A/N: It's short, but at least it was fast, right? Thanks for the reviews.

~oOo~

The woman was slender, with glossy black hair that fell to her waist. Her skin was pale – unblemished – and her eyes dark. In any other situation, he would have found her devastatingly attractive, and she clearly knew it. Her expression was somehow cruel, however, and the room was filled with her presence far beyond that which her diminutive size would suggest. He knew instinctively that her power was greater than his, but it did not do to give that sort of thing away. He drew himself up to his full height and masked his fear.

"Morgana," he said, taking an educated guess, because if he had ever learned anything it was that confidence always paid off. "I wish I could say the same."

She laughed, and it had a hint of a cackle about it.

"I thought it might be you, you know, to find it. I've heard all about you." He chose to ignore the false attempt at flattery she was making.

"What is this place?"

"I created it. Centuries ago, to house the Holy Grail… the cup of Christ himself. Drinking from the cup bestows eternal life."

Her speech was rehearsed; everything about her manner was forced. A bluff or a double bluff? He grasped the cup – took a step towards the water. Caught the manic glint in her eye.

"Why, then, would you wish me to drink from it?" She was flustered, he thought, but hid it well.

"Anyone who can find the Grail is worthy of its gift. That is how the story goes. Please, drink." She took it from his hands and filled it from the pool, then took a sip. He was torn between wanting to get to the bottom of the mystery and escaping while he still had his life. The mystery won.

"Such a fascinating object," he said, stalling for time. "Tell me how you came by it." She clearly did not appreciate the question but saw no choice except to answer, and that in itself struck him as odd.

"I have travelled widely," she said, which was no answer at all, so he changed tactics.

"If it truly has the power you claim, there must be others. Others to use it before you. Show me."

"You are mistaken. I was the first to discover it… I took it from the Holy Land, to a safe place near my home. Nobody has come here until now."

The whole situation was screaming lie; he could not say precisely why; could not guess her motive. Something was very wrong. Fear started to rise again, and the mystery became less interesting. He began to wish he had never found the trapdoor.

"I have no desire to live forever," he said. "Death must find us all in time. I am sorry to have… disturbed you." He tried to disapparate, but the chamber was evidently warded against such an act. Morgana laughed, and it really was a cackle this time.

"You're a clever one, I'll grant you. I cannot force you to drink – unfortunately – but I think you will still prove useful."

He should have been prepared; he was a competent occlumens. But the assault on his mind was brutal, lightning fast, and the chamber began to spin until everything went black.

~oOo~

Zorion watched the courtyard gate for several seconds after Hermione had disappeared through it, stunned into silence, as it dawned on him that she wasn't coming back. And then he burst out laughing.

How had he thought her too naïve?! She might never have had anyone before, but she already knew how to play the game. This was even better than he had imagined – she was perfect for him! He dressed quickly, pocketed her discarded underwear, and vanished the fire. Then he downed his firewhiskey and took the bottle back to the sitting room.

His younger self had evidently retired to bed; the room was in darkness but for the last dying embers in the fireplace, though there was a half glass of whiskey on the side. The flickering light reflected oddly off an object amongst the cinders, and he brushed it out of the hearth. Then wished he hadn't.

Morgan le Fay, commonly known as Morgana, was a famous dark witch born in the 5th century. Many legends exist surrounding her life and death, leading some to believe that she is still alive. Her body was never found.

Well, that certainly explained why the room had been vacated in a hurry. Frankly he was surprised to find nothing smashed. The rendering of Morgana's face cackled up at him, though it looked nothing much like her. He felt a familiar sort of anger bubbling up – even after all this time – and reduced the card to ashes with a snap of his fingers. Then he downed the half glass of whiskey on the side and stomped upstairs; it was only the echo of Hermione's voice in his head that prevented him from taking the rest of the bottle to bed.

The bed felt cold, though the night itself was warm. He had not shared it for a thousand years – and rarely ever for the whole night – so there was no reason to notice the lack of another person now, but somehow he did. It had been a bit of a rollercoaster of a day, he supposed, making him feel several emotions he rarely had cause to feel. He had to try and relax.

It was a matter of seconds before he was hard, and that was scarcely surprising given how close he had been on several occasions earlier. It was only too easy to slip into fantasy; this time it was her perfect mouth on him, and he could so easily imagine the way her expressive eyes would look up at him as she brought him to the edge, cheeks hollowed from sucking him, hands stroking him, and then in no time he was coming for real, gasping for breath.

"I see you don't need me, then."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Oh, fuck. She was right there. When had she come in? This was the most embarrassing thing that had ever – ever – happened to him. Fuck.

"What did you say?"

Oh, great, he had been swearing out loud. Though apparently not in English, judging by her expression.

"Erm – fuck," he said, awkwardly, not having time to think of a lie.

"That took a long time to say." She was laughing at him, her eyes mischievous, and for the first time since she had entered he actually looked at her. She was wearing a shirt that looked a lot like one of his; it fell to mid-thigh, and was mostly undone. Underneath he could see various bits of black lace. Her hair was loose, and quite messy – the whole effect was screaming fuck me. He blinked, and recovered enough brain power to answer her.

"Well… there are a lot of ways to say fuck in Old Norse."

"You'll have to teach me. But before that I was hoping you would do more than say it." He couldn't reply, because she was unbuttoning the shirt, and watching was taking all of his concentration, and then he was out of bed in one movement and they were a tangle of arms and legs and tongues.

Perhaps it was for the best that he had only just come, because the urgency for completion had been taken away. He could focus solely on her; on the feel of her nipples under his tongue and the way her hair looked spread across the pillow and the way she rubbed her body against him and the noises she made as he stroked two fingers inside of her and the expression on her face as he brought her to orgasm, her muscles clamping down in a way that made his cock twitch with anticipation.

She kissed him desperately, afterwards, and it was a lot like a thank you, and he felt a thrill of smug satisfaction, and then she was wrapping her hand around him and it was her turn to find out what noises he would make. Before things could get near the point of no return, he stopped her gently.

"What do you want?" he asked, and it was beyond obvious but he was desperate to hear the confirmation from her mouth.

"You. Please. Please, fuck me, I need you –" and he cut her off with kisses, and knew that the memory of her voice saying those words was going to feature in every fantasy he was ever going to have from this point on.

She kept her eyes open, locked on his as he joined them, more slowly than he had ever gone before, and the thought occurred to him that he had never really known the meaning of the word intimacy before this moment had come along to define it. She was smiling, smiling so much it was almost laughter, and, God, he hadn't done this in a thousand years but he still knew with absolute certainty that it had never been like this.

Then she was kissing him and running her hands over his back and encouraging him to move, and he complied so willingly, because she felt fucking perfect and he had almost forgotten how good doing this was.

He didn't know how much time passed. He knew he would have lasted all night if that were how long it took to please her, but almost too soon she was making those wonderful moans and whimpers and drawing him so deep into her with her arms and legs wrapped around him, and then he could feel her muscles contracting again, around his cock this time, and he couldn't help but follow her into oblivion.

They lay there entwined for some time, him trying not to put too much weight on her, and her apparently trying to sabotage his efforts by clinging onto him so tightly. There were kisses, slower now, and again he was sure it had never been quite like this before.

"You were doing it again, you know," she said, in a playful tone.

"Doing what?"

"Talking. Norse, I assume. When you – you know…" He blinked several times, and tried to remember, but it was all a bit hazy.

"Ah… That's a bit embarrassing, isn't it…? Sorry."

"I liked it. Depending, I suppose, on what you were saying." He rolled off her and settled on his side behind her. The curve of her body fit exactly against him – he wrapped his free arm around her and stroked the skin of her stomach and nuzzled at her neck and she produced a selection of the most contented sounds he had ever heard.

"I doubt it made much sense. If I had to guess…" He spoke softly, right next to her ear, having noticed the reaction this had produced earlier – "fuck, yes, you're so perfect, please, I'm going to – fuck – I'm so close, darling, yes…" She was shivering in his arms, back arching in a way that made him long to take her again – something his body was almost certainly incapable of right at the moment. "Is that acceptable?"

"That's acceptable." She giggled; he had never heard her giggle before. Did he make her happy? He would give anything… but wait: wasn't that what love was? It was too terrifying to think about right now. The abyss was dark and the fall would be shattering; the heartbreak certain. But here and now the bed was warm and her body felt wonderful pressed against his. So instead of worrying he whispered, "Sleep," and kissed her, and they slept.

~oOo~