The interior was dimly lit, the warm glow of lanterns casting shadows across rough wooden tables. A mix of locals and travelers filled the room, their conversations a mix of whatever the common tongue is, bastard Valyrian and languages she couldn't begin to place. Hermione tightened her grip on her beaded bag and followed one of the slaves to the counter. There stood a stout man with a thick beard wiping a pewter mug with a cloth that had clearly seen better days.
"Good evening," Hermione began, keeping her voice slow and steady. "I'd like to rent two rooms for the night."
The innkeeper frowned, clearly not understanding. He gestured vaguely toward the tables, assuming she might want food or drinks. Placing her hand upon the slaves shoulder, she tried speaking again.
"No, not food," Hermione said, shaking her head and miming sleep by resting her head on her hands. "Room. Bed. Sleep."
The innkeeper scratched his head, then called out something Hermione couldn't understand. The woman from before, the barmaid came from a back room, arms laden with trays. She looked at Hermione curiously, then said something to the innkeeper before turning back to the young witch.
"Sleep?" she asked hesitantly, her accent thick.
"Yes!" Hermione said, relief flooding her voice. "I need two rooms for the night. Can you help me?"
The barmaid smiled faintly and relayed this to the innkeeper, who nodded and held up three fingers. Hermione hesitated, unsure whether he was indicating the number of rooms available or the price.
"Three… gold?" She ventured, miming a coin.
"No, three copper." the barmaid responded.
The innkeeper grunted his affirmation and Hermione sighed in relief. Three coppers was a fair price, and she could easily manage it. Reaching into her green pouch, Hermione grabbed the bronze coin, a slight of hand where the innkeeper couldn't see and she placed three of the four coppers on the counter. After a moment he nodded, seemingly satisfied, and gestured for the group to follow him.
The innkeeper led her up a narrow staircase that creaked underfoot. The barmaid followed behind, perhaps curious about the strange woman who couldn't speak their language. The group found themself in a small but fairly clean room with a simple bed, wooden chest, and a window overlooking the bustling quarter below.
"This," the barmaind said, gesturing around, though Hermione didn't understand the exact words.
"Thank you," Hermione replied, bowing her head slightly in gratitude. She dug into her bag again and procured a gold coin, handing it to the barmaid. "For your help."
The young woman's face lit up, and she tucked the gem into her apron. Curtseying quickly before turning and leaving the group of people alone.
As the door clicked shut, Hermione let out a long sigh. Turning towards the remaining group of slaves. The language barrier was really more challenging than she had anticipated, but she was grateful for the kindness of these strangers. Grabbing her wand, she set her bags down on the bed, and began her routine rituals. Casting protective wards around the room and enchanting the lock on the door for extra security.
Moving towards the other side of the room, she opened the door and was pleasantly surprised by a conjoining room. Walking through, she cast gemino onto the beds to ensure that there was enough for the slaves to sleep on, before starting once more on the protective wards.
Once satisfied, she sank onto the bed, her body aching and her mind already turning toward the challenges ahead. Pentos was foreign and unfamiliar, but there was a sliver of hope– a place here to find answers.
Outside, the city murmured with life, but inside her small room, Hermione found a moment of peace. Closing her eyes, she never did notice when Melisandre slipped through the doors, a faint glimmer of the rising sun cresting beyond the gates of the city.
Hermione's first morning in Pentos began with the city's vibrant cacophony– a blend of distant bells, the shouts of street vendors, and the hum of carts rattling over cobblestones. Upon waking Hermione glanced towards the bed across, spying Melisandre already up and waiting.
The early light filtered through the sheer curtains of their rented room at the inn, illuminating the unfamiliar city. She stretched, feeling the ache of travel in her muscles, and resolved to start her exploration.
"How am I going to find this person, Melisandre? The city is sprawling. I don't even know how to begin this. What am I going to do?"
"Well, my lady, with all due respect, it is not just you and I. You have an entire group of people who are willing to lay down their lives for you. Not everything has to lie on your shoulders, my lady. We can ask for help. Do you think that your presence here in this city, in the manner that we arrived has not already sparked attention? Come, let us speak to the servants here."
Her gryphons may have been stabled and calm, but she was all the more aware of the challenges ahead: establishing herself in this strange land, finding reliable allies, and navigating a society so unlike the one she'd left behind.
The day took a rather unexpected turn when Hermione visited the stable to check on her gryphons. She found two of the slaves who had assisted her the previous evening– an older man and a younger girl– slumped against the stable wall. Their skin was pale and clammy, and they looked up at her with weak and fevered eyes.
Hermione knelt beside them, her worry evident.
"You're unwell," she murmured, though she doubted they understood her. Laysa, the girl tried to wave her off, muttering something in Common, but the male, Jorak only groaned.
"Can you help them, my lady?" Melisandre asked.
Hermione examined them quickly, noting the symptoms: fever, dizziness, and a faint rash creeping up their arms. Mind racing, cataloging potential illnesses. The stale water bucket in the corner caught her eye and she frowned.
"Contaminated water," She guessed, muttering under her breath. "Probably bacterial."
Digging through her beaded bag, she watched as the stable overseer made his way over to the pair, expression indifferent. He barked something at Jorak and Laysa, but Hermione stood, placing herself between him and the servants.
"Melisandre, tell him that they're ill," she said firmly, pointing to them and shaking her head. "They need rest or else it will spread."
The overseer sneered and replied, clearly dismissing her concerns. With narrowed eyes and a twitch of her finger she cast a subtle confundus charm. The man blinked, his scowl fading into confusion, and wandered off muttering to himself.
Hermione turned back to Jorak and Laysa, her resolve hardening. She conjured clean water in a small basin and used her wand to summon fresh clothes. With gentle hands, she wiped their faces and arms, cooling their feverish skin. She pulled a few herbs from her bag, a small cauldron and brewed a simple restorative draught.
As she worked, she whispered soothingly, even though they couldn't understand her words.
"This will help. You'll feel better soon."
Jorak accepted the potion with a hesitant look, while Laysa required more coaxing. Hermione smiled warmly, demonstrating by taking a sip herself before offering it again. Finally, the girl relented, drinking deeply.
The commotion drew a small group of servants and curious onlookers, including the boy who had helped her the day before. They whispered among themselves, their eyes darting between Hermione and the sick servants. Some looked fearful, others hopeful.
"Melisandre, tell them that they need to drink clean water. Water that has been sitting for hours or days can carry diseases in them that can make them sick. They should drink from this basin, if they're thirsty.
Melisandre took the basin, holding up the conjured water, relaying her message. She pointed to the contaminated bucket and shook her head emphatically, then gestured to the basin with a smile.
The boy nodded in understanding and said something to the others, who quickly emptied the tainted water from their buckets and lined up to take the fresh conjured water from Hermione's basin. She worked tirelessly, replenishing the supply with her wand, her actions slowly building trust amongst the group.
By midday, Jorak and Laysa were already looking better, their fevers abating thanks to Hermione's potion. They managed weak smiles, and Jorak clasped his hands in a gesture of gratitude. Hermione smiled back, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"You're welcome," she said softly. "I just want to help."
She spent the rest of the afternoon teaching the slaves simple ways to avoid sickness. She knew her effort was a small drop in an ocean of vast suffering, but it was a start.
The gryphons chirped softly as Hermione adjusted the wards on the stable, ensuring they would remain undisturbed in her absence. Jorak and Laysa were resting, their conditions improving under her care, but she needed to leave the stable to gather supplies and learn more about Pentos. At Melisandre's urging, she sent the slaves she had rescued to learn more about the inhabitants of the city, and any who might call themselves Misagaenys. The sprawling city hummed with life beyond wooden doors, its unfamiliarity both enticing and daunting.
Taking a deep breath, Hermione stepped into the bustling streets, her wand tucked discreetly into the sleeve of her traveling cloak.
The air was warm, heavy with the scents of spices, roasted meat and the faint tang of salt from the nearby sea. People moved with purpose, vendors shouting over one another in a cacophony of languages she didn't understand. The buildings loomed high, their sun-bleached facades adorned with vibrant banners and intricate carvings.
She walked cautiously, her eyes darting between the merchants, the sailors unloading crates from carts and the children weaving through the crowd with nimble ease. The city was alive, but it was dizzying. Twisting streets and alleyways as alien to her as its customs.
Hermione found herself drawn towards the bazaar, a vibrant market overflowing with goods from across Essos and beyond. Stalls lined the streets, piled high with exotic fruits, bolts of shimmering fabric and trinkets that glittered in the sunlight. She paused to admire a collection of intricately carved figurines, their craftsmanship reminding her of the goblin-made artifacts back home.
A merchant called out to her in Common and gestured toward his wares. Hermione smiled politely and shook her head, stepping back. She felt a tug at her cloak and turned to see a small child with wide, innocent eyes pointing at a polished gemstone bracelet. Hermione hesitated, then began reaching into her bag when a hand grabbed her wrist-
"That would not be wise, my lady." Melisandre said, placing her hand on the childs head and shooing him away.
"He won't wait for you to retrieve your coin. He'll dart off with the bracelet and the owner will accuse you of theft. Let's leave the market, where maybe you won't be preyed upon by street rats and urchins alike."
Hermione's unease grew as she ventured deeper into the city, Melisandre her silent guard. The wide, lively streets of the bazaar gave way to narrow alleys lined with crumbling stone buildings. Shadows stretched long in the afternoon light, and the smell of refuse mingled with the sea breeze. She passed a group of men arguing in low voices, their sharp glances making the two of them quicken their pace.
A sudden cry echoed down the alley– a woman's voice, sharp with desperation. Hermione froze, her wand slipping into her hand instinctively. She followed the sound, her heart racing until she found the source: a servant being dragged by a pair of guards, her wrists bound with coarse rope. The woman's pleading words were incomprehensible, but her terror was unmistakable.
Hermione's grip tightened on her wand, and for a moment, she considered intervening. But the guards were armed and she was alone in a city where magic would likely draw unwanted attention. Her mind raced with possible spells, but before she could act, the guards turned a corner, and the woman's cries faded.
"Melisandre, what's wrong with this place. What did she do?" Hermione asked, leaning against the wall for support, trembling. The scene had shaken her, it highlighted her vulnerability in this unfamiliar place.
"Come Hermione, let us continue. I hear that there is a festival to be held here. You would not want to miss it. Pentos is a beautiful city, but like most, it is also a city of stark contrasts. Wealth and poverty. You cannot change its nature overnight, as much as you wish you could do so. That will take time. And allies"
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Hermione stood and made her way back towards the stable.
The festival in Pentos was unlike anything she had ever seen. The market square was transformed into a sea of color, life and sound. Lanterns hung on ropes strung between the rooftops, glowing softly as the sun began its descent. Musicians played lively tunes and the atmosphere itself was a joyous occasion.
Moving through the throngs of revelers, she and Melisandre spoke to a few of the vendors, purchasing supplies for the gryphons and buying a few herbs that she could experiment with back in their room over the next couple of days. A ripple of whispers suddenly caught her attention.
"Illyrio Mopatis." Melisandre whispered to her, "A powerful magister of Pentos, rumored to meddle in the affairs of kings and queens. Look now, Hermione, there he is."
She followed the direction of whispers and froze.
Illyrio Mopatis was unmistakable, his immense bulk draped in rich silks, rings glittering on his fingers as he waved to the crowd. But it wasn't Illyrio who made Hermione's breath catch in her throat.
It was the man walking beside him, his unmistakable frame, long dark hair streaked with silver, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Sirius Black.
He was laughing at something Illyrio said, his easy smile lighting up his face, the sound carrying faintly over the din. Hermione froze, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. For a moment, the world around her seemed to dissolve into static. Sirius– alive, whole and unmistakably real– was walking mere feet from her.
Her spell, the damn thing that threw her into this mess, didn't bring him to her. It brought her to him!
Her feet moved before her mind caught up, weaving through the crowd toward him. Her voice, caught somewhere between a whisper and a shout, spilled from her lips.
"Sirius!"
He didn't hear her, or if he did, he didn't react. Hermione pushed forward, her hands trembling. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to act– to call out, to cast a spell, to fight for him. But as she dre closer, a firm hand clamped on her arm.
"Not wise to follow," came a low voice. It was the boy from the stable, the one who had helped her with the gryphons. His eyes sharp and knowing, cut through the haze of her shock.
"That man," He gestured subtly toward Illyrio, "dangerous. You follow, you die."
Hermione jerked her arm free, her grief and frustration bubbling over.
"I don't care!" she snapped, tears pricking her eyes. "I know him!"
She had grieved, cried and mourned. She had attempted dangerous magic to see if there was any glimmer of hope that he could be brought back from the veil and here he was. Living and breathing as if the years since his death never passed.
Her feet moved on their own as Melisandre reached her side, carrying her toward him. The crowd jostled her, but she pressed forward, desperate to reach him, to touch him, to confirm that he wasn't some cruel illusion.
Just as she was within shouting distance, Illyrio turned to face the crowd, raising his arms theatrically. The people surged forward, cheering and blocking her path. Hermione craned her neck, trying to catch another glimpse of Sirius, her heart aching with the need to call out to him.
Then, their eyes met.
Sirius paused mid-step, his laughter faltering as he scanned the crowd. His gaze locked onto Hermione, and for a moment, disbelief flickered across his face. She saw him mouth her name, his expression shifting from shock, to joy- to a frantic urgency. He stepped forward, as if to break from Illyrio's side but the magister's hand clamped down on his shoulder, pulling him back into the procession.
Hermione raised her hand, as if reaching for him might bridge the impossible distance.
"Sirius!" She called, her voice swallowed by the roar of the crowd.
However, the flow of people between them was relentless, and Illyrio's entourage moved forward with purpose. Sirius struggled briefly, his head turning back toward her even as he was pulled away.
Hermione's chest tightened with a grief so raw it felt like a physical blow. She pushed against the crowd trying to follow but strong hands stopped her. Melisandre stood there, face pale but determined.
"No," she said firmly, shaking her head. "Not now, not here, my lady."
Tears blurred her vision as she fought against the older womans hold.
"You don't understand!" She cried, her voice breaking. "That's Sirius! I have to–"
"You'll be seen" Melisandre hissed, voice low but urgent. "They'll ask why. You'll die before you reach him. He's seen you. He knows you're here, already rumors about you are spreading. Let him come to you. You've done your part and you did it so well, my lady. Let Sirius take care of the rest. He will find you again."
Her words cut through her panic like a knife. Hermione faltered, her hands trembling. The logical part of her mind knew she was right. The festival, the procession, Illyro's reputation– it was dangerous for her. She let Melisandre lead her away, her legs weak beneath her.
Sirius craned his neck, searching for her in the crowd, his heart hammering in his chest. He had seen her. Hermione Granger, alive and unmistakable, staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. His mind raced trying to make sense of it. He'd been through hell and back since falling through the Veil, waking in a world he didn't understand, surviving on pure instinct and charm. He had believed himself completely severed from his past.
And yet, there she was. His Hermione. His family.
Illyrio's grip tightened on his shoulder, and the magister leaned in, whispering something about appearances and obligations. Sirius barely heard him, his focus still on the spot where Hermione had been. The crowd had swallowed her, and he felt a pang of despair sharper than anything he'd endured since his return.
"That was my daughter. I will not be kept from her a second time." Sirius hissed back. "I will find her, and you will help me dear friend."
It's been quite some time, y'all! Thank you for your patience with my mild leave of absence. It's been difficult with the holiday season, but that doesn't mean that I have stopped writing. Posting should continue moving forward on Thursdays, with hopefully less stress on myself.
Happy New Year (and Lunar New Year), don't forget to tell me your thoughts on the chapter!