The God and the Dragon

A/Ns:

References to Merlin are consistent with Mary Stewart's depiction of his character in her books: The Crystal Cave (1970), The Hollow Hills (1973), and The Last Enchantment (1979). In keeping with Ms Stewart's work, I have not elaborated on descriptions of "the god" or a certain heraldic symbol. Please note that familiarity with the above publications is not essential; things will be explained in the fullness of time.

No crows or pine martens were injured as a consequence of writing this fic.

Thanks to Justice for beta-work, and special thanks to bleddyn for checking the authenticity of my description of the Welsh countryside – a place I have only 'visited' courtesy of Google Earth!

Canon characters are the property of J.K. Rowling. I do not claim any income from them.

Arawn carefully dispensed Augustus' memories into a specially designed crystal sphere. He cast Incendio on a detailed drawing of the artefact. Having used it to trigger Augustus' memory, he had no further use for it. He watched as the parchment crumbled to a dusting of white ash. Vanishing the ash, he addressed the whimpering Death Eater huddled in the corner.

"I told you to cooperate, Augustus. As you can see, no warder has come to your rescue. Nobody heard you scream." He turned to the Dementor waiting silently beside the door. "Well done," he said out loud. "It is so much better when you savour your food, don't you think? You even have some left for another day."

Augustus cringed and raised his eyes, shutting them again as the Dementor shifted to hover in front of him, one cadaverous hand extending in his direction. While he could have faced death, even by a Dementor's kiss, the more terrifying presence in his cell was Arawn. Augustus had defiantly looked the Unspeakable in the eyes and seen a truly horrifying emptiness. If someone had told Augustus Death itself had taken Arawn's soul and now walked about in the Unspeakable's body, he would have believed it without question. All of his bravado had vanished in an instant.

He heard the Unspeakable approach and come to a halt in front of him. He knew he would not be permitted to remember Arawn's visit, especially since he had seen how the Unspeakable smuggled the Dementor into his cell. The softly spoken Obliviate was actually welcome.

Returning to his office, Arawn dismissed the Dementor and watched until it vanished into a disused Floo connection. There were certain advantages to having two fireplaces. He placed a stone Pensieve on his desk and emptied the sphere, watching as the memories gently unwound into a shifting grey mist. Settling himself, he looked into the Pensieve, observing minutely as the first memory began to take shape...

"So, Eileen, how do you think your Muggle toy-boy will take it when he learns you are his evolutionary superior?" Abraxas Malfoy looked around the small sitting room with evident disgust. "Haven't you even told him you are ten years his senior? Gracious! Such dishonesty."

Eileen did not answer. She stood with her arms tightly folded, her thin features set in a scowl of intense dislike. Abraxas sauntered closer to her. "Surely slumming with a Muggle loses whatever distorted appeal it had after, what is it now, nearly six years? You could come back; in fact it would be wise if you did. We might even accommodate that stringy whelp of yours. After all, he did do us a favour in leading us here. Didn't think of that, did you Eileen? As soon as he took his first breath, the records and circumstances of his birth appeared in the Registers. There had never been a Snape in any of the lists before. Fortuitously, we have a contact in the Birth Registry Division who was most vigilant in spotting the discrepancy and deemed it worthy of investigation. Eileen Snape, Spinner's End. Formerly Eileen Prince, presumed dead – a very clever ruse – last of the Prince bloodline."

Augustus sneered. "The pure bloodline."

"Perhaps she never intended to breed. It would have been better if she had not." Abraxas narrowed his eyes. "Another abomination, another stain on the integrity of our kind. Blood traitor! And yet, the Dark Lord graciously extends you an offer. A position of prestige and trust. The Dark Lord asks if you will be the bearer of the Llygad y Ddraig."

"I will not serve your Dark Lord." Eileen stared Abraxas down with consummate ease.

"But you have dabbled in the Arts, haven't you?" Abraxas was not about to give up. "Think about it, Eileen. Your brother is dead. You are the last of a long and noble line." As Eileen blinked back tears, he affected a tone of unctuous sympathy. "Be consoled; the Dark Lord was deeply moved by his valour. Drusus' bravery was a credit to his proud lineage. Such a shame he would not join our ranks.

"Do you remember your great uncle Atilius? He was kind enough to arrange a marriage for you, was he not? You could have stood proudly among the Carrows if you had not given in to a stupid flight of fancy." Abraxas laughed softly. "If the Dark Lord favoured poets, he would have Atilius immortalised for trying to bring the two sides of your family together after centuries of discord. Not to mention divining the presence of the Llygad, held by your brother, no less. Atilius deceived you all for the glory of our cause and was instrumental in eliminating any opposition. It was his duty to carry the Llygad, until he managed to drink himself stuporous and fall foul of a Kelpie. Take heart, Eileen, the Llygad was not lost. The Kelpies were soon persuaded to return it. Crevan carries it now, safely sealed in black iron. Goodness, I almost forgot; it was Crevan who sent brave Drusus through the Veil."

Eileen stood firm as her voice shook. "I will not carry it."

Augustus lingered before the fireplace and examined it minutely, as if it were a most unusual construction. Feeling Eileen's eyes upon him, he turned to address her. "You would be wise to accept the Dark Lord's offer. With us you would have power, identity, pride, and protection: all of the things you so wrongly deny yourself now."

Eileen's black eyes flashed angrily. "Yes, gentlemen, I will admit I have seen a little of your Arts. Enough to sicken me – enough to see them for what they are, and more than enough to know the truth of what you offer me. Power distorted, identity usurped, as much pride as a grovelling slave, and protection until I am no longer of use. Why do you come to me now, when Atilius is nothing more than food for grave worms?

"I wonder. Would it be because your Dark Lord believes the Llygad will not respond to anyone who is not of our blood? Is this why you did not kill me as soon as my location was disclosed? Of course! I was, and remain, mere insurance."

Abraxas gave an almost kindly smile. "Atilius told the Dark Lord all he knew. A pretty little legend, too. Embellished, no doubt, after being re-told over so many generations." He took a dramatic stance. "The Llygad will not wake until it rests in the hand of its true owner." He laughed. "Of course, this cannot be taken literally. Merlin is ages dead and will never walk the earth again. And it must not be separated from your family. Interesting. Why is that, Eileen? Would it be because the 'true owner' is one of your own lineage? Any witch or wizard of the Prince line, perhaps? The Dark Lord believes so." Abraxas gathered his cloak and cane, looking imperiously around the room once more. "Come, Augustus, we shall leave her to consider her decision."

The memories shifted and re-formed. Hidden behind a wall of soot-blackened stone, Abraxas and Augustus watched the house at Spinner's End.

"Do you think she will try to contact the Aurors?" Abraxas asked.

Augustus shook his head. "She wants to, but does not dare. She is fully aware of the consequences if she speaks to anyone about our visit."

Abraxas sighed wearily. "Nor will she bend knee before the Dark Lord. He suspected this would happen and instructed me on the next course of action." Abraxas produced a book from within his robes. "A comprehensive guide to hexes and curses, one of my favourites when I was a boy. In fact, I was the same age her brat is now." He handed the book to Augustus. "Use your skills to hide this in the hovel. Do not concern yourself that it may be too well hidden. There is a summoning charm bound into the book, keyed specifically to him with a strand of his hair. It will call to the miserable creature as soon as he has his first truly dark thought. If Eileen will not see reason, her son will."

"Supposing he does not?"

Abraxas eyed his companion knowingly. "His father has recently found himself out of work, if one can apply such a description to any sort of squalid Muggle enterprise. I have been observing him and others of his kind. It is quite entertaining to see what happens when these low-brow Muggle males are in their cups – even more so when they have nothing else to do. Snape senior is no different. Already, he lingers in the pub for more than his usual pint. He will follow the same path to drunken ruin as the rest of his primitive cohort. If he does not do so voluntarily, I have several ways of ensuring he does. Once he is dependent on inebriating himself out of his worthless existence, he will do the rest of our work for us.

"I shall watch over the whelp from then on, to make sure the Muggle doesn't go as far as killing his own spawn. By the time Eileen's little half-blood Prince is ready for Hogwarts, he will also be ready for recruitment. Once secure within the Castle walls, Lucius will provide example and direction. You see, Augustus, our Lord has invested much thought into his strategies. Failure is not an option."

"Surely she will try to protect her son? She may even consider another disappearance."

"She will find every avenue blocked, every contact severed, not that she keeps many – and none of them are worthwhile. She will be alone, defenceless, isolated. I have her wand, thanks to your subtle diversion by the fireplace." Abraxas held it up for Augustus to see. "From now on, she will find her life to be a burden and a trial. She has chosen not to bend, so now she must break."

Arawn exited the memories with his mind in chaos. The implications were incredible and unbelievable. The artefact now had a name, it had a place in history, and it was indeed connected with Snape.

He flung himself into a chair, shaking and breathless. Merlin? Surely not, he thought. This would have to be an embellishment, as Abraxas had observed, brought into being during centuries of storytelling. Arawn had seen the same thing happen with many ancient tales – and some not so ancient. He laughed out loud as he wondered how the Battle of Hogwarts would be told one hundred years from now.

Severus glanced at Hermione, who sat dismally across the table from him. Between them lay a fortress of books, parchment, scrolls, and periodicals.

Hermione had ransacked numerous libraries for everything she could find on the subject of memory alterations. With Minerva's constant insistence on the subject, it did not look as though Hermione could forestall a meeting with Oriens for much longer. An enquiry about her parents was a certainty. She knew she would need to draw the Unspeakable's attention away from Severus' location and give him good reason to search elsewhere. Running purely on instinct, she was sure there was something in the accumulated literature that would point to a suitable strategy.

When his assistance was requested, Severus immersed himself in the project with quiet purpose. Aside from the lure of a challenge and an interest in his own safety, he was aware of the implications for Hermione. War heroine or not, knowingly concealing a wanted fugitive would be regarded as a serious offense. He set aside the research notes Hermione had made. These detailed all of the processes, assumptions, and Arithmantic proofs she had used to construct the memory alteration procedures ultimately used on her parents. While memory charms were not within Severus' area of interest or expertise, he could recognise some of the equations. Curiously, they were similar to the equations used in the formulation of a specific class of potions.

"Regardless of the perceived risk to me, you should put your parents' welfare first. I can look after myself," he said.

Hermione started at the sudden interruption of her reverie, her glazed expression fading for a moment. "But your hearing is only four weeks away, on a Sunday too. It's the special dispensation of all special dispensations to hold anything on a Sunday – outside of Quidditch. I could never forgive myself if I put you in danger when you are so close..." Hermione shook her head. She knew as well as Severus did there was no guarantee of a full pardon. "By the way, I never assumed you couldn't manage on your own. I just thought... No, it doesn't matter." She looked away, miserable and self-conscious.

Severus waited until she met his eyes again. "I have not regretted accepting your assistance."

"Really?"

"Really."

Hermione gave a watery smile and shuffled through some parchments. "I'm missing something here, I'm sure of it," she complained. "It has something to do with those... What are they called... indelible memories?"

Severus' posture straightened as her words triggered a cascade of recollections. Riddle had often ordered him to make mind-altering potions, some of which affected humans in ways only hard-core Death Eaters would find amusing. Suppressing a wave of distaste, he delved into his considerable experience.

Almost a decade ago, he had secretly developed antidotes and suppressants for these same potions. Albus had negotiated access to St Mungo's on Severus' behalf, to enable a practical application of his research. Reading the Healers' reports on patient recovery patterns, he had noticed certain parts of the mind remained completely unaffected by the mind-altering potions. The same was true for Muggles on the rare occasions he was able to administer an antidote. Muggles were often brutally dispatched with no chance of conveniently being "left for dead". The parts of the patients' minds left intact were related to the storage and retrieval of highly significant memories. He surveyed the reference material in front of him, selecting several items which documented a similar observation in the efficacy of memory charms.

With fleeting concern, he noticed Hermione had sunk into a pensive silence. It has been approximately three Weasley-less weeks.... He curbed his thoughts before they began catalogue the many reasons why Hermione should not regard Weasley as any great loss. After all, his own experience in the Art of Moving On could best be described as very recent. Nevertheless, he conceded, I have to do something to shake her out of her doldrums. He quickly devised a plan.

"From what you have told me, with reference to our lengthy literature review, there is potential to refine the search area," he announced.

Hermione physically snapped to attention. "Search area? What? Severus, what are you getting at?"

With a benevolent smirk, Severus picked up a slim volume and opened it at a page Hermione had marked with a numbered scrap of parchment. "Listen carefully. 'Sensory cues often precede the formation and recall of memories. The memories, and their attendant cues, are sorted and stored in definable classes. There is a class of memories referred to as indelible memories. Typically, they warn of potentially life-threatening situations, such as recognition of predators or poisonous substances. Because they enhance an individual's chances of survival at an instinctive level, they are highly resistant to erasure.'"

Hermione frowned and leafed through a small pile of periodicals. Her eyes brightened as she found the one she searched for. Quill in hand, she jotted notes as she read. "'The results of our research suggest indelible memories may be shared between people; especially if they are in a long-term, close relationship. We propose sensory cues experienced by both people at the same time may strengthen the significance of shared memories to the point where they are subconsciously interpreted as being important for survival. The degree to which this occurs is thought to be directly proportional to the strength of the bond between the individuals.'"

Severus caught her with a piercing stare. "Your parents share such a closeness?" At Hermione's excited nod, he pushed a much larger tome across the table, already open at the text he now quoted. "'Where two people have shared a close and common bond for an extended period of time, the storage of significant events, interests, knowledge, and locations as indelible memories enhances the integrity of the bond between the persons involved.'

"From what you describe of your methods, I believe your parents may retain some of their previous identities through shared indelible memories. Aside from their occasional visits here, where did your parents like to spend the summer? Did any specific location capture their attention?"

Hermione thought for a moment, still a little bemused. "The Mediterranean – they loved everything about the Mediterranean. Especially southern Spain and Italy."

"What attracted them to the region?"

"They always raved about the climate. Mum told me they had some wonderful times there when they were young." Hermione stalled before adding coyly, "Dad proposed to her in Vasto, Italy. Does any of that help?"

"Possibly." Severus disappeared into the back room, emerging a few minutes later with an atlas. He opened it to a map of Australia, coloured according to climatic type. "Assuming your parents have retained their shared attraction to a Mediterranean climate, and the memory is enhanced by the significant event of a marriage proposal, the place to begin a search would be here, or here." He tapped the page and pushed it towards Hermione so she could see properly.

"Perth or Adelaide." Hermione felt a small glimmer of hope.

"Perth has milder winters than Adelaide – and is safely on the other side of the continent, I might add. Though Adelaide has more in the way of museums and theatres."

Hermione gathered her notes together. "I think Mum and Dad would prefer scenic areas near the coast. So, if I meet with Oriens and agree to let him help find my parents, I could suggest he start in Perth."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "He is an Unspeakable, Hermione, he can read between lines of invisible ink while wearing a blindfold and looking the other way. Do not suggest anything to him. Convince him you have already done the bulk of the required research. If your findings and assumptions are organised in a logical fashion, Perth will be the obvious place for him to start searching."

Hermione fingered the atlas dubiously. "This was the result of your reasoning..."

"I believe it was a joint effort. Make it your own. Three feet of parchment. You have two hours."

"Three..."

He silenced her with The Potions Master's Glare. "Get on with it, Miss Granger; it will not happen by itself," he snapped.

Hermione put down her quill and stretched. She had no idea how long she had been concentrating and writing. The feeling of disorientation she was experiencing suggested several hours at least. A scattering of crumpled drafts littered the floor under her chair. The room was beginning to darken. There was no sign of Severus. She could not even remember when he had last been in the room. Gingerly easing the cramps out of her hands and shoulders, she went outside, blinking owlishly in the late afternoon sun.

She spotted Severus at the far end of the veranda, reclining languidly on a saw-log bench, absorbed in a book. Hermione recognised the cover immediately: To Kill a Mockingbird. She hoped she had not written any of her more unusual ideas on the numerous notepapers marking her favourite passages. She wondered what Severus would make of her postulated parallels between the treatment of house-elves and the history of human social inequities.

"Hey," she said, forcing her voice into an approximation of the Alabama accent.

"Hey yourself," Severus answered in kind, striking the correct inflexions with insouciance. He put the book aside. "I assume you have finished a first draft?"

"First draft? I should think it is quite complete!"

Severus shot her an artful look as he stood in one lithe motion. "Do we have any red ink?"

"If there was any, I'm sure you would have found it," Hermione replied crisply. "Or made some from crow's blood, at midnight during the dark of the moon," she muttered under her breath, only half-hoping he didn't hear.

Severus tucked something behind her ear as she preceded him through the door. Sweeping it free with reflexes honed by years of subjection to the pranks of juvenile wizards, she held the glossy black crow feather in her hand before glaring at him accusingly.

"No, I have not dispatched any wildlife," he stated with affronted dignity. He pointed to a large black bird loitering in the upper branches of an ironbark. "The insatiable stickybeak patrols the garden when he or she thinks no-one is watching."

Seating himself on the edge of the table, Severus appropriated the four-and-a-half feet of parchment, reading Hermione's work twice while she waited anxiously. At last, he took up her quill and relocated to one of the benches, gesturing to Hermione to sit next to him.

"Firstly, welcome back, Hermione."

"I... I beg your pardon?"

Severus ventured into untried territory, albeit with a small ulterior motive. He was pleased his plan had been successful and couldn't resist making a point of it. "A significant intellectual challenge appears to have brought you back to the land of the fully conscious. I watched you for a while as you worked. It is the first time since the Prophet's detestable exposé that you have been without your cloak of despondency."

Hermione felt her cheeks grow warm. "Well, I must admit I enjoyed the work. I do feel a lot better."

He gave her a small smile, then turned his attention to the parchment with an evaluative scowl. "I'd give this an E as it is," he stated. "To bring it to O standard, we need to make the following edits..."

Before he could begin, Hermione tapped the ink pot with her wand. Severus looked askance as the ink turned bright red. "Tradition, I suppose," she shrugged.

Overall, it was a fine piece of work. As Severus expected, Hermione had disguised her investigation into the doings of Toby Snape as part of her attempts to find her own parents. With a few adjustments, he made her somewhat random spatial wanderings appear as a perfectly reasonable course of action.

Of Toby himself, she made no mention. After some minor bickering, they agreed to keep quiet about him until after the hearing. It all came down to what was more important, the retrieval of an object or Severus' safety. Hermione triumphed, not by winning Severus around to her point of view, but by stubbornly refusing to give ground on the fact that he was more important than some Ministerial edicts concerning things.

Severus did not begrudge her the victory, even if she had completely ignored the potential dangers associated with powerful magical items in the hands of Muggles. He was too busy analysing a curious sensation of warmth and contentment.

By the end of the editing session, Hermione's respect for Severus had reached new heights. The document she would present to Oriens was faultless. Every trail that could have led to Severus' location was effectively obscured, and all of Hermione's actions since the Second Fall of Voldemort inarguably accounted for.

With the parchment and library material safely tucked away in her beaded bag, Hermione made tea and cut generous wedges of dark fruit cake. Severus occupied himself with building a fire in the woodstove, watching intently as the flames took hold. Satisfied with his efforts, he sat on the floor, leaning against the front of an armchair with his legs stretched out in front of him.

Being well schooled by Crookshanks, Hermione could recognise when a male of any species would not be willingly dislodged from a comfortable position. If you can't shift him, join him, she thought. She transfigured the armchair into a sofa, eliciting a startled yelp from the normally unflappable wizard. Placing the food and drink between them, she followed his example, resting against the seat cushions with a prolonged sigh.

"Weighty thoughts?" Severus asked, his attention somewhere between Hermione and the largest wedge of cake.

"Not really, all things considered." She shook her head as she selected a small piece, thereby allowing Severus to claim the large one without any breach of etiquette. "You know this year's seventh-year students have the option of graduating without sitting N.E.W.T.s?"

"Thanks to your regular news updates, I am aware of the arrangement. You have elected to repeat seventh year in its entirety?"

"That was my intention. Now there is another option for students wishing to repeat. Students who have already done part of the seventh-year syllabus and performed consistently well in previous exams can tutor themselves in the theoretical side of their subjects. Group classes will be arranged for practical components. Exams may be taken whenever the student is deemed ready.

"Minerva is encouraging me to do it. By 'encouraging', I mean she will not take no for an answer. She says the Ministry and the Governing Board are supporting it to get fully graduated wizards and witches out into the workforce as quickly as possible. They believe it will help with rebuilding and recovery now the War is over. Neville wasn't going to sit his N.E.W.T.s at all because he'd been offered a Herbology apprenticeship, but this new plan gives him the opportunity to do both. Oh, you should know, Draco is being home-schooled with a Ministry-approved tutor. I hear the tutor is a retired Auror."

"Thereby keeping my favourite godson out of trouble?" Severus asked dryly.

"Thereby keeping him safe," Hermione grinned. Suddenly serious, she frowned.

"You would rather share a classroom with him?" Severus teased.

"No! No, I mean, it's not anything to do with Draco. I keep thinking of how much I would like just one normal school year where I could stick to schedule and routine without the interruption of one disaster after another. A year where I could, for once in my life, experience the ordinary," she complained in frustration. "Somehow I doubt I ever will." She pulled a whole brazil nut out of her cake and tossed it onto the plate. "I'm coming to terms with it, slowly, but it's not easy. Have you ever wanted anything like that?"

Severus regarded her, perplexed. "As a witch born among Muggles, you could hardly expect your early childhood to be unremarkable. The events during your time at Hogwarts were beyond anyone's control. Normality, as you put it, was out of the question. As for experiencing the ordinary, I ask what would you rather experience in your grades? Acceptable? Exceeds Expectations? Outstanding? There! The mere word 'Outstanding' captures your attention.

"As for myself, I have not experienced 'normal' or 'ordinary', and from observation of those who consistently have, I would not waste time in seeking to attain them," he intoned loftily. "Besides, I wonder if you would soon find normal and ordinary both mundane and dispiriting."

He studied her carefully. Her expression was similar to the one she had worn when she admitted Trelawney had said something to upset her. "You recoiled at my use of the word 'mundane'; is it part of what Trelawney said to you?"

Hermione gathered her shell-shocked wits. "Look, I'm sorry I've been Ms Glum for the past few weeks."

"You were the one affected by it, not I." Severus took the discarded brazil nut and consumed it along with another piece of cake.

Hermione poured herself a second cup of tea. "You're right, you know."

"What about this time?"

"About what Professor Trelawney said. And she did present me with a quandary. She said I was lacking in spirit, had no aura and... I was... mundane. At the time, I didn't give a toss for what she said, or for her farce of a subject until... until..."

"Some event led you to re-evaluate her words?" Severus offered.

"Yes." Hermione covered her face with her hands. "This is so stupid. If I tell you, you'll never want to talk to me again."

Severus shifted his position so he could look at her without having to turn his head. Apparently, she valued the prospect of future conversations with him. I have no intention of dissuading her. "Try me," he challenged.

Hermione took a deep breath and steadied herself. "Have you heard of recurring dreams? Well, it was one of those." She waited for a snort of derision and a cutting word. None came. Bracing herself, she glanced at Severus, fully expecting a sneer fit to bore through tungsten.

Severus was obviously schooling his expression, though one eyebrow had escaped the imposed discipline and clearly betrayed his curiosity. "Go on," he said, so softly she very nearly didn't hear him.

Haltingly, she began to describe what she had seen in her dream. She warmed to the re-telling as she described the vision of lessons unlearned – and that everyone seemed to exist in a bubble of vapid complacency. She railed against the prejudice perpetuated by Hogwarts' sorting system and quoted Thomas Jefferson on the price of freedom. Incensed at the idea of brave people dying for nothing, she suggested that if her dream did carry any truth, Mad-Eye Moody would be stirring in his grave, wherever it was.

She faltered when she told Severus he had been either missing or dead. With a heartfelt burst of energy, she informed him she didn't want him to be in either of those states. She finished with an account of her dream-self: herself without the aura of fiery conviction she quietly prided herself on, lacking in spirit, mundane. Just as Professor Trelawney had said.

Feeling purged and tired, she stared into the fire. "That was why I broke up with Ron. I threw him away because of a stupid dream. But it scared me when I saw myself like that. It was like a warning. It told me all the things I thought I wanted most would quietly rob me of myself. A small part of me still wants those things. Silly, isn't it?"

Severus waved away her question. "I know someone who pursued the normal and the ordinary to the point where she became incurably mundane."

"Who was it?" she asked cautiously.

"She turned into Potter's Aunt Petunia."

"Oh, dear." Hermione considered Harry's description of his Aunt. "I guess that example should steer me towards the extraordinary for the rest of my life. I just wish I knew if I'd done the right thing. It feels as though I have, oddly enough. I scorned Professor Trelawney from here to kingdom come; now it seems I am turning into her protégée."

Severus grunted softly, "Nothing like."

"You don't think so?"

"I wouldn't be sitting here with you if I did." Severus shifted to face the woodstove and drew his knees up to his chest. Hermione saw him shiver as he spoke. "Recurring dreams can be a manifestation of intuitive knowledge and are worth paying attention to. At least, that is what Firenze told me." He could feel Hermione's astonished gaze and decided to go out on a limb. "There was no way I would have discussed recurring dreams with Trelawney. I didn't tell Firenze any details. Once he had given me enough theory, I worked the rest out for myself."

Hermione watched him as he wrapped his arms around his knees. "Nagini?" she asked.

Severus nodded once. "That was why I furthered the research for the antivenin. I didn't see all of what would happen. The dream always ended with Riddle telling Nagini to kill."

"I always thought Divination was a complete farce." Hermione laughed ruefully. "Although I wouldn't have dared tell Firenze that."

"Nor I. He regards it as another expression of magical power and perfectly valid in its own right. I wished him luck in revising the curriculum. In passing, he told me Miss Patil was making remarkable progress with her second sight under his tutelage."

"She was Professor Trelawney's darling for it. I thought Parvati was putting it on; she never seemed to be able to harness her gift in a reliable or constructive fashion," Hermione muttered.

Severus examined his fingernails. "I am unsure if the sight is something amenable to harnessing. Merlin himself had the gift and, from what we know, could not always dictate when it would manifest or what it would show. And he had a tutor of the highest calibre."

"Galapas?"

"Very good, Miss Granger. If Miss Patil had been introduced to Divination under a competent teacher, perhaps her skills with the sight may have been more useful."

Hermione huffed dismissively, missing Severus' quick grin as she did so.

"How would you have performed in Transfiguration if Minerva was half-smashed on Ogdens every lesson?" he inquired.

Hermione laughed as she imagined the scene. "I, and a great many other things, would have been in a very strange shape indeed."

Arawn held a steady course, following the Tywi River north-east from Carmarthen. He had taken a day to explore the area around Bryn Myrddin to satisfy his curiosity. As expected, he found nothing out of the ordinary. Nobody ever did. The place had been thoroughly combed numerous times for any evidence of the wizarding world's most celebrated identity without uncovering anything worthy of note. Arawn half-suspected the whole story connecting Bryn Myrddin with Merlin himself was a decoy.

He examined his notes again. The title deeds of the Prince estates went back as far as 755 A.D., assuming the records were accurate. The deeds ended with the purchase of a property not far from Dinas Powys, near the Severn Estuary – Eileen Prince's childhood home.

Arawn had decided to begin his investigations at the first known family residence, as the beginning, if known, was always a good place to start. It was described as a villa in the Roman style and of considerable size. Well-to-do wizarding families of the time usually incorporated architectural or decorative features boasting of family distinctions. As old as the ruins were, they might yet provide confirmative clues. Arawn struggled to maintain his objectivity. To walk into a place abandoned since 1,100 A.D. and find physical evidence linking Snape with the Llygad, Merlin, or both, was a ludicrous expectation.

The villa was reportedly located in the upper Tywi Valley. Arawn needed to find a place where the river made a short deviation from its southern course to run south-west. Amid thick forest, a steep escarpment forced the flow into a sharp bend to the south-east, after which the river again turned due south.

Arawn consulted his map. A symbol marked a proposed Muggle-administered nature reserve near the same locality. Therefore, while the forest would not have the same extent as it had over eight hundred years ago, some standing vegetation might be visible from the air. If he reached the Llyn Brianne Reservoir, he would know he had overshot his destination. He stood aside to let a small group of birdwatchers pass by. With his Nordic looks, Arawn blended in easily with the few Muggles ambling along the river banks. Just another tow-headed European tourist with a backpack and a walking staff. He waited patiently. It was coming to the hour when Muggles turned to establishments offering pints of local ale, hot dinners, and comfortable beds. Soon, he would have the place essentially to himself.

Once the landscape had emptied of Muggles, Arawn cast a Disillusionment charm over himself. At a word, his staff returned to its original form. He checked his bearings once more before taking to the air. Travelling by broom, while not as interesting as fossicking at ground level, was much quicker. Arawn was in no mood to delay his investigations any more than necessary.

From high above, the river glinted silver in the waning light as Arawn matched its ground course with the one held in his memory. Landmarks appeared: a farm house here, a chapel there. Low hills and a change of course. Shallow rapids showed as frothing sheets of white water, interspersed with deep, calm pools. Round green hills topped with wind-blasted stones, the brooding bones of fortified settlements. Bridges, fords, grazing land where sheep huddled together as they warily watched farm dogs respond to a piercing whistle. A galloping horse, unencumbered by rider or tack, shied at an imagined obstacle. Arawn adjusted his altitude to compensate for the rising level of the land. Clouds scudded low, tearing themselves to shreds on jutting brows of bare rock.

He swerved suddenly as a peregrine falcon swooped, crying its outrage in a shrill warning. The bird wheeled and turned, lining up for another attack, but did not engage in pursuit as Arawn quickly left the falcon's territory. He was mildly thankful to leave the bird behind. All falcons were thought to have an agreement with the ancient powers of wind and sky. Their displeasure was not to be taken lightly.

At last, he found what he was looking for. If not for the bends in the river, he was sure he would have missed the faint outline of walls nearly hidden by heavily shadowed woodland. He circled the site slowly, piecing together a plan of the villa. He then dropped lightly to the ground in what he assumed was a central courtyard. He waited until the rising moon cleared the treetops and flooded the ruins with light. For Arawn, moonlight examinations were a standard tactic, enabling the high acuity component of his vision to function at its best. His timing was perfect. The faintly blue-tinted moonlight called forth the most worn details in sharp relief.

He passed between crumbling walls, noting the villa had been a two-story construction. Cavities in the walls marked where heavy wooden joists had supported the second floor. There was no longer any trace of a roof, though piles of shattered moss-covered slate told Arawn what it had been made of. Beyond a low, round archway, faded tiles and sunken pools marked a once opulent bath-house. Now the only things making use of the baths were robust tangles of straggling plants, clinging to thin soil deposits lodged among debris. Arawn found his way to a vast emptiness and drew a breath at the outline of what had been a high-ceilinged hall. The floor was still remarkably level, covered in heavy flags of blue-grey stone. One wall held a fireplace of gigantic proportions. At either end, doors led away from the main villa into corridors now bared to the sky, ending in a thorny wilderness littered with the remains of stone benches and ovens: all that was left of the kitchens and scullery. Arawn made his way back to what he now concluded was a feasting hall. He passed through a wide doorway leading to the last unexplored wing.

Arawn picked his way delicately between mounds of nondescript wreckage, pausing every now and then to listen. On the threshold of his hearing, the sound of trickling water whispered faintly. He followed the sound, eventually finding a thin ribbon of wet seeping from under broken flagstones, presumably where a drainage channel had collapsed and filled with detritus. Arawn crumbled a dry leaf in his fingers and sprinkled it over the water, studying the movement of the particles. As he suspected, the flow did indeed come from somewhere within the villa. Water sourced from within a dwelling would once have been a source of great pride to the residents, a rarity and a mark of distinction for the household. Now it supported an unruly mess of bracken, blackberries, and other sundry weeds. He followed it, for no other reason than to find the source, which might be of interest in itself. The intermittent wet patches led him to a narrow door, partially sealed by fallen masonry. Above it, the stone lintel was adorned with carvings too eroded to be recognisable.

He levitated the fallen stones away from the door, revealing a dark, dank passage smelling of bats and fungi. "Lumos maxima," he commanded, and the space leapt with light. Arawn blinked in surprise. What he had taken to be a corridor was actually a small room, three times as long as its width, the latter being little more than the span of the doorway. At the far end, water dripped steadily from a stone lip built into the wall. From the lip, the water fell a short distance into a wide stone bowl, mounted on a carved pedestal. The bowl was nearly full of crystallised minerals and sludge. The overflow system still functioned, channelling the excess water into a culvert through which it made its egress from the room.

Arawn's attention locked onto an alcove immediately above the lip. Within stood a stone figure some three feet high, nearly featureless with the pockmarks of age and decay. One of the ancient gods. Arawn's heart began to pound as he ran his fingers over the figure's contours, touch seeking what sight could not distinguish. His mouth went dry as his questing hands formed a portrait of the god. He stepped back and looked again. To one side of the statue, part of a corroded metal ring protruded from the wall. The ring would have once held a cup to pour an oblation of water. Arawn frowned, bewildered. This particular god did not belong entombed in a small dark room. Myrddin was usually located outside, high up, between rock and sky. There was another deviation from the standard depictions of the god: the statue had been carved with the left hand held slightly out, as though to accept an offering.

He backed away, coming up hard against a slimy wall. The scenes he had watched in his Pensieve played in his mind as he recalled Abraxas Malfoy's words: "The Llygad will not wake until it rests in the hand of its true owner. Of course, this cannot be taken literally. Merlin is ages dead..." The words seared his mind like a burning brand. Merlin may be ages dead, but what if the 'true owner' is a representation of the god himself? he wondered. He was unwilling to consider this particular representation as the owner of the Llygad, but the more he weighed the pieces, the better they seemed to fit together. He stood in the first known home of the Prince family, where a hidden statue of Myrddin waited with an open hand. Abraxas' taunting tones slid between his racing thoughts: "Any witch or wizard of the Prince line, perhaps? The Dark Lord believes so." Arawn's excitement faltered. The secrets of the Llygad might yet depend entirely on Snape. Was he alive? If so, where was he hiding?

Exiting the room, Arawn replaced the stones as he had found them and stalked back to the feasting hall. His mind feverishly detailed a list of actions. Trying the Llygad for himself was a highly dangerous venture and would be a last resort. The first thing he needed to do was to wait for the outcome of Snape's hearing. If Snape was granted a pardon, he just might come out of hiding. If he was alive. Even then, he might choose to stay hidden. Arawn swore quietly; he was sorely tempted to use the Dementors again. For that to happen, he would need some help.

He petulantly kicked at a stone. Lucius Malfoy had been a mentor, of sorts, to Snape. He might be able to provide the necessary tool – a memory of Snape in an emotionally charged state, the darker the better. When extracted from the observer and fed to a Dementor, such a memory acted as a homing beacon, enabling the usually indiscriminate creatures to distinguish the subject of the memory from other people. Arawn fumed. That fool Umbridge had almost let the Kneazle out of the bag when she blabbed about ordering the attack on Potter. Arawn shook his head incredulously. Sending Dementors into Little Whingeing to silence the Potter boy was a brazen act of incomprehensible stupidity. Arawn had curtailed his research in response to the reckless breach, though now he was confident an inquiry was not forthcoming. The whole concept had been wiped from public memory by the events of the War.

He ground his teeth. Damn you, Snape. If you are alive, I will find you... His increasingly irate train of thought erupted into physical action as he cast a powerful blasting hex at the wall above the fireplace. With a snarl of disgust, he snatched up his broom and Disapparated.

As soon as he was sure the intruder had really gone, a pine marten swarmed down from his lookout tree. He did not know that in Wales he represented a rare and protected species and the mere sight of him would cause jubilant delight among both Muggle and Wizarding naturalists. He only knew his evening routine had been delayed.

Flicking his tail in annoyance, he cleaned his face and climbed to the top of the ancient wall, following the route he regularly marked as his own. High above the structure a human would recognize as a fireplace, the marten froze. His path was not supposed to move, yet he felt a tiny tremor through his front paws. His whiskers curved forward and his nose twitched. The trail did not smell right – and there was a gap to one side which had never been there before.

He jumped as sharp cracking noises echoed hollowly off bare stone. The sound was similar to the noises coincident with ducks falling dead from the sky. The marten cocked his head... delicious, freshly killed ducks... if he was very quick, he could steal one. He tentatively extended a paw and rested his weight upon it. His fur bristled as his path moved again and emitted a long, howling groan. With a sharp yip of fright, he turned tail and fled, sinuously bounding to safety in his copse of trees as masonry and mortar slithered to the floor in a roaring cloud of dust.

For a time, only the gentle evening breezes wandered through the open spaces of the villa. The soft movement stirred the fine dust lingering in the air, creating ragged, wandering columns. Made luminous by the moonlight, these could have easily been mistaken for ghosts. A passing Muggle would have made a sign against evil and given the place a wide berth. But there were no passing Muggles.

Only the moon stared down, lighting the wall above the fireplace, which, by some miracle, still stood. Covered in dust and remnants of mortar, its colours dulled by time and a cloak of silvery light, the mosaic was still magnificent: a stone and timber castle on high ground, heavily fortified and defended, held one side of the design. The other side depicted a steep hill clad in green forest – a wild place – a place shadowed with mystery and dappled with secrets.

Caught in frozen motion and filling the upper quarter of the mosaic entirely, a heraldic symbol presided over both castle and hill: a red dragon on a field of gold.