Information Networks

Phoenix Song, Chapter Twenty-two : Information Networks

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

Let me thank my amazing, incredible, brilliant betas: LAxo and WriterMerrin! Without whom this story would be little more than a tissue of egregious errors.

It took several weeks before Dumbledore called Severus to his office, plenty of time for Severus to wonder about what information the older man would relent to impart. Plenty of time, too, for Severus to wonder what he was supposed to tell Granger. The most obvious piece of information was also the most dangerous...not only because it might jeopardise his relationship with the Dark Lord, but also because he was selfishly keen to maintain the even keel of his current interaction with Granger herself. It was foolish to pretend that their tentative friendship would survive her realisation that he intended to murder the Headmaster. Thus Severus, much like Dumbledore, avoided the moment of revelation.

Granger, much to his surprise, hadn't asked. Far from peppering him with incessant questions, it seemed that the woman had finally learnt to be patient. She watched him, though, when she didn't think he would notice, a thoughtful look on her face.

As soon as she mastered the trick of Apparation, he moved one of their lessons each week out of the castle entirely. "Wear sports clothes under your robes next Thursday," he instructed, "and meet me here at the usual time."

Granger, as per usual, arrived punctually at eight. Her white trainers looked incongruous against the dark wool of her uniform. "Come along," he remarked, shepherding her through to his potions lab, then onwards into his sitting room. Her eyes widened at the realisation of where they were, and her attention strayed immediately to the bookshelves. "Keep moving, Granger," he chided, opening another doorway at the far end of the room. She stepped through obediently, with only one lingering glance at the sofa and comfy chairs in front of the fire, the coffee table strewn with books and journals, and his white, white walls. Severus smirked. No doubt she'd expected black.

The door led directly outside, the opening hidden in the cliff face just around the corner from the greenhouses. From there they headed past the vegetable gardens, cutting across to the Forbidden Forest without going so far north that they might be spotted from Hagrid's cottage. Under the cover of the trees, Severus stopped.

"This will do for the moment," he remarked, slipping off his teaching robes and conjuring a coat rack on which to hang them. He shook them fussily, ensuring that they would hang without creasing, and removed a pair of running shoes from the pocket. They were black. Granger had copied his example and removed her uniform, revealing running tights and a zippered sports top. Severus gestured for her to hang her robes, then toed off his boots and sat on a nearby log to put on his trainers.

"This way," he gestured once he was ready, moving through a nearby clump of trees and emerging onto a reasonably well-cleared path. "Keep your wand out at all times." Granger looked a little apprehensive but otherwise calm. "We're going to run; I'll leave you to set the pace."

They set off at a brisk jog, settling fairly quickly into a rhythm. The dim light of their wands bobbed along the path as they went. Granger ran slower than he would normally, but she moved well, and Severus enjoyed the unaccustomed pleasure of running with a companion. The path meandered through the forest for about two miles. In truth it rarely strayed far from the edge, but it was deep enough in and the night was sufficiently dark that it seemed as if they could be anywhere. The soft thumps of their footfalls were absorbed into the surrounding forest, with the outdoor sounds of owls and small animals a backdrop to their conversation. Granger was initially taken aback when he began to quiz her on the technical aspects of brewing Polyjuice and the theories behind the wards they had been studying.

"You're as bad as my dad! Running is hard enough without having to talk at the same time!" she exclaimed.

"Not up to the task, Granger?" he queried, smirking at her huff of annoyance. He repeated the question. This time she answered without complaining.

The path finished just short of the Hogwarts gates.

"Oh!" exclaimed Granger. "I wondered where we were exactly."

"Come along," he instructed, opening the gates just wide enough for them to slip through. Stepping forward, he led the way to the Apparation point. "Do you know where we are now?" he asked.

"I assume it's the official Hogwarts Apparation point?"

He nodded. "Take a careful look around; you will want to remember the place well enough to Apparate here at any time of day. Now." Granger glanced at him briefly then returned to her perusal of the site, a fierce look of concentration on her face. The sheer intensity with which she carried out the instruction pulled at one corner of his mouth, and he was sorely tempted to give her several quite ridiculous instructions to see how many she would carry out before catching his laughter. "You seem to have finally managed the simple process of Apparation." The outraged glare she shot his way quirked the corner of his mouth higher still: she'd been one of only a handful of students to Apparate successfully, and they both knew it. "Let's see how you fare with side-along."

She blinked. "But, sir, I don't have my licence."

"I do," he replied blandly. "And unless you manage to splinch us, there will be no-one the wiser."

The look on her face reminded him irresistibly of their first visit to the Room of Requirement, when he'd asked her to do a summersault, but he forebear teasing her further. Instead, he stepped closer to where she was standing.

"Hold out your arm," he instructed, grasping her by the forearm when she did so. "And hold onto mine." He concentrated very hard so as not to pay attention to how close they were standing or of the feel of her arm under his. He raised one eyebrow and looked down his nose at her. "Apparate us ten feet to the left, and Granger," he paused for emphasis, "do try not to splinch us."

Granger swallowed, but her chin went up slightly, and he knew she was ready. Her grip tightened, and they twisted into nothingness, only to reappear seconds later on the other side of the clearing, both...to Granger's evident relief...fully intact.

"Hmm," he said, in a tone that suggested she hadn't done very well at all. "Try again. This time Apparate us back to where we were before."

Over the course of the evening, he moved them progressively further away from the clearing and had her Apparate them back. "You take too long in the preparation phase," he said eventually. "Ultimately, you want to be able to Apparate without prior warning, under any circumstances." He paused. "Do you trust me?" he asked, holding out his arm.

"Of course," she said, as if that was a silly question, grasping hold of his forearm without hesitation.

Severus blinked and Disapparated before he had a chance to question the prickly feeling at the back of his throat. They reappeared at the top of a hill, where the land fell away dramatically to their left. The wind whipped through their thin sports clothes, and Granger's hair blew across her face in a wild tangle. At some stage in their countless Apparations, she had lost her hair tie. Twisting her face into the wind, she wrestled the curls off her face, looking up at him expectantly once her hair was temporarily under control.

"You and I are going to leap off this cliff," he informed her, shouting over the wind. "Before we hit the bottom, I'll Apparate us to safety."

Her hands still buried in her hair, she looked at the cliff and then at him, apprehension writ large upon her face. She grimaced, but nodded determinedly.

"We'll take a run-up," he instructed. "Hold my hand."

They backed up about one hundred metres, and Granger took a firm hold of his left hand; her fingers were cold because of the wind and all but swallowed within the grasp of his longer ones. Her hair was billowing behind her, and one curl had blown across her eyes.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes." Her face was set into fierce lines of determination.

They both began to run towards the cliff. As they approached the edge, they accelerated, then leapt. For a second they seemed to hang, as if they were weightless, before plummeting downwards, with the wind and gravity pushing and pulling at their bodies. Severus held Granger's hand tightly and twisted into nothing.

They emerged back at the Apparation point near Hogwarts, landing so smoothly that they barely stumbled. No sooner had they arrived than Granger wrenched her hand from his, spun away from him and landed on her hands and knees. She promptly threw up. Momentarily taken aback, Severus quickly recovered his composure and bent to pull her hair back out of her face.

"Sorry," she said weakly, as soon as she was capable of speech. "I really don't like heights."

And yet she leapt off a cliff because I told her to. He thought for a moment that he couldn't breathe.

"Next week," he promised, "I'll teach you to do that. Once you know that you can Apparate to safety, you will be able to control the fear."

Severus strode into the Slytherin common room in search of Jocelyn Smith. He spied her almost immediately. She was seated off to one side where two couches had been pushed so close together that there was barely room to squeeze between them, holding energetic court with the other three first-year girls and one of the boys. Jocelyn was clearly the centre of attention as she related some tale that the others found hilarious. He paused for a moment to contemplate the changes the year had wrought in her behaviour, then swooped down, a scowl plastered on his face.

"Miss Smith," he hissed threateningly.

Jocelyn leapt to her feet at once. She had quickly cleaved to the Slytherin code of respect towards their Head of House. All his students revelled in a punctilious politeness towards him in public, treasuring the relaxed standards that he occasionally permitted in private as exceptions to the rule. "Good evening, sir," she responded.

"Please explain to me why you have earned yourself a detention at a time when you are supposed to be meeting with me?"

She had the grace to attempt a contrite look, but a mischievous dimple spoiled the effect somewhat. "I'm sorry, sir, but I couldn't not hex Gregory..."

He cut her off with a languorous wave of his hand. "Miss Smith, I don't care how many Gryffindors you hexed or why; I care that I have to rearrange my schedule."

Her second attempt at contrite was far more convincing. Perhaps because she ducked her head slightly. "I'm sorry, sir," she said again.

"If you don't wish to continue, you need only tell me. I'd rather you didn't waste my time."

"No!" Her head snapped up, the contrition evidently genuine now.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No, sir. I don't want to stop coming to lessons."

"Very well. I shall see you on Saturday morning...before breakfast. Seven thirty and no later." Severus turned without bothering to listen to Jocelyn's effusive thanks. He was almost at the door when he noticed Tracey Davis, frowning in concentration over her Arithmancy homework.

"Miss Davis," he said on impulse. "A word in my office if you don't mind. Bring your work with you."

Davis gathered up her belongs hurriedly and followed him out of the common room and into his office, where he gestured for her to take a seat.

"Tell me, Miss Davis," he inquired, "what reason might Professor Vector have for thinking that your Arithmancy project would interest me?"

Davis looked a little scared and fumbled with the strap of her bag. She swallowed, hard. "I have my research proposal here, sir, if you'd like to look at it."

Severus held out his hand imperiously. Davis scrabbled around among her papers until she found the right one. The parchment was soft from much handling and lay flat easily.

Arithmancy Independent Project (NEWTs) – Tracey Davis

Aim: To identify and lift the curse on the Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts position.

Severus' mouth went dry. He raised his eyes slowly and regarded the young woman in front of him. She was fidgeting with her bag strap, her apprehension palpable. "Thank you," he said at last. Davis gave him a tight smile in response, but looked no less stressed. After a short pause he added, not unkindly, "You know that it was the Dark Lord who cast the curse?"

She nodded, her face grim. Davis wasn't among those who joined the Inquisitorial Squad last year, he remembered suddenly.

"Very well then. If there is any information I can help you with, don't hesitate to ask." He glanced through the research proposal, then handed it back. She had been very thorough.

"Thank you, sir."

"You may go."

"Thank you, sir," she said again, tucking her papers back into her bag and leaving as quickly as possible.

Severus sat for a long moment. Vector had been quite right: Davis' project had interested him greatly.

At the end of Saturday's lesson, Jocelyn paused in the act of gathering up her things.

"Sir?" she enquired hesitantly.

Severus looked up from the contemplation of which set of papers he should mark first and raised one eyebrow.

"I wondered," Jocelyn hesitated again. It was clearly a question of some importance. "I wondered what happened to your father."

For several seconds, Severus remained completely still. Then he tucked his hair behind one ear. "I killed him," he replied, his face impassive.

Jocelyn regained her composure almost immediately, but not before he caught her shocked reaction. Severus felt an uncharacteristic urge to explain. "It was an accident," he informed her. "One with devastating consequences for my father, and one that proved detrimental for my own career. It is not an approach that I would advocate."

He stared at her as she nodded her silent absorption of his words and pushed the last of her belongings into her bag.

"Thank you, sir," she murmured on her way out, her horror at his answer visible in the absence of her usual enthusiasm.

There was no need to describe to her the humiliating details of his trial before the Wizengamot: Poppy Pomfrey testifying in his defence with an exhaustive litany of the injuries and beatings he'd sustained, Slughorn's refusal to do likewise; Lucius...back when he was still the acknowledged golden boy of the Ministry, before his family name had been sullied by his association with Voldemort...standing as character witness for his young housemate; his mother's tears and perversely constant love for the man who had abused her and her son.

Two things had kept him out of Azkaban: he was underage, and he hadn't used magic.

Severus still didn't know why that particular night, of all the other nights, he had decided to strike back. It was right in the middle of the holidays, that awful summer after he fought with Lily. He'd been drunk, as he had been most nights. And he'd punched his father. Just the once, but by some crazy chance, he'd struck him in exactly the right place to break his neck. Unfortunate. Manslaughter. Self-defence. Severus had got eighteen months of probation. Eighteen months of "good behaviour." Eighteen months in which an ever-decreasing number of people found kind words for the sullen, prickly and bitter boy who had killed his own father.

The Death Eaters, in contrast, hadn't minded at all.

"Severus, my dear boy, I'm delighted that you were able to drop by this evening. A drink?" Dumbledore summoned the bottle of Firewhiskey before Severus had a chance to reply. The sharp edge of joviality to his tone lead Severus to wonder how nervous the older man was.

Severus settled himself across from the headmaster and took the proffered glass with good grace.

"How are Miss Granger's lessons progressing?"

"As well as can be expected." Severus paused to run his finger along his lower lip before relenting to answer the question hidden behind Dumbledore's query. "I haven't yet told her anything unrelated to her lessons."

Dumbledore looked relieved. "Have you decided what to tell her?" he asked.

Severus raised one eyebrow. "One fact seems the obvious choice."

"I'm not certain it's that simple," responded Dumbledore, leaning forward slightly. "It is her nature to stand up for the maligned and poorly treated...think of her ill-conceived stand on house-elf rights. Once you kill me, your name will be as mud among the members of the Order. We cannot risk the possibility that she might spring to your defence."

A swooping sensation in Severus stomach left him slightly dizzy, and he gulped down a mouthful of Firewhiskey with less grace than was his wont. Dumbledore's callous reference to a future in which Severus lost the few friends and little respect he had earned cut like a knife. Not for the first time he considered that death by Unbreakable Vow might prove a preferable end. "Albus," he managed, his voice harsh, "Granger is more likely to spring to your defence than she is to mine."

Dumbledore pursed his lips and smiled at his colleague indulgently. "I think you underestimate her respect for you, Severus."

Respect that will soon be lost. Severus took another mouthful of whiskey, the burn as it slid down his throat re-grounding him only slightly against the anguish unleashed by this conversation.

"Though that, too, would be a disaster!" Dumbledore continued as if Severus' world wasn't spinning dizzily around its axis. "We certainly can't afford a situation where she attempted to stop you. Truly, I think it best not to tell anyone. Surely the calculations must refer to something else entirely?"

What would be worse, wondered Severus distractedly, to watch her respect come crumbling around my ears, or to have her think me a traitor along with everybody else? Pushing the thought away so that he didn't have to confront the tricky question of why Granger's regard meant more to him than that of Minerva or Hooch, he changed the topic abruptly.

"Surely you called me here tonight to discuss something other than Miss Granger, Albus."

"Correct, as always, Severus. I hoped to talk about wandlore."

Wandlore? "Indeed." Severus crossed one leg over the other, simultaneously irritated and relieved by the shift to such a random topic.

"You are aware, I assume, of the consequences of duelling and wand ownership."

Comprehension dawned. "Of course. I assure you, Albus, I am perfectly satisfied with my own wand and have no intention of making use of yours."

"That, my dear boy, is precisely what I hoped." Dumbledore beamed at him over his glasses, then dropped his eyes to his Firewhiskey glass. He took a deep breath, the smile gone. "What do you know about the Deathstick, or the so-called 'Wand of Destiny'?"

"As much or as little as any reasonably educated wizard . . . There are frequent rumours about the wand's existence but none have ever been proved. In recent history, Gregorovitch once boasted to have it in his possession; he claimed to use it as a model for his own creations, presumably to bolster his own reputation. Again, there's no solid evidence. Why?"

"As it happens," Dumbledore began, a nervous edge to his voice, "I have solid evidence." He withdrew his wand and placed it carefully on the desk between them.

Severus looked at it, really looked at it, for the first time. Elder.

"Gregorovitch did indeed have the wand in his possession," said Dumbledore. "It was stolen from him by Gellert Grindelwald, and I took it from Grindelwald in 1945."

There was a long pause until finally Severus spoke. "And thus when I kill you . . ." he tailed off. His mind reeling with possibilities and responsibilities.

"Yes." Dumbledore looked weary. "I wasn't going to tell you. In fact, I intended to take the secret to my grave. Surely," his voice faltered, "surely you understand how important it is that Voldemort not know, and that neither he, nor any of his Death Eaters take possession of the wand?"

"Were the Dark Lord ever to suspect," commented Severus, his voice completely devoid of emotion, "he would kill me."

"Yes," confirmed Dumbledore heavily. "It is a risk."

For a long moment, neither man spoke.

"Severus?"

Severus looked up from the amber liquid swirling in his glass and met Dumbledore's eye.

"There is powerful magic in the Elder wand; it cannot be broken, it cannot be burnt. If I could destroy it, I would."

Severus nodded his understanding. He'd never heard Dumbledore sound quite so miserable. He drained his glass then and placed it soundlessly on the desk. "I stand by what I said before, Albus," he remarked. "I am perfectly satisfied with my own wand; I will not make use of yours."

"Thank you, Severus," whispered Dumbledore, his eyes fixed on the Elder wand, which still lay on the desk between them.

As Severus rose and walked towards the door, Fawkes gave a low, musical cry. Severus shivered at the sound, but didn't pause. He would walk the halls for hours before he found sleep.