Summary: An sorceress contracts a witcher to capture a djinn, and everyone who has read The Last Wish collectively cringes at my lack of originality.

THE LAST WISH

V

"You're really much too interested in this, Miss Granger," said Harry, gently urging the stallion to the right to follow the path. To his left, Hermione shrugged, slouched over so low in her saddle that she was practically resting her face in her mare's mane:

"Well, everything else is so very boring. Meadow this, forest that, glade the other... not to mention there's not much conversation to be had with this lot," she said, and pointed ahead, in the direction of the stone-faced soldiers and the sorcerers who looked like they wanted nothing more than to put an ocean between themselves and the witcher.

"Viktor's still around, you know," he said, nodding to the fur-wrapped southerner, who returned the gesture.

"We've spent the last two hours talking, if you haven't noticed," Hermione reminded.

"Then talk to him another two hours."

"You know, when I first met you, you struck me as a much kinder man than you actually are."

"And you struck me as a no-nonsense type, unaffected by and uninterested in idle gossip," Harry retorted.

"In normal cases you'd be correct," said Hermione.

"What? Am I an abnormal case, then?"

The sorceress glared. "You know very well that I was not going to say that."

"What would you have said then?"

"A special case," said the brunette primly, nodding proudly as though she was the paragon of tact. "They tell us, elves, humans, and dwarves alike, that witchers are inhuman monsters. That you are incapable of loving, or caring, or even feeling the most basic emotion. And yet it's quite clear you care for that bard immensely."

"It's also quite clear," said Harry, "that you are an obsessive: We've been traveling what, two days since Novigrad?"

"Three."

"We've passed Roggeveen?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"And you've still not shut up about her."

"Well, then just admit it: you do care for her, this Anariette."

"Sure. Of course I do," Harry said, partially saying it because it was the truth, but mostly saying it so the sorceress would finally leave him alone.

"Do you love her?"

"Love?" Harry snorted.

Hermione sat up ramrod straight in her saddle, and glared back at him. While kinder than most mages, Hermione still retained that telltale pride that all mages had, which always seemed to be so easily wounded. Every time she felt someone was even attempting to make a joke at her expense, Hermione rose like a wraith and immediately squashed her tormentor with a quick and ruthless lash of the tongue. She was rather lethal at it, too, so Harry immediately raised his arms up in surrender.

"What's so funny about it?" the sorceress interrogated.

"I don't know. It's just such a strange thing to be asked."

"Eternal Fire, Elf, would you two shut up?" someone groaned from up ahead, and though the Redanians looked relieved that someone had finally spoken up, Harry was quite certain it came from the coterie of sorcerers. And indeed it had come from that group, for Hermione's eyes narrowed at one of the group in particular:

"I don't recall talking to you, Malfoy," she snapped at Lucius Malfoy, riding among his compatriots up ahead.

"And yet I still have to hear it," the blond man said, delivering a suitable riposte. "And it's torture, listening to your naive tosh about love. Witchers don't love; they're mere pretenders who thought they could be mages and sacrificed their humanity to steal a few parlour tricks, claiming that now makes them capable to fight monsters."

"I think Harry can decide that for himself," the brunette growled.

Though he was a very handsome man, Lucius Malfoy had a repellent smile: it was a rancid, wormy gash under a strong, straight nose, and piercing blue eyes that would make maidens swoon wherever he went, so long as the man never smiled. The witcher had seen drowners more handsome than a smiling Malfoy, yet Malfoy smiled all the same, odious and slippery.

"Well, let's ask him then," he said silkily. "Mutant. Have you ever loved?"

Harry decided to move on; he wasn't here to get into involved in a shouting match between Hermione and some sycophant sorcerer who had attached himself at the hip to King Vestibor. But it appeared the sorcerer had other ideas, clapping him harshly on the shoulder as he passed by:

"I asked you a question. Why do you not answer?"

Harry shrugged the other man off. "Touch me again, and King's leashed mage or not, I'll take that hand as a souvenir."

The sorcerer did not touch him again. Whether Malfoy truly believed he was a mutant who stole a few parlour tricks from proper mages, there were few out there brave enough to repeatedly antagonise a witcher, and it seemed the silver-blond man hadn't the stones. Harry overtook the mages, and fell in line with the soldiers, instead.

"Sorry about that, Master Witcher," apologised Neville, "but thank you for not letting this escalate any further than it did. I'd not want to explain to Vestibor that a witcher cut off the head of his most trusted sorcerer."

"I'd rather not dwell on it, Longbottom. For now, let's just ride."

The soldiers nodded and immediately picked up the pace. And soon, they fell into a comfortable silence, and not one of them thought to disturb Harry. And the witcher was perfectly fine with that. They might not be perfect, but the soldiers, hardy and used to a life of combat, were more his people than a pack of sorcerers would ever be.

They arrived in the region of Ghelibol a day after that, quickly skirting around the stronghold of Mirt, not wanting to attract the attention of Cultists of the Lionhead Spider. They soon settled for supper in a small town on the Nimnar. While the soldiers and sorcerers headed to what few taverns were in the region, Harry simply settled by his horse and dined on a few cuts of cured meat and hardtack, which he had carried in his saddlebags.

The sun set late, as it always did this far north in the continent, and by nightfall, a bitter wind flew through the small town, the thatched-roofs hardened with the first touches of frost, and a million stars blinked in the cloudless sky, coldly watching over it all.

It was then, alone and unwatched, that Harry began his search for The Fisherman. Susan had told him the best person to ask after The Fisherman was the proprietor at the Sundowner Tavern, situated at the edge of town where it was steeped at the banks of the river on one side.

She had also said that it would be wiser to consult the man long after the typical, rowdy crowd had retired home for the evening, and that was precisely when the witcher stole into the near empty pub.

"What can I get for you, mate?" the bartender inquired from behind a stall brimming with jugs of vodka. Like the innkeep behind them, the alcohol was also obscured behind a platter of salami and sausage, that were laid out next to a long string of garlic and onions that hung from the ceiling.

He was a thin and short man, wearing dirtied apron over a rough cloth jerkin; his face was sweaty and stained with the soot of some fire he'd been attending to earlier, and a greasy rag was tied inelegantly around his bald head. Despite having the look of a country bumpkin, there was a gleam in his cold, grey eyes, a bright spark of intelligence that couldn't fully be hidden by dirty, ill-fitting clothes and his simpleton expression.

"Rye. Temerian, if you have it."

The shopkeep's eyes narrowed, true to form. No red-blooded, patriotic Redanian would dare ask for a Temerian spirit, of course.

"Aye," he said, disappearing under the bar and soon resurfacing with a glass bottle filled with amber liquid, "I have it. Anything else you're looking for?"

"I could go for a nice trout, or salted cod."

"Fish, you say?"

"Of course, but only the best. I hear this town sells the best."

"Oh? And who did you hear it from?"

"A fiery woman with a voice like a siren."

The barkeep nodded slowly, turned to his right, where a stack of recently-cleaned terracotta cups lay, and gathered one of them. He returned to his post and uncorked the bottle, pouring out the whisky quickly, in a manner that could only come with years of experience behind the counter.

He slid the drink over to the witcher. "You want the best fish in town, you won't find it here."

"So tell me where I might find it," Harry replied, and took a quick swig of whisky.

"There's a fishery, not too far from here," the barkeep said, "it's a bit out of the way, but you can find some the best cuts there: trout, cod, salmon, common roach, whatever you desire. The fisherman... the fishmonger is, well, a bit odd. But he's up all hours, and you won't get better value anywhere else."

"How do I get there? I'd reckon I'd like to make a stew for tomorrow."

"Outside, follow the Nimnar along the path away from town, until you reach a bend, and then a fork in the road. Go, left, toward the river until you smell smoked salmon. Then, follow your nose and you'll find the fisherman's hut. For the right price, he'll take care of all your needs."

Harry tossed a few Novigradian crowns on the counter. "Thanks for the drink."

"My pleasure."

Harry adjusted the strap of his sword-belt, coughed once lightly, and stepped out into the night. The cold wind still blew, but it was soft enough that the witcher found it more pleasant than burdensome. The witcher started down the path, whistling a light tune he had heard some years ago in Lyria, seemingly unmindful of where he was going. That was the way it would appear to the common bystander, at least.

He looked to the trees opposite the river; they stood as watchmen, calmly swaying in the breeze. There was whistling like breathing, and the crunching of leaves underfoot an uneven gait, and the sounds of jangling, yet the trees stood proudly in their armour of roots and bark, making none of those sounds. The noises suddenly captivated Harry, slowing when he slowed, speedin up when he sped up, and stopping entirely if he did the same, first.

Crunch, a twig snapped somewhere, softly to the normal ear, but to Harry, it was loud enough to fill half the world with its thunder.

The witcher stopped, and drew his sword on the forest. "You can come out, now," he, eyeing the bush critically.

The uneven gait began once more, and leaves were again crushed by it; it came closer, closer, until a pale, thin face and amber eyes poked out from the darkness.

"Lady Granger," Harry said respectfully, though he kept his sword drawn. "What brings you by this way, so late at night?"

The sorceress scoffed. "I'd wager I could ask you the same question,"

"I'm out for a stroll; you're the one stalking me from shrubbery to shrubbery," Harry retorted. "What's your excuse?"

"I aim to find out where it is you're going; it's had you acting stranger since we left Novigrad," she said, only just slightly limping toward him, a little flaw of the body expressed so quickly and covered up so thoroughly by the rest of its magical perfection, that Harry nearly did not notice the quirk.

"What's happened to your leg?" he asked, concerned.

"Leg?" Hermione answered, "nothing's happened to my leg."

Harry blinked; had she walked that way the whole time? How did he not notice? Lacking any pretense of subtlety, he stared at her shapely legs. The witcher's gaze moved slowly up the length of them, lingering on a pack strapped to her thigh, with a small, corked vial, filled three-quarters with a sludgy substance, holstered in it.

"That looks... appetising," he said, indicating the vial.

Hermione blushed and turned away, so he couldn't see the concoction. "It's.. a poultice. Not unlike the ones you witchers use. Except, of course, it won't rip my insides to shreds."

"What's it for?"

"Why are you so curious about it?" she huffed.

"Because you're embarrassed about it."

"Well, yes. Because it is embarrassing," the sorceress said, and looked away, "it's for—how shall I put it delicately?—Women's health."

"I see," mumbled Harry awkwardly. "It still doesn't explain what you're doing hiding behind the bushes."

"Isn't it obvious? I was following you."

"Why?"

"You didn't dine with us," she accused, as if this was strange behaviour.

"I'm not especially fond of our company, Lady Hermione; your sorcerer friends are—"

"Cunts, I know," Hermione interrupted indelicately, in a manner completely unlike her own, and much closer to the witcher's own disposition. Harry raised an eyebrow, and the brunette flushed once more.

"This and the poultices," he remarked with a laugh, "you certainly are gynecological tonight."

"Honestly, do shut up," sneered the sorceress. "Do you know what's been on my mind, lately?"

"Yes, vaginas."

"Again, shut up. And no, it's you I'm thinking of. You've been rather pensive lately, ever since we left Novigrad, and it's only intensified since we passed through Roggeveen. At first, I thought you might be missing your bard, and then I thought it might be our company, as you said. But I disagree, because while they might be fiends, you've forgotten one crucial thing while you've enjoyed your jests, Master Witcher. And do you know what that is?"

"What is it?"

"That I can read your mind." Harry suddenly noticed the foreign feeling of intrusion just as it slipped away; Hermione stared back, a wide grin set upon her pretty, elvish features. "So come along now, let's find this fisherman of yours."

Harry rounded on her:

"How much do you know?" he interrogated.

"Enough to know things about the Temerian Secret Service that I have no inclination of informing Vestibor of. I was born in Aedirn; I've no interest in the fate or politics of Redania. And I've even less of a desire to turn in the lady love of one of my friends," Hermione finished, her grin transforming to a feline smile of quiet contentment in knowing she had the upper-hand over the witcher.

Harry drew back; it was enough for now, but he would take stronger caution around the sorceress in the future. Charming as she was, she was like most mages in having boundary issues and entirely too much curiosity. So, he turned away, and began walking down the path as if Hermione had never interrupted him:

"Come along, then," he groused, "I haven't got all night."

The sorceress trotted over and fell in step with Harry, as they quickly traveled down the long and winding path around the snake-like Nimnar. The time spent along the road gave Harry time to observe his partner, particularly her gait. It was subtle enough that even the witcher didn't even notice it until he faced her down with a sword, observing the sorceress in the same light that he might a forktail. It would be impossible for the common man to see, but witcher senses were just keen enough to see her limp slightly with every step.

She was a mage. Practically every injury she'd ever received could be healed completely, so her limp had to be involuntary, psychosomatic, as the pomps at Oxenfurt would say, as though it was something she was used to. Perhaps, then, it was an old wound, sustained long before she received her training in magic.

"So what was it?" the witcher asked; if she had no qualms asking him personal questions, then he would not either.

"What was what?"

"Your leg. Wyvern? Cyclops?"

Hermione's alarmed eyes shot up from the road, to him, and Harry met brown orbs with a patient, golden gaze. Or, at least he hoped it looked patient, people were rarely anything but unnerved when looking into his eyes, and the chestnut-haired sorceress seemed no different: she looked away, and was silent for a very long time.

As they passed a bend and marched down the left path at a fork in the road, just when Harry thought he had sparked that famous sorceress ire, Hermione answered, softly. "It was a rock troll."

"Oof," Harry grimaced. "Tough buggers when they get angry. And they get angry easily."

"Yes, you're certainly right about that," murmured Hermione.

He thought to ask the woman how she came about meeting this rock troll, but just as he opened his mouth, a faint and familiar, pleasant scent wafted to his nose. It smelled of salt-water, smoke, and seared, sea-borne flesh; the scent of cooking fish mingled with that of vanilla and parchment paper, the latter of which emanated, the witcher soon deduced, from his companion.

"We're nearing," he said confidently.

"Ah, yes, I can tell: it smells like the bloody Novigrad docks at dawn," Hermione frowned, and scrunched her nose in distaste.

Harry laughed. "You think this is bad? Try gutting one yourself."

"I'll pass," said Hermione, as they passed through a slight obstacle by way of bushes, and out into the light of a campfire, where a relatively fresh catch of fish roasted over the flames.

A man, old and haggard, tired and bored, sat tending to the fire with a conviction of an old man ready for death. His grey hair was tangled and gnarled, and his face might have been pleasing, had it not been covered nearly entirely by a beard as well-groomed as the bird's nest obscuring his jaw. His skin oily and olive-coloured, from his years slaving away in the sun.

The Fisherman looked up, with eyes hard and piercing like a shard of ice.

"A witcher and an elf, fantastic," he murmured lowly to himself, perhaps thinking Harry wouldn't be able to hear it, "Go away. come back in the morning; it's far, far too late for customers."

"Please," scoffed Hermione, "we're not customers."

The sunburned man's eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched stubbornly, in the same way that annoyed simpleton might try. "If you're customers, come back in the morning. If you're not customers, then fuck off; I don't need bloody canvassers at my doorstep."

"Well done, Granger. Real subtle," murmured Harry, earning an equally annoyed glare from the sorceress, as she received from The Fisherman. "We're here for fish. And we won't until morning."

"Lady elf over here just said you weren't shopping."

"She doesn't know how to haggle," Harry dismissed casually. "Grew up with the Elves of the Blue Mountains; all of them are arse-backwards there. Talk to me, and you'll get a good deal."

"Ah, you will, will you? So, then what are you in for?"

"Two fishes," replied Harry. "Exotic, not native to these parts."

"Exotic? I fish in the Nimnar; how am I to wrangle up a catch that isn't native to the river?"

Harry shrugged. "They probably swam in on their own, and perhaps caused quite a ruckus among the common folk. People aren't used to strange things or strange people around here."

The Fisherman squinted, then those chips of ice widened, and glittered with understanding. "Were you recommended to me by someone, Master Witcher?"

"It was a siren, I believe. Lovely voice. Gorgeous hair."

"Ah, I see. Well, come then," the man said, gesturing to the door of his hut. "We'll finish our negotiation for your fish inside."

Harry nodded, and The Fisherman turned to his roasted fish, pulling them off the fire one-by-one, into a copper plate that had been laying a few feet from the flame and smoke. Once finished, the old man picked up the plate, nodded toward Harry and Hermione, and turned for the door. Hermione, in a manner she seemed to think covert, took a quick step backward so the witcher would have to take the lead; Harry half-wondered if she expected an ambush waiting in the shack.

The Fisherman marched like a soldier, one foot high and sure with every step, and he managed to open the door to his hut with surprising grace for a man with both hands full. Harry came up behind, and held the door open to help the man in, and waited politely for Hermione to go in.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

"Chivalric code, Lady Hermione. It would stain my honour to go in before you," he said, mockingly.

The sorceress sneered mightily as she stepped inside, where The Fisherman sat at a small, ramshackle table, a meat cleaver in hand. Hermione gave the man a leery look from the edge of the room, and then crossed her arms:

"Might I ask what the knife is for?"

"Protection." He shrugged casually. "You know who I am, but I don't have any assurances who you are, beside you appearing to know Red."

Red must have been Susan. "Isn't that enough?" Harry questioned, unmindful of his knife when he sat at the table opposite the fishmonger.

"Hardly. Ye could have captured the poor lass and tortured it out of her."

"Oh, please. Honestly, if he wanted to hurt you, he could," Hermione said.

The Fisherman nodded, considering that. "Aye, that's true, I'd likely be no match for a witcher."

"Precisely," said Harry, intending to nip this argument before it wasted any more time. "I'm a witcher. A caste who are famously apolitical. I have little loyalty to Temeria, and even less to Redania; this is just business."

"Chatter away, Master Witcher, Lady Elf, but I'm not putting the knife away. Makes me feel safe, if nothing else."

"If it makes you more comfortable, then go ahead."

"Good, thank'ee Master Witcher. Now, about this fish, of yours... exotic, you said, so they're not from the backwater?"

"Nope, exotic, strange, and magical, I'd reckon these two are graduates from Ban Ard. Both are men, and probably have only recently appeared wherever they've gone."

"Kaedweni accents?"

"Possibly, we can't be sure."

"But strange and new..." The Fisherman trailed off, but soon perked up, "ah! I have heard of something like that, in point of fact. One of my little mountainside rats from the town of Wezyn, deep within the Kestrels, scurried a message over to me not more that two days past."

"Two strangers arrived in town four days ago, dressed in rich kaftans and carrying jewelry and precious stones," he said, "they speak with accent, possibly Kaedweni, possibly from Upper Aedirn."

"The accent, is Lormark a possibility?" Hermione interrogated, suddenly incisive.

"Aye, the North March is what I meant when I said Upper Aedirn, Lady Elf."

And suddenly satisfied, Hermione nodded curtly and proceeded to let Harry take the point in the conversation once more: "Men with strange accents and far too much wealth... sounds suitably suspicious. But, how do you know this, when Tretogor and Ard Carraigh don't?"

"Wezyn is too deep into the mountains, in a neutral, demilitarised zone. Neither Vestibor nor Dagread dare set foot there for fear of sparking a war. Despite their reluctance, the people tend to make excellent informants, as they move all around the mountains, in and out of Redanian and Kaedweni border-towns and camps. Lots of information to be learned there. Ah well, one nation's loss is another's gain, or something like that."

"Wezyn, you said?" Harry asked once more, just to make sure.

"Aye," replied The Fisherman. "Wezyn."

They were to meet the contingent of Kaedweni soldiers and the delegates from the Academy at Ban Ard, at a ruined elven castle deep within the neutral zone, which was a four-hour ride from the region of Ghelibol. Though they had left by the early light of dawn, spirits were high among the assorted travelers. The sorcerers laughed and squabbled good-naturedly among one another, the soldiers had stopped frowning so much, and Harry led the group with Hermione, Viktor, and Longbottom.

"It is really quite an amazing thing when you think about it. Anything you wish for, granted. Just like that," the soldier was remarking. "I always thought djinn were just stories my grandmum told me."

"It's precisely for that reason why they're so dangerous," reminded Hermione, "the wrong kind of wish can topple nations."

Harry barked out a laugh, reminded of his adventure with Ron, the Wolf School witcher, and the unlucky dryad who ardently wished for the fall of Cintra. As if sensing his master's glee, Sleipnir whickered softly, in a way that sounded oddly reminiscent of a chuckle. Unlike his trusty steed, all three of Harry's companions stared at him with varying degrees of consternation, from a squint of the eyes to a quirk of the eyebrows, and everything in between.

"My personal experience with wishes," Harry replied, providing explanation for his outburst, "is that it tends to be a sword that only cuts the user."

"Another reason to be careful," agreed Hermione. "Djinn tend to deal in absolutes: if you don't tell them exactly what you want, exactly the way you want it, then expect a prank that goes anywhere from mildly mischievous, to practically lethal."

"Still, the lure of getting anything you wish for... it's a hell of a lure."

Hermione smiled knowingly. "Why, you seem rather wistful, Longbottom. Is there any particular wish you'd like to have granted?"

"Oh, what? I don't... I'm not... hrmm..." Neville stumbled over his words, and quickly petered out to silence.

Hermione shrugged carelessly. "You simply keep mentioning it; what are we supposed to think?"

"Well, I mean I have wishes. Don't we all?"

"Of course," said Hermione, "but I didn't ask you if you had wishes, I asked you if you had a wish in particular."

"I... well, I..." said the soldier meekly, and Harry had to stifle his laughter at the sheer absurdity of the situation. This man was a hardened soldier, one who had seen a lot of combat to have been appointed to the Redanian Special Task Force, and here he was, being made to act like a naughty schoolchild by a slip of a woman, and an elf to boot.

"Fine. Master Witcher?"

"Yes, Madame Sorceress?"

"Have you anything to wish for?"

"A pair of socks that always stay dry, and boots that never wear," Harry replied, ever the picture of ultimate practicality.

He faced a blank stare from the sorceress. "Really. Socks and boots. That's what you'd spend your wishes on," she repeated dully. Both Viktor and Longbottom, who were undoubtedly more accustomed to traveling by foot than the sorceress was, let out light chuckles:

"Very good," complimented Viktor, and Harry nodded his thanks.

"Ha-ha! This one has head in the right place. If you think that's a daft wish, Lady Hermione, it simply means you've not traveled anywhere near enough yet," snickered the soldier.

"No," groused Hermione, "I think it's daft, because you could simply then wish for gold and buy all the boots and socks that your heart desires."

Longbottom chuckled heartily. "Ah, but therein lies the beauty of it all, Lady Hermione! People covet gold; they'll chase you half the world round to steal it from you. Boots, no one cares about, because few people really think about it. To have one that never wears is to own something inestimably valuable, though not valuable enough that a man would slit your throat for it."

"Speak for yourself. I've met bandits who would rape their own mothers for scraps," Harry said.

"Well," said Hermione, ignoring Harry's macabre quip, "the witcher has given us his most ardent wish, stupid as they are, and now I believe it's your turn."

"Why, isn't it obvious? I'd wish for a way to live every day of my life as it were my last, but never fear the sting of death. Immortality is the only wish I would make because it's the only one that makes sense. Don't you agree?"

Viktor and Hermione considered the prospect, while Harry shook his head. "I'd still have the boots."

Neville looked appalled by the very idea of it. "Come off it, Witcher, you can't be serious!"

"I can. What's the point of immortality? You say it would be a pleasure to live every day as if it were your last, but the fear of death is half the pleasure of living. Without it, there are no stakes. You can't take joy any of your accomplishments or lament your failures because ultimately, you'll survive regardless. When you have no fear of dying, you lose everything else with it."

"Are you speaking from experience, Master Witcher?" asked the soldier curiously. "No fear of death; they say it was beaten out of you with the mutations. 'Men of stone', they say. If fear is the key to all other emotions, is that why they say your caste have none?"

"Perhaps."

Sensing he might have offended the mutant, the soldier immediately turned to Hermione, hoping, perhaps, to take the attention off himself:

"So, I've answered. Now, as is courtesy, what would you wish for?"

"Pardon me?"

"If you were the master of one of these djinn. You asked both the Witcher and I; I think it's only proper that you answer as well."

Hermione shifted in her seat, and leaned forward, biting her lip in concentration. She seemed to have quite a few wishes, Harry decided upon seeing her agonise over the decision. She moved one hand from the reigns of her mare to her stomach, perhaps to steady herself, and then answered:

"I'd like a dress of the finest materials, that could never be replicated, and never be destroyed," Neville appeared to buy the poor lie, and the witcher hid a laugh behind a gloved hand. He had not seen the sorceress in a dress since their meeting in Oxenfurt; Harry wasn't even sure if she owned a dress. And, even if she did secretly love dresses, Hermione had just finished lecturing him about wishing for boots; a dress would be no better.

Truly, it was a poor lie.

"Half the world over would be jealous of you," remarked the soldier without a drop of irony, "that's actually a better wish than I thought."

"Why, of course it is," deadpanned the elf, turning away from the soldier to wink at Viktor, who struggled to keep the amusement off his lips.

The witcher, predictably, shook his head at it all.

When Harry saw it, he was struck by the inevitability of time. Years would come and go, and strong stone would topple to the ground; arches, and buttresses, and carved gargoyles would all crumble away into dust. Like all things, a once proud elven castle barely stood with half its exterior wall collapsed. It once likely commanded a nation of elves hidden among these mountains, but now its subjects were ghosts and its only occupants wore Kaedweni gold.

Harry, Hermione, and Viktor fell further back in the crowd, as the Redanian soldiers took point on the final stretch, and were the first to meet the Kaedweni delegate at a small drawbridge, over a moat that had long since dried up.

Longbottom greeted a man who appeared to be the leader of the Kaedweni troop, and the man responded in kind, in tense, but respectful tones. The mages, as mages often did, ignored the discussion between the two opposing sides, and steered their horses right across the drawbridge, to a gate that had long since seen better days.

"Come on," said Hermione, "we'll leave the soldiers to play their little war-games by themselves."

Viktor would never disagree with Hermione, and Harry himself saw no reason to stay, so he shrugged and they moved along, following in the mages' wake. Crossing through the gate, they brought their horses to a halt in an expansive courtyard, where several large, yellow-and-black tents had been pitched up.

"As I live and breathe, is that Hermione Granger!?" a jovial, Aedirnian-accented voice shouted, prompting the trio to search among the tents, to see where it had come from.

It didn't take long to find out, for an obscenely handsome, golden-haired man in stylish black robes nearly charged out from one of the tents with a charming, pearly grin plastered across his face. Hermione, it seemed, didn't share the newcomer's enthusiasm, dourly glaring in his direction with the intensity of a woman looking to kill.

"Gilderoy," she greeted with surprising neutrality, especially considering that the murderous look had not yet left her eyes.

"At your service, my dear," Gilderoy replied, the shine of his teeth nearly blinded Harry. "Ah! And this must be your bodyguard! I'd heard you'd employed one after your path diverged from Ilona's," he continued genially with a friendly nod to Viktor.

"I did," Hermione returned, tersely.

Finally, the Adonis turned to Harry, and gasped theatrically. "My word! Those swords! Those eyes! That medallion! Could you be... a witcher?"

"Got it in one," Harry said. "And you are?"

"Me? I am a scoundrel, a scallywag, a proper scamp and rogue!"

"Dana Méadbh!" Hermione interrupted, and her cheeks reddened when all three men cast her confused looks. "Forgive me, it's been a trying day. Allow me to introduce you two: Witcher Harry of the Bear School, this is Gilderoy Lockhart, sorcerer and all-around cadge."

"Ha-ha! Too right you are, my dear. But, hark, there's an even greater surprise here for you than me, Lady Hermione."

"Is there?" Hermione asked disinterestedly.

Lockhart nodded profusely. "Why, absolutely! It's just around the corner; if you'll wait here, I shall go fetch it presently."

With one more flash of those luminescent teeth, the golden-haired man rushed off in the direction of the mages' tents. Hermione sighed, looking relieved to have finished conversation with Lockhart, but the frown that appeared afterward suggested she was still quite sour.

"Care to tell me who that was?"

"Gilderoy Lockhart, as I said," Hermione grunted.

"Well, Gilderoy Lockhart seems to have gotten under your skin."

"It's a stupid story, mine and his, one entirely about the stupidity of youth," she said, and groaned when it appeared she'd only further piqued the witcher's curiosity. "I was young, and only just barely had grasp of my abilities then, when I met Lockhart."

"Uh-huh," said Harry, patting Sleipnir on the crest of his head, silently urging him to wait.

"He seemed smart, charming, a true gentleman, and it didn't hurt that he was gorgeous. It was a stupid, schoolgirl's crush."

"I see where this is going," Harry said, quickly losing all interest. It was a classic story: an experienced man embarks on a relationship with young, naïve girl, and when he's done with her, throws her away like last week's refuse. All too common, really.

"Well, you'd be wrong, then," Hermione said, with the type of conviction that suggested she'd quickly read Harry's mind. "We almost 'embarked on a relationship', but any fond feelings were short-lived: I found within days that he was a horrible dullard, who barely understood the basics of magic, and a scoundrel. I can abide a scoundrel; what I cannot abide is an idiot."

Harry chuckled; Hermione wasn't one to mince her words, and while she was not always correct, her unswerving conviction was enough to convince him that this Lockhart fellow was indeed an idiot.

"And now your idiot has left us here, waiting on him."

Hermione scoffed. "Leave it, we'll go and find ourselves another spot."

"And Lockhart?"

"He can go fall on a sword," she declared haughtily, "anything he has to show us is not worth seeing."

Harry and Viktor glanced at each other and gave a commiserating shrug, respectively. Harry grasped his reigns and faced forward once more, slowly urging Sleipnir into a slow walk. Hermione followed behind, and Viktor took up the rear. And just as they were about to pick up into a trot, Harry picked up Lockhart's voice behind them:

"Hermione, dear! Where are you going!?"

"Ignore him," said Hermione, lowly, "just pretend you didn't hear him."

But another voice called out, feminine, lovely, like the soft warbling of a songbird, and Hermione immediately stopped dead. Haltingly, she turned back, and with her, Harry and Viktor did as well.

Standing next to Lockhart, as a throng of soldiers and sorcerers passed, paying them no mind, was a breathtaking woman dressed in the finest emerald frock, which contrasted splendidly with her gold-foil hair, and her delicate, ivory skin. Crystalline, azure orbs roved about the group, first on Hermione, and then on Harry, with an electric spark of recognition between the two that nearly made the witcher's heart beat out of his chest. Harry understood the rule perfectly: sorceresses, near one and all, were beautiful. Yet in a world of these alluring women, this one's beauty was delicate and inestimable. Hang the man that dared claim Francesca Findabair was the most beautiful woman to grace the world, when the one in front of him walked it as well.

For one moment, Harry spied Hermione looking on, as dumbly as he himself and her bodyguard did, and in the next, she was gone. She practically vaulted off the saddle, rushed over to the woman, and nearly tackled her in a hug.

Harry raised an eyebrow, and looked to Viktor, who did not seem even remotely as surprised as he did, for clarification:

"That is Ilona Laux-Antille. She was Lady Hermione's... mentor prior to ven I met her."

Harry, not unlike Hermione earlier, now froze. Ilona Laux-Antille, the other name-without-a-face that, after a pogrom, snatched a lowly witcher back from the cusp of death. After that many years, the two stood in front of him, perhaps entirely unaware of the debt of blood he owed them both.

"Should..." Harry started, mouth suddenly feeling all-too-dry, "...should we go over to them?"

Viktor nodded curtly, and took the reigns of Hermione's abandoned mare, as well as his own. "I think it is better to go over than to sit here like two oglers."

"I think you're right," agreed Harry, and the two men trotted over to where the others stood. Hermione was gushing about some book she read, and her mentor smiled fondly at her, with the patient air of a mother listening to her child discuss their studies.

"But that's enough about me; what about you? Why are you here?" Hermione finished up breathlessly.

"I was in Kaedwen, stopping by at Ard Carraigh, when Headmaster Dumbledore visited the King in hopes to secure a few men. Curious, I got to talking with the professor, and when I heard a Djinn had been stolen, and you were helping track down the thieves, I decided it would be best if I came along as well. So, I traveled with Gilderoy here, who is part of the group of sorcerers from Ban Ard that Headmaster Dumbledore selected himself."

Hermione grinned brightly. It wasn't a mocking, or sardonic grin in any way, it was pure, effusive pleasure in having her old mentor around. It was a look that certainly suited the chestnut-haired Aen Seidhe.

"Well, whatever the reasoning is, I'll be glad to have you along," she said, and then her face turned characteristically serious. "But I need to talk to you, then. Soon, and in confidence."

Ilona furrowed her brows with an unasked question, and Harry felt as confused as the woman looked: Hermione only just found out that her mentor had decided to come along for the journey, and suddenly had something serious and urgent to tell her?

"Certainly, my dear," Ilona said softly, "we'll talk in my tent, won't we?"

Lockhart, suddenly seeming to sense tension in the air, made awkward and hasty introductions. "Lady Ilona, this is Vector, Lady Hermione's bodyguard, and Witcher Henry, of the Bee School."

"Yes," said the blonde woman, "I know them both."

"You do?" asked Hermione, casting a questioning glance to Harry, and then back to her mentor, but Ilona did not seem keen on elaborating:

"Come, Hermione," she said, instead, "I expect we'll be leaving soon, so we shall speak in my tent while we have the chance." Immediately, the woman turned on her heel and waved for Hermione to follow, in the direction of several large and finely decorated tents, that Harry assumed belonged to the mages.

Lockhart, left alone with Harry and Viktor, seemingly decided to have some fun with his new companions, for he turned around with a bright smile on his lips. "Alright, lads, now that the ladies are off, I think it's time to get to know each other bett-" he stopped suddenly, noticing Viktor had already taken his horse, as well as Hermione's, and started cantering off in the other direction.

Shocked that someone might not want to spend time with him, the sorcerer stared at the retreating bodyguard's back for a very long time, before turning his hopeful gaze on Harry. The witcher stared back for a short span, and then he too turned away from Lockhart, completely uninterested in the prospect of being in his company.

He left the sorcerer behind, looking only slightly dejected, and made his way to any small, quiet alcove the castle could provide, where he might wait until the Redanian and Kaedweni soldiers decided to move out.

A/N: Chugging along, almost done with this arc.

No real chapter notes for this one; I'll see you guys for the next chapter.

Thanks for reading,
Geist.