A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Please keep them coming :) I've decided to split this chapter into two halves, so you're getting this update quite early.

For the benefit of non-Brit readers who might not know, the hill Tom climbed is Glastonbury Tor (also known as the Isle of Avalon). It's a famous landmark and has been an important site since the Iron Age. It was surrounded by marshland until the Somerset Levels were drained, hence the idea of it being an island. I recommend it as a good spot for a picnic, but I'm afraid the trapdoor is my own invention...

~oOo~

Awkward was not a word that had ever been applied to him. Confident – arrogant, actually – was what he had always been labelled in life. New situations had never bothered him, he was not self-conscious (in this body or his own) and he had always been able to control his more physical reactions. He had been a seducer once upon a time; it was nothing he was now proud of, but he had always read people well, and that often lead to knowing exactly the chain of events that would put them in his bed. While he liked to believe he had left behind the worst of those traits, it was unthinkable that in their place he had become awkward.

But that was exactly how he felt; awkward. These were uncharted waters, and he was a thousand years out of practice. She was so perfect, so ready for him, and he was burning. But then again she was so young, in some ways so innocent, was it wrong? He had not dared to look at her body on the doorstep, as she had jokingly accused, though seeing her legs in those heels had provoked reaction enough – and who could blame him for playing out a harmless little fantasy like that? There, he had been in control, had enjoyed seeing her blush and stare and forget to listen to the elves.

Her train of thought ran just as he imagined, though he had never thought she really would check his pockets herself. Barely one touch, one touch of her body against him and he was so. fucking. hard. Out of control in a way he had never been out of control. She had surprised him, and that thrill built his desire even further. So high that he had entertained the thought of taking her right there in the courtyard; so high that he was dangerously close to being hard now, sat at the dinner table, watching her eat nothing more erotic than a piece of carrot, but imagining her mouth somewhere else entirely; so high that it was absolutely all he could do to conceal his thoughts from his younger self, even though to reveal them would be tantamount to suicide.

But this was not just about sex, and perhaps it never had been. If it were, he would know just what to do – and he knew exactly what he wanted to do – but it was more important than that, and there the awkwardness was creeping in. He had realised it right there in the cherry garden, holding her so tightly, not wanting the moment to come to an end. He had realised that he had no idea what to do next.

He had only loved one woman. Perhaps that was the root of it. Only one woman – and he had not courted her. He had had her, in the basest sense, and then over time something had sort of happened inside himself. Too late, of course, because by then she was irrevocably gone. But the point was he didn't know how to do it. How to make someone love him. As far as he was aware, it had never happened as his true self. And here, he was starting out on a lie, which surely was not the way to lasting happiness. But he was trapped; trapped because he needed her, and because the truth would drive her away. Trapped, and burning.

~oOo~

"You never told me your birthday," she said, trying to find a safe topic of conversation as they sat beside the cherry tree in the fading light. Zorion had been behaving slightly oddly since their embrace earlier, and she couldn't read him well enough to know why. During dinner he had remained entirely silent, almost as if concentrating.

"I don't know it," he replied, thoughtfully. "At any rate, it has little meaning after all this time."

He must have noticed her face fall at his downbeat response because he quickly added, "My mother told me I was born in the summer. That's all I know."

She picked at a loose thread on the hem of her dress, wondering if all their conversations would feel so tense from now on.

"It's the solstice today – Professor Babel set us an essay about it last week. That seems as good a day as any." He was looking at her as if she had gone slightly mad, but perhaps some of the awkwardness had melted away.

"We used to celebrate that, in the village. There was a bonfire… I never was sure why. Silly time of year for a bonfire. There was also a large amount of drinking." He smiled a small, secret smile. "They haven't done that for centuries. Well. The bonfire part. I don't think the drinking ever went out of fashion."

"Let's do it."

"Pardon?" She was just about to get embarrassed when she realised he was deliberately teasing her for her particular choice of words.

"Oh, shut up. Let's have a bonfire. In the meadow, for your birthday." Zorion chuckled, again as if she were mad, but it was a fond sort of sound nevertheless.

"If you insist. What about the drinking?"

"Fine, we'll do that too… I always find a fire hazard is lacking something if one remains sober."

"Yes, quite. Well… shall we?" He extended his hand to help her up – quite unnecessarily, but she took it anyway, and tried not to think about anything else. They wandered out to the meadow.

In the time it took her to conjure the bluebell-flame bonfire and transfigure a picnic rug, Zorion had disappeared and returned with a full bottle of firewhiskey and two tumblers.

"Don't you ever drink anything else?"

"Well… I've been through various phases. Count yourself lucky you didn't have to visit during the mead years. You have to drink a hell of a lot more of that to get properly pissed."

"I think you might have a bit of a drinking problem."

"I think you might have a bit of a nagging problem." He smirked and handed her a glass, which was quite a bit fuller than she would have filled it.

"Yes, so I've been told… Anyway – cheers, happy… first birthday." She inclined the glass in salute.

"Lots of first things seem to have happened to me recently. I blame you entirely." He waved his hand at the fire and the blue flames became rippled with shades of silver and purple. In the depths, shadows took the shape of animals flickering and prancing. He was such an infuriating show-off that she almost didn't want to give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait, but in the end she said, "And exactly how did you come to that conclusion?"

"Well… you didn't put up a big fight against that crazy woman. I think you wanted to meet me."

He was doing it deliberately – it was written in every laughter line on his face – but she still couldn't stop herself gasping indignantly. This time last year she might have gone off on a giant rant on the subject, but the moon was full in the clear sky and the stars were coming out and the fire was dancing and she was too content. She let out the angry breath and the tension inside was gone.

"I barely saw her. I suppose I was worn out. Why did it have to be her, of all people...?" He looked surprised.

"I didn't realise there was a story there." She looked at her forearm as a snatch of memory replayed in her mind.

"Wait… wait. It's not there anymore. I didn't notice – all last summer, how did I not notice?"

Slowly but surely the awful word appeared on her bare skin, mocking her. She opened and shut her mouth several times, not understanding and not knowing what to say. A squeak formed in the back of her throat before she could stop it, and then her eyes were filling up with tears.

His touch on her arm startled her – looking up, she saw that he was staring at the angry mark with a pained expression, stroking the letters lightly with his fingertips. They began to melt away once more, though it was too late to stop the first tears from falling. He pulled her gently into his arms and she choked back a fresh wave of emotion brought on by that act of comfort and held him tightly until the memory had faded.

"What just happened?" It came out muffled by his shirt, but he didn't pull away and instead rubbed her back soothingly for some time before responding.

"What happened is that I just made the latest in a long line of stunningly poor judgements." She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough, and hugged him tighter.

"Last year, when I changed you back, I thought you'd rather not see it. I thought you'd notice straight away, but when you didn't, it slipped my mind… I'm sorry. I had no idea I'd just reminded you of it. I won't let you see it again… what was I thinking?"

After a while she stepped out of his embrace, wiped her eyes and let the flames and the moonlight chase the last of the awful memory away.

"It's alright," she said, and meant it. "It just – surprised me. The memory of it, well, of how it appeared, was… It's not important, anyway – I shouldn't let it affect me like that. It's – she's – less than nothing. Let's… go back. Please. I was wishing you a happy birthday." She took a second sip of firewhiskey, as if making the toast again, and then he retrieved the glass from her fingers and set it on the floor along with his own.

"You are… remarkable," he said, in a voice that made her stomach perform a strange flip, and then he was reaching forward and smoothing a strand of hair away from her face and pressing his lips softly to her cheek. It was perfect, and she had breathed "Go on," before she even realised she was going to speak. His chuckle, so close to her ear, rumbled through her whole body.

"So brave," he continued, kissing her other cheek.

"So kind." He kissed her forehead.

"So… beautiful." And though what was about to happen was perfectly obvious, she still nearly collapsed when their lips finally met.

It was the gentlest kiss she had ever received, and all too soon it was over and he was pulling back. She heard the tiniest whimper of loss escape her mouth.

"Tell me to stop," he said, and in his voice was the same ragged desperation that she felt inside herself. She smiled and stepped into the gap between them.

"No."

If the first kisses had been the stars and the moon, the one that followed was the fire; alive and burning and more than enough to make her forget entirely any doubts she might ever have had – what could be wrong with something that felt so good?

He allowed her to undo his tie and attack the buttons on his shirt, but when he returned the favour with her dress it was slow and sensual, almost reverent, and then somehow they were lying on the blanket and she had never felt someone pressed against her quite like this, and it was just right and yet she wanted so much more.

She had imagined Zorion's fingers touching her all over a hundred times in dreams, but the real thing was nothing similar, and she had never imagined the sounds he would make as she touched him; soft and low and reverberating through their kisses. Finally she was completely undressed; there was about half a second in which to feel self-conscious before his mouth continued the exploration of his fingers and all higher thought disappeared.

After some time, he pulled away from her slightly and the loss caused her to open her eyes though she didn't remember closing them.

"Tell me you've done this before." He looked distracted, almost anxious, and it was an expression that looked unfamiliar on his face. Shouldn't it be her that was anxious, ahead of her first time? But there was nothing except desire. She had spent enough years anticipating this moment, after all – it wasn't like she had been trying to still be a virgin at twenty.

"No," she said, having no choice but honesty and not understanding why it was apparently the wrong answer. He bowed his head, hiding his expression, and she started to feel the self-consciousness returning. "Why does it matter? I can't exactly help it, can I?"

"You're so… young. I feel like… like the worst kind of person, I –"

"I'm not a child!"

"I've seen you at eleven!"

"That's got nothing to do with anything! I'm twenty, get over it!" Hermione had never had an argument whilst naked before – it was oddly intimate. He looked up for the first time, mouth open on the brink of an angry retort, but closed it again and instead seemed to consider her carefully. Time stretched on with her staring back at him, unashamed.

"You know, you're even more stunning when you're shouting at me. It's lucky, because I seem to give you plenty of opportunities." She smiled despite herself.

"I'll say. You know, you really ruined the mood. I think it would have made a good birthday present, so it's a shame you missed your chance." His face was a picture, and she felt a thrill of power to see just how much she was wanted. She kissed him, and the passion reignited so fast that it took all of her willpower to pull away. Getting to her feet, she smiled at his pained expression.

"As I said… a shame." She slid on her dress as sensually as she could manage, downed her glass of firewhiskey to prove some sort of point, and stalked off before he had managed any reply. It was not something the old Hermione might have done, but it felt a lot like something the new Hermione might do: it felt good.

~oOo~

The timber walkway creaked and groaned beneath his heavy boots – below and to either side, disturbances in the water suggested the presence of small creatures but the night was too dark to discern their outlines. In the still air the bulrushes stood rigid, ominous somehow at this hour, rising above his head like silent sentinels. Heavy cloud shrouded the moonlight; it had been a warm day, and still was, in fact – humid. Perhaps there was a storm coming.

In the distance a fire stuttered on the hillside, and it was in this direction that he was headed. The marsh began to recede as the ground rose, reeds giving way to grass, and there the walkway ended and his footsteps could begin to fall noiselessly. Though he had acquaintances among the muggles here, he wished to pass unseen now, and so gave the cluster of reed-thatched huts a wide berth. The screech of a fox some way off set the dogs to barking, but fortunately there was no movement from their masters within. He climbed swiftly.

A crude wooden church stood on the summit, little larger than the huts below. It had been constructed some centuries prior, he was told, as a defence against malevolent spirits. Even the muggles could sense the magic here. He could feel it half a mile away; a maelstrom drawing him in until he reached the centre, where power was seeping up from the ground and calling out to him. Though he had travelled far and seen many things, it was this hill which stood out above all the other mysteries. This hill which refused to leave his mind until it began appearing even in dreams.

Past experience caused him to silence the hinges of the church door before trying to open it; his first visit had woken the monk and resulted in a highly regrettable memory charm. So many times now he had made this trip – by night, by day, full moon, new moon, Samhain and Beltane, Midwinter. Tonight was the last day of power he had yet to try: Midsummer. And tonight, he already knew something was different. Tonight, he would find the source of this ancient magic.

The earth beneath him was moving, convulsing, as though some great monster was stirring in the depths. He stood his ground, hands open as if to absorb the power or ready to deflect it. After some time the movements stilled, and having ascertained that the monk slept on, he crept forward towards the centre of the disturbance.

In front of the altar table, an oaken trapdoor had appeared in the floor. The magic hissed and crackled until the very air was thick, alive with it. There was no sense in turning back now; only one direction to go and that was downwards.

The tunnel was barely wider than his shoulders, and pitch dark at first, so it was a relief that the ladder was well preserved. He descended rapidly, the air stale and damp in his lungs, the sound of his footfalls a muffled yet deafening echo in the small, silent space. Down and down and down.

All at once the tunnel opened out into a wide cavern, dimly lit by some unseen source. He craned his neck around for a better view, still gripping the ladder tightly, and was relieved to find the room devoid of other occupants. Clambering hastily the rest of the way down, he was unnerved to find his arms were trembling with the exertion – or worse, from fear.

The space was perhaps twenty paces wide by twenty deep; hewn presumably by magic from the solid rock of the hillside. In the centre, a large round basin contained water bubbling up from below the floor. It ought to have been overflowing, he thought, but was not. Opposite the ladder a shelf protruded from the wall, and it was the object resting on the shelf which truly drew the eye.

It was made from gold – that much was certain even from a distance. A cup of some sort; goblet, chalice even. He crossed the room, and up close could make out a fine inscription around the rim. He had to spin the cup to follow the words where they disappeared around the far side.

Novissima autem inimica destruetur mors

"Why," came a voice – female, but strangely harsh – "if it isn't the illustrious Merlin… What an honour." Merlin jerked his hand away from the cup, terrified, and turned around.

~oOo~