Cavella was waiting at the Orkney portal, sitting attentively between two of the wight mounds as though she'd known exactly when the High Priestess would arrive, ghostlike against the thick snow. Hermione paused, smoothing the fur over the grim's head and scratching her quickly behind the ear. Cavella stood, her massive paws crunching as she circled once around the high priestess, then stopped at her left side, pressing into Hermione's thigh and offering silent reassurance.
She remained there as Hermione walked forwards, matching her step for step. Hermione's hand unconsciously came to rest in her thick ruff, tangling in the slightly course fur and digging down to the luxuriously warm undercoat.
They walked like that to the ritual circle, silent except for the sound of the snow and the rasp of Hermione's cloak as it brushed over the coarse crystals. Their breath clouded in front of them, freezing into sharp little knives on the fur lining of Hermione's hood. The sky above them was a spectacular panorama of stars, so thick and bright that the familiar constellations were almost obscured. Ahead of them, Aquila and Cygnus flew their eternal chase across the horizon, to the north, Draco's sparkling tail sliced between Ursa Major and Minor.
Cavella finally pulled away as they reached the ritual circle, prowling around the perimeter as Hermione approached the altar. She shovelled the snow away by hand, so as not to magically contaminate the circle before the ritual. The wind built as she worked, whispering across the barren moor and sending little flurries of powder eddying and dancing between the stubborn stalks of grass that still protruded. The guardians approached only once, never interrupting her work but collecting her cloak from the ground and draping it over a spear driven into the snow, and leaving in it's place a ceramic jug of water and silver chalice. One remained outside the circle, shield and sword at the ready, a softly creaking sentinel.
When Hermione finished, sweeping the last of the snow from the great stone slab with a straw broom, the circle felt eerily quiet. The wind moaned through the stones like a choir of ghosts and Cavella's patrolling footsteps were a staccato crunch. A thin skin of ice had formed across the surface of the water in the jug, but it disintegrated when she poured it into the cup. The water bit at her cheeks and throat as she drank it, refreshing and slightly painful as she swallowed it down. The waiting guardian took the items from her when she was finished, taking them away from the circle.
A bronze dish was the largest item she'd brought with her, polished to reflect the light of the stars. It was wide and shallow, almost as large as one of the great circular shields the guardians carried, yet barely able to hold the contents of the glass bottle of storm-water. Stripped carefully of bark, the young birch branches she'd chosen for the ritual fire looked like pale, bony fingers as she arranged them into a careful pyre. At each cardinal went a clear quartz statue; the shape was unimportant, she could just have easily used rocks, so long as they were clear quartz, but the horns of each compact bull statue made the perfect supports for the dish.
She began to hum softly as she laid out seven tall candles in a circle, large enough that she could move inside it without risking her skirts catching alight, but not so large that darkness could sliver in between the pools of light. Connecting the candles, she poured a careful ring of red salt, rich in iron to keep any fey from crossing the border - either from within, or without. Cavella whined, prowling closer still.
She took her seat at the western cardinal, lighting the birch flames with a snap of her fingers. The perfectly dry kindling blazed instantly, blindingly bright after the darkness of the night. Tongues of orange flame licked at the underside of the bronze bowl, streaking it with soot. The quartz bulls caught the light, seeming to move with the flames. Above them, the water in the bowl began to hiss.
Hermione reached for her mortar, carefully grinding several fairy wings into fine, glittering powder. The water in the basin came to a soft simmer, the flames crackling and snapping as they devoured the wood. She fed the fire, then picked up the mortar and a handful of dried sage.
Her eyes drifted shut as she felt for the magic within her, feeling the bonds, the borders, the light and the dark. She felt the candles, made by her own hands, and the ring of salt which seemed to burn. The sage crinkled as she rubbed her fingers together, fine flakes sifting between her fingers until only the twigs remained. The musky sent of sage drifted up with the steam rising off the surface of the bowl, curling around her raised hand and flowing out, stalling at the candles. The powdered fairy wings glittered as she tipped the mortar, drifting on the steam like snowflakes before settling among ripples of disturbed water. Reflected starlight bounced off the polished surface of the bowl, seeming to glow from beneath the rainbow sheen of the water.
Hermione waited, cold nipping at her back and ears as the water came to a boil. She waited still as the fire began to die, branches consumed and only glowing embers remaining. The water within the bowl cooled quickly, steam rising less and less until it poured straight from the rim, settling like a ghostly skirt around her, hemmed in by the candles. She reached forwards, dipping her hands into the basin. The liquid within was icy cold, thick and viscous on her fingertip as she brought it up to brush across her closed eyelids.
'I see my people.' She spoke, voice hushed. Her eyes flickered open again. It was as though the stars had become brighter, colder, whilst her eyes were closed. She dipped her fingers in again, the liquid darker than blood, darker than treacle.
'I hear my people.' Her middle and ring fingers curved over her ears, brushing through the hair behind them and sketching a curling "c" beneath her earlobes. Distantly, hooves thundered and harness chimed. Lilting voices drifted on the wind.
'I breathe the air of my people.' Her right thumb painted a line beneath her nostrils, cloying and earthy and ancient.
'I taste the magic of my mother.' She drew her left thumb down, over her top lip and down to her chin.
'I feel the magic of my father.' She lifted an athame of solid gold, pressing it into the palm of her right hand. Sharp pain lanced up her arm and blood welled instantly along the blade, mixing with the potion on her hands and dripping down into the bowl. It sizzled, as though the flames beneath were hotter than embers, spreading out and bringing the rest back to a ferocious boil.
From the pocket of her robe she withdrew the philosopher's stone, admiring the way it reflected the blue light of the stars from above, the gold of the candles and the deep red of the embers below. Carefully, she lowered the stone towards the liquid… and it reached back. It flowed upwards, jagged, reaching, unholy, wrapping around her fingers, the force of it enough to push them apart. She almost dropped it, eyes wide and horrified, then the liquid disappeared; soaking between her fingers as though the stone was a sponge, drinking it up.
There was a heavy pause where Hermione's heavy breathing and the distant strains of unearthly music were the only sounds. The stone felt heavy, rising and falling with each ragged, nervous breath.
And then the stone burst.
Glowing liquid spilled between her fingers, splashing into the bowl, trickling down her arm and staining her sleeve with phosphorescent light.
It hurt. Hermione's hand opened reflexively, splattering the bowl and altar with thick droplets. They glowed there, like violet stars against the dark stone, as she clutched her fingers to her chest, curling protectively around them, smearing her robes with the same. Cavella whined, inching right up to the boundary of salt. The distant singing faltered.
'Breathe, Priestess.' A deep voice instructed. She twisted, hand still cradled protectively against her chest, face streaked with tears. The Dullahan stood in the snow, at the base of the altar. His black steed pawed at the dirt, leaving streaks of purple that matched the glowing, burning liquid in the bowl. She gasped, the pain in her hand fading as adrenaline rushed through her. The unseelie's feet crunched, then rung dully as he stepped onto the cleared altar. He came to a stop just outside the ring of salt and dropped to his knees. His bone whip clinked and clattered, his boots creaked, his magic seemed to make the very air vibrate. Hermione had never felt his magic before.
'It is the iron in your blood, Priestess, it fights the magic. You must finish it.' The Dullahan urged.
'I…' She didn't understand.
'This is not the magic of mortals, Priestess. You are not built to wield it. Finish it.'
The pain was spreading, up her arm. Lancing at in elbow, grating like a knife in the hollow joint of her shoulder. Fighting the pounding of her heart and the flashing behind her eyes.
'I don't know how.' This was not part of the ritual she had planned. Her calculations had been off, some variable missed.
'Drink.' The Dullahan urged, pushing the guardian's silver chalice across the boundary of salt. The pain was spreading faster, pushing up through her shoulder and towards her chest, clamping like immobilising steel bands around her lungs and clenching a fist of fear around her heart. Hermione did not think to disobey. Her hand scrabbled for the cup, scraping at the liquid in the bowl and scooping up just enough to drink.
A mouthful of ice, purple glowing poison. Relief, then purple fire and darkness.
A/N This was not how I intended this to go. It was commandeered by the Dullahan.