Chapter 17 - A Magical Evening

The broth was hearty and warm, and tasted like Mrs Weasley's cooking. Harry couldn't fathom how he found himself ensconced in the homely little inn which served as the temporary headquarters of the Brotherhood without Banners. One minute, he was being ambushed, and the other he was being treated like an honoured guest.

The one-eyed man had not said much on their way to the inn. Just introduced himself as Beric Dondarrion, and the fat man with the flaming sword as Thoros of Myr. The others had followed silently, including the Remus lookalike and the dirty urchin who accompanied him.

Now, warm, fed and watered, they all sat in the common room. "Why did you attack us?" Harry asked yet again. "It was completely unprovoked."

"The banners of Frey and Lannister flew with your party. That was provocation enough, young Frey. That we let you live, and brought you with us is a testament to our justice."

"Why? How? I am as innocent or guilty as my men. Why do they die, and I get to live?"

"Not all died, young lord. Not all…"

"No you left the rest to be hanged by the smallfolk," Harry said in disgust.

"They shall be tried there, Hareld Frey. If they are guilty, they will be hanged. Had your men put down their weapons, they all would have been tried as well. No one need have died."

Harry disagreed but held his tongue. Sandor Clegane was watching him, and his voice was raspy, when he spoke. "The boy says it true. The attack was unjust, by all knightly laws," Clegane said with a sneer. "Yet, the boy is obviously greener than the grass in the Reach. What does he know of war, except in songs they sing?"

Clegane looked at Harry then, straight in his eyes, his burnt face snarling, "and you, Frey boy, you may think you are better than us, but if you truly believe what you say, you are nothing but another chirping bird, singing the songs that your Maester taught you. If you aren't yet, you will be a killer. There are sheep and there are wolves, and if you are not the one, you are the other. That is the way of the world."

"So will I be tried now?"

The one-yed man shook his head. "No. That will not be necessary. Your magic spoke for you."

Harry stiffened at Dondarrion's words. The man smiled, "We are not of the Seven to condemn magic. We believe it to be a blessing from R'hollor, and for which one must be grateful. The stag you conjured. Explain it…"

Harry kept to the truth, but edited where required. The group was listening intently. "It's called a patronus. It was taught by a friend who has travelled far…it is a spirit animal to be called at times of distress. The purest of magic to drive away some of the worst, he said…"

"And this can you teach us?" asked Thoros, with a queer gleam in his eye.

"No. I don't think so. One needs to have the gift, my friend said, and not everyone has it. And even those who do will need practice. It took me quite a while to learn it myself."

Thoros smiled a little disappointed smile, and nodded. "As I thought. It is the same with all magic. How came you to learn it? It's not a practice seen much in the West."

"A man came to me and told me I have magic. I did not believe him at first, but he asked me whether I had ever seen anything strange, things I couldn't explain…he taught me a few things, not much, really. The patronus is the most impressive thing I can do, actually…"

"Do you know why your animal is a stag? Not, say, a weasel?" queried Thoros.

Harry hesitated. He could hardly tell them about the life of one Harry Potter, or that James Potter was an animagus, who turned into a stag. That his father had learned this complex transformation to ease his friend's suffering, and that Harry valued his father's principles. That was sacred, and none of their business.

Thoros didn't seem offended by the lack of answer, though. "Would you say it has anything to do with your real father?" he asked instead.

Harry inhaled sharply. What did this stranger know? "What do you mean?" Harry asked carefully.

The group had been looking at him closely, and apparently he wasn't careful enough for Thoros and Beric exchanged glances, as if he had just confirmed something.

"The stag is representative of your true father. Isn't that true, Lord Frey?"

"I wouldn't know." Harry insisted. Did they bring him and everyone from Hogwarts into this world? If so, for what purpose?

"Perhaps you don't," agreed Dondarrion, though it was obvious that the man was only humouring him. "But you don't much look like a Frey do you, my lord. You do have the Baratheon look…"

Harry didn't answer. Not James Potter, then. They thought him a bastard. Did his mum in this world have an affair? He hardly knew. Either way, did it make a difference? He was what he was…

There was silence for a while, and then suddenly, Thoros spoke again, his voice carrying through the room. "Was your father a stag, perchance?"

This was getting irritating. Why were they so keen to make a big deal out of this? "Do you know something I don't, ser?"

"Alas no, young lordling. 'Tis a guess at best…but one that seems likely on the face of it. A cuckoo in the nest it appears. There does seem to be a lot of them in the Lion's family," he laughed, "and you're Lord Tywin's darling too, we've heard. Lord of Darry, aren't you? Well, there's plenty of time to see your keep, for now you come with us. We'll see if you've got your father in you, soon enough. He was real steel is what all men say. We could do with a man like that…perhaps the gods have a role for you to play…In any case, King's blood flows in your veins, whether you like it or no, and there is destiny for one such as you to fulfil. I have seen it in the flames…"

Night had fallen. Martell and Tyrell guards manned all exits. The Gold Cloaks were outnumbered one to five and against better trained men besides, and they knew it. The coup was all but accomplished.

Hermione Granger could not sleep. It was not an adrenaline rush as much as it was a prickly feeling that something bad was about to happen. This was an unusual state of mind for her; premonition was more of Harry's thing, but she couldn't sit easy.

And so Hermione was dressed in Dornish robes favoured by their men. It was a relief from wearing the dresses of the West, and much like the robes that Hogwarts favoured. The flowing robes were a rough cotton, meant for the "lower" orders, but layered, they were warmer than the more common roughspun wool tunics or worse, the rich silks that she was expected to wear. These clothes also gave her a sense of relative anonymity that she treasured. These were the robes of the Westerosi middle-class.

The Martells were suspicious of her. Being a Spicer did not recommend her to them. She was not sure whether their disdain stemmed from snobbery or House Spicer's allegiance to House Lannister. It was likely a mixture of both. In any case, she did not feel welcome in the manse, and eagerly wanted to re-join Harry and Ron. How quickly this could happen, she did not know, but really hoped it would be soon, as the level of danger seemed to have skyrocketed with Snape's almost guaranteed accession. Why, she couldn't explain, she could only feel it, and it made her uncomfortable.

Hermione therefore found herself sitting alone in the outer courtyard of Prince Oberyn's manse. The manse was heavily guarded given the events of the day, but the courtyard was empty save for the bonfire that provided both heat and illumination in the dark autumn cold. She was sitting in the shadows, keeping an eye on the exit most difficult to use, for it was the least guarded. Hermione had sufficient experience to know how people up to mischief thought, and this exit had been bothering her. She had brought her misgivings to Prince Oberyn's notice, but the man had dismissed her casually.

Hours passed, and Hermione was still alert, though her stomach rumbled with hunger. Hermione was not a big eater, and staying up late did make her hungry. She was about to get up, and get herself something when she spotted it: a shimmering in the air behind the bonfire. To most, it would be a trick of the light, the air current dancing due to the heat of the flame, but Hermione was a witch. There was someone there. A zap of her wand, and a slight thud confirmed her suspicion. Hermione rushed towards the sound, but found.

Suddenly her legs were swept from under her. She was about to raise a cry, when a hand roughly covered her mouth, and a man, looking like a large shadow rose up, his knees on her torso, hurting her. He was putting all his weight over her upper body, preventing her escape. His other hand was pulling at something at his waist, a dagger perhaps, and then suddenly, there was a long thin weapon in his hand.

Desperate now, she bit. She was never so grateful for her buck teeth before, for as her jaws clamped down, she felt the soft flesh between her jaws, she clamped down harder, trying to bite off the flesh, tear it off, but the man didn't make a sound, even though he was obviously in pain.

And then suddenly, before she could react, his other hand slapped her hard. The shock caused her to stop fighting for a second. It was then that she realised that Snape on the ground, hit by her mild tripping jinx. He was panting slightly from the effort of the fight, and gingerly clutching the hand she bit. He had recognised her, for he made no further effort to attack.

At first, she had suspected there was a good probability it would be Snape, but had shot the jinx anyway. She couldn't take the chance, there was just something in the air. When attacked, she had obviously felt her worst fears realised, and cursed herself for not using a stunner instead. A world with magic meant a world with magicians, and like attracted like. It was paranoia, sure, but if there was anything that Hogwarts had taught her, it was this: be prepared.

She realised that he was crouching low on the ground now, away from the flame, remaining in the shadow, invisible to people still. No one had seen them, thankfully, and she stepped into the shadow too.

Snape was similarly dressed as Hermione, she noted. Long robes, layered, and his cloak black. Even though he looked greasier than ever (tripping didn't help), he looked more comfortable in these unornamented black robes than the rich attire of a prince.

She had many questions to ask him, but his expression quelled her. He put a finger to his lips, picked up her wand, lost in the scuffle, and dragegd her behind him. They walked silently past the two guards at the narrow exit Hermione had been watching. The path was muddy, and passing through would almost certainly mean being spotted. If one reckoned without magic, that is.

Snape created a distraction: squelching sounds of a noisy carriage passing through the muddy path in the distance disguising their own soft treads outside. The path lead to the arterial avenue of the city, which in turn lead to all the major points of King's Landing. Parts of the city were still awake, even though the hour is past midnight, Hermione was certain. King's Landing obviously enjoyed quite a night life.

It wasn't till they are out of visible distance from the manse, that Snape discreetly incanted the muffliato spell, and spoke. "You would have detention at the very least, Granger, if we were at Hogwarts. Explain yourself."

Explain yourself, she fumed. He should explain himself, she thought. He was up to something, and something important, she was sure. They were in this together, a situation he messed up, and he was asking her to explain! She wasn't the one trying to sneak out at night. All the bloody security was for him, and he was sneaking out. Without a wand. As if a dagger would be of any help to Snape. She had even seen though his disillusionment charm (granted it was impressive considering the fact that he had done it wandlessly, but still…). She wanted answers. The air had been making her tense all night.

"I could very well ask you the same question, sir, especially since all the security in the manse is to keep you safe from assassins. I do recall one of my professors at Hogwarts giving Harry a telling to for sneaking out as his life was in danger. I do wonder what that professor would have to say. I do so respect his opinion."

"Stop being impertinent Granger. What are you up to? Why were you in the courtyard? What do you know? I can force it out of you, you know Granger. It won't be pleasant."

Back-talking to Snape, she had seen, more often than not, caused a rise out of him, distracted him, but this time he didn't rise to the bait. His eyes were sharp, and perhaps there was a hint of fear in them, even as he was cradling his hand. Hermione found she wasn't sorry. He was up to something, that was as clear as the night was dark, and this was not the time for secrets. The stakes were too high.

"Certainly sir, after you."

Snape raised her wand, and pointed it at her. Hermione braced herself, when she felt her hair rise on end. Whatever had caused her goosebumps appeared to have affected Snape too, for he lowered the wand, and rushed through the street that overlooked the fishing harbour of King's Landing. Without a sound she followed. It was one of the minor sea exits from the city. The Red Keep towered over it. They ran, and ran, and there was a flash, followed by two gentle splashes. Two men had fallen dead in the ocean, mailed and armoured. Guards posted at the exit, to prevent the exit of King Joffrey and the Lannisters. A fishing boat was anchored not far from where the guards had stood mere moments ago, and something moved. There was a hidden cavern opening to the harbour. There were faint footsteps.

Snape and Hermione hid themselves as well as they could, while Snape disillusioned them silently. He was using his left hand, but even so, the job wasn't half bad. He waved the wand again, and the sounds from the hidden cavern reached them clearly, almost as if they were wearing earphones.

"It worked!" came the excited whisper. "It worked!"

"We must away, your grace," said another voice urgently, "before anyone realises. Time is of the essence."

"Yes. Yes, it is. Better to finish it now. The fire already burns. The spell has been cast. Make the sacrifice, and it will end now."

There was a muffled scream, a struggle, and the uneasy feeling she had was worse than before. Much worse. Something was very, very wrong. Hermione turned to look at Snape in question, but Snape was pale, and looked almost as if he was going to faint. And then, he was bleeding. A stream of blood was flowing through his nose. She grabbed her wand from Snape's loose fingers. Epiksey, she tried. The blood slowed, but did not stop. No worse than a moderate nose bleed…

"Killing him will not vanish their army. The Stark girl could be with child. Oberyn Martell will be regent. You will gain nothing your grace, not unless all threats to your reign are eliminated."

"She isn't. She isn't fat, yet. I know."

"It matters not! She may yet carry the Viper's get and claim it as her husband's. The viper spreads his seed readily enough, and potent it is too, with the number of bastards he has. Who would know? You may shout from the rooftops that the child is misbegotten. So many rumours fly, and yet what the Queen claims will be taken as fact. Your grace, we must away, or the war is lost."

"Very well, then, your grace, at least, you can board the ship with the others. The guards can follow last, once the deed is done. There is much risk…"

"Yes…"

Four figures walked to the unlikely boat, while screaming continued. Snape was sitting now, against a tree, but still awake. Epiksey, she chanted again. It helped a bit.

There was only one way. The ritual needed to be stopped. She looked at Snape. He didn't look to be in any position to stop her. Small mercies. She was still disillusioned. It was a good piece of spell work. She shifted to get a better view of the cavern. Five bloodless corpses were strewn across the cave. There were three people still there. A man, slumped on the ground was bleeding over a golden cup which was filling with blood. When it reached a quarter full, they threw it in the fire, and she felt the strange feeling again. Snape's bleeding had likely worsened, but there was no time to tend to him now.

She had to stop this. Stupefy, she whispered with all her might, and one of the men fell with a thud. The other startled, and drew his sword, looking for the source of attack. Stupefy, she whispered again, and the second man fell as well. She sneaked closer. The third man was the imp! He was looking around, a mixture of hope and fear in his face. He was weak, very faint. He had also lost a lot of blood. Stupefy, she said once more, and Tyrion Lannister collapsed in a heap. Episkey, she whispered, healing his cuts. He would be fine soon enough.

Mobilicorpus, she chanted, and the body of the dwarf followed her to their hiding place not far away. Snape was still awake, perhaps through sheer effort of will. Episkey, she chanted yet again, and the bleeding slowed. She was going to try again, when with desperate effort, Snape's hand shot out, and grabbed her wand. He pointed it clumsily at his nose, a figure of eight pattern, and sang. It was a low melancholic sound, and sounded more like a dirge, not a spell, but it seemed to heal him. The song became stronger as the seconds passed, and before she knew it, Snape was back to his normal self. If she hadn't seen him bleed a pint of blood herself, she would never believe it.

The wand pointed to Lannister now. It sounded more like a hymn now, not a dirge, and she could see Tyrion regain some colour. Snape stopped midway then, and Hermione could see that he had not extended to Tyrion the courtesy of a full healing.

"Well, he won't die. Now. Why were you up?"

"I could feel something off…something like a premonition, as if something foul was going to happen."

Snape was nodding. "Could you recognise it, make out what it was?"

"No"

"I felt it too. It was dark magic. You are too young to know it, but I…well let's say that once you have the merest acquaintance with the Dark Arts, it's signature is unmistakable. I haven't felt something like this for since the fall of the Dark Lord, and never anything this potent..."

"The Dark Lord?" Hermione questioned. Only the Death Eaters called Voldemort the Dark Lord, Hermione had heard. Yet, Snape taught at Hogwarts. Dumbledore trusted him. He had tried to save Harry several times over…

Snape's lips curled. Hermione knew he could follow her train of thought, but didn't address it. "He who must not be named, as he is often called. I prefer not to speak his name."

She gulped, and realised that her face was stinging. The bastard had slapped her. He may have been a Death Eater, or at least a sympathiser. He was Slytherin, and she was Muggleborn. He raised the wand once again, and she braced herself. An icy feeling hit her face, and then there was nothing. His eyebrow raised mockingly.

"We need to get him to an inn. You may do the honours. Make sure no one realises you are using magic. Sling his arm around your neck and drag him. He'll be light enough…" Snape tossed Hermione back her wand, and walked ahead, seemingly sure that she would follow with Tyrion.

If she hadn't rushed herself as fast as she was able, she would have certainly missed it. Even now, she wasn't sure whether she had heard it right, but she could swear she had heard Snape mutter, "And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?"

Since when did a pureblood like Snape know of Shakespeare?