It had been a long time since Hermione had been dragged back from the past without being prepared for it, not that she had any illusions of actually being in control of the mysterious time travelling. It was more that she'd learned to recognise the encroaching shift between timelines before it came, and usually had enough time to complete her business before the actual event.

There had been no warning, no tugging in her mind or clouding of her vision but there was no denying the change from the brightly lit room where Berg worked to repair Lady Grindelwald's leg with the kind of crude spells one would usually use to fix furniture, the acrid, bitter smell of Laudanum, the tang of sweat and blood, the roar of the fire beneath the cauldron Hermione had been using to boil water and sterilise Berg's tools, the frantic rustle of parchment as Gellert searched for anything he could find to help them.

There couldn't have been a worse time for Hermione to disappear.

But something had brought her back, tearing her awake with all the subtlety of a herd of hippogriffs. One of the shutters was ajar, allowing a thick bar of moonlight to slice across the room and highlighting everything in shades of grey. That was all Hermione needed to recognise the creature sitting silently in the rocking chair beside the wardrobe. Intricately crafted armour, blending seamlessly into a cloak which seemed to defy the light that should fall across it, grotesque whip snaking from its belt and head balanced on its knee, purple eyes aflame. The Dullahan – real, corporeal, not her patronus, sat in her room.

'Be at peace, High Priestess.' The Dullahan spoke through its decapitated head, the body steadying the head so that it didn't topple. She blinked, incapable of speech; assurances of peace were hard to believe when spoken through the decapitated head of an unseelie creature in the middle of the night, in her room. Hermione had fought in wars, saved herself from an execution by killing a man with his own ornamental sword, she'd faced down barrow wights, she'd fought creatures foul and fair, but she was not arrogant enough to believe she had a hope against a servant of a Sidhe king.

'What do you want?' She squeaked. The sudden reversion from Lady Grindelwald's makeshift operating theatre had decimated any possibility of occluding away her fear, her mind scrambling comprehend, let alone compartmentalise.

'To meet you in person, now that permission has been granted.'

'Meet me in person?' Hermione echoed, feeling as though she'd woken up in some new timeline all together.

'I have watched over you for many years. You have summoned me yourself.'

'My patronus?' She asked, fear quickly giving way to confusion. 'My patronus is summoning you? Why? Why is it summoning you, instead of an animal like everyone else's?'

'Because other wixen do not have the Unseelie King as their patron.'

Hermione was dumbstruck. The sidhe were dead and gone; they hadn't been heard of since the fall of the Line of Gorlois. History said that Merlin's final act had been to banish Morgana's sidhe allies back to the plane where they belonged, never to interfere in mortal affairs again. Whether that was true or not, even Hermione's ancestors didn't know. Most were dead by then, those that weren't were far away children. The first wizard council had immediately drawn up laws banning the summoning of the fey and the immortal creatures had faded into legend.

'Why?' She asked, the fear back in full force but now for a different reason. Even among the Sidhe of the seelie court, there was not a single account of a fey taking benevolent interest in a mortal. Every gift was repaid many times over, every favour paid for in blood and tears. To have garnered the attention of the Unseelie King…

'He has always taken a great interest in your bloodline.' The Dullahan sounded impossibly kind. It unsettled her more than the knowledge that a Sidhe King had taken interest in her; that an unseelie creature might feel enough pity for her to warrant such comfort. 'My time grows short. This city is built to harness the power of the full moon, but even still I can only remain for a short time afterwards. My master bid me tell you this; only those with immortal blood are immune to the passage of time.'

'Is that a warning?' Hermione's mind immediately flew to the alchemy notes scattered across her desk.

'It is assistance.' The terrible figure stood, tattered cloak swinging down to sweep across the floor. Hermione went utterly still, like a rabbit in the headlights, as he moved across the room, reaching for the latch of the shutters – bronze, Hermione remembered faintly. The latches and handles of Morgana's tower were all bronze. It swung the shutters open, allowing the light of the full moon to stream into the room, trimming everything in silver and casting a monstrous shadow behind him, stark against the near luminescence of the white stone of the castle.

'Do not hesitate to summon me, High Priestess.' The Dullahan bid, rotating his head with one hand to look at her whilst his body climbed up onto the window ledge. Then, without a word of warning, he stepped off.

Hermione surged up and out of bed before she could think better of it, clambering up and poking her own head out of the window, peering down into the gloom. The window looked out over the square tower and she could just make out a pitch black steed tethered to the post she sometimes used to tie up Katana after flights. A second black figure made his way over to the beast and mounted, raising it's hand, and head, in salute, before riding hard towards the edge of the roof.

The beast screeched; a sound like the one Morvarc'h made, then leapt off the tower and vanished into thin air, taking it's unseelie rider with it.

Hermione retreated back into her room, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. Her head was spinning, adrenaline beginning to fade.

'Flighty?' Hermione called after a moment. 'A cup of tea, please, and any books we have on the Unseelie King… and immortals, or immortal blood…'

Because that line was very, very familiar. She stood, making her way down to the study where the requested tea was already waiting. Her seal fitted perfectly into the drawer of the desk and it slid open with a click, revealing a seemingly random selection of items; a large hunk of blood red stone on a chain, an old and worn runic copy of beedle the bard and a slip of parchment. She withdrew the parchment, unfolding it to reveal the lines copied down within;

It has happened at last, the servant and master reunited.

The champion of most ancient blood shall face him and by flesh and bone he shall rise, greater and more powerful than ever before.

Death shall be mastered, the blood of the immortal shall rise and the Sidhe will walk the earth once more.

"The servant and master reunited," had already happened. Harry must have been "the champion of most ancient blood", which had been so much more literal than they had imagined it could be. He had been a tri-wizard champion, of the most ancient family. Voldemort had returned using a ritual of flesh and bone. Now there was talk of sidhe and immortal blood.

There was no question that the prophecy was under way. The question was what the remaining lines meant – who, or what, had immortal blood? How could death be mastered and what did the Unseelie King have to do with it all?