The Book of Nimuë – part 2

A/N's

Australian

'ard yakka (hard yakka) – hard work, usually intensively physical.

French (on-line translator)

Adieu – Goodbye/farewell

Bonjour – Hello

Débilitant – Debilitating

Le chat – Cat (or half-Kneazle)

Regardes où tu vas! – Watch where you are going!*

S'il vous plait – If you please

Latin (various on-line sources)

Et cum spiritu tuo – And with thy spirit

Deus da mihi patientiam – God grant me patience

Dominus vobiscum – The Lord be with you

Ordo Sancti Benedicti – The monastic order of St Benedict

Quiescit Anima Libris – The spirit finds respite in books.

Šumava – The Bohemian Forest, Central Europe (on the border of the Czech Republic, Austria, and Germany).

The description of the spearhead is consistent with that on P436 of Mary Stewart's book: The Last Enchantment (1979).

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

*Thank you, AmyLouise! On-line translators would never have told me that, when 'speaking to children or animals, the familiar "tu" is always used for "you"'.

Thanks and blessings to TeaOli, World's Most Patient Beta and recipient of the Great Fun Award for 2012.

---

Hermione turned in her sleep, a persistent cold draft nudging her – reluctantly – into the process of waking up. She stretched, yawned, and fuzzily looked about her. Severus sat next to her with his back against the headboard, so deeply focussed on something he held in his hand that he had not noticed the dislodgement of bedclothes.

"I can think of less chilly ways to say good morning," she protested, wriggling closer to him. Her skin tingled with his bathrobe-clad warmth.

Severus ran his thumb over the object in his hand. Scowling pensively, he passed it to her.

Hermione's eyes widened as she recognised the red dragon. "Merlin!" She looked at him in confusion. She had felt him twitch at the mention of Merlin's name.

"That is a more apt exclamation than you realise," Severus stated. His eyes conveyed perturbation, resolve, and disbelief in one sweeping glance.

Every question placed on hold between the arrival of no less than twenty Aurors at the villa and crawling into bed sometime around midnight crashed over Hermione's thoughts like a North Sea gale over the Bell Rock lighthouse: Where did he go when he placed the Llygad in Myrddin's hand? What did he see? How did he get back? What happened when he got back? But the only thing she could voice was a small, awed statement: "You flew."

Severus nonchalantly scratched his stomach. He quirked an eyebrow.

"I had heard that you could do it... Luna told me. But to see you... You flew without a broom."

"The Disillusionment Charm I had placed on Tobias had been cancelled. I saw him, and then I saw the blood. There was no time. If I had not reached him when I did, he would have fallen to a certain death. I had given him the Llygad and told him to run. I had no idea that he had come back – no idea that he would choose to come back." Severus shifted to face her. "He is the reason you are..." He clenched his teeth. "Fawkes brought him the weapons."

"Loyalty... Tobias decided not to abandon us... " Hermione murmured, rubbing Severus' chest. She knew from experience that he found the action very soothing. "Fawkes. I wonder if he was responsible for the Dementors' disappearance. We didn't have time to notice they were gone until reinforcements arrived."

"Tobias could not have done anything to them. The rest of us were not in a position to do so. And the way Fawkes attacked Arawn – it would have been a sight worth seeing if Arawn had not Disapparated. If the phoenix attacked the Dementors in the same way..."

"Darkness flees at the touch of light; cold withdraws from fire's heat," Hermione pondered.

Severus looked at her in appreciative surprise. "Very prosaic."

Hermione snorted. "Very naff!"

"Thus spake the Gryffindor." He summoned her bathrobe and dropped it in her lap.

Her fingers closed around the copper brooch. "When you disappeared – in the villa – this has a lot to do with wherever you went, doesn't it?"

Severus nodded soberly. He sighed and rolled out of bed. "It does." He gave her an unreadable look and summoned Caddy. "How that depiction of a royal cipher came into my hand will take some careful telling and should not be attempted without coffee."

---

Toby blinked, rubbed his eyes, and waited. Apart from the soft snores emanating from the enormous ginger cat sharing his pillow, there was not a sound to be heard. He shifted cautiously, biting his lip when his wound protested. A faint metallic jangle from an unknown distance away spurred him into action. Using his good arm, and noting that the cannula had been removed sometime during the night, he pushed himself onto his knees and waited for the throbbing in his right shoulder to subside.

The ginger mass of fur uncoiled and stared at him sleepily.

"Mornin'."

Still lying on his side, Crookshanks stretched from the tips of his ears to the tip of his tail and the very ends of his claws.

However, Toby had other things on his mind than exchanging pleasantries with cats. "Tocky?"

The house-elf appeared with a crack, which echoed alarmingly around the Hospital Wing.

"Shush! Keep it down, mate!" Toby eased himself off the bed and gritted his teeth against his body's protests.

Tocky clamped both hands over his mouth, looking around anxiously. Seeing no-one else, he fidgeted with the frayed hem of his pillowcase as he watched Tobias painfully gain his balance. "Tocky is not thinking Master Tobias should be..."

"Where's t' dunny?" Toby pleaded. Now that he was standing, it was all the more urgent.

"Master Tobias is wishing to...?"

Toby shut his eyes. "Master Tobias is bustin' for a leak."

Tocky gazed at him in forlorn bewilderment.

"The. Loo. I gotta pee!"

Tocky's eyes widened with understanding. "Tocky is knowing where it is!"

"Thank God for two-foot-tall blessin's."

"Is Master Tobias able to follow Tocky? Is not far. Is at end of hall."

"Yeah, I can manage. Oi! Gerroff!" Toby unhooked Crookshanks' claws from his trousers. He firmly held a furry paw in his hand and stared the feline squarely in the eyes. "I reckon, if you were at t' vet's, you'd want to do yer thing on yer own terms – that right?"

Crookshanks swivelled his left ear to one side and twitched his back-fur. He withdrew his paw in a dignified manner and flicked his tail. Adopting Egyptian-cat-statue posture, he closed his eyes and pretended he was oblivious to any breakage of rules. The human had made a very salient point.

---

Petrus crouched on the wall of his balcony, watching the eastern sky turn from milky silver to misty gold. The wind had eased to playful gusts that swept drifts of brown leaves into lazy spirals before dropping them into haphazard patterns over turf and flagstones.

He considered his visit to St Mungo's the night before. Of course, he had heard the Healers' whispers of 'gargoyle' – and felt their probing stares as he passed along the wide, spotless halls of the hospital with the Headmistress of Hogwarts by his side. He had ignored them. His concern had been for his friend, not for peoples' opinions and comments. Besides, by now he was quite resigned to humans referring to him as a gargoyle – they simply did not know what else to label him.

He had realised that Oriens was in extremely capable hands the minute he saw the intricate sheath of interlocking spell-work encasing the Unspeakable's injured leg. Custom-wrought to hold each piece of bone in its correct place, it would allow healing to take place without weakness or deformity. To Petrus' relief, Oriens was able to engage in a brief conversation, during which he assured Petrus that he would recover, and finished up with a philosophical observation on the taste of the healing potions he would have to take throughout the night.

Petrus snuffed the passing breezes, catching the aroma of wood-smoke, heather, and distant snow. Leaning forward, he extended his wings and took flight.

Silhouetted against the brightening sky, a wake of Thestrals played drop-and-catch with what looked like the corpse of a hare. A lively curl of smoke climbed from the chimney of Professor Hagrid's hut. Petrus soared higher, levelling off when he felt the vibration of Hogwarts' protective wards several feet above him. Enjoying the exercise, he circled the castle.

His roving eyes were arrested by a new construction on the Quidditch pitch. When he had first seen the Quidditch pitch, it was little more than an oval-shaped wreck of charred and broken timber. Now, three long poles of unequal heights stood at each end of the space. Each pole supported a wide ring. As mentioned in the staff meeting two days before, the degradable debris had been cleared away, pulverised, and mixed with assorted other organic materials. The entire botanically nutritious concoction now hulked behind the greenhouses, quietly steaming in the cold morning air.

Petrus flew in for a closer look at the pitch, catching the clean tang of newly milled timber stockpiled in readiness for the next phase of construction. Dipping one wing and using his tail as a counterbalance, he pulled a sharp turn around the three rings at one end of the pitch. He had given the Quidditch handbook a cursory read, but with so much to be done in the library, he had not yet had the time to fully educate himself on the rules of Hogwarts' most celebrated sport. These are the goals, he thought, quizzing himself. A spherical, reddish object lay half-hidden in long grass to one side of the pitch. He snatched it up without touching the ground, his hands easily finding purchase in the four shallow indentations spread evenly across its surface. This is the... Ah! What is it called? The Quaffle!

He frowned when his fingers traced the Quaffle's surface. One side of it was burned and blistered – a poignant reminder of what had occurred in this place where children had played at sport. Still circling the pitch, Petrus considered the young people he had never known. Did they fly their brooms above this ground with all the passion and bravado of their young lives, yelling war cries as they sought glory for their House? Were they gracious in victory? Resilient in defeat? Petrus did not know.

The faces of the students who had seen the castle in ruins passed through his mind. He knew which ones they were. When alone, they walked through the reconstructed halls as if shadows followed on their heels. Sometimes, he would find them in secluded parts of the library: staring into empty space, or shaking with muffled sobs.

Petrus snarled quietly. This war, it should not have happened! Always, truth is the first sacrifice. The innocent are soon to follow. He remembered looking down from the heights of the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris, at war-widows and their children begging alms from the Church. It had seemed that there was never enough to go around. Over time, the children would grow thinner and paler, and the widows gaunt with the emptiness of abandoned hope.

From one end of the pitch, he looked towards the pristine goal rings at the other. He tossed the fire-scarred Quaffle in one hand. For those who played well, for the innocent, and for those who died with valour!

With short, powerful wing-beats, he gained speed and flew down the centre of the pitch. He pulled one wing close to his body and spun away from an imaginary Bludger. Snapping his wings to their full span, he wrestled g-forces through a steep, climbing turn – then dived under the broom of an invisible opponent. Swooping low to the ground, he felt the unruly grass brush his wing-tips. With an exultant roar, he gained height again. Throwing his bodyweight forward and his wings vertical, he came to a dead halt in mid-air and waved adieu to another successfully evaded Bludger. A short, backwards free-fall and a twisting roll had him tracking for the middle goal. Remnants of ground-marks told him that he was within the scoring zone. Making a feint towards the lower goal, he hurled the Quaffle through the highest goal ring and turned a somersault to slow his momentum.

The applause of a single person echoed around the pitch. A voice drifted up to him: "Nice moves."

Petrus hovered, astonished, and searched for his undetected audience. He spotted a witch leaning against the stacked timber. "Madame Hooch!" He descended in a circling glide, landed, and bowed. "Bonjour, Madame. I must ask your forgiveness for the trespass. I thought I was alone."

"Nothing to forgive," Rolanda answered, her words slurring slightly. "Trespass, nothing, old boy! Staff can go anywhere they like on school grounds. And why keep the aerial acrobatics all to yourself, hm? Like I said: nice moves." She pushed off from the stack of timber, weaving on her feet. "A flying librarian! Ha! It's admiral... admirable. Sorry... What's your name? Don't worry, I remember. Petrus."

Petrus stared at her, meagre experience telling him what ailed the Flying instructor. Petrus had seen what happened to choirboys who decided to tap the barrels of communion wine to the point of passing out. He had put the limp-limbed inebriates in the confessionals where they would – some hours later – moan out their agonies in private. Petrus had stopped short of taking the role of admonishing spiritual guide, no matter how tempting the prospect.

He had also seen another witch in the castle who seemed to be a member of staff, yet did not readily associate with anyone. He had heard that she used to teach Divination and had once shared the position with Professor Firenze. Apart from her rather spiteful disapproval of the centaur, Petrus had been told of her vague approach to teaching – and of a propensity to imbibe cheap sherry in large quantities. He had come upon her only once, on his first night patrol. Professor Trelawney seemed to wander the halls like a living ghost, the light of the sconces reflecting off her thick-lensed spectacles in pallid imitation of some fearsome night-ghoul. If she had properly looked at him through her sherry-tinted fog, Petrus could not tell, but she had taken his hand, traced his palm, and told him that he had a warm heart – even if it was made of stone.

Rolanda swayed dangerously as she cast her arm in a broad gesture. "This Quidditch pitch..." She shook her head. "I taught them to fly, you know. Taught them how to sit a broom and make it dance with the wind. You should have seen them – seen their faces when they got that first taste of real air... They're not here any more."

"The students who died in the Battle, Madame?"

Rolanda nodded. "I think I see them some nights when I come here. Ghosts playing a game that will never finish... and can never be won. Maybe the new pitch will help them rest? Do you think? Or will it erase the memory of them, like they were never here?"

Petrus spotted Madam Hooch's broom and appropriated it. She was in no fit state to fly – and the staff timetable had her taking the second-year flying class before lunch. "It will not erase them from history, Madame. The very stones of the castle will remember them! I think that if the ghosts are here, they will enjoy to watch the future games from the new stands. Now, s'il vous plait, Madame, if you will walk with me to the Hospital Wing?"

Rolanda studied him blearily. "Are you feeling sick? Can you get sick?"

"Madame, I have the ability to discern when the headache débilitant is about to manifest. It is a wise action to take the preventative medicines, non?"

The Flying instructor grinned. "Oui! Didn't know gargoyles got headaches. Mostly, they just sit around grumbling about which way they're facing, or telling dreary jokes." She took a few meandering steps.

"I had noticed, Madame. There is one who always tells to me that his companion was knocked off his plinth by a boy on a broom being chased by a dragon."

"That'll be the one who complains about having a cold bum," Rolanda stated earthily, appropriating her companion's arm. "It's a long walk to the Hospital Wing. If you're feeling poorly, you might need a teeny bit of help."

Petrus gave the sky a knowing glance as Rolanda assigned half of her bodyweight over to him. "Oui, Madame."

---

Having chosen to breakfast in his rooms, Severus fell back on one of the skills he had developed while living life on a dangerous edge. Eating was an essential part of being able to respond to any situation with intelligence and energy – even if one's stomach was in a complicated tangle of knots. He stirred several pinches of sea-salt through his porridge, watching Hermione as she dawdled over her toast and fruit. With History of Magic as her first engagement of the morning, she had opted for "something light" to ward off any post-prandial drowsiness.

Hermione nibbled on grapes while she considered Severus' extraordinary tale. As was her habit, she summarised and recapitulated. "So... There is a fake Llygad y Ddraig – and a real one. The fake ended up in Voldemort's care, and from there to the vaults, while the real one – along with a remnant of an unknown document – was taken by Tobias, who has kept both items secret until now.

"When you first examined the real Llygad, you saw a boy looking at his reflection in a cave." She drizzled honey over her toast. "By the way, Severus, I still think he sounds a lot like you. A subsequent... um... dream?"

Severus nodded and swallowed another spoonful of porridge. "For the sake of brevity, we may refer to it as such."

"A subsequent dream showed you an ancient ruin with a mosaic depicting a red dragon on a gold field above a castle and a hill.

"Later on, when we heard what the centaurs had to say about the events surrounding Travers' consumption, you looked into the Llygad again, and saw a wizard whom you suspected was one of your mother's ancestors.

"Then Tobias gave you the piece of... Graphorn hide. You read a description matching that of the boy you had seen in the cave. With the help of his house-elf, Tobias put forward some good reasons to suspect that the boy – Myrddin – is actually Merlin.

"When we met with Kingsley and Oriens, the Llygad gave you another vision of Myrddin, who was referred to as 'Merlin the bastard' by a troop leader named Uther. As it turned out, Merlin was wearing a cloak brooch depicting a red dragon on a gold field – just like the one in the mosaic." She indicated the brooch with her butter knife. "A royal cipher belonging to the house of Ambrosius Aurelianus and his brother, Uther..."

"Who later styled himself Pendragon," Severus put in with a snort.

"And Ambrosius' son, Merlin. You didn't think much of Uther, did you?"

"Detested him."

Hermione poured herself another cup of coffee. "Following the trail of accessed title deeds unintentionally left by Arawn, we went to a villa which, according to the deeds, is the first known home of your mother's ancestors." She reached for a small jug of cream. "We saw that your dream of the mosaic was a true one..."

"And you proposed that the forested hill and the fortified castle depicted in the mosaic were symbolic of Merlin and Arthur respectively."

"They were cousins!" Hermione curbed her excitement as Severus mechanically applied himself to his breakfast. Gods, he looks miserable. Fang looked happier when he had hay fever. "In the villa, we found a hidden shrine, and you established – with the Llygad's help – that the god within it is Myrddin of the High Places."

Severus shifted uneasily.

"Shall I stop now?"

"No. Go on." Severus was finding it oddly comforting to hear Hermione talking through the events which troubled and mystified him. It was good to finally have someone to share burdensome things with.

Hermione finished her piece of toast and wiped honey off her fingers. "You placed the Llygad in Myrddin's hand, and you found that you had been... Portkeyed... into the same cave where you had seen the boy Merlin – and where you had seen one of your ancestors in the process of hiding something. The something turned out to be this brooch, hidden under a small harp in a crystal cave. The Llygad y Ddraig, you said, appears to be made from a crystal taken from the same cave." She chewed her lower lip.

Severus gazed at her, wary and tense.

Hermione drew a steadying breath. My conclusions rattle me, too, love. But we are in this together. "Severus, to me, the events you described condense to five points. One: the Llygad y Ddraig with its heavily guarded power and memories – something Voldemort was certainly interested in harnessing. Assuming Lucius told you the truth, Voldemort had been planning to obtain it for some time. Two: a trafficable two-way connection, via statues of Myrddin, between the home of your ancestors and a crystal cave – it is a common belief that Merlin frequented a crystal cave and had some of his greatest visions there. Three: the mosaic featuring the royal cipher occupied pride of place in the Prince family home until, for some reason, it was hidden away – as was Merlin's brooch. Four: Arawn's certainty that only someone of the Prince bloodline would be able to use the Llygad y Ddraig; and..." Hermione hesitated, then gave her fifth point. "We now know that Merlin's family were of royal blood on both sides. Considering the four points I have already made, we can deduce how your mother's family got their surname."

Severus pushed his empty bowl away. "Hermione, you do know what you are suggesting..."

"Yes, I do," Hermione answered. "And I know you have been brooding on the same conclusion. You are descended from the House of Ambrosius – but from which line? Ambrosius? Uther? Arthur? Mordred? I'd put my Galleons on Merlin himself."

"Merlin did not leave any heirs," Severus muttered.

"None that we know of. What you witnessed in the Llygad was never written in our lore-books, either. But what if he did – and you are his descendent? What if Voldemort suspected – or knew – that you could be Merlin's heir? The only living person who could access the power in the Llygad y Ddraig."

"Which he would have usurped, if possible, and then he would have had me assassinated." While his expendability to Riddle did not bother him, and his expendability to Albus had subsided to a mild sting, the thought of Hermione abandoning him filled him with cold dread. Severus knew there was no way he could not ask the question that had been plaguing him since the uninvited epiphanies in the crystal cave. "If I am..." he began, "against all logic and likelihood... If I am... Would it make any difference to you?"

Hermione considered his question, realizing that it was actually a number of questions encapsulated in one. She moved around the table and slid into his lap, locking her arms around his neck. "I fell in love with you before either of us had heard of the Llygad y Ddraig, let alone knew of its connection with Merlin. That love has not been challenged. It has grown, and it has deepened.

"I will not abandon you because of your ancestry, which is something you had no say in – not that it matters to me – and, awe-inspiring as it is, it certainly does not intimidate me." She looked deeply into his eyes. "If you are the descendent of an ancient king or wizard, I will not pretend to love you and stay with you as though you are some kind of trophy – in case that question crossed your mind. Whoever your ancestors were, I am thankful to them because they eventually produced you." She shrugged ruefully. "But will I be enough for you?"

Severus pressed a finger to her lips. "I do not change my mind easily, Hermione. By my life and my power, I will not shun you for the sake of a mere bloodline."

---

Moving with painful slowness, Toby emerged from the required facilities with relief as his ally.

"Master Tobias!" Tocky hissed with one hand over his mouth, frantically gesticulating with the other towards the curtained archway leading back into the staff ward. "Tocky is hearing voices..."

"You'd best get that seen to, lad. Maybe yer workin' too 'ard."

The house-elf gaped at him, frowned, and folded his arms. "Tocky is not working too hard! For house-elf, there is being no such thing." Having defended the honour of servitude, Tocky peeped through a gap in the curtains. "Tocky is hearing Madam Pomfrey persuading Madam Hooch to take potions."

"Are they comin' this way?"

Tocky's ears twitched in distress. "No, Master Tobias, they isn't. Not yet. They is not being far away! Please be going back to bed."

Toby sighed and nodded. Taking careful steps, and steadying himself against the wall with his uninjured arm, he had nearly made it back to safety when the door opened with quiet efficiency.

Holding a wooden clipboard to which a number of parchments were attached, Madam Pomfrey strode purposefully into the room. She halted with a sharp precision that would have done credit to the Queen's Life Guard. She eyed Tobias with the cool displeasure of the deliberately disobeyed. "If I may ask," she began in severely pruned tones, "what the bloody hell do you think you are doing?"

Tocky looked as though he wanted nothing more than to scurry under the bed and beat his head against the floor. Instead, he stood bravely in front of his secretly adopted master, though his knees were shaking terribly.

Crookshanks leapt down from his position and, being too venerable to actually run from a human, padded – at a reasonably brisk pace – towards the door. Once there, he fled, his tail streaming behind him like a banner.

"Ai! Le chat! Regardes où tu vas! S'il. Vous. Plait."

Toby glanced towards the open door through which the exclamation echoed. He faced Poppy unrepentantly. "I 'ad somethin' to attend to. Besides, no one said I 'ad to stay put."

Poppy waved Tocky out of the way and firmly steered her patient back to bed. "I would have thought that was implicit..."

Toby gestured indignantly towards the curtained archway. "Crikey, woman! What was I s'posed to do? Tie a knot in it?"

"Tobias, that will do," Poppy scolded warningly.

A nightmarish stone figure appeared in the doorway, a concerned look on its face. "Madame Pomfrey, I heard a contrary tone and saw un chat flee as though for his life – are you in need of assistance?"

Toby took one look and froze. His vision began to fill with tiny stars. Whatever-it-was looked as though it could easily tear a man's limbs off with its bare hands.

"Thank you, Petrus, but I shall have this scapegrace sorted out quick smart. May I introduce Tobias Snape: archer extraordinaire, flagrant rule-breaker, and notorious escapee. He is also Severus' father."

Petrus bowed respectfully.

"Je-sus Christ!" Toby dazedly sat down and allowed Poppy to unconcernedly fuss with his bandages.

"Non, Monsieur Tobias, I am afraid you are mistaken. I am Petrus. I have seen many depictions of Monsieur Christ – fortunately for him, there is no resemblance."

Poppy moved to the end of Toby's bed and consulted his charts. "You are doing very well, I am pleased to say. Aside from physical damage, the curse has left no traces at all."

Toby had not taken his eyes off Petrus. "Curse?"

"Yes, Tobias, you were brought down with a curse. Thankfully, Severus knew how to contain it so that it would not spread through your body, and Bill Weasley arrived here just before you did, so he could start extracting it immediately."

"What would it 'ave done?"

"Incinerated your nerve connections, caused your muscles to spasm violently enough to break your bones, dissolved your intestines, and made your blood cells burst. Not necessarily in that order." She probed the edges of the wound. "I think the drainage tube can come out today. I'll send an owl to Dr Granger and arrange a time for her to come and have a look. I don't usually treat Muggles, so I would prefer to have a second opinion. Better safe than sorry. How are your pain levels this morning?"

Toby gestured towards Petrus, who was engaged in a quiet conversation with Tocky. "What the...? What is...?" he whispered.

"Who, Petrus? He is our assistant librarian. Which reminds me... " She cast some diagnostic charms and quickly updated the charts. "Petrus, I have spoken to Madam Pince, and she has agreed to give you tomorrow afternoon off for your staff course in magical first aid. Can you come to my office at half past two?"

Petrus nodded. "Oui, I shall be there. If there is nothing else, Madame Pomfrey, I shall return to the library."

"The Hospital Wing is under control, thank you." Poppy eyed Toby sternly as Petrus saluted both of them and left the room. "Well, Mr Snape, I can tell that your wound is giving you a bit of a touch-up. Serves you right, is all I can say." She took two plastic bottles from the side table and read the labels. "Medium or heavy duty painkillers? The heavy duty contains morphine."

"Medium, thanks. I'd rather stay conscious."

"Do you think you could manage some breakfast?"

Toby assessed his internal equilibrium and decided against it. He shook his head. "Cuppa tea'd be grand."

Madam Pomfrey shook two tablets into a paper cup. "Tocky, round up a pot of tea, will you? You know how he takes it."

Delighted to be of use – and that he wasn't in trouble – Tocky straightened his pillowcase and disappeared.

---

Severus spotted Madam Pomfrey on her way to the Headmistress' office. Ignoring the whispers of the younger students – and glaring disdainfully at the older gossip-mongers – he strode after her with the intention of getting an update on Tobias' progress before visiting the Hospital Wing.

Luna watched as students scattered, pell-mell, to get out of his way. She gave a dreamy smile.

Ginny tweaked her classmate's robes. "Don't let him catch you smiling like that!"

"Why not? There are some wonderful colours in his aura today."

"Black, blacker, and blackest?"

Luna shook her head. She arched an eyebrow at Hermione, who had stopped to talk with Neville. "Hermione has the same colours."

Ginny frowned. "Really? Is that a good thing? I mean... Look, I'm worried about her. Not because she gave my brother the shove... Truth is, I couldn't see them lasting too long anyway. But..." She gestured after the black-robed figure. "Him?"

Luna's dreamy visage grew serious, revealing a depth of wisdom few people credited her with. "You are worried that ex-Professor Snape will mistreat her."

Ginny hoisted her bag and nodded. "He was such. A. Git! He hated everyone, including Hermione. How come he changed his mind?"

"He didn't seem to like anything, much, did he? But people can grow in many ways, every day of their lives," Luna said quietly. "It all depends on what sort of nourishment they receive – and how they choose to use it. He will not hurt Hermione, and she will not hurt him. When I see them together, the colours glow so bravely I have to look away."

"Bravely? Not a word I'd think of using to describe colours – unless aural colours are different?"

Luna had returned to her usual state of otherworldly contemplation.

Ginny shrugged and smiled. "Whatever. Anyway, I think Hermione is bloody brave in anyone's language – or aural spectrum! She'd need to be, to shack up with Sir Snarky-pants." She laughed. "Maybe he's the one who needs to be brave! Harry and Ron say that Hermione can be really scary when she's pushed to it! I suppose, like I always say: anything's possible if you've got enough nerve."

---

Having received favourable news from Madam Pomfrey, as well as the cryptic statement: 'Now I know where you got it from', Severus entered the staff ward with no clear plan on what he was going to do – in fact, he really had no idea at all.

"Mornin'." Toby reclined on a pile of carefully positioned pillows, his right shoulder and arm supported in a padded sling.

Severus briefly glanced at him. "Good morning."

"Thanks for the blood."

Severus shrugged diffidently. He took his father's charts and scanned them with a calculating scowl. "Did Arawn have enough of a look at you to enable him to recognise you again?" he asked bluntly.

"I s'pose 'e did. I looked the bastard in the eyes while 'e was laughin'. Should I ask why?"

"You have two weeks remaining for your separation protocol. Assuming that you will have recovered sufficiently after the two weeks have elapsed, I wonder if it would be wise to send you home before we have this business cleared up."

"Do I get a choice?"

"You do." Severus replaced the charts, drew his robes about him, and folded his arms. "However, I would suggest that Hogwarts will be the safest place until the threat is either contained permanently – or eliminated."

Toby shivered. Severus had a way of enunciating "eliminated" that made the flesh shift on his bones. For the second time in as many days, he considered the options before him. He stole a glance at his son, who was apparently lost in some unreadable thought of his own. I don't even know who 'e is, really. Loss and regret for the boy he had cruelly mistreated mingled with curiosity about the man – the wizard – that boy had become. A wizard who had withheld his justifiable claim on payback, expressing his fury on a suit of armour instead. A wizard who had set aside complete estrangement to engage in a quest of higher importance. A wizard who had prevented him from falling to his death, and then contained a lethal curse. His son – who had given of his own blood when he could have chosen to walk away. Feeling overwhelmed, he took refuge in a question.

"I will get to go 'ome eventually? To Australia, I mean."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Of course."

Toby nodded. "Alright, then. I'll take yer advice."

Severus gave a curt nod. "Is anyone likely to enquire after your whereabouts?"

"Shouldn't think so. Ev'ryone I know is used to me comin' and goin'."

Severus summoned Toby's arm-guard and frowned at the red dragon engraved upon it. The dragon roused itself from a nap and fearlessly frowned back. "Spinner's End is still yours by law."

Toby sighed. He had not given the house any deliberate thought, being too intent on wiping it out of his recollections altogether. "I don't want it. I'm surprised you still 'ave the old place."

"Yes, I still have it. However, since the day I supposedly inherited it, I have made a point of using it as little as possible."

"Don't blame you. If I was you, I'd sell it and be done with it. That place 'as seen too much of grief and 'ard times, I reckon."

Severus sank into a chair. He had felt the echoes of "grief and hard times" whenever he had stayed there for any length of time. Filling the walls with books had gone some way to transforming it into a vague insinuation of a place where he could be comfortable – but it had never been a complete success. "I assume that you do not regard England as home anymore?"

Toby stared at him, surprised at the personal question. "Nah, not for a long time." His brows knitted as he tried to express a very complicated process in as few words as possible. "Manchester was where I 'ad ev'rything I reckoned I needed, and I got it all by the time I were twenty-one – you were born a month to t' day after me twenty-first, which were near enough. It's also the place where I screwed up meself, yer mother, and you – and lost everythin'.

"In Australia, I s'pose I got another chance – in exchange for a lotta years of bloody 'ard yakka. Spent a long time in places where a bloke could travel for days and 'ave no-one's company but 'is own. Gives plenty of time for thinkin'."

"And?" In spite of his guarded reserve, Severus found that he was actually curious.

"Ever thought to yerself: 'I can be better than what I 'ave been?'"

Severus nodded.

Toby fidgeted with his sling. "Didn't know where to start, or what to do, at first. Couldn't do anythin' about the past, but what might 'appen next were up to me. Y'know, once I made t' decision to move on, when I started tryin', 'elp seemed to come right outta the blue, if I really needed it."

Severus remembered standing before the Veil, hearing Lily's heartfelt insistence that her death was not his fault. It was when he had allowed himself to know that speculation as to what could or should have been was pointless. It was time for him to move on. The decision had acted like a cold chisel in the hands of Vulcan himself. His deeply guarded bond with Lily had split asunder, leaving him alone, empty, and cold. As the Veil had threatened to draw him through, he had been terrified. Then, right out of the blue, Fawkes' song had warmed him and given him courage, then led him back to his still-living body, where a young witch sat holding his hand...

"The upshot is, that country's been good to me – and good for me. It's where I belong. Not 'ere." Toby grinned as Crookshanks leapt onto the bed. "G'day! Thought Madam Merciless 'ad scared you off."

Crookshanks forgave the human the indiscretion of implying that he had been 'scared'. The ear rub he was getting was drool-inducingly good!

Severus considered what he had just heard as Crookshanks settled himself on Tobias' stomach. By the sound of it, the stuff that made his father who he was had not changed – but it had been re-forged and tempered into a very different presentation than the one Severus remembered. "I suspect that your therapist is about to administer another treatment," he commented.

Crookshanks settled into sphinx-posture and began a warm-up purr.

"Therapist?"

"As you might recall from last night, if you concentrate on Crookshanks' purring, you will find it very beneficial." He smirked at the resulting look of sceptical compliance. He opened the warded drawer and picked up the Llygad. "If you agree to a small risk – and a deviation from Ministerial protocol – I shall take this with me for an hour or so."

"Nothin's 'appened before: no reason why it should now."

"If you feel any pull towards it while I am gone, alert Tocky and tell him to fetch me from Professor Binns' classroom."

"Will do."

At the door, Severus halted and addressed his father again. "I shall return. No doubt, I will find you here."

Speechless, Toby watched Severus exit the staff ward with a dramatic billow of black robes. Not knowing what to think, he allowed Crookshanks' resonant purr to lull him to sleep.

---

The Dementor had encountered a receptive human before, but it had proved fickle and weak, with an undisciplined mind and stunted power. The Dementor had not succeeded in communicating with that human – what passed for a mind was too noisy and cluttered. And the human itself had seemed inordinately fond of its own voice, giving orders and tittering in tones that would surely irritate the dead. It had certainly annoyed the Dementor.

It watched its new conduit with senses only other Dementors could comprehend. This entity was very different: a highly structured, organised intellect – and well-developed magical strength.

Initially, the human had guarded itself well. Shields had been in place constantly – until, the Dementor recalled, a single word had changed everything. Crevan. At the sounding of this word, the Dementor had felt the human next to him emit a burst of frustration and excitement. Gently probing the ever-present shields, the Dementor had found a small fissure and had shifted restlessly. Two words had burst into the Dementor's awareness – without being vocalised: Be patient!

The Dementor had weighed the risks, then sent a single word back to the human. A muffled echo of fear had been replaced with exhilaration. This was new. Exploring the human's mind while the shields were lowered, the Dementor had discerned an object held in memory: something of great power. Something its kind could put to good use. Of more interest to the Dementor, the human was fixated with the object. There was anger there, too: the anger humans displayed when repeatedly denied an obsession's demands for gratification. Obsession and anger were doorways the Dementor could use, but it would, as the human had requested, be patient.

---

"Severus. Come in, come in," Professor Binns droned contentedly from behind his desk.

Hermione paused in her circumambulation of the classroom and sneaked in one more yawn. She caught an amused gleam in Severus' eye as he entered the room.

"Taking a turn around the room, Miss Granger? I have heard that it is a fitting remedy for fatigue." He waited by the door, holding it open in anticipation of another arrival.

"Yes, it is quite refreshing. More so than playing at cards, or applying myself to other accomplishments, sir," she answered, taking inspiration from her collection of Jane Austen novels.

Petrus appeared, laden with five enormous books and several ornately fastened scrolls. "Bonjour, Messieurs, Mademoiselle! Monsieur le Professor Binns, here are your requested loans."

"Excellent. Thank you, Petrus." Professor Binns stood up and wandered through his desk, eyeing the delivery with anticipation as Petrus carefully placed his burden on a reading table to one side of the room. "Severus, I understand you have an enquiry about a particularly ancient document?" he murmured absently while gazing at the books, happily distracted by the worthy weight of knowledge awaiting his house-elf-assisted perusal.

Severus wandlessly closed and warded the door. He produced the fragment of Graphorn hide and held it up to the pale, mottled light which fought its way through cobweb-curtained stained glass. As anticipated, the action immediately caught the ghostly historian's attention.

"What have you got there?"

"Miss Granger proposed that we show you this. We assume that is it a remnant of a larger work. Hermione is of the opinion that it originally came from a book," Severus explained. "It is written on foetal Graphorn hide..."

"That has not been used for over seven hundred years!" Cuthbert was definitely interested now. It was a rare thing for him to interrupt someone he recognised as a scholarly peer – even rarer for him to exclaim while doing it.

Severus tolerated the interruption, knowing that Cuthbert was well and truly hooked. Time to really shake his ectoplasm... "It contains a written description of Merlin."

Cuthbert opened and closed his mouth several times. He regarded Severus with the haughty disbelief of an academic ready to dismantle a presumptuous challenge to a long-held theory. "You know I deal only in facts. Hard..."

"Irrefutable. Facts. I am well aware of your preference for the indisputable." Severus placed the fragment on Cuthbert's desk.

The ghost immediately pored over it, the palms of his hands pressed half an inch into the desk on either side as he read it over and over again. "Thoth's stylus! I have not seen this passage before," he whispered. "But I have seen script very much like it."

Hermione could not help herself. "Where? When? Was it a book? A scroll?"

Cuthbert waved his hand without turning around. "Miss Garthwaite, one question at a time, please."

Severus smirked at his beloved, earning a warning frown and an irritated shrug. He signalled Petrus. "Do you have a copy of the record?"

Petrus nodded and drew a folded sheet of parchment out from under his arm-band. "Oui, Monsieur Severus. Madame Pince made the duplication."

Severus placed it on Cuthbert's desk. "This is what is left of an availability enquiry sent from Hogwarts to another library in A.D. 1348. As you can see, the description is lacking due to the predations of hungry mice. But what is left is noteworthy. As is the evidence that the requested book was written on foetal Graphorn hide."

Cuthbert read the parchment. "Myrddin... Nimuë... The hide of an un-born Graphorn... A book... A script so alike to..." Shaking his head, he took several steps back, turned, and began to pace through the first row of desks.

Spiders paused in their web-making. A lost tribe of Doxys peeked around the edge of a bookshelf. Hermione, Severus, and Petrus all exchanged breathless glances. For the first time in living memory, Professor Binns' classroom had a charged atmosphere. As one, they all looked at the pacing Professor, who had clasped his translucent hands in front of him as though praying to whichever deity was responsible for the bestowal of facts.

Cuthbert addressed them suddenly. "I must confer with one of my colleagues. While I am gone, turn to page forty of A History of Magic and read to the end of the chapter." He passed through his blackboard without a backward glance.

Petrus regarded Severus and Hermione with blank astonishment. The end of his tail had worked itself into a thumb-knot and his ears drooped in utter confusion.

Hermione came to his rescue. "Don't worry about the reading, Petrus. He has a habit of lapsing back into teaching mode. For a moment, he would have simply assumed that we were all students."

Petrus nodded gratefully, attended to his tail, and flexed his wings.

They did not have to wait long. Cuthbert reappeared through his blackboard. A second ghost followed, dislodging a small puff of chalk-dust.

"A monk," Hermione whispered.

"Oui, Mademoiselle. Ordo Sancti Benedicti," Petrus clarified.

At the mention of his Order, the monk noticed the presence of the living and floated across the room to address them. "Dominus vobiscum," he intoned, his right hand bestowing blessings.

"Et cum spiritu tuo," Petrus answered formally.

The monk chuckled and deliberately walked through a chair. "Spirit, in truth!" His slightly opaque eyes conveyed that when he was alive, he had been of a somewhat irreverent and very mischievous nature. He shook his head at Cuthbert, who was oblivious to anything beyond the Graphorn hide and the parchment. "I shall make the introductions myself, then, shall I?" he asked loudly, his English flowing with a liquid Welsh lilt. At the absence of a response, he sketched a cross in the air and muttered, "Deus da mihi patientiam." He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his cucula. "Forgive my excessively focused friend; he has probably forgotten the fact that you exist."

"Fact?" Cuthbert turned, his eyes desperately searching the classroom.

The monk rolled his eyes. "I am Cadfæl the Younger, twin brother to Cadfæl the Elder – but he was smaller than me. And still is. It is a bone of contention which would cause the odd skirmish in the ossuary, if our priory had one. We all make do with unmarked graves – and enforced penance in wet weather."

Severus bowed and introduced himself, Hermione, and Petrus. Cadfæl's interest in how Petrus had acquired his name was interrupted when Cuthbert drifted impatiently towards them.

"Cadfæl, when you have quite finished wittering on..."

"Let not polite conversation...

Obstruct the interrogation...

Of that which will not explode...

For want of attention..."

As Cadfæl chanted his retort, Severus and Hermione seated themselves at one of the students' desks. They watched Professor Binns with intense attention. "I have not seen Cuthbert so animated since Lupin accessed the class notes and changed all the key dates for the Giant Wars," Severus whispered.

Cuthbert was getting very cross. He waved Cadfæl towards his desk. "Enough of this abstraction and frippery!"

"I haven't seen him like this since we asked him about the Chamber of Secrets," Hermione rejoined, biting her lip when Severus took her hand under the desk.

"Permit me the indulgence," he murmured. "I have never had the chance to do this in class before."

"We should make a point of getting you up to speed, then." Hermione threaded her fingers through his and saucily rubbed his thigh.

Petrus covered his eyes, then his ears, then his mouth, and looked out of the window.

Cuthbert scanned the classroom for the source of a subliminal disturbance. He pointed sternly at Severus. "Mr Slocum. Where is your uniform? Ten points from Slytherin."

With devoted care, Cadfæl examined the Graphorn hide and silently referred to the parchment. He glided to Cuthbert's side. "It is definitely from the same book, my friend."

Cuthbert shook his head. "Impossible!"

Cadfæl looked his colleague in the eyes. "Are you sure? Parts of the book are missing – if they have not been destroyed, then it is certain that they still exist – and may be found again. It is obvious, to a scrivener's eye, that the script is identical. It is a fact that Merlin lived, and it is implicit that, having lived, he would have had a physical appearance." The monk gave Severus a long, searching look, but said nothing.

Hermione was ready to scream with frustration. Her hair began to bristle wildly.

Severus could feel her magic building to a critical point. He released her hand. "Gentlemen," he said, standing up to address them. "Does this book you keep referring to have a title?"

Cuthbert sucked in his cheeks and slowly nodded. "In the fifth-year syllabus, I give several lectures touching on the subject of the nine books of ancient magic."

"The same books Galapas used while teaching his pupil, Merlin," Hermione stated crisply.

"There was a tenth book," Cuthbert sighed. "It was written after Merlin's time. The Book of Nimuë – written by Nimuë herself."

Cuthbert waited for the stunned murmur to pass. Only Cadfæl appeared to be unmoved. "It contained everything she ever stole from Merlin. A detailed account of his life's work. It was he who wrought magical instruction into the form we see today. He established the founding principles of healing and mediwizardry, created the discipline of Arithmancy, and made advances in defensive magic the like of which have never been equaled." Cuthbert indignantly adjusted his robes. "At every point in that book where Merlin's appearance or ancestry would have been detailed, pages... entire chapters... had been removed."

Hermione and Petrus hissed in outrage.

"Merlin also forged allegiances with non-human magical beings," Cadfæl added. "And, as you no doubt know, with Muggle kings and warriors."

"The defeat of Vortigern by the High King Ambrosius..." Severus murmured.

Cadfæl nodded. "Vortigern had Dark Magic on his side, a fact that is not common knowledge." He sent a slightly accusing look in Cuthbert's direction. "Along with several thousands of the creatures you call Dementors."

Outside, a cloud obscured the sun and plunged the classroom into a gloomy chill.

Cuthbert seated himself above a desk. "Even after Vortigern's death, his would-be successors continued to cause trouble and misery in a land broken by war and lawlessness. Without Merlin, the allied resistance would have been annihilated. For wizard and Muggle alike, there was a reason that the time before the coming of Arthur was referred to as a dark age."

"Does the book still exist?" Hermione asked, half-dreading the answer.

Cuthbert looked towards his ghostly colleague. "I believe you can trust them with the knowledge. They are the most book-learned beings in Hogwarts."

"Quiescit Anima Libris," Cadfæl murmured. "It is held in the Priory of Abergavenny. At least, it was a priory when I lived there. I was at Compline when I saw a man pass through the cloisters in the company of the abbot. The man – who had a passing resemblance to you, Severus – carried a leather-wrapped book. He did not have it when he left. Having many duties to attend to, I gave it no further thought while I lived. When I left my grave and returned to the scriptorium, I chanced upon it while passing through a wall. It was not until I met a wizard learned in history that I mentioned it and found out how significant it was."

Hermione raised her hand. "Professor Binns, have you actually seen the book?"

Cuthbert reached out to one of the volumes Petrus had delivered. As his hands passed through it, he gave a wistful sigh. "I held it in my living hands. I was journeying through Cymru – Wales – researching ancient strategic alliances between Muggle and wizarding populations. Of course, the subject matter could not avoid the deeds of Merlin and Arthur. I stopped at Abergavenny – Muggle places of worship could always be counted on for a quiet place to read and to reflect upon what was myth and what was truth.

"It was there that I met Cadfæl, who, in his living days, had been placed as a watcher, in case the Dark should attempt to reassert itself by sowing seeds in seats of Muggle influence and power – using Muggles to gain a foot-hold was a common tactic, in those days. After the most illuminating discussions, he led me to the place where the book was hidden. No doubt, Miss Goonsea, you are wondering why I have never referred to it in lectures."

"Miss Granger and I are both intensely curious as to the reasons," Severus prompted silkily.

"For one, the book itself is incomplete. For another, the Ministry of the time forbade any consultation, copying, or reference to The Book of Nimuë. I did ask why, but the only answer I received was that it was too controversial. I left the book where it was. I knew it would be safe in Abergavenny, shrouded in the myth of its own existence."

Cadfæl frowned thoughtfully. "Do you think it was due to the outrage surrounding Nimuë's alleged betrayal of Merlin, the theft of his power, and leaving him to die while she ran off and married that young king?"

Cuthbert began pacing again. "Possibly. The then Department for the Discouragement of Vice, Treachery, and Infidelity did have a reputation for extreme measures. The young king was Pelleas of the Isles, by the way, a man fiercely loyal to King Arthur. From Pelleas' court, Nimuë assisted Arthur until the very end."

Severus' eyes narrowed in thought. "Some of the more influential purebloods of the time would have seen only the betrayal of Merlin – and loyalty given to a Muggle high king. Nimuë's marriage to a Muggle lesser-king would have been unconscionable."

Hermione felt herself turn pale. A vague train of thought had suddenly acquired all the subtlety of the Hogwarts Express, huffing, clanking, and bellowing its way up a steep incline.

"Mademoiselle?" Petrus asked, searching her face for any sign of what might be troubling her.

Hermione licked her dry lips. By now, Severus had noticed her disquiet, and the two ghosts regarded her with raised eyebrows. "Did..." Her words failed in a broken whisper. She looked into Severus' eyes, and had an irrational urge to weep. "Did Nimuë have any children?"

Her audience exchanged puzzled glances.

"She did," Cuthbert droned disinterestedly. "The number is not specific, but there was a rumour that the first came somewhat early in her marriage: a further sign of her treachery while Merlin still lived."

Hermione could only shake her head. She began to tremble.

Severus took her hands in his. "Gods, you're freezing! What is the matter?"

Hermione looked around. A wizard, a gargoyle, a monk, and a historian. All of them male. They might not see it. Would it ever occur to them to think of this? "Nimuë was a powerful witch who had taken to living in, and assisting, a Muggle society, yes?"

Cuthbert nodded cautiously.

"Muggles would have been suspicious of her. In some enclaves of wizarding society, she would have had sworn enemies. If she were alone, in those times, it would have been even worse. Her life would have been forfeit. Especially... Especially if she were with child."

Blank looks were her only reply.

"She may have married King Pelleas – a man loyal to Arthur and, by association, Merlin – so soon after Merlin's demise..." – she drew a deep breath – "...because she was carrying Merlin's child."

---

Sister Clarise stood up slowly. She had procrastinated long enough. Fearfully, she moved towards her cot and shifted it to one side. Following the sequence of the visions she had seen, she knelt and examined the stone floor intently. Outside, the Šumava whispered and creaked under a heavy load of mountain snow.

Blinking back nausea, she reached out and touched one of the flat stones, distinguished from its neighbours only by a small crack in one corner.

"I do not want to do this," she whispered. "In the name of everything sacred, why does this fall to me?" There was no answer to her plaintive question. The stone waited with all the patience of the Earth itself.

She reached out and placed her hand flat against the stone. Leaning forward, she used her weight to press against it. The stone sank perhaps an inch, then rebounded with a solid snick.

Lifting the stone from its bed, Sister Clarise let her tears fall freely. She took out an object wrapped in coarsely woven cloth, rotten with age. Letting the wrappings slide away, she held a long, bronze spearhead up to the light.

The spearhead had lost its wooden shaft to the demands of forgotten centuries long before it was hidden in the priory. It was forged in the Roman style – but had more of a ceremonial appearance, rather than the functionality of unadorned iron favoured by the militia of the Roman Empire. Rich jewels flashed from its empty bindings. Within its form, ancient magic stirred – Sister Clarise's fingers tingled with it. The light of her candle caught the honed edge of the spearhead. As she turned it this way and that, the red gleam trailed down its length like drops of blood.