Back in her room at the inn, Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, her hands trembling. The image of Sirius burned in her mind– his smile, his voice, his presence. It was him. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.
The grief of losing him and so many others had been overwhelming, a wound that time had barely begun to heal. Now, that wound had been ripped open, the pain and the hope mingling in equal measure. To see him, alive! He was breathing, and he was right there, only to lose him again, was almost unbearable.
Days at the inn passed in a blur for Hermione. Despite her overwhelming need to act, she forced herself to stay busy, channeling her energy into tasks that would keep her mind from spiraling into hopelessness.
The stables became her sanctuary. She worked tirelessly to tend to the gryphons, ensuring their feathers gleamed and their talons were sharp. The creatures had become her companions, their sharp eyes following her as she whispered her fears and hopes to them. She even set small enchantments around their paddocks to keep them comfortable in the heat of Pentos.
When she wasn't with the gryphons, Hermione helped the stable boy who had led her to this inn. His name was Kaevor, a wiry youth with a sharp mind despite his broken Valyrian. She taught him the basics of healing. How to make soap from trees, using that to bathe frequently and showing the other servants how to do the same to stop the spread of sickness that caught the lower quarter. She'd taken to fixing their tools, like repairing a broken pitchfork– tasks that made their work easier and earned his respect as well.
At night, she would sit in her room, tracing the lines of a rudimentary map that she and the rescued slaves had begun of Pentos. Melisandre marked the key locations: the square, the fountain gardens, the harbour, and the temples. Each mark felt like a step toward finding Sirius, though she knew that she was merely preparing for the day he found her. She knew he would, with every fiber of her being, that Sirius Black would find her."
In the grand halls of Illyro's manse, Sirius Misagaenys paced like a caged animal. The opulence around him– a feast of roasted meats, bowls of jeweled fruit, and goblets of wine– only added to his irritation. Illyrio lounged in a cushioned chair, his expression one of indulgent curiosity as he watched Sirius.
"You've been restless since the festival," Illyrio remarked, sipping from his cup. "It does not suit you, my friend."
Sirius stopped pacing, turning his sharp gaze on the magister.
"That girl in the market," He said, voice low and urgent. "I need your help to find her."
Illyrio raised an eyebrow as he let out a slight chuckle. "A girl, you say? Pentos is full of girls, surely there are whor-"
"She's my daughter!" Sirius interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. The words felt strange on his tongue, but they came easily. "I lost her years ago. And now, after everything…" He let his voice break, the raw emotion in his eyes lending weight to the lie. "I saw her, Illyrio. She's alive. I need to find her."
Illyrio's expression shifted from amused to thoughtful.
"Your daughter," he mused, tapping a jewelled finger against his lips. "You never mentioned a family before."
Sirius leaned forward, his desperation palpable. "Because I thought she was dead. She was taken from me when she was just a child. I searched for her for years, but everywhere I thought I could find her went cold. I thought I'd lost her forever– until now."
"I know she was," Sirius said, his voice steady. "She was in the crowd, watching me. I saw her."
The Magister leaned back, swirling the wine in his cup. "Finding a single girl in a city like Pentos will not be easy. But… It is not impossible. Tell me, how much of your heritage does she have?"
Sirius's jaw tightened. He hated asking for Illyrio's help– hated relying on anyone in this strange, treacherous world. But Hermione's face haunted him, her wide eyes filled with recognition and pain. He couldn't let this chance slip away.
"She's my only full blooded daughter. What do you want in exchange for helping me?" Sirius asked, his voice clipped.
Illyrio smiled, a glint of calculation in his eyes. "Nothing extravagant. A favor, to be named at a later time."
Sirius hesitated. He knew better than to make deals with men like Illyrio, but he had no choice. "Fine," He said finally. "But we start searching immediately. "
Illyrio raised his goblet in a mock toast.
"To lost daughters and found fortunes, then."
As the days passed, Sirius's search began. Iilyrio's men scoured the city, asking discreet questions about a young woman matching Hermione's description. Sirius himself roamed the streets, always keeping an eye out, always alert.
Hermione sat on the edge of her cot, staring at the flickering candle on her bedside table. The faint, salty breeze from the city of Pentos drifted through the open window, mingling with the tang of her tears. It had been days since she had last seen Sirius in the market square.
Days since she had hope flare as brightly as it had, and cruelly snatched away.
Now she felt empty, the weight of her grief and helplessness pressing heavily on her chest. All the weight of her failure pressing down on her within the ocean of her grief.
The soft creak of the door startled her. Hermione looked up to see Melisandre stepping into the room. The Red Woman moved with her usual grace, her crimson robes flowing around her like liquid fire. In the dim light, her red hair seemed to glow, a stark contrast to Hermione's pale, tear-streaked face.
"Grief is a potent fire, burning hot and wild," Melisandre said softly, her voice smooth and rich as wine.
"It consumes us if we let it. It can also be shaped, harnessed and turned into a force of power."
"I don't want power," Hermione muttered, wiping her tears quickly. Bristling at the intrusion. "I just want him back."
Melisandre moved closer, her gaze piercing. "You will have him again, child. Not as you are now– hidden away, cloaked in sorrow. The world will not bend to the will of the meek."
Hermione frowned, folding her arms defensively. "I don't care about the world. I just need to find a way to help Sirius."
Melisandre tilted her head, her ruby necklace glinting in the candlelight.
"How will you help him if you are nothing but a shadow in this city? A nameless girl in travelers' rags, with no allies and no standing?" Her tone, while firm, was not unkind. "You must be seen Hermione Misagaenys. You must be known."
"How do you propose I do that?" Hermione hesitated.
"By becoming more than what you are. Pentos is a city of whispers and appearances. Let them see you not as a wandering girl, but as a woman of mystery and purpose. You have servants who follow you, gryphons that obey you. Use these gifts."
The idea felt nearly foreign to Hermione, almost distasteful. She had spent years avoiding the spotlight, relying on her intellect and resourcefulness rather than flamboyant displays. However, Melisandre's gaze proved unrelenting.
"You fear the power that lies within you," Melisandre said, her voice softening. "Fear does not serve the faithful. Come, child. Let me show you."
Melisandre led Hermione to a small room where her servants had left a selection of fabrics and garments– a gift from the innkeeper, who had taken a liking to Hermione after witnessing her kindness with the gyphons. The fabrics shimmered in hues of deep emerald, crimson and black, far removed from her traveling garments.
"I don't really need to dress like this to help Sirius." Hermione hesitated, her fingers brushing over the silks and satins.
"No," Melisandre agreed, stepping closer. "But others will see you differently if you do. You knew this in Volantis. Tis why your appearance made such an impression on the noble lords. They will ask who you are, and you will let them wonder. Let the whispers spread. Let them build you a reputation. Then, when the time comes to act, you will not be alone."
Reluctantly, Hermione allowed herself to be guided. Melisandre picked out a stunning black and green medieval styled gown, though she highly doubted that was the correct term for the dress. Lattice work of golden metal adorned the neck acting as a form of a collar while simultaneously tying massive billowing sleeves with a soft green tulle lined underneath. The bodice consisted of the same metalwork blending into the corseted bodice, with a dragon motif at her left hip allowing for the soft green fabric to layer about down past her sleeves. Gold and emeralds sparkled across the full black fabric, almost acting like little stars to guide its way to the tail that lined the bottom of the dress.
Part of her hair was braided back into a soft chignon, with several strands left to frame her face. Much of her hair was left to hang low past her back and with her winged circlet framing her hair, when Hermione caught her reflection in the mirror, she could hardly recognize herself.
"I had this made similar to the dress that I had first seen you arrive in Volantis with, my lady. Surely, a woman of your strength and stature should require a dress to rival so? You will now be planting seeds as you venture out." She said as they were sitting by the fire.
"When the time comes, those seeds will grow into allies."
Their first stop was in a narrow alley where a mother crouched beside her feverish child. The boy, no older than six, lay on a bundle of rags. His skin pale and glistening with sweat. The mother looked up as Hermione and Melisandre approached, her eyes hollow with despair.
"Please," the woman begged in broken Valyrian, "He will not wake."
Hermione knelt beside the boy, gently brushing his dark hair away from his face. She pulled her wand from her sleeve, murmuring an incantation under her breath. A soft golden light enveloped the child, as her diagnostic spell began its work. As his breathing began to steady, Hermione conjured a cool, damp cloth. Pressing it to his forehead, she reached into her beaded bag and handed the mother a small vial of a pepperup potion she had brewed earlier at the inn.
"Two drops, every few hours," Hermione said, "It will help with the fever."
The mother grasped Hermione's hands, her gratitude spilling out in hurried words Hermione could barely understand. She didn't need Melisandre's translations. The look in the woman's eyes was enough.
Melisandre turned to the small group of people as the mothers cries had drawn a small crowd from the nearby houses. Their faces etched with awe as they watched the ill child begin to calm and breath steady.
"She is not merely a healer," Melisandre declared, her voice resonating with conviction. "She is a light sent to this city– a flame that cannot be extinguished. When others turn away, she kneels. When others falter, she acts. Do you not see this blessing that has been gifted to you?"
The crowd murmured among themselves, eyes darting between Hermione and Melisandre. Hermione, focused on the child, barely noticed their growing reverence, but Melisandre saw it clearly.
"She is not here by chance. The great and honorable Lord R'hollor's fire has guided her to your city. Those who stand with her will find their own paths illuminated."
Further along, the pair entered a cobbler's shop, where the air smelled of leather and glue. A man with calloused hands sat hunched over a broken boot, muttering curses as he struggled to repair it. His tools were crude, and Hermione could see his frustrations mounting.
Without a word, she stepped forward, her fingers twitching with a precise movement. The seams of the boot stitched themselves together as if by magic, and the man gasped, dropping the shoe in shock.
"It's stronger now," Hermione said, offering him a smile. "It should last you twice as long."
The man hesitated, then bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lady."
As Hermione wandered off and further into the shop, Melisandre took the opportunity to expand her narrative. As the man held the magically mended show in his hands, she addressed him and the small group of customers waiting around the till.
"Do you see her gift?" Melisandre asked, her voice smooth and inviting. "A single flick of her hand, and what was broken is made whole again. This is not the power of arrogance or greed. It is given freely, to those who labor, to those who strive."
The cobbler looked back towards hermione with a newfound respect.
"She… She's remarkable," he murmured.
"More than remarkable," Melisandre corrected gently. "She is chosen. One of the last true remnants of the Valyrian dynasty."
As Hermione returned from her wandering of the store she continued, "The fire does not send its messengers lightly."
Hermione shifted uncomfortably, brushing off the attention with a polite smile.
"It's just a bit of magic," She said, but Melisandre only smiled knowingly, her words continuing to shape the story that people would carry with them.
As they left the shop, Melisandre turned to Hermione.
"Twas clever, to humble yourself before them, my lady. They will raise you ever higher in their esteem and their hearts."
"I'm not trying to be clever, Melisandre. I'm just trying to help where I can."
"Intentions matter little. Actions speak louder, and your actions are building you a following, my lady."
As they crossed back into the square, a beggar sat hunched against the base of a marble statue, his hands outstretched in a silent plea. Hermione's heart twisted at the sight of him. His clothes were little more than rags, and his gaunt face told a story of long hunger.
Hermione reached into her satchel and retrieved a few coins. Passing them over to a vendor and retrieving a loaf of bread. Casting a preservation charm on the bread and pulling out a few clothes from her bag, she placed them in his hands. Placing her wand onto the clothes and casting a quick gemino to multiply the garments. She rose with a kind smile. As she turned to step away, the beggars whispered words caught her attention.
"Bless the fire," he murmured, clutching the bread as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
Melisandre stepped forward then, her voice rich and commanding.
"The fire watches over all who suffer. But it is not the fire that blesses– it is those who choose to act. Look at her," she said, gesturing to Hermione. "She does not come from your city, yet her heart is open to you. She walks among you not as a stranger, but as one who understands your pain, your struggle."
The crowd that had formed around the square began to listen, their work momentarily forgotten. Hermione glanced at Melisandre, a flicker of irritation in her eyes, but the woman pressed on. As Hermione turned to walk away, Melisandre added.
"She brings more than food and coins, she brings hope. Hope is the greatest gift of all. The fire has chosen her, and through her, it will choose you."
As the sun began to set, Hermione and Melisandre meandered their way back towards the inn. The city casted in hues of gold and crimson, as they encountered a man leaning against a crumbling wall, his leg wrapped in a blood stained cloth. Hermione hurried to him, her healer's instincts taking over.
"What happened?" she asked, her wand already in hand.
"Knife," the man grunted, wincing. "Brawl."
Hermione peeled back the makeshift bandage, ignoring the man's hiss of pain. The wound was deep but clean. She muttered a spell, her wand glowing as the torn flesh began to knit itself together. When she finished, she conjured a fresh bandage, securing it tightly around his leg.
"You need rest," she said firmly. "No more brawls."
The man gave her a grateful nod, his eyes lingering on her face.
"Who are you?"
Hermione hesitated, glancing at Melisandre. The Red Woman stepped forward, her voice filling the space like a song.
"She is a light in the dark, a healer sent by the fire to guide to lost."
"I'm just someone trying to help." Hermione flushed.
But the man just shook his head.
"No, you're more than that, my lady."
With nothing more to say, but knowing that the man was in good hands with Melisandre, Hermione smiled and turned away. Retreating back to the safety of the inn. Left behind, the older woman placed her hand on his shoulder and urged him to walk forward. The man laughing in shock as he was able to move without pain.
"She takes your pain and gives you strength," Melisandre said, her voice low and reverent. "Not because she must, but because she wills it. There is no greater power than this: the power to choose compassion in a world of cruelty."
As Melisandre returned to the inn, she found Hermione sat at the edge of her bed, her hands clasped tightly.
"Melisandre," Hermione began, her voice a tight thread holding back her rising frustration.
The older woman looked up, her expression calm, almost expectant.
"Hermione," she replied smoothly, inclining her head. "You seem troubled."
"Troubled?" Hermione's voice pitched higher. She took a steadying breath, trying not to cause a scene. "Troubled doesn't begin to cover it. You've been walking around the city turning me into some… messianic figure! What were you thinking?"
Melisandre took a measured sip of her wine, setting the goblet down with deliberate care.
"I was thinking of the people," she said, her voice silky. "Of how they need someone to inspire them, to give them hope."
"Well, I don't want to be their inspiration!" Hermione hissed, throwing her hands in the air. "I didn't come here to lead some… cult of personality!"
Melisandre's lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile.
"A flame does not choose to burn, Hermione. It simply is. Those who see it cannot help but be drawn to its light."
Hermione groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"No more poetic metaphors, please. Just tell me why you thought it was a good idea to tell a crowd that I was 'sent by fire to guide the lost.' That's not remotely true!"
Melisandre merely tilted her head, as though considering her words.
"Do you not guide the lost? You healed the boy in the alley, gave bread to the beggar, even mended a cobbler's shoe. These are not the actions of one indifferent to the suffering of others."
"Of course they're not! But that doesn't mean I want to be worshipped for it!" Hermione's voice cracked on the word, and she began pacing in front of the fire. "You've got people thinking I'm some chosen savior, and now I don't think I can go anywhere without someone calling me 'The Flames Handmaiden' or something equally ridiculous. Do you realize the position that puts me in?"
Melisandre's smile widened, though it was as inscrutable as ever.
"Would you prefer 'the Wandering Flame'? That title has gained some traction as well."
Hermione stopped pacing and stared at her, slack-jawed.
"You've got titles for me now?"
"The people choose the words that resonate with them. I merely… encourage their understanding." Melisandre shrugged gracefully.
"Encourage?" Hermione's voice was climbing again. "You've been weaving stories about me like I'm some character in a myth! Next thing I know, they'll be building statues of me!"
Melisandre's expression turned contemplative. "A statue could be effective. Symbolic, enduring–"
"Don't you dare finish that thought!" Hermione interrupted, jabbing a finger in her direction.
"No statues. No titles. No fire-prophecy nonsense."
"You cannot deny what you are, Hermione Misagaenys." The older woman merely regarded Hermione with an unflappable calm that only made her angrier.
"What I am," Hermione said, stepping closer and pointing to herself for emphasis, "is an ordinary witch who happens to know healing magic and a few useful spells. That's it. I'm not your flame. I'm not anyone's flame!"
Melisandre leaned forward slightly, her crimson robes catching the firelight.
"And yet, you shine brighter than any flame I have ever seen."
For a moment, Hermione faltered, her indignation wavering under the weight of the woman's words. She shook her head, groaning in exasperation.
"You're impossible."
"And you, Hermione Misagaenys, are extraordinary. Whether you accept it or not, the people of Pentos will see you as a beacon of hope. And hope, my dear, is not so easily extinguished."
Hermione threw up her hands, muttering something about finding a less dramatic travelling companion. She turned to leave, but paused in the doorway, glancing over her shoulder.
"No statues," she repeated firmly.
"As you wish," Melisandre replied, though the glint in her eyes suggested she'd already envisioned where the pedestal would go.
Thank you for the reviews! I appreciated reading all of them. Posting was slightly off schedule due to a pretty rough work day yesterday. I may try to update Friday's moving forward? Whichever works best for me in the long run lol.
Did any of you catch on to the Siriusly Good Plot Twist? I left a pretty good hint the summary but wasn't sure if anyone would have thought of it. As usual, let me know your thoughts!
Ophie signing out!