of the wizarding world, for many years he'd found his comfort at the bottom of a bottle.
Harry had slowly climbed out of the rut and did everything he could to distract himself from the destruction war and death had caused him. This distraction, he'd confessed to Hermione during one of their many drunken sorrowful evenings of reminiscing, included getting married and having children, a fate he'd always felt ill-equipped for. He considered himself an imposter, despite—to Hermione's observation—being a perfectly loving husband and caring father.
You don't touch Death like that and come out unscathed.
Death had left its paw prints on each of their lives. It had decayed the trust that Ron had for everyone. It had stolen Harry's parents and left him feeling lost in the world. What had it done to Hermione?
Hermione stared at the vast expansive ocean. What had previously been gentle, unassuming waves now seemed to Hermione like the furious tides of a maelstrom, but she knew they hadn't changed. It was all in her head.
Little one?
"I've made it out unscathed because..."
She stared intently at the spot that her former self had been bobbing up and down. No doubt her father would find her now. He'd scoop her up in his arms and make sure she was safe.
Any minute now.
"Because…"
She swallowed the anger. What was taking him so long? Why hadn't he noticed his daughter had disappeared under the waves? How could he have been so careless?
"Because I'm loved." Hermione swallowed bitterly, her eyes trailing away from the sea.
She understood why the Sphinx was showing her this memory. She knew it was a trick of the elusive, vicious creature to make her doubt it, but she refused to let the anger get to her.
"Because I have people that care for me and have looked out for me my whole life."
It was true. Her father did save her. Perhaps it wasn't in the timeliest manner, but he must have. And so had her friends. She'd endured because she was surrounded by people who had looked out for her best interest. Harry and Ron, with their unending support during her days at Hogwarts. Her parents, with their love for her. Dumbledore, with his pervasive wisdom. Severus, by being a stable force in her life that she could lean on.
Hmm.
The Sphinx stared at her without blinking. For a while, it didn't say anything. Perhaps it wasn't satisfied. Perhaps it was considering unhinging its jaws and eating Hermione whole. It watched her with a motive Hermione didn't understand. It did nothing to ease her nerves.
She had no idea whether the Sphinx could actually harm her, given that she was clearly in a state of unconsciousness and all of this seemed to be wrapped up in a sort of delirium-induced nightmare.
That's not the whole answer, is it?
It sat up, its tail flicking in the air at invisible flies.
But, for now…
It tilted its head, its lips slowly curving into a smile.
It will do.
Suddenly, darkness shrouded her again.
The tight grip of teleportation had her by the waist and flung her to her next destination. It was a nauseating affair, as though she'd accidentally touched an object she didn't realise was a Portkey.
When she landed, Hermione let out a groan and sat up. They had reappeared in the centre of the standing stones. The sun had gone down, and the sky was awash with vibrant cotton candy colours. From the sway of the grass, Hermione could tell the ocean breeze was unrelenting but she couldn't feel any of it within the walls of the stones.
The Sphinx circled around the boulder in the centre before leaping up to the edge with one graceful jump. It sat, stoically staring at Hermione before it slowly lifted its paw to its face and, to Hermione's surprise, parted her very human lips and ran a tongue over the back of her paw, quietly grooming herself.
When it was done, and Hermione had a chance to catch her breath from the stress of what she'd just endured, the Sphinx spoke.
Hermione Granger, you have been invited to join the Circle of the Sphinx.
Though one might argue that you are stubborn, self-stifling, and attention seeking, I have observed several admirable traits that would make you an asset to the Circle and to the cause.
Despite your faults, your mind is exceptional. But this is not why you were chosen. Nor was it for your blade-sharp wit or valiant bravery, which are both prominent attributes of yours.
No, it is not your head, but your heart that will make you a value to the Circle.
So I ask you this, Hermione Granger, what is it your heart seeks?
Before Hermione could respond, the Sphinx lifted its paw and pointed a claw at her before slowly drawing a counter-clockwise circle in the air, indicating for Hermione to turn around.
She hated the idea of turning her back to a Sphinx, but upon seeing what stood behind her, Hermione understood. Yes, this was a dream, it had to be. There was no way that she could have been in the presence of such an artefact.
If one didn't know better, one would think it was a simple, albeit ornate, mirror. And, as Hermione slowly approached it, even she questioned its authenticity. Would a Mirror of Erised in a dream be akin to the real thing, or would she just see what she wanted to see? But as Hermione read the inscription carved into the wood of the mirror, she discovered it wasn't the Mirror of Erised at all, nor any other mirror Hermione knew to exist.
Traeh fo tub, dnim fo ton, egdelwonk wohs I.
I show knowledge, not of mind, but of heart.
Then do so, mirror.
What do you think you'll see?
The Sphinx startled her as it appeared at her side, its tail curling around Hermione's hips as it walked in a slow circle around her.
Fame? Or riches?
No. You have both, and you are still displeased.
Hermione tried to ignore its words. She stared intently at the mirror, but only saw her reflection as it was: her curls in disarray, her bones nearly jutting through her skin as months of malnutrition had eaten away at her.
A family, perhaps?
Alas, no. If you wanted a family, you would have chosen a man who could provide one for you.
Her jaw tightened at the words.
What did the Sphinx know about her life? How could it possibly determine something so final? She took another step toward the mirror and pressed her palms against the cold glass, willing it to reveal itself.
Perhaps…
Power?
"Peace," Hermione said with a biting tone. "I'd want peace."
The Sphinx laughed. It was the first real semblance of emotion she'd seen from the creature. It made a shiver run down Hermione's spine as she spotted the enormous lion's fangs that appeared past her soft, feminine pout. It fit her face like a snake in a baby's crib, terrifying and strange.
If I were not a figment of your mind, you'd be dead for the second time, little one.
Hermione winced at the words, but as the Sphinx's attention turned toward the mirror, so, too, did Hermione's. Something had shifted. The hazy mist in the mirror seemed to swirl until it created images in the empty space. Outlines of people slowly came into focus, and were gradually fleshed out to reveal their identities.
Harry was the first person she noticed, with his raven black hair and round spectacles. He stood behind someone in the centre of the mirror, someone who Hermione couldn't identify.
Hermione spotted Ginny next, holding onto Harry's arm and with a baby sitting on her hip. Ron was there too, and her parents—though they were how she remembered them last, smaller and subdued with old age. Then, she saw Severus.
Hermione pressed her palm against the mirror, reaching. He looked at her, almost through her. He stood closest to the blurry person in the centre and his hand wrapped tightly around their waist. Her friend's and family's expressions were neutral, not at all giving away any hint whether they were happy to be there.
Why did Hermione want this? She had most of this already. And, where was she?
Before her anxious mind could spiral towards any conclusions, the figure in the middle came into focus. It had the outline of a woman, with a narrow waist, and modest curves at its hips that indicated mature femininity.
Smoke rose from her body as her legs formed first. They were thick and strong. Her quadriceps were lined with muscle as each limb sizzled silently in the reflection as though they were forged by the Gods out of thin air, one artful piece at a time. They took a wide stance, occupying the space around them with no regard for anyone else. They looked nothing like her scrawny, pale limbs.
As the torso and arms formed before Hermione's eyes, she began to wonder who this person was, with her strong biceps, defined shoulders, and a fierceness to her that almost intimidated Hermione.
The woman looked like a warrior, or perhaps an assassin. As her skin glimmered, Hermione thought the woman could even have been mistaken for a Goddess, crafted from celestial fire, her power and might transcending any mere mortal's.
The woman wore a thick black robe around her shoulders, and a thin silver dress that accented the woman's femininity in a way that felt the most peculiar of all. It was almost too delicate for such strength.
It was to Hermione's utmost surprise, then, when her face came into view.
Hermione gasped and took a step back. Her hair, wild and curly, swayed with the wind so violently it covered most of Severus' face and made it perfectly clear that the woman standing in the centre of the mirror, muscular and merciless, was herself .
There was an undeniable roughness to the way she stared back, with tight brows and a tense body. What did this mean? Why was she so severe?
Peace, Hermione Granger, is a myth.
You know all about myths, don't you?
Hermione's eyes flitted for a moment to the Sphinx who continued to pace around her with slow, silent steps.
Watch closely, little one, and tell me it's peace you're after…
It was hard to imagine this was herself. It was clearly her face and her friends, but the girl who looked back at her was all sharp lines and chiselled form. She was fierce and unyielding. Her hands were folded behind her back and her legs were shoulder-length apart. She stared, firmly planted with no fear or hesitation, at her real self beyond the mirror.
As the woman, this uncanny reflection of Hermione who looked nothing like her but was her, revealed her hands from her back, she procured a gleaming golden crown. It had the appearance of gilded woven laurel leaves that came together at the centre. The woman was slow to raise it as she placed it on the top of her head.
Perplexingly, it suited her. Though this woman looked, at first, like a fierce fighter, her subtle demure features contrasted with the severity and power of her body. It must have been a trick of the light as the sun's glare shone onto the mirrored reflection, but Hermione almost thought the crown had moved on its own.
It had moved.
It slithered.
Suddenly, the laurel morphed in front of her eyes, its elegant embellished leaves transforming into scales as a serpent's head appeared. Hermione swallowed with dread at the disturbing sight. She didn't know what to make of this image–of the woman who stood, nonresponsive to the fact that a serpent had made its nest in her hair.
It wasn't until the serpent uncoiled, its head hovering just around the woman's ear, that Hermione tensed and stepped back. She wanted nothing to do with the reptile, whose iconography alone depicted its malice.
The snake lifted its head back for a moment before striking forward, biting the woman in the cheek. Droplets of blood spilled down her face, but she did not move. There was not a wince or a grimace to indicate that she'd even felt it. Again, the snake bit her, this time on the ear. It grew more bold, wandering down as its scaly, shining body wrapped around the woman's throat while its venomous fangs pierced her neck and chest.
When it wandered down between her breasts and sunk its fangs into the woman's abdomen, that was when she responded. She lifted her hand. Her fingers glided along the scales of the serpent with little fear. She gently gripped the snake and plucked it from her body, as though it were a weed and she, the garden.
She held it there in front of Hermione. The woman's eyes wandered to the snake as her expression remained as calm as the Sphinx'. The snake wasn't finished as it suddenly attempted to strike at the woman's breast, but as soon as it did, a blazing fire erupted from the woman's palm, igniting the snake as it burned in a magnificent blaze, from the centre where she held it all the way to its head and tail. The snake crumbled into ash and fell to the floor as the woman's blood seeped into her robe and dripped down her chin.
Then, to Hermione's entranced surprise, the woman smiled. It was subtle at first, but with the smallest tilt of her head and the way her eyes lit up, Hermione could see the woman behind the fire, delicate and feminine and full of sexual charisma. The woman relaxed, her muscles eased, and with a seductive little smirk, she stepped forward.
This version of Hermione was even less recognizable to her.
What the hell was going on?
The woman beyond the mirror glanced down. The smile was still playing softly on her lips, but she tilted sideways and slowly brought forth something from behind her back. It was a cup, a glittering gold chalice encrusted with red rubies, which the woman held with both hands.
It was oddly familiar. Yes, it was so familiar, but the harder Hermione tried to think about where she'd seen it before, the more her head started to hurt, like a muscle that was being worked too hard.
For a moment, Hermione thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, but as the woman in the mirror lifted the goblet, it appeared as though her fingers were beginning to fade into the same golden hue of the chalice. It wasn't until the gold pervaded over her arms, up her neck, and over her face that Hermione realised it wasn't an accident. For a moment, it appeared as though the woman was turning into a solid gilded statue.
This dream was so bizarre. What did it mean for her if that was her heart's true desire? She wanted to turn into gold ?
The theory was quickly dispelled when the woman slowly brought the chalice up to her lips and took a long drink.
When she lowered the goblet, she'd transformed entirely. She was unrecognisable. Her face was the vibrant gold of the rest of her body, but it was also carved and adorned in intricate Florentine curves and swirls that appeared floral in the way they framed around her eyes and cheekbones. She looked beautiful—a living work of art.
Hermione watched breathlessly as the woman stepped closer. Her smile was wider now, a knowing look twinkling in her eyes as she slowly leaned forward, extending both arms to offer Hermione the chalice.
Hermione shot a glance at the Sphinx who, up until that point sat idly watching the exchange without word or expression. It locked eyes with her and gave a curt nod.
You may take it, if you so choose.
It didn't require much more thought. Hermione's curiosity was far more compelling than any threat of danger at the prospect of taking a mysterious chalice from a magical mirror in a dream.
Hermione leaned forward. Her fingertips touched the cold mirror. The woman pressed the chalice toward her and, in a moment that made Hermione's heart pound like a drum in her chest, Hermione felt it—the metal of the cup. But it wasn't metal…
Nor, to her confusion, was it a cup.
Hermione stared at the item in her hands. Instead of holding the heavy golden chalice that was given to her by her idealised, unusually fictitious version, what lay in Hermione's hands was a large, blood-red pomegranate. It was cracked open. The marrow within was white. Its ruby seeds were abundant and spilled from all sides to the floor.
Perplexed, Hermione turned to the Sphinx once more.
Drink, my child.
With this cup, you will be one with the Circle, the only known entity with the power and ability to fight terror and darkness in this world. Drink, and you will be stripped of your identity. You will relinquish your name and face. You will become one of the Circle.
Drink, Astraea, and join the Circle of the Sphinx.
Her hands trembled as she stared at the fruit. For a brief moment, Hermione felt the tinge of fear and the nagging urge to take a moment and think this through. But when she glanced up at the mirror before her, at the brutal, beautiful woman standing with poise, grace, and clear confidence, there was no need to pause.
There was no doubt in her mind.
Without another moment wasted, Hermione brought the pomegranate to her lips and poured its seed into her mouth.