A/N: Thanks for the reviews and follows. It seems there was still some confusion about the identity of Death, which I was quite pleased about, because I was worried people would be guessing it after the Prologue! Anyway, onwards. :)

~oOo~

Morgana had loved being Death. It singled her out; proved how superior she was to everyone else, as if there had ever been any doubt. She derived a certain maniacal pleasure from every dreary soul she ruthlessly outlived. She had loved it all, and so for several centuries she had hoped that nobody would find the Grail.

When had it changed? There was no one particular moment, but simply the novelty of outliving everyone wore off. Nobody she had known in her original life was still alive, so the gloating opportunities were less satisfying. And, honestly, it turned out that dying was actually quite good. What an irony.

Nevertheless, it was only about a year ago that she had decided to take an interest in her successor, and so she set to wandering. She was not going to rely on chance – oh no – not like the others. She was not going to be responsible for handing on such a prestigious role to someone like Nero. The very shame of it.

One could not journey far these days without coming across Merlin's name. The quintessential travelling magician, they said; a master of enchantments and illusions. That sort of thing didn't impress her, but he was definitely powerful enough for the job nonetheless. What a coincidence that he had happened to be the first to find the trapdoor.

With hindsight, she had handled that situation terribly. A bit more subtlety – a bit more planning – and he might have been persuaded to drink. She had been flustered, and vowed to be better prepared next time.

The Elders would already know of Merlin's refusal, of course. They'd be looking down proudly, and talking about how when he died he should be invited to a seat on the Council straight away. Sickening. Well, it might be impossible to make Merlin into Death now, but the rules said nothing about what else she could use him for. And after much time spent sifting through Merlin's memories she had devised a plan so elaborate, so perfect and so foolproof that it was going to make her last hours on Earth an utter delight. A trick to end all tricks! A lie to end all lies!

Merlin was powerful, yes, and magic loved him. It danced for him effortlessly – he was an artist, a poet, a philosopher at heart. And that was going to be his downfall: not because he was weak, but because his mind was untidy. A chaos of creativity and emotion, despite the best efforts of his mentor.

Imperio.

It was the easiest thing in the world. That was the way her magic flowed – always had done. Not in showers of stars and butterflies or in control of the elements of nature or in violence of the physical variety. No, she was above those petty displays. Her power was far more dangerous, and more subtle, than that: control over people themselves, over free will and independence and whatever it was that makes one person different to another.

Merlin barely even put up a fight, for her will was a thousand times greater: they disapparated, and reappeared outside the large oak door of a grey stone house. A fire burnt within despite the lateness of the hour. Merlin raised his hand obediently and knocked loudly, and she faded into invisibility. A wonderful benefit of being Death.

The man that answered the door was thin and fairly tall, with dark features and sharp eyes. She considered him in the way that one predator might assess another, and smiled cruelly. Perfect.

"Merlin!" He was swaying ever so slightly: given that it was Midsummer and the dead of night, he had probably been drinking. Even better. "What brings you here at this hour?"

"Salazar… I need to talk to you."

~oOo~

Zorion and his younger self were – unsurprisingly – of the same mind, and upon appearing in sight of the open trapdoor, both shifted back several minutes in time.

What an utterly bizarre culmination of circumstances it was that had brought the four of them here to this moment; an undoubtedly momentous event which had never occurred in his original timeline. Nobody had stumbled across this place in a thousand years; for a start, there was only a small window of opportunity around Midsummer to find the entrance.

Zorion wondered what, if anything, his younger self was planning to do, and he realised with unease that he would be playing no active part in it. Not only because he must not be seen – and if ever there was a moment when the Elders would be watching, it was now – but also for the less tangible reason that the two of them had grown apart. He was not understood; not entirely trusted. When he had first appeared on his own doorstep almost two years ago, they had been obviously the same person. He remembered the familiarity that had followed his demonstration of the raven Patronus. But over time, whether by being at home all day, or by interaction with Hermione, or by his change in appearance, they had become distanced.

Handing over control, even, essentially, to himself, did not come naturally to him, but by the chain of events he had set in motion it had become inevitable. Instead of the protagonist he became the patient observer, and took the opportunity for a foray into the heads of Dumbledore and the Riddle boy.

Fascinating thing, the mind. Fascinating how one person's could be so ordered and indexed, and another's so scattered, even when both were equally intelligent. He liked Albus Dumbledore a lot – always had done, mostly because he reminded him of Merlin – but, like his old friend, the man had a brain like an abstract painting. All emotion. A miracle he could ever remember anything.

Tom Riddle, on the other hand… Tom he could much more easily relate to. Facts and conversations and conclusions neatly compartmentalised and under control. A far more clinical perspective – every interaction viewed through the prism of its ultimate usefulness – and it made him uneasy with the recollection of his own past personality.

When the boy began to descend the ladder, he apparated silently into the chamber to wait. He had always hated it down here; at first it was merely because it reminded him of what a stupid lie he'd fallen for, but latterly it was that it reminded him of the fact that he had essentially chosen to become Death.

They examined the tomb, of course – what else was there to do? Tom, he presumed, would not be able to translate the text he had left there, but Dumbledore would. He wondered if the man would understand his rather lame attempt at humour, but came to the conclusion that it probably required knowledge of the casket's inhabitant (and her erstwhile occupation) to convey any meaning beyond the obvious.

Dumbledore began to cast a variety of diagnostics, which was sensible enough, but there was actually no need. He hadn't bothered to protect her body with anything nasty. In fact, he hadn't even put a sticking charm on the lid – a fact that became evident when the boy levitated it several feet with a flick of his wrist. He smirked to himself, seeing Albus wrestle between his curiosity and the need to find a suitable reprimand. Wasn't his younger self going to intervene? Interesting.

The body of Morgana was preserved, just as he had left it, and the sight of it sent him hurtling back a thousand years so violently that he was almost sick. Her hands, folded across her chest, clutched the Grail tightly. He wished he had never set eyes on it.

"That's Morgana," said Tom, and Zorion had no idea how he knew, and apparently neither did Dumbledore, whose expression was rather surprised.

"Yes… Yes, so it would seem."

"Then that's the Holy Grail." And before anything else could be said, the boy had prised the cup from the dead woman's hands.

~oOo~

Hermione was in a very bad mood. Not only had Zorion left her without an explanation – which was getting seriously old – but then the siren had started. She ran down the corridor to her own room in a bit of a panic, fearing being discovered in his bed by an elf or worse, but by the time she had got dressed the house was empty. She couldn't even find Nifty.

The bloody noise wouldn't shut up, and since it was evidently an alarm ward keyed to the caster she had no hope of silencing it. Even worse, she had no idea what was going on; the only course of action was to get outside and stay alert.

There was blatantly no danger. That was the most maddening thing. She had been sat out in the paddock for a bloody hour, and she was starving, and had a giant headache. It was getting hot in the sun, so she wandered off into the woodland. Zorion could bloody well come and find her when he wanted to do some explaining.

After walking for a few minutes, she began to hear a soft whining sort of sound, and followed it curiously. A path branched off the main track, overgrown, and she stepped cautiously among the brambles and nettles. After a short distance it opened out into a clearing where a rough wooden structure had been erected as a shelter, and it was beneath this from which the noise was emanating. Up close, it seemed more agitated than it had from a distance.

There was a thestral lying on the floor, and as she looked around she noticed the rest of the herd gathered amongst the trees. One stepped forward – it was the largest, a male, and she wondered if she was intruding. She bowed hastily, even though that was for hippogriffs, but he was very large and it couldn't hurt to be polite. The creature continued to advance, but its body language seemed peaceful, so she resisted the urge to back away. When they were almost nose-to-nose, it appeared to look her up and down. Then it snorted and gestured mournfully with its head to the animal on the floor. The plea was startlingly clear; a cry for help.

Her heart rate accelerated wildly. She didn't know anything, really, about thestrals – about animals – she was no vet. And yet there was a poor creature in distress and nobody else around. She advanced slowly, noticing the moss and leaves which had been piled inside the shelter, and for some odd reason a collection of quaffles.

Now that she was stood right beside it, the problem was obvious: the thestral mare was in labour. A tiny pair of hooves had emerged, but no more, and the mother's breathing was weak. She had no idea what to do, so she began talking in what she hoped was a soothing sort of way.

Pulling on the hooves seemed like a bad idea, though she couldn't say precisely why. Were there spells for this? If there were, they didn't teach them at Hogwarts. She had no spell, and no knowledge, and felt terrified and helpless. Magic is intent. She laid her hands on the mare and the mare quieted a little. Magic is intent. She closed her eyes. Magic is intent.

With her eyes closed, she felt more in tune with her magic, and she could also sense the thestral's power in shining strands beneath her fingers. It felt… not dark, precisely, but deep – like a lake, perhaps. Magic is intent. She allowed her magic to bleed into the creature, as if that alone could right the foal. Magic is intent. The mare struggled and whined. Magic is intent. She was sweating and shivering from the concentration, in a sort of trance, because how could she be concentrating when she didn't know what she was concentrating on?

The mare screamed, and it was the most horrific sound she had ever heard, making her jerk away with a cry of her own, but when she opened her eyes the foal was lying on the moss-covered earth. She shuffled over beside it.

It was definitely dead.

A tiny creature, even more skeletal than its mother – all angles and long legs with a small rounded beak and little blunted horns and thin, filmy wings. Not the kind of baby animal that would make it into children's books, but she thought it oddly beautiful. How terribly, dreadfully cruel that it was still and quiet and dead. The mother turned to nuzzle the baby with her beak, called to it, and then the tears were streaming down her face.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, I'm sorry," she was sobbing, partly because she couldn't help it and partly because it really seemed like the creatures were intelligent enough to understand. Hand shaking, she withdrew a handkerchief from her pocket and transfigured it into a soft blanket, tucked it around the foal's limp body and lifted it gently. It was surprisingly solid in her arms; warm. She settled it in next to the mother and laid a hand on each of them in sorrow.

This time the strands of magic jumped and fused instantly, without her meaning to do it. She felt an almighty shock, like electricity, and was pushed over backwards with the force of it.

While she struggled to regain a sitting position, the rest of the herd was advancing and making whinnying noises, and then she looked up at the foal and it was looking at her. Staring with its sleepy, lamp-like eyes, and beginning to lift its regal head. Magic is intent. The mother made a cry of joy, and though Hermione had never heard a creature produce such a sound before she knew she would never ever forget it. And she laughed, because it was magic, real magic.

She rubbed the tiny creature gently with the blanket before sliding it free, and its midnight skin was soft and smooth and so beautifully brand new. Then before long it was trying to stand on its impossibly wobbly legs, and the mare rose too.

Before Hermione could get to her feet, she felt the curved underside of the mare's beak against the top of her head. The slightest tap, then gone, but again the message was unmistakable: thank you.

A series of snorts and whinnies behind her made her turn around, and then her mouth dropped open because it was Zorion who was making them, apparently in conversation with the large male thestral she had met earlier. And barely minutes ago she had had a hundred barbed comments ready to hurl at him the next time she saw him, but now they were the furthest thing from her mind.

When he turned to address her, it was with a shy nervousness she had never seen before.

"Polaris tells me you saved the foal – his son, actually… He would have me express his gratitude, but it's hard to translate exactly what he said into English… Fascinating creatures, thestrals, very subtle language...Um… I've been looking for you everywhere…" She was still stunned into silence, and then wondered if she ought to acknowledge Polaris, but he had gone over to inspect his offspring.

"Erm," she began, stupidly, looking up at Zorion and wondering why she was still sitting on the floor. "Of course. No problem. Um, actually, I don't have any idea what I did, I really can't take any credit. Er… Hello, by the way. I was… I was quite angry at you, you know." He had the grace to look contrite, at least. Opened his mouth and then shut it again.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Er… Yes… As in, yes, that's quite reasonable." It was very difficult to stay angry at him, but she tried her best.

"Are you going to apologise?" He smiled affably – seemed to debate with himself.

"I thought you might be a bit bored with apologies. Perhaps you'd like me to make it up to you… another way." She laughed.

"Perhaps I would. But first, I'll be having an explanation. And you'd better have turned that bloody alarm off." He nodded, and held out his hand to help her up, and she realised with a jolt that she didn't even much care about the prior events of the morning so long as they could be together now.

The thestrals were now all gathered around the new arrival, so they backed quietly out of the clearing and headed back towards the house.

"I don't suppose it's lunchtime, is it? I'm starving."

"Oh, of course you must be… me too, actually. Um. I'll go and find something and –" he looked across at her, slightly worriedly, as if he were aware that he was about to say something stupid – "um, you might want to get changed." She looked down, and he was massively correct; she was covered in grass stains, bits of moss and… baby thestral, well, slime, for lack of a more technical word. Thank heavens for magic, or that dress would be beyond ruined.

"Ah. Yep. Yes. You may have a point. I'll… I'll meet you back here?" They had arrived in the courtyard. He agreed, and she made a beeline for the shower.

Why was she agonising over what to wear? It was vain, and she was taking ages, and he was probably waiting, but nothing she had bought last summer felt right. It was the shoes, maybe: nothing she had bought went with the ridiculous heels he had transfigured for her yesterday. And she could easily alter them, but she really quite liked the way he stared.

It was some time later when she finally made it downstairs, wearing a newly-transfigured dress of a style that was most definitely not in keeping with the era. Zorion was not in the courtyard, and after a moment of confusion she stepped through into the cherry garden.

A large chequered blanket had been spread on the lawn, and a wicker picnic basket stood open upon it. Zorion was reclined next to the basket, staring up at the cloudless sky. After a moment's appraisal of the setting, she was thankful for the effort she had put into her apparel, because he had changed, too: a light-coloured linen suit and white shirt, the first few buttons undone. The effect was a noticeable increase in her pulse rate.

"This is nice," she said, by way of announcing herself. He looked up and she had the satisfaction of watching him take in her appearance appreciatively. She sat down, kicking off her shoes gladly, and he began unpacking the picnic. There was a tension to his movements; he was waiting for her to speak first. She could never fathom why some of her questions made him so nervous.

"So," she said, in between sandwiches, "You can tell me about the alarm first. Everyone disappeared."

"Ah… yes," he said, and looked guilty. "The elves have a safe place they go to. I used to be a bit… paranoid."

"But, what, you thought I'd be fine on my own? Which I was, incidentally, since there was nothing wrong apart from the ear-splitting noise…"

"I'm sorry, there's no excuse… I was… not myself this morning. You'd gone and I was in a rush and I wasn't thinking."

"Hmm. Anyway. What was the problem?" His pause was the kind where he was deciding how much to give away, and she hated it. "Don't you dare. Tell me the whole truth, I'm not stupid."

"No," he said, wryly, "I don't suppose that's something you've ever been accused of… Actually, I was just wondering where to start. It is, after a fashion… an infinitely long story." She narrowed her eyes.

"Well, thanks to you, I have an infinitely long time to listen to it." He considered her expressionlessly, and there was a long silence.

"This morning, Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore discovered the tomb of Morgana."

Of all the things she might have been expecting, the words Tom and Dumbledore and Morgana were not even close to being considered, let alone in the same sentence.

"What?"

~oOo~