By Order of the Phoenix – Part 1

A/N's

Schwarzwald: The Black Forest region in south-west Germany.

Camargue: A vast alluvial plain in southern France, famous in part for its herds of freely roaming horses.

S'il vous plait – If you please

As far as I know, the names of the visiting centaurs (and the beings Fawkes leaves a message for) do not have any real-world meaning: they are the product of imagination.

The physical description of Nimuë is only slightly adjusted from P305 of Mary Stewart's The Last Enchantment (1979).

In Ms Stewart's universe, Merlin had been poisoned by Morguase with what sounds like a variant of the Draught of Living Death. Succumbing to the potion, Merlin was assumed dead and entombed at Bryn Myrddin. However, he recovered and, after a reader-approximated six months, returned to Arthur's court. By that time, Nimuë had married Pelleas of the Isles. The scene Severus witnesses is adapted from P436–437 of The Last Enchantment (1979). The existence of a child is my addition. Unaltered dialogue from Ms Stewart's work is marked with an asterisk (*).

The paraphrasing of Mr Bennet is taken from Chapter 59 of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice (1813).

Canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I make no money from them.

Thank you again and again to TeaOli for her amazing beta skills.

Special thanks to Severus Snape, who showed up in dreamscape and gave me some excellent reasons as to why I should "stop moping around like a dying Flobberworm" and finish writing this chapter.

In a grassy clearing in the most secret part of Forbidden Forest, the centaurs gathered before an immense trilithon marking the entrance to a stone circle. From his position at the front of his herd, Bane squared his shoulders and watched the pulsing shimmer surrounding the quartz heart-stone at the circle's centre. Never in his lifetime had the circle been used in this way, and Bane knew that the reason would be something momentous.

His grand-sire had told him tales of bygone times, when centaurs had moved freely through the forest that had once clothed the entire land in a cloak of shaded green. From faraway lands, they would travel from stone circle to stone circle, to meet in times of ceremony, celebration, or war – and wars there were...

Bane had heard of the allegiances forged by Merlin when Vortigern's shadow lay over land and sea like a restless wraith of evil. As a yearling, he had often enacted the old stories in play – he had never tired of the Ambush of the Horns, where three hundred centaurs banished four times their number of Dementors with a massed sounding of aurochs horns charmed by Merlin himself. Then, a thousand centaur and Veela archers had launched deadly flights of arrows into the flanks and rear of Vortigern's mortal reinforcements, halting their advance to the hill-top fort of Lesser Doward in the Wye Valley, where Ambrosius and Uther held the old tyrant at siege. Best of all, Bane had loved the telling of the charge that had followed – his people, his ancestors, surging downhill at a headlong gallop and obliterating the enemy's front lines with war-axe, spear, and sword.

He glanced at Firenze, who stood motionless with his arms folded across his chest. Firenze had proved a legend true on the night Travers' soul was eaten – when he called upon the herd to sound the horns in unison as Dementors swarmed around them in a sickening plague. Merlin's magic still had power: the foul creatures had been swept away like leaves in an autumn storm.

'Not since Merlin's time have we seen such patterns in the planets and in the smoke of sacred herbs.' Firenze's words played in Bane's mind as he recalled the bright power shining within the Llygad y Ddraig – Severus Snape's inheritance. Bane frowned as a question arose unbidden. Who are you, Severus?

Bane ceased his musing as the shimmer within the circle became a cascading silver ripple. Three forms appeared by the heart-stone. Following a timeless tradition, he waited for the newcomers to speak first.

A heavy, muscular centaur with coal-black flanks and a long black beard forked into twin plaits stepped forward. As he bowed, the chain mail adorning his torso jingled lightly. Hanging at his side, a double-bladed war axe gleamed in the pale light. "Bane of the Forbidden Forest: may the powers that move the planets favour your herd with good health and long life. Here is my daughter, Esnyë, and my son Röthvar. We travel with the trappings of war, but war upon you is not our intention."

Bane observed formality. "Bryndorach of the Schwarzwald: honour comes to us with your arrival. For what reasons have you travelled?"

Bryndorach held up a phoenix feather. "Two days ago, a phoenix came to us while we discussed the recent portents of the heavenly wanderers. In his talons, he bore an acorn from this forest, and placed it – alongside a fir-cone from our own forest – upon the heart-stone in our circle. Such a thing does not happen without good reason." Bryndorach's turquoise eyes held a wry humour. "We are here, it would seem, by order of a phoenix."

Bane held up a phoenix feather of his own. "Then enter our lands and be welcome, centaurs of the Schwarzwald." He was hard-pressed not to stare as Esnyë passed by; he silently admired her confidence and poise – but Bryndorach's herd had never known a reason to send their females into hiding. They had never known the humiliation of betrayal and defeat at the hands of humans, of branding and slavery, of having their young ones snatched away by goblin traders, of being corralled and segregated into reservations, of being treated as playthings by those who regarded them as mindless brutes and expendable savages.

As the leader of his herd, Bane felt the shame of those days keenly, even though they had happened centuries before he was born. He sighed and scanned the layers of forest where he knew a small and secretive number of his herd watched at a shy and wary distance. He felt a sense of imbalance and loss: a herd was not meant to live this way...

As if sensing the reason for his disquiet, Esnyë approached him. "Our sire told us why you keep the females hidden," she said softly. "While we respect your laws and will not question them, it is our hope that one day you may have the means of bringing change."

Bane cast a curious eye over her Veela-made armour – a sleeveless jerkin of soft leather into which was sewn hundreds of tiny, interlocking metal rings. Light and mobile. Suitable for an archer in battle, he thought, noting the bow and quiver at her back. The Schwarzwald centaurs had always fought together – and the females had a reputation for fighting just as fiercely as the males. "Some things have changed," he said. "I am not proud to say that it was the grief-swept accusations of a half-giant that finally changed our course and sent us into the humans' war."

Esnyë knitted her ash-blonde brows. "Where, we heard, you helped turn the tide against a great peril. A peril that would have touched all of us, eventually." She swished her tail and regarded Bane candidly. "They must have been accusations of some weight."

"By Chiron, they were!" Bane caught a late-falling leaf and, after a moment, let it drop to join its companions on the ground. He ran the phoenix feather between his fingers. "Often, the most potent medicine has the bitterest taste."

Bryndorach excused himself from a cluster of news-hungry centaurs. "We have had word from the Camargue herd. They, too, have been visited by a phoenix. I wonder that the bird has any feathers left," he snorted, stamping a hind-hoof.

"Were they also instructed to make their way here?" Ronan asked, testing the balance of Röthvar's broadsword while the younger centaur looked on with obvious pride.

Bryndorach shook his head. "Etùyen and Breyūn were given a different message along with their feather: a reed in the shape of the Rune of Waiting, a stone in the shape of a spearhead, and a shred from a Dementor's shroud. They are digging up charmed aurochs horns, fletching arrows, and cutting javelins as we speak."

Hermione took a wincing glance at Professor Binns' aghast expression. There goes one N.E.W.T., she thought. Oh, shit! The prospect of a lack-of-facts-forfeited N.E.W.T. faded into insignificance. Severus' eyes were still fixed on her – but he stared through her with the same infinite, smoke-eyed gaze as she had seen on the last occasion he had delved into the Llygad's depths. He must have brought it with him! She did not dare to touch him as she felt his power stirring – and another power was stirring with him...

Severus did not have time to wonder how he had been drawn into the vision so smoothly and painlessly. The scene before him captured his attention instantly and completely.

Merlin? He could recognize the wizard he had seen both as a boy and as a youth, even though Merlin's hair was now grey and streaked with white at his temples – and his face held the gaunt, dry-boned fire of one who had defied death to recover from a long illness.

Merlin sat with two others: a man in his prime, who carried himself with the proud economy of a seasoned warrior, and a woman generously swathed in robes.

Severus noticed the woman's hands – pale and fine-boned, with long, deft fingers. Reminded of his mother, and overtaken with curiosity, he examined her features. She was perhaps between thirty and forty years old, with the poise and dignity of a priestess. Her eyes were silver-grey, the irises ringed with black. Her hair would have been a thick mane of earth-brown had she not tamed it in a complicated braid with a tasteful arrangement of silver thread. Her attention rested on a dented metal box positioned in the centre of a massive marble table.

Severus leaned forward a little as the man, with only a passing difficulty, opened the box.

Within it lay a mass of rotting canvas – then jewels flashed brightly as the man drew out a long, bronze spearhead. With a soldier's habit, he ran his thumb along its edge. "For ornament, I think,"* he said, rubbing dust off the jewelled binding and setting it aside. Next, he lifted out a platter of gold, its rim crusted with gems. Finally, he held up a magnificent gold cup, richly worked, with handles shaped like a bird's wings and banded with emeralds and sapphires. Marvelling aloud at its beauty, he offered it to Merlin.

But Merlin solemnly shook his head. "It is not for me to touch,"* he stated with firm certainty.

"Nor for me,"* said the woman, echoing Merlin's tone.

I look upon an object of myth... but could this be... Severus scowled, daring ancient tales to reveal their truth. A spear – of which only the head survives, evidently – and a platter... And a grail... This could only be... A jewel-hilted sword hanging on the wall at the end of the room sealed his speculation, the mighty blade's name surfacing from the still depths of legend like the war cry of an advancing army: Caliburn! A thrill ran through him. Gods. And. Powers – Macsen's treasure!

The man's eyes lingered on the precious items for a moment longer, then he placed them back in their humble container. He raised his hands in a gesture of uncertainty and gave Merlin a fond smile of resignation. "And you won't even tell me where to keep such splendour, or what I am to do with it?"* he asked.

Merlin got to his feet, wincing at the obvious stiffness in his weary joints. "It is not for you either, Arthur. You do not need it,"* he said, waving one hand over the glittering objects, then pointing specifically to the grail.

Arthur... Severus looked on with a sense of sober reverence as Merlin gently counselled none other than King Arthur, telling him that he was the grail from which his people would drink – he would never fail them, and he would never be forgotten.

Nor have you been, Severus thought, wishing for a moment that he could tell him so.

Merlin gestured once more towards the treasure, his black eyes locking with Arthur's as he concluded his discourse with a stern instruction: "Leave it for those who come after."*

After a moment's carefully weighed thought, King Arthur stood back from the metal box and nodded to the woman. He addressed Merlin with a curious mix of deference and decisiveness. "Then since it is neither mine, nor yours, Nimuë must take it, and with her enchantments hide it so that no one can find it except that they are fitted."*

Moving to the table, Nimuë looked from Arthur to Merlin and closed the lid on the box. "No one shall,"* she said.

Severus gasped and felt the blood leave his face. The floor seemed to shift under his feet. As Nimuë turned away from the table, the heavy swell of her belly showed in a parting of her outer robes. She caressed her unborn child and gazed at Merlin, who watched her with disciplined longing.

Cuthbert's words echoed in Severus' mind '...there was a rumour that the first came somewhat early in her marriage: a further sign of her treachery while Merlin still lived.' Hermione's postulation leapt on the heels of 'treachery' and dragged it down like a lioness claiming her prey. He knew Hermione was right. The look that passed between Merlin and Nimuë was not one of accusation and betrayal – there was love – and the heartfelt, accepting ache of those who have placed necessity and duty before their own desires.

In St Mungo's, Oriens levitated his draft parchment. With a flick of his fingers, he destroyed it with a bolt of white flame. Reading over his official account of what had occurred at the villa, he cautiously tensed the muscles of his injured leg. He suspected that when he was well enough to return to the Ministry, he would have to hit the ground running.

During a brief visit earlier in the morning, Kingsley had told Oriens to take as much time as he needed to recover, but the Unspeakable could read the premonition of impending danger behind the Minister's blandly neutral expression. There was another message there: For Merlin's sake, recover quickly. I will need you.

Just why the Minister for Magic had also deposited a loudly purring, tortoiseshell, possibly quarter-Kneazle on Oriens' bed was a question for which an answer would be revealed, no doubt, in due course.

Oriens combed his fingers through the animal's long hair and teased it out to look like a lion's mane. All he knew was that Severus had mentioned the healing properties of Kneazles in a quick Floo call to the Minister. "If the Minister had not produced you alive and intact," he said to the happily crooning feline, "I would have expected to be handed a goblet of... something."

The feline's purr halted with a choking cough.

"But this is much more beneficial – for both of us," Oriens stressed, comforting his new room-mate until she began to purr again. Reluctantly, he turned his attention to more serious matters.

Arawn will not stop now, not for anything, Oriens thought, recalling what he had seen in the moments before the bones of his left leg shattered and a Stunning Spell curtailed his observations.

Subjected to a Cruciatus Curse while Arawn had demanded information on Snape's whereabouts, Oriens had seen that Arawn no longer had any sense of risk or consequence. Drawn by the lure of power and prestige, the renegade Unspeakable would be relentless in his pursuit. He thinks he has the real Llygad, and he thinks that Severus is the key to gaining mastery over it. At least he doesn't know there are two Snapes who have their fates intertwined with the Llygad y Ddraig. Oriens knew that, by now, Arawn's usually intense goal-focus and aggressive drive to rattle the cages of established procedure – and climb the fences of enforced law – would have transformed into a lust for absolute victory. From now on, Arawn will be uncompromising in his demands, and he will fear nothing that might be sent against him.

Oriens let his eyes drift closed as he considered the Llygad y Ddraig. When he had first encountered the real object, he could sense that it was a thing of rare and daunting power – but what was it about the fake Llygad that made it so convincing a replication?

A melodic warble startled him out of his contemplation. Sitting up, he could not miss the bright, warm glow of the being responsible for the interruption. "Where did you come from?" he asked in astonishment.

Fawkes settled himself on the edge of the hand-basin by the door to Oriens' private room, nudged one of the taps, and gave a parrot-like shriek of delight as water poured into the basin.

"I doubt that very much, Hermione," Severus muttered as he briskly ushered her out of the Room of Requirement – which had obligingly manifested directly opposite Cuthbert's classroom after Severus had made expeditiously crafted apologies and excused both Hermione and himself. "Cuthbert cannot deprive you of a N.E.W.T. simply because you voiced an opinion. An opinion which appears to have real substance."

"But you saw the look on his face," Hermione rejoined. "And his colleague didn't seem too impressed either."

Severus held back a laugh as he directed her through a shortcut to the Hospital Wing. "I saw more aspects to Cuthbert Binns today than I ever knew existed. Outstanding revelations." He checked down another corridor before striding down it, dismissing the resident portrait with a blistering sneer. "As for Cadfæl, he was merely contemplative. At least, I recall that was his response to your proposition before I was treated to you-know-what." He paused near a three-way junction of passages. "Besides, Petrus will defend your honour in your absence, should the need arise – in Latin, if necessary."

Hermione shivered, still not entirely convinced that she had been right – in spite of the envisioned details Severus had imparted in the Room of Requirement. "But if Nim..."

Severus clamped a hand over her mouth and bundled her into a deeply shadowed alcove. "Not here!" he hissed.

"I should hope not." The testy brogue of the Headmistress was unmistakeable.

Severus rolled his eyes. "Oh. Wonderful." He tucked Hermione's hand into the crook of his arm and escorted her the few steps back to the junction as though they had merely been taking an innocent stroll and found themselves in the alcove by inexplicable accident.

"I suppose you are going to tell me this is not what it looks like," Minerva alleged, eyeing Severus and Hermione with her best I'm-warning-you stare.

"That depends on what you think it looks like, Headmistress," Severus retorted coolly.

Minerva tutted and shook her head. "Canoodling in corridors! Really! Reverting to adolescence, the pair of you..."

"Ah, but did you actually see us enacting your accusation?" Severus interjected, narrowing his eyes in counter-accusation. "Perhaps one should get one's mind out of places it should not be?" The corners of his mouth twitched when spots of colour appeared in the headmistress' cheeks: a sure sign that he had successfully irritated her. He half-expected her to adopt her Animagus form and hiss at him.

"I did not seek you out to split hairs or have a slanging match with you, Severus. Jean Granger has arrived to assess your father's injury. I thought you might like to seize the day, go down to the Hospital Wing, and introduce yourself properly."

"An appropriate suggestion," Severus mused, giving Hermione a secretive look. He knew she would understand it as an instruction not to reveal that he was going to the Hospital Wing anyway. "Is something amiss, Minerva?" His ready acquiescence had evidently thrown her.

"Apart from this school taking its first steps on the road to Knockturn Alley, no."

Hermione heard the school clock chime the hour. "Oh, Mer... Merpeople! I'm late for the Charms practical! Excuse me, please, I really have to run!"

Minerva gave her favourite cub a warm smile. "Tell Filius that I held you up. Your mother is joining me for tea in my office when she has finished with Tobias. Come up and join us when your practical class is over."

Hermione nodded her thanks – but before she could take two steps, Severus pulled her into a full-bodied embrace and kissed her thoroughly and sublimely.

"Off you go, then," he purred, sending the tousled, flushed witch on her way with a slight push. He watched her go, then turned to the headmistress, who was suddenly in quite a pother. "Canoodling, indeed," he said with a half-bow. Smirking at her speechlessness, he headed for the Hospital Wing without further delay.

Fawkes flew above a vast expanse of seemingly impenetrable forest, scanning its dark, misty depths for a certain landmark. He intended to stop at the landmark to wash the sea-spray from his feathers and search his memory. It had been a long time since he had visited this enigmatic, rugged land – even longer since he had seen the beings that clung to existence there.

The phoenix gave a short whistle when he spotted it: a chain of mountain lakes, draining one into the other through an orchestra of waterfalls. Descending in a spiralling dive, Fawkes landed on a mossy rock, set his "message" to one side, and fluffed out his feathers to catch the drifting spray. He dunked his head in the cold, mineral-rich waters, and emerged with a sputtering sneeze. Several minutes of preening, fussing, flapping, and scratching put his flight equipment back into pristine condition – by which time he had deduced which path he needed to take.

Flying low, Fawkes followed the turns and twists of a straggling trail. Massive trees draped with hanging moss loomed above him, swaying with the hard, frosty air which rolled down from the surrounding mountains. As he flew deeper into the forest, the trees grew bigger – and older.

Fawkes perched on the protruding, twisted root of a forest giant: a sprawling, gnarled colossus of groping branches and clinging epiphytes. The silence here was absolute. The phoenix cocked his head, his breath misting in the still air. He knew that he had been seen – and he knew that those who had seen him would not readily show themselves. Untroubled, he arranged the items he had brought in a sheltered nook where the root made a curling loop before diving deep into rich soil: a merlin's feather, a centaur's arrow, and the clasp from Oriens' cloak. Looking around once more, Fawkes sang, loud and long. As his final notes danced away into the gloom, he added one of his own feathers to the arrangement, stretched his wings, and flew away.

A shadow detached itself from the bole of a neighbouring tree. Another shadow followed. Then another. Soundlessly, the lithe, nimble figures moved towards the place where the phoenix had sung. Blowpipes and short spears were set down. Dew was brushed from shaggy haunches. Cloven hooves found easy purchase in the giant tree's embrace. A careful hand reached out to touch the arrow, the clasp, and the feathers.

A voice whispered: "Navlūk! What does the fire-bird want?"

Navlūk gathered up the items and turned to face his companions. "We have seen the wild things flee before a gathering darkness. From the north-east, the wind blows colder and howls with a voice of implacable hatred. In it rides the scent of evil." He held up the centaur's arrow. "The fire-bird has been calling the centaurs. I could hear in its song: they have answered, and ready themselves for battle." He examined the clasp. "We must watch for a messenger from among the humans."

A third voice hissed in outrage "A human! Why should we..."

"Peace, Sukh-Ey!" Navlūk commanded. "A fire-bird does not take action for nothing. The messenger may be some other being, acting with humans against the growing threat." He frowned, troubled. "T'eylun, what do you make of this?"

T'eylun took the arrow from Navlūk's hand and used it to point north and east. "If the cold shadow moves unchallenged, no living thing will escape it. It will consume whatever it may touch. The fire-bird sang also of courage and allegiance in the face of an enemy." He handed back the arrow and touched the clasp. "Centaurs, humans – and, Pan help us, what is left of our people. Such a gathering has not been made since..." He took up the merlin feather. "Since the days of Merlin. We should hold counsel tonight."

Navlūk nodded gravely. "Send out messengers. Sound the song-pipes. We meet when the moon rises."

Severus arrived at the Hospital Wing just as Poppy was assuring her most recent patient – a student whose hair had been transformed into pangolin scales – that all would be back to normal within an hour or two. He waited while she summoned an incident report parchment and attached it to her clipboard.

"Go on in, Severus," Poppy said, pointing to the staff ward with her quill. "I think Dr Granger is expecting you – thanks to Minerva," she added, smiling when the taciturn wizard sighed and muttered something about infernal busybodies. "I'll be in shortly."

Severus folded his arms. "I told Tobias I would return. But it seems that some people cannot leave well enough alone," he growled. At least Minerva is not here right now. She would probably tell me to wash my hands and brush my hair. And smile. I won't. Severus paused at the door to straighten his frock coat and adjust his robes – and entered the ward to what felt like an interview with destiny.

His father sat on the corner of the bed, minus sling and bandages, grimacing while Jean Granger pressed a sterile pad to his wound.

"I did offer you a local anaesthetic, but you declined in favour of playing the hero," Jean reprimanded.

Toby turned to give her a pained glance and noticed his son watching the scene from a distance. "G'day, Sev'rus..." His eyes widened as Jean applied antiseptic. "Oi! That stings! I thought torture was illegal!"

Severus allowed himself a rueful half-smile. "It is. Unfortunately, illegality does not always stop those who are hell-bent on making others suffer."

Jean tossed the pad into a metal tray which contained a slightly bloodied piece of silicon tubing and a soiled dressing. "Hello, Severus. Unbearable torture and prolonged suffering aside, this time, we meet under much better circumstances."

Severus bowed. "Madam Granger."

"Please, call me Jean. I'm not a stickler for formalities."

Poppy bustled into the ward. "I'm sorry about that interruption, Jean. Students will throw jinxes around with no thought to the consequences." She took Severus' arm and steered him into a more inclusive position than one of loitering on the periphery.

"Not a problem," Jean said, tearing open a clean dressing kit. "I'm just about done here. You'll have a scar, Toby, but the wound is healing cleanly. Don't get it sunburned when you go home – scar tissue isn't as resistant to damage as intact skin."

Toby shrugged his left shoulder. "No worries. I can't see it anyway."

Severus moved closer to have a look for himself. "I've seen far worse," he offered.

Jean finished the dressing and pulled off her latex gloves. "Also, avoid any heavy lifting or sudden movement for the next week."

"Should he be kept on bed-rest?" Poppy asked, ignoring her patient's rebellious scowl.

Jean sent an amused look in Toby's direction. "I think you'd have trouble keeping him there! No, if he's strong enough to walk around, let him.

"However, Toby," – she made sure she had Toby's full attention – "wear your sling when you are up and about for at least five days. Take it off when you lie down so you can straighten your arm." She turned to Poppy. "I'll send our owl with a set of graded exercises for him to do so he won't lose flexibility and muscle mass."

Poppy smiled in approval. "Ah, good! It might keep him occupied, though I doubt it will keep him out of trouble. I wondered if the Ministry had given you an owl," she added as an afterthought.

"They delivered a tawny owl when we came back... home," Jean replied delicately. "Aluco is a fairly solid owl to begin with, but he's grown a bit podgy... Regular messenger duties will do him good," she finished with a repentant glance at Severus.

Severus nodded an acknowledgement of the obliquely admitted remorse. When Jean and Poppy began a small discussion on the nature, care, and proper employment of owls, he deftly returned the Llygad to the drawer of the bedside table. His eyebrows knitted with a question when he noticed a phoenix feather and a brass ring next to his father's wallet.

Toby saw the unvoiced question – and knew that Severus would not ask it. "Yer phoenix friend left the feather when 'e gave me the arrows and stuff," he said quietly. "As for the ring... dunno why I keep it. When I married yer mother, I couldn't afford gold. Didn't know she were bloody royalty."

Severus closed and warded the drawer. "That was generations ago," he murmured, keeping an eye on Poppy and Jean.

"But it still runs deep, don't it?" Toby shifted back onto his pillows, hurt flickering briefly in his eyes. "She could've 'ad so much better... She should've 'ad so much more. What'd she think she was doin', skulkin' around mill-workers' streets?" He shook his head in bewilderment.

Severus moved between his father and the still-nattering women. "I don't know if it runs deep," he said, keeping his voice low. "I'm still coming to terms with... unexpected revelations. As for what my mother was doing... I have no idea. Until now, I cannot say that I cared."

Toby glanced at him. "But you do now? Care, I mean."

Severus shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps. May I question you on the subject at another time?"

Toby gave a short laugh. "Another time'd be good." He looked Severus in the eyes. "Y' don't need to ask permission... Crikey, you don't 'ave to ask." He cringed. "You can just rip into someone's mind and find what yer after..."

"But I will not," Severus hissed. "Not again, ever, unless you specifically request it." He evaluated Tobias' quizzical stare. "That was an offer of peace, in case you didn't recognise it," he muttered long-sufferingly.

Toby decided to keep to himself the fact that he hadn't recognised it. Instead, he made sure Poppy wasn't looking before gingerly extending his right hand, supporting it with his left. "I never expected an offer, to be 'onest," he said. "But it's somethin' I'll 'onour for the rest of me life."

Severus gave a half-smile before accepting his father's hand in a firm grip. "So be it," he said, pleased at the strength and surety communicated in the contact.

Toby grinned openly. "My oath."

Jean felt a stab of sympathy for the silent wizard beside her. Having formally introduced himself by giving his full name, a brief summary of his employment details, and rather graciously offering to escort her to the headmistress' office, Severus now seemed a little out of sorts. Jean could sense that he was not sure of what to say, or how to say it. Well, that makes two of us. "Hermione told Andrew and me a great deal about you," she said, putting as much assurance as she could into her tone.

Severus gave her a fleeting glance. "She said as much," he answered shortly, tension stiffening his stride.

Jean tried a different tack. "You know, I'm not about to grill you for information, or judge you in any way."

Severus wandlessly opened a door and stood back to allow her to precede him through. "And your husband?"

"Andrew had a few concerns, initially, but Hermione addressed them before they gathered any real momentum."

"Concerns related to my past, no doubt." Severus halted abruptly and turned to look Jean fully in the eyes.

She took an involuntary step back as he cast a Silencing Charm around them both. The intensity of his gaze was like a physical force.

"Madam Granger... Jean... I love Hermione. If you and your husband, as her parents, aim to judge me by my previous deployments, consider this: to see her crying for you – when there was nothing I knew of that I could do to help her – was... torment."

Jean nodded solemnly. "I know – now – how much we distressed her, and we are both deeply sorry. Even more so for the fact that we unwittingly left you to – in a way – clean up after us. At the time, we couldn't move beyond our own hurt. I can see why she couldn't tell us what she intended to do, but at the same time, it would have been nice to have had some warning."

"There was no time to give any warning," Severus said, his shoulders relaxing a little. "I doubt very much that you would have agreed to willingly participate in her plan."

Jean shivered. "No, we wouldn't have. Not without a fight. We would have insisted on there being some other way of..." She came close to biting her tongue when the wizard fairly pinned her to the wall with a sharp glare.

Severus' expression conveyed frustration, bitterness, grief, and anger, before settling into stoic sagacity. "Was there another way?"

The question was not one to be answered. Jean could see that Severus was making a point: what was done was done, and Hermione's plan had succeeded where anything else would have, most likely, failed. She nodded her understanding, earning a half-smile and the cancellation of the charm.

As they continued on their way, Severus drew himself to his full height. "In case you are wondering, my intentions towards your daughter are honourable," he stated softly, with just a hint of challenge.

Jean felt a rush of adrenalin and delight. While she had not expected Severus to make such a statement so quickly, she had felt that he would, at some point, place his cards on the table. In truth, she was both relieved and absolutely chuffed. Severus showed a solid reliability – a careful constancy and firm resolve – that marked him as a man who knew who he was and was reasonably comfortable with that knowledge, gristle and all. A great many of Jean's reservations about young Ron had been centred on a complete absence of those characteristics. To Jean's maternal mind, Ron was still, in many ways, a boy who had yet to define himself.

She shook herself out of her oasis of present and future happiness. "Does Hermione know?"

"Not yet," Severus answered with a side-long smirk that said: And don't you dare tell her.

Jean answered with an expression of her own: I promise I won't even dream of it. "I'm sorry I said you were like a bag of eels. And for ordering you around."

"Think nothing of it," Severus conceded. He paused at the gargoyle guarding the stairs to the headmistress' office. "Have you seen one of these move before?" he asked, deciding to build on his newly established strategic alliance by heading off any avoidable frights.

Jean eyed the gargoyle dubiously. "I can't say that I have..."

Sister Clarise looked out over a snow-covered courtyard. A bitter wind snatched up tiny fragments of ice and snow, flinging them like spiteful daggers at anything in its path. She could feel the threat building like a snowstorm climbing the backs of high mountains, growing in strength and fury as it toiled. Turning her body, she could feel its presence most strongly to the east – a long way to the east – but it was growing inexorably.

She let her hand feel for her unwelcome burden. Hidden within the folds of her habit and held in place by a belt of black wool, the spearhead felt strangely warm.

In response to her conscience prompting her to send a warning on ahead of her, the Sight had granted a dream the night before. She had seen a door to an office bearing the sigil of the Minister for Magic, the half-forgotten skyline of London, and a name: Shacklebolt.

But how to send her warning? She did not have enough magic left to send a Patronus, nor did she own an owl, or have access to a Floo. Further, years of strict isolation within the priory walls had cut her off from familiarity with both Muggle and wizarding societies. Not that she wasn't isolated to begin with...

Sister Clarise roused herself, unwilling to sink into the thought circles that would lead to a heart-slowing misery. It had taken her too many years to break free of the hopeless malaise to ever submit to it again. Looking around, she spotted a raven hunkered down in the shelter of a carved saint's stone robe, waiting for the refuse from the kitchens to be brought out for disposal. A spark of hope leapt in her heart. The wily raven just might be able to help.

"Brân y gors," she called softly in Welsh, letting the remnants of her power flow with the words.

Evidently, it did not matter that the raven had never before heard his species named in the Welsh tongue. With a lazy glide, the great, sooty bird landed on the snow-covered bench beside Sister Clarise with a solid, well-fed thump.

Looking around to make sure no other eyes were watching, Sister Clarise tore an inch-wide scrap of paper from the flyleaf of her prayer book and printed her message with a pencil stub. "Long ago," she told the bird as she wrote, "your brethren forewarned us of war or plague. Does the memory of those times still flow in your blood?"

The raven watched her with intelligent dark eyes, the wind ruffling his glossy black feathers.

With whispered incantations, she bound the bird to temporary service, and calmed him long enough to tie the message around his leg. "Take this to the Minister for Magic, in London. The Minister's name is Shacklebolt. I was given no other description." Another incantation and a gesture sealed the magic and set it in motion.

The raven cawed and sprang into the air, his powerful wing-beats carrying him to a point where he could soar with the wind.

A little dazed from the effort of using her meagre reserves of power without the aid of a wand, Sister Clarise watched until the raven was a miniscule dot of black against a grey sky. Mustering resolve once more, she skirted the inside walls of the priory to a small, barred door leading out to a forest track. Alohomora was the last word she uttered in that place.

From Irma's office, Minerva watched Petrus as he stepped out of the shadowed canyon between two bookshelves and patrolled the perimeter of the reading tables. The seventh-year Ravenclaw students gave the assistant librarian an incurious glance – if they noticed him at all – and continued their reading with assiduous application. Luna Lovegood, who could be relied upon to mindfully acknowledge the existence of any entity she encountered, gave Petrus a serene smile as he passed by.

Irma pursed her lips and shrugged. "I cannot tell who it might be, Minerva. Severus really thinks that one of the boys is responsible? They do not look devious enough to slip troublesome charms into books. It could be one of the girls, I suppose, but I'd be very surprised if it is."

The headmistress cast a searching eye over the students in question, knowing that they could not see her through the charmed glass. "Nor can I, but Petrus seemed very certain that he would flush out the culprit today. He didn't use all of the Lycanthropy references, did he?"

"Athena's owl, no! He only unchained the Index volume. He said he found the idea of using all fifteen volumes quite amusing, but they would form a hunting pack and be too difficult to control. Things would get out of hand very quickly."

Minerva surveyed the scholarly scene for a moment longer. "Is it my imagination, Irma, or is Petrus showing signs of being tutored in the authoritative art of prowling around tables of seated students?"

"I was thinking the very same thing. I have an idea of who his tutor might be." Irma waited for Minerva's arched-eyebrow prompt. "Watch him when he reaches the end of the room and turns... There!"

"He turns on his heel... with a rather theatrical sweep of his tail."

"And folds his arms... Just so. Petrus does not have eyebrows as such, but look at the way he cocks one ear and slightly angles back the other."

"If ears were eyebrows: just like a certain someone's forbidding scowl."

"And if the theatrical sweep were one of billowing robes instead of a tail..."

"Severus. Obviously, that wizard has too much time on his hands."

"Not necessarily," Irma stated. "Petrus is a remarkably quick study," she added with a touch of pride.

Minerva smiled to herself. She would not say anything to her older colleague, but she knew that for Irma, this was an admission of affection bordering on adoption. Suddenly, Irma gripped her arm.

"Several students have headed for the catalogues," the elderly librarian hissed and pointed.

The headmistress made a move towards the door, but Irma held her back. Frowning, she followed Irma's interested stare. Petrus had evidently noticed something else. Behind the shelves, an invisible someone was moving away from the catalogues. The two witches observed as Petrus surreptitiously tracked the potential miscreant's progress with his mobile ears. He moved into what appeared to be a strategic position between the tables and the exit.

A malevolent snarl followed by a blood-curdling shriek and the sound of tearing cloth violated the sanctuary of studious silence. A howling, slavering Lycanthropy Index erupted out of the shelves, snapping at the heels of unseen quarry.

Petrus stood to one side, attention trained on the sound of fleeing student. With perfect timing, his right hand shot out and he seized a handful of robes. The Disillusioned captive firmly in hand, he swiftly turned to face the advancing book.

The Lycanthropy Index hesitated, growling murderously. It bayed a bristling challenge as Petrus bared his teeth in warning – and lunged for its invisible tormentor.

Petrus roared. The book came to a page-ruffling halt, yelped, and retreated, its spine-fur flattened in submission.

"Great Merlin!" Minerva gasped, feeling her skin prickle. She noted that Irma appeared to be enjoying the spectacle thoroughly. You have a strange sense of humour, Irma, she thought. That roar would have frightened the ink out of the Giant Squid.

The librarian left her office and drew her wand. "Homenum Revelio. Mr Boddington, I would like to give you the benefit of doubt, but I wonder what I would find if I were to summon, say, small pieces of parchment bearing charms written in silver nitrate?"

Young Mr Boddington gasped and looked around fearfully. He blanched as the headmistress appeared in the doorway of Madam Pince's office.

Petrus released the bedraggled, trembling seventh-year, noting the shredded edges of the boy's robes. He held out one taloned hand. "Monsieur Boddington: the charms, s'il vous plait."

"Wise choice," Madam Pince commented as a small packet of written charms was nervously surrendered to her imposing assistant. "Merlin knows what I would have found had I been forced to Accio the contents of your pockets, Mr Boddington. There might be things in there that I really shouldn't see."

Petrus glanced at the reading tables as suppressed mirth and furtive nudges exacerbated the culprit's acute discomfort. Mademoiselle Lovegood, however, continued her studies as though nothing had happened. The other senior Ravenclaws quickly called themselves to order and watched him with rounded eyes. Petrus gave them an all-encompassing stare – and twitched the end of his tail. Twenty pairs of eyes snapped back to ink-inscribed knowledge with synchronised zeal.

Minerva made several decisions at once. "Madam Pince, Petrus, if I may see you both privately, please? Mr Boddington, you will wait here until I call for you." She sent a steely glare around the library and nodded satisfaction at the students' orderly obedience.

Andrew Granger frowned in concentration as he typed the last bit of data into his business management program. "Hermione did tell us he's no chatterbox... From what you tell me, what he does say is worth listening to... which is a great relief." A few mouse-clicks resulted in a brightly coloured pie-chart. "... Much better than some babbling bore who can talk the leg off an iron pot and not say anything useful at all."

"I can assure you, Severus is definitely not boring," Jean said, topping up the paper tray in the printer.

Andrew stretched his arms as the printer hummed into life, his fatherly instincts telling him that there might be some "writing on the wall" to consider. "What were those two questions your mother asked you when we decided to get engaged?"

"'Does he treat you well?' and 'Are you happy?'" Jean closed the curtains against the encroaching night. "Hermione is very happy with Severus, Andrew."

Her husband nodded thoughtfully. "Is he happy with her?"

Jean smiled. "Minerva vouched for Severus' character and declared that he is a man of honour and integrity – though she said that he can also be monumentally exasperating when he wants to be. She said she has never seen him so contented, especially when he is with Hermione."

"Ha! You have that look on your face. You, my dear, are hoping our Hermione will be asked a certain question." Andrew rubbed at his shock of wild hair. "Don't frown at me like that! I was listening when you spent a whole hour outlining Severus' current occupation and future good prospects." He briefly raised his hands in surrender. "Do you think he'll ask permission? He comes across as being... traditional, I suppose."

Keeping Severus' secret as promised, Jean eyed her husband hopefully. "If he does ask your permission, what will you tell him?"

"My permission? What about yours?"

"In my heart, I have already given it, love."

Andrew gave a short laugh, saved his database, and exited the program. "To paraphrase the esteemable Mr Bennet, my dear Dr Granger: Mr Snape-the-younger is the kind of wizard, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything which he condescended to ask."

"Condescended? Andrew! He's not like that at all, once you spend a little time with him."

Hermione's father ran the shut-down procedure and grumbled under his breath at how long it always seemed to take. "I'll make a point of doing so." He eyed his wife sternly. "But if he's going to do any asking, he has to do it after dinner. More specifically: when I have withdrawn to the library, which must be equipped with a roaring fire, a mahogany table the size of a small African sovereign state, and a big old hound snoring on the hearth rug. There, I shall pour a glass of port, put on my smoking jacket, and complain about the financial outlays of the estate, the lack of competent gardeners – and the sorry plight of unmarried daughters. Your prospective son-in-law may seek an audience with me then," he teased with a wink.

Jean laughed at the fictitious image. "Don't get too clever, Dr Granger," she warned. "Severus is a wizard – he is capable of meeting your specifications to the letter."