It was a glum and shrunken group that returned to the Burrow two days later. The instant Ron stepped out of the floo he dumped their gear carelessly on the ground, ignoring the indignant squawk of his mother. He grabbed another handful of powder and flung it into the fire. "Jasmine's Flat!" he shouted, and he was gone.

Molly was had opened her mouth to complain, but at the look on Hermione and Bill's face she stopped. She could tell something was very wrong. "Bill, Hermione, what-" She paused. "Where's Jasmine?"

Hermione couldn't bring herself to speak. Bill stepped forward. "Mum, something happened in Egypt-"

He was interrupted as the fireplace flared and Ron stepped out, his face contorted in anger. "She's gone! Her entire flat is empty!" Hermione had feared that would be the case, and she burst into tears, the latest of many on their journey home.

"Bill, Ron… what do you mean her flat is empty?" Molly demanded. "What happened to Jasmine? Where is she?"

"She's gone. She ditched us!" Ron raged. Molly looked at Bill, confused.

He stepped forward, reaching for her. "Mum, you'll need to sit down. This will take some explaining."


Over the next few days they checked every possible location they could think of. They checked Hogwarts, Grimmauld Place, and even Privet Drive, a visit that resulted in Hermione hexing Vernon with a Leadfoot hex. Nobody had seen the Girl-Who-Won, and people would definitely notice her. Hermione thought that Jasmine's high recognition meant she was unlikely to be found in the wizarding world.

Bill asked Fleur to keep an eye on the Potter vaults, though the French witch didn't understand why; after a week, she reported no withdrawals of any kind. Monitoring charms placed on Jasmine's flat reported nothing. After two weeks, they were forced to acknowledge that Jasmine couldn't be found unless she wanted to be.

Her disappearance greatly upset Molly, which angered Ron even further, to the point where he loudly declared he didn't care if the "scar-headed tart" ever came back. That comment earned him a fierce dressing-down from both his mother and his fiancee. And later that night at the flat that Hermione and Ron shared, she found him sitting on the couch... staring sadly at Jasmine's Firebolt, tucked in the corner where she'd left it the week before the ill-fated trip.

Bill had to return to work soon after their return, to give a report to the goblins. He promised them both that he wouldn't mention seeing anyone other than themselves and Jasmine… easily done, since it was the truth. He explained that the goblins truly, deeply, hated Morgana, which Hermione had heard or read, but not really grasped as something relevant before. He didn't explain the whys of it, but did say that connecting Jasmine and Morgana or Wadjet was not something he was willing to do. So he'd stay silent, and was confident that the amount of treasure they'd found would likely interest his employers far more than any details about how they'd found it.

So, too, did Ron need to return to his position as an Auror trainee. And Hermione, who was just beginning the study for her Charms mastery certification, was left home alone… unable to study, her mind occupied with worry and speculation.

It was on the fourth day of this that she finally snapped and could take no more. Lighting the small fireplace in the flat, she flung in some floo powder.

"Hogwarts Headmistress' Office!" She stuck her head into the green flames, seeing Headmistress McGonagall sitting at the desk once occupied by the late Albus Dumbledore.

The stern-faced instructor looked surprised. "Miss Granger! It's pleasant to see you, though unexpected. Is everything alright? What did you need?"

"Hello, Professor!" she greeted. "I'm… well, I'm stuck in my studies for my mastery, and getting quite frustrated. I was hoping to visit the Hogwarts library and perhaps find some inspiration. With your permission, of course. May I visit?"

"Of course, my dear. Come on through."

Hermione nodded and stepped through into the office. On the other side she drew her wand and cleaned away the ash, and then transfigured her muggle jumper and jeans into Hogwarts-style robes. The act brought the small pressing of the lips that was the equivalent of a pleased smile from the former Transfiguration professor.

McGonagall had stood, stepping around the large headmaster's desk and the unenviable amount of paperwork stacked upon it. She was as prim and stern as ever, but she smiled as she looked upon one of her favourite students. "We're in the final exam period, I'm sure I don't need to remind you," she said. "Were you anyone else I would have said no. But I know I can trust you to be on your best behaviour, and perhaps it might inspire the students to see you."

Hermione blushed. "Of course, Professor. Thank you ever so much."

"If you're still here at lunch, come see me. We can share tea and sandwiches in the office here. The elves will be excited to cook for you again."

The young woman nodded with gratitude. Receiving a library pass from the Headmistress, she thanked her again and left the office, letting her feet take her on their own to the one place she knew how to get to from anywhere in the castle: the library.

Classes were still in progress, so she passed few students in the hallways. As she and a tiny first-year made way for each other, she had a moment to think about how ridiculously young the little girl seemed; and that brought to mind the reason she was visiting, and a grim feeling overcame her.

As usual, the Hogwarts library was a balm. She showed her pass to Madam Pince, ignoring the witch's scowl at the graduated student's intrusion in her domain. And then she was pleasantly buried in books, in a section of the library she'd rarely had reason to intrude upon: History.

She decided to start with researching Wadjet. There was a great deal written about the witch, but most of it was repetitive. The books agreed that Wadjet was a powerful Egyptian witch, who had done a great deal to advance the progress of magic in ancient times. The witch was responsible for building and warding the true tombs within Egypt, while the muggle slaves were left to construct the grand, decoy temples. The books that were more honest didn't gloss over the fact that she did this while serving the muggle Pharaohs.

Hermione was surprised to learn that Wadjet was responsible for the basis of the Fidelius Charm, which was refined over the millennia into the extremely powerful ward it was today. In fact, the witch was credited with the basic versions of a large number of spells in common use in the modern magical world. Hermione pursed her lips, thinking it likely that Jasmine had simply reverse-engineered the spells she already knew. While not as impressive as inventing them from scratch, it was no small feat, considering her friend's struggles in arithmancy.

Wadjet's contributions to Egypt were traced back to even before the unification of the country, before the first pharaoh. She felt light-headed at that… the unification of Egypt had occurred around 3200 BC, which meant Jasmine had arrived even earlier, in a period of time that could only be described as pre-historic.

Her friend was ancient, in a way that Hermione could barely grasp.

The books did little to touch on this, despite the fact that Wadjet was known to be active all the way up to roughly 1800 BC, a stretch of nearly two thousand years. Most of the books concluded, as Bill had mentioned, that 'Wadjet' was more of a title than a name, passed down from witch to witch or perhaps even mother to daughter. One book was bold enough to suggest that perhaps Wadjet had possessed an early version of the Elixir of Life.

She frowned. There'd been no time or opportunity to ask Jasmine how she'd survived so long. She looked barely older than when she'd been sent back, although it was hard to tell with the makeup and improved nutrition. The Elixir of Life? Maybe, though she would have had to have developed it almost immediately upon being thrown back, unless she was dying her hair. The Elixir could return youthful features, but the hair would go grey. Well, she assumed such; Flamel and his wife weren't much of a sample base.

What other options were there? A horcrux?

Hermione shivered. No… no matter how cold Jasmine had been, no matter how much time separated them… she refused to believe her friend would indulge in something so dark.

The sources on Wadjet exhausted, Hermione generalized her search. There was little to be found under the heading "immortal witches", of course. And though wizarding society tended to be far more gender-equal than muggle society until recently, a simple search for famous magical women rarely turned up much. There were allusions to a witch that assisted in the development of the Mind Arts in India at roughly the same time Wadjet was active; Hermione would have dismissed it, but she knew a witch could cover a great amount of distance very quickly with Apparition. There were hints about a witch mistaken for goddess in Crete; and in the Foreign History section she found a tiny mention - barely a footnote - about a strange, round-eyed woman in China around 500 BC who often acted as an advisor to the Qin emperors. None of the accounts ever mentioned a name, and many dismissed the sightings as muggle delusions.

Afterward the only hint of her friend was a quiet note about a witch that the Roman General Crassus had tried to forcibly recruit into his magical contingent before the Battle of Carrhae… the attempt backfired spectacularly, costing Crassus almost every single one of his wizards and subsequently the battle at Carrhae itself. The account seemed to say that the witch in question had also been killed during the confrontation, so Hermione was unsure whether it had been Jasmine or not. For centuries after that, she found nothing… until the arrival of Merlin, and with him the witch named Muirgen, a name that over time had shifted into 'Morgan', and much later 'Morgana'.

It was difficult to find books that were properly neutral on the subject… the wizarding world nearly deified Merlin, and anything around him tended to be lost in the glare. The more level-headed books didn't tell Hermione anything more than she already knew… that Morgana had emerged at roughly the same time as Merlin himself, but the wizard lead the way. Quite unlike modern muggle stories, which alternately depicted Morgana as a tragic figure or as the evil instrument of Merlin's downfall, wizarding history simply viewed Morgana as the teacher of Merlin, the master lost in the shadow of her student, sometimes conflated with the witch known as Nimue.

While Merlin strode across Europe changing the magical world, inspiring wizards and witches everywhere, Morgana stayed in the shadows. Some books depicted her as Merlin's mother… others as his wife. All agreed that there was love and respect between the two, and when Merlin was treacherously struck down by Morgause and her son Mordred, it was Morgana who emerged to claim vengeance. After that she retreated back into the shadows, and sightings of the witch were spotty and almost entirely apocryphal.

There were hints that she was present at the founding of Hogwarts itself, perhaps as the unnamed fifth 'wizard' who helped architect the castle. Another speculative account placed her near Hogsmeade during the first Goblin Rebellion. After that, there was a single, sensationalized telling of Morgana appearing in front of the Wizengamot in 1620, whereupon she'd given a rather harsh rebuke to the entire body on some unspecified matter. After that, she simply disappeared... and the wizarding government, which didn't take criticism well even in modern times, tried to forget the incident ever happened.

Bread crumbs, scattered through history; the connections only made sense if you knew what you were looking for. Hermione was appalled to find that perhaps the most useful book she could find about the connection between Wadjet and Morgana was a book written by Edwin Grint. The man was considered a kook even among wizards, easily on par with Xenophilius Lovegood, and she was embarrassed to be seen even holding a book written by the man.

Hours later she looked up, her neck aching; a quiet Tempus revealed that she'd missed lunch by far, as it was late afternoon… that explained her grumbling belly. She looked at the stacks of books scattered around her and raised an eyebrow; she hadn't hit the books this hard since her sixth year. It was satisfying, to be honest, harkening back to happier times.

She quietly gathered up the books and moved them to the cart to be re-shelved, ignoring the looks she received from the students who were curious about the famous graduate returned to her old haunt. She left the library, nodding politely at Madam Pince who, as always, seemed relieved to have one less person in her precious library.

She wandered the halls a bit, in the general direction of the Headmaster's Office. She wondered if it was too late to share a small meal with McGonagall… perhaps the Headmistress could be convinced to sit down for some tea and scones, at least. Though that, Hermione thought with trepidation, would likely force her to field some questions from their former professor about Ron and Jasmine. But maybe she could pose some questions in return… McGonagall was Scottish, and despite the name, Morgana was thought to be Scottish as well.

Hermione suddenly halted, causing a couple of students to run into her in the suddenly crowded hallway as classes finished up. She apologized, blushing at their scowls. She turned and walked back the way she came, headed to the fourth floor.

Why question the former Transfiguration professor, when the History of Magic professor was handy? The professor who was centuries old himself, and droned on almost constantly about the Goblin Rebellions?

Binn's office was where it had been for centuries, near the History of Magic classroom on the fourth floor. For a moment she hesitated, realizing that Professor Binns was the one Hogwarts professor she'd never visited outside of class. She knocked on the door and waited.

She had to swallow a screech a second later as, instead of opening the door, Binns merely poked his head through the wood. The ghost seemed as confused as he stared at her, blinking.

"Miss Grant?" he asked slowly, as if just remembering. "Do you require some assistance with your homework?" He asked the question like it was a new, amazing concept.

Hermione filed his misconception of her status as a student under the same "waste of time" category as trying to correct his idea of her name. Instead, she decided to just roll with it. "Um… not exactly, sir. I'm doing an extra-credit report, and I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions?" His head was already receding back into the door as the ghost lost interest, so she raised her voice. "It's on Morgana and the Goblin Rebellions!"

He halted, eyes wide, and Hermione could swear she actually saw the real animation in his face that had been there in… well, ever. "Is it? That's a very good subject, Miss Grant. Come in." His head pulled back and disappeared. Hermione waited for the door to open. After a moment it became obvious that it wouldn't. Rolling her eyes, she drew her wand and opened it with an unlocking charm.

The inside of Binn's office was dusty and cobwebbed. It was obvious that no living being had stepped inside the small room in years, if not decades. Books were set on small shelves behind the desk, and they hadn't moved in memory. Binns sat - if a ghost could truly 'sit' - in the chair behind the desk, which was rotted and rickety. If the man had been corporeal, he would have fallen right through it.

"Come, sit, Miss Grant. I'll answer your questions as best I can."

Hermione looked at the chair in front of the desk dubiously; it looked solid enough, but filthy. Hoping it wouldn't offend Binns, she cast a quiet cleaning charm. He didn't react, and though the top layer of dust and dirt was removed, she resolved to give her clothes a full cleaning later as she sank into the creaky seat.

Binns had set his ghostly notebook - and how did that work, anyway? - onto his desk. He steepled his hands and leaned forward, not noticing that it caused his chest to actually sink into the front of the desk. He had a vaguely bewildered look on his face, as if he'd never had a student visit his office before and wasn't quite sure what to do. Hermione supposed that he probably hadn't.

"Now, you had questions about the Goblin Rebellions?" he prompted.

"With regards to Morgana, yes sir," she said, trying to make sure he wouldn't fall into his normal rut. "I've found mention in the library that she may have been involved with the Battle of Hogsmeade, though not directly… I was hoping you could expand upon that."

"Oh, of course. She was, as you read, present at the battle, but not within the town itself. Fifteen wizards and witches were within the town, as we've covered in class before, and they were the ones responsible for re-taking Hogsmeade and defeating the goblins within. But the goblins in the town were not the only ones present… the entire attack was an elaborate trap, intended to draw out defending wizards and pin them within the town for yet another assault." Binns spoke in the same droning voice with which he presented all information, but Hermione didn't feel the drowsiness she had fought so long and often in his class. "Indeed, outside of Hogsmeade, in the valley leading to the town, camped a contingent of near five hundred goblins. Had their plan succeeded, they would have wiped Hogsmeade clean again, and likely repeated the tactic as often as they could get away with."

"But someone interfered?"

"Of course. A witch appeared in the town, somehow bypassing the anti-portkey and anti-apparition wards the goblins had erected. She did not take part in the battle planning… on the contrary, she instructed those present to do exactly as they would were the advancing army not present, and she would make it so. Then she left."

"Did the witnesses describe her?"

"Not in a useful fashion. She was said to be clad in simple robes, bearing a staff rather than a wand. Her face was cloaked, both with her hood and with magic. The witnesses, as you might imagine, were primarily concerned with the hundred or so goblins that still occupied the town itself. Only later, after the battle, would they mention lights and spellfire coming from the valley. When others were sent to scout the area, they apparently found wide devastation… the earth cracked, trees uprooted or burned to ash, and the remains of the goblins."

Hermione swallowed, trying not to think of her own memories of the battle inside and outside the school two years ago. "But the woman didn't identify herself? How do we even know it was Morgana?"

"We didn't… not at the time. We could only speculate."

She blinked. "I'm… surprised, sir. You don't strike me as a person inclined toward speculation, only facts."

He seemed to take that as a compliment, either not remembering or not caring about his own comments during the Chamber of Secrets incident. "Of course not. But, nearly eight years after the battle, the same woman returned and bullied her way into the Wizengamot to speak. She was recognized by those present - who included some of the defenders of Hogsmeade, moved on to successful political careers - primarily by her staff. And it was there that she laid claim to the name Morgana… of course, at the time, it was pronounced merely 'Morgan'."

He leaned back, and Hermione was fascinated by the wistfulness she saw in his face. "My grandfather was present at that Wizengamot… he told me that Morgan spoke with great force, berating the members present. She spoke against the ignorance of the wizards, and the marginalization of the goblins after their surrender."

"So she was speaking for the goblins?"

"Oh, not at all," Binns replied, and he almost seemed happy. "She spoke against the notion that the goblins were beaten. She claimed that the goblins had their own standards of honour, standards that did not much our own. While they might follow the letter of a surrender, they would not follow the spirit. They were waiting, she said, simply for the wizarding world to contravene those standards, whereupon they could justify to themselves the march to war. As such, she claimed that the various acts against the goblins, restricting their movements and so on, were simply playing into their hands. The Wizengamot dismissed her concerns, and she left angrily. As time would tell, of course, she was proven correct."

"Where did she go after that?"

"No one knows. Some say she left for China, or maybe the Americas. But of course-"

"-that's speculation, not fact." Binns nodded, pleased. "Do you know of any books this is described in? The library was lacking the details you provided."

"Oh… of course. I believe Wizendummies by Olaf Skeeter is the book you want." Hermione nodded, trying to resist rolling her eyes at the title. She hesitated as he did. "Or… hmm. I believe I have a copy here." The ghost stood and looked at the books behind him. "I do!" he said, and his voice was wonderous. He lifted a tome off the shelf and handed it to her. She took it gently, mindful of the pages barely holding together.

"Thank you, sir. I'll try to return it quickly."

"Before you leave for Hogsmeade, if you wouldn't mind."

Hermione nodded. Standing, she paused. "Sir, do you believe Morgana - er, Morgan - was a thousand years old?"

He shook his spectral head. "Oh, no, of course not. Morgan is obviously a name passed from mother to daughter, or master to apprentice. The idea of a witch living that long is ludicrous."

"Of course, sir. Thank you." She left, leaving the baffled and elated ghost behind her.

The halls were empty... she guessed that supper was on at the Great Hall. She carefully flipped through the book Binns had given her as she walked; it was faded and barely holding together. She hoped he wouldn't mind if she used some repair spells on it.

Like so many times before, she heard the Great Hall before she saw it... the clinking of cutlery against plates, laughter, and at this time of year the sound of students elated over finished exams, and those that were panicking over exams to come. The doors were opened wide as she came down the stairs, and she smiled, seeing healthy, happy faces filling the school once more. She knew that Ron hated coming back to Hogwarts… the happy memories here couldn't possibly outweigh the loss of his brother and so many friends. Hermione thought differently… the school was a refuge. Yes, evil had managed to push its way in, but just as surely they'd pushed it back out.

She wondered what Jasmine thought of Hogwarts now.

A few students watched her as she walked up the center of the hall toward the staff table, but most were intent on their food or their studying. McGonagall lifted her chin as she approached, giving her a small, friendly smile. "You missed lunch," she commented.

It was so much like old times… her head of house had needed to remind her often not to neglect basic needs while studying. Hermione laughed. "I'm so sorry… I got caught up in the library."

"You needn't apologize, I had a feeling you would. Can you stay for supper?"

"I'm sorry, I can't. Ron will be home soon, and though he can cook for himself, I'd really, really rather he didn't." McGonagall didn't laugh outright, but her eyes twinkled in amusement in a very Dumbledore-like manner.

"Well, then. Feel free to use the floo in my office… the password is 'strathspey'. I do hope you'll visit again soon so we can have that lunch. And if Mister Weasley is willing, bring him along."

"Yes, professor, I'll try to talk him into it."

"And how is Miss Potter? Can I look forward to a visit from her as well?"

Hermione hesitated. "I hope so, professor," she replied honestly.


If Ron noticed her absence during the day, he didn't comment on it. Her fiance had settled into a kind of listlessness which saddened her. Later that night as they lay in bed, the book on her lap as she carefully applied charms to re-bind the pages - some were too far gone, and would need a binding potion - she paused to look at her partner, who held a Quidditch magazine but wasn't really looking at it.

"She's going to come back, you know," she said.

He looked up, not needing to ask who she was referring to. "How can you know that?"

"Because that's what she does. She always comes back. Just like you." She reached out and squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back, and then folded his magazine and tossed in on the floor on his side of the bed. He'd slip on it tomorrow, she was sure of it, but for the moment she let it slide. Instead, she let him slip an arm across her waist as he snuggled into her side.

She hoped she wasn't lying to him.


It was nearly three months later before they received a sign of their friend, and the sign didn't come in the manner they expected.

The Weasleys had all settled into a kind of sad confusion. They all knew the basic details, but the close-knit clan had a hard time grasping the idea of running away from family. But there was nothing they could do nor say to change things, so they just went onward as best they could. Ron continued with his Auror training, and Hermione split her time between working on her mastery and planning the wedding, which was just a few months away. She tried not to dwell on the fact that her best friend and maid of honour might not be attending.

Annoyingly, the wizarding press had noticed Jasmine's absence. They'd kept close tabs on the Girl-Who-Won after the war, although with no more dark lords lining up to be defeated and Jasmine almost becoming a homebody after graduating, there wasn't much they could say that wasn't repetitive. But suddenly disappearing with no sign to be seen, even when Ron and Hermione went shopping, had raised an eyebrow or two. Speculation was rampant, and some of the more entertaining stories had Jasmine running off with an Egyptian man, or retreating into the muggle world; another decided that the witch had come into an inheritance from Dumbledore, and that she was off training to become a new 'Light Lord', whatever that was. The most upsetting one speculated that the Potter heir had been killed during a trip on behalf of Gringotts, and that the goblins were currently trying to cover up that fact.

Like with Jasmine herself there was nothing they could say or do about the stories, so they ignored them as best they could, just as they tried to ignore the hole in their lives.

It was a Saturday in early September, during breakfast, when the owl arrived at their flat, soaring in through the open kitchen window. It was a beautiful bengal eagle owl, huge and imperious, and it somehow managed to convey the impression that they should consider themselves privileged to relieve it of the message tied to its leg. It refused an owl treat with a snooty turn of its head, merely standing where it had landed on the third chair of the small kitchen. It had obviously been instructed to wait for a reply, and didn't want to be bothered with anything else.

"What is it?" Ron asked over his eggs as she sat back down, pulling a scroll from the copper tube it had delivered.

She read the note. Then read it again. She blinked, then read the message aloud.

Lady Lily Fakhrani requests the pleasure

of Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger's presence

for dinner and drinks at the Shahzadeh Restaurant,

on Thursday, September the 22nd at Seven O'Clock

Please RSVP via provided owl at your earliest convenience.

(Semi-formal attire requested)

Ron puzzled. "Lily Fakhrani? Who's that?"

"Fakhrani? Why, that's the new president of KI!" Hermione said, baffled.

"So, not someone with the Ministry?"

"No, not at all! KI is a muggle company. Very large, international, private holding… they make satellites, computers, medical equipment… that sort of thing." The redhead's eyes were glazing over, and she sighed. "Muggle machines, Ron. They make very complex, very expensive muggle machines. A lot of my parents' dental equipment is made by them. Fakhrani took control of the company two years ago, there was a note about it in my mother's investment magazines." She re-read the invitation and couldn't help but gasp. "The Shahzadeh! That's one of the best restaurants in London… it's almost impossible to get a reservation there!"

"We can't afford to go to a restaurant like that!"

"We don't have to order anything. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"I'm very curious! I'm very curious why a muggle businesswoman is inviting the two of us - via owl, I might add - to an upscale restaurant out of the blue."

Hermione looked dubious. "She obviously has some wizarding connections. And she's not likely to be a Death Eater. Maybe she wants to thank us? Voldemort would have turned on the muggles next, you know."

"I don't know," Ron doubted. "Something is barmy about this whole thing. A muggle tecknity company president thanking a couple of wizards? And what kind of name is 'Kay-Eye', anyway?"

His fiancee shook her head. "It's an acronym. K-I. Short for Khnum Industries. People just-"

Ron looked up, a piece of bacon in his mouth, as Hermione squeaked and ground to a halt. "'Mione?"

"Ron… Khnum… that's a name. The name of an ancient Egyptian god… Khnum the Potter."

His jaw dropped, and the bacon fell back onto the plate. He took the invite from her, and stared at the one word that jumped out at him. "Lily…"

"Jasmine's mum…" Hermione said weakly. "Ron, it's her. It's got to be!"

"Why? Why like this?" She could tell he wanted to be angry, but he wasn't able to muster it as hope sprang anew.

"I don't know," Hermione said. "But we'll need to find you a muggle suit."


The week passed ridiculously slowly. The Weasleys, once they'd found out, had wanted to invade the restaurant en masse… but Ron, to Hermione's surprise, was the one to talk them out of it.

"We don't want to scare her," he said, then seemed to realize who he was talking about. "Well, not scare… we don't want to make her mad. That'd be bad." A simple argument, but one that seemed to do the trick.

Ron didn't like muggle suits any more than he liked magical ones, but with Hermione's help - particularly with the tie - he put it on without complaints. She thought he looked very handsome and told him so, which made him a bit more tolerant. It wasn't the best of semi-formal-wear, but it wouldn't get them kicked out of the restaurant before they'd even sat down. Hermione wore the same dress she'd worn to Bill's wedding, pleased with the way it still fit properly, and pleased with the way Ron's eyes still moved up and down her body while she wore it.

They apparated to a nearby apparation point and walked the short distance to the restaurant. The sun was already at the horizon by the time they'd left, and the air was starting to chill. Hermione pulled her coat around her, deciding that any shivers were due to the cold and not the upcoming meeting.

The front of the Shahzadeh was glass and meticulously-cared for flowers, and within was expensive carpet and even more expensive decorations. Paintings were arranged along the walls, including an artist's rendering of the Persepolis, and another of ancient Persian soldiers lashing the Hellespont at Xerxes' command. There was a small lineup of businessmen and women in front of the maitre'd, an impeccably-dressed middle-eastern man in a black suit, with a largish nose and dignified presence. The members of the crowd waited patiently, because impatience would be gauche. Some of the men even wore tuxedos, while their… dates? were clad in furs and more jewelry than could be found in a Gringotts vault.

Hermione had attended formal affairs with her parents before, but she felt like a barbarian at the gates as she lead Ron into the line to wait patiently. She panicked inside as the maitre'd noticed them and stepped around his podium to approach them, certain that they'd been identified as pretenders and interlopers, and at any moment they would be kindly asked to return to the tax bracket from which they'd tried to escape.

"Ms Granger? Mister Weasley?" he asked instead in an accented voice.

She swallowed past a dry mouth. "Yes?"

"We've been expecting you. If you could follow me, please?"

She and Ron looked at each other, shocked, but could only nod and obey.

They were lead into the main dining room, which was all crystal and candlelight, done up in a Middle-Eastern theme to match the name of the restaurant. Silken curtains the color of gold were placed here and there along the walls, and the carpet, a deep red, made their footsteps soundless. Couples and small groups were arranged at tables, speaking in soft whispers, as this was not a place for rambunctious frivolity. Hermione was certain this was the kind of place where multi-million dollar deals were made or broken, or agreements forged between nations long before the press ever caught wind of them.

The maitre'd guided them to an isolated corner of the restaurant, beneath an arcing ceiling of glass. The stars of the clear night were plainly visible above them, and Hermione had a giddy moment to wonder what Firenze would say of them. But she heard Ron pull in a breath, and looked down.

There, at an isolated table in the corner of the lavishly-decorated dining room was Jasmine. Dressed in an impeccable wheat-coloured tunic and slacks, she seemed so different that Hermione had to look twice to be sure it was really her. The Jasmine before Egypt always dressed down, tried to fly under the radar, and could generally be described as 'meek', unless Voldemort or some other injustice was involved. This Jasmine, seated with her legs very properly crossed and a small flute glass of ice water between her fingers, radiated such poise that Narcissa Malfoy would look like a drunken party girl in comparison.

Then their eyes met. Jasmine set down her glass of water and stood as the maitre'd brought them to the table.

"Madam, your guests have arrived," he said unnecessarily, though Hermione assumed there was some protocol to be followed in a place such as this. Her nerves were fraying, both from the coming conversation and from trying not to look like an unlettered hick.

Ron plopped down unceremoniously, almost glaring at Jasmine. This brought a raised eyebrow and not quite a sneer from their guide, who took it upon himself to seat Hermione, pushing in her chair in a gentlemanly manner. She knew better than to comment; she wasn't going to start the night with a fight, and it wasn't Ron's fault that he didn't know. She watched as the maitre'd also sat Jasmine.

She hid her surprise as the other woman quietly spoke to the man in what sounded like Hebrew. No… this was a Persian restaurant, so it was probably Farsi, wasn't it? She made small gestures at the two newcomers, and Hermione was a bit concerned.

After a moment, the man left with practiced haste, and Jasmine turned to them. "I took the liberty of ordering for you," she said, "though if you want a glass of wine or liquor, just ask the waiter. Anything you like… you're my guests, and there's no bill for you to worry about.

"Now, since none of us know how this conversation will go, I suggest we eat first," she suggested, neatly forestalling anything Hermione might have said. "I, for one, have been working all day and I'm very hungry. Then we can talk or argue or whatever, and no matter the outcome at least we'll all have full bellies to show for it. Agreed?"

Hermione reached under the table and squeezed Ron's knee. "Sure. Food first, that sounds fine." After a moment Ron nodded as well.

The next few minutes were amazingly awkward, but the service in the restaurant was also amazingly fast. In short order a few small plates filled with small, grilled flatbreads were delivered, along with a ridiculously delicious dip she couldn't identify. A shared plate of tiny stuffed and roasted tomatoes was placed in the center of the table. The waiter - a different man from the maitre'd - flitted about them, placing napkins on their laps and almost panicking Ron.

The little breads disappeared quickly, though Hermione had barely finished chewing when the waiter returned with their main dishes. Ron received a plate of kabobs, which she silently acknowledged as a good choice... it was familiar enough not to put him off, and yet he'd undoubtedly enjoy it. It would also counter his unfortunate tendency to eat too fast, which made her wonder if flavour and presentation hadn't been the only criteria in Jasmine's choice.

Both women received a plate with roasted chicken, along with basmati rice dusted with some kind of yellowish-orange spice and mixed with small, reddish berries. Hermione found them both sweet and tart, and again she found herself needing to avoid imitating her fiance at his worst dinner table behaviour, it was so good.

As Jasmine ordered a glass of wine, Hermione ignored Ron's look as she requested a glass of the same. They were at one of the best restaurants in the UK, about to find out whether their best friend was still their best friend… she was having some wine, damnit! Jasmine seemed ever so slightly pleased as she did so.

She ate her meal slowly and with great restraint, relishing every bite. Beside her she could see Ron also enjoying his food, though he was trying and failing to hide it. She sipped her wine whenever she forced herself to stop eating for a moment, and would watch Jasmine. The other woman ate as elegantly as she seemed to do everything else: small bites, punctuated with sips of wine that were savoured before swallowing.

Jasmine noticed her scrutiny and raised a perfectly-shaped eyebrow at her. Hermione blushed and went back to her meal.

Before too long they'd finished their meals, and the relentlessly-efficient waiter had swooped in and whisked their plates away, in their place leaving behind dessert in the form of clear glass cups of rice pudding and a square of baklava.

Jasmine didn't pick up her spoon, instead steepling her fingers and pressing them against her lip as she watched them. Hermione found that her appetite had fled, although half of Ron's pudding was already gone.

"If you want to talk, we can probably do so now," Jasmine remarked, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands on her stomach.

She looked at them, and they back at her. Hermione was frustrated; the Jasmine she knew wore her heart on her sleeve, and she'd lost track of the amount of trouble they'd suffered because her friend couldn't control her emotions or her mouth. This new Jasmine was a sphinx - a turn of phrase that made Hermione slightly ill even as she thought how appropriate it was. She didn't even fidget, her hands folded very properly in her lap, thumbs touching. If it wasn't for the movement of her eyes, you'd think she was a statue.

She swallowed past a suddenly dry mouth. "I don't know where to start."

"It's probably best to start with the most difficult thing between us," Jasmine replied. "And that's this: nothing can go back to what it was. What's done is done. The past is the past. And most importantly, I am what I am. I need you both to understand this."

Hermione looked at her fiance, and saw little help from that direction. "We… I get that-"

"Do you?" Jasmine asked. "I can see how off-balance you are. I have your friend's face, I have her voice… but you're not sure I am her."

"Are you?" Ron asked, almost hostile.

She looked at him flatly. "No, I'm not. Just like you're no longer the petty, jealous boy I met on the train, nor is Hermione the prissy know-it-all. Time works on us all, Ronald. We learn and grow and change, and become new people every moment of every day. And Chronos has had a very long time to have his way with me. What we need to figure out is if I've become someone with whom you aren't interested in maintaining a friendship."

"Well, I have to say, ditching us in the middle of the desert and then emptying your apartment isn't a good way to start things over." Despite Ron's blunt wording, Hermione found herself nodding in agreement.

Jasmine nodded calmly. "You're right. That was wrong of me. My only excuse is that I was running away."

"Running away?" Hermione injected. "From what?"

"From you." The serenity of her expression hadn't changed, but she was lightly pressing her thumbs together and releasing. Press, release… press, release.

The statement confused Ron and broke his anger. "Us? Why?"

"Because you're the reality," Jasmine said. She relaxed a bit and sighed. "I've lived with only memories of you for millennia. I've… idealized those memories. Hermione Granger, the righteous and clever. Ronald Weasley, the forthright and strong. For thousands of years, those were the people I thought of when I thought of you. I was afraid that I'd speak with you, and you'd just be... people. It's not fair to you, and it was wrong for me to run. I hope you can forgive me.

"Now… you have questions. Go ahead and ask them," Jasmine said, "I can't promise to answer everything, but the answers I give you will be truth."

Hermione hesitated. "What… happened after you were sent back?"

"I don't remember," she replied. She held up a hand at Hermione's frown. "I'm not being coy. The first eight hundred years of my life are… faded. I can give you vague impressions, supplemented with some logical conclusions and journals I made for myself later. I was found by villagers and given shelter. I'd imagine I was confused and lost, and the villagers probably didn't know what to make of me… a green-eyed caucasian in the middle of an ancient Egyptian village. I remember a few battles… I was probably driving off brigands. I remember the people naming me 'Wadjet'.

"I… don't remember when I noticed that I wasn't aging. It was probably only a decade or two after my arrival. I didn't travel too much for the first few centuries… it was difficult, Egypt was unforgiving, and I'd ended up serving the Pharaohs as advisor. Add in the fact that, for all intents and purposes, magic didn't exist yet. I found a few muggleborn wizards and witches, and taught them, but it wasn't just teaching… we were researching magic itself, based on what little I could remember from Hogwarts. Essentially reverse-engineering what I already knew.

"It was probably… seven hundred years later that I began to grow bored and restless. My journals are more detailed, then… I had noticed that memory was becoming a problem. I left Egypt, and travelled. I won't get into details, because there's so very many. But… that has been my life since then. I travel around the world, settling here and there, sometimes for a couple hundred years at a time. I move on when I feel myself growing stagnant, or when my presence starts drawing attention."

"So you don't know… why? Why you've lived so long?"

"No. I have some theories, but testing them is… unpleasant."

She had a feeling further questions along that vein would be politely but firmly refused, at least at this early stage of their re-introduction. Instead, she changed tack. "How did you avoid affecting history?"

"Primarily, by not being anywhere near events when I knew the outcome," the raven-haired witch replied, "and as it happens I knew very little history, which shielded me. Understand, the danger of time travel is the temptation to change the flow of what will happen so that it conflicts with what has happened in your own timestream. The conflict is the source of disaster, and is one of the reasons why time-turners are so dangerous… they restrict you to moving about within your own timeline, where by definition you already know the outcome. But if you don't know the outcome, you can't oppose it. Your actions and reactions are honest, I suppose you could say. Things work out the way they were supposed to in the first place."

"Hold on," Ron jumped in. He'd looked bewildered through most of her explanation, but now seemed to have come to an epiphany. "Just so I understand: your lack of knowledge of history helped you avoid damaging time?"

"Fundamentally, yes."

"So… not knowing something was the best thing? So you and I sleeping through History was actually the best choice?" He actually seemed amused.

Jasmine squinted. "I don't remember that, but if so… yes, I suppose."

Ron was looking at Hermione with a triumphant look on his face. She rolled her eyes, glad to see him break out of the perpetual glower he'd worn since they'd arrived, but not willing to concede ignorance as any kind of asset.

"But, what about portions of history you did know about?" she asked. "I mean, you're Morgana," she stumbled, uttering the name in a harsh whisper, "and I know you knew the name before you went back."

"That's an interesting detail," Jasmine admitted. "Occasionally, you'll find yourself pulled into an event before you realize what's going on. It was… 300 AD. I was in Britannia, exploring the land I believed was my birthplace, but of which I had no real memory… and, as it happens, avoiding the wizards of the collapsing Roman Empire, who had some knowledge of the 'immortal witch' and were looking for me. I was in a village up north, which was too small to have a name but was close to Balnageith."

Hermione leaned in, rapt, and she could see Ron equally entranced.

"We were set upon from the sea… Germanic barbarians, who with the collapse of the Empire were running rampant across Europe. I fought them, driving them back to their longboats and then calling forth a storm which sent them to the bottom. The villagers I'd saved… they'd always been slightly afraid of me, but after that, they named me Muirgen, 'Sea Defender'. The name which over time became Morgan... and after that Morgana, thanks to the Italians. I recognized it from my long-lost memories, and I realized I'd been given a role to play. Recruited, if you will, by Time itself."

"So you just… played along?"

Jasmine tilted her head in a small nod. "In a way. But I didn't remember much of the tales, and some of them are tripe to begin with. It's not like my actions were dictated to me. I didn't know my fate, I just knew I couldn't run from it, not without causing more harm than I could know."

"Did you really train Merlin?" Ron asked hesitantly.

"That… is a sensitive topic. But yes. I taught him, until he'd grown to the point where he was teaching me. He was a dear friend, and an incredible wizard. His legend is far more deserved than my own."

"So… you were there. During Camelot... during the founding of Hogwarts," Hermione said with awe.

"I wasn't a tourist," Jasmine said, an edge to her voice, "nor am I an exhibit."

Ron growled. "Leave off, Jas. She didn't mean it like that, and you know it."

"Ron-" Hermione began, her face red.

"No, he's right," their friend interrupted. Jasmine closed her eyes briefly. "I apologize, Hermione. You only want to learn, and I respect that."

Despite Jasmine's words, Hermione still felt bad, and the three of them found themselves stuck in a long, awkward silence. Even Ron was poking his baklava with a fork, until it was reduced to flaky wreckage on his plate.

Eventually, Jasmine sighed. "I don't know how I expected this to go."

"We just don't know what to do, Jasmine," Hermione said for both of them.

"Do? There is nothing to be done, Hermione. We are where we are… the question is where do we go from here?"

"Where do we go?" Ron asked.

Jasmine pursed her lips. "I don't know. I can tell you where I'm not willing to go. I'm not willing to go down the path of pretending none of this has happened. I like who I am now, and who I am is the product of all that has come before, both the good and the bad. And when I say I don't want to wear a mask - a lie - in front of you, I hope you take that in the spirit in which it is meant."

"So we have to start over," Hermione said. "But how can we do that? You… All that time! We must be like pathetic little children to you!" There. It was said. And it was typical, she supposed. Ron wanted to bring his friend back; Hermione was worried about catching up.

Jasmine sighed, and perhaps there was a little crack in her exterior; a slight turning of the lips, a bit of fondness in her eyes. "Young? Yes. Pathetic? Never. I may not remember much on my own, but I kept track of your paths - and mine - through Hogwarts. I know how you stood beside me, and the hurts you've suffered doing so. But now there's a lot of missing time between us, and we have to decide whether that time is too much of an obstacle." She took a breath. "If the differences in me are too much, be honest and say so. I won't think less of you."

The silence grew long, and Hermione didn't know what to say. What was there to say? How did a friendship survive five thousand years apart? "It's just," she began weakly, "you're… so mature now..." That didn't bring the reaction she expected. The corners of Jasmine's eyes crinkled, and she pressed her lips together. The raven-haired witch reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "What? What did I say?"

Jasmine dropped her hand, letting a full smile show on her face. "I'm over five thousand years old, Hermione, and you're still surprised that I'm mature. I really have to ask… what was I like as a child?"

It took a moment for Hermione to realize what Jasmine meant, and why it was funny. Ron was quicker on the uptake, and he grinned behind his glass of water. It was desperate humour, the kind that sprung from emotions stretched taut, but she was grateful for it. She laughed quietly. "I don't think I should answer that."

"Are you still coming to the wedding?" Ron suddenly asked out of nowhere.

Hermione blinked. So did Jasmine, and Hermione realized that, finally, they'd said something she hadn't anticipated.

"I… hadn't… well, I wasn't sure I'd still be welcome."

"You're the Maid of Honour! You said you'd show up, and it's too late to back out now, so you'd better. You do, and we're fine, yeah?"

Hermione watched a torrent of emotions play across her friend's face, defying even her rigid control. "Well, if I said I would, I'd better."

"Right! And you've had thousands of years to plan your present for 'Mione's hen party-"

His fiancee swatted him. "Bachelorette!"

"- so you'd best have something good."

"I think I can find something," Jasmine replied. "Is it still on November tenth?"

"Yes, I can owl you a new invite," Hermione said, her voice quivering slightly but warmth spreading from her heart. Leave it to Ron to reduce the emotional situation to its base, vital essence.

"I think I have the original… but I'll owl if I can't find it."

Hermione beamed, and even Ron managed a lopsided smile. Jasmine looked at each of them, and then allowed herself a small smile. Then she stood, graceful as ever, and looked down at them.

"This is a good spot to leave this… for now. I have to go, but I am very pleased that you came," she said. She gestured at the table. "Stay as long as you like, and if you're still hungry or thirsty, order anything you want. I'm covering it."

Hermione glanced at Ron. "You should at least let us contribute a little to the bill…"

"There is no bill."

The bookworm looked askance at her friend. "I know you can probably well afford it, Jas, but-"

The other woman raised a hand. "You don't understand. There is no bill. This is my restaurant, Hermione... I own the place." This time, there was definitely a pleased mischievousness in those green eyes as the couple's jaws dropped. "So, enjoy yourselves."

She gave them a little nod of the head and left, carefully navigating amongst the posh guests of the restaurant, though even the wealthy couples and businessmen instinctively made way for her. The pair watched her depart in stunned silence.

When she'd disappeared from view, Hermione looked at her fiance. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "She did that deliberately," he said, disturbed and amused simultaneously. She couldn't repress a soft snort of agreement.

They stared at each other, until Ron quirked a grin. "So, if we're raiding Jas' pantry, should we get anything else?"

This time she giggled. "I don't want to look like a glutton here of all places. But," she added hopefully, "maybe there's a sampler platter?"