Azael's Chains

Desperation

The morning fell on Hermione like a hammer to a knife as it was beaten into shape, the night before underlying her sore state the anvil by which she was flattened. Her head resounded with blurry recollections. Instead of Dolohov's muscled chest a pillow cushioned her cheek; instead of hard earth she was on her bed. Leadened arms pushed her upward and then she held her aching head.

Hermione distinctly recalled Antonin refusing her wine last night, so why was she fuzzy and hurting and stiff? The scant light through thick curtains scissored through her eyeballs and straight to her brain. And the air around her hummed unpleasantly across tangled, over-sensitive nerves.

She rubbed her palms against her eyes in an effort to soothe the sharp stab, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. A too-loud POP! signaled the entrance of Topsy, her long ears waving from her apparition. "A potion for Missy." Long, knobby fingers held the vial aloft. "Master instructed Topsy to deliver a pain potion, said Missy would need it first thing."

Hermione tossed back the liquid, grimacing at the taste on the back of her tongue and handing it back. "Thank you, Topsy. I definitely did."

The elf beamed. "Breakfast is ready whenever Missy is. Master says to take your time."

"How kind." Topsy did not seem to catch the sarcasm, but Hermione actually was grateful as she stood shakily from her bed and crept toward the toilet for morning ablutions. She was dressed in soft, nearly white robes that morning. The color was almost pearlescent, shining pink as it hit the right angle, and fell just above her feet, modest and lovely with a comfortable empire waist.

Antonin rose from his seat when she appeared, taking her hands and planting a kiss on her brow as usual. "Good morning, kitten. I see the pain potion was well-received."

"Good morning." She slid into her chair with a practiced smoothness and plucked at fruit offered to her. "It was, thank you. I confess I woke feeling somewhat... well, hungover, I suppose. The ritual last night, what was it? I'm hazy on the details, but I can't recall encountering it before."

His quicksilver eyes gleamed at her in the morning light. "You wouldn't have, I imagine. It is old, as old as the land and built upon it over the generations." When she did not respond, still gazing curiously at him, Antonin continued. "In the beginning it was a ritual of God and Goddess, the Green Man and the Lady. This land where my grandfather made his home is the land the first Samhain fires were built. These are the lands of Tlachtga, a goddess older than Samhain itself. As stories merge and change over the years, so too did hers, and it twined and echoed in Macha of the Morrigna." A faint chime echoed as his slick fingertip traced the edge of his water goblet. "Some think she may have been one of them, others that she came before, or after." He shrugged. "Whether she is a part of them or not doesn't matter; this was the land where she gave birth and died, where she grieved and was grieved. The hill itself is beyond the trees, but there is power surrounding. And no muggles to taint this part."

Hermione swallowed through the clumsy muscles of her throat. "Is not the Green Man usually invoked for Beltane?"

"He is, yes, but his death for the land may be invoked for Samhain." Antonin brushed knuckles over her cheek. "His sacrifice for the good of the land and the seed that sleeps through winter."

Hermione's stomach churned, but she was quickly cross-referencing what she knew of the Morrigan, Macha, and Celtic lore. Ulster. Macha was somehow associated with Ulster, and she frowned, a map of Ireland reflected as though floating just beneath the surface of clear water drawing up in her mind.

"My grandfather and father both drew upon the power in this land, and upon those laid to rest here. My grandfather's family had long drawn on their line during such rituals, so he combined those of this land with our paternal magics."