Dementors and Death Eaters

A/N's

Khamsin: Arabic: a hot, dry wind from the desert associated with deadly sandstorms.

Obdormiscere: "go to sleep" (Collins English-Latin dictionary).

Reviendrez-vous?: Will you come back? (English-French on-line translator).

"To wear your heart on your sleeve isn't a very good plan; you should wear it inside, where it functions best." (Margaret Thatcher, British Prime Minister 1979–1990). Severus says something very similar – I like to think he said it first and Ms. Thatcher heard it via a certain painting in No. 10 Downing Street.

Bunyip: a creature from Australian Aboriginal mythology. Descriptions vary from tribe to tribe, so I assume the nomenclature refers to a family of creatures (Bunyipidae?) rather than one particular animal. Bunyips inhabit waterholes, swamps, and rivers. They are usually feared by humans.

Drop-Bear: described as a carnivorous koala with a nasty habit of dropping on unsuspecting humans and tearing them to pieces. Regarded by Muggles as a hoax, the threat of Drop-Bears is usually employed to make a fool out of a naïve foreigner by tricking them into doing or wearing something ridiculous to prevent attack. NOTE: palaeontologists have found fossil evidence of a creature dubbed Thylacoleo carnifex. T. carnifex's postulated lifestyle is remarkably similar to that of the Drop-Bear. As far as Muggle scientists know, T. carnifex is extinct – or is it? For interested readers, Wikipedia has an accurate summary of Thylacoleo carnifex.

Singing the Spirit: These ceremonies do exist, and there have been recent moves by tribal Elders to reinstate them. Aside from what is mentioned in this fic, I claim no knowledge of the ceremonies themselves. No disrespect is intended towards the Elders of the Aboriginal people or their traditions.

Schooner: a beer glass of 425 ml (15 fl oz) capacity. Usually found lurking in pubs along the Australian east coast states and in the Northern Territory. Inexplicably, the volume can vary from state to state – so be careful.

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 who beta'd this chapter in another time, for another place. Special thanks to TeaOli for helping me drag this chapter out of dusty archives and give it a polishing suitable for this site.

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

Minerva waited anxiously amid a litter of restoration materials adorning the paved floor of the Entrance Hall. The news of Harry's injury rattled her, not because of the injury itself; physical risk was part of an Auror's job. Her main concern was Head Auror Robards' specific request for Hermione and Severus' presence – as soon as possible – in St. Mungo's High Security Wing. Sighing, she skirted around a temporary Apparition point installed to provide a secure connection between Hogwarts and St. Mungo's while rebuilding was in progress.

A summons in the wee small hours was most unusual, though not inappropriate. As a senior member of the Order, Minerva expected to be informed of the mishaps of other Order members. Yet, as far as she could tell, no other Order members had been called for. Then again, Minerva thought, Hermione is Harry's best friend. I wonder if Ginevra or Molly have been contacted? I think not, considering Severus has also been asked for. Kingsley has not made news of his survival public yet. Tobias Snape... Goodness me! I thought Severus' father was dead. If it is his father and not someone of the same name... but the presence of a magical item suggests it really is him.

Her deliberations were interrupted by Hermione's slightly breathless arrival.

"Is there any more news?" Hermione asked, brushing the ginger evidence of Crookshanks' affection from her robes.

"Not yet," Minerva replied. "Aside from my message, all I can tell you is Head Auror Robards has requested me to bring you and Severus to the Entrance Hall as a matter of urgency. He said he would send an Auror to take you both to St. Mungo's."

"He had better have a bloody good reason." Severus snarled his way around a minor obstacle course of building materials. To all appearances he had been rudely roused from sleep and, in return, was determined to be surly with the world. He fastened his cloak, grunted an acknowledgement in Hermione's direction, made an insincere effort to tidy his hair, and leaned against the wall with his arms folded.

"It sounds as though he does," Minerva responded tartly. "You shall just have to wait and see."

They did not have to wait long. With a crack, a young Auror appeared, stirring up a small cloud of grouting dust in the process. After a volley of sneezes, he identified himself – in a distinctly Oxford accent – as Yvan Kozlowski. Without further ado, he asked Hermione and Severus if they were ready to leave.

They Apparated into a wide hallway which echoed with the sound of shouting. Approaching an open door, from which the commotion issued, Auror Koslowski preceded them into a visitor's waiting room.

"By the pits of Abaddon, Proudfoot, what the hell were you thinking?" Gawain Robards was in a fine temper. "If you were bloody well thinking at all! You, my friend, were supposed to be supervising Potter – not going along with whatever scheme he pulled out of his arse!"

Gawain turned briefly to glare at the three arrivals as Severus gave an involuntary snort. "We're just lucky our Australian counterparts were happy to let this go; it could have been an international incident! Not that they've ever escalated anything, thank the Powers. They've got their hands full as it is! Bunyips are invading Muggle swimming pools because of the drought, and Drop-Bears are on the move. You don't want to know about the attacks – nasty business. Two Death Eaters handed themselves in. Handed themselves in! Asking for protection! Something to do with Dementors chasing them through Hell and high water. Herding them, actually, if Death Eaters can be believed."

Gawain shoved his hands in the pockets of his robes and gave a lugubrious sigh. "That will be all, Kozlowski; you may return to the Aurory. Dismissed." Kozlowski bowed and left the room. Gawain eyed Severus warily for a moment. After a quizzical glance at Hermione, he apparently decided all was well.

"Potter does not know what it is to be properly supervised," Severus commented, ignoring Hermione's reproving frown.

"That's for sure," muttered Proudfoot gratefully. "Once Potter decided he was going after the Muggle, there was nothing I could do to hold him back. He would not listen. He just said he was going, he knew what he was doing, and off he went. I couldn't let him go alone."

Gawain shook his head, exasperated. "You could have restrained him, Proudfoot. Supervisors have the authority to keep their charges out of trouble using appropriate means. A good dose of Immobillus would not have hurt him. Far better than letting him drop into a sovereign land without so much as a permission parchment."

"On anyone else I would have, but he's..." Proudfoot hesitated, thoroughly discomfited.

"Harry Potter. Yes, I am beginning to be aware of the full implications of his identity." Gawain rubbed his eyes as his anger drained away. "I should have seen something like this coming. Potter is way too cocky for his own good. Oh, he'll make a fine Auror one day, if our training regime can flog some sense into him. Gods! To think Scrimgeour wanted to turn him into some kind of poster boy. It would have been an outright disaster."

Gawain beckoned to Severus and Hermione. "This way, if you please."

He showed them into a softly lit room where a Healer efficiently conducted half-hourly readings of Potter's vital signs. After assuring them Harry would be awake by lunchtime, she discreetly left the group alone.

"Oh, Harry. You really do have a gift for finding trouble." Hermione smoothed her friend's wayward hair, wincing at the purple smudges under his eyes – evidence of just how hard he had been hit.

Severus felt his stomach lurch as he read the chart at the foot of the bed, which detailed two clean breaks in Potter's lower jaw, two fractured molars, and some severe bruising to the muscles at the base of his skull.

Gawain held out a sheet of parchment with a sketched likeness of the man who dropped The Boy Who Lived Twice like a sack of potatoes. "Is this definitely Tobias Snape, your father? We have Proudfoot's memory in a Pensieve if you..."

"It is," Severus interrupted curtly. "I have no need of a Pensieve to identify him."

"You've seen this kind of thing before?" Gawain asked, gesturing between Potter and the chart in Severus' hands.

"He was always quick with his fists," Severus answered without emotion. "According to his reputation, a right uppercut was – still is – his specialty."

"Did he ever kill anyone?"

"None that I know of."

"Hm. Your old man seemed ready to take this right down to the wire." Gawain indicated a small cut on Harry's throat. "I think Voldemort himself wouldn't have called his bluff."

Severus could only shrug.

Gawain drew a breath and nodded, more to his own evaluations than to Severus' reaction – or lack of it. He stood beside the bed and regarded Harry balefully. "Boy, when you wake up, you are in a whole world of trouble. By the time I'm through with you, you'll be reciting the Auror's code of Muggle Contact Procedures in your sleep. You will know it syllable for syllable, inside out and backwards, if I have to lock you in Rapunzel's Tower for a hundred years to do it – minus Rapunzel. And that's just a warm-up. You are hereby grounded in every sense of the word I can think of."

Evidently feeling better after pronouncing a suitable doom, Gawain surveyed Severus and Hermione candidly. "Right-oh, what do you two know about Tobias Snape; and do you, Severus, have any information at all on the magical object he's carrying?"

Hermione gave her often-rehearsed explanation of how, when, and where she encountered the Muggle in question, thankful for the careful detail she and Severus had worked into the written record provided to Oriens. She had no doubt it would be referred to and examined. When asked why she had not alerted the Aurors when she first detected an errant source of magic, she apologetically recounted that, at the time, her values were biased towards people rather than things. Her parents' welfare was important to her, and she was greatly distressed at her inability to find them. To her relief, Gawain accepted her reasons for the oversight. She did not have to enhance her tale by pulling out any painful details regarding her own efforts to recover from the things she had endured – and done – during the War.

Severus' account was brief in the extreme. He simply stated life in his childhood residence was far from appealing. He had left as soon as humanly possible and had nothing to do with Tobias from then on. From the time he had received the Mark, he had believed both his parents to be dead. He had not requested, initiated, or participated in the murders. Riddle, for reasons unknown, had decided on their execution himself. While he admitted being caught off-guard, and hence a little confounded, to learn of Tobias' survival, his current disposition towards the man was one of complete estrangement. He could not begin to guess what the source of the magic might be. As far as he knew, his mother had relinquished her use of magic and had not possessed anything of magical origin.

After a thoughtful pause, Gawain continued. "As you no doubt appreciate, Tobias Snape must be apprehended, and whatever it is he's carrying recovered. There are two things to be considered: Firstly, one does not simply take a magical object from a Muggle. I have seen cases where Muggles have been bound to magical items. Taking the item away without due care can cause terrible mental or physical injuries to the Muggle. I cannot allow that risk to be taken. Retrieval must take place under carefully controlled conditions, with an observation period of up to one month afterwards to ensure the absence of magical residues. Secondly, when we retrieve the object, we will need you, Severus, to examine it for Dark Magic. Perhaps, when you get a look at the thing, you might recognise it if you have seen it before. Proudfoot tells me the unidentified object is something of great power..."

"I'd never felt anything like it once we were within range," Proudfoot interjected.

"I believe our friend Tobias may know something about what he carries; he was certainly willing to fight over it. Whether this is due to the importance of the object, or some threat to his life, we will have to determine."

Severus stood scowling at nothing in particular. After a brooding silence, he gave Gawain a nod of agreement. "As you wish. Such examinations are now part of my duties, I believe."

Duties? Hermione was instantly beside herself. What duties? Oooh, the meeting with Minister Shacklebolt! Of course! He mentioned Shacklebolt asked him to screen Petrus and some other thing in the vaults. Severus, you silly wizard, why didn't you give me all the details? Because, Hermione, you were too busy babbling on, that's why. He couldn't get a word in edgeways... and then... She felt her cheeks redden. Her breath came a little faster. Then I was... too preoccupied to remember to ask. She stole a look at Severus. I wonder if he didn't tell me because he was preoccupied as well. I hope so.

A slight commotion in the hallway preceded a flustered Koslowski's return. "Sir, we have another incident," he began.

"Please tell me it's nothing to do with Potter," Gawain muttered through clenched teeth.

"No can do, sir. The wand recovery did not go as smoothly as we would have liked."

Gawain slumped in a chair. "What happened?"

"Trainee Auror Weasley detected the presence of Potter and Proudfoot's wands in a hollow log. Auror Jenkins checked for hex traps, found none, and he..." Koslowski stared very hard at a spot on the floor, restraining mirth with a monumental effort. A menacing creak issued from Gawain's chair. The Auror hastened to finish his report. "Jenkins Accio'd the wands, and a bloody great snake came out as well; it must have coiled itself around them inside the log."

Gawain stared into space. "Surely it is common sense to use a shield when one Accios things one cannot actually see? Nimuë's knickers! I can not work under these conditions!" His eyes re-focussed on Koslowski. "Any injuries?" he asked resignedly.

"Jenkins took three bites to the left leg before he managed to immobilise the snake. Weasley, to his credit, knew enough to apply Ferula to the bitten limb, but he nearly choked Jenkins while ramming a Bezoar down his throat."

Hermione quietly breathed a sigh. By the sound of it, Ron was capable of recovering himself and getting on with his life in a functional, if rambunctious, fashion. This simple knowledge gave her a great sense of relief.

Gawain consulted his pocket-scroll and began noting details with a half-quill. "Did either of them secure the wands?"

"Yes, sir. The wands are safe in the Aurory.

"Thank Merlin! Something actually went right." He scribbled a few more notes and put his writing materials away. "I have an appointment with Shacklebolt first thing in the morning." Gawain checked his watch before rolling his eyes and amending his statement. "In a few hours time. He says he has an Unspeakable with current permissions who is capable of finding – and properly dealing with – a recalcitrant Muggle. I imagine it will not take too long to bring Tobias Snape in." He addressed Severus carefully. "Will you be ready when we do?"

Severus knew Gawain asked the question on more than one level. Somewhere in a sealed-off recess of his psyche, something stirred. A deep, dark pool of anger, hurt, and distress. He banished it behind a wall of Occlumency and answered Gawain with a silent nod.

"Good. I'll be in touch. Koslowski, since you are here, would you escort them to the Apparition point? I have to send an urgent owl. Proudfoot, come with me."

With a salute-cum-wave, Gawain and Proudfoot left the room. Koslowski diplomatically offered to wait for them in the hallway.

Moving closer to Harry's side, Severus took the folded parchment from his pocket and placed it under a familiar pair of spectacles. James Potter had worn a pair exactly the same. How often had he seethed when he saw Lily's eyes regarding him with pure hatred from behind those lenses? He reflected on the remembered annoyance. It didn't trouble him at all, now. It even seemed a little surreal.

Hermione gave him a questioning look.

"Some items belonging to Mr. Potter," he said very softly, so only she could hear. "It seemed appropriate to return them."

Hermione checked over her shoulder before taking his hand in both of hers. "Good for you," she whispered. She held his hand a little tighter. "Severus, did anything like... like that... happen to you?"

Severus closed his eyes. "Not quite as bad. I learned very quickly how to read warning signs – when to run and how long to hide. Even then, I did not always escape unscathed."

He looked Hermione in the eyes, surprised to see tears threatening. Taking her face in his hands, he gently wiped them away with his thumbs.

Hermione managed a faint smile. "Sorry. I know you don't appreciate seeing hearts on sleeves."

"I shan't hold it against you, ever. Though I believe one's heart functions more effectively when kept in its proper place."

She held him close, pressing her ear to the left side of his chest. She listened to the steady beat of his heart with solemn gratitude. "I have to agree with you," she said.

They moved apart as Harry stirred sluggishly and opened his eyes. His wandering, bleary gaze rested wonderingly on Severus for a moment; then he slid back into a potion-induced sleep.

When Oriens returned to Britain with the Wilkins/Grangers and reported to Minister Shacklebolt to submit the obligatory bundle of parchments, he had taken the opportunity to mention the artefact in the vaults. He related as much of its history as was known and his unease at Arawn's interest in it. Not wanting to arouse undue suspicion of a wizard so recently exonerated, Oriens did not mention Snape at all. Explaining just how he knew Arawn frequently examined the artefact during the last week of the War was a perfect lead into Petrus' predicament.

As expected, Minister Shacklebolt could not formally – and he said so with exaggerated sobriety – investigate Arawn without proof he was up to something nefarious. However, to Oriens' delight, Shacklebolt agreed to read the case notes on Petrus' incarceration and determine what could be done. With his mind at ease, more for Petrus' sake than having voiced his suspicions, Oriens paid a quick and informative visit to the vaults before returning to Australia to continue with one of his many projects.

Shacklebolt's lynx Patronus delivered a summons not long after Oriens had finished participating in a very important ceremony. Australian Aboriginal Elders called it "Singing the Spirit", a series of songs for maintaining and restoring the health of local waterways. The ceremonies and songs had been fading out of memory for over one hundred years, and the Elders were anxious to restore them before they were lost forever.

Oriens assisted by monitoring the flow of power within the chants, looking for any discordant patterns which indicated a missing word, a syllable mispronounced, or a dance step out of rhythm. It was a lengthy, exhausting, and very rewarding process. When the songs were restored to the Elders' satisfaction, they invited Oriens to join them in full ceremonial capacity. Hence his current appearance.

Well, Shacklebolt did insist on immediately.

If a high-ranking Unspeakable had showed up in Fudge's office wearing nothing but a loincloth, with sacred ochre symbols painted all over his bare skin, Fudge would have thrown a puce-faced tantrum. Shacklebolt did not even blink. One could have assumed such presentations were a daily occurrence and completely unremarkable.

The Minister quickly confirmed that, in accordance with the Australian Commission for International Magical Cooperation, Oriens' permits were still current for temporary residence and research. Permissions to perform non-harmful magical procedures on Muggles for a specific purpose and to magically transport Muggles for a very good reason were not yet expired. Oriens listened attentively as Shacklebolt imparted the latest news – and what he required Oriens to do.

Severus Snape had showed up alive and well, accepted a position within the Ministry, and would reside at Hogwarts for six months before taking up his Ministerial duties in full capacity. A press announcement would soon be made to this effect. Severus Snape's father had also showed up alive, with a source of magic he was demonstrably willing to defend. At the hands of a Muggle, the wizarding world's favourite son had been rendered insensible, two wands had been taken – later recovered – and an Auror bitten by a highly venomous non-magical snake. This information was strictly confidential. Oriens' mission was to locate Tobias Snape, subdue him by non-violent means, and transport him to St. Mungo's High Security Wing.

Oriens was surprised. "Not the Muggle Quarantine Facility?"

Kingsley stood up and pointed his wand at the fireplace. A generous blaze roared into life, startling a priority-message owl out of a well-earned snooze on the mantelpiece. "For Merlin's sake, man," he said, steering Oriens to stand in front of the fire. "The last thing I need is an Unspeakable down with hypothermia. I am making an exception to Muggle apprehension procedures. I believe security is important both for the source of the magic and for our Muggle. Auror Proudfoot and Miss Granger describe the magical aura as something quite powerful. Therefore, under the current post-war circumstances, I do not think it wise to employ anything less than high security.

"Unless you have any questions, I shall let you get on with your mission. Be careful, too. I have reports of Dementor sightings: two in Australia, four in Argentina, one here in London, six in Paris, and three in Thailand; though one of those might have been a Lethifold. Avoid confronting Tobias directly; he's obviously a bit of a handful."

Thus, Oriens undertook a covert role in Muggle tracking and apprehension: a long way from his usual occupations in Magi-Ecology. While the resourcefulness of Tobias was extraordinary in itself, the most peculiar and astonishing realisation was that two Snapes and two magical objects stood at opposite ends of an unsolved equation.

Probably a three-dimensional, hexa-prismic one, with time-dependent multipliers, Oriens mused.

It was beyond doubt that Tobias Snape was linked with a magical something. The connection between Severus Snape and the artefact held in the vault was still one of pure conjecture, but in the light of recent revelations, Petrus' words repeated often in his mind – Perhaps the bow is not so long.

Examining the site of Trainee Auror Potter's incident, Oriens followed sporadic signs: a partially obscured boot-print here, a broken twig there. He found his way to the hollow log, where the now infamous snake spotted him and reared up in a threatening posture. Oriens chanted a sūtra, specially designed to soothe angry or frightened creatures. The snake ceased its threats and rested its lower jaw on the edge of its hollow log, absorbing and analysing the vibrations of the Unspeakable's voice. After a short time, it slid gracefully back into the depths of its winter home, allowing Oriens to pass by unmolested.

The signs ran out at a rocky river bed, mostly dry except for a shallow flow winding its way down the middle. Oriens spotted a rusting rail bridge spanning the river not far away. He considered what Tobias' next move would have been.

A gut feeling insisted the Muggle would have taken the fastest, most direct route away from the area. Oriens was sure Tobias would avoid heavily populated places and, since his encounter with Potter, would probably avoid localities where he would be recognized.

Disguised as a backpacker gradually working his way north for the mango season, he stopped at the pub in a nearby town to listen in on the local gossip. Nobody looked twice at a dusty traveler perusing the newspapers with a schooner of mid-strength bitter, a toasted sandwich, and a plate of hot chips. Hearing nothing helpful, which told him Tobias had kept the incident entirely to himself, Oriens took his empty glass back to the bar for a refill, deftly de-alcoholising it when the barman was not looking.

With a few discreet questions, Oriens established that the road winding over the mountain range led only to more farmland and grazing properties where everybody knew each other pretty well. The rail bridge he had seen belonged to a disused branch line, decommissioned in the late 1950's. It ran some five miles north-west and passed through a cutting in the range, ending at a railhead where a freight line supplied consumables to the inland and mineral ores and coal to the sea ports. Along its inland route, the freight line passed through wide, grassy plains which thinned out into the red dust of saltbush and spinifex country.

The barman, an ex-fettler in his mid-sixties, described in detail the landmarks along the inland route: blink-and-you-miss-them rail sidings where wheat silos gave the only shade for miles, tumbledown hamlets where kangaroos rested in derelict gardens, and several two-pub towns – all but abandoned since the days when wheat and wool ceased to rule the export market – standing like punch-drunk fighters insisting they were not down for the count. The route to the east progressed through more populated areas; Oriens dismissed this latter option without a second thought.

He fished a map out of his backpack and examined the route of the abandoned branch line. With a small flicker of certainty, he decided Tobias had followed it to the railhead and hitched a ride on west-bound rolling stock. As he reached down to feel for a Muggle pencil stowed in a side pocket, something cool and moist nudged his fingers. He looked down to find a blue heeler watching him intently.

Mindful of canine etiquette, in which it is the height of rudeness to pat a dog on the head unless one knows the animal very well, Oriens scratched the animal under the jaws. A paw placed decisively on Oriens' knee gave permission for a thorough rubbing of the ears.

The dog's head jerked at the sound of a piercing whistle, followed by a stentorian "Diesel! Where are ya? Outta that pub, ya cheeky bugger!" As he loped out of the door, Diesel looked over his shoulder and flashed Oriens a toothy grin.

Having slept for a few hours, Severus readily threw himself into the Defence Against the Dark Arts syllabus. Smirking, he wrote the heading for the next lesson block: Defence Against Dementors – Two Established Methods. He would make sure Trainee Auror Potter was one of the first to learn the second method, simply to prove a point.

A light, structured knock and a tingling sensation from his wards announced Hermione's presence. Tossing his quill aside, he vaulted out of his seat and strode to the door. In one fluid movement, he opened it and swept her into an ardent embrace.

"You know, there could have been anyone lingering in the gallery," she murmured, emerging from a series of very thorough kisses.

Severus nudged the door closed without letting her go. "Ah, but there wasn't. Besides, I did not have the opportunity to properly wish you good morning." He scowled as he recalled Apparating back into an Entrance Hall inconveniently swarming with house-elves and construction workers.

"You have it now." Hermione traced his lower lip with a finger. "Speaking of lingering..." She proceeded to apply the concept in a manner which left him completely besotted.

An impatient tapping at the window pane caused Severus to unwillingly call himself to order. Opening the window with a casual gesture of wandless magic, he allowed a Ministry Archives owl to settle itself comfortably before relieving it of a miniaturised package.

"Your timing was perfect for more than one reason," Severus told Hermione as he examined the enlarged item in his hands. "The case documents regarding the incarcerated gargoyle," he said, handing them to her.

Hermione placed the documents on the desk and unfastened the leather clasps. Her initial perusal was curtailed by the owl's rasping hiss of excitement. Severus was dangling a recently killed mouse above its head.

"Eew! Was that in here?"

"No." Severus dropped the mouse and watched as the owl snapped it up eagerly. "Your fur-coated fiend left it on my doorstep not more than half an hour ago. I intended to feed it to the carnivorous plants in the greenhouses, but the owl is hungry and I do not have any owl-treats."

"It sounds like something he'd do, but you can't be sure it was Crooks."

"Yes, I can. He left a distinctly ginger hairball next to it."

Hermione gave in to laughter. "Well, aren't you privileged? 'One mouse. Warmest regards, Crookshanks.' Sorry about that; I gave him a pot of cat-grass and let him out before I went to bed. He's normally very good about leaving his hairballs outside. Although," she added with a grimace, "he occasionally leaves one or two for me to find in unexpected places."

Severus stood behind her and gathered her in his arms. "Regurgitated balls of half-Kneazle hair and dead mice aside, referring to your initial observation, I find I am very privileged indeed."

Hermione turned to face him. "You haven't told me the outcome of your meeting with Minister Shacklebolt. The presence of an Archives owl and your mention of 'duties' earlier this morning suggests you have a new occupation."

Severus slid into his chair, pulling Hermione with him so she was seated happily on his lap. "I intended to tell you last night. Certain distractions pushed the matter out of my mind."

He proceeded to relate the gist of his conversation with Kingsley, from the first wary greeting to the signing of an Acceptance of Position scroll. He pointed to a chalkboard covered in what Hermione recognised as flow charts. "I started reviewing the Dementor section early yesterday morning. So far, the guidelines I will write for the Ministry training procedures parallel those for the school syllabus in structure. Of course, the Ministry training will be far more rigorous and will touch upon concepts having no place in a school." He looked over his writings with grave purpose. "Considering the recent reappearance of Dementors, this may prove useful sooner rather than later."

Hermione nodded in agreement. "Nobody knows where the Dementors went after the War. One minute they were everywhere; then they all retreated. By the time anyone noticed, they were gone."

"Gawain mentioned two Death Eaters had surrendered to avoid pursuit by the creatures. Then he revised his statement, saying the Dementors were 'herding' the fugitives."

Hermione frowned. "I've never heard of them doing that."

"Another thing to consider is this: from what we know of Dementors, which is precious little, inter-personal discrimination is not their strongest point... Is something wrong?"

Hermione's expression was one of alarm. "Umbridge. She said she sent Dementors after Harry. Could she do that? Is it possible?"

Severus considered her words carefully. "Most people would say it is not; however, it happened. Given the paucity of knowledge on the subject, it may be wise to regard it as possible until proven otherwise." In a sudden change of mood, he gave a shrug of resignation. "As always, research into a topic inevitably raises more questions."

"Isn't that why we enjoy the challenge?"

Severus eyed her knowingly before breaking into a genuine smile. "Absolutely." He indicated the case notes left on the desk. "Best get to it before that owl makes a nest in important documents. I believe Minerva is consulting with Hagrid with the aim of including this exercise as part of your assessment."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione transfigured a footstool into a perch and gently relocated the owl so it could digest the mouse in peace. "I'll take these up to my room," she said, fingering the pages carefully.

"Study here, if you like," Severus offered, indicating the broad expanse of his desk. "There's room. If you complete your task in a timely fashion, I will show you the wonders of this bookshelf."

After a puzzled glance at the empty shelves, Hermione moved a chair to the vacant side of Severus' desk and began to read.

Silence prevailed in the Ravenclaw room: a steady observation of contemplation and constructive thought was punctuated only by the scratch of Severus' quill, the soft rustle of parchment, and an occasional hiccough from the owl. Hermione was rapidly absorbed in her task, though she soon regarded the document as less of a piece of Ministerial administration, and more like a tale from long ago.

It began in A.D. 1191. During the third crusade, a ferocious sandstorm delayed Richard the Lionheart's forces on their way to do battle with Saladin's armies. When the storm finally abated, the crusaders found the landscape altered beyond recognition. A mighty dune had been swept away, revealing the mummified remains of a trading caravan buried untold centuries before.

At first, the crusaders were wary, claiming this was the work of the Devil. The remains were not huddled together as would be expected of a caravan caught in the dreaded khamsin, or ambushed by Bedouin raiders – there was no sign of a fight. To a man, each of them lay as though they had been felled, simultaneously, in mid-stride. Camels and horses lay in orderly lines, their harness and saddle girths still fastened.

The goods were intact. Evidently, this observation soon helped the men to overcome their fear. The crusaders carried off as much booty as they were able – including a statue, fearsome in appearance and exquisitely carved.

In honour of a treaty between the deceased Henry II of England and Philip II of France, Richard the Lionheart presented part of the treasure, including the statue, as a gift to the French king. The statue was installed as a gargoyle on the recently completed Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris.

In A.D. 1200, in the dawn after the longest night, two boys were making mischief from the parapets of the cathedral. With balls of mud encased in snow, they rained merry havoc on people passing far below. The boys' enjoyment turned to terror when, as one of them threw a missile, a strong gust of wind caused his target to be missed. Instead, it struck one of the gargoyles, just as the first blaze of sunlight broke free from the horizon. The gargoyle – a figure of stone which should be unmoving – turned its head and looked at them.

From then on, rumours persisted of strange occurrences at Notre-Dame de Paris. Watchmen told of a terrifying figure moving around in the dead of night. Items would sometimes be moved to different places, though nothing was ever stolen. A priest entered the cathedral one morning to find a penitent weeping face-down before the alter. The man claimed he had broken into the cathedral to steal, but could not leave because a demon waited for him outside the doors, threatening all the punishments of Hell. In a hastily scribbled attachment dated some years later, the same man was acquitted because he had not taken anything and had confessed his error. He became a reformed character and did much good among the poor.

At times the great bells, Marie and Emmanuel, would ring when no human was there to sound them. The French Ministry of Magic investigated and, upon discovering the source of the misdemeanours, sternly instructed a gargoyle to desist from engaging in visible or audible activities. As moving, talking cathedral-gargoyles were nothing unusual, the French Ministry officials gave no further thought to the matter. Among the Muggle population, the inexplicable happenings faded from memory and were thereafter dismissed as superstition.

Hermione smiled at a scribbled comment in the margin. The gargoyle called himself Petrus, simply because he thought it appropriate after hearing so many sermons mentioning "Peter the Rock".

A.D. 1420, and a dark wizard rose to power. Iudris overthrew the French Ministry with intrigue, treachery, and extortion. He infiltrated the most powerful governing bodies, and took the unusual step of employing Muggles to do a large part of his murderous work.

In the summer of A.D. 1427, the 'superstition' of Notre-Dame de Paris revealed his presence in a spectacular fashion.

Captured by Inquisitors acting under Iudris' dictates, a young witch was framed for treason. As she knelt in a prison cart, her magic bound, one of Iudris' minions denounced her as a heretic and traitor from the steps of the cathedral. She was sentenced to one hundred lashes. Then she would be taken to Montfaucon, where she would be hanged by the neck until dead.

Suddenly, in front of hundreds of Muggles, a gargoyle launched itself into the air from the towers of the western facade. With a snarl of fury, the creature swooped low over the Inquisitors, scattering them in all directions. Iudris' followers, Muggle and magical, retaliated with a volley of crossbow bolts and hexes. It was said the gargoyle deflected even the strongest curses with its bare hands. Fighting like the demon he resembled, Petrus prevailed over Iudris' guards, caught the witch in his arms, and flew her to safety in the north bell tower.

Panic and rioting ensued, with a hand-to-hand battle fought in the portals of the cathedral itself. The French Aurors and Unspeakables seized the moment to regroup, their numbers boosted by a contingent of English and German Aurors. They initiated a counter-attack. In the melee and confusion, Iudris' forces were driven back beyond the city boundaries.

In the cathedral, Petrus was eventually subdued, taken to a secret location, and questioned. This time, French Unspeakables examined him extensively. They concluded that his origins lay in Thâmūd: an ancient and extinct civilisation with extensive trade routes throughout Arabia. Uncertain of Petrus' powers or tendencies for good or evil, the French Ministry deemed it was neither safe nor prudent to keep him on European soil. From northern France to Spain and southern Germany, Iudris still held the upper hand. Many wizards, witches, and Muggles had died by fire, water, or the hangman's rope. Nothing was stable. No-one could be trusted.

Petrus was transported to England's shores. The English Unspeakables were at just as great a loss to explain what it was, despite Petrus' objections that he was not an "it". With true Gallic indignation, he objected to being labelled as a gargoyle. His meticulously documented words were annotated with an English translation, 'I am not the glorified water spout!' Further, Petrus claimed he required neither definition nor explanation to justify his existence.

In a show of fiery defiance, he declared himself completely unrepentant for having revealed his presence against the dictates of the law. All of this was unheard of among the wizarding community's experience of gargoyles, and the Unspeakables concluded that if Petrus was indeed such an entity, he was a very unusual one. Of greater concern to the Wizengamot, before whom the matter was finally presented, Petrus had proved himself a credible threat to both Muggle and Magical populations.

That's ridiculous, Hermione thought. It was a time of terrible danger; he never hurt anyone before he saved the witch's life. I'm glad they at least brought her over to England as well. She looked at the list of signatories, some of the names familiar to her. Families with prestige and power, their names all too often cropping up in the lists of Death Eaters. Families who prided themselves as pure-bloods. Hermione read on, reaching her own conclusion. To have a "thing" address proud wizarding families in tones of defiance was simply not to be tolerated. Petrus was sent, as an undefined magical object, to the vaults in the Department of Mysteries.

Hermione read the entire case again. True, the breach of secrecy at Notre-Dame de Paris, and the subsequent riot in which twenty people died, was a serious infringement. It was also true the deaths were not Petrus' direct fault. The only people he had injured – not killed – were Iudris' followers.

The last entry to the archive was centuries newer than the others. Under his name and the year, 1981, Oriens told how he met Petrus for the first time. Searching for the third Round Stone, known only in the vaguest legends, he made daily visits to Vault Five for nearly a week. He would sing in his native tongue while he sorted through the contents of the stone chests. Simple songs, the sort people use while tending their animals, planting their fields, or waiting for the monsoon to end. Having found the stone and cleared it for removal, Oriens placed his hand on the door to leave. He froze when he heard a quiet voice from the shadows. 'Reviendrez-vous?' it had asked.

From then on, Petrus' existence took a turn for the better. Oriens wrote of an intelligent being with a better education than many humans could imagine. During his years at Notre-Dame de Paris, Petrus had secretly accessed the literature held within the cathedral and eavesdropped on the sermons, disputes and lectures of learned men. Petrus had a gift for languages; he was fluent in Latin, French, and Ancient Greek. He picked up English as quickly as Oriens could teach it. He was also very fond of books.

Hermione shook her head at the attachments embodying Ministerial attitudes towards non-human creatures. "Request denied" was stamped over every one of Oriens' attempts to have Petrus' situation revisited.

She felt her resolve building, her intellect honing itself in readiness to fight for a cause. "Not this time," she said aloud. Her tone must have held a little more steel than she intended. Severus looked up from his work, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Fighting words, Miss Granger?"

"Fighting words, sir." Her expression softened to a smile as she regarded the wizard seated opposite her. In white linen shirt and black waistcoat, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, ink on his fingers and hair delightfully tousled, it was hard to think of him in the role he had played in her life over the past six years. She got up and stood behind him, resting her forearms on his shoulders.

"May I be of assistance?" he asked, threading his fingers through hers and decorating them with an ink smudge in the process. She gently nuzzled his ear, causing him to wonder if she was aware of the response she was generating. Or was it simply his intimacy-starved instincts overreacting and sending liquid fire through his veins? To Severus' mingled relief and regret, she desisted.

"Maybe. I have finished my task, and I now want to know about this bookshelf. When you are ready, of course." She drew away from him to return to her seat.

Severus quickly called his mind away from some definitions of "ready" that were certainly not appropriate to dwell on just yet. Standing, he caught her arm and settled for kissing her soundly. He took out his wand and pointed it at the bookshelf. "Give me some search terms for a topic of interest."

"Let me see... Try 'Thâmūd and curse', then 'ancient Arabia and magical creatures'. As a first step, I need to gain some familiarity with the subject matter."

Severus repeated the words and tapped the shelf with his wand. A scroll appeared and unrolled itself, revealing a list of publication abstracts matching the search terms. Hermione looked them over carefully. "These twelve look promising," she said, highlighting the titles with a touch of her wand.

Severus read the titles out loud. Within moments, the requested tomes materialised on the shelf, dust and all.

Arawn placed his hands on his desk and stared at the Prophet again. He read Minister Shacklebolt's statement for the third time. He looked up at the Dementor hovering in front of the old Floo connection. Why couldn't you find him?

We hungered; we ate the memory. We tasted the hatred; we savoured the rage. We followed; we found nothing.

Knowing further questions on this particular topic would be pointless, for Dementors were very statement-of-fact creatures, Arawn let the matter lie. You found the others?

We found them. Some escaped us. Some would not submit; we fed upon them. We fed well.

Arawn had read the Prophet's report of two Death Eaters who, ironically, handed themselves in to escape. Asking about numbers was a useless exercise – Dementors had no use at all for the concept of quantity. Those you found, where are they?

In the appointed place.

They really could be frustrating. Dementors had no use for place names either. The ghost city?

The Dementor inclined its head, one of the few gestures their kind would make. Arawn sat down to think, mulling over possible reasons why Snape was not discovered. All the other memories obtained from Lucius Malfoy had been, by the sound of it, successful. Arawn guessed the problem lay with a peculiarity of the Dementor he fed the memory to. The others, working in pairs or triads, had found their quarry without difficulty.

Arawn had observed displays of individuality among Dementors before. Some were capable of making complex decisions; others showed leadership and could organise small groups into effective teams. Some definitely had a shorter fuse than others.

Arawn sighed. It was a question for a later date. He now knew Snape had survived and where he was residing. Hogwarts would be a problem. The wards were not only thorough and strong, they had been upgraded since Voldemort's second fall. He sent a mental image of the Castle to the waiting Dementor. You know what to do.

Oriens waited by the freight line, listening to the pulsing rumble of two locomotives as they strained up the slight grade to the railhead. The pitch of the engines changed as the engineer throttled back in readiness for a sweeping curve, marking the beginning of the long descent to the plains beyond. As Oriens expected, the train slowed to a walking pace, container after container passing by on protesting bogeys.

Tell-tale boot-prints alongside the track marked where Tobias had climbed aboard. The same prints he had memorised from the site of the Potter incident – the same prints he had found beside the disused branch line, where the rail ballast and sleepers were too overgrown with lantana to be trafficable. Taking his broom out of his backpack, he enlarged it and restored his clothing to its original configuration.

The cockatoos were a stroke of luck. The third settlement Oriens examined was blessed with a wide, deep creek running beside it. Further on, the creek banks were thick with vegetation and swarming with the noisy, feeding, bickering birds. There was some sort of commotion, though not a dangerous one. The birds were curious about something and chattered about it incessantly. Oriens decided it was worth investigation, as a Muggle on the run would no doubt seek cover, and in these parts, try to stay near water if it were possible.

In the muddy bank, Oriens found what he was looking for. The signs were only a few hours old. Using layers of Concealment and Silencing Charms, as well as a considerable amount of jungle-craft learned in his native land, Oriens silently moved along the creek bank. Before long, the sensation of magic tingled in his fingertips.

His only problem was the not-a-stroke-of-luck-anymore cockatoos. The winged clowns could sense him through the charms. They were voraciously inquisitive, recklessly noisy, and determined to find out all about him. His ears ringing from a series of deafening shrieks emitted by one bold individual, Oriens strained his hearing as a twig snapped not far ahead of him. Peering through the tangled foliage, he saw a man standing motionless, watching the cockatoos with open suspicion.

Oriens wasted no time. He silently cast Obdormiscere and kept absolutely still. Tobias yawned and swayed a little. Blinking heavily, he bent down to pick up his swag and dropped to his knees. Oriens did not make a move or a sound, even when a cockatoo flew right into him and fell, bewildered, to the ground. Tobias caught his weight on his hands as he yawned again and shook his head. By the time he collapsed into a deep sleep, the cockatoo had decided to climb up its unseen obstacle's leg. Oriens obligingly cancelled the charms and helped the astounded bird into a tree, where it would no doubt relate the adventure to the rest of the clan.

He approached the sleeping Muggle cautiously. Rolling him onto his back, Oriens gasped as the magical aura charged every nerve in his body.

"Merciful Buddha," he whispered. "What, in the name of the Sacred Scrolls, are you carrying?"

Taking Tobias' knife as a precaution, he prepared his charge with Immobillus and Protego Totalis. He sent his Patronus on ahead with a message: He had found Tobias Snape, the situation was under control, and he would arrive in St. Mungo's High Security Wing very shortly.