Gossip and Guesswork

A/Ns:

Bush telegraph: an inclusive term for all forms of communication in remote areas.

Dinkum: shortened form of "Fair dinkum". In the context of this chapter, it translates to "I'm telling you the truth."

Jackeroo: male farm worker usually involved with cattle, horses or sheep.

D'accord: OK/agreed

Évidemment: of course

La question est: the question is

Thanks again to Justice for beta-work.

Canon characters are the property of J.K. Rowling. I do not make a single cent from them.

Arawn prowled restlessly in his study. Across his desk lay untidy piles of parchment and scrolls. He knew the contents of every document by heart and could recite them word for word if he put his mind to it. He had searched them over and over again, trying to find the smallest clue as to the artefact's purpose. Again, he had found nothing he didn't already know. Sighing, he stood motionless as he remembered the day it first passed through his hands. Its beauty, the sensation of its antiquity, and the aura of power it exuded immediately captivated and intrigued him.

The artefact had been found on the body of a Death Eater, identified as Alroy Crevan, who was fatally wounded in a short skirmish with Aurors not long after the murders of James and Lily Potter. Interestingly, Crevan did not wear the artefact. He carried it in a small box of black iron, secured in his pocket with a Sticking charm. The box was embossed with the Skull and Serpent, and it took all of Arawn's skill to open it.

To Arawn, these observations meant three things: Voldemort placed great value on the artefact, the high-ranking Crevan was entrusted to be its bearer, and it was not in use. As to why it was not in use, Arawn could only wonder. Perhaps Voldemort did not know what it was or how to use it. With ancient magical artefacts this was not an uncommon situation. Maybe Voldemort did know but was not ready to use it.

There was a third possibility. Sometimes magical objects would only work properly for a specific wizard or witch, a connection often passed on through familial inheritance. Voldemort may have been waiting for a specific person to come to him, or to be proved loyal, if the person in question had already taken his Mark.

Arawn had made numerous attempts to extract the artefact's secrets, but the protective charms and wards had a power he had never encountered before. Like a mental labyrinth, they led him down one false path after another, contemptuously spitting him out at the very point where he had started. He felt drained and ill after every attempt. No other Unspeakable dared try an investigation. Even Oriens, fearless when it came to explorations into the unknown, refused to tamper with it. Oriens had good reason for renitence. He was the one who had found Arawn sprawled on his back, artefact in clenched hand, catatonic with exhaustion and incapable of speech.

To his chagrin, Arawn did not get the chance to investigate further. Amid a chaotic reorganisation of departments after the First Wizarding War, he was removed from the position of Curator of Unidentified Antiquities. The artefact itself was consigned to the vaults, joining countless other objects no-one alive had any claim to. He took up his new position as Chief Administrator of Dementors reluctantly, though he was determined to make the best of it. While his new charges could not, in any sense, be described as winsome creatures, he soon found himself fascinated with their brooding ways. Once he had learned to shield his body and mind from the effects of their presence, the Dementors followed his instructions with detached compliance.

An unexpected insight into the artefact arrived in the form of a heavily chained and guarded Augustus Rookwood. The ex-Unspeakable and Death Eater joined the inmates of Azkaban nearly a year after the Potter murders and Voldemort's unexpected demise. Arawn stood as witness to the interrogation, a Dementor silently hovering beside him. During the questioning, Arawn merely observed, as he had been instructed to do, until he heard a name mentioned. The name was connected with the artefact, which still hung, like a crystalline ghost, in the back of his mind. Augustus, in a desperate attempt to plea-bargain, had bitterly vilified a fellow Death Eater: "Voldemort's favourite! That's who I'm talking about. The smirking, skulking, spawn of a Muggle dog! If it weren't for Malfoy and that grave-robber, Crevan, we'd have done part of your job for you long ago! Dumbledore vouches for him? Faugh! Snape has you all fooled, then, hasn't he?"

For an organisation with a vehement hatred of anyone lacking the correct blood status, it was strange to hear of a half-blood being recruited, let alone finding favour with Voldemort. True, Voldemort himself was a half-blood – a fact conveniently overlooked by his Death Eaters. However, as Augustus bluntly stated, some in the organisation resented Snape's presence. So, Arawn thought, Snape had minders? Crevan and Malfoy, evidently. It has to be Lucius Malfoy. Abraxas passed through the Veil years ago. Arawn was distracted by the Dementor's restless shifting. Without thinking, he mentally told the creature to be patient. He barely managed to contain his fright when a voice slid into his mind. The voice fell, deadweight, into his consciousness. Arawn imagined it was the sound rotting bones might make as they crumbled under their own weight. A sensation uncomfortably suggestive of cold skeletal fingertips spider-walked up his spine.

"Hungry," the voice said, and Arawn's heavily shielded fear slowly gave way to exhilaration. Dementors could communicate!

Bringing himself back to the present, Arawn summoned the Azkaban prisoner lists. Even four weeks after Voldemort's second demise, he could not believe his luck. Rookwood had been stunned by Aberforth Dumbledore during the Battle of Hogwarts and now resided in Azkaban – for a third time. Lucius Malfoy, apprehended in the Great Hall, graced a cell on the same floor as Rookwood.

Arawn's familiarity with the prison layout would prove most useful. He had not been able to privately question either wizard during their previous terms of incarceration. Things were very different now. When the Dementors defected to Voldemort, Arawn engineered his way into the senior ranks of the Azkaban prison staff – Interrogations Section.

If only Snape had been found. Snape's death was a distinct possibility; there had been no trace of him physically or magically. Arawn shook himself out of a sudden rush of anger. He had no definite proof Snape was linked to the artefact – why waste his energies in temper? As for questioning Rookwood and Malfoy, he could bide his time. He was sure more productive uses would be soon found for the large contingent of guards currently attending both wizards. He checked his wards and shields, cast a Silencing charm on his entire study, and sent a summons. He settled down to wait. Even if it did cross the English Channel by slip-streaming above the Eurotunnel Shuttle, the swiftest of Dementors could take some time.

If he was an Animagus, as well as an Unspeakable, Minerva was sure he would take the form of a goat. Or something goat-like. She caught herself, more than once, looking for a set of horns in his mane of loose dark curls. Or trying to catch a glimpse of his ears – surely they were pointed? His pale gold eyes unnerved her – and not simply because his coffee-brown skin accentuated them in startling contrast. Several times, she thought she had seen the pupils as horizontal slits. She adjusted her spectacles and looked again. His pupils were round and entirely normal.

"I am sure you understand," she said, "aside from what I have just spoken of, I cannot give you any more factual information regarding Professor Snape. However, I will reiterate, he was working for the light. The whole time." Minerva's voice shook. "And we all treated him shamefully."

Oriens sat forward in his chair, bracing his hands on his knees as he straightened his arms. "From everything I have heard he didn't cultivate anyone's good regard. Every ex-student I have spoken to marks him as a vicious-tempered, points-deducting bully. Even those from Slytherin House were wary of him. Though I must admit his competence as a teacher speaks for itself. The best healing potions are invariably produced by his former students."

Minerva discreetly dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "There could be any number of reasons for his unapproachable nature. Some, I think, I may know. Others are mere conjecture, perhaps wishful thinking for his sake. Have you spoken to Mr. Potter?"

"Not yet. Mr. Potter's information is classified at the highest level. Until he is heard before the Wizengamot, Mr. Potter is not to be approached on the subject of Professor Snape's loyalties. He and Miss Granger have been most adroit in badgering the Ministry. They make a formidable team when they have a cause to fight for. I note young Mr. Weasley does not share their enthusiasm."

Minerva gave a rueful smile. "I don't think Mr. Weasley is willing to change his opinion of Professor Snape. It was a surprise to everyone when Mr. Potter insisted his words during the Battle of Hogwarts were true. We all thought he was being very clever and baiting Voldemort into acting rashly. I have never seen a young man so dismayed, and he would not be consoled. He said he never even tried to keep a civil tongue in his head when dealing with Professor Snape. Mind you, Professor Snape never did anything to win Mr. Potter's goodwill. To all evidence, they absolutely detested each other." Minerva gazed at a rack of ink bottles, untouched since Severus had last used them. "It must have been unbearably hard for him," she said as she glanced pointedly at Albus' empty portrait, "seeing the eyes of his beloved friend in a face so like his most hated enemy's."

Oriens waited until the Headmistress emerged from her reverie before asking his next question. "Did Mr. Weasley follow his friend's example in lack of civility?"

Minerva Levitated a tiny spider away from the ink bottles, depositing the creature in a shaded corner of a window ledge. "Not with quite the same intensity. He was never as reckless when it came to insubordination. In staff meetings, Professor Snape did not rail against him nearly as much as he did Mr. Potter."

"And Miss Granger?"

"Miss Granger always treated Professor Snape, and the subject he taught, with respect. She is one of the very few students who never engaged in backbiting him. Her Potions marks were consistently good, and he rarely took points from her. Oh, he would grumble about her occasionally, but nothing serious by his standards. I think she tested Professor Snape's patience with her zeal to be first to answer every question. Admittedly, she could get a little overenthusiastic."

Oriens looked thoughtful. "Would it be possible to speak with Miss Granger? I understand she has taken a room in Gryffindor Tower while she prepares for her N.E.W.T.s year."

Minerva's brows knitted as she removed her spectacles and sighed deeply. "I shall make bold to use my position as Headmistress and refuse permission at this point in time. Miss Granger has recently been through a very personal upset, which is one reason she is residing here, rather than Grimmauld Place. If you have seen the Prophet's latest cover story, I think you are able to gauge the delicate nature of her situation."

Oriens nodded soberly. Intrigue, as always, was quick to fly. In spite of the current oversupply of newsworthy topics, the Prophet still favoured juicy sensationalism.

Severus pushed back from the table as he ordered his thoughts yet again. He had known Hermione had something personal to deal with, but had not tried to guess at its nature. It was simply none of his business. Looking at the front page of the Prophet, he was relieved it was none of his business.

Unavoidably, he had seen students' relationships begin and end during his years of teaching – more times than he had cared enough to notice. He never involved himself in the fallout. It was the duty of Head Girls, Head Boys, Minerva, or Poppy, to pick up the teary, jinx-throwing pieces and administer generous amounts of comfort and common sense. Neither of which he was able – he curled his lip in distaste – or willing to dispense.

Hermione, however, did not fit the stereotype to which he had become accustomed. At least not in his presence. Arriving in the early afternoon, preceded by a mournful otter, Hermione handed him the most recent copy of the Prophet, directing him to page three. After a discreet glance at the front page and an equally discreet assessment of Hermione, Severus congratulated himself on having the presence of mind to provide her with sustenance. She looked a little less waif-like after a roast beef sandwich and a strong cup of tea. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her demeanour listless, yet she carried herself with quiet dignity. Like a queen, he caught himself thinking. After a brief verbal exchange of information, she solemnly presented him with a bundle of carefully collated and cross-referenced parchments, then excused herself to return to her room in the Gryffindor Tower.

Severus leafed through the Prophet again. Page three carried the news of the Wizengamot hearing to be conducted on the 19th of July, with the entirely predictable dribble about why Harry Potter might want to clear the name of "Dumbledore's Man – or was he?" To his consternation, Severus found himself skimming the article of most relevance to himself in favour of thoroughly scrutinising pages one and two.

He scowled irritably as he examined the three photographs displayed there. The first showed Hermione and Weasley caught in an affectionate embrace before they turned away, laughing and embarrassed, from the camera. "Childhood sweethearts", the caption read, in sickly pink lettering with far too many flowers.

The second photograph showed an obviously distraught Ronald Weasley on the verge of hexing the photographer before being led away by his mother and sister. "Hermione Granger dumps her War Hero after the tragic death of his brother!" the caption flickered angrily in red.

Severus ground his teeth as he looked at the third photograph – Hermione with her arms around Potter before the first challenge of the Triwizard Cup. How the Skeeter pest could dig that up again and couch it in her latest mound of Thestral dung beggared all belief. Skeeter's diatribe completely filled page two. She suggested an unrequited love affair with Potter as the reason for Hermione's capricious behaviour, and then busily painted Hermione as some sort of shallow, self-absorbed, wizard-using hanger-on.

Severus longed to strafe the page – and Skeeter – with some creative variations of Incendio. Hermione was not capricious or shallow, and he had seen her selfless generosity for himself. "Wizard-using hanger-on," he growled. "There's the Basilisk calling the Ashwinder venomous." A protective feeling washed over him, priming his muscles with blood in readiness for a duel. Savouring the moment, he let his magic build as it would. Only when it threatened to spark from his fingertips did he gently restrain it. His power was definitely growing stronger; now his physical energies were close to fully restored. A few short weeks of uncomplicated living, with decadent amounts of sleep, and he had shaken off years of fatigue as easily as a Unicorn shakes off loose hair.

He stared balefully at the collated notes Hermione had written up for him, then meandered aimlessly around the room in search of a diversion. Hermione had so much going on in her own life. Her parents, Weasley, N.E.W.T.s, and harbouring a wanted fugitive – not to mention the cumulative effects of the War. Even so, she had insisted on collecting information about the Muggle now positively identified as Toby Snape.

He muttered a quiet oath and turned back to the table. The least he could do would be to examine the results of her efforts, instead of procrastinating his way around the subject as if it were a lurking Boggart. Hermione had been right about the butcher; his information proved reliable and useful. While he could not provide all of Toby's expatriate history, one lead had given rise to another, and Hermione had faithfully followed them all. Severus supposed she could, if asked inconvenient questions, account for her visits to some truly remote places as attempts to locate her own parents. The trail of Obliviated, Confunded, and no-doubt-befuddled Muggles might be a little harder to justify.

He ruthlessly pulled himself together. After all, on Riddle's order, he had endured the presence of Wormtail at Spinner's End without losing self-control and killing him for his role in Lily's murder. If he could handle that situation, then surely reading a few notes about his... father... was not beyond him. He smirked in satisfaction as he sat down. He had made Wormtail's life hell with some insidiously painful and entirely accidental hexes. Revenge is a dish best eaten cold, he had heard. Severus disagreed. Sometimes, revenge could be savoured warm. Preferably terrified and struggling.

After a tedious hour of reading and thinking, he sorted the parchments into their original order. Feeling a need for fresh air, he relocated to the veranda. The shock of cold air surprised him. He read the thermometer hanging beside the door. Zero centigrade was nothing by Scottish standards, but in Scotland he never ventured outside wearing less than two layers of clothing, let alone barefoot.

He wandered out into the open and turned his contemplations skyward. The night was clear and moonless: the constellations blazed diamond-bright against an infinite depth of black velvet. Severus traced the upside-down forms of Orion and Pegasus. With a few strokes of mental geometry, the Southern Cross and Pointers faithfully marked the direction of the South Pole. He tracked a Muggle satellite, a faint pinprick of light, as it followed a lonely path within the prison of its orbit. A meteor arced across the sky as a brief trail of blood-red luminescence. A red dragon, Severus thought, recalling any number of fanciful explanations for such phenomena. Having cleared his head, he reflected on Hermione's findings.

Under an assisted migration program, Toby Snape left Britain by sea on the S. S. Australis. Arriving in Sydney with twenty pounds in his pocket and a bag of tools slung over his back, he found work immediately as a greaser in a small engineering factory. An instinctive knack with all things mechanical, including large-scale industrial machinery, soon marked him as a candidate for more salubrious employment. With his skills, he could go anywhere in Australia and pick up work for the asking.

Evidently, that was exactly what he did. Mining, locomotive maintenance, mechanic for a trucking company, then driving trucks himself. For three years he hauled general freight across the most inhospitable parts of the country between Adelaide and Darwin, Perth and Melbourne. A short stint with the Newcastle steelworks preceded a move back into rural areas and sporadic reports of itinerant labour on cattle stations, farms, and orchards.

At this point, Toby had made an unexpected addition to his list of occupations: horse training. It started while Toby was at work on a remote cattle station and the jackeroos decided to "blood" their new chum with an infamously vicious mare. The horse could not be approached without a fight, let alone be ridden. As Toby had never handled a horse before, the other men placed sure bets on what would happen. They handed Toby a rope and a halter and bundled him into the mare's yard. As expected, the horse reared and screamed, bluff-charging and lashing out with her forefeet.

Instead of trying to approach the mare, or run from her, Toby stood quite still and stared at her for a moment. Then, to his audience's amazement, he dropped the rope and halter and sat on a hay bale.

Hermione had written the grazier's account verbatim: "The Pom, 'e looked real down in the mouth, like 'e was fairly gutted. Like the world 'ad ended, or somethin'. Dinkum, 'e jus' sat there, doin' nothin'. We sung out to 'im, but 'e never budged. After a bit, the mare settled down an' stopped 'er fidgetin'. Then she went closer to 'im. Guess she got curious; Fury 'ad ever seen a bloke who jus' sat still. Anyway, she kept comin' closer, then backin' off, then she'd get close again. Then she come right up an' checked 'im out good an' proper. Soon she 'ad 'im covered in slobber, but 'e still didn't shift. Y' could've knocked the lot of us down with a feather for what 'appened next. 'E jus' reached out an' gave 'er nose a rub. Fury didn't back off, or bite, or kick, nothin'. The pair of 'em were thick as thieves inside of a week. When 'e learned to ride on 'er, well, it was on the bush telegraph for a month solid."

Severus shivered as the cold began to bite and retreated indoors. The fire in the woodstove had dwindled to a few glowing coals. He took a handful of dry leaves and twigs from the kindling box and coaxed the flames back into life. Methodically adding wood, he paused when he felt heat warming his chest.

To Severus, his father's next claim to local fame was decidedly eccentric. While rehabilitating a young stock horse rescued from a deplorable state of neglect and subsequently adopted by Fardon, Toby met a group of people devoted to things medieval. Appropriately enough, they called themselves the Medieval Re-enactment Society. Most of them came from the city. Not many country people had the time or inclination to forge armour, study the art of swordsmanship, sew quilted velvet doublets, or play at championing damsels in flowing robes.

Just how it came about was unclear, but after a remarkably short period of instruction, Toby demonstrated another natural ability: archery. With the English longbow, the man could strike a bull's-eye from two hundred yards. On horseback, nobody came close to his scores with the Saracen bow. He was not a formal member of the Society; indeed, there was no hint of him belonging to any social group. Last year's gathering was the only one he had missed. He had been busy restoring a vintage tractor, it was said.

By all accounts, Toby was not wealthy, but neither was he destitute. Labour was his first choice of currency, and surprisingly, he had not touched liquor since leaving Britain. He had a well defined, roughly annual circuit of towns, hamlets, and rural properties. This in itself was enough information for an Auror to track him down.

None of this shed any light on the source of the magic. In the catalogue of Toby's doings, there was no hint of what it might be. Evidently, he had wits enough to keep his mouth shut. It was very rare for Muggles to encounter, not to mention acquire, magical items. Therefore, Severus was certain Eileen was the original owner of whatever it was. If Toby had taken it from her, why had he not disposed of it? Severus was sure it would have gone to the nearest pawn shop. Obviously, he was wrong. He snorted at the thought of sentimental value. He doubted his father even knew what "sentimental" meant.

Modest income and very little outlay, so he may not be keeping it for ready cash, Severus pondered. But for a Muggle, he's not young. He'd have to be close to sixty by now. Perhaps he's keeping it as an investment? Circe, if he's nearly sixty, my mother would be close to seventy. If she were alive. If he's walking the Earth, who is in the grave bearing his name? What was he 'gutted' about when he faced the mare? And how, in the name of Seven Hells, did he survive Riddle's attack? He took some deep breaths as his mind gravitated to the possibility Eileen might also be somewhere in the world of the living. He shook his head; it would be too much to believe.

Severus had not actually seen his parents' bodies, but he knew Death Eaters did not lie when reporting executions. He had wanted to frighten, intimidate, and physically hurt his father, letting him know what it was like to be on the receiving end of his drunken aggression. While he resented his mother for neglecting him, even when he was very young he sensed there was more to her apathetic melancholy than he could ever understand. She seemed to be punishing herself for something, and Severus was content enough to leave her to the mercies of her own demons. Actually killing either of them had never crossed his mind.

Voldemort himself expanded on the details of the executions, all the while probing the edges of Severus' mind in search of weakness. For the first of countless times, Severus' Occlumency held firm against the most powerful Legilimens in history. Hiding a sense of creeping horror in a situation that had gone far beyond the limits he had anticipated, Severus was careful to show Riddle scenes of shouting and tears, of bruised limbs and a cut lip, of watching neighbours go in to dinner while his stomach cramped with hunger, of nights when he was too cold to sleep and despaired of ever feeling warm again. In that moment, Severus realised he had gone too far into the Death Eater's circle and to turn away was to sign his own death warrant. If walking away was not possible, he would learn as much as he could from the Dark Lord and use it to further his own ambitions. At the time, he desired power and presence, and a place where he would be safe and strong. At the time, he thought of winning Lily back...

Severus stood up, suddenly wanting something else to occupy his mind. He padded into the bathroom and took up an old cut-throat razor he had found in the workshop. Trying not to lose any blood during the weekly shave would keep him focussed.

After dinner, Minerva made her way to the upper levels of the Gryffindor Tower. Not long after breakfast, Hermione had sent an owl with a note explaining she would prefer to take meals in her room for at least the next week. The Headmistress understood entirely. Even if ninety-nine percent of the Wizarding population dismissed the Daily Prophet as an indulgence in all things mindless, the fuss had to hurt. Why Hermione insisted on taking a copy of the paper to her room was a mystery to Minerva. Perhaps she wanted to hex it to pieces in private with a few choice words nobody else should hear.

Minerva knocked lightly on Hermione's door, in case the room's occupant had opted for an early night. The door swung open slowly, revealing a room which could have passed for an extension to the library, and a very weary young witch. As Minerva entered the room, the door closed softly behind her. She exchanged a polite slow-blink with an investigative Crookshanks before addressing Hermione.

"My, you have wandless magic down pat, haven't you?" Wandless and wordless – Minerva was impressed.

"It comes in handy," Hermione answered with a small smile. She slowly pushed herself up to a sitting position from where she had been lying on her bed, perusing a book of advanced charms.

Minerva decided to be brief and to the point. "Hermione, I had a meeting with an Unspeakable this morning. He was asking questions about Severus' loyalties, and you, among others, came into the discussion. He asked if he could meet with you. I refused permission for the moment, given your current circumstances."

Hermione stifled a yawn. "Why does he want to talk to me? Can't he wait until after the hearing?"

"I told him you always treated Severus with respect, even when he was not physically present. Among the students of Hogwarts, this is a rarity, and it is no secret you are working with Harry to win a pardon for Severus. I suppose Oriens believes this is significant to his investigations and would like to talk to you as soon as you are able." Minerva sat in a vacant chair and smoothed her skirts. "Unspeakables are inscrutable at the best of times; they cannot openly state their business. From his questions – and perhaps what he allowed me to see – I could glean a little of his directive. Under the assumption he is still alive, I believe there are some in the Ministry who fear Severus may be Voldemort's successor. They may have sent Oriens to try and clear the issue rather than sit and speculate on a possible renewal of hostilities."

"That's ridiculous! Professor Snape was loyal to the light; he would not..." Hermione pulled herself up short, fearing she might say too much.

"I know it now," Minerva said softly. "I just wish I had some idea before... Never mind. By the way, Albus says he will testify on Severus' behalf. I shall ensure a portrait link is available for the hearing."

"Very bloody big of him," muttered Hermione.

"Respect, if you please, Miss Granger. Though," she added conspiratorially, "I told him the same thing in much stronger language than that!"

Serves him right, thought Hermione. "The Unspeakable, Oriens – what is he like?"

"A very unusual wizard; I think most Unspeakables are. Oriens comes from the Office of Magi-Ecology and Habitat Restoration. What that office has to do with potential Death Eater attacks is anybody's guess. Perhaps the Ministry is short staffed at the moment and is using anyone who is available."

Hermione frowned. "Unusual in what way?"

"I'm afraid it's rather silly, but he reminded me of a character in a book I read to my niece, a long time ago. Have you read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe?"

"Yes, many times."

"Then you will remember the first creature young Miss Pevensie encountered when she stepped into Narnia?"

"Tumnus the faun. An Unspeakable reminded you of a faun?" In spite of her dispirited state, Hermione began to laugh.

"Indeed he did," said Minerva, smiling. "I quite had my work cut out not to accidentally call him Tumnus. He looks human enough and is refreshingly formal in his manners. Such a welcome change from dealing with obsessive news reporters, over-anxious parents, and careless sightseers. Now, whether you choose to speak with him or not, he has offered any assistance he is able to give. I think we may be able to make use of him."

"What sort of assistance? Make use of him? Headmistress, are you the new Head of Slytherin?" Hermione feigned shock.

"Not at all! I was thinking of your parents."

Hermione felt herself turn pale and looked away to hide it. To have an Unspeakable methodically searching Australia for Monica and Wendell Wilkins might put Severus at risk. "What did you have in mind?" she asked cautiously.

"I would not presume to initiate any search for your parents without your permission – that would not do at all. But you must understand, the longer your parents remain without their memories, the harder it will be to restore them. Oriens has top level international security clearances and authorisations I can only imagine. If anyone can bring resources together to find your parents quickly, it would be him."

"Well," Hermione said slowly, "could I have some time to think about it?"

"Of course." Minerva regarded her shrewdly. "I would advise you to sleep on it first, then think to your heart's content."

"I suppose I'd have to meet him, if I choose to accept his assistance," she mused as she opened her book again.

Minerva plucked the book from Hermione's hands. "Sleep first, Hermione. Or shall I send to the Infirmary for a dose of Dreamless Sleep?"

Hermione slid under the bedcovers in tired obedience, watching as the Headmistress scooped an unresisting Crookshanks off his chair and deposited him at the foot of the bed.

"Keep an eye on her and do not let her near any books," Minerva ordered the half-Kneazle, extinguishing the wall sconces as she left the room.

Petrus paced the floor slowly as he digested many hours worth of animated discussion, the tip of his long tail held precisely one inch above the floor. He carefully avoided the vicinity of the door in case he activated his invisible shackles. They burned like a whole-body lightning strike if he wandered too close.

"So," he said, turning to face Oriens, "if I hold in one hand the numerous certainties Monsieur Severus was for the Dark, and I hold in my other hand the very few testimonies he was for the light, do they balance?"

Oriens looked at Petrus' outstretched hands. "Headmistress McGonagall had suspicions about Snape long before the apparent murder of Headmaster Dumbledore, and she did not try to disguise her opinion of him before Mr. Potter's revelations during the Battle of Hogwarts. Now her outlook is completely different. To have such a fierce and, at the time, justified dislike turned into remorse and belated compassion..." Oriens left the statement hanging as he got up from the stone chest he had been sitting on and joined Petrus in his wanderings. "If Headmistress McGonagall had a grudge against anyone, I sense she would need a mighty reason indeed to erase it.

"Add to this Mr. Potter's intentions with the Wizengamot. For Mr. Potter's entire candidature at Hogwarts, he and Snape were sworn enemies. With Miss Granger's unflagging support, he now seeks to clear Snape of all charges. His long-held opinion of Snape has been turned on a Knut. It would take some incontestable evidence to cause such a change. Unfortunately, I could not meet with Miss Granger today. However, my investigations suggest she has a history of being able to see beyond the immediately obvious. Whether she was aware of it or not, I think she knew there was more to Snape than what was apparent. To finally answer your question, I believe the balance favours the light."

Petrus nodded and folded his arms. "D'accord. If Monsieur Severus is alive, would Madame la Headmistress, Monsieur Potter, or Mademoiselle Granger consider him a threat?"

Oriens hid a smile. Petrus had taken a liking to Snape's given name, pronouncing it with the gravitas normally reserved for sacred Latin chants. "No, they would not consider him a threat."

"Then your concerns are reduced to the whereabouts of the Dementors and the Death Eaters and, évidemment, the nature of the object so mysterious. If Monsieur Severus is connected with the beautiful artefact, as Arawn's displeasure suggests, what is the nature of the connection?"

Oriens grinned openly. He often found Petrus to be a helpful sounding board – or stone, considering his physical constitution – when seeking to untangle convoluted research problems. In many ways, Petrus embodied the Taoist principle of "The Uncarved Block", which encompassed the ability to perceive without prejudice or preconception. Petrus could single out an important point with astonishing ease, at times without actually knowing he had done so.

"If Snape is really on the side of the light, Death Eaters and Dementors are an entirely separate issue and one I would gladly leave to the Aurors. Snape's connection to the artefact would be a familial one; it's usually the way these things work.

"The artefact is, as much as anyone can tell, ancient. Just how old it is, Arawn could not determine. In his file notes, he says it bears some of the most powerful protection charms and wards he had ever encountered. It took him close to a week to recover from his last attempted investigation. I do not like to speculate, however, I shall do so now. If we go with "ancient" as being one thousand years, give or take a few hundred, and the idea of familial connection, we can draw a fancifully long bow. Snape's mother was one of the Prince family. Their bloodline could be traced back to the same period. This in itself is no great distinction; such extensive lineage is found in several wizarding families. The point of the contention is that Arawn only ever mentioned Severus when he examined the artefact."

Petrus shrugged. "Perhaps the bow is not so long." He stood still as he thought for a moment. "Could be traced back to the same period? Is the entire family deceased?"

"Severus Tobias Snape was the last known surviving member."

"And a half-blood. Oriens, mon ami, Monsieur Severus was valuable to the Dark Lord as a spy, non?"

"True."

"But he was not always the spy. You said Monsieur Severus was recruited before these abilities were manifest. He was given the Mark by the same Dark Lord who favoured only those of the pure blood. La question est, what was it about half of Monsieur Severus' blood that brought to him such distinction?"

What, indeed? Oriens felt a peculiar tingle ripple over his skin – a familiar and sure sign he was suddenly on the right track. Arawn's notes implied the artefact was highly valued by Voldemort. If one discounted reports of Snape's last days as an aberration arising from Voldemort's rapidly deteriorating mental state, the half-blood wizard consistently held a high position among the Death Eaters.

The connection between the artefact and Snape himself, while tenuous, was not beyond probability. Oriens sighed quietly. He knew he should raise the matter with Minister Shacklebolt, but he had no evidence with which to support his concerns. As with his suspicions of Arawn himself, all Oriens had to go on was instinct and inference. Little better than gossip and guesswork, he thought wryly.