The fire had burned lower during their reunion, casting longer shadows across the common room's ancient stones, and in that gentler light Hermione's expression grew more serious—the sort of gravity that Harry recognized from their school days when she was about to deliver news that would complicate everyone's carefully laid plans.
"I'm afraid I can't stay long," she said, and the words fell into the warm atmosphere like stones into still water, sending ripples of concern through their small circle. Her hands moved automatically to smooth her traveling cloak, the gesture betraying nerves that her controlled voice didn't reveal. "As much as I would prefer to remain here and help coordinate whatever magnificent chaos we're about to unleash upon this unsuspecting world, I have... obligations that require attention before they become crises."
"Obligations?" Harry's voice carried that particular note of careful inquiry that meant he sensed larger complications lurking beneath surface explanations. "What sort of obligations could possibly take precedence over interdimensional reunion and the prevention of cosmic catastrophe?"
Hermione's smile was rueful, tinged with the sort of irony that belonged to someone who had learned that fate possessed a deeply perverse sense of humor. "The sort that come with being reborn as Margaery Tyrell, only daughter of House Tyrell of Highgarden and the single most politically valuable unmarried woman in the Seven Kingdoms. Apparently, cosmic forces have a taste for dramatic positioning when they scatter souls across dimensional barriers."
The name meant nothing to Harry, Fleur, or their northern companions, but Susan's sharp intake of breath suggested immediate recognition—and considerable concern.
"Margaery Tyrell," Susan repeated, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had just realized their friend was standing considerably closer to the edge of a precipice than anyone had initially understood. "Sweet Merlin, Hermione. Do you have any idea what that means? What that position involves?"
"Enlighten us," Fleur said with the practical directness of someone who had learned to cut through political complexities to reach actionable intelligence. "Because from the way Susan is looking at you, I suspect this revelation carries implications that extend far beyond simple identity confusion."
Susan moved closer to the fire, her hands clasped behind her back in the unconscious posture of someone delivering a lecture to students who needed to understand material that might determine their survival prospects.
"House Tyrell rules the Reach," she began, her voice taking on the clinical precision of someone reciting crucial intelligence. "The most fertile region in all of Westeros, the source of food that keeps the Seven Kingdoms from starving during harsh winters. They command the largest army in the realm—over a hundred thousand swords when fully mobilized—and their wealth rivals even the Lannisters at their peak."
Tormund whistled low, the sound carrying genuine respect for numbers that even a Free Folk warrior could appreciate. "A hundred thousand? That's more fighters than we've got in all the clans beyond the Wall combined. And they all answer to her family?"
"To her grandmother, primarily," Susan confirmed with growing urgency. "Olenna Tyrell, known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the Queen of Thorns. Possibly the most dangerous political mind alive, a woman who has spent seventy years perfecting the art of destroying enemies through carefully applied pressure at precisely the right leverage points. She's groomed Margaery since childhood to become queen, and she will not tolerate anything—or anyone—that threatens those plans."
"Queen?" Ygritte's grey eyes sharpened with the sort of predatory focus that marked someone who had just identified a potential threat to people under her protection. "What sort of queen? And what does that mean for us?"
"Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Hermione replied with the sort of matter-of-fact precision that made catastrophic political implications sound like academic observations. "Margaery is currently being positioned as the ideal candidate to marry the Crown Prince, Joffrey Baratheon. The Tyrells intend to place their rose on the Iron Throne through matrimonial alliance, and they've invested too much time, gold, and political capital in that objective to accept interference gracefully."
The silence that followed was profound—not the comfortable quiet of people processing information, but the breathless stillness that preceded either brilliant strategy or spectacular disaster.
"So let me understand this properly," Harry said slowly, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone trying to wrap his mind around complications that defied rational categorization. "You've been reborn as the daughter of the most powerful house in Westeros, groomed since childhood to become queen, currently positioned as the primary candidate for royal marriage, and answerable to a grandmother whose political ruthlessness is apparently legendary even by the standards of people who consider assassination a valid diplomatic tool?"
"That's... remarkably accurate, actually," Hermione confirmed with rueful appreciation for his ability to distill complex political situations to their essential components. "Though you're underselling Olenna's reputation slightly. She doesn't consider assassination a diplomatic tool—she considers it an art form that requires proper appreciation for subtlety, timing, and poetic justice."
"And you disappeared from this position," Fleur observed with growing comprehension of the scope of crisis their reunion had potentially triggered, "in the middle of the night, without explanation, to chase magical signatures across hostile territory toward destinations your family cannot verify through normal channels."
"Precisely." Hermione's expression grew grimmer as she worked through implications that painted increasingly dire pictures of what might be unfolding in her absence. "By now, they've almost certainly discovered that I'm missing. The household staff will have reported my absence to my septa, who will have informed my mother, who will have sent word to my grandmother with recommendations for immediate action."
"What sort of immediate action?" Susan asked, though something in her tone suggested she already suspected the answer would be unpleasant.
"The sort that involves mobilizing the Reach's military forces and deploying them systematically across the Seven Kingdoms to locate missing heirs and eliminate whatever threats might have claimed them," Hermione replied with characteristic precision. "They'll assume I've been abducted—either for ransom, political leverage, or the sort of marriage by capture that has historically been used to force advantageous alliances with reluctant families."
"Marriage by capture?" Tormund perked up with obvious interest, his massive frame leaning forward as though he'd just heard mention of a particularly entertaining sport. "That sounds like a proper courtship method! Much more honest than all this dancing around with pretty words and negotiated settlements. See what you want, take it, prove you're strong enough to keep it. Very straightforward."
Ygritte fixed him with a look that could have frozen fire solid. "It's not courtship, you oversized fool. It's theft. Taking people against their will and calling it romance because it sounds better than admitting you're too crude to convince anyone to stay with you voluntarily."
"Theft?" Tormund's eyebrows rose with genuine confusion. "What's theft about it? If the woman doesn't want to stay, she fights her way free or calls for help from people strong enough to take her back. If she does want to stay, she's got herself a husband who proved he's got the spine to fight for what matters to him. Seems like a fair test of character all around."
The look of utter horror that crossed Susan's face suggested that Free Folk marriage customs were considerably more practical—and considerably more violent—than southern romantic traditions.
"That's not how it works in the Seven Kingdoms," she said with the careful patience of someone explaining fundamental social concepts to individuals whose cultural framework operated according to entirely different principles. "Here, abducting a highborn woman—especially one positioned for royal marriage—is considered an act of war that demands immediate and overwhelming response."
"Act of war seems a bit excessive," Tormund observed with the sort of casual commentary that suggested he found southern political dynamics unnecessarily complicated. "I mean, if she's that valuable, wouldn't it make more sense to negotiate with whoever took her? Offer them something they want more than they want her? Much more efficient than mobilizing armies and laying waste to the countryside just to prove a point about property rights."
"It's not about property rights," Susan explained with growing frustration at the cultural gap she was attempting to bridge. "It's about honor, political credibility, and the precedent that allowing such actions sets for future relationships. If House Tyrell fails to respond to Margaery's disappearance with immediate and devastating force, every other house in the realm will conclude that they can be intimidated, manipulated, or simply ignored when convenient."
"More importantly," Hermione added with the sort of grim practicality that belonged to someone who had spent years navigating political complexities that could destabilize kingdoms, "they'll also assume precedent for similar actions against other Tyrell family members. My disappearance without proper response essentially sends an invitation to every ambitious lord in Westeros to consider abduction as a viable strategy for advancing their own political objectives."
"Which brings us to the Lyanna Stark precedent," Susan continued with obvious reluctance to broach a subject that carried particular sensitivity in present company. "The last time a highborn woman vanished under mysterious circumstances, it triggered a war that toppled dynasties and reshaped the political landscape of the entire continent."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as Susan's words settled over their small gathering like morning frost.
"Lyanna Stark," Fleur repeated carefully, picking up the complex emotional resonances that the name triggered in both Susan and Hermione. "I'm sensing there's rather more to this story than simple historical reference."
Susan glanced toward Fleur and their companions with obvious uncertainty about how much regional history it would be wise to share with people whose loyalties and political positions remained unclear. But the gravity of Hermione's situation outweighed diplomatic caution.
"Lyanna Stark was Lord Eddard's younger sister," she explained with careful neutrality that didn't entirely conceal the tragic weight of the story she was about to tell. "Beautiful, spirited, beloved by her family and betrothed to Robert Baratheon—who would eventually become king through right of conquest rather than matrimonial alliance."
"What happened to her?" Fleur asked, though something in her tone suggested she already suspected the answer would involve the sort of romantic tragedy that poets celebrated and families mourned.
"Prince Rhaegar Targaryen took her," Susan replied simply, the words carrying seventeen years of accumulated grief and political consequences that still shaped the realm's power structures. "Whether through abduction or elopement remains a matter of historical debate, but the practical result was the same. Her father and eldest brother rode south to demand her return from King Aerys, who responded by burning them alive in his throne room before witnesses."
The silence that followed was profound, heavy with implications that made their current situation seem suddenly, terrifyingly relevant to forces far beyond their immediate control.
"Robert Baratheon raised his banners," Susan continued with the clinical precision of someone reciting events that had reshaped the world through violence and loss. "Lord Eddard joined him, along with Jon Arryn and half the great houses of the realm. What followed was nearly two years of warfare that ended with the sack of King's Landing, the deaths of the last Targaryen heirs, and Robert's coronation as the first Baratheon king."
"All because one woman disappeared?" Tormund asked with obvious incredulity. "That seems like a considerable overreaction to what might have been simple romantic enthusiasm taken too far."
"It wasn't about one woman," Susan replied with the sort of patient explanation that suggested she'd had similar conversations before with people whose understanding of political complexities remained limited by different cultural frameworks. "It was about the rule of law, the sanctity of betrothals, the balance of power between crown and nobility, and the precedent that allowing such actions would set for future relationships between great houses."
"More importantly," she continued with growing urgency as the implications for Hermione's situation became increasingly clear, "it demonstrated that the disappearance of a single politically significant woman could trigger responses that reshape entire continents through warfare, economic disruption, and political upheaval that affects millions of lives."
"Which means," Hermione said with characteristic clarity about the practical implications of historical precedent, "that my continued absence from Highgarden risks triggering exactly the sort of massive military mobilization that we absolutely cannot afford while trying to coordinate interdimensional reunions and prevent cosmic catastrophe through careful diplomacy and strategic resource management."
Harry ran his hands through his hair with obvious frustration at complications that seemed to multiply exponentially with each new piece of information. "How long do we have before this potential crisis becomes an actual crisis?"
"Hours, possibly less," Hermione replied with the sort of precision that came from years of careful observation of political timing and institutional responses. "Olenna Tyrell doesn't waste time on lengthy deliberations when action is required. She'll have dispatched ravens to gather information and mobilized advance forces to begin systematic search operations before most people would have finished composing strongly worded letters about their concerns."
"So what do you need from us?" Fleur asked with the practical directness of someone who had learned to cut through complex problems to reach actionable solutions. "Beyond understanding why you can't remain here for the extended reunion we were all hoping to enjoy."
"Communication," Hermione said immediately, her scholar's mind already working through the logistics of coordination across continental distances while managing multiple competing crises simultaneously. "I need the others to know where Harry is, that he's safe, that we've successfully reestablished contact, and that they should remain wherever they are until we can coordinate proper meeting arrangements that don't trigger international incidents or military interventions."
"Simple enough in principle," Harry agreed with the sort of cautious optimism that suggested he suspected the execution would prove considerably more complicated than the concept. "Though I'm not entirely certain how we arrange communication across the sorts of distances we're discussing without triggering the kind of magical detection that would draw unwanted attention from people whose curiosity we'd prefer to avoid."
"Patronuses would be ideal," Susan suggested with the practical efficiency that had made her invaluable during their school years. "Instant communication, magically secure, carrying enough personal identification to ensure the messages aren't dismissed as elaborate hoaxes or enemy deception."
"Patronuses require line of sight or familiar magical signatures to target properly," Hermione pointed out with the sort of technical precision that had once made their Defense Against the Dark Arts professors simultaneously proud and exasperated. "We're discussing continental distances across unfamiliar territory to people whose exact locations remain unknown. The probability of successful delivery approaches statistical insignificance."
"Besides which," Harry added with growing frustration at the practical limitations of conventional magical communication, "Patronuses tend to be rather conspicuous to anyone with magical sensitivity. Three silver stags galloping across multiple kingdoms would certainly draw attention from people whose investigations might complicate our already precarious strategic position."
The group fell silent for several moments, each lost in thought as they worked through communication methods that might solve their immediate coordination crisis without creating larger problems that would dwarf their current complications.
"Actually," Harry said suddenly, his expression brightening as inspiration struck like lightning illuminating a darkened landscape, "I think I have a better solution than Patronuses. Something considerably more reliable for long-distance communication, infinitely more discrete, and with built-in security features that would make Ministry cryptographers weep with envy."
He raised his right hand, fingers curved in the distinctive whistle that had once summoned his Firebolt from across Hogwarts grounds, and produced a series of melodic notes that seemed to hang in the air with crystalline clarity despite the chamber's stone walls and heavy timber beams.
The response was immediate and spectacular.
The air above their small gathering erupted in golden flame—not destructive fire that threatened furniture or flesh, but the warm, welcoming radiance that belonged to magic older and more benevolent than anything found in textbooks or academic treatises. From that cascade of light and warmth emerged Fawkes in all his magnificent glory, his scarlet and gold plumage catching the firelight and throwing it back in patterns that seemed to shift and dance with their own inner music.
The phoenix settled onto Harry's extended arm with the sort of regal dignity that made ordinary creatures look like rough drafts by comparison, his ancient eyes bright with intelligence that encompassed multiple lifetimes and the accumulated wisdom that came from bonding with wizards whose adventures had shaped the destiny of worlds.
"Fawkes," Harry said with obvious affection and deep respect for a companion who had shared his most dangerous adventures, "I'd like you to meet some very old friends who've traveled considerable distances to find us. Hermione, Susan—you remember Fawkes from our Hogwarts days, though he's grown even more magnificent since then, if such a thing were possible."
"Fawkes," Hermione breathed, her voice rich with wonder and memory as she studied the phoenix whose tears had once saved Harry's life in the Chamber of Secrets. "My God, you're even more beautiful than I remembered. And still as devoted to Harry as ever, I see."
The phoenix regarded her with those ancient, knowing eyes, then trilled a greeting that somehow managed to convey recognition, welcome, and what sounded suspiciously like approval of her arrival—as though he had been expecting her and was pleased to see that she had finally found her way to where she belonged.
"He remembers you," Harry said with obvious pleasure at the reunion between old companions. "Both of you. And more importantly for our current purposes, Fawkes can carry messages across any distance, through any barriers, to anyone whose magical signature he's encountered before. Phoenix post is completely secure, faster than any conventional method, and absolutely impossible to intercept or forge."
"Phoenix post," Susan repeated with the sort of reverent appreciation that belonged to someone who had just witnessed a solution to problems she hadn't even realized were solvable. "Of course. Why didn't we think of that immediately?"
"Because we've spent seventeen years believing that magical creatures from our world were lost forever along with everything else we'd left behind," Hermione replied with characteristic honesty about their assumptions and limitations. "But if Fawkes is here, then there's hope that other aspects of our previous existence might have survived the dimensional transition as well."
"More than hope," Harry said with growing confidence as implications began crystallizing around their expanded options. "Fawkes has been my constant companion since arriving in this world. If he made the journey intact, then the bonds we forged in our previous existence remain stronger than dimensional barriers, stronger than death itself."
"Which means," Hermione said with obvious excitement as her scholar's mind began working through the enhanced possibilities that phoenix communication offered, "we can coordinate with the others immediately, establish secure lines of contact, and begin proper strategic planning without risking the sort of magical detection that conventional methods would entail."
She moved toward the table with characteristic efficiency, her hands already reaching for the leather satchel that had accompanied her travels—because trust Hermione to carry proper writing materials even while conducting interdimensional travel for romantic purposes.
"Parchment, quills, ink," she catalogued as she arranged supplies with the sort of methodical precision that had once made their professors nod approvingly, "everything we need for proper correspondence. Though we'll need to keep the messages relatively brief—too much detail risks interception if the letters fall into the wrong hands, but too little risks confusion about intentions and proper response protocols."
"I can help with composition," Susan offered with the practical efficiency that had made her invaluable during crisis situations throughout their school years. "Three letters will be more efficient than attempting to cover everyone's situation in a single message, and personal touches will help ensure the recipients understand that these communications are legitimate rather than elaborate deceptions."
"Agreed," Harry said, settling beside them at the table while Fawkes maintained his perch on the back of the chair, ancient eyes watching their preparations with obvious interest. "Though we should probably coordinate our approaches to ensure the messages complement rather than contradict each other. The last thing we need is to send conflicting information that creates more confusion than clarity."
For the next few minutes, the common room filled with the comfortable scratching of quills on parchment and the sort of quiet, focused conversation that belonged to people working together toward shared objectives with the efficiency born of long familiarity. Hermione's precise handwriting filled her parchment with carefully chosen words that conveyed essential information without unnecessary detail. Susan's letter carried the warmth and practical reassurance that had always made her such a steadying influence during times of crisis. Harry's message combined affection with clear instructions about maintaining their current positions until proper coordination could be established.
"There," Hermione said finally, setting down her quill and examining the finished letters with satisfaction. "Everything essential covered, security considerations addressed, and enough personal detail to ensure authenticity without compromising operational requirements."
Harry gathered the three letters and offered them to Fawkes with the sort of reverent care that valuable correspondence deserved. "Luna first, wherever she might be. Then Daphne, then Padma. And Fawkes? Take your time, stay safe, and return here when you're finished. We'll need to coordinate follow-up communications once we know how they respond to initial contact."
The phoenix trilled his agreement—a sound like silver bells touched with flame, warm and bright and utterly without concern for the distances he would need to travel or the barriers he might encounter along the way. With one final look around their small gathering, as though memorizing faces and magical signatures for future reference, Fawkes launched himself from Harry's arm in a controlled explosion of golden fire that filled the chamber with warmth and the sort of hope that belonged to messages carried by creatures whose loyalty transcended dimensional boundaries.
"And now," Hermione said with obvious reluctance as she began gathering her own travel supplies, "I need to return to Highgarden before my absence triggers the sort of military mobilization that would make our eventual reunion considerably more complicated than it needs to be."
"How long?" Harry asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer would be measured in weeks rather than days.
"At least a month," Hermione replied with characteristic honesty about timeline constraints that were beyond her immediate control. "Possibly longer, depending on how much damage control is required and whether my grandmother has already committed resources to search operations that will need to be recalled without triggering questions about why I'm no longer missing."
"A month," Susan repeated with obvious disappointment that their reunion would be abbreviated just when it was beginning to feel real rather than merely hoped for.
"But not forever," Hermione assured them with the sort of quiet confidence that belonged to someone who had learned to plan for obstacles while maintaining faith in eventual success. "And now that we know where you are, now that we have secure communication established, now that we understand the scope of what we're dealing with... the next phase can be properly coordinated rather than left to chance and cosmic coincidence."
"The next phase being?" Fleur asked with obvious curiosity about what their futures might hold once immediate crises had been addressed.
"Revolution," Hermione said simply, her smile bright with anticipation and absolute certainty about their ultimate objectives. "Peaceful if possible, dramatic if necessary, but revolution nonetheless. Because this world has problems that need solving, injustices that require correction, and systems that demand fundamental reform. And we—all of us together—have the knowledge, resources, and determination to accomplish changes that individual efforts could never achieve."
"Revolution," Tormund repeated with obvious relish for concepts that promised excitement and the opportunity to demonstrate his various talents in service of worthy causes. "Now that sounds like a proper adventure! Fighting injustice, toppling corrupt systems, building something better from the ashes of what came before. Very romantic, in an apocalyptic sort of way."
"Everything we touch becomes apocalyptic eventually," Harry observed with rueful acceptance of patterns that had defined his existence across multiple worlds. "Might as well aim for the sort of apocalypse that leaves the world better than we found it."
As Hermione prepared for departure, gathering her cloak and supplies while the others made their own preparations for whatever challenges the coming weeks might bring, none of them could have predicted that their carefully laid plans for gradual, coordinated reunion were about to be complicated by forces beyond their control.
But then again, when had any of their stories ever unfolded according to reasonable expectations?
The night was young, revolution was stirring, and somewhere across the Seven Kingdoms, three women were about to receive messages that would change everything they thought they understood about love, loss, and the persistence of bonds that even death itself couldn't sever.
Some reunions, it seemed, were worth waiting for—even when the waiting involved toppling kingdoms and remaking worlds in the process.
—
The silk sheets whispered against her skin like secrets begging to be told as Daphne shifted restlessly in the pre-dawn darkness, her mind churning through possibilities and contingencies with the methodical precision that had once made her Slytherin's most formidable strategic thinker. Sleep had proven elusive—too much adrenaline still coursing through her veins from the night's successful redistribution of Illyrio's ill-gotten wealth, too much anticipation coiled in her chest like a serpent preparing to strike.
*Three more days,* she calculated with characteristic thoroughness, her fingers tracing absent patterns on silk that probably cost more than most families earned in a year. *Seventy-two hours of playing the grateful, naive princess while dear Illyrio discovers his treasury has been liberated by someone with better moral standards and considerably superior planning skills. Long enough to establish perfect alibis and misdirect suspicion toward more conventional culprits, but not so long that I lose my mind from boredom and stab someone with a butter knife.*
The dragon eggs rested in their concealment charms beside her bed, their ancient song a constant low hum that made her bones ache with possibility and her magic sing with recognition. Even through layers of protective spellwork, she could feel them pulsing like captured stars, waiting for the moment when fire would wake fire and the world would remember what Targaryens were truly capable of when properly motivated.
*The timing must be perfect,* she reminded herself with the sort of disciplined patience that had once made Professor Snape nod approvingly during particularly complex potion brewing. *Leave too early, and they'll know immediately who emptied their precious vaults. Too late, and some other catastrophe will complicate my departure beyond salvageable parameters. The window for graceful exit narrows with each passing hour.*
Her plan was elegant in its simplicity—the sort of multilayered deception that appealed to both her Slytherin sensibilities and her growing appreciation for Daenerys Targaryen's theatrical instincts. A carefully orchestrated disagreement with Viserys about wedding arrangements. Tears and feminine hysteria about being sold to barbarians like chattel. A dramatic flight into the night that would position her as victim rather than perpetrator, refugee rather than thief.
*By the time they realize what's missing, I'll be halfway to wherever Harry has managed to establish himself,* she thought with satisfaction that was equal parts anticipation and vindication. *Let them search the known world for kidnappers and enemy agents while the real culprit rides north with enough wealth to fund small wars and three keys to unlocking powers that haven't been seen since Valyria burned.*
The knock that came at her shuttered window was so soft she almost dismissed it as wind against glass. But then it came again—three gentle taps, precise and deliberate, carrying a rhythm that spoke of intelligence rather than chance.
Her enhanced senses detected the magical signature immediately, and her heart nearly stopped from the sheer impossibility of recognition.
*No,* she thought, bolting upright in the bed with movements that sent silk cascading like water. *It cannot be. Not here. Not now. Not...*
But when she flung the shutters wide, there was no denying the evidence of her own eyes.
Fawkes perched on the narrow ledge with the sort of regal dignity that made mortal creatures feel inadequate by comparison, his scarlet and gold plumage catching moonlight and transforming it into something that belonged in illuminated manuscripts rather than the mundane world of merchant princes and political maneuvering. In his beak, he carried a leather message case that fairly hummed with familiar magic.
"Fawkes," she whispered, and seventeen years of careful emotional control shattered like glass beneath the hammer of recognition and desperate hope. "Oh, you magnificent, impossible, wonderful creature. How did you find me? How are you even here?"
The phoenix regarded her with those ancient eyes that held depths of wisdom and loyalty that transcended dimensional boundaries, then trilled a greeting that somehow managed to convey affection, recognition, and what sounded suspiciously like approval of her current circumstances—as though he had been expecting her and was pleased to see that she had positioned herself so advantageously.
With movements that shook from excitement rather than fear, she opened the message case and drew forth not one letter but three—each bearing a different name written in handwriting that made her vision blur with tears she refused to let fall.
*Luna Lovegood. Padma Patil. Daphne Greengrass.*
Her own name, written in script she would have recognized across worlds and through death itself. Harry's handwriting, still carrying that particular combination of precision and barely controlled energy that had once made her professors comment on his intensity during examinations.
She broke the seal on her letter with trembling fingers, unfolding parchment that smelled faintly of northern air and pine smoke and something indefinably *him*—the magical signature that had sustained her dreams through seventeen years of believing herself alone in the world.
*Daphne,*
*If you're reading this, then Fawkes has managed something I would have thought impossible even by our rather expansive definition of what constitutes reasonable magical achievement. Hermione reached us tonight—alive, whole, and still possessed of that insufferable confidence that she can solve any problem through adequate research and superior planning. Susan arrived only hours earlier, equally impossible and infinitely welcome. We are together again, after believing such reunion was nothing more than wishful thinking disguised as hope.*
*I don't know what circumstances brought you to this world, what identity you've been forced to assume, or what challenges you've faced. But I know that you're strong enough to have survived whatever fate threw at you, clever enough to have turned disadvantage into opportunity, and stubborn enough to have maintained exactly the sort of determination that made Slytherin House simultaneously proud of your achievements and concerned about your methods.*
*We're in the North—Winterfell, specifically, though our situation is more complex than simple geography can convey. Fleur is with me. She found me first, as perhaps she should have, and we're planning to build something together that death couldn't destroy and dimensional barriers couldn't weaken. But there's room for everyone who matters, Daphne. There always was. Love doesn't diminish through sharing—it grows stronger through support from people who understand its value.*
*Don't try to reach us immediately. The political situation is delicate, our circumstances are complicated, and sudden arrivals might trigger exactly the sort of attention we can't afford while establishing ourselves in a world that doesn't know we exist. But know that we're here, we're safe, we remember, and we're waiting.*
*Fawkes will carry your reply, along with whatever information you think we need to know about your current position. Tell me where you are, what resources you have access to, what obstacles you're facing. Let me help, even across impossible distances. Let us all help each other build something better than what we lost.*
*Until we meet again,*
*Harry*
*P.S. - I hope this world has treated you with the respect your brilliance deserves, though knowing your talent for turning adversity into advantage, I suspect you've made it treat you exactly as well as you demanded.*
For a moment that stretched toward eternity, Daphne simply held the letter against her chest and allowed herself the luxury of feeling everything she had suppressed through seventeen years of careful survival. Joy blazed through her like Greek fire, pure and bright and utterly consuming. Relief followed, so profound it made her knees weak. Then anticipation, sharp as winter wind and twice as invigorating.
*He's alive,* she thought, and the certainty of it sang in her bones like dragon song waiting to be unleashed. *They're all alive. We found each other again, against odds that would make probability theorists weep with despair. Some bonds really are stronger than death itself.*
But beneath the overwhelming emotion, her tactical mind was already working through implications and opportunities with the sort of focused intensity that had once made her professors simultaneously admire and fear her dedication to achieving objectives that others considered impossible.
*Fleur is with him. Of course she is. They died for each other, loved each other with the sort of devastating completeness that poets spend lifetimes trying to capture in verse. But Harry says there's room for everyone who matters, and he's never been given to pretty lies when ugly truths would serve better.*
*More importantly, they're establishing themselves in the North, which means they're positioning for exactly the sort of systematic change this world desperately needs. And I'm positioned in Pentos with enough stolen wealth to fund continental conquest and three dragon eggs that represent the keys to power beyond anything this world has imagined since Valyria fell.*
Her smile, as she moved to her writing desk and began composing her reply, was the sort of expression that had once made her enemies reconsider their life choices and her allies grateful to remain on her favorable side.
*My beloved Harry,*
*Your letter reached me at precisely the moment I most needed evidence that miracles still occur in a world that seems determined to convince us otherwise. I am well, positioned advantageously, and in possession of resources that will prove rather more significant than gold or political influence—though I have access to both in quantities sufficient to reshape kingdoms.*
*I've been reborn as Daenerys Targaryen, last daughter of the Targaryen dynasty and currently the reluctant guest of Magister Illyrio Mopatis in Pentos. He intends to sell me to a Dothraki khal in exchange for military support for conquest plans that serve his interests rather than mine. This arrangement will not proceed as he anticipates.*
*I have discovered certain assets of the Valyrian variety that haven't been seen in this world for three centuries. When we reunite—and we will reunite, darling, sooner than your careful plans suggest—I intend to arrive with gifts that will make our previous adventures seem quaint by comparison. The return of dragons to the world will provide solutions to problems that conventional approaches could never address.*
*Do not concern yourself overly with political delicacies regarding my arrival. I understand that Fleur has prior claim to your heart, and I respect bonds forged through trials I cannot fully comprehend. But I also understand that love multiplies rather than divides when it's based on genuine affection rather than mere possession. We are all mature enough to navigate romantic complications that would challenge lesser people.*
*Expect me within the month. I have preparations to complete and dragons to wake, but once those tasks are accomplished, nothing in this world or any other will keep me from reaching your side. Together, we will remind this world what's possible when brilliant people decide to stop accepting limitations that lesser minds insist are insurmountable.*
*With all my love and absolute determination to build something worthy of the sacrifices that brought us here,*
*Daphne*
*P.S. - Tell Hermione I said her diplomatic approach to managing romantic triangles was masterfully executed, assuming the reports I'm receiving about her arrival are accurate. Tell Susan that loyalty like hers is precisely why some bonds transcend dimensional barriers. And tell Fleur that I look forward to meeting the woman whose love proved strong enough to guide Harry across impossible distances.*
*P.P.S. - When I arrive, I'll be bringing enough portable wealth to fund whatever revolution you're planning and enough firepower to ensure its success. Some problems require dragons, Harry. And fortunately for all of us, I'm about to become a Dragon Queen.*
She sealed the letter with wax that she touched with the tip of her wand, imprinting it with magic that would ensure its authenticity while preventing tampering by anyone other than the intended recipient. When she offered it to Fawkes, the phoenix regarded her with those ancient eyes that seemed to hold approval for plans whose scope extended beyond immediate reunion to encompass systematic transformation of everything that needed changing.
"Tell him I'm coming," she whispered as Fawkes prepared for departure, his magnificent wings spread wide enough to embrace the darkness itself. "Tell him the dragons are waking, and when they do, this world will remember what Targaryens are truly capable of when properly motivated."
The phoenix trilled once more—a sound like victory bells touched with flame—and launched himself into the pre-dawn darkness in a controlled explosion of golden fire that lit her chamber like a miniature sunrise.
As the light faded and ordinary darkness reclaimed the room, Daphne returned to her bed with movements that carried new purpose, new anticipation. Three more days of playing the naive princess, then freedom to pursue destiny on her own terms with resources that would make their eventual victory inevitable.
*Soon,* she thought as sleep finally claimed her, one hand resting protectively over the concealed dragon eggs whose song had grown stronger since Harry's letter arrived. *Soon we'll be together again, and this time nothing—not death, not dimensional barriers, not the combined forces of every kingdom in this world—will be able to separate us.*
*After all, what could possibly stand against dragons guided by love and wielded by people who refuse to accept defeat as a permanent condition?*
The eggs pulsed once more in response to her determination, their ancient song harmonizing with the rhythm of her heart as dreams of fire and flight carried her toward dawn and the beginning of plans that would reshape the world according to principles of justice rather than mere power.
Some reunions, it seemed, came with the promise of revolution.
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