Author's Note: Apologies for the delay in posting. I was travelling without my laptop and in a region with poor internet connectivity, and in the interim, how the world has changed! On a less serious note, I see many favorites and follows since I last posted, and thank you all! I am sorry that I will be unable to thank everyone personally as I find myself extremely busy for the time being.
Chapter 3 - Precursor
Peter was completely out of breath by the time he entered what looked like a castle keep, finally cutting off Sirius and Remus. The guards had let him in without hesitation, and Peter knew from the guard's expression that he had a place here.
"Angry brother after you, Lord Petyr? Caught in the act, eh?" asked an armed guard in red and gold wearing a twisted smile.
It was obvious from the tone of voice, that Peter was being mocked. For Peter, this was nothing new. Being humiliated and underestimated his entire life, Peter had learned how to manipulate those who thought him low, and had nearly come out on top if it hadn't been for the Dark Lord's defeat and the miraculous survival of one Harry Potter.
Peter had had no sympathy for James, and even less for Sirius when he had gone over to the Dark Lord. Lily, well Peter really hadn't known her, and her life or death meant little to him. The marauders' friendship had always seemed conditional to Peter. He was never a friend, and was treated like a mere crony. James and Sirius called him "friend", yet never recognised his skills, his talents or his contributions. They were spoiled upper class twits with silver spoons in their mouths and a disdain towards everyone else.
Peter had been ecstatic when he had been welcomed by the Dark Lord into his inner circle of Death Eaters. Finally, he had gained some modicum of respect! And then, Sirius, through his own hubris had brought about the downfall of his best friend! Peter still relished his confrontation with Sirius. He had outwitted Sirius so completely and thoroughly. Who was the moron now? Who was the idiot? It made living like a rat for thirteen years almost worth it.
But he regretted selling out the Potters now. Harry, Peter admitted to himself, was a good kid, and nothing like his father or godfather. Harry did not go about mocking and "pranking" people inspite of being more famous than James Potter could have ever dreamed.
Peter actually respected Harry, and he rather liked the Weasleys as well. He doubted that he would have sold out Harry Potter even for the Dark Lord. But alea iacta est. Peter wished he could just get away from it all, but if he were going to be hunted by Sirius "cousin of equally mad Bellatrix" Black, he would have to secure his own survival.
Peter was patient, and Peter knew the limits of his skills, so taking the humiliation in his stride (for now), Peter replied,
"No. I was being chased by a couple of drunks. One of them was a tall man, quite good looking in general but seemed a bit deranged. He looked as if he had come from a long journey. The other was equally tall, quite well built...I'd like to avoid them if I could...could you find out who they are?"
The guard laughed again, as if Peter being chased by drunks was not unexpected, and certainly a much more likely scenario than being found in bed with any lady. "If they are anyone of consequence, I am sure Gerard at the gate would know."
Peter nodded, "thanks for the tip. Would you like to join me for a drink?" Peter knew drink loosened tongues well enough. And information was power.
The guard's lip curled, as if he could not believe that Peter had asked the question.
"I believe Lord Tywin will be quite upset if you were to to be found drinking with the likes of us instead of tending to his son. It will be your head if you are found missing from duty, my lord."
"Could you please show me the way, the chase really disoriented me..."
"And lose my job for abandoning my post, because a little lordling got lost? I think not. Up the stairs, second door."
Peter nodded his thanks and set off towards the stairs. What was his position here, he wondered. It was obvious that the guard was jealous of his rank, and yet from the man's tone of voice, it was equally obvious that the guard was not impressed Peter's position. He was a lord of some sort (a "lordling", the guard had said, who should not be seen with "the likes of us"), yet someone who was in a position of servitude. Lord Tywin though, was a man of power, and Peter was to tend to his son.
Was Peter a glorified babysitter then, he wondered, as another guard in red and gold opened the second door on the upper floor.
It was a large and opulent room. Arms and shields adorned the walls, and a large desk occupied a windowed nook overlooking the sea. A fire blazed in a large hearth opposite which was a sizeable canopied bed with gilded, ornate bed posts. A small figure lay there, face turned away and the sheets covering his body. The figure seemed the size of a stocky ten to twelve year old child. Perhaps Peter was a tutor. It was not unusual for poorly-off upper class men to teach the sons of upper class men, Peter thought. And men of action often disdained men of learning, he reasoned. Perhaps this wouldn't be so difficult an assignment.
Peter walked around the bed to the other side. The curtains on this side of the bed were closed. A wooden chair sat facing the curtained side, with a table adjacent it. A variety of bottles and bandages littered the table, alongside some herbs and ointments. Peter let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. All he had to do was to literally tend to someone, and he was confident of being able to treat a muggle. If he cured the kid, perhaps Lord Tywin would reward him, and Peter could disappear to a place where Sirius wouldn't be able to get to him. Sirius had no wand, neither had Remus. All Peter needed was some money and a lot of distance.
Peter drew the curtain aside, and came face to face with the ugliest face he had seen. The nose was completely missing, and there were other scars on the obviously adult face. The dwarf man was in what Peter was sure seemed like a coma. If Peter had a wand, three simple spells would have rendered the man perfectly normal, complete with nose, but without a wand, Peter's abilities were limited...
Peter sat on the chair which was obviously meant for him, and went through the items on the table next to him one by one. A variety of muggle potions lay there. Revivers, cleansers, balancers of homours...nothing remotely as potent as wizarding potions, but Peter could recognise most were based on similar principles and materials. The bandages came next, and in a box next to them were a variety of scissors, knives, needles and sutures. These were more resources than Peter expected, and Peter could do a lot with these indeed. It was indeed a stroke of luck that the man was in coma. It made Peter's plans for gaining Lord Tywin's gratitude much easier.
Peter started by disinfecting the surgical implements by placing them in the blazing hearth. He then placed out the potions and bandages that he would require in order. Finally, Peter measured out the dimensions of the dwarf's nose on a sheet of parchment, and traced the outline of the nose on the dwarf's forehead. Steeling himself for the gore, Peter cut out a flap of flesh from the forehead, and brought it down across the nose, cementing it into a fascimile of the real thing with wet bits of earth spread on the bandages. He then applied cleansing ointment on the forehead, completing the nasal reconstruction.
Next, Peter needed to do was speed up the healing process with more potent potions. Peter had after all achieved an O in his potions NEWT (not a subject that either James, Sirius or Remus cared for; they had been happy to drop out after OWLs), and all the ingredients lay in front of him. By the time Peter was finished, day had dawned bright.
The man's scar was quickly healing under his bandaged forehead, and the nose was likely to be fixed in three days rather than the fortnight (at the very least) that it would have taken with the muggle potions.
Peter was pondering on how he would get the man to consume the cooling restorative draught that he had just brewed when the matter was rendered moot.
The man groaned, shifted weakly and stared at Peter with a pair of mismatched eyes.
The room was small going by the size of the keep, no bigger than her bedroom at home. Granted, as a daughter of moderately successful, professional parents, her house was nothing to scoff at, but still, after saying at Hogwarts, Hermione had expected something grander in a castle. There were two beds in the room, both currently unoccupied. On the trunk in front of one bed, Hermione recognised her own crest. The crest on the other trunk (six seashells on a yellowish-brown background) was unknown to her.
Well this was a start. There was a lot that Hermione needed to know about herself in this world. Just as Hermione was about to open her trunk and start a preliminary exploration of its contents, the door opened.
At the entrance stood the queen, with two guards framing her sides.
A gesture from the queen, and the guards withdrew, leaving only the queen and Hermione in the room. Queen Cersei entered the room with sure steps and closed the door behind her. The stood proud and tall, and radiated menace.
"What do you make of today's events, Lady Hermione?", asked the queen, her tone chilly.
The question was unexpected. Hermione had assumed that the queen (and everyone in the hall not coming from Hogwarts) was muggle. Did the queen know that something was afoot? If these people knew about magic (or worse, could practice it or even identify those who could), Hermione and her friends would be in a lot of trouble. Brazening her way through was generally not Hermione's preferred course of action, but with no other alternatives in front of her...Hermione had sorted Gryffindor for a reason...
"Do you mean what happened to the King, your Grace? It was all very strange. I cannot explain it", Hermione replied. The statement was also factually true. The Statute of Secrecy explicitly stated that witches and wizards could not explain magic to muggles, unless they were immediate relatives. And to Hermione the queen (unless proven otherwise) was neither witch, squib nor blood relation.
The queen did not look satisfied with the answer and Hermione was certain she would dig deeper. Why she should be suspected if the queen were muggle, Hermione could not fathom.
"Could your grandmother explain it?" queried the queen impatiently.
"My grandmother, your Grace?"
"The witch," the queen replied impatiently, "Maggy the fr-" the queen stopped abruptly.
Hermione was muggleborn in her own world. Being related to a famous witch in this world (Hermione wondered if her Grandma Maggy was the real thing), and being disdained for it, seemed a bit funny.
"I do not know, your Grace. I did not know you know my grandmother."
"We've met," said the queen curtly, "her appearance is difficult to forget. You have her look. Has she never mentioned our meeting?"
Hermione replied with the absolute truth, "Not that I remember, your Grace"
"Have you her gifts as well?"
This was thin ice. Did the queen know what Hermione had done? Were the guards outside brought for her execution? Did the queen know that Hermione was a witch? If so, did the guards outside have means to fight magic or were they wizards too? If so, why did they not help King Joffrey immediately?
In any case, Hermione was still unsure of her ancestry and her supposed grandmother's gifts (or the queen's knowledge of them), so she answered cautiously, "which gifts do you mean, your grace?"
"Of magic", (Hermione tensed), then after a pause, "of prophesy," whispered the queen.
Hermione could not help it. She burst out laughing.
"I don't know what you mean by magic. I can make some cures - potions and what have you, but prophesy? Why, prophesy is nothing but hogwash! A prophesy is so awfully vague that anything can fit. Worded correctly, everything I say can be prophesy, and I can guarantee that it will come true. Prophesy! Superstition more like!"
The queen looked taken aback. "You have not the gift, then?"
"Nobody does! Or everybody, for that matter, if one is gullible enough to fall for that rot."
"You would call your grandmother a fraud, then?" asked the queen, her anger evident. At her or her supposed grandmother, Hermione was unsure. Either way, the situation was delicate. The answer needed to be tactful. It was obvious that the queen set store on a prophesy she had heard, most likely from Maggy herself. Calling her "grandmother" a fraud would obviously undermine her own (possibly precarious position), and calling the queen a nut would be...impolitic...
"Not a fraud, no. More of a giver of framework and context. Prophesies are at best possibilities, and possibilities are infinite. As long as people believe what a seer says and allow their actions to be impacted by it, prophesies are powerful, and possibilities become probabilities. In discovering possibilities, my grandmother is very gifted. But when belief stops, if there is free will, how can one's actions be dictated by prophesy? And if one's actions are not dictated by prophesy, what power does it have? Prophesies are powered by people who believe them. Outcomes are subjective and prophesies are vague. No objective correlations can be drawn. If I were to say that there will be chaos the next week, followed by periods of calm, how can I be disproved? There are always bits of chaos, and always bits of calm..."
"And if," the queen asked in a frosty voice and a raised eyebrow, "a prophesy says that you will marry the King and have 3 children (among other specific predictions)? That's rather specific, isn't it? If initial predictions came true, would not the others?"
Hermione paused, and considered.
"I would take no notice of it. The meaningfulness of the prophesy depends on context, doesn't it? Take for example, if there are 4 eligible brides, the chances of being the one to wed the King is 1 in 4. This is a very high chance. Now if this comes true, the subject's belief in the prophesy is obviously reinforced and her actions then steer towards making the rest of it true, so the other bits of prophesy follow. Even if they don't prophesies can be interpreted in ways that make them seem inevitable."
"Do you mean to say that your grandmother manipulates people into following a path created by her imagination?"
If she is a prophet, probably. Yes. Most likely. Who knows?
"No. She merely presents a possibility, providing a host of information to the subject, which may be helpful for them to understand themselves," Hermione invented, "not all of them do. The subjects' actions are always their own, though they may not realise it, and they have more power than they know. 'I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul!'"
Queen Cersei seemed lost in thought for a few moments, and her fingers traced patterns on her sleeve.
"There is something afoot. Joffrey's fit was unnatural." She paused, and looking directly in Hermione's eyes declared, "We have enemies everywhere. Your house is sworn to House Lannister, and I would have you do your duty. Find out who are responsible."
"What would you have me do, your Grace? There were a multitude of guests, besides the bride and groom."
"Keep an eye out. Report all that you hear to me. I have my eyes and ears in the Tyrell party and the small council. I need more ears with the ladies in court. I want to know what happened at the wedding. Lady Sansa Stark's household will change after her marriage. You will join it. I want you to keep an eye on her. It is very unlikely she is up to something, she is naive and stupid, but she is a lady of the highest rank. I expect you will get better information as her companion. You are to report to me once a week."
"Very well, your Grace."
With a cold nod at Hermione the Queen turned, with a swirl of her skirts and walked out of the room without another word.
