# Pentos - The Dragon's Awake
The silk sheets whispered against her skin like promises meant to seduce and deceive, their Myrish weave softer than anything that had ever graced the austere chambers of Greengrass Manor or the drafty stone dormitories of Slytherin House. The fabric pooled around her legs in waves of sapphire blue, heavy with exotic perfumes that made her nose wrinkle in distaste—cardamom and saffron, jasmine and something darker that spoke of distant shores where morality was as negotiable as market prices.
Yet for all their undeniable luxury, these sheets felt like chains forged from gossamer and gold.
She sat up in the bed with movements that carried unconscious elegance despite her inner turmoil, platinum-blonde hair cascading over shoulders that were too delicate, too fragile-looking for someone who'd once hexed Pansy Parkinson into St. Mungo's for suggesting that the Greengrass family's political neutrality during the war had been motivated by cowardice rather than careful calculation.
*These hands,* she thought with growing revulsion as she studied the pale, slender fingers that emerged from sleeves of gossamer silk, flexing them experimentally as if testing foreign equipment, *these aren't my hands. Too small, too soft, too... decorative.*
The hands of Daphne Greengrass had been elegant but practical—long fingers that could grip a wand with deadly precision, palms callused from years of brewing potions that required precise stirring motions, nails kept short and unadorned because vanity was a luxury that interfered with spellwork when people were trying to kill you. These belonged to someone who had never held anything more dangerous than an embroidery needle, never defended herself with anything more sophisticated than tears and feminine helplessness.
*Daenerys Targaryen,* she thought the name with the same distaste she'd once reserved for particularly nauseating Gryffindor displays of misguided heroism, *Last of the dragon lords. Beggar princess. Professional victim who spent seventeen years accepting abuse because she was too frightened and too ignorant to recognize that 'victim' was a role she could choose to stop playing at any time.*
The memories pressed against her consciousness like uninvited guests who'd decided to rearrange the furniture in her mind—seventeen years of experiences that belonged to someone else, someone weaker, someone who had accepted limitations that Daphne Greengrass would have burned to ash with her first proper Incendio.
She forced herself to her feet, the silk nightgown flowing around her like liquid moonlight, its cut designed to suggest innocence while showcasing the sort of ethereal beauty that made men forget their own names and women question every life choice that had led them to compete with perfection made manifest. The garment was beautiful, expensive, utterly impractical for anything resembling real life.
*Like everything else in this bloody place,* she thought with growing irritation as she surveyed the chamber that had become her gilded prison.
Velvet hangings in deep purple and cloth-of-gold draped the windows like royal proclamations, while carpets woven with patterns that spoke of Yi Ti's most skilled workshops cushioned floors that probably saw more gold spent on their daily cleaning than most families earned in a year. Furniture crafted from exotic woods—ebony from the Summer Isles, silverwood from Qohor, materials that had traveled across oceans to demonstrate their owner's reach—filled every corner with calculated magnificence.
*Performance,* she recognized with the cynical appreciation of someone who'd spent seven years navigating Slytherin politics where appearance and reality maintained an ongoing relationship characterized by mutual hostility and creative interpretation of truth. *All of it. An elaborate theatrical production designed to convince the audience that the management possesses more power and resources than careful investigation would reveal.*
*Rather like Father's study when he was negotiating with the Ministry,* she reflected with bitter amusement. *All those rare books and expensive artifacts positioned precisely where visitors would see them, creating impressions of scholarship and wealth while the actual valuable items remained locked away where thieves and tax assessors couldn't catalog them.*
But it was the memories themselves that truly disturbed her—not merely the discomfort of inhabiting an unfamiliar body, but the psychological violation of carrying someone else's experiences like parasites that had taken up permanent residence in her consciousness without permission or invitation.
*Years of running,* she catalogued with clinical disgust as Daenerys's recollections forced themselves into focus. *Always dependent on the charity of strangers whose motivations remained conveniently unclear. Always at the mercy of Viserys's moods, his delusions, his pathetic attempts at royal authority backed by nothing more substantial than theoretical bloodlines and an increasingly tenuous grip on reality.*
The scenes played behind her eyes like a particularly disturbing theatrical performance—Viserys's rages when their temporary benefactors grew tired of supporting exiled royalty whose gratitude came wrapped in demands for better accommodations. His grandiose speeches about their destined return to greatness, delivered to audiences who smiled politely while calculating how quickly they could arrange alternative lodging. His increasing desperation as the years passed and the restoration he'd promised failed to materialize through divine intervention or popular uprising.
*And through it all,* she thought with growing contempt for Daenerys's passivity, *she simply... endured. Accepted. Smiled and nodded and played the grateful refugee while her brother's sanity deteriorated and their situation became increasingly precarious.*
*Seven years at Hogwarts taught me that endurance without strategy is just prolonged suffering. That accepting abuse doesn't make it stop—it just convinces the abuser that their behavior is acceptable and should continue indefinitely.*
The memory that made her blood truly run cold involved Viserys's latest performance of brotherly concern—his theatrical declaration about her impending marriage to Khal Drogo, delivered with the sort of pompous authority that suggested he actually believed his own propaganda about Targaryen destiny and divine right.
"You don't want to wake the dragon," she murmured, her voice carrying perfect mimicry of his affected royal accent while her tone dripped with the sort of acid contempt that had once made Professor Snape nod approvingly during particularly cutting assessments of Gryffindor pretensions.
*The dragon.* Her lips curved in a smile that held no warmth whatsoever—the sort of expression that had once made her fellow Slytherins grateful to remain on her good side rather than discover what happened when Daphne Greengrass decided someone required immediate education about consequences and the wisdom of reconsidering their life choices.
*The dragon, it seems, is a petulant child with delusions of competence who wouldn't last five minutes in actual political intrigue involving people who understand the difference between genuine authority and theatrical gestures designed to intimidate targets too inexperienced to recognize amateur hour when it wears a crown.*
She moved to the window with the fluid grace that had been drilled into her since childhood—spine straight, shoulders back, every step a demonstration of breeding that couldn't be purchased or faked. The view beyond the carved stone frame revealed Pentos in all its contradictory magnificence: a city where splendid palaces rose beside festering slums, where spices from the ends of the earth mingled with the stench of human desperation, where fortunes could be made or lost in single transactions depending on one's skill at reading the currents of commerce that shaped every interaction.
*Rather like Knockturn Alley,* she mused with professional interest, *respectable enough on the surface to maintain plausible deniability, corrupt enough underneath to accommodate any transaction that someone with adequate gold might require, and sufficiently complex to provide excellent cover for activities that wouldn't bear close scrutiny from people with inconvenient ethical standards.*
*Perfect environment for what I'm planning.*
But first, she needed to address the immediate threat to her autonomy and future happiness—a threat that went by the name Illyrio Mopatis and wore the mask of generous benefactor while clearly pursuing an agenda that had nothing to do with Targaryen welfare and everything to do with profit margins that most people would find morally questionable.
Seven years of Slytherin education had taught her to read people like particularly complex potions recipes—identifying the ingredients that created specific reactions, understanding which combinations were stable and which were likely to explode in your face if mishandled, recognizing when someone's stated objectives differed significantly from their actual priorities.
*And Magister Illyrio,* she thought with growing certainty, *is lying about absolutely everything that matters.*
She could see it in the way his eyes never quite met theirs when discussing Westerosi politics, hear it in the careful phrasing he used when describing popular sentiment toward Targaryen restoration, feel it in the subtle tensions that accompanied his most passionate declarations about their destined return to greatness.
"The people of Westeros drink secret toasts to your brother's health," she said aloud, her voice carrying perfect mimicry of his cultured tones while her expression suggested she found his manipulation techniques about as convincing as Lockhart's claims of personal heroism during Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.
*Complete fabrication,* she diagnosed with clinical precision. *Designed to appeal to Viserys's desperate need for validation while concealing the real reasons why a successful merchant would invest significant resources in supporting impoverished exiles whose political value remains entirely theoretical.*
*People don't risk comfortable lives for abstract principles, especially not when those principles involve supporting strangers whose competence remains undemonstrated and whose success would require overthrowing established authority through methods that would inevitably result in considerable bloodshed and economic disruption.*
*Robert Baratheon holds the Iron Throne through right of conquest, marriage alliance, and—most importantly—popular acceptance. His reign has brought peace, stability, and prosperity to most of Westeros. The smallfolk don't dream of dragon restoration while their bellies are full and their children are safe.*
*They dream of continuing the prosperity they've achieved under Baratheon rule, not gambling it away for the sake of strangers whose primary qualification for leadership is an accident of birth that occurred before most of them were old enough to understand what Targaryen rule had actually meant in practical terms.*
Her analysis grew more sophisticated as she applied the systematic thinking that had made her one of Hogwarts' most formidable students despite competition from intellectual giants who possessed natural advantages she'd been forced to overcome through superior preparation and strategic planning.
*So why is Illyrio really supporting us?* The question crystallized as she paced the chamber with movements that combined restless energy with methodical consideration of available evidence.
*Not from altruism—successful merchants don't achieve their position through charitable impulses that interfere with profit maximization.*
*Not from genuine belief in Targaryen restoration—he's too intelligent to believe his own propaganda about popular uprising.*
*Not from fear of our potential vengeance—we're powerless refugees dependent on his charity, hardly threatening enough to justify expensive insurance policies.*
*Which leaves...* She paused, her brilliant mind working through implications that painted an increasingly disturbing picture of their situation. *Which leaves the possibility that he's not supporting Targaryen restoration at all. That we're not his clients but his merchandise, being prepared for sale to buyers whose intentions don't align with our personal interests or survival.*
The marriage arrangement suddenly made considerably more sense when viewed through that analytical lens—not as political alliance to support theoretical conquest, but as commercial transaction where she was the primary commodity being exchanged for military services that would benefit Illyrio's actual objectives rather than anything resembling Targaryen interests.
*Khal Drogo,* she thought with renewed horror as the implications became clear. *Forty thousand screaming horsemen who live for pillage and conquest. Perfect tools for destabilizing established authority in ways that would create profitable opportunities for merchants positioned to exploit the resulting chaos.*
*And all it costs him is one terrified girl who doesn't understand she's being sold to savages whose idea of marriage involves systematic rape disguised as cultural tradition.*
The rage that filled her at that realization was pure and clean and absolutely lethal—not the hot fury of momentary anger, but the cold wrath of someone who had been underestimated once too often by people who confused feminine appearance with feminine helplessness.
*I think not,* she decided with imperial authority that would have made her ancestors proud and her enemies very nervous about their continued good health. *I am not going to smile and submit and pretend to be grateful for the privilege of being violated by barbarians whose primary attraction is their usefulness as weapons in other people's schemes.*
*I am not going to become anyone's commodity, regardless of how many armies they can field or how profitable my sale might prove to merchants who think breeding and beauty are sufficient qualifications for treating young women like livestock.*
*I am going to find Harry.*
The thought blazed through her consciousness with the intensity of Fiendfyre contained within perfect magical control—not mere decision, but recognition of truth that had been waiting beneath layers of confusion and displacement since she'd awakened in this impossible situation.
Her magic—dormant for seventeen years but never truly absent—stirred in response to her determination like a sleeping dragon opening eyes that had been dreaming of home. Power flowed through pathways that had been waiting patiently for their mistress to remember who she truly was beneath the costume and circumstances that had temporarily obscured her identity.
*He's here,* she knew with crystalline certainty that cut through every doubt like sunlight through storm clouds. *Somewhere in this world, probably as confused and displaced as I am, but definitely here. I can feel him like warmth returning to fingers that had been numb with cold, like finding water after days of thirst, like coming home after years of wandering in countries where nothing made sense and no one understood your language.*
The bond they'd shared—unspoken during their first life but no less real for its lack of formal declaration—had apparently transcended dimensional barriers, physical death, and seventeen years of separation to guide her across impossible distances toward reunion that logic insisted should be completely impossible.
*But then,* she reflected with growing wonder at the cosmic forces that had arranged their situation, *logic never was magic's strongest suit. And love... love makes magic do impossible things when the alternative is accepting loss that would break the fundamental structure of reality itself.*
*North,* her magical instincts whispered with increasing certainty, her enhanced senses reaching across impossible distances toward something that called to her very soul. *Far to the north, where winter lasts for years and honor still means something to people in power. Where ancient houses remember their duties and lords value loyalty above gold.*
*Westeros. Of course it would be Westeros. The one continent in this world where political complexity rivals anything we dealt with during the war, where winter is coming whether anyone's prepared for it or not, and where Harry's pathological need to protect people from forces beyond their understanding would find unlimited opportunities for expression.*
The mental image of Harry Potter navigating Westerosi politics made her smile with genuine warmth for the first time since awakening in this bizarre situation. He had always possessed an almost supernatural talent for appearing exactly where he was needed most, usually at precisely the moment when his particular combination of stubborn heroism and creative problem-solving could tip the balance between disaster and salvation.
*He's probably driving some poor lord absolutely mad with his refusal to accept conventional limitations,* she thought with fond exasperation. *Making suggestions about infrastructure improvement that sound insane until someone realizes they would actually work. Defending people's honor in ways that require detailed explanation about why theoretical principles matter more than immediate convenience.*
*Gods, I've missed him. I've missed the way his mind works, the way he approaches problems that everyone else considers unsolvable, the way he makes you believe that impossible things are just difficult things that require more creativity than usual.*
But the problem—the immediate, practical, infuriating problem that stood between her current situation and any hope of implementing escape plans sophisticated enough to succeed—was the complete absence of her wand.
Without the focus that had channeled her magical abilities since her eleventh birthday, she was essentially a very well-educated young woman with excellent intuition and dangerous knowledge of subjects that this world wouldn't recognize as anything more than superstition mixed with wishful thinking.
*Wandless magic,* she thought with mounting frustration at the limitations imposed by circumstances beyond her immediate control. *Theoretically possible according to advanced magical theory. Documented in historical accounts of desperate situations where love or fury enabled impossible feats. Practically beyond anything I ever learned at Hogwarts, where we were taught to rely on proper equipment rather than raw emotional extremes.*
*The stories exist—ancient wizards who commanded elements through sheer force of personality, witches who channeled power through crystal focuses or sacred symbols, legends about magic that responded to pure need rather than technical precision. But stories and legends are poor substitutes for practical training when facing problems that require solutions more reliable than hoping for miraculous intervention by cosmic forces that may not be paying attention to individual predicaments.*
She resumed pacing, her movements combining nervous energy with systematic analysis as she worked through every angle of her situation with the methodical precision that had once made her professors simultaneously proud of her intellectual rigor and concerned about her tendency to apply academic thoroughness to problems that most people solved through intuition or luck.
*Available resources,* she catalogued mentally. *Intelligence, education, strategic thinking, and the desperate motivation that comes from facing a fate worse than death. Access to Daenerys's memories, which include detailed information about this household's layout, security arrangements, daily routines, and the location of wealth that could fund extended travel toward whatever distant location contains the other half of my soul.*
*What I lack is my wand. What I need is my wand. What I'm going to get, through methods that don't require wands, is my bloody wand if I have to tear holes in reality to retrieve it.*
The determination in that thought made the air around her shimmer slightly—not enough for anyone without magical sensitivity to notice, but sufficient to suggest that her power was responding to emotional intensity in ways that transcended normal constraints about proper equipment and technical limitations.
*Focus,* she commanded herself sternly. *Analyze the situation systematically. Identify immediate threats, available opportunities, and potential solutions that work within current limitations while remaining alert for chances to improve circumstances through creative resource acquisition.*
*First: timeline. The marriage to Drogo is scheduled soon—days rather than weeks, if Viserys's manic enthusiasm is any indication. Once that ceremony occurs, escape becomes exponentially more difficult due to Dothraki marriage customs and the general tendency of disappointed barbarian chieftains to express displeasure through methods that make Cruciatus Curses seem humane by comparison.*
*Second: immediate obstacles. Viserys's increasing instability as reality continues its stubborn refusal to conform to his expectations. He could do something catastrophically stupid at any moment—challenge Illyrio to single combat over imagined slights, attempt to steal something valuable to fund his own schemes, or simply have a complete psychological breakdown that draws unwanted attention from people whose interference would make departure significantly more complicated.*
*Third: available resources. This residence contains enough portable wealth to fund whatever reunion with Harry requires, assuming I can access it without triggering security measures that would alert people whose curiosity I'd prefer to avoid until departure is complete.*
She moved through the chambers with the focused attention of someone conducting reconnaissance in hostile territory, her trained eye cataloguing details that most people would dismiss as mere decoration but which spoke volumes to someone who understood how wealth functioned as both display and practical resource.
The silver work scattered throughout the rooms—candelabras, serving pieces, decorative objects that combined artistic merit with precious metal content—represented enough raw material to purchase passage across multiple continents if properly liquidated through appropriate channels.
*The jewelry alone,* she noted with professional assessment as her gaze lingered on pieces that Illyrio had provided for their use, *would fund a comfortable lifestyle for years. Those rubies are Asshai bloodstones, worth more than most lords see in a lifetime. The pearls are clearly from the Summer Isles' deepest beds. Even the gold is higher quality than anything produced in Westeros.*
*All of it positioned where desperate refugees would see it, touch it, wear it, and gradually come to think of it as belonging to them rather than merely being borrowed. Psychological manipulation designed to make the eventual transaction seem like generous gift-giving rather than commercial exchange.*
*Well, two can play games involving creative interpretation of ownership rights.*
But as she completed her survey of immediately accessible resources, examining every corner for items that combined maximum value with minimum bulk, her enhanced magical senses detected something that definitely hadn't been present moments before.
The change was subtle but unmistakable to someone who'd spent years learning to recognize the distinctive resonance of enchanted objects. Power hummed in the air like a crystal goblet struck by silver, carrying overtones that spoke of familiar magic responding to desperate summons across barriers that should have been absolutely impermeable.
*What...*
Her head turned toward the silk-draped table beside the window, where moonlight painted everything in shades of silver and mystery, and her heart stopped, restarted, and began racing with emotions too complex for rational analysis.
There, lying across dark wood like an offering from grateful gods, was something that made every logical objection to cosmic impossibility crumble into insignificance.
Her wand.
Not just any wand, but unmistakably, impossibly, miraculously *her* wand—ten and three-quarter inches of perfectly seasoned hawthorn wood with a dragon heartstring core, balanced and weighted for the precise wandwork that had made her one of Hogwarts' most technically accomplished students, crafted according to specifications that Ollivander had determined through mysterious processes involving musical resonance, magical compatibility, and intuitive understanding of what each witch or wizard required to channel their power most effectively.
*How?* her rational mind demanded even as her feet carried her across the chamber with movements that bypassed conscious decision-making entirely. *How is this possible? Dimensional barriers don't simply allow personal belongings to follow their owners across impossible distances. Magic doesn't work that way. Reality doesn't work that way. Physics—magical or otherwise—doesn't work that way.*
*Nothing works that way except in children's stories about true love conquering forces that should be utterly unconquerable.*
But her hand was already reaching for the familiar wood, fingers trembling not with fear but with overwhelming emotion as she prepared for reunion with something so fundamental to her identity that its absence had felt like missing a limb even when she hadn't consciously realized what was wrong with her current existence.
The moment her skin made contact with hawthorn that had grown in English soil under English skies in a world where dragons were legends and magic was hidden from mundane observation, power blazed through her nervous system like liquid lightning channeled through a conductor designed specifically for her unique magical signature.
Seventeen years of dormant ability awakened with such intensity that every supernatural entity within a hundred-mile radius probably felt the shockwave of energy that announced the return of someone who belonged in the world of wands and spells rather than medieval politics and arranged marriages to barbarian chieftains who viewed women as either property or entertainment depending on their mood and immediate requirements.
*Oh,* she thought as magic flowed through pathways that had been waiting patiently for their mistress to remember her true nature, *oh, that's what I've been missing. That's what makes me myself rather than just someone playing dress-up in borrowed clothes and borrowed circumstances.*
*That's what makes me dangerous.*
Power settled into familiar patterns like water finding its proper level—warm, intoxicating, absolutely essential for survival in hostile territory where ordinary human capabilities would prove catastrophically inadequate for the challenges that lay ahead. Her magical senses expanded outward in ripples that mapped the residence's layout with precision no amount of conventional reconnaissance could have achieved.
*Guards at the eastern entrance—three men, tired from long watches, attention focused on external threats rather than internal movement.*
*Wards protecting the treasure room—sophisticated but designed to prevent forced entry rather than subtle magical manipulation by someone who understood their theoretical foundations.*
*Viserys in his chambers, drunk on wine and dreams of glory, too lost in fantasy to notice reality reshaping itself around him.*
*Illyrio in his study, conducting correspondence with contacts whose replies would probably prove very interesting to anyone curious about his actual objectives rather than his stated ones.*
*And in the treasure room itself...* Her magical senses probed deeper, cataloguing contents that made her reassess Illyrio's wealth upward by several orders of magnitude. *Enough gold to buy kingdoms. Enough silver to outfit armies. Gems that kings would go to war over. All of it sitting behind locks that exist mainly to reassure owners rather than actually prevent access by anyone with adequate motivation and superior technical skills.*
*Perfect.*
"Now then," she murmured to herself as she raised her wand with movements that carried seventeen years of accumulated muscle memory, "let's discuss proper resource allocation in service of romantic reunions that transcend dimensional barriers and cosmic impossibility."
*If I'm going to steal away in the night like some romantic heroine from the stories that end with true love triumphant over forces that tried to keep soulmates separated,* she thought with fierce satisfaction, *I'm certainly going to do it with style, sophistication, and enough practical preparation to ensure success rather than merely dramatic gesture.*
*After all, stealing a girl's birthright and trying to sell her to barbarians should carry consequences more substantial than simple escape. It should involve lessons about the wisdom of not underestimating people whose capabilities you never bothered to properly assess.*
*Illyrio Mopatis is about to discover what happens when someone with Slytherin cunning, Daphne Greengrass determination, and access to magic that operates according to rules he's never imagined decides that his agenda conflicts with her romantic objectives.*
Her smile, as she began planning an evening of intensive wealth redistribution combined with creative interpretation of ownership rights, would have made her ancestors proud and her enemies very nervous about their continued prosperity.
The night was young, her magic was fully operational, and somewhere to the north, Harry Potter was probably causing political complications through his pathological inability to ignore injustice when he encountered it.
Time to remind the world why Slytherin house produced some of the most successful dark witches in recorded history, and why underestimating people based on their appearance was a mistake that usually proved educational in ways the students didn't survive to appreciate.
The evening's real work was about to begin.
—
# In Qarth - The Mask of Memory
The lacquered mask felt heavier tonight than it had in decades, its red and gold surface reflecting torchlight like drops of blood suspended in amber. Luna Lovegood—though that name felt distant now, like an echo from someone else's dream—traced the intricate patterns with fingers that had grown steady through a century of careful practice at deception.
*Quaithe of the Shadow Lands,* she mused with the sort of detached curiosity she'd once applied to examining Wrackspurts and Nargles. *Such a deliciously mysterious identity. All dramatic pronouncements and cryptic warnings delivered through a mask that conveniently prevents anyone from reading facial expressions that might reveal whether the speaker actually understands their own prophecies.*
But beneath the theatrical exterior, beneath the layers of mystique that had made Quaithe one of Qarth's most feared and respected figures, lay memories that belonged to someone infinitely more dangerous than any shadowbinder's apprentice playing at cosmic significance.
*Shiera Seastar,* she thought, the name carrying weight like incense smoke carrying prayers to gods who might or might not be listening. *Bastard daughter of a king, sorceress of genuine power, and—most relevantly for current purposes—someone who understood that survival sometimes required adopting identities that obscured rather than revealed one's true capabilities.*
The memories pressed against her consciousness like rare books demanding attention—a century of experiences that belonged to someone whose relationship with conventional morality had been... complex. Shiera had been beautiful, brilliant, ruthlessly pragmatic, and absolutely convinced that ordinary rules existed primarily as suggestions for people who lacked the imagination to transcend them when circumstances required creative interpretation.
*Rather like Slytherin philosophy,* Luna recognized with growing appreciation for her predecessor's approach to problem-solving, *except with considerably more style and significantly fewer inhibitions about methods that might make some people uncomfortable.*
She moved through the chambers that had been her sanctuary for decades, her steps silent on carpets woven from silk that cost more than most families earned in lifetimes. The room itself was a study in controlled magnificence—artifacts from the Shadow Lands arranged with calculated precision to suggest power without revealing its true extent, books written in languages that most scholars insisted were purely theoretical, instruments designed for magical workings that the Citadel claimed were impossible according to their understanding of natural law.
*All very impressive,* she acknowledged as her enhanced senses catalogued protective enchantments that had been woven into the very walls, *but also completely inadequate for what I'm actually planning to accomplish.*
Because Luna Lovegood—regardless of what body she currently inhabited or what memories had been layered over her original identity—had always possessed a talent for seeing truth that others missed. And the truth about her current situation was blazingly obvious to anyone willing to look past surface appearances.
*I'm not supposed to be here,* she realized with crystalline certainty that cut through decades of carefully constructed routine. *This life, this identity, this entire existence—it's been a holding pattern. Waiting for something that I didn't consciously remember but never stopped expecting.*
*Waiting for Harry.*
The thought blazed through her awareness like silver fire, burning away layers of mystical pretension and dramatic theatricality to reveal the simple, devastating truth that had been hidden beneath a century of magical disguises and assumed identities.
She had been waiting. Through all the years of pronouncing cryptic warnings to heroes who were too limited by conventional thinking to understand that prophecy was often less about predicting the future and more about creating psychological conditions where desired outcomes became more probable. Through all the careful cultivation of her reputation as someone whose knowledge came from sources beyond ordinary understanding. Through all the patient accumulation of favors and obligations that had made her one of Qarth's most influential figures despite her official status as mysterious outsider whose true origins remained conveniently unclear.
*A century of preparation,* she understood with growing wonder at the cosmic forces that had arranged her situation, *for a reunion that logic insists should be impossible but which love makes absolutely inevitable.*
Her magical senses—dulled by decades of careful concealment but never truly absent—stretched outward like a butterfly testing wings that had been folded too long. Power flowed through pathways that had been dormant since her arrival in this impossible world, responding to emotional intensity that transcended every barrier she'd constructed between her true self and the role she'd been playing for people who thought they understood her capabilities.
*West,* her instincts whispered with increasing certainty, her enhanced awareness reaching across impossible distances toward something that called to her very soul. *Far to the west, where ice and fire dance around each other in patterns that will reshape the world, where winter is coming whether anyone's prepared for it or not, where Harry's pathological need to fix everything that's broken would find unlimited opportunities for expression.*
*Westeros. Of course it would be Westeros. The one continent where political complexity would challenge even his creative approach to problem-solving, where ancient magics were stirring after centuries of dormancy, where the return of dragons meant the return of possibilities that had been purely theoretical for three hundred years.*
But first, she needed to address the immediate practical concerns that stood between her current situation and any hope of implementing travel plans sophisticated enough to succeed across thousands of miles of hostile territory filled with people who viewed mysterious sorceresses with suspicion ranging from healthy caution to active hostility.
*Resources,* she catalogued mentally as she surveyed chambers that had been accumulating wealth for decades through methods that combined supernatural insight with entirely mundane understanding of how commerce functioned when guided by accurate predictions about market fluctuations. *More than sufficient for extended travel, assuming I can access them without triggering security measures or drawing attention from people whose curiosity I'd prefer to avoid.*
*The problem,* she realized with mounting frustration at the limitations imposed by her chosen identity, *is that Quaithe's reputation for mysterious withdrawal from worldly concerns makes sudden interest in practical resource acquisition rather conspicuous. People expect shadowbinders to speak in riddles and vanish dramatically. They don't expect them to liquidate carefully accumulated assets in preparation for extended journeys toward destinations that would suggest entirely mundane motivations.*
*Which means I need to be creative about wealth redistribution in ways that don't contradict established patterns of behavior while still providing adequate funding for whatever reunion with Harry requires.*
Her lips curved in a smile that would have made her old Ravenclaw housemates proud and her potential victims very nervous about their continued prosperity. Luna Lovegood had always possessed a talent for finding unconventional solutions to problems that seemed insoluble to people who insisted on approaching them through conventional methods.
*Fortunately,* she thought with growing satisfaction as she began formulating plans that combined her predecessor's knowledge with her own creative approach to obstacles, *Qarth contains numerous individuals whose wealth was acquired through methods that most people would find morally questionable. The Thirteen, for instance, have built their fortunes on trade arrangements that involve systematic exploitation of people who lack sufficient power to negotiate fair terms.*
*The Tourmaline Brotherhood deals in substances that bring pleasure to buyers while destroying their health, their families, and their capacity for rational decision-making about continued consumption.*
*The Ancient Guild of Spicers has cornered markets through techniques that make Slytherin business practices seem positively charitable by comparison.*
*All of them sitting on accumulated wealth that could fund noble quests if redistributed to people whose objectives involve reuniting with lost love rather than maximizing profit margins through methods that cause systematic suffering.*
*Justice, really, when viewed from the proper perspective.*
She moved toward the silk-covered table where moonlight painted everything in shades of silver and possibility, her enhanced senses detecting something that made every rational objection to cosmic impossibility crumble into insignificance.
There, lying across dark wood like an offering from gods who specialized in romantic intervention, was something that transformed her situation from challenging to merely complex.
Her wand.
Not just any wand, but unmistakably, impossibly, miraculously *her* wand—nine and a half inches of ethereal applewood with a unicorn hair core, crafted for the precise spellwork that had made her one of Hogwarts' most intuitive practitioners of magic that responded to emotional honesty rather than technical precision, balanced according to specifications that Mr. Ollivander had determined through mysterious processes involving listening to harmonics that most people couldn't hear and understanding resonances that existed between magical cores and the wizards they were destined to serve.
*How?* her rational mind whispered even as her hand reached for familiar wood with movements that bypassed conscious decision-making entirely. *How is this possible? Dimensional barriers don't simply allow personal belongings to follow their owners across impossible distances. The same forces that brought us here wouldn't necessarily provide the tools we need to change our circumstances.*
*Unless,* she thought with growing wonder at the implications, *unless love really is the most powerful magic of all. Unless bonds forged between souls transcend every barrier that reality tries to place between people who belong together. Unless the universe itself conspires to reunite soulmates when the alternative would be accepting loss that would break the fundamental structure of existence itself.*
The moment her fingers closed around applewood that had grown in Scottish soil under Scottish skies in a world where unicorns were legends and magic was hidden from mundane observation, power blazed through her nervous system like starlight channeled through crystal designed specifically for her unique magical signature.
A century of carefully controlled ability awakened with such intensity that every supernatural entity within five hundred miles probably felt the shockwave of energy that announced the return of someone who belonged in the world of wonder and impossible things rather than in shadow lands where mystery was manufactured through theatrical techniques designed to impress people whose understanding of genuine magic remained purely theoretical.
*Oh,* she thought as power flowed through pathways that had been waiting patiently for their mistress to remember who she truly was beneath layers of accumulated identity and assumed responsibility, *that's what I've been missing. Not just magic—anyone can learn to channel supernatural forces through proper training and adequate dedication. This is magic that recognizes me, responds to me, works with me rather than requiring constant conscious direction.*
*This is magic that makes me myself rather than just someone playing dress-up in borrowed robes and borrowed mystery.*
Her magical senses expanded outward in ripples that mapped Qarth's layout with precision that no amount of conventional reconnaissance could have achieved, penetrating wards that had been designed to conceal rather than protect and revealing secrets that their owners had spent fortunes to keep hidden.
*The Thirteen's private meeting tonight—discussing arrangements with Lysene slavers that would make their public pronouncements about humanitarian concerns seem rather hypocritical.*
*The Tourmaline Brotherhood's warehouse where substances banned in most civilized cities are stored in quantities that suggest distribution networks spanning multiple continents.*
*The Ancient Guild of Spicers' accounting chambers where records document profit margins achieved through techniques that would make Iron Bank negotiators question their own ruthlessness.*
*And in their private vaults...* Her enhanced senses probed deeper, cataloguing wealth that had been accumulated through systematic exploitation of people who lacked power to resist or alternatives to accept. *Enough gold to fund expeditions across Essos. Enough gems to purchase ships, supplies, guards, and safe passage through territories controlled by people whose cooperation could be bought if one understood their price.*
*All of it protected by locks and wards designed to prevent intrusion by ordinary thieves rather than someone who understood that moral authority sometimes justified creative interpretation of property rights.*
*Perfect.*
But as she prepared to begin the evening's work of intensive wealth redistribution combined with educational experiences about the consequences of underestimating people whose capabilities you never bothered to properly assess, her enhanced magical senses detected something that gave her pause.
The aging magic that had kept Shiera Seastar young and vital for over a century was tied to Essos itself—woven into the very fabric of the eastern continent through spells that drew power from sources that wouldn't exist in Westeros. The moment she set foot in the Seven Kingdoms, normal time would reclaim her with interest accumulated over decades of borrowed youth.
*A century of life compressed into whatever time remains,* she realized with clinical detachment that surprised her with its lack of fear. *Aging at accelerated rates until natural death claims what should have been claimed long ago.*
*Most people would call that too high a price for reunion with someone they'd loved in a previous existence.*
*Most people,* she thought with the serene certainty that had once made her Ravenclaw housemates simultaneously admire and worry about her complete indifference to conventional wisdom about self-preservation, *have never experienced love that transcends dimensional barriers, physical death, and cosmic impossibility to guide them across distances that shouldn't be crossable toward someone whose soul resonates with theirs at frequencies that make everything else seem like background noise.*
*Most people have never felt what it means to find your other half after believing you'd lost them forever.*
*There's no point in living without Harry. There never was. All this time, all these years, all this careful accumulation of power and influence and mysterious reputation—it was just marking time until the universe arranged for us to find each other again.*
*If I have months or years or decades left after we're reunited, that's wonderful. If I have days or weeks, that's still more happiness than most people experience in lifetimes spent accepting limitations instead of fighting for what they truly want.*
*Either way, it's infinitely preferable to spending whatever time remains wondering what might have been if I'd been brave enough to risk everything for love instead of accepting safety that came with the price of eternal separation.*
Her decision crystallized with the clarity of perfectly cut crystal catching sunlight—not mere choice, but recognition of truth that had been waiting beneath layers of careful planning and accumulated wisdom since she'd first awakened in this impossible situation.
"Now then," she murmured to herself as she raised her wand with movements that carried a century of accumulated skill refined through constant practice at magic that required precision born from understanding rather than mere technical competence, "let's discuss proper justice regarding wealth that was acquired through methods that most people would find morally objectionable."
*If I'm going to abandon a century of carefully constructed mystery in favor of romantic reunion with someone whose location I'll have to determine through magical navigation across hostile territory filled with people who view sorceresses with suspicion,* she thought with fierce satisfaction that would have made her ancestors proud, *I'm certainly going to fund the expedition through creative redistribution of resources from people who used them to cause systematic suffering.*
*After all, exploiting the powerless should carry consequences more substantial than merely continued prosperity. It should involve educational experiences about what happens when someone with Luna Lovegood's creative problem-solving abilities and access to magic that operates according to rules you've never imagined decides that your business practices conflict with her romantic objectives.*
Her smile, as she began planning an evening of intensive justice delivery combined with practical resource acquisition, carried the serene confidence of someone who understood that love made impossible things merely difficult and difficult things merely interesting.
The night was young, her magic was fully operational, and somewhere to the west, Harry Potter was probably causing political complications through his pathological inability to ignore injustice when he encountered it.
Time to remind Qarth why underestimating people based on their mysterious reputation was a mistake that usually proved educational in ways that benefited everyone except the students themselves.
The evening's real work was about to begin.
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