Chapter Twelve

I Apparated to the warehouse, taking the time to cast a charm about me as I stepped into Cottontrader Row. I had never done that before, but my sense of danger was so heightened and my nerve ends so taut that I doubted any precautions I took for my personal safety were overdone. Little did I know then that these very precautions were prompted by but a tiny taste of the gut-wrenching feeling of being observed that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

It had been quiet earlier, when I had left for the manor, but as I passed out of Cottontrader Row into Spinner's End, I saw a man standing at the junction of the two shabby little streets, as though waiting for something or someone. He glanced at me only briefly, and I could almost hear his sigh of disappointment that he had to wait longer still to see Severus Snape pass. Although he too had disguised himself, he was bored, probably having been standing in the rain for much longer than he would have wished, and it wasn't difficult for me to identify him as Evan Rosier. Tempted as I was to tap him on the shoulder and let him acknowledge himself as the failure he was, I didn't want to stop, or even change pace, and I walked past him, stifling even the urge to make any attempt to see what lay in the top layers of his mind. Lucius's advanced abilities in Occlumency had made me cautious; I just didn't want to take the risk that Rosier too, unlikely as that was, had hidden talents. Of course, there was no good reason why Rosier should not be able to inform Riddle that I was going home, but I felt no small victory at letting him wonder for the few moments until I disappeared under the charm of the house, and left a space where I had been. I only hoped he had been looking in the right direction at the time, otherwise it was going to be a long wet evening for him.

Dumbledore met me at the door to Spinner's End, and I could feel his anxiety and relief as I crossed into the hall. I fully understood his concern; he had told me not to use his stone unless I was in desperate straits, and I had been, we all had been, and I included Lucius in that. Andromeda was standing behind him, equally worried, but perhaps for different reason; then again, perhaps I flatter myself, she was, after all, close to Sirius.

Dumbledore surprised me by speaking openly in front of not only Andromeda, but Ethel too, and I knew something about Ethel must have been explained to his satisfaction, although to be fair, he hadn't had time to enlighten me before I left. Whatever it was, I was content to trust his judgement and wait until he knew what he needed to know, before I learned what I wanted to know.

I told him about Black and Lupin first, and how I had left them, and he told me that Poppy Pomfrey and two other Healers were waiting in his office, and would do so until they returned. I doubled back on my story to fill them in, and I had just got to Riddle and Abraxas's arrival in the catacombs, when Ethel interrupted me, from where she sat looking out of her picture, like a nosey old neighbour hanging out of a window

'Next time, try not to be so inventive, dear,' she began. 'We had a bit of a job with your little codex.'

'Perhaps I should have asked him for a copy of "Hogwarts: A History",' I suggested, more than a little put out.

'Don't be facetious, Severus. It suits you rather too well,' she said. 'I was merely implying that we were a little pushed for time to deal with such a unique item.'

I turned to her, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. 'How did you do it anyway?' I asked, holding the book up. 'How could you possibly have been able to produce this, when you didn't know what I needed?'

'I shouldn't bother wasting too much time translating it, my boy,' Dumbledore said, something annoyingly amused in his eyes.

'Are you telling me this isn't real?' I gasped at the implication of that. 'Riddle opened it ...What ... what if he has memorised anything he saw?' I spluttered, and turned to Ethel, unable to keep the unreasonable accusation from my voice. 'You told me he had total recall. What if he's memorised whatever he read?'

Ethel's features had hardened somewhat. 'I was of the belief that the codex couldn't be copied accurately,' she reproved me. 'Anyway, he may take whatever potion for wart cures he finds as being important to the preparation of Aqua Vitae, if he cares to,' she remarked, leaving me in no doubt that she was a lot more able to think her way out of tight spot than I was at that time; then again, I supposed a thousand years of practice had helped. On the other hand, I hadn't even pointed out to her that memorising wasn't the same thing as copying, although I'm fairly sure she would have had an answer to that too.

'This is a book of recipes?' I gasped again. 'A book of old wives' cures for petty ailments?'

'Perhaps we should have left him where he was, and gone to the Vatican for the real thing,' Dumbledore murmured, giving Ethel a sidelong look that spoke of renewed trust, while Andromeda laughed in rather superior amusement that left me feeling uncomfortably foolish.

***

Ethel and Andromeda had stayed in the living room, Ethel keeping to her picture for a nap, and Andromeda reading, when Dumbledore and I had gone through to the kitchen. He wanted to speak to me alone as much as I wanted to speak to him. Too much was happening, and I needed to understand what powers I had backing me up, and just whom to trust, and how far that trust should go. I knew he had some things he wanted to air too, and I had a suspicion that Andromeda was one of them. It took him a long time to get there though; he had a story to tell first, and whilst I found none of it surprised me, much of it left me moved to my very core.

Godric and Ethel, or Emeline as she had been then, had been something like the Romeo and Juliet of their day, coming as they had from two families, perhaps not at war with one another, but certainly with ideals at odds. She had eloped with Godric, and the couple had four children, two sons and two daughters, the branches of whom led either directly or indirectly to every one of the present day Gryffindors.

When Godric died at the age of a hundred and seventy-two, Emeline had gone into mourning, keeping to the home they had lived in when he was not involved with the vision, and latterly the reality, of Hogwarts. Emeline was, of course, an old lady herself by then, and as she watched her own children and her grandchildren die too, she felt that it was time for her to be re-united with her beloved Godric. She had gone one last time to converse with the Merpeople at the great sea next to the home she had shared for so many years with Godric, and to whose care she had committed his earthly remains. As she stood for what she expected to be the last time, her bare feet lapped by the waves which washed the shingle, she saw not the Merpeople, but a young boy walking towards her. He came from the direction of the deep rock pool where she had laid Godric's body, awaiting the first high tide to wash it to its final resting place. The boy seemed not to look at her, busy as he was polishing a small white stone on his doublet, and yet she knew he had seen her.

Emeline waited for a while after the boy left, before finally understanding that the Merpeople would not be summoned that day. When she went back to her house she found the boy sitting at her relit fire, polishing his white stone. She looked to the fireplace and saw the stone was but one of three the boy had brought with him. One red, one black, and the white one.

The boy had no name that he could recall and didn't seem to know from whence he had come, and despite her great age Emeline took him in. For many days he sat staring into the fire, just polishing his stones, sometimes one, sometimes another. Every now and again he would look up at Emeline and tell her he had polished another nick out of a stone, and it would soon be perfect. Then he would stare into the fire for a while, and polish his stones again, occasionally murmuring that yet another nick had been smoothed. She felt a renewed contentment with her lot as the days passed, until one day the boy summoned her from her cooking stove to look at the row of perfect stones on the fireplace.

'No nicks, at last. They are as they should be,' he declared in some sort of triumph, lifting the white one to polish it on his doublet.

'What would you like me to call you?' she had asked him then, but the boy had just shaken his head and polished his stones and looked into the fire. She looked to the fire too, where the stones sat in a row, with no nicks, at last. She called him Nicolas, as though he had picked the name for himself, and Flamel for staring into the fire, and he seemed content with that.

It was the very stuff of legends, and yet a secret, and I wondered why it had never been told. I found myself expressing, perhaps not doubts, but speculation that she had made bits up.

'Ethel did not tell me this, Severus,' Dumbledore said. 'Nicolas did. He was with me this morning when I got the news about Sirius and Remus.'

'And the stones?' I asked. 'The white one is the stone you lent me?'

'It is but one third part of the original.' Dumbledore nodded. 'When the earth was young, just a flaming ball, three stones were fused together and lay below the sea for eons, until they were washed up on the day that Emeline went to go to the Merpeople. Nicolas maintains that he found the original large stone as he saw an old woman walk toward the shore, and as she raised her arms to call the Merpeople the stone fell apart in his hand to leave three others. One was the white stone, the red one became the Philosopher's Stone,' he said, and I felt him watch me as he said this last, to see if I knew that Flamel owned the Philosopher's Stone. I didn't see any point in denying it, or even showing surprise.

'The other stone?' I asked, although I suspected I knew the answer. 'The third one?'

Dumbledore sighed. 'The other one was flat, black and shiny.'

'Mordestone?' I whispered. 'But how did it find its way to Tom Riddle?'

'We do not know,' Dumbledore admitted. 'When Nicolas married Perenelle, some three hundred years later, they went to live in Paris. In fact they stayed there for many years, enjoying some degree of celebrity from time to time. It was during this time, towards the end of the centuries he lived in France, that his home was burgled, but as nothing appeared to have been stolen, Nicolas assumed that he had disturbed the intruders. He was in the habit of carrying two of the stones on his person at all times, but the black one he left in a case, hidden in his fireplace. He told me that he somehow felt that, whilst the black stone seemed not to care for the white one, it seemed to covet the other. Indeed, it was only many months later that Nicolas found that the black stone had disappeared,' he said. 'And shortly thereafter, Grindelwald rose to power.' Dumbledore looked away, and I knew enough of that particular part of history not to need to question him.

'But Ethel died,' I said, changing direction. 'Why? She had access to the Philosopher's Stone if her body were failing her. Surely Flamel would not have denied her?'

'For many years, many centuries in fact, she had longed to pass over, Severus,' the old man replied, and I thought there was something almost longing, some empathy with her, in the way he spoke. 'But she was always left with the feeling that her work was undone, although she did not know why that was. She had been living for a time in Italy, and she had come back here for a few years, feeling that the time had finally come. She called Nicolas and Perenelle to her and asked that they help her to return to the place where she had lived with Godric. Once there, she made her final appeal to the Merpeople. They heard her call on the day you left Hogwarts.'

I felt the blood in my cheeks freeze, and the tiny hairs at the back of my neck rise. The ancient witch in Italy who had claimed to be almost a thousand years old had been Ethel; it was reasonable to suspect that the fact that she had dropped from sight was enough to make people assume that so aged a crone had merely died. I had worked that out a couple of days before, I suppose, but then I consciously acknowledged it. Yet Ethel's original letter to me had intimated that she had never visited the olive grove in Tuscany that she had left me. I set it mentally aside, sure in the knowledge that there would be many other inconsistencies, and just as sure that she would have an answer for each one. It must have been from Italy that she had gone to stay in the mill owner's house in Northumberland, the one I had sold, before she finally sent for Nicolas.

'And the white stone?' I asked. 'How did it come to be in your possession?'

Dumbledore looked across the table at me, layers and layers of other men's pain and troubles in his eyes, and I wondered how he bore the weight. He laid his hand on top of mine and squeezed it. 'Nicolas gave it to me, a long time ago,' he said. 'But it was only this morning that he told me that it was on the day you were born.'

I sat in silence for a while, trying to collect my thoughts from where he had scattered them. I thought of Andromeda, and Black and Lupin, and I thought of Lucius, and Lily. I thought of Ethel, and the years and more countless years she had lived, unquestioning of her purpose and yet trudging down whatever path lay in front of her, and I found I had only one question.

'Why me?'

Dumbledore shook his head. 'We do not know,' he said. 'But we know it is so.'

He stood up, leaving all the questions I should have asked, unspoken. I knew he needed to be back at Hogwarts, to wait for Black and Lupin, and I found myself wondering if I had done enough, if I had even begun to live up to what seemed to be expected of me, and felt nothing but miserable failure. I had not ministered any of Black's wounds, indeed I did not even know what they were; I had not allayed Lupin's fear properly, nor had I explained to him what had to be done if Black were not capable; I had not helped Lucius, or even taken the proper time to find out where his heart lay.

'You have exceeded my expectations, Severus,' Dumbledore said, laying a hand on my shoulder. 'And I have been expecting for a very long time. Do not be so critical of yourself; it is a great failing of yours. We shall talk again at length, once I know Black and Lupin are safe. As to Lucius ... and I know you are troubled by him, let us see how the land lies in a few days.' He gave me a level look, one I returned, even as I knew what was coming next. 'Remember, Severus, Andromeda is with child to the man to whom she is betrothed.'

'I know,' I replied. 'But I loved her first.'

***

Dumbledore didn't stay much longer, and I could tell he was anxious to get back to Hogwarts to see if there were any news of Black and Lupin. I stayed in the kitchen when he went through to have a few words with Ethel and Andromeda, hearing snatches of their conversation, until I heard the front window open and close behind the bee. I hoped I would be left alone for a while. I know that after longing for Andromeda for such a long time that I should have preferred her company to my own, but I was a solitary man at heart, and the last couple of days of almost constant company were beginning to make me feel stifled. I know the real cause of that was Dumbledore, and Black when he had been there, but when I added the ubiquitous Ethel, and then Andromeda, not to mention Tom Riddle and Lucius dropping by, it was too much for me. I longed for the solitude of my living room and my books and my desk, and a bottle of malt whisky, and some room to think.

I couldn't work out how to go about asking Ethel and Andromeda to change places with me, so that I could go into the living room. Selfish, I know, but I don't claim to anything else, not where my personal space is concerned. It made me wonder what kind of husband I could possibly have proven to be, if I had been given the chance, or taken it, as the case really had been; perhaps it was as well I hadn't. I'd been fretting and working myself up into some sort of resentful anxious mess for about half an hour, when I realised that there was no sound of voices coming from the living room. I wondered if either Andromeda had fallen asleep, or if Ethel had stayed in her picture and left Andromeda reading. My curiosity overtook my ill temper, and I went through to see what was happening. The room was empty of people, just my furnishings and books, and a photograph on the mantelpiece of an old lady and a woman with black hair; they were tending some rose bushes.

'We've got a lot to do here, Severus, to get the garden ready for winter. Can you manage on your own for a few hours, dear?' Ethel said brightly. 'Just let me know when you're ready for dinner and we'll come back out. There's hot tea on your desk, and I've hidden your whisky.'

I gave her a hurt look, and then let my eyes slide to the beautiful woman who was picking the dead heads off some flowers, and felt the familiar longing, this time laced with pleasure. I didn't think Andromeda could see out of the picture in the way that Ethel and Dumbledore seemed to, but I was suddenly glad of both women's company, to the extent of feeling quite excluded when Ethel turned her picture round to face the wall.

***

I lay awake most of that night; not even Andromeda's soft breathing, and the way that when she moved some part of her always seemed to touch me, were able to calm the anxiety that threatened to rip from me, screaming, at any moment. Dumbledore had neither returned nor sent any message about Black and Lupin, and I fretted between wondering if I should risk the trip to Hogwarts, or go instead to the manor to see if there was anything else I could do there. And yet both options would have left Andromeda alone in the house, and although I had few residual doubts about Ethel, I was unhappy leaving Andromeda alone with just an old lady to protect her. That apart, Dumbledore had taken the white stone back from me, and I doubted that either he or Ethel could aid me in any way if I left Spinner's End.

'Try to get some rest, Severus,' Andromeda murmured sleepily from my side.

I stifled my sigh, and tried to lie quietly and let my mind wander to other things. But my dragons would not be caged, and I could not even find a fantasy to latch onto, not when the real thing was lying at my side. I pushed the bedclothes aside, and as I stood up I found my eyes drawn to the Dark Mark. Even in just the pale light of the almost full moon the obscenity seemed to leer at me in invitation, and at last I understood what I had been feeling. Riddle was calling me, and I would have no rest until I went to him. I pulled on the shirt I had tossed aside earlier, in some way hoping that covering the Mark would banish it from my mind as it had done before. It made no difference of course, my arm had been below sheets but moments before, and I knew that this feeling was different to the other terror I had felt when the Mark was exposed.

Dawn was just trying to creep into the sky when I eventually went downstairs to find Ethel staring into the fire the way she had two days before, when I had wondered if she were communicating with someone else.

'Who are you talking to?' I asked, and found I didn't really need the answer, and I felt shamed by having doubted her. 'It's Godric, isn't it?'

She turned slowly, and I could see she blinked her eyes rapidly, as though hiding some emotion too deep for a mere mortal to understated. 'Yes, dear,' she said. 'His portrait has spoken with Phineas Black's,' she went on. 'Sirius and Lupin have not returned.'

I made my decision, and the Dark Mark had already given me my excuse. 'Can you protect Andromeda if I go back to the manor?' I asked.

'Yes, dear,' she said, and I did not doubt her. 'Bring her downstairs and we shall retire to the picture now. I shall ask Godric to get Phineas to speak to Dumbledore to let him know.'

'Can't Godric speak to Dumbledore directly?' I asked. 'His portrait is in Hogwarts, after all.'

'Oh, no, dear,' she replied, turning again to the fire. 'No one alive may approach any one of the four founders. Only the dead have the right of audience before the highest court of our people.'

I nodded my acceptance. 'Will you have him send someone here to protect you? Make sure they understand the street is being watched.'

'It is already done.' She looked up at me. 'Even now, two are on their way. Phineas says that you will know you can trust them when you see them. You must wait until they get here, for they bear with them Nicolas's gift to Albus. You must not leave here without it.'

I felt no small measure of relief that I would have the stone with me, and I climbed the stairs to rouse Andromeda. It wasn't much later when there was a short sharp rap at the front door. At first I thought it was a trick when I opened the door and saw no one, and it wasn't until I felt a cat weave its sinuous way between my legs that I understood. I almost gave out a yelp of fright as the sensation repeated itself, this time by a larger, more battered looking cat than the neat little mackerel-striped tabby I had recognised as Minerva McGonagall. I waited with almost bated breath to see just into whom the second feline would materialise, and found myself strangely comforted by the appearance of a man whose mistrust in me was almost equal to my dislike of him, and Alastor Moody fixed his magical eye on Ethel.

'A snake and a ghost,' he muttered sourly to McGonagall, ignoring the fact that, despite his opinions, neither Ethel nor I was deaf. 'Is this Dumbledore's idea of protection?'

'Enough, Alastor,' McGonagall replied. 'You were only asked to accompany me because your Animagus form was suitable ...' she said, raising her eyebrow until it had all but disappeared under her hat, '... and there was no one else Albus was able to spare.' She turned to where I stood between Ethel and Andromeda, as though we three had closed ranks. She held up her hand as though to stall me from speaking, and took a tiny package from her pocket. 'Do not ask me for this, Severus,' she said quickly. 'It must be given to you without having been requested.'

Minerva had never called me by my given name before, and that alone made me feel that she, at least, had somehow accepted me. I took the package from her, feeling not only the reassuring weight of the stone, but also that it seemed to place itself as a buffer between me and the constant calling of the Riddle's Mark. That reminded me of Dumbledore warning me to beware lest the black stone recognised the white, and I wondered if whatever part of Mordestone resided in me had done just that ... and that gave me something else to worry about.

****