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

VI

"Witcher," someone said from behind him, "I should like to speak with you."

Harry turned, and saw a forest of green in the sorceress's dress, and the snow-white of her skin, and finally met ocean eyes and rose-quartz lips. His mouth went dry, and he looked around for someone, anyone to save him from the entrancing beauty.

They were, to Harry's dismay and complete lack of surprise, alone. He had, after all, chosen this very spot so that no one would bother him until the camp was ready to move out.

Feeling a fool, the mutant stayed silent so that he might be thought sullen, rather than open his mouth and prove himself a dunce. Deciding that was the more prudent choice, the witcher nodded curtly at the woman, before returning to the straps and belts that tied his saddle to Sleipnir.

"He's a beautiful one," said the sorceress, stepping up to the horse.

"Lady Hermione's choice," Harry replied. "I've no eye for these things."

Ilona smiled lightly, and turned to the horse, all the while distracting the witcher with her fresh forest-and-flowery-glade aroma. "Hermione has always had quite good taste. In horses, in clothes, in witchers," she laughed at Harry's flummoxed expression. "Come now, don't frown like that, surely you haven't already forgotten our first meeting?"

Harry pulled the saddle off his stallion's back, and rested the cumbersome leather on an old, but sturdy fence nearby. He fished into his saddlebags for a moment, and found what he was looking for, a coarse brush, for combing Sleipnir's coat. He only spoke when he returned to the animal and the sorceress.

"I remember," he answered, and set about the task of brushing the horse's flank.

"Yet, Hermione still has no idea who you actually are," Ilona replied, running a delicate hand through golden locks.

"You know the rumours of mages. Wouldn't you take precaution, see the measure of me before admitting you've a life debt, had I done the same for you?"

"True enough," agreed the blonde, "many of my colleagues would use that debt against you. Schemers and connivers, the lot of them."

"Really," deadpanned Harry.

"Don't take it for condemnation; just because I won't exploit your debt to me, does not mean I'm any better than the rest of them. However, there's more moral fibre in Hermione's little toe than there is to be found in the sum totality of all mages elsewise."

"So I'm quickly learning."

"She is quite the little scholar," said Ilona, flipping her hair from one shoulder to another, "came to me with quite a theory about a town in the mountains called Wezyn."

"Mhm," Harry said, feigning disinterest as he continued brushing the stallion's coat with the coarse-haired brush in slow, diagonal strokes.

"And she tells me you were instrumental in discovering the information that would lead us there," the blonde continued, now standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the witcher. "Tell me: is your source reliable?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know the man who gave us the information, but the person who told us to meet with him? I'd trust them with my life."

"So, I'm to assume that means you can't verify the validity of this rumour completely?" the sorceress asked, turning to face the witcher. When Harry met her eyes, he was delighted to find they were not just blue, but contained scattered emerald flecks and ripples, washing around her pupils like an ocean swell.

Dumbly, the witcher shook his head.

"I see. I suppose, then, that I'll have to recommend we split into parties to comb the mountain."

"If that suits you."

"But," said the sorceress, "I do have some sway in the proceedings, Witcher. I shall recommend that we send one party toward Wezyn, and it will include you and Hermione."

"And what about you?"

Ilona pondered the question a moment, and walked to the fence Sleipnir's saddle lay on, and half-sat, half-leaned against its wooden top-rail. "I'll be the herring. Everyone will want to follow me, including Vestibor's pet sorcerer, one-"

"-Lucius Malfoy," Harry took the words from the blonde's mouth. "I've had the honour."

"Mmm, a dubious one, no doubt," gibed Ilona sourly.

"Take it you're not a fan?"

"Of course not. The man is odious. Complete scum."

"True, he's not an easy man to like, but why the rush to lead him away from Wezyn?"

A mercurial laugh played softly, pulling back soft, rose petal lips until little pearls showed. "Witcher," she scolded fondly, as though Harry was a particularly slow child and she was a teacher who had learned to like him regardless, "you can't possibly believe that Vestibor and Dagread agreed to this search, just to give the djinn back to the University. No king is that soft-hearted."

Harry exhaled softly through his nose. He might have expected this: the petty squabbling and easily wounded pride that often characterised royalty and jumped-up nobles. This was why witchers generally avoided politics; a king's favour was like a glut of fine wines and gout-inducing foods, his wrath like disease and starvation. The prudent witcher would do well to avoid all extremes.

"I had my suspicions: Lady Hermione was worried about the prospects of us gaining the infantrymen from either side."

"For good reason," remarked the sorceress, "I'd imagine both kings nearly shouted the envoys out of their throne rooms before learning about the Djinn. And when they heard about that, they were only too happy to send soldiers and mages."

"To thieve the djinn's lamp from the original thieves before we can find it and return to Ban Ard."

A snap of the fingers. "Precisely!" Ilona exclaimed in time with her snap. "Having a spirit that grants you any wish is quite the weapon to hold over your enemies. Fortunately, the sorcerers and sorcereresses Dagread sent aren't loyal to him; they'll never take something that belongs to Albus Dumbledore, and give it to some king."

"But Malfoy?"

"Loyal only to coin. And no one pays better than the Redanian King. If we're not careful with him, he truly is liable to steal the lamp from right under our noses when we recover it. So... our strongest option is to lead Vestibor's bulldog away from Wezyn."

"I see," replied Harry. "But why tell me all this?"

"Because, Master Witcher," said Ilona, "Hermione seems to think you a good man. 'A man with a powerful moral imperative', she said. And you owe her, as well as myself, your life. I can think of no man more trustworthy than that."

The sorceress softly patted Sleipnir on the snout, who whickered approvingly at the ministrations. Then, she turned, her emerald frock swishing away like the tops of the forest on a windy morning. Without a look back, the sorceress glided back toward the numerous tents, leaving Harry alone once more.

Not long after, Hermione rushed over and stopped at the fence, hair windblown and expression insistent:

"Harry," she entreated quickly, "we're to move out soon."

The witcher hopped up from his perch on an overturned bucket. "Right. Where to?"

"The neutral zone. We're to learn exactly where they intend on sending us."

"Neutral zone?" Harry questioned, and then looked up toward a hulking, unmarked canvas tent set up near the gate. "Suppose it's that thing, then?"

The brunette nodded. "Right in one. The Redanians and Kaedwenis have gathered there, and since we're not drowning in poor infantry blood, they appear to be cooperating. For now, at least."

"Good. Then let's get our orders and head out before the situation deteriorates," Harry said, checking leather knotted around the fence if he had tied Sleipnir's reins adequately.

"You read my mind, Master Witcher."

They walked along in silence through rapidly emptying alleys and nooks created by the tents and confined spaces. It bothered the witcher; Ilona must have told Hermione about her true first meeting with Harry by now, and yet the elf didn't comment on it at all. Instead, she wore a lazy but flattering little smile that could have meant everything or nothing.

"I suppose Lady Ilona has told you, then?" Harry asked, eager to break the quiet.

Hermione blinked, apparently broken from some reverie. "Told me what?" she chirped, completely oblivious to the situation. Involuntarily, Harry frowned: Lady Ilona had wasted little time mentioning to Harry that she and Hermione saved him all those years earlier, and she hadn't even deigned to inform her supposed protege of it?

What game was the sorceress playing at?

"Never mind," grunted Harry, again adopting the look and mannerism of a morose swordsman. Hermione cast him a dubious glance, but soon returned to her own world, as they crossed a tiny Kaedweni barracks crammed into one small corner of the castle.

On they continued, as one passerby became two, as two became four, as four became twelve, as twelve became a seething horde of soldiers and sorcerers crushed together. They shouted and bellowed, drank and spat and stomped in the mud like swine. Hermione gored the giddy throng with an appropriately disgusted glare, and dragged Harry along to the outskirts of the crowd, where the two met Viktor a few tents away, as he lounged and people-watched on a large, upturned rock that had been part of a buttress in its glory days.

"Viktor," greeted Hermione breathlessly. "Have they reached a consensus yet?"

Viktor nodded slowly. "Yes. They have all agreed Lady Ilona has best tits on The Continent," he said blandly. Hermione sucked in a breath, outraged, "and that Lady Hermione has best arse," the elf immediately deflated, righteous anger replaced by righteous embarrassment:

"I ought to hex the bollocks off the lot of them," she groused, vainly adjusting her jacket to cover more of her bottom.

"I vould kill them for you," said Viktor lightly, "but am afraid that vill risk the mission."

"How kind of you," Hermione drawled.

"Hang that," leered Harry with an appropriate amount of lechery, "Redanians and Kaedwenis... agreeing on something? Keep them at it; it'll be the first time an arse has stopped a war."

Hermione's famous glare left the mocking, boorish soldiers and instead lanced its way through to her mocking, boorish companion. Harry raised up his arms in the universal sign of surrender: It was a small pleasure to fluster the elf, but the witcher was sensible enough to never truly spark the ire of a woman who could kill with a snap of her dainty fingers.

He turned back to Viktor. "Jokes aside, have we gotten any news?"

"Ve go north and east. To Wezyn, small town. Days from here, deep into mountain range."

"Wezyn?" droned Hermione, feigning ignorance. "They can't possibly believe we'll find something there, could they, Harry?"

Harry shrugged with an air of whimsy only the brunette would recognise. "We do what we must, Lady Sorceress."

"That we do, Master Witcher," said Hermione, oddly pensively, "that we do."

They did not tarry for long after receiving the news.

In fact, they only stayed at the ruined castle long enough for Harry and Viktor to scrounge up rations for the trip, while Hermione decompressed from the understandably stressing news that, alongside Redanian and Kaedweni troops, the dullard and scoundrel Gilderoy Lockhart would be accompanying them to Wezyn. Soon, the reformed trio gathered together with a small coterie of red-cloaked scouts just outside the ruined castle, and waited until Lockhart and the Kaedweni soldiers decided to show.

Many passed out from the blasted, crumbling gates, and down the bridge before their companions appeared, but when they did finally show, a bit of a furor came with them. Lockhart led a pure white stallion and marched out at the fore, insofar as a strut could be considered a march. His display slowed the Kaedweni soldiers behind him, and a group of sorcerers behind them, and still another group of Redanians behind them. Consequently, a bottleneck formed round the collapsed gate and created a minor crush that was punctuated with pushing, shouting, and stomping, all of which Gilderoy Lockhart blithely and obliviously ignored.

"I can't believe you were attracted to that man," Harry murmured lowly to the brunette sorceress, who had watched the whole sorry affair with a dismayed shake of her head.

Hermione rolled her eyes, pulled at her mare's reigns, and turned away from the dried-up moat. She cantered on ahead, evidently done with waiting for Lockhart to speed up. It seemed the Redanians agreed, when they also turned their horses to follow Hermione, as though she was their commander issuing a silent order.

With a shrug toward Viktor, one that was reciprocated by the sullen bodyguard, Harry too pulled away. Viktor fell in step with him, and even the Kaedweni soldiers soon began marching north; Lockhart, of course, only seemed to notice he was alone after he'd finished crossing the bridge. Fortunately, or unfortunately to Hermione, the wider group had not gotten far enough across the horizon to disappear, so the blond-haired sorcerer galloped, galloped a league onward until he caught up with and passed by the Kaedweni rear-guard.

When he caught up to the others, Lockhart fixed Harry with a megawatt grin, and nearly blinded the witcher. "My word, Master Witcher," he said jovially, "at least do have the courtesy to warn a man when he's being left behind."

"You seemed a tad preoccupied at the time, Master Sorcerer," Harry replied.

"True enough," grinned the sorcerer foolishly, as he patted his stallion's nape, "Leboida is a noble creature; he deserves some pomp and circumstance."

"Leboida? After the prophet?"

"Yes. It's a good name for a horse, don't you think?"

Harry shrugged noncommittally, and looked around for Hermione's bobbing, honey-brown head. He found her near the front of the pack, and eagerly awaited the first opportunity to extricate himself from his conversation with Lockhart. Soon he found his opportunity, when the road widened and the group spread apart, allowing Harry to make for greener pastures among Hermione and Viktor.

Even for late spring, the weather in the Kestrels was changeable at best. Like most journeys Harry had been on, it started well, with brisk weather, clear roadways north, and a veritable mountain of supplies. And like most journeys, it had all fallen apart spectacularly as they continued on. In a matter of days, the chilly, clear mornings turned into raging blizzards; the roads turned into steep, mouldering passes cut into sheer cliffsides; and the supplies had gone from mountain to ant hill.

They traversed all the hazards with practised ease. However, by the time they were halfway to Wezyn, the group had likely frozen twelve times over. As such, it was a great boon for morale when the group finally reached the North Rock, just a day's ride out from the sheltered village.

"We're at a geothermal spot," Hermione had observed quietly, looking down at the valley. "Nice, but not entirely hospitable for settlers."

"It's a damn sight better than freezing our arses off in a bloody cave," groused the leader of the Kaedweni troupe, a quick-tempered man who went by Dorcan.

"Aye," agreed the Redanian leader, Baron von Steuen. "And a valley like this means hot springs. No better way to fight off frostbite than a hot soak."

Hermione nodded. "I agree. Master Witcher, Gilderoy, shall we make camp here for the night?"

"Yes. Rest. Let's," said Lockhart, very quickly.

"Don't see why not," Harry agreed.

And so, the party took their rest, gently prodding their horses down past a rugged crags and jutting rocks into the valley below. They set up camp quickly, nailing down spikes into the hard earth and hoisting separate tents for soldiers of either nation. While Harry bunked with the Redanians, the attendant mages also set their own tents: a modest one for Hermione and Viktor, and a luxurious tent of purple-dyed canvas with inlaid gold stitching that wreathed round the sides for Lockhart.

Harry could have cursed his miserable lot in life, where an idiot sorcerer slept in silks while he languished in one claustrophobic corner of a military tent, surrounded by men who stank of sweat and iron, but he didn't. Really, it wasn't so bad. Once the Baron and his men set up a fast, rip-roaring fire in a display of the usual Redanian efficiency, they allowed the witcher a seat by the Baron and the bonfire, as well as an equal portion of their thin gruel.

Certainly, some of them eyed the mutant suspiciously, but they ultimately accepted it. One would be hard-pressed to find a more skilled swordsman than a witcher, and a military commander would be a fool to ostracise such a valuable addition. It was one more reason for Harry to spend his time among the regulars over haughty mages, who would sniff at anyone unable to open portals or kill a man with a wave of the hand, and taunt them with a mocking cry of 'ordinary'.

So, feeling righteous in his own ordinariness, Harry ate the soup with gusto and exchanged stories with Baron von Steuen and his men, trading tales of hunts for basilisks and wyverns for accounts of marches and skirmishes. And soon enough, they all chortled and swaggered about like brothers meeting after a long time away from each other.

And just as Harry had seemingly made friends for life, and regaled them with a particularly memorable contract for a Bruxa in Nazair, an intruder stole among them and stepped into the fore. Viktor stood, stone-faced, his bulky frame illuminated orange by the raging inferno beside him:

"Vitcher," he said, "Lady Hermione vishes to see you."

"And what is it that the Lady Sorceress wishes to see me over?"

"She vould not say. Please to come."

The soldiers all fell silent as Harry contemplated his response, and a collective groan went through the group when the witcher stood:

"Gentlemen," he said, "for now I take my leave of you. Try not to burn anything down while I've gone."

With that, he nodded to Viktor, who turned around and practically goose-stepped toward Hermione's tent, situated across a barren stretch of land, sat nearby a bubbling lake. Harry followed behind obediently, breathing in the fresh mountain air, and carefully adjusting the the strap of his sword-belt across his chest. When they arrived, Harry immediately took notice of several voices discussing something important within the tent; Viktor marched over to the flaps and wrenched one aside, indicating for the witcher to enter first.

There were carpets laid out all across the floor, a few chairs, two bedspreads in either corner of the tent, and several, crystal-tipped, statuesque rods that circled a runic pentagram, where a grey-white phantom of Ilona Laux-Antille stood. In front of the megascope, stood both Hermione and Lockhart, concerned expressions on either's lips. Curious, the witcher wondered how Viktor and Hermione managed to carry all of their belongings, as their horses never seemed to be over-encumbered. But, before he could fall any further into his musings, the phantom spoke:

"Ah, Witcher, is that you?" she made a show of squinting whilst shading her eyes with a transparent hand.

"Aye, it's me."

Hermione turned and flashed Harry a hurried, but welcoming look, before turning back to the hologram. "Ilona, would you mind telling the witcher what you told us?"

"Certainly," said Ilona agreeably. "I won't lie, and say I truly trusted your source, Master Witcher, because I didn't. But, since you'd heard these rumours and I can't discount any information received, I decided to consult my own little birds."

"And?" asked Harry.

"What I've learned is troubling."

"How so?"

"My own source receives regular updates from the mountain towns," explained the shade, "two men did show up in Wezyn, dressed in fine robes and carrying carts of gold."

"Did they provide any description of the newcomers?" asked Lockhart suddenly.

"Surprisingly, no," answered Ilona. "Why?"

The blond man shook his head. "No major reason. I thought we might be able to narrow down the thieves if we could get a proper description."

Harry glanced at the sorcerer, only slightly taken aback. It wasn't an particularly clever or impressive suggestion, but the witcher had thought Lockhart incapable of even that.

"You're right, Gilderoy, but unfortunately, there were no descriptions," Ilona replied, and returned her attention to the witcher. "Soon after those two arrived, several more men appeared in town. Mercenary types, also dressed in finery. Since then, my source has heard nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing at all. And the informant was very punctual. They suspect something must have happened after the mercenaries arrived."

"You suspect foul play?"

"I do."

"Then we'll be careful. I'll inform Baron von Steuen and Master Dorcan to have their men at the ready for when we reach the village."

"Thank you, Master Witcher," said the phantom.

"If that will be all..." Harry started, only to be cut off by Hermione:

"It is for now, but I would like to meet after you've informed the soldiers of their tasks. I have a matter to discuss with you."

The witcher nodded tersely and turned away, exiting the way he came. Outside, Harry shambled over to the Kaedweni troop, all of whom eyed him suspiciously when he told Master Dorcan to have his men at the ready, and then made his way over to the Redanians, all of whom whooped and roared in glee when Harry told The Baron the same. They invited him to stay for more drinks and soldier's fare, but the cat-eyed man excused himself, saying he was expected by the sorceress.

At that, another chorus of whoops arose, but for an entirely different reason, this time. Shaking his head fondly, Harry waved them off as he returned to Hermione's tent, poking his head inside:

"Lady Granger, you said you wished to discuss a priv—" the witcher blinked. His head swiveled right, then left, scanning the entire space. No one was in the tent: not Hermione, not even Viktor.

A tapping came at Harry's shoulder; he turned round to see the man he'd just been thinking about. "Vitcher," Viktor greeted.

"The sorceress. Where's she gone?"

The sullen bodyguard shrugged, and pointed south, away from camp. "She vished to go for valk. Vould not allow me to come vith."

"I see. Should I wait for her to come back?"

Viktor shrugged again. "I do not know. I think she is vaiting for you."

"Suppose I'll track her down then," decided Harry. Viktor nodded, and moved past the witcher into the tent he shared with the sorceress in question.

Left alone, Harry closed his his eyes, breathed deeply, and opened them again. Instantly, the world was brighter and cleaner than it was before. He glanced downward and saw small, heeled riding-boot tracks in the soft, loamy earth.

"There you are," he murmured to himself, and followed the tracks away from camp.

Along the way, the witcher crossed salt flats, and rocky, malformed steppes. Above those, Harry spied several great, bubbling ponds of thermic water roiling like stew, with soldiers tired from the day's march, cooking in the broth. Hermione had kept far away from the cauldrons, perhaps to avoid attention from the soldiers, and her tracks led past a copse of verdant firs. Harry marched forward, ducked under a low-hanging branch, and stopped at a lake. It was clear and calm, with one pale face poking out of the water at the other end, by a slew of smooth rock.

"Witcher," greeted the sorceress pleasantly.

"Lady Granger." Harry nodded, and stayed at the water's edge. "You said you wanted to speak to me?"

"Yes, I did. But do me a favour and get in the lake. A bath would do you good; you reek of leather and sweat, at the moment." She laughed at the witcher's expression. "What's the matter, Harry? Are you shy?"

Harry squinted at the sorceress's mockery; he wasn't shy, but he had thought a pureblooded elf like Hermione wouldn't be so forward. "No, I'm simply wondering what Viktor might think."

"Viktor?" Hermione asked, and feigned confusion. "What does he have to do with your taking a bath?"

The black-haired witcher let out a gust of breath. "You know very well what I mean."

"I do not," lied the sorceress.

Due to this contract, Harry had learned, if nothing else, that mages were a fickle lot. Sorcerers were frustrating, sorceresses more so, and Hermione Granger most of them all. They were overgrown children who were in dire need of a smack upside the head, one and all.

"It doesn't take a genius to see that the man is besotted with you," he said diplomatically, despite his thoughts.

The brunette pushed up in the water so that she could rest her arms on the rocks, distracting the witcher with the fact that the water now stopped just above her breasts. "Well," she harrumphed, "I believe my relationship with Viktor is one of client and contractor, not that of lovers. I'm free to pursue whomever I like. Which coincidentally, would not be a witcher who stinks of drowner blood and fiend dung."

"Point taken," said the witcher, not especially stung by Hermione's insult. "But I am wondering what the point of all this is; you can't possibly have invited me here to take a bath."

"I have a quest for you."

"If it's to find a grail, I will get in the lake, specifically to drown you."

The sorceress went silent for a few moments, and then spoke again. "Can I not just wish to have a relaxing conversation while I have a bath?"

"That's it? You just want to have a conversation? But we've spoken at length many times."

"About nothing. Frivolities, at best. Witchers lead such interesting lives, and yet I know almost nothing of yours, though we've spent weeks together, now."

Harry sighed, resigned to his fate. There was nothing more the witcher hated discussing than himself, but the look in Hermione's eyes suggested he wouldn't be leaving without complying. So he loosened his sword belt and shrugged it off, and set about removing the rest of his clothes, laying them in a neat pile nearby the sorceress's discarded attire. When he entered the lake, which was wonderfully warm, he found Hermione eyeing him critically:

"What?" asked the witcher.

"I was expecting some novelty. Given the way humans talk of you lot, I had expected you to look different in some way. You're almost completely identical to the normal man, just with a few extra scars."

Harry remembered the old fishwives' tales. "You thought we had two cocks, didn't you?"

"I did not," Hermione huffed, though a blush stained her pale cheeks. "Tell me something about yourself," she said suddenly, likely just to change the subject from genitalia.

"Like what?"

"I don't know... surprise me."

Harry thought. "Kaer Almhult. It's the place where I was trained: a bleeding ice cube in the winter and an inferno in the summer. The beds are hard; our mentor says it's good for the back, but you can't get more than four hours sleep. Which I suppose was all well and good because we'd be woken at five in the morning to train with swords, or practise signs and brew potions, or go fishing—"

"Fishing?" The sorceress interrupted, looking strangely disappointed. "That sounds rather mundane."

"Not in Skellige, where you can't go two hours without stumbling onto some aspiring pirate crew."

"Ah. Must be hard on a young boy."

Harry rubbed the his neck with a wet hand. "Yes and no. I don't remember much of my life before Kaer Almhult, so it was easier for me. Other boys were old enough to remember their families before they were brought to the fortress. That's harder, I reckon. And then there's the trial..."

"The Trial of the Grasses?"

"Before that, we're just normal boys training with swords and bows. No different than a page, or a knight's squire."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. "I hear it's... it's terribly painful."

"Unimaginable. If you're lucky, you die. And most do," Harry said. "But enough about me. What about you?"

Hermione blinked, this time in real, not feigned, confusion. "What about me?" she asked.

"The limp. You said it was a troll. Care to share the full story?"

"There's not much to share," Hermione replied, with a shrug of slender shoulders. "When I was young, I got lost in the woods and stumbled into lair shared by two cohabitating trolls. The male troll decided I was to become his wife, while his housemate, a female troll, decided I was a threat trying to steal away her mate. Have I ever told you trolls are remarkably stupid creatures? Endearing, but stupid."

"No, but that goes without saying," Harry said good-naturedly.

"So, when her 'mate' was out, she took his club, and started chasing me. She got in a good whack before the other troll got back and defended me. It didn't matter, though, I'd already passed out from the pain. When I regained consciousness, I was back home in my own bed. My mother claimed a sorceress had saved me from the trolls and took the liberty of returning me home."

"Madame Laux-Antille?"

"Unfortunately, no," said Hermione. "I don't think the Scoia'tael would take too kindly to a human woman roaming freely at the edge of the world, no matter how saintly she may be. She'd be more likely to end up a pincushion for their arrows than save me."

"Did you ever find out who it was?"

The sorceress shook her head. "But let me ask you another question."

"Is this how 'conversation' works?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, is this how your idea of conversation works? Just ask each other awkwardly personal questions?"

"Yes." Hermione nodded with conviction.

Harry snorted. "Fine, ask away."

The brunette's mouth tightened into a line, and her jaw worked delicately, and soundlessly, as though she was steeling herself for the next question. "I know a town, Loc Eate. It's in the Gustfields, not but a few days ride from Novigrad," she said, with a coy not-quite smile. "Have you ever been?"

Harry would have laughed if he could; Ilona Laux-Antille was a beautiful snake. "I think you already know the answer to that, Lady Hermione."

"So, the truth comes out. That witcher who nearly died defending elves in pogrom... he was you."

"Did Madame Laux-Antille tell you?"

Hermione nodded slowly. "In the tent, before I let anyone else in."

The witcher stayed quiet, staring into the fog birthed by the steam of the lake instead of meeting his companion's eyes. But there was a ripple in the water, and a supple, naked body came to rest next to his own. Soft fingers caressed his chest, moving up from the sternum, to the smooth scar tissue over his heart.

"This was it," said Hermione, observing the old wound as though it was a particularly arresting passage in a book. "I remember now. This was where you took that arrow."

"Yeah, it was there. Not a half-bad shot, that Death Eater."

The elf continued to touch the scar, delicately and thoughtfully, like a bird's wing brushing against his skin. "Did you not trust me, all that while we spent together? Did you think I would scheme and blackmail, like every other sorceress, merely because you owed me a debt?"

"It wasn't because I didn't trust you."

"Are you sure?" Hermione pulled away and smiled; the witcher could not tell if she was truly hurt or making another one of her jests. "It's late, and we have a long journey ahead of us to Wezyn. I shall take my leave for now," she said abruptly, and stood, allowing the witcher the equivalent view of her that he'd given of himself not but a few minutes earlier. Pulling herself up onto the rocks, the sorceress whispered a quick spell that dried her body off of any excess moisture.

Harry turned away, granting the woman her dignity as she changed, at least.

Momentarily, a curtain of lovely brown fell over his eyes, and Harry looked up to see Hermione's amber eyes looking down at him with a sad little grimace, hair cascading down in wavy ringlets.

Caught off guard by the sorceress, the witcher jerked and felt a sharp, stinging pain in his forearm. Harry glanced down and took in a long, but shallow gash along his right arm, which he'd cut on a jagged piece of rock at the water's edge that the witcher could have sworn was not there prior.

"Are you okay?" she asked, grasped his arms, and clucked her tongue at the damage. "Let me take care of that," said the brunette, seemingly summoning a handkerchief out of the air, and once she was done cleaning the wound, she summarily dismissed back into the ether. She clasped her hands over the wound, and spoke an incantation, but her eyes remained solely fixed upon his own.

A soothing warmth washed over his arm, one that reminded him of parchment, freshly-cut grass, and memories that could not be his own. But as quickly as it came, it went, and Harry could only stare back at the elf, who lifted up her hands, and revealed his forearm without so much as a scratch on it.

"I shall see you tomorrow, Witcher," said the sorceress coolly.

Turning away, she slipped into the cover of the trees and back on the path to camp, leaving the witcher behind, utterly befuddled by it all.

They hit the trail hard the next morning, not sparing the horses an ounce of reprieve. For the first time in what felt like months, Harry kept his distance from Hermione and her bodyguard, and melted into the background with the Redanian soldiers and Baron von Steuen. The Redanians were good company, still exchanging jokes, stories, and even sword fighting tips they'd picked up over the years, but the witcher found his gaze ever-returning to the sorceress's back.

The soldiers snickered at the suddenly distracted witcher, Baron von Steuen offered his condolences, and even Lockhart said something stupid about the 'sickness of young love', but he heard nothing from the sorceress. Not once did she turn around; not once did she spare him a glance.

That day, the first time Harry saw her face was when the thatch-roofed houses of Wezyn appeared over a jagged cliff and beyond a lazy stream that passed through a dale thick with evergreens. They stopped at the edge of the mountainside, and Hermione turned in her saddle, her eyes falling upon his own:

"We're nearing, and I can't see any activity from here. Perhaps it would be wise to arm ourselves now?"

The Baron fiddled with his curled moustache, and exhaled deeply. "I don't think it wise to simply charge an armed regiment into the town. I'd recommend scouts or trackers first. What say you, Master Dorcan?"

The bearded Kaedweni nodded severely. "I agree with the Redanian. We've only searched this area on a lark, anyway; there's no need to scare the smallfolk with tipped spears and longswords."

"Very well," said Hermione. "Then tell me: who shall you send out into the valley, first?"

"I can spare my two scouts," said the Baron.

"And what of you, Master Dorcan?"

"Aye, I can spare one, but only one. Me regiment has no other trackers."

"Three is a fair number," mused the sorceress, "but I'd like to have a look for myself. Viktor, would you mind going with them?"

The bodyguard looked anything but keen on it. "Forgive me. I vould not mind, but I am no good at staying hidden."

"Very well. Witcher, what of you?" Hermione addressed Harry for the first time that day, which only mildly startled the Bear School Witcher:

"Huh? What about me?"

"Would you be willing to join the scouts on the way to town?" She clarified once more, and even smiled the tiniest bit when met with a curt nod; yet, despite that, there was friction to her words. "Good, come to me a moment." Harry acquiesced to her command and stepped over to the sorceress's side, only for Hermione to mumble an elder speech incantation, and for white-hot pain to lance through his brain. "It's a spell," she explained, "that, when activated, allows me to see what your eyes see. I'll be able to relay all the information to our companions as though I was there with you."

Harry still held his head, though the pain had long passed. "Right, I understand. We should move before the sun gets any higher."

"Aye," the Baron agreed, and then whistled shortly and shrilly. "Nowak! Dagnar! You're with the witcher; get your arses moving!" There were two meek 'Aye, Commander!'s from within the tight circle of Redanians, and two mousy men scurried out from the pack. They stopped momentarily, facing the witcher, and saluted him, then they scampered over to his side.

Meanwhile, Master Dorcan called his own scout quietly. A tall, thin man in rusted chainmail and yellow tatters drifted out from his own pack of militiamen with murder in his bitumen eyes, making a lethal dance out of the walk to the witcher and the Redanian scouts. His every step creaked and jingle-jangled softly in the mid-morning breeze until the scout stopped a mere arm's length from the witcher, and stared at him in greeting.

"Harys," said his commander. "He doesn't speak much, but he's as good as help gets."

"Thank you, Master Dorcan," said Hermione, "He'll try not to break any of them."

Harry ignored her. "You know how this works, then. Leave your horses, we go down into the valley on foot. Any objections?"

"No, sir!" the two Redanians shouted, and Harys shook his head, forfeiting his right to object. Harry turned on foot immediately, and the scouts turned with him.

The valley awaited.

A/N: Sorry for the wait, but it's been a busy couple of weeks. More to come soon.

Thanks for reading,
Geist.