Suspicion and Sanctuary

A/Ns:

The "Seat of Ravens" (Carrifran) is the site of the Carrifran Wildwood project. Reference: In Scotland's search for roots, A push to restore wild lands. By Caroline Fraser, September 2010.

Marie was the great church bell in the north tower of Notre-Dame de Paris. She was destroyed in 1791 during the French Revolution. Emmanuel, the bourdon bell in the south tower, was spared.

Bonjour – Good day

Oui/Non – Yes/No

Pour quoi? – Why?

Mon ami – My friend

Mon Dieu – My God

Disclaimer: Canon characters are the property of J. K. Rowling and I make no money from them.

Apologies to Victor Hugo: I have taken the liberty of using an "AU inspiration" for his masterpiece The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. The "AU inspiration" exists only in imagination and has no real-world link to Mr. Hugo or his work.

Many thanks to Justice for Beta work.

Oriens slid back into the shadows as his colleague emerged from the vaults – for the third time in a week. Oriens always felt uneasy in Arawn's presence: a deep seated wariness with no obvious cause. At first, he had tried to reason his discomfort away. After all, Arawn had occupied the position of Chief Administrator of Dementors since 1981. The creatures could bring a chill to a summer's day, and Arawn spent a lot of time with them.

At least, he had until their defection to Voldemort nearly two years ago. Before the First Fall of Voldemort, Arawn had been Curator of Unidentified Antiquities: a position now classified as "floating", meaning no-one was available to fill it. This meant Arawn had every right to visit the vaults, whenever he pleased.

But Oriens' instincts would not listen to reason; they sounded an alarm whenever his fellow Unspeakable walked past. Therefore, Oriens had done as he always did when faced with the elusive and uncertain. He followed, he observed, and he waited. Only one other inhabitant of the sprawling Ministry complex knew of his suspicions. Sadly, the vast majority of wizards and witches would not regard Petrus as a living being, let alone give him credit for possessing intellect and wit. Not that any of them knew he existed as a sentient being. For anyone who saw him, Petrus was just another inanimate adornment.

Arawn reached the top of the staircase, paused to catch his breath, and scanned his surroundings with a sharp, cold eye. Not sharp enough to spot Oriens, but certainly cold enough to set him shivering. When the echo of Arawn's footsteps had faded into silence, Oriens detached himself from his gloomy observatory and began the long descent to the vaults.

He had made the silent pilgrimage many times in search of objects or manuscripts unused for centuries, their meaning and function lost in time, silence, and dust. Occasionally, a small clue would surface, and a revelation would occur. Oriens delighted in the thought of restored charms resonating with a living voice; or an artefact pulsing with long neglected power. He remembered the day he finally deciphered the ancient code of the Round Stones and gave them voice with his own body and breath. He had chanted softly for days in the Seat of Ravens, impervious to the driving sleet and bitter fog of southern Scotland. Deep in trance, he beheld shaggy forests of pine, birch, oak and juniper. In the forests, he saw boar and elk, lynx and beaver, bear and wolf. Finally, he heard the voices of Hippogriff and Centaur, Gnome and Imp – their songs had been silenced for how long?

Oriens had seen the ancient chants express their power in unexpected ways. Among Muggles, "Caledonia! Stern and wild", became a call to action as they cleared bracken, planted trees, and culled the rampant herds of deer and goats. He would never have guessed Muggle hands would restore forests razed long ago. Maybe, one day, they would tend animals not seen in the landscape for hundreds of years. Then, perhaps, the Magical creatures would return.

Oriens' ruminations had brought him to a vast underground space, hollowed out by a subterranean river, millions of years before. Because he was alone, Oriens did not use his wand to summon light. His version of Lumos was the ball of light taking shape in his cupped hands. He willed the glowing sphere to precede him as he approached the featureless door of Vault Five. He placed his hand against the smooth stone, feeling a small vibration as the wards recognised him. A faint rumble, reminiscent of a far away avalanche, greeted him as he entered the circular chamber.

"Good afternoon, Petrus," he said as he extinguished his own light and activated those of the vault.

"Bonjour, Oriens. I have to say, I am most suspicious of your cold-eyed associate."

Oriens turned his attention to a stone figure. Some would call it a gargoyle. Others would insist it was a chimera. An adventurous few would say it represented a kind of troll, cross-bred with some other unknown creature. In truth, nobody really knew.

The lack of formal definition did not bother Petrus. He insisted he did not need to be categorised in order to exist. His defiance of established wisdom was, in part, the reason he had been deported from France and confined to the London vaults. Once there, he was conveniently forgotten for more than five hundred years.

Oriens watched as Petrus stretched and yawned, his dragon-like wings and muscular arms cast ghoulish shadows extending from floor to domed ceiling. With his lupine ears and taloned fingers, his shadow was the classical image of the Muggles' idea of Satan.

"I have counted three visits this week; were there any others?" Oriens bypassed the usual banter and book exchange, hoping Petrus would see this as a request for gravity.

Petrus shook his head and grimaced, involuntarily showing his teeth. As his features resembled those of a leopard, with decidedly leonine dentition, the overall effect was alarming to say the least. "Oui, I also counted three. The third not so long before you arrived. Every time, he examined the same object. This time, he spoke. He was angry, very angry. He said something about, how you say, a half-blood? Also, he mentioned... bah! I did not properly hear the word, or perhaps it was a name."

Oriens approached one of seven stone chests arranged around the perimeter of the vault. He held his hands above it, soundlessly incanting a combined Unlocking and Identification charm. Glowing silver bands appeared on the dull stone. He made an intricate gesture with his fingers, and the heavy lid opened without a sound.

"Mon ami, there it is!" Petrus pointed excitedly. "Have you found out what it is?"

"No, Petrus, I have not. I don't know what it is, or what it does. But Arawn must have some clue; else he would not trouble himself with frequent examinations." Oriens levitated the artefact, not daring to touch it. Petrus watched, fascinated, as the long silver chain uncoiled. The pale blue disc of crystal, flanked by two silver dragons, spun slowly in the light. "Though I suspect the events of this morning may have some connection."

"What has occurred?" Petrus' ears pricked at the prospect of news.

"Voldemort was defeated this morning. He was officially pronounced dead – properly dead – two hours after sunrise. His forces are scattered, and his power is no more."

"Ah!" Petrus clapped his hands in delight, looking as though he were transported to another time and place. Notre-Dame, 1427, to be precise. "If I were still roaming the towers, I could ring the bells. I spit on these laws that say I should not! Oriens, have you ever heard Emmanuel speak? Non? You have not lived!" Petrus retrieved a volume, Notre-Dame de Paris: an illustrated history, from behind his plinth and brandished it like a weapon. "I will never forgive these Revolutionaries for the death of Marie! When she sang with Emmanuel, their voices would enchant all of Paris." He quietened as he sensed Oriens' mood. "Your people, and the other Magical ones, they have lost much in this war?"

"More than we know, I fear." Oriens walked around the suspended artefact. He turned and looked Petrus full in the face. "A half-blood wizard is missing, presumed dead. The reports are conflicting. On one hand, he was Voldemort's number one man. A Death Eater. On the other hand, Severus Snape was a member of the Order of the phoenix, and Dumbledore's trusted spy."

"Mon Dieu, what a mess! Severus. This was the name Arawn mentioned. I think he is most displeased with the Severe One." Petrus rubbed an ear as he thought for a moment. "This Monsieur Severus, he stood apart from each side, yet played a role in both?"

"More likely, he wove a tangled web between. I have to wait until the post-war hysteria settles before I enquire into the truth of the matter. If Snape turns out to be Voldemort's ally, or successor, we could be facing a serious threat."

"Pour quoi?"

Oriens counted the reasons on his fingers. "Snape is one of the most powerful wizards in Britain, assuming he is still alive. His whereabouts is not known. His true allegiance is arguable. The remaining Death Eaters have gone to ground. The Dementors are Merlin knows where. And your observations suggest 'the Severe One' is connected with this." Oriens pointed to the artefact, then added bitterly, "Arawn's interest in it is just icing on the cake."

"Longbottom?" Severus shook his head in a state of profound disbelief.

"I guess the Sorting Hat knew what it was doing," Hermione reflected. "Neville has always been brave, in his own quiet way. Not many people noticed that side of him. But I'd never have picked him as Nagini's nemesis."

Severus winced as he pictured the shy, fumbling student and his litany of cauldron-destroying disasters. To imagine the same boy brandishing Godric Gryffindor's sword, and competently dispatching Nagini, required some strenuous mental gymnastics. He leaned back in his

chair and closed his eyes, sorting through the mass of information she had given him, filling in the gaps between Nagini's attack and the death of the Dark Lord.

Dark Lord. Nobody's lord, now. Riddle, you always did hate your surname. May it be your epitaph.

He tried to picture the ruin of the Great Hall, the faces of those now dead, and the incongruous image of knife-wielding house-elves charging into battle. Potter had survived, in a series of events even he had trouble comprehending, and his duty to Lily was done.

He knew – had always known, if he were honest with himself – Lily could never have followed him along the path he had chosen. He did not deny that he had wanted her, at any cost, and he fully understood Albus' disgust. He had felt disgusted with himself more times than he could remember. Even if she had been the sole survivor of that dreadful night, anything Lily could have felt for him, after the death of her husband and son, would have been hollow. An echo: empty and tainted with sorrow. Like the results of a Love Potion. Severus was thankful he had never stooped so low as to slip her a dose. He felt inside his robes and fingered a scrap of parchment and the torn edge of a photograph. He was mildly surprised at the absence of the suffocating grief he usually felt at the very thought of Lily, let alone a physical sign of her.

The sound of movement distracted him, and he opened his eyes to watch Hermione attend to the boiling kettle as she prepared a fresh pot of tea. The routine procedure was a comforting semblance of the familiar and normal, when the reality was exactly the opposite. Then there was the incident with Fawkes. Severus drifted back into his thoughts.

"Professor?" Hermione was in the process of handing him a mug of tea, which he accepted with murmured thanks.

"Miss Granger, I doubt very much I am still considered a teacher, let alone headmaster. I believe the title of professor may be redundant."

"Oh. As you wish. Mr. Snape, then? I refuse to address you by your surname alone, like we're a pair of sniping second-years."

Their eyes met for a moment. "Given that we are not exactly in a formal situation, neither of us are in second year and not, as yet, sniping at each other, you may use my given name."

Hermione stoked the fire, adding more wood before returning to her chair. "Severus."

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Hermione."

They watched the fire for a time as each adjusted to this new familiarity. Severus looked up at the sound of a frustrated sigh and raised an eyebrow in inquiry. Hermione massaged her temples, frowning. "I really thought you were dead. There was no breath, no pulse..."

"You said so before. How long did you spend looking for signs of life?"

"I suppose not long enough."

"Evidently. I wasn't dead, though it was a very near thing. It was not Nagini's bite that nearly sent me through the Veil."

"How did you – if it wasn't Nagini... how?"

"A combination of preparedness, mixed luck, and a timely intervention by Fawkes."

"This from the man who demanded precise, thorough, and well-structured answers in both classroom and essay?"

Severus did not reply. To all appearances, he had retreated into his thoughts again.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "If you don't want to answer my question, please, just say so."

He roused himself. "In the weeks before my... final audience... Riddle was badly unhinged and steadily getting worse, growing more volatile by the day. I knew, for want of a better word, he was capable of killing anyone at any time." Severus paused and shifted uneasily. Hermione had the distinct impression he was not telling her everything. She didn't blame him.

"The existing anti-venin, the one given to Arthur Weasley, could only be administered after a bite. I explored the possibility of adapting the anti-venin so it could be taken before the event and disable the venom when it entered the bloodstream. The most insidious components in Nagini's venom were the compounds disrupting the blood clotting process. I took the research done for the Weasley case a little further and found two weak links in the venom. I developed a 'neutraliser', specifically designed to attack both links at once. When tested externally, the neutralised venom breaks down very quickly, losing all potency within two minutes. As I derived the equations to replicate the neutraliser's effects in vivo, I discovered that lowering one's body temperature and heart rate would allow the breakdown process to occur, while simultaneously minimising damage from any residual toxicity. Foxglove and Aristolocia seeds were obvious choices to achieve these physical effects."

"Hence the undetectable vital signs. Oh! I should have used a Detection charm; why didn't I think of it before?" Her annoyance gave way to intrigue. "It worked, didn't it? And it was you who left clues for the Healers to find when Mr. Weasley was bitten!"

Severus shrugged dismissively. "Yes, it worked, though I hadn't counted on a bite to a major blood vessel. I believe this is where mixed luck comes into it." He felt the side of his neck carefully. "I think she punctured one of the smaller branches of an exterior vein. I recall the blood was gushing rather than spurting."

Hermione acknowledged in the affirmative with a weak nod. "The Aristolocia would have reduced your blood pressure too; maybe that helped. Harry said you looked impossibly pale. He said it was a wonder you were actually standing."

"An unfortunate consequence of ingesting the potion. I've never felt so ill in my life."

"He said you kept staring at Nagini while Vol... Riddle... was questioning you."

"I had to convince that psychopath I feared death by Nagini more than anything else he could do, which would have been unavoidably fatal. When she went for the jugular, so to speak, I really thought that was the end of it."

"Thankfully, it wasn't," Hermione said, not noticing Severus' incredulity at her genuine relief. "Just as well you had Blood Replenishing Potion on hand."

"When dealing with Riddle, or Albus, for that matter, I found it prudent to always carry several vials of it." He folded his arms and frowned. "Though why Fawkes came to assist is a mystery to me."

"I couldn't believe it when he appeared. Out of nowhere. I wasn't convinced it was him at first. And I still insist he wanted me to loosen your collar. I saw the blood had clotted over your wounds, so I guess Fawkes just finished the healing process for you. Did you hear him sing?"

"I did. When I stood before the Veil." Severus helped himself to more tea and wrapped his hands around the mug. "I went too close to it. I didn't know what it was at the time. When I realised, I... it felt like it was pulling me through. I knew I wasn't dead, I didn't want to go through, but I couldn't move away. I heard Fawkes' song and I followed it."

"I've seen the Veil; well, you'd know about that." Hermione shivered. "How could you go close to it? It made my skin crawl just looking at it."

"As I said, at the time I didn't realise what it was. Even if I did, there were things I needed to know."

Hermione sensed he would not elaborate and changed the topic. "I wonder how Fawkes knew you needed help. Do you think Professor Dumbledore sent him?"

Severus shook his head. "Albus would not have had anything to do with sending Fawkes this time. He couldn't direct him from the other side of the Veil. I believe Fawkes was acting on his own."

"Like when Harry fought the Basilisk, perhaps. Professor Dumbledore said Fawkes had gone to Harry on his own accord because of Harry's loyalty. Fawkes knew where to find Harry, and he also knew what was needed. There's obviously more to a phoenix than we know about."

"Definitely." Severus revised what he knew about the fiery creatures. "Their interaction with anyone is based on displays of loyalty and devotion; it seems to be what they respond to. One can ask a phoenix to take action, but ultimately it is up to the bird as to whether or not anything gets done. Albus did have a very close bond with Fawkes, undeniably, but the bond did not prevent Fawkes from acting independently. As to the magical capabilities of a phoenix, I suspect the corrected, edited, and collated sum of every book ever written on the subject would describe and account for only a small fraction of their ability."

There was an academic silence as two minds contemplated phoenix lore. Only when the silence deepened did Severus look up. Hermione was sound asleep. He stood and stretched, then wandered into the other rooms for a preliminary investigation of their contents. Finding a pile of blankets in the first room, he selected one and carried it to the sleeping witch, draping it over her so deftly she did not even stir. The next room was similar in size, containing wall shelves half-filled with books, in addition to several large trunks and some cardboard boxes. Coming back into the main room, he spied a narrow door to the rear. Hermione had said it led into a bathroom, which he found to be basically equipped but serviceable, and here he stopped. A full length mirror stood against one wall. Severus stared back at himself. Thankfully, it was not an enchanted mirror. He could examine his physical state without having to endure snide comments.

Quietly, he closed the door and removed his coat. Steeling himself, he removed his waistcoat and shirt. He scanned his upper body, noting some bruising around his arms, before turning his attention to the rest of Nagini's work.

He couldn't miss where the snake's magically grafted venom fangs had sunk deep into his neck. The scars were roughly ridged and deep red. They would mark him for the rest of his life. Her unmodified teeth had left less dramatic marks, having barely broken the skin. Twin trails resembling crude Muggle stitches tracked from the fang scars to his collarbone. Fortunately, Nagini could not close her mouth with any real force when her venom fangs were extruded. Apart from a slight cut on his chest, her lower jaw had not inflicted any damage at all.

Severus rubbed his eyes and ran his left hand through his tangled hair. Slowly, hardly believing what he had glimpsed in the mirror, he examined his left forearm. The Mark had faded into oblivion along with its creator. All that remained was a small round scar where Riddle's wand had poured the evil charm into his skin.

Suddenly light-headed and desperately tired, Severus pulled on his shirt and went into the room with the blankets. With a sigh worthy of Hagrid, he stretched out on an old steel-frame bed. He was asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

Some hours later, Hermione blinked into consciousness, and frowned. The dream again. It had begun on the night of the Yule Ball. Its occurrence thereafter was sporadic, so she chose not to give it much attention. Curiously, it ceased altogether when Ron saddled himself with Lavender. On the very night Ron admitted he loved her, it returned – with startling clarity and disturbing regularity.

She had tried Dreamless Sleep, occasionally, and found it made no difference at all. The dream should have delighted her, considering her affections. But it unnerved her very deeply, and not just because of the uncannily precise repetition. It showed a scene in the distant future, where nobody seemed to have learned anything. The friends she loved, her acquaintances, and herself – all seemed so docile, half-asleep. Mundane. House rivalries and prejudices between Gryffindor and Slytherin were still there, from the Gryffindor side anyway. Surely, after all they had been through, they should have grown out of such idiocy? And as for her own part in the dreamscape, Hermione could only regard it with disbelief. Was that really herself, dull and passive, with nothing much to say? So lacking in spirit... no aura... so mundane. It was only a dream. It had to be. Harry had referred to Severus in the past tense. Of course he would. If Severus chose a life of anonymity after the War, Harry would not know he was alive. A dream, and yet...

Her pacing took her past the front room, the door stood slightly ajar. Looking in, she felt her frustrations give way to a nudge of affection. Severus had done her a small kindness in covering her with a blanket. Leaning against the door-frame, she watched him sleeping and allowed her thoughts to wander. Nothing past tense about him at all. Ridiculous dream! I can almost hear Professor Trelawney cooing over it. 'Such portents! You are in grave danger.' Ugh! What a load of twaddle. She roughly pushed any thought of Divination out of her mind. Severus, are you aware you look rather nice when you're asleep? Now where did that come from, Hermione? I dare you to tell him! Oops. Never dare a Gryffindor.

Brusquely restraining her mental wanderings and arming herself with purpose, she applied her knowledge of charms to make things a little easier for Severus while he stayed. After all, he might be here for some time, knowing the average speed of the Ministry. When she was done, she knelt beside him and deliberated on how best to wake him. Touching him was not advisable. His defensive responses were likely to be on hair-trigger. After some consideration, she softly spoke his name until he stirred and laboriously pushed himself up on his elbows.

"I keep waking up next to you," he mumbled. Hermione hid a smile; evidently he wasn't quite corpus mentis yet. She waited until his sleep-induced grogginess gave way to a more responsive state.

"I have to head back shortly; people will be wondering where I've got to. I've set all of the wards to recognise you, so you can come and go wherever and whenever you like. That includes the property boundaries if you feel the need to leave. You're no prisoner here. Just leave me a message if you do decide to go, but you are more than welcome to stay as long as you want. There are stasis charms on the food stores; all you have to do is touch the item to release them. I'm afraid it's very basic fare, stuff that will keep a long time, you know? You're familiar with Muggle appliances?"

Severus followed her into the main room. "The ones I see are familiar to me. I spent part of my childhood in a Muggle home. My father did not allow the use of magic."

Hermione accepted this surprisingly personal statement in silence before continuing. "If you look in the brown trunk in the back room you'll find some spare clothes. I transfigured them and added a size duplication charm so they should fit you. There's a map of the property on the table so you can find your way around, but I suspect some of the trails may be overgrown. The solar panels on the roof provide electricity and hot water; the control box is out on the veranda. Everything else is common sense really. If I could work it out, I'm sure you can."

Severus produced a small leather object from his pocket. "I had to miniaturise them," he explained as he dropped it on the table. "Would you mind?"

She obliged, and he took several Galleons from the un-miniaturised satchel and silently offered them to her.

"Oh, no, I couldn't. I don't need..."

"You may not feel the need to accept them, Hermione, but it is a matter of no small importance to me that you do."

Hermione gave in and accepted the money, recalling her mother's opinion of men who would not even offer to pay their own way: "Ne'er-do-well louts with no sense of pride or honour," she had said. Severus was definitely not in that category. She took out her Portkey and made ready to leave. "Severus, you will be all right, not using your magic?"

"I assure you, I can manage," he drawled, with a fleeting shadow of irritation. He paused and looked down, his hair masking his eyes. "Thank you," he muttered.

Hermione realised this was not a sentiment he was used to expressing. "You're welcome. I'll come back whenever I can. I just don't know what to expect when I return to Hogwarts; things will be chaotic for a while. I estimate you have enough supplies here for about a month, though I won't be that long. I'll send my Patronus before I do come so I don't catch you by surprise. It's an otter." She took the Portkey from her pocket. "Well, I guess I'll see you soon."

Then she was gone.

Severus spent some time staring out of a window into the darkness. He listened to the sound of rain drumming steadily on the tin roof until his stomach growled. He counted two days since he had eaten. A quick foray into the extremely well organised food cupboard solved that problem, and he forced himself to eat slowly while perusing Hermione's magically drawn map of the property. A Muggle topographical map of the general locality showed he was ensconced on the eastern side of a low, rambling mountain range. According to the scale, a small town was located some ten miles away "as the crow flies" in the middle of a broad valley. Satisfied that he now had adequate orientation on his whereabouts, and was comfortably full, he eyed the bathroom with anticipation. Cleansing charms were useful, but a week's worth of them left one longing for a thorough scrubbing. Without further delay, he set off to do battle with soap and water.

He wandered through the ruins of the Great Hall. A row of bodies caught his eye. Death Eaters. He examined his erstwhile comrades without emotion. Only two stirred any reaction within him: the corpses of Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange. He felt a deep sense of gratitude to whichever deity had allowed justice to be served.

Startled into wakefulness by the sound of maniacal laughter, Severus eased his wand into his hand, every sense on full alert. From somewhere outside, a low, rolling chuckle echoed through the cold pre-dawn air, followed by peal after peal of hysterical cackling. He let out a growling sigh as he collapsed back on his pillow. Kookaburras. Not Bellatrix. He would not have to watch his back for "Mad Bella" ever again.

"Just be thankful I'm withholding hexes, you overgrown kingfishers," he grumbled. "For now." He spent the next hour or so indulging in the luxury of dozing, then ventured out to have a proper look at what lay beyond the walls. The sun had barely risen and sent low rays of deep gold through the varied greens and greys of many hundred freshly washed Eucalypts. Severus breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the scented air. Every tree and shrub held drops of water left over from the rain; these caught the sun's rays and sparkled in all the colours of the spectrum. Tiny rainbows of dancing light. Severus stood entranced, wondering if there was something he should remember, until a thought occurred to him. He checked his left forearm again to make sure. A small celebration of Good Riddance was in order, and a medicinal-strength pot of English Breakfast would be an entirely appropriate toasting beverage.

By noon, Severus had nearly completed a thorough exploration of "The Place", as Hermione labelled it on her map, and the area immediately surrounding it. In addition to three huge tanks full to overflowing with rainwater, an empty chicken run, a vegetable garden in dire need of weeding, and a separate garden with a healthy growth of herbs where he detected the use of magic, there were three outbuildings.

The first was fitted out as, to his surprise, a very rudimentary potions lab. Hermione had anticipated the need to brew the odd medicinal or healing potion, as confirmed by the species in the herb garden. He couldn't help feeling a little pleased at this practical incarnation of his lesson plans, and would overlook the jars and bottles he recognised as having been pilfered from the Potions Store.

The second outbuilding contained metal racks full of cut wood, dried and ready for splitting. Severus picked up an axe from where it had been carelessly dropped on the floor, and tested the edge with his thumb. It wouldn't cut butter, he thought, smirking as he wondered if Hermione had ever tried to use it.

The third outbuilding looked far older and more neglected than the other two. When he opened the mightily protesting door, he felt like he had wandered into a scene from Great Expectations. From what he could see, this was a workshop, though the benches and shelves were thick with dust and cobwebs. Not Hermione's favourite haunt, I wonder why? Severus browsed carefully among the shelves. Under the evidence of undisturbed years, every tool was positioned and stored with great care and attention. Most were devices he had never seen before. After a cursory examination, he concluded they had something to do with woodworking. The other tools were of the engineering variety.

Memories surfaced of watching his father strip down and rebuild small engines in the tiny lean-to adjoining the house at Spinner's End. Neighbours often brought mechanical devices to his father, affirming to each other: "If Toby can't mend it, it'll go for scrap." A weight settled in his chest. That was before his magic began to manifest itself in more forceful ways than could be disguised or explained away. Before the mill closed. Before the dole, the drink, the empty stomach, the endless fighting, and the bruises.

Seeking solace, he turned his thoughts to his friendship with Lily. Her parents actually encouraged their daughter in her use of magic, and they valued it as something remarkable. To his astonishment, they also accepted him as her best friend.

He recalled an expedition with Lily's father to the Salford Docks. Mr. Evans worked as a welder in the repair yards and took the children on an outing there one day during school holidays. Petunia had stayed home. She said it was not normal, or nice, for girls to be mucking about where men work. Allowed free rein, Severus and Lily "captured" a small cargo ship in dry-dock, safely guiding it to safe harbour through force ten gales, while fighting off dozens of sea-serpents. As they clambered "ashore", Mr. Evans stopped to talk with one of the shipwrights. Severus had not intended to listen in, but the topic had relevance to him, and he absorbed every word.

"I read it's gettin' worse – all started wid t' mills shuttin' t' gates five year ago, now it's everywhere." Old Norton brushed wood shavings off his burly arms and pointed to a discarded newspaper. "We're takin' on no more 'prentices in any of t' workshops. All t' young lads wid naught t' do but get into trouble. Even Gray's over in Hartlepool is facin' liquidation. Did my 'prenticeship there, I did. Ne'er guessed I'd see t' place go down."

Mr. Evans looked worried. "I heard on the wireless, Scotland too. Places along the Clyde are foldin' one after the other. Hundreds of men linin' up for one or two jobs."

"An' them what 'as work is guardin' it wid angle iron an' steel cap boots. God 'elp any daft bugger as goes lookin' in Liverpool or London." Norton retrieved the newspaper and spread it out on a grimy bench. "Tha's not t' only evil. I seen more women an' young-uns wid bruises in t' pas' year that I 'ave in me entire life. When I were lad, t' only time yer ever saw a man on t' street was when 'e were goin' t' work, comin' 'ome, and mebbe goin' t' church. Now t' only reason yer don' see 'em on t' street is 'cause they're in t' flamin' pub. Men wid sod all t' do but drink an' fight, an' it's gonna get a lot worse."

Mr. Evans leafed through the newspaper, his expression of worry becoming one of alarm. "This is it, then. We're seein' the end of an era."

"We are." At Norton's gruff reply a sense of finality settled over the workshop, and Severus knew the Muggle world was going to become even harder to live in. He took it as a warning to be ready, if not armed. His thoughts turned to the book he had found, hidden in the roof space above the attic. It contained some useful hexes – if he could conquer his fear and work out how to command them. Especially the ones written in blood.

"There's options, though," Norton took a short black pipe out of his pocket and began packing the bowl with tobacco, "for them as wants t' take 'em. Lor' knows, if I were young, I'd be lookin' at it." Norton turned to the back pages of the newspaper. "'Ere, there's Gdansk in Poland if yer fancy freezin' yer bits off. South Africa, they're askin' for workers – jus' don' run foul o' the law else ye'll ne'er be seen again. Australia's sayin' they'll take anyone who can 'old a spanner, an' even pay 'em t' come over. If yer like sheep an' flies. An' it's hot as Hell's hearthstones."

Mr. Evans laughed. "Wasted talents, Norton. You should've been in the Civil Service, international spokesman. Not for me; I'll see it out here."

Mr. Evans had spoken with the children afterwards, telling them they both had a very special gift and to use it wisely. A gift that would see them safely away from the dole queues and the turmoil of an entire society in collapse. He told them they had the opportunity to make something of their lives, rather than seeing themselves thrown on the scrap heap before they even left school. Good advice, Mr. Evans. At least Lily listened to you. I stuffed it up completely. Think of every synonym for "thoughtless" and "idiot", and you might come close. Maybe Lily told you. We're friends again, by the way, after all these years. "'Bout time too", you'd say. His mood somewhat purged, he picked up an oil can. A few drops on the hinges would stop them screaming like uprooted Mandrakes every time he opened the door.

As the sun began to angle westwards, Severus set out along a trail following a long-neglected fence line. As he walked through the open woodland, he made mental notes of the plants he could see and their uses, stopping only once to give way to a startled whip snake as it crossed the trail and vanished into a clump of long grass. At length, the woodland gave way to a grassy clearing, beyond which he could see the northern fence and the entry gate.

According to Hermione's map, the gravel road passing the gate joined a bitumen road a half-mile away. From there, it wound down the range in a series of broad loops to the valley floor. Severus was not interested in exploring beyond the boundary fences. He sat on a log and contemplated his surroundings.

After some minutes of enjoying the near perfect silence, he heard the distant sound of footfalls on gravel and a voice calling what sounded like encouragements. Interest piqued, Severus slid behind the log, positioning himself so as to have a clear view of the road. The sound of crunching gravel grew steadily louder; two sets of four heavy hooves and the rumble of wheels. The voice could be heard clearly now, and under the slow drawl characteristic of rural Australia, Severus detected the inflexions of a Manchester dialect.

"Not far now, Carbine. Keep it up lad! Carlton! Pick yer feet up!"

Two Clydesdales laboured into view, chestnut flanks dark with sweat, hauling a simple flat cart stacked with timber. Though their harness was drab and well-worn, not even a wizard could deny they were a magnificent sight as they poured heart and soul into their work.

"Ease up, lads. Well done!" The horses' human companion appeared as they huffed and snorted to a halt on a level section of road just beyond the gate. The man had been walking beside the cart, directing the horses by voice alone.

Out of habit, Severus assessed him carefully. He was about as tall as himself, with a rangy build. His Muggle clothing was as work-worn as the horses' harness. He moved with a loose-jointed gait, suggestive of wiry strength and quick reflexes. As he walked around the horses, patting their necks and inspecting their hooves, Severus heard occasional phrases as man addressed animal; "good rub-down", "extra molasses", "downhill from now on", and "one more run up 'ere next Sat'day should do it."

Severus strained for a look at the man's face without success. The subject wore an ancient felt hat which shaded his eyes, and he faced the horses most of the time. At that moment, Severus felt a prickling in his fingertips, and the hair on his arms stood on end. He could have sworn the man was a Muggle, yet he was detecting the unmistakable sign of magic.

He watched as the man tested the ropes holding the load of timber in place, loosening one of them before re-tying it in a complicated hitch. If a wizard used ropes at all, he would most certainly use magic to re-tension them. Unless he had reasons for not using magic.

Severus scowled, thwarted in his attempted deductions. His current circumstances aside, he had been in many situations where the use of magic was not advantageous. However, he could not see any volatile substances, skittish magical creatures, or carnivorous plants of irritable disposition.

"Now then, lads." The call was a command, and the horses leaned forward as the cart's brake was released. "Walk on!"

Severus waited until they were well out of range before emerging. He probed Hermione's wards with his mind, finding them completely undisturbed. Cautiously approaching the gate, he scanned the spot where the horses had pulled up, sensing no trace of magic at all. Resorting to practicality, he shelved the mystery for now. He would ask Hermione about the man and the Clydesdales whenever she came back.

He unfolded Hermione's map and examined it again, choosing to follow a trail marked "to Fig Trees." As Hermione had warned him, it was indeed overgrown. He took his time, choosing his way carefully around tangled thickets, fallen trees, and the occasional writhing tendril of Dragon's Spur with its inch-long spines. Abruptly, the ground fell away into a steep decline littered with smooth, mossy boulders. The air grew cool and moist as Severus descended into a deep gully. Reaching the bottom, he looked around with raised eyebrows and unrestrained approval. Massive fig trees stood in almost orderly lines along each side of the gully floor, their buttress roots snaking between worn and tumbled rock. Overhead, their leafy branches met and merged, forming a dense vaulted canopy through which the afternoon sun filtered, bathing the entire space in a luminous green light. There was no undergrowth to speak of, only scattered bracken and a few small trees making use of occasional patches of light. One of these caught his eye. "Duboisea," he whispered, as his mind raced with inspiration. He approached the tree and pressed its spongy bark, then crushed a few leaves, catching the scent of the ingredient he sought. "I know exactly what to do with you," he said.