Chapter Eleven: And If These Dreams Be Real

Chapter 11: And If These Dreams Be Real

The dragons of Wales slumber deep in the earth, the flame of their breath frozen in the dense, dark coal. Sorrowing that they must allow the hands and backs of mortal men to free their fire, they dream of times long past and not soon seen again.

For those who dwell in Gwaun, perhaps it is sharing this breath of magic that makes the presence of the Otherworld scarcely a matter for discussion. The likelihood of faeries at every well, coblyn in the mines, and mist wraiths on every hilltop, is hardly a cause for concern, unless of course some witless misdeed or grave offense happens to stir their ire. Unearthly messengers, parting the Veil, traveling for good or ill between the Worlds? A certainty at Nos Galan Gaeaf -- you need only be attentive.

Even so, familiarity does not deny the necessities of tradition, so patterns of salt must be scattered as protection on every stile, hearths prepared for winter's coming, and churchyards carefully avoided, lest you hear your own name whispered on the wind as one who is to die. No harm, either, in tossing more than one white pebble into the nearest Hollontide fire, just to be sure that the thin light of dawn lets you find your name still written on at least one stone among the ashes. And, of course, there should be vigils kept.

~~ ///~~

Still there, then? This vague presence must be driven by need that it would remain so long -- and choose this as the night to do so.

Approaching Me so warily, this is but a whisper of essence, shivering along the edges of My awareness, and not one I have been anticipating, though there are certain notes of the familiar there. This magic does not hum with the pleasing prickle of My elves when they are fixed on their tasks. It carries none of the guarded anticipation of those who are quartered, regardless of prior Sorting, in those of My anterooms that are still habitable. One score and twelve students, but not one of the Three is among them. A significant number that may restore the balance between -- and within -- My Houses, just as the Founders first intended. I am inclined towards the effort, but we shall see what outcome may arise. The world of magic chooses to believe this conflict well-ended, but there have been so many of these Final Battles.

There is a small conclave of professors in residence, as well -- the steady, watchful ones -- but their rhythms are nowhere evident in this curious pattern, nor is there any influence of My Acknowledged's honed authority. The witching hour has brought this peculiar magic to pace just beyond the reach of My wards. The decline of dark towards dawn will surely reveal some manifested form, should it choose to wait so long. I suspect it will.

Of course, on this Night of Shadows, even the most sensible of magical folk might imagine a journeying shade or covetous wraith -- some wandering spirit not already sheltered within My walls -- attempting to slip between the Worlds but held reluctant by the Samhain fires that have dominion in My dormant courtyard and along the twisting road to Hogsmeade.

Those of a fanciful nature -- their courage well-fueled -- will nod knowingly, eager to speculate on which tormented souls might seek passage through My gates. Pausing below the crossroads, within earshot of the Shrieking Shack, far too many will conjure stories of the slain Potions master, My Scrifan Acknowledged, recounting over and again with delighted shudders how his fang-pierced, bloodless body was carried off by vengeful werewolves and never found for burial. The fact that most have laid eyes on him only from the safety of considerable distance should make little difference to the fervor of their accounts.

There will even be those bolder few who dare to speak the name of Voldemort, summoning visions of his apparition prowling the wastes in search of the shards of his soul. How fervently they will boast of his defeat, their faces lifted in triumph, as though they themselves had flanked the Chosen when he faced the Eldruhn Wand.

Epic legends are birthed on nights such as this, but that has always been so.

Embracing whichever tale best suits, these besotted bards will find sufficient cause to wand an extra protection or two as they bundle into their cloaks, looking towards sunrise and the welcoming comfort of their beds. Small wonder, given that Magical folk have always relished their bloody tales of the macabre as eagerly as any of those mortals who are more Usual.

My own perceptions are not so easily colored by morbid terrors and spectral illusions. Whatever -- whoever -- waits in the moon shadow is very much alive, wizardly by nature, but of a spirit divided within itself. There is a signature of defined ability -- an instinct deeply rooted -- with skills well-taught and a sharp intelligence, but there is also a twisting, a convoluted understanding -- wavering between innate pride and profound respect, devouring dread and fierce devotion. Like some curious gnomish puzzle box, the outline of this essence shifts, coming near for the briefest moment to its full reveal only to collapse tightly back into itself. What ever serves to vessel such a volatile brew of emotion and purpose demands a thorough consideration of its intent. I feel I know... and yet...

Fortressing the Sorcerers' Path for nigh a thousand years, I expect, now and again, to bear certain of the ravages of time and even, when necessary, to witness the horrors and suffer the dark wounds of war. For almost three Turnings of the Seasons, weary from this newest siege of opposing wizardries, I have been content to dream under the care of My Healers, but that brief respite must end. This clouded and unsettled presence requires My attention.

My Healers have not been the usual sort of medi-mage, gathered in hushed consultation. Mine are of another breed -- sun-leathered and wide-stanced, boisterous and argumentative as they've stood rough-shod amidst the ruins of My body. Masters in the mystical calling of stone, their wizardry is straightforward. Brash they may be, but whenever they've laid their heavy hands against My sides, they've been as gentle and sure as any of My matrons, rebuilding slowly, thoughtfully, sympathetic to the scarring that comes from the cruelties of violent magic. I commend their instincts for My need.

What has not been so expected, as I've lain quietly, allowing Myself to drift, is missing the Scrifan quite so much. He was but one among the host of My Acknowledged, his tenure scarcely more traceable than the vapors of his cauldrons. Yet, if he were present, he could so easily have directed these Healers' attentions to those places where I am still bleeding and in pain from Dark magic. I would willingly have done the same for him, given the occasion, even though that was never asked of me.

I have come to rely on the company of My Healers. Some of them sing to Me while they work -- bawdy songs of desire and drink -- or tell Me small stories of wagers made, lovers wed, children born, elders passed. Sprawled in the lap of My Great Hall at mid-day, sated on mutton pies and ale, their heads pillowed on bags of pozzolan, they share news of the day in eager accounts of Auror patrols and Ministry sentencings, Wizengamot edicts and those Orders of Merlin bestowed -- or denied.

In My near-forsaken halls, the rolling burr of these Healers' voices has eased My loneliness. Still, I find that I am sorry for the loss of the Scrifan's sueded speech. Bound within his chosen isolation, he had steadily acquired an understanding of My nature -- a store of knowledge approaching that of the Phoenix Portrayed, and nearly as defined as that of My elves.

Boy, youth, and man -- always the Scrifan sought Me out as his confidant and confessor, baring himself to Me. I knew his aspects -- the hideous and the beautiful. I have given ear to his discourse of sparse whispers and terse revelations, his muffled gasps and unbound rages -- and to the eloquent oration of his silences -- but never more so than in those few brief Turnings when he was My Acknowledged, Master of My Houses. While the cacophony of conquest sounded ever louder, only the Phoenix Portrayed and I were listening for his voice, and I believe the Scrifan despaired of being heard.

I have begun to note which names spool from My Healers' lips like the waxed cord of a joiner's plumb. In this heaving aftermath of war, the Scrifan's name is still spoken, his truths sparking much debate. Something deep within Me suffers greatly at the echo of his name, as though I am afflicted with a wound that cannot heal into a scar. I am much aggrieved to hear declarations made that I deny him the honor of his Portrayal because he was never My just Acknowledged.

Such a cruel assumption to be made against us both when no false Acknowledged has ever been seated in My Gargoyle's Tower. Rather than serve any Unworthy, I would will My return to the primal dust from which I was first summoned by the Founders. I hold to My right to offer or refuse Acknowledgement. Fool he was, this Tom Riddle, not to know.

It should be said. I have not forbidden the Scrifan his Portrayal -- he has denied himself its opportunity.

In defiance of tradition, the Scrifan spurned the rendering of his image. Only victory, he swore, would deem him worthy of portraiture. Even the most fanatic of his dark brethren fell silent in the face of such a vehement refusal, for none wished their own devotion to the Dark Lord to be measured against his and found wanting. Foundering in their appetites and ambitions, they failed to see the duplicity within My Scrifan's vow.

From his place within the secreted frame in the Shrouded Tower, the Phoenix Portrayed urged the creation of a portrait as a useful screen against closer scrutiny, but he had no judgment to offer when the Scrifan demanded an opinion. Having achieved this Acknowledgement, was it more fitting to be depicted as craven murderer -- his predecessor's broken body at his feet -- or as ascendant Death Eater standing in masked attendance to the Dark Lord? Which image should be commissioned for the artist to begin?

The Phoenix had no further counsel to offer that day.

The Scrifan's deceits served him well with most, but I recognized with brutal clarity exactly his meaning. There would be no portrait begun to mark his Acknowledgment, to patiently await his death. Better he was lost to memory, as though he had never been.

In a counterpoint of sympathy for My dismay over the vile remnants of this War, My elves have begun to wrap their conspiracy of whispers around Me. Their secrets course through Me like breath and blood.

My newly Acknowledged, they tell Me -- the Felid Witch -- has instructed that "the Other's" name -- for such My elves have declared the Scrifan -- be held in strictest silence. She has entrusted certain of his possessions into the keeping of the Key Bearer. Such actions do not speak lightly. The Shrouded Tower is warded with a singular word from the Old Speech, known only to her. The Key Bearer has taken leave of Me, intending no return, it seems, and the Felid spends long hours in private counsel with the Phoenix Portrayed, their conversations confounded against all ears, even those of My ghosts and portraits, the very elves themselves. My Acknowledged has the right to share My full awareness, but she has not required this of me. We are bonded, yet our deeper secrets still remain our own.

Affirmation and confirmation are needed. The Scrifan has been torn from Me -- I can no longer sense the rhythms of his magic or attend the measured subtlety of his movements. Our bond of Eternal to Mortal, My fealty to his Acknowledgement, is severed. Even so, My First Stones have not become the reliquary for his wand, nor was I permitted to usher his final breath into the Charon's keeping. Even his body is denied repose within My blessed earth. These are My sworn duties with the death of any Master or Mistress of the Four Houses. Never have these hallowed obligations been left undone. A thousand years' tradition is left unsatisfied, and I am made uneasy. By the grace of the Founders' Hands, I know the Scrifan did not abandon Me. Beyond the Veil, does he believe that I have forsaken him?

And now there comes this skewed and uneasy magic, cloaked in the Samhain shadows. This is not the Scrifan's body... nor even the shadow of his essence... And yet it is somehow guised... in palest reflection... so closely to his likeness.

I will stand ready for the Felid's coming. She may wish to walk at First Light, as the guardian fires relinquish their final sparks to hold the Otherworld contained. The choice to welcome or banish whoever waits must be hers.

~~ /// ~~

"You'll not mind an old biddy's sitting here with you for a bit, will you, lad? I'm worn near to a frazzle."

Indulging in a weary sigh, Mab Williams shook back the hood of her anorak and settled her ample weight onto a blanket-cushioned bale just beyond the bonfire's throw of warmth and light.

"Agh, I've had too much of Gareth's mead and all this fine food that's here," she muttered, shifting into a more comfortable position.

"Best sweep the corners a bit before I try to drive on home. My old Rover could probably steer itself, but I'd not want to doze off and then wake up to find I've crossed to Annwn, now would I?" With an even greater heave of breath, she leaned back against the stone wall behind her, propping her wellie-shod feet on another bale while surveying her solitary companion with an anxious frown.

"But, look here, you've touched naught on your plate, man. Not wanting to eat at all? You're so slight, you should be eating a good deal more -- and I should be doing far less of it." She chuckled with the ease of a woman quite comfortable about herself. "Well, maybe later you'll feel more like." She pursed her lips in disappointment at the waste of a good supper. "What you've got there, now, is cold, so just say if you'd want a bit of something else. There's some of my own good rarebit that won't vex your throat at all, if that's the cause of your not eating."

The sounds of rural fellowship lay like a soft old quilt over Gareth Islwyn's compound. Closest to the great bonfire was a covey of the older folk, warming their bones and their memories. Younger, rawboned men sat nearby, in communion with their pints, commiserating over the price of wool at market and the lack of work in the mines. Their strong, straight women herded a brood of giddy children away from the reach of the flames, bundling them off to sleep on the floor in the old Healer's front room or on the cracked leather seats of battered lorries, their cooling engines ticking quietly in the dark.

"A fine night to keep our vigil, don't you think?" Mab asked, clucking in her contentment like a nested hen. "And the Lady Moon's out nearly full to bless us, too." A wry grin deepened the creases around her mouth. "Who knows -- there might even be one or two of the ellyyllon to guise themselves and come for a visit, eh?"

There was no response from Neirin Maldwyn, not even a twitch of muscle. No matter and certainly not a surprise. Her conversation with him could just as easily be one-sided until someone else stopped by to make sure that he was well. Someone would, of course. Neglect of family, neighbor -- or dour stranger -- was simply not an issue.

Mab relished chatting, finding it a useful benefit in what she laughingly called her dotage, and she'd already spent a good space of time bantering amongst the small knots of neighbors scattered about the dooryard. After all, it was both necessity and obligation for any self-respecting Wise Woman to know something of everyone's business. If Gareth's patient became agitated at her blathering -- her dear old friend had already cautioned that his resident convalescent sometimes roused into a temper without warning -- well, it was easy enough to quiet her tongue and still keep watch over him. Perhaps he'd appreciate knowing what was happening around them, and she could show him a kindness for his poor, blinded eyes.

Her gaze swept the yard before fixing on the particular scene she'd share first.

"Ah, now, here's a treat for us." She craned her neck for a better view of the three people seating themselves on the wide stone steps leading into Gareth's tower, the light from inside pooling around them like milk spilled by a hasty hand.

"Collen had best keep one eye on his bow tonight and the other on his Delyth. The Tlwyth Teg might look to carry her off to wed their prince, with her so lovely in her mam's coat." Mab's chin quivered. "She always wears that pretty purple for Hollontide. An abayah she calls it, from her mam's country. We all remember our Jenny, you know, and the dear woman that she was... And don't we love to hear our girl when she sings..."

From under a fringe of graying frizz, Mab stole a sideways peek at Neirin, though she could have studied him full-on if she wished and he'd be none the wiser. Or perhaps he would... So dreadfully gaunt and pale, dressed all in black, with a swath of white bandages still at his throat -- he could easily be taken for some ghostly cleric. Gareth had said that the lad's illness had taken both his sight and his memory, but whenever she'd stopped off before with a hamper of food, she'd had the distinct sense that those cavernous black eyes were fixed on whoever was near him, searching out confessions to unspoken inquisitions. For the moment, though, his eyes were closed and he was still.

If her saying Delyth's name straight-out provoked any interest, he gave no visible indication. Mab had hoped he might, seeing that the brave girl had stood with Gareth for days on end keeping this unsettling man from the jaws of the cnn anwn. Surely, he'd spend at least one penny of thanks in a simple response to the sound of her name? With a small grunt of defeat at his unbroken silence, Mab returned her attentions to the trio of musicians.

Music was always part of Nos Galan Gaeaf, sweet laments sung in close, pure harmony to comfort the hearts of the living and cheer the beloved dead. If the tunes lulled the Dark ones back into their slumbers, so much the better. Gareth had taken his smaller bodhran -- a gift long past from a colleague across the water -- down off the wall. As Collen Morgan's bow coaxed his fiddle strings awake, Gareth began to send his cipan dancing across the drum, calling the rhythms of the wind and water to his hand. And in a moment, Delyth began to sing, her clear voice weaving through the men's rich tenors, layering with the fiddle and drum and the notes sparking from the brass zills on her fingers.

"The dead I have mourned are again living here.

From ev'ry dark nook they press forward to meet me

I lift up my eyes to the broad leafy dome

And others are there, looking downward to greet me

The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home."

"They're fine singers, all of 'em, with Delyth bein' the best 'a the lot, but their song's so lonesome. I'd rather they played somethin' that would make yer feet glad teh hear it."

Hagrid's bulk cast an even deeper shadow over Mab and Neirin as he settled onto a makeshift bench of bales just opposite, positioning himself to close their circle. A simple and sure way to provide privacy -- and protection -- as needed, the old woman noted. Setting Neirin's plate aside, after a frowning assessment of its untouched content, he combed his fingers through his beard, dislodging a fall of leaves and twigs.

"A fine Hollontide teh yeh, Mab. Yer lookin' pleased as the cat with the cream."

"And a blessed Vigil to you, as well, Hagrid," Mab chuckled. "I'm as content as any tabby could ever be, that's so. Look, will you, though, at the state of your beard. Did you know you could pass for Green Man himself?"

With a shake of his head, shedding even more debris, Hagrid rumbled, "So I've been told, a time 'er two." His reddened face had less to do with his labors than with his pleased embarrassment at her teasing. "I thank yeh fer sittin' 'ere with the professor. I was needed teh help with the last 'a the wood but I'm never at ease about leavin' 'im alone for too long... especially..."

"Especially?" Mab prompted.

"Yeh'll forgive me, missus," he answered hastily. "It's nothing I've a right teh say and he wouldn't want it, so we'll leave it be. There's jus' those few times I sometimes think he's blessed that 'is memory's not with 'im, that's' all."

"A heart wound, is it," she nodded in sympathy, "and one you'd rather he didn't face with the Veil so thin around us?" Though Hagrid shook his head against her persistence, she continued softly. "Something you carry right along with him, I think..."

An instinct for burdens of the soul was a useful trait for a Wise Woman, but without knowing the cause, there was little to justify inducing undue pain, even if that might begin the healing of a broken spirit. She would not pry. With time and patience, truths would come of their own accord.

Hagrid's answer was to turn his face away. Mab leaned in to pat his knee, waiting for the balm of music and laughter from across the yard to shift his mood. She quickly sought a different topic of conversation, and her gaze dropped to Neirin's hands, his long fingers curled loosely around a tall, sturdy staff of whitest holly.

"Here, now, I'm happy to see the lawffon's finished. I knew it was going to be a lovely thing and we've the proof right here. Didn't Gareth make such a fine job of it, with all the carving? There's no one better at coaxing what's beautiful from the wood." With obvious pride, she nodded towards the staff. "Blessed it with a Knowing One's prayers, too, did you notice? Myrddin himself would come down from his seat, just to see such a fine piece. Your lad's finding it useful for getting about with?"

Distracted from his musings, Hagrid nodded.

"He's learnin' the way of it, but that's no surprise. He's always been clever an' quick with 'is hands and soft in 'is step so yeh'd hardly hear 'im comin'. Learned every one a' the carvings, forwards an' back again, the names an' their meanings. Only took 'im the one day for that," he beamed, his own glow of pride lighting his face. "He'll tell 'em back teh me without missing any, if he's in the mood for it, but if he's not, he'd as soon bash me with that fine staff." With a wince, Hagrid rubbed his elbow. "Gareth's put a wallop in it, right along with 'is prayers."

The lawffon was, indeed, a work of great beauty, and full of old wisdoms. Twining up its length in one direction were the twenty letters of the Ogham, each one framed by a delicate rendering of a leaf from the tree it honored. In balance, spiraling in the opposite direction, were the thirteen symbols of a lunar year, each one carried aloft in the beak of an ascending heron. The grounding end of the staff was tipped with beaten iron, and the top was crowned by a heavy finial of four beasts, each one with runes at its throat.

"Gareth chose strong talismans for your friend, I see, and made sure they'd always face the four directions for him," Mab observed, reaching across with a knobby finger to lightly tap each one as she studied it. "Old Broc, the badger -- that's to give him a guide in his dreaming. Iolair the eagle -- he guards the courage and long life of warriors. And here's a griffin, for seeking truth." Her finger hovered in front of the final carving, not quite touching it. "This one, though, does it trouble him, seeing as what's happened?"

Hagrid sat silent, and Mab wondered if he would answer.

"Most times he'll shy away from that one," he finally replied, "but I have seen 'im tracing it sometimes with his fingers, like he's tryin' teh puzzle out its purpose. What's carved is what was asked, yeh see, things that are important. Minerva told Gareth what should be there."

Pulling a battered pair of spectacles from her pocket, Mab continued to assess the finer points of the staff.

"Did she, now? Knows what she's about, doesn't she?"

Hagrid looked up in surprise, nodding cautiously in agreement.

"But then, of course, she would. Probably studied plenty of our old stories, what with her being a professor of the sacred places and such? Either that, or she has the Knowing, but you'd have said if that was so, surely." Seeing Hagrid turn a bit pale, the Wise Woman smiled to herself.

"There's some that see the neidr as cursed creatures," she went on, tucking her spectacles away, "but in the old tales, it was the serpents that knew the healing wisdoms and always had the wits to survive when there were troubles. They taught the First Wise how to transform themselves, how to shed what's past and start over fresh." She rubbed the space between the carved adder's eyes with the tip of her finger. "Let's hope that's so for your friend."

Busily patting the pockets of his greatcoat, Hagrid cast an absent-minded grin at Mab. "He's still not sayin' all that much. A bit more willing with me but that's expected with us being under the same roof. Won't speak at all teh anyone he doesn't know." For a moment, he looked up from his rummaging. "He'll only answer Delyth sometimes, and she's careful as a bird around 'im. Odd, that is... He did hurt her, but it wasn't meant, and the scars on her hand aren't so bad as all that. Like little crescent moons, they are." With a shrug, he resumed the search through his pockets. "Whenever Minerva's been here is when he tries the hardest teh have a proper chat."

"Does he remember her, then?" Mab asked.

Hagrid shook his head sadly. "No, none 'a that, but he accepts some 'a what she's done for 'im. When he was first here, yeh see, it wasn't just 'is wound that wanted to take 'im. There's an ugly need -- like a poison, it is -- that has its claim on 'im. At the start, he had such a want for it, he was just as bad from that as from the snake. Not sure he knew that 'imself, but Minerva did. Pulled 'im back by the scruff of 'is neck, yeh might say. He doesn't remember 'er from before his bein' ill, but he respects what he knows of 'er now."

"And this need?" the old woman asked, anger dark in her eyes.

"Still there, but with Gareth's watchin', it's keepin' quiet for now," was Hagrid's answer.

For a moment, Mab thought she was about to lose his attention again, but he continued.

"There's plenty 'a times I know he'd rather just be done with all 'a this. I've been bringin' 'im somethin' different every day, teh keep 'im sharp and let 'im know where he is. Most are things I find, here an' about -- and there's some that were already his -- things that Minerva's brought for 'im."

Hagrid opened his hand to reveal a papery hornet's nest, long abandoned but with each cell still perfectly intact.

"I remind 'im what things are called, let 'im get the feel and weight of 'em, listen for their sounds. He'll want to know the smells and sometimes the taste of most of 'em as well. That's 'is way of remembering, and I let 'im when it's safe to do." Frowning a bit, he shook his head. "We've 'ad our words over some 'a that."

He slapped his free hand against the moleskin pouch at his belt, producing a muffled thump.

"Been readin' to 'im a fair bit from Gareth's books, so he'll know the proper names for things, yeh see -- what's common and what's educated. Learnin' a lot myself... Neither of us is ready for most of 'is own books, though. We're far from that..."

"We've heard he took ill from a snake's bite while he was a prisoner," Mab commented, "but from what you're saying, he's other things besides to lay him low. We don't see much of that here, except for those with a heavy need for the whiskey. I've watched you. You say he's a teacher, but you protect him more like he's a soldier with an enemy waiting. Not the first time a man's come away from war, and his demons right there with him. Which was he, then?"

As though it were an object of the rarest porcelain, Hagrid took his time deliberating just how and where to position the nest within Neirin's reach, using the diversion to consider his reply.

"Both, he was, though it wasn't all so clear at the time. We thought everything about him was plain as day. It wasn't, yeh see..."

Hagrid's voice was husky and tight. For a moment, he stared down at the ground, the heel of his boot digging gullies into the hardened earth.

"All 'a this is what I was asked teh do for 'im, but me bein' his teacher still seems out a' place sometimes."

A sudden broad smile burst through the brambles of his beard as he gingerly rubbed his sore elbow.

"He remembers what I tell 'im, all of it. I've tried teh catch 'im up, just teh see, but I never get away with it. If he decides there's somethin' that he wants to keep, there's no gettin' it back. He's got those shelves in 'is room 'an he knows right off what's been touched. Guards 'is things, he does... Always did..."

His smile was carried off by a great sigh, as he sat unaware that he was circling his thumb across the back of one hand.

Wondering what memories Hagrid was visiting, it occurred to Mab that they were speaking about Neirin as though he weren't right there beside them. Silently she scolded herself, knowing better than to assume he wasn't aware of their conversation just because his eyes were heavy-lidded and he hadn't moved. The sudden tightening of his grip on the holly staff when she hastily tried to cover her mistake affirmed the fact.

"Such a grand Hollontide fire, we've not had for years." Her crinkled, round face was a moon of reflected flame. "Neirin, your Hagrid's a joy to us. It would have taken three stout lads and the biggest lorry to carry as much deadfall as he fetched from the high hills. The young trees will sing his name when they're stretching themselves in the Spring."

Lifting her face to the freshening breeze, she breathed deeply.

"Ah... and the smoke of the fire, so heavy and sweet on the air, you'd almost think to bite into it like an..."

"Apple."

If Mab's ears weren't sharp, she might have missed the hoarse whisper, might even have talked right over it or thought it was only a cough. She could see Hagrid holding himself absolutely still as she answered in her own whisper, fearful that whatever ghost of speech had prompted Neirin Maldwyn to speak to her would flee.

"Ie, lad, that's so. It is the smoke of the apple wood that smells so lovely."

When no other comment came, at Hagrid's encouraging nod, Mab took up where she'd left off.

"Gareth always prunes at Candlemas, and then lets the wood cure for the year. That's what finished up our fire." She nudged the canvas carryall she'd tucked between her feet. "My share of cider and the sweetest of the mead always goes home with me at harvest. The best part of Hollontide, some might say." The clink of bottles was her testament. "Oh, and don't his pippins set all the girls to paring madly, at least any that are looking for a husband." She chuckled softly to herself, thinking back to younger days. "Delyth should take her turn and see what letter's there for her."

As if she'd heard her name wandering on the wind, Delyth abruptly rose from her seat on the steps, tucking her zills into a pocket. Never missing a sweep of his bow, her father mouthed a questioning "Are you all right?" and she answered with a kiss on the top of his head. Buttoning the high collar of her abayah and pulling on her kidskin gloves, she crossed the yard, her shadow stretching back as though reluctant to move beyond the warmth of the fire.

When she reached the odd community by the wall, there was Hagrid's enthusiasm, Mab's endearments, and Neirin's silence, to greet her. For the first she offered a bright smile, a warm embrace for the second -- and for the third, a quiet greeting.

"Noswaith dda, Neirin. Sorry to see you weren't hungry, but I'm glad you've had good company," she said, letting her gloved hand land feather-light on his shoulder. "It's getting a bit too cold for more music, but I hope you listened to some of it."

When there was no response, she gave him a gentle pat, as if to say she'd appreciate his attention but had no expectations.

"The last of the games and the afters are over and done with, so most with little ones are packing up to leave. You needn't worry, there's only the old folk nodding by the fire and they won't pester you." A half-smile lit her face. "We've plenty of what you pass off as tea. Minerva made sure of that, last time she visited, and if we add a drop or two of good whiskey, you'll be warmer and maybe feel like eating."

With a sudden jolt, Neirin uncurled his left hand from around the lawffon to fist the front of his coat, its heavy black wool scoured by age and use.

"Warm enough... to get by," he rasped, as his thin fingers began to spider along the seaming of the worn collar. The cant of his mouth spoke to an understanding that another's carelessness might serve to his own small benefit. "This was forgot by some rat-arsed git... All's... fair... for me to use it..."

"Well, I'd say that's true, unless whoever lost it comes back, but that's not too likely," Delyth calmly assured him. "Seems to fit you, so whoever left it must have been near your build, I'd think."

"Bad luck's his, innit, if there's a ruck... Bone-idle... Can't watch out for what's been given him..." A sudden triumph flushed his pale cheeks. "Scousser's in for a right bloody beating when he's found out..."

His clenched fist dropped, heavy as brick, back into his lap, while the other strangled the lawffon. Only the tilt of her head revealed Delyth's surprise. What few words Neirin had spared for her in the weeks past had generally been terse, but never as coarse as these.

"Mine to keep, now... innit... INNIT?"

Neirin's face was suddenly raw with menace. As if in alliance, a great knot of oak on the fire suddenly split with a savage crack, spewing crimson sparks into the wail of a rising wind. Far off, over the distant sea, a great drum of thunder sounded once, twice, and yet again -- and then fell ominously silent. The heavy scent of ozone stung the air as jagged tongues of lightning forked along the edges of the moon-dyed clouds.

Hagrid was paying very close attention, torn between wariness and wonder. There'd been plenty of that biting alley manc from the professor nearly thirty years ago when he was just a feral whelp, but not a word of it once he'd gained the advantage of Lucius Malfoy's attention. Not even the most tortured of his poisoned fever dreams had brought him there.

Surely, this was just some ragged Muggle coat, and far better than his familiar cloak if Neirin was going to blend in with the rest of the men. Still, something was struggling for release, chained deep in the pit of his curse-bound mind, and it was maybe this old coat, dug out from one of Gareth's cupboards days ago, that was calling it? Minerva would need to be owled.

Cautiously, Hagrid's hand crept into his own pocket, seeking his unfettered wand. If any of the professor's darker magic began to surface by instinct, there might be the need to intervene, but Merlin's beard, why with so many of these decent Muggles about?

To Hagrid's untold relief, just as abruptly as they had leapt into being, the ascending sparks resigned themselves to falling as a soft rain of ash. The wind's wild dirge leveled into a droning chant of lament. As though another man, identical in face and form, had transfigured from the stuff of shadows to assume his place, Neirin's tone shifted from the surly parlance of a mill drudge into the precise cadence of an educated man.

"Allow me some small credit that I can identify... wood smoke... and its... source. You state... the obvious," his empty gaze swung abruptly towards Hagrid, "when this one's... providing... the opportunities... for my... education. Clearly, I have senses... other than sight... and... at least some capacity for... reason... even with a... vacant mind..."

Lifting her hand from his shoulder with a puzzled frown, Delyth ventured further. "Neirin, there's no one about who means to harm you, certainly none of us. Why would you think so?"

Swallowing hard against what must have been a torment to his throat, Neirin focused only on the complex art of breathing. After a long moment, he pushed to his feet, forcing himself to stand without the steadying prop of his staff.

"All of you... so hellishly... concerned. Have you considered that I'm simply not... hungry?" he croaked. "If I were, I would eat. Shall I... demonstrate the skill? Joint of lamb at... twelve," he stabbed the ground around the neglected plate of food with the iron tip of the lawffon. "Potatoes and neeps at four and eight. Just as my learned physician has so ably... trained... me..."

The shred of a sneer surfaced as he turned his head from side to side, in a parody of searching.

"Where is... Islwyn? Not here for this... exhibition... of my... accomplishments?"

The bolstering strength of his anger deserting him, Neirin collapsed back onto the bale behind him, a fog of pain creeping across his hollow cheeks, as he let his head drop back heavily against the stone wall.

"Alert the fucking... multitudes," he gasped, choking out his words. "The blind fool is conversant... he can feed himself... and he's not pissed on his boots, today. Caesar comes... to Rome... triumphant."

Mab had dealt with her share of snap and snarl from cornered people and beasts. Despite her surprise at such a sudden shift in tone and its wash of vitriol, she wasn't about to be cowed by a man still frail enough that she could put him on his arse with a well-placed shove.

"Settle yourself, there, lad. If we've been rude, I'm sorry for it, but you've had your growl, now, and there's no need for your spite, especially with those who've been naught but kind to you." She folded her arms across her formidable bosom, clearly determined that calm -- and better manners -- would prevail. "Delyth's only asked whether you wanted to sit by the fire or make your way back to the house. So, which would it be, then?"

Hagrid allowed himself a grin of satisfaction. A bit like Minerva, this old Mab, a force to be reckoned with. He wished, though, that it was possible to cast at least a warming charm without being noticed. They were too far from the fire for a spell's warmth to be passed off as the heat of flames. That old coat wasn't serving its purpose as well as before. With his rage spent, the professor was beginning to shiver like a newborn Thestral. If this Hollontide carried any blessings at all, those tremors were triggered only by the sharp chill of the wind. But if darker hands were groping through the Veil, there could well be bitter hours ahead, with the ravenous beasts of Theriac and venom prowling for their prey.

With a low grunt, Hagrid lurched to his feet, pretending to stretch away his stiffness. Keen eyes might have noticed him shifting something from his pocket into his sleeve before tightening his belt and loosening his greatcoat. Too many opposing elements of magic and nature were afoot, tonight. He thought of the crystal entrusted to his care. For the moment, a guardian might be needed far more than any teacher.

"Here where it's cold's not the best place for you, Neirin. You've come a fair ways in these last few weeks, but we don't need to surrender what ground we've gained. We've fought too hard for that." His bodhran slung at his belt, Gareth had come to stand beside Hagrid with Collen Morgan close beside him. "There's no one here that will take what's yours. That coat's for your use and it suits you, though it won't for long if you continue treating food as the enemy." His voice was low, but beneath its calm, there was a vein of iron. "As for those boots, you're blunt enough about it, but we'll thank you for the favor of your better aim."

Gareth moved closer to sit beside Neirin, receiving no resistance as he slid a sheltering arm around his patient's concaved shoulders. Hagrid took the flank, harboring them against the wind.

Across the yard, lorry engines coughed, and from the barn came the high whinny of a mare, roused from her dozing. In a flurry of plumed tails and clever paws, Tess and her clan dashed about with eager barks, anxious to find whatever should be herded homeward. A fog of sleepy voices crept on the air as families continued to make their departure. Some called out good-byes or waved their farewells, but no one approached the group by the wall, recognizing that whatever was passing between their Healer and his patient was private and did not invite inquiry or intrusion.

Recognizing the urgency at hand, Gareth spoke to Neirin in gentler persuasion.

"Will you walk to the fire with me, lad, and share some stories? I know you've little liking for most people, but there's only those of us you know who will keep vigil until the sun's up. Just an hour or so, more, and we'll be through this night."

Even as he spoke, Gareth was idly tapping a subtle pattern against the rim of his bodhran, a rhythm laced with the beat of a heart at rest -- an old Healers' ploy to still anxiety.

There was only an exhausted resignation in Neirin's response.

"Have you forgotten, Islwyn? I have... no stories."

Leveraging to her feet, Mab planted herself directly in the blind man's path, bending to grip his hands, the lawffon rising like a slender mast between them.

"Shall I tell you, Neirin Maldwyn, that you have many stories?"

Her voice had left its bantering place, and was strong with a Wise Woman's certainty.

"Everything your friend is teaching you, these hands of yours already know. They will remember your stories for you, but you need to be listening."

His lips drawn back in a grimace, Neirin tried to pull away, but she held him fast.

"Friend..." he hissed through gritted teeth, "Hardly that... Far too shameful to put a blind man down in the road like a dog... so here's my bloody... keeper... to watch that I don't wander off."

"And aren't they the same?" Mab challenged. "What truer friend than one who's willing to keep watch over you?"

"Tell him to leave, then... I want neither... Set me loose on the moors and let me be." Despite the cold, a film of sweat was oiling Neirin's face.

"You would die out there alone, child, you know that," she answered, clasping his trembling hands tightly so they would not lose their grip on the staff.

"Your sworn... guarantee?" A grotesque smile twisted Neirin's lips when no answer came. "As I thought... What I know, old woman, is hardly worth the effort of remembering." His head began to shake like that of a cruelly bitted horse. "I know the voice and step of everyone who touches me, the smell of them and whatever they compel me to swallow. I know the number of steps from my bed to this wall. From my bed to the gate -- not yet, but I will. I know enough to parrot what my... keeper... and this... practitioner... insist I learn. I've even learned to... know... my name... and answer to it."

Another spasm contorted his thin body as his agitation grew.

"Eat, I'm told, you'll grow stronger. I wonder, if what you ate tasted of ash, how eager you'd be for food. Sleep... Another lie... Sleep so that you will heal. I sleep... They make sure of it... but I do not heal... I dream."

Revulsion darkened his face like a stain.

"My dream... That I know, very well... Always the same... I... see... I SEE... stars... a cage of them... beautiful because I do... SEE them... Spinning and weaving... until... I am INSIDE the cage... and then... they are gone. I am alone... in the darkness with... whispers... that bind me... I cannot MOVE... There is something... heavy... kissing me... my throat... softly... KISSING me AGAIN with... NEEDLES in its... breath... needles..."

Rivulets of sweat were beginning to course down his face. Though Gareth and Mab both held on tightly, without the anchor of the lawffon, the tremors shuddering though Neirin would have hurled him to his knees. As relentless as an advancing legion, a devouring emptiness began to slacken the hard planes of his face and shred the roughened edges of his voice into a frenzied ebb and flow. His body began to rock, forward and back, as though some manic internal tide had claimed him.

"My EYES... I cannot OPEN them... something... foul... thick... around me..." Unbidden, his eyes widened as though they were capable of sight, with his breath coming in harsh pants. "I cannot stand... Why is it so SILENT? COLD... there is no ground... only a cloud... everywhere around me... it stinks of death... knows me... WANTS me... DROWNS ME... a hundred times... a THOUSAND..."

Strangled gasps began to rattle in his throat, his ravings thinning into a fading canticle as his body's ghastly pendulum began to slow. A terrible vapid calm began to slip across his face.

"Someone is... close... watching... me... die... The darkness... is... screaming... That is my... is it... is it? No... I WILL NOT BEG... Voice... VOICE? Voice is... here... Kiss is... here... beside me... I can feel... The needles are singing..."

In anguished sympathy, Mab demanded "What is this?" with her eyes and Gareth, in that moment, bore the regret that he could translate such horror for her so easily.

"The curse that holds him, may the Lady have mercy..." His free hand threaded the air in blessing.

Though he'd already heard the horrors of the Abandonment, knew their purpose, Hagrid longed for battle against this merciless curse, but what point would there be? His anger would make no difference to Tom Riddle's splintered soul and would give no comfort to the professor, either, in such a state as this. Still, he must do something, say something -- somehow show himself as guardian.

"Professor, there'll BE none 'a THAT."

Splitting the air like the blade of an ax, Hagrid's voice rang strong and fierce.

"Yeh don't DO that, now, yeh hear me? Yeh DON'T follow that cursed creature into the dark and yeh don't breath the POISON 'a that cloud." His hands were balled into massive fists. "Yeh DON'T. Yeh stay HERE like we've told yeh. THIS is where yer meant teh be and with us that can help is where yeh'll STAY."

Biting back a snarl of frustration, Hagrid stood rooted, giving witness as, yet again, Gareth produced an all too familiar vial of silvery tincture, softly chanting his comforts.

"Neirin, listen to me... hust... listen... listen to this voice, my voice. This dream does not have hold of you, now -- you're awake. Take a true breath, then. Now -- you must do it now." Reluctantly, he was obeyed. "Do you smell the smoke of our fire, the sweetness of it, how clean it is?"

At the spasm of Neirin's rigid jaw that was the reply, he continued.

"Good, that's good. That's real. Try now, stay fixed on these voices... ours... for now, no others."

Neirin remained slumped between Gareth and the wall, head down, his answer barely made but lucid.

"I know... you... Islwyn..."

Gareth only smiled, keeping his steadying arm in place.

"As you should, lad, me and all those that are here with you. We talk to you, read to you, we've sung to you, even -- many, many times. Remember?" Pulling out a handkerchief, he motioned for Delyth to wipe the sweat from Neirin's face.

"When you were first here, no matter how bad the pain, how sick you were, you'd hear my voice and later there was Delyth's, too. You'd hold on for another minute, another hour, isn't that so? We fought your dream, together, Neirin, and I need the same from you, now."

With deft fingers, he removed the bottle's stopper. "This will help... It will... and quickly. Lift your head for me... You know I won't let you suffer... Gently, now... Swallow slowly... There's the lad."

As pale as if she'd witnessed a brutal death, Delyth stood kneading the sweat-sodden cloth in her gloved hands, searching for the shelter of her father's face in the shadows.

"Friends or keepers, Neirin Maldwyn, that's yours to say," Collen offered, "but you're safe enough, here. Whatever's in these dreams, it won't find you, not tonight. We'll keep watch. Come and be warmer, at least, so you'll feel a bit more steady about yourself." With a quiet smile, he hefted his fiddle. "Besides, I've a tune or two that would sing any nightmare to sleep."

Stepping around Hagrid, he crooked his arm through Delyth's, urging her back towards the circle of firelight. Even through the soft wool of the abayah, he could feel her trembling, and he knew the chill of the coming dawn was not the reason.

"Thada, he's so near the edge... What if I've not enough...?" she whispered, burying her face against his chest.

Collen pulled her tight against him, cloaking her in a fierce embrace. Over the top of her head, he watched Neirin struggle to stand and wondered at the man's strength of will.

"My sweet girl,' he murmured into her hair, "I can't answer that. You've all your mother's nature in you, Delyth, and that much of me for there to be a balance. What you show that man... How much he's able to bear of it..." At a loss for wisdom, he fell silent.

With the mercy of Gareth's tincture guiding him slowly back to awareness, Neirin stood quietly. Judging it safe to release his hands, Mab gently laid her own across his eyes.

"I would like to tell you this and have you understand me, although I doubt you will. What truly ails you, child, are naught but the curses you have inflicted and those you have accepted."

Bowing his head into her hands, Neirin rested his chin against the carved finial of the lawffon.

"Curses?" he whispered, "Islwyn keeps those... from me... with all of his... brews... or isn't that what I am to believe? Simple truths, old woman... I despise sleep and yet I crave it, just for that moment when I see the stars. No doubt, I am mad. Only a madman would dream such things... over and over, so clearly. If this dream is my memory... then, I am just as mad. Tell your Broc he needn't bother..." Unerringly, his fingers sought and found the badger carving. "I can reach my abyss without a guide."

Swaying with weariness, he touched the bandages at his throat with the back of his hand.

"This, they've told me, is the work of my enemy and his snake. So much for the good counsel of serpents." His pallid face was fixed with loathing, his voice barely audible. "I would like to remember my enemy. He is dead. I have been assured of that -- repeatedly -- and his snake with him, it seems. So... who has the better end, do you think? Their corpses are rotting... but mine is still here... dutifully breathing."

"You'll overcome such things, if you'll allow it. In fact, you've already begun," Mab answered. "You dream with the instinct of your nature..."

"This... nature of mine... it has a name, does it?" Neirin summoned a faint sneer.

Reaching out her weathered hands, Mab untied the leather tie that held back his hair, letting the heavy strands fall like a cowl around his face, and gently turning his head, began to whisper in his ear.

With a groan, Neirin staggered back, brandishing the lawffon in both fists.

"You're barking mad, Mab, you know that... don't you... with a head full of drink and faerie stories?" he snarled. "They'll haul us off to the asylum together. Adjoining wards..."

Moving closer, Mab slipped her hand inside the pocket of his coat.

"And stealing from me, as well, old bint?" Neirin scowled. "Not much there worth blagging, is there?"

"There's naught I'd take from you, but I'll leave a blessing for you, Neirin Maldwyn. Use it to see the truth of your name... and learn the gifts of your nature... brudiwr," she answered over her shoulder, as she turned to walk away. "Collen Morgan," she called, pausing to retrieve her canvas bag, "I'll want a conversation with Gareth and your Delyth, if you please... and you're to join us..."

Stopping a few paces from the fire, she waited for Gareth to come to her, and felt the burdens of time as she noticed the heaviness of his steps.

"Old friend, what's in your heart?" she said, reaching for his hand.

Gareth stood motionless and grim, and when he answered, the dread in his voice was incarnate in the set of his mouth.

"I've seen his dream, Mab, walked it in a Joining. It would have taken me if I'd not had the Lady's Flame to guide me out again." The old Healer shook his head in dismay. "The lowest circle of hell lives within that dream, and he's pulled back there, over and over again. Of course, he believes he's mad -- that curse carries madness, breeds it like a pestilence. I was told he was meant to die into it and never leave it. There's a viciousness to that I'm not even able to fathom."

Keeping hold of Mab's hand, Gareth peered intently at the leaves skittering across the hard-packed ground.

"From what you've said just now, I'd guess you've sorted a good bit of this without help from me?" he asked.

"You mean this Professor McGonagall's being a true witch?" Mab smiled, "That wasn't so hard. She's as fey as they come. No doubt she's onto my suspicions, though. And Hagrid?" she laughed, "Whatever else he might be, he's plainly a force unto himself. I'd question the bit about his relatives in Samoa."

"And Neirin, he was clear to you, as well?" Gareth continued.

"Ah, that one..." she sighed, "A dark star, I think. What's deep in him's a torment to him, and we'd best find a way to help him through it, or we'll have more on our hands than we're ready to deal with -- far worse than just an ill and lonely man..."

"That's my fear," Gareth answered, "that'll he'll lose control of all that's in him. I've had my own dream, Mab, very powerful, very clear. I saw the cloud there, just as he said -- far off above terrible cliffs, waiting, barring any way forward. There was one of his own, an old brudiwr, keeping watch. He looked as if he might even be kin to the First Wise. Such a sadness to his eyes and... somehow... proud and shamed, all in the same breath. He said he was a cloak and that he meant to stay, but I think he's not able to free this young man. The distance between them is too great, this curse too strong... He can not reach him..."

"The trick, then, is for one to join the other, isn't it?" she nodded, squeezing Gareth's hand.

"We're old for this, Mab, and Delyth's not long back..." the Healer muttered.

"Ie, but she's her mother's child, and you and I haven't lost our Knowing. We're still able to battle what's Dark, aren't we?" she laughed, wrapping her arm around his narrow waist for a moment. "And this time, for a true brudiwr, one of Myrddin's kind. I never thought to have the privilege of such a thing. Wouldn't want to fail in this, now would we?'

"Not a bit of it, my girl, not a bit," he answered, returning her embrace. Satisfied in their trust of one another, the two old friends made their way back through the veil of wood smoke to take seats, side by side, at the fire, motioning for Collen and Delyth to join them.

Braced with one hand against the wall, summoning as much strength to his voice as he was able, Neirin demanded Hagrid's attention.

"What's that old woman put in my pocket? A... feather... it feels like... and a stone? Damn two of a kind with this nonsense..."

Scarcely believing what he saw resting on the palm of the professor's outstretched hand, Hagrid answered, fairly beaming with the knowledge.

"That's exactly what's there, yeh see... Just the one white stone, and that's a wren's feather, by the look of it..."

"You great fool... I do not see... and what would the look of anything matter? Mad as bedlam, the pair of you... Islwyn should save his brews to sedate that old... witch... before she's carted off, and keep enough back for you," Neirin growled through labored breaths. For a moment, he hesitated as if debating what to do with the objects he held, before shoving his hand back into his pocket. "Magic she says... claims I'm... the wizardly sort... and cursed... by... dark arts... By the company of my fellow lunatics, is more likely..."

Hagrid remained silent, choosing not to lend assistance, only watching while the professor carefully explored the space where he'd been sitting, his questing fingers finally locating the fragile nest.

"Wasp or hornet?" Neirin muttered, half to himself, his ragged voice fostering a seed of curiosity.

"Hornet -- and near perfect. Not broken anywhere," Hagrid replied with a grin.

"Then it's worth adding to our pitiful... stores," Neirin nodded, standing still and straight, the wind whipping the hair back from his drawn face.

If yeh didn't know, yeh'd say he looks nearly himself... almost sounds it, too... except for that "our" part, Hagrid pondered, watching as Neirin slipped the nest into his pocket and began the epic pilgrimage across the yard to the house. A few steps into the journey, Neirin stopped to turn his head, his profile a sharp silhouette against the firelight.

"Hagrid..."

"Professor..."

"In spite of yourself, I believe you are... a well-meaning... keeper. You write to Professor McGonagall... Minerva... do you not?"

"I do... whenever there's the time... or the reason for it," Hagrid answered.

"When you do... tell her... ask her... does she know what became of the cat that was here... It has been... It is... absent."

He stood a moment longer, again resting his chin against the lawffon's finial, a gesture that Hagrid noted was becoming a newly familiar habit.

"You might also tell Islwyn... and her... Delyth... that, yes... I do remember."

Without hesitating for a response, Neirin turned back to resume his cautious passage through the maze of light and shadow.

There was no question that neither help nor advice were wanted, but when he saw there was a shade less dependence on the support of the lawffon and more on the guiding span of its reach, Hagrid shook his shaggy head, his thoughts in a quandary.

'Saw a shred 'a the boy he was, tonight, Dumbledore, and a bit 'a the man, as well. If it's true what Minerva and this old Healer say, that yer keepin' watch there in the Between, this might be the time for yeh teh let 'im know... Whatever he means teh do, he'll not wait much longer...'

Following quietly behind, Hagrid noticed one other detail he decided ought to be included in his owl to Minerva.

Perhaps it was only a trick of the firelight, but the worn black coat, though it had none of the ominous majesty of flowing robes, still appeared, however briefly -- to billow.

~~ /// ~~

For eight days running, Minerva had watched Charlie Weasley drop gobbets of suet and mince into the Thestral team's eager mouths before slipping the dragon leather harness over their bony heads.

"One of Hagrid's old tricks," he'd grinned the first time. "Give these beauties a treat, and they'll stand at the station as quiet as phoenix chicks."

A single carriage had usually been sufficient. Poppy would climb up beside him for each trip to the station, with little talk between them on the way except to confirm which two -- or four -- or sometimes one -- were scheduled to arrive on the Express that evening. Charlie always wanted to be sure he knew each student's name in its entirety, including whatever nickname they preferred -- or feared.

"Better to know these things straight away," he'd say, "Avoids hurts that have to be healed later."

Poppy always squeezed his hand when she heard that, silently blessing him for understanding the wounds that didn't show.

Whoever disembarked from the train always walked directly towards the carriage, looking straight ahead with trunk and bags in tow, but not one acknowledged the Thestrals. For any student returning to Hogwarts, there was no need to affirm that they had seen death quite plainly.

On the return trip to the castle, Charlie and Poppy would fall into an easy chat, discussing which gardens were to be readied for the coming of Winter, would Madam Hooch start up the Quidditch matches even if it snowed, how many shops had re-opened in Hogsmeade, what was Filius planning for Samhain, and where might a suitable Yule log be found when it was needed -- weaving their subtle spell of the ordinary.

At a certain point along the way, Poppy would turn and indicate the small parcel, wrapped in gray silk, tied with white ribbon, that each young wizard or witch would soon realize had been beside them right along.

"From the Headmistress -- a gift to welcome you back."

Once opened, there would be a pause and then the moment of recognition, the breath of "Oh..." in answer to the touch of soft wool spilling from the boxes.

For each one there was a muffler in the colors of their House, the crimsons, yellows, blues and greens, threaded with their gold, silver, or bronze -- as token and talisman of their traditions. Each one carried its weighty fringe of somber black at either end, and was stitched with the crest of Hogwarts, edged in mourning ribbon. Tucked among the folds of wool was always a simple piece of parchment, its message penned in a precise hand.

"To be worn with honor, knowing who we are, remembering always those who are lost to us."

When the carriage was in sight of the castle, along the wide expanse of the lake where Hagrid's henge of trees guarded the White Tomb and its attending gravestones, Charlie would slow the Thestrals to a halt, and Poppy would motion the students to climb down.

"From here, you are asked to proceed on foot to the castle. You may walk together, if you wish, but out of respect, keep silent until you reach the Gates. Take what time you need. A good supper and a warm bed will be waiting."

From the hill above the Gates, Minerva had watched them come, washed in moonlight, passing between the Tomb and the blackthorn tree, around the House cairns, across the lawns and up the drive. Hogwarts' gentle Hufflepuffs and forthright Ravenclaws, Her stalwart Gryffindors.

And finally, the last of the chosen students had made the journey -- Her proud Slytherins.

"I will not stand back again and see them broken, my maldwyn, not by themselves or any other House." Minerva had imagined her message traveling to Gwaun on wings of thought, rather than those of an owl. "Your House will thrive, in fair measure with the rest. You'll see that for yourself, someday. Accept that as your Secret Keeper's pact with the Headmistress of Hogwarts." She'd smiled, thinking of the answer Neirin would have given, had he been able.

"And if this pact should prove untenable, Minerva, to whom shall I appeal for recourse?"

The answer would have surprised him.

With his graying head held high, it was Horace Slughorn who stood beside her, watching the children of his House return.

~~ /// ~~

Horace's request for a formal audience with Minerva had carried every nuance of pride that he could conjure, but behind the meticulously mended sage and silver robes, the small but perfect gift of candied violets, and the familiar smile of benevolent superiority, she'd seen the tatters of age, regret, and loneliness.

They had performed a civilized minuet of afternoon tea and cakes, taking practiced steps around one another, until the shadows in the Tower office grew long enough to allow them to move on to brandy and dwell on other matters.

"Minerva, have you considered the circumstances, should I return to Hogwarts?" An attaque simple, delivered with finesse.

"Those which would set the Ministry's teeth on edge?" she'd answered in flawless coup d'arret. "Or those which would guarantee a proficient Potions master for the students and a seasoned colleague for my staff? I have considered them. I assume you have, as well."

Of course, he had -- quite thoroughly in fact -- just as he would consider carefully which ingredients would best enhance a complex potion. He had the acumen to mentor academic excellence and an instinct for tallying and collecting favors owed. He had made a significant stand in the battle, and had managed to sustain enough Slytherin pride to claim his share of respect on behalf of his House. Useful circumstances, beneficial in the aftershock of war and worth his position, surely.

"Minerva, will you make me say it?" He'd lost his taste for flattery. He was too old and didn't wish to waste the time. "Very well, let me be direct. I am in need of both a livelihood and a residence and I'd prefer that both be here with those who would regard me with some kindness. I would like to be of use to my House and its place at Hogwarts. There is no reason to deny our students the benefit of my teaching when it is needed, particularly as you have the ability to offer it."

His face was halved by candlelight and shadow. "There are several new terms in the lexicon of Slytherin, Minerva. Perhaps you've heard them? Heroic martyr, and traitorous coward -- and both are for Severus."

Folding his hands across his no-longer-ample stomach, he stared into the fire, avoiding Minerva's eyes. Had he looked up, he would have seen, in turn, her avoidance of his eyes, the slash of pain that crossed her face.

"Do I confess my shame that I watched my finest student choose Tom Riddle's path and took no action to protect him? I do. Do I regret my lack of understanding for the man that he became? Without question, yes. Would you like to know how much I grieve his loss and honor the courage of his life? There is no measure."

Standing, he turned to face her, offering his wand on the palm of his hand.

"Will I devote whatever feeble years I have left to guard the children of my House, and any other, Headmistress -- any other -- from following another Dark Lord? On the heart of my wand, I swear it."

~~ /// ~~

The traditions of Samhain had been celebrated simply but well.

"I'd rather see them laughing for a change, Headmistress, wouldn't you agree? There's not one of them past the age of seventeen. We'll need to remember that, I think."

Their gathering had been more of a Welcoming supper than a true feast, but Filius had been insistent that there be as much food and merriment as limited resources -- and a temporary loss of good sense -- would allow.

Color and light had been his tools, and he had used them with abandon.

With the help of the house-elves, he had created a forest inside the Entrance Hall, and this one, not Forbidden. Instead of black and brooding trunks, he had used the straightest gray and silver ones, with branches set aflame by color, their falling leaves showering the floor like sparks of light. If the earth was soon to sleep, he could at least borrow her autumnal canopy, her leafy coverlet, to soften stony floors and conceal workmen's scaffolding for one night.

Five tables were arranged in the shape of the pentagram, with one section for each house and one for the staff. The purpose of the shape was easily apparent. No House would sit with its back turned against another and all would be able to look into each others faces, openly and equally.

Pomona had carried in a myriad of late-flowering plants, sheltered under warming charms -- goldenrod and mahonia, cockscombs and salvia -- filling the hall with their subtle spice. She had more than enough help with the task.

A letter had come by owl, the week before, and when she'd opened it at the staff breakfast table, she'd forsaken all sense of a Deputy's propriety and fairly jigged for joy. A hasty conference with Minerva had assured a return owl. Neville Longbottom arrived in the quiet of early morning two days later, making straight for the greenhouses. They'd scarcely seen or heard him since, except at the occasional meal, but Pomona assured them he was peacefully content with having his arms elbow-deep in compost and slumbering mandrake rootlings.

It was Horace who took credit for creating the shimmering mist that hovered in the corners and alcoves, under the tables and high in the rafters, casting muted halos around Filius' hovering turnip lanterns. A soothing, gentle smoke of scent, it called to mind those things that spelled the peace of home.

"To bewitch us all, just a bit," he'd said with a chuckle, "After all, potions aren't always brewed for a serious purpose. There are those which are merely pleasing."

And might ensnare the senses, if only for a while, Minerva thought.

The fiercest of adversaries have been known to cease conflict for a while, given the offer of food and comfort. The returning Houses of Hogwarts were no exception.

Even Death Eater families had suffered lack and deprivation during the final days of the Dark War. A leader with no mortal needs had little regard for those of his followers. A certain degree of starvation kept men and beasts on edge, lusting for blood and pillage. Promise much, but allow only enough for them to lift their wands or bare their claws effectively.

Resistance families had access to even less, and meager portions served to quiet empty stomachs for only a little while. Whatever their ancestry or loyalty, these youth of Hogwarts shared one overwhelming bond at the moment. They were hungry for food and company without demands attached, a need that Filius and the elves anticipated and soon met.

Fish and fowl, roast and chop, the platters of meats were laden. Mountains of potatoes and parsnips, heaps of vegetables, rounds of cheese, baskets of bread -- the harvest of lakes, pastures and gardens. Simple food to fill the belly and calm the spirit. Need does not stand on ceremony, and none was required as plates and bowls were passed from hand to hand, with no one really caring which House sent the next course around the table.

And there was laughter, raucous and wonderful, just as Filius had hoped, when the ghosts presented their pantomime of Beadle the Bard's more humorous tales.

After pudding -- baked apples drenched in cream, in keeping with the blessed Season of Samhain -- Minerva stood, her tartan robes rich with autumn color, her hat wreathed with leaves of oak and ivy. As one, the staff beckoned with their wands and the turnip lanterns descended to hover in front of the students, one for each of them.

"In the past," Minerva's voice filled the room, "it has always been the custom for the Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts to make their welcoming speech within the Great Hall. That is not yet possible so we will proceed, together, into an even greater hall. I ask that you keep your wands at your sides and unlit for the moment. If you will, please follow me."

In solemn procession, the students and professors, the elves and ghosts, all exited the hall through the massive oaken doors that Filtch had propped open with the heads of broken gargoyles that had fallen from the ruined battlements.

Guided by the glow of lantern light and the risen moon, directed in silence by the professors, the students circled a great pyre of boughs that Charlie and Neville had built earlier in the day.

"Before the Founders, before this castle was summoned into being, there was magick." A sigh of wind carried Minerva's voice around the circle. "From the time beyond all memory until all time shall cease, magick was, is, and ever shall be. We are favored to stand in this hall of earth and sky.

"This is the blessing of Samhain, the longest night, when life enters into darkness and sleep, waiting for the Light's return." Her gaze swept the courtyard, seeing every face. "These recent years have been full of talk of who is chosen and who must not be named. None of us is left untouched by war. Tomorrow, as the dawn comes, the cycle begins anew -- the nights will be cold, but each day will be a little brighter, the light will remain a little longer. That is our example. Each of you -- every House -- is named and chosen.

"I am not so naïve as to think that you will all become sworn friends or even willing allies. Respect can be earned, trust can be nurtured, but neither is guaranteed. I cannot require that you love or even care for one another. I can, however, require that you remain decent to one another. Any who are not, will not be permitted to stay.

"If we are in accord, lift your wands, and we will light our Samhain fire, remembering that we are one school, built upon four strong pillars. Professors, join me, please, and four by four, one student from each House come behind us until all have called the light."

Nine times the call "Incendio" rang within the courtyard walls, nine times the Samhaim fire leapt higher still into the night.

"The Light and the Darkness are in balance and all here are blessed. Now we'll send you to your beds. Work begins in the morning," Minerva advised as the professors began to shepherd their students back inside.

"Professor Slughorn, sir, are we sharing the quarters of the other Houses?" a Slytherin, Leland Worhington, asked in dismay.

"No, my boy, the sharing of quarters is mutual to all," the Potions master answered. "Ours are theirs and theirs are ours. Perhaps you and your mates can set the example of how the gentlemen of Slytherin take up residence in rough circumstances with civilized decorum and orderly efficiency. Our Slytheirn young women have already set the barre on the matter, I believe. Now, off with you. Advanced Potions commences at nine sharp."

~~/// ~~

If in Wales the breath of dragons waits in hard and dark concealment, in Scotland it shows itself soft and gray upon the open ground.

Minerva had always enjoyed the swirl of fog around her feet. There was something feline in the way it moved, silently stretching itself into whatever crevice took its fancy, holding itself aloof from touch, advancing and withdrawing as it saw fit. There was no depth or height it could not claim.

Even the Samhain embers had accepted the fog's supremacy. Only ash remained, blowing across the courtyard in feeble imitation of the mist. Far too early for anyone to be about -- even Charlie was still asleep in his snug loft above the stables. Soon enough, the elves would rouse and begin the task of breakfast, but for now, only Minerva was awake.

She had intended to walk the path along the lake, to spend an hour with her thoughts. Her address to the students had been of some effect, she knew, but old habits and lingering perceptions would not disappear so easily. Soon enough, a remark would be made, a hex leveled, and the temporary calm would vanish. Rebuilding the castle would be easy by comparison.

Knowing the air would be cold, she'd left her hat behind, choosing instead her heavier cloak with its deep cowl. It was fortunate that no Muggle, recklessly crossing the moors before dawn, would have the opportunity of seeing her. They would surely flee for home in terror, with tales of Death roaming the wastes.

Savoring the touch of mist on her face and hands, she crossed the lawns, heading towards the memorial henge.

"Mineeeervaaaaa McGonagaaaall"

All around her were the creak of branches, the whisper of leaves hastening across the frozen ground, the flutter of a night bird's wings. If she were the fanciful sort, she might think she heard the pleading voices of those who had fallen in battle, calling to her, but she had never been a romantic, and fog had a way of transfiguring simple sounds.

"Mineeeervaaaaa... come... I beg you... come..."

Curious, the way one could imagine their own name to be a song the wind would sing at dawn.

"Come here to me... I will not leave this place until you come..."

This, Minerva recognized, was no gypsy wind, wandering in search of haven. This was a summoning -- strong enough to tear the Veil, so full of anguish that Death itself would obey.

Throwing back her cowl, her wand in hand, the Headmistress of Hogwarts strode in all her power towards the great gates of the castle, and found them locked and warded still, breached only by what was surely a duine sidhe's piercing wail. But there -- just beyond the wards, shrouded in the fog -- sweet blessed Circe, beyond...

A woman, robed in gray, her face veiled in fine pale hair frenzied by the wind -- a terrible beauty, a pieta of sorrow, clasping to her heart a body as thin as a wisp of smoke, the face concealed by heavy ropes of hair, dark with dirt and damp, one arm outstretched upon the ground, black sleeve pulled back against the Mark of Death, slender fingers curled in waxy stillness.

The duine sidhe's mourning cry could not match the silent shriek that tore in that moment through Minerva's heart.

'He's died... oh gods... oh gods... Riddle's curse has somehow taken him... He's died and I wasn't there... The duine sidhe has brought his body home... I wasn't there...'

And yet... Even as her knees threatened to give way, Minerva's mind cleared, her sight demanding clarity of thought.

The hair, the man's hair... Not raven black -- but tarnished silver -- Slytherin silve...

And the woman, lifting her face in agony...

Not spectral but nakedly mortal, with skin as pale as funerary ash and eyes wept raw... and in her arms...

Narcissa Malfoy, on her knees at the gates, cradling the motionless body of her only child...

"Mistress of Hogwarts, take my life in payment, but help me... I beg... Minerva... please... my son... my Draco... He means to go to Severus..."