The Gathering – Part 1

A/N's

French – English (on-line translator)

Bonjour – Hello/Good day

Certainement pas – Certainly not

Cidre – Cider

Je ne pouvais pas comprendre – I could not understand

La femmes – The females

Mon hibou – My owl

S'il vous plait – If you please

Très bon – Very good

Une selection – A selection

Tower of London ravens: Legend says that the kingdom and the Tower will fall if the six resident ravens (with a seventh in reserve) ever leave the fortress. The ravens all have names, service records, and the primary feathers of one wing partially clipped so they can't fly very far. They are very well cared for (possibly a bit spoiled) by Yeomen Warders.

Canon characters are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from them. Pugsley Addams is the property of the cartoonist Charles Addams. I make no profit from his character.

Thanks to TeaOli the Brave for beta-reading, sorting out my commas (again), and being a real inspiration to keep improving my writing skills.

---

Hermione pulled her cloak tight around her body and pressed as close as she could to Severus without actually pushing him into the trees. By the light of her wizard's softly illuminated wand, she could see the leaf strewn path marked with centaurs' hoof prints, the sharp glitter of ice, and an occasional drifting snowflake – the first of the season. Some distance ahead of them, Firenze's hooves crunched a steady pace on the brittle ground. She could barely make out the centaur as a slightly paler shadow moving easily through the forest without the aid of light. Her teeth began to chatter.

"Warming Charm, my dear?" Severus murmured, obliging without waiting for her to accept the offer.

Hermione roused herself. "Silly me, I should have thought of that myself – it's so early, and I'm still sleepy." She could feel Severus' amused smirk.

"If a certain someone hadn't insisted on having her wicked way with me last night – and again even earlier this morning – you might have had adequate rest," he purred contentedly.

Hermione nudged him in his layer-swathed ribs. "I didn't hear you objecting, nor did you pause to lecture me on the importance of a good night's sleep. Besides, the early morning tryst was your idea."

"Not mine... his," Severus remarked pointedly. "I was asleep at the time and found that I had little choice in the matter."

"He being your conspiratorial friend."

"I never thought of describing him that way... but now that you mention it..." He gave her a sidelong glance. "I didn't hear you objecting. Indeed, when I woke up, you were having quite a good time with him."

"I'll have you know that I was sound asleep until the nocturnal shenanigans started. I was trying to settle him down."

"That's not what he thought you were doing." Severus brushed a snowflake off his sleeve. "Conspiracy! If he was not actually a part of my body, I'd be overwhelmed with jealousy." He curled one arm around Hermione's shoulders, sharing the Warming Charm as well as their combined body heat. He wondered if it was possible to transfer gratitude and love directly from his own heart to hers. If it was not possible, he could be in quite a pickle: how could he continue to hold so much without that vital organ actually bursting?

The night before, when he had seen Potter's peace offering – and the surprisingly concise, courteous covering note that came with it – he found that he had resignedly waited for some wheedling plea to be transmitted from Potter via Hermione. Instead, Hermione had relayed the gist of her conversation with Harry, plainly stating that she had made a pre-emptive refusal to participate in any form of coercion. And that was that. For a moment, Severus had stood in mute surprise, his capacity for speech temporarily disengaged while his senses joyously floundered in the realisation that his witch would never attempt to manipulate him – not even for her best friend. The sheer relief and sense of liberation had made him light-headed enough to need to lie down, whereupon Hermione had leapt on him to make sure that he was all right – and then brought him to quite a different level of consciousness with heated, unashamedly wanton kisses.

He had to physically wipe the smile off his face when he heard Firenze come to a halt and stamp a fore hoof three times. As the centaur had instructed, from now until they reached the Stone Circle, silence was to be observed.

Bane stepped out of the shadows – bow in hand and a full quiver slung over one shoulder. A wide-eyed young centaur with a broadsword at his back waited respectfully behind him, nearly fidgeting with excitement. At a nod from Bane, Firenze signalled Severus and Hermione to follow. The young centaur bowed to the humans and took his place at the rear of the small procession.

With Bane leading the way, they took an apparently random route through the deepening forest. The surrounding trees grew closer and closer together until they brushed the centaurs' flanks – a huge, dignified assembly that seemed to watch them as they passed by. Leafless twigs and branchlets rubbed together in soft, creaking exchanges – even though there was no breeze – as though the lignacious sentinels were talking to each other and discussing those who walked between them.

Hermione glanced at Severus, who drew a breath and looked around, communicating that he felt a little apprehensive as well. Firenze had told them about this part of the Forbidden Forest: the trees here were known as the "Standing People" and treated with great respect by the centaurs. The thought of sentient trees made Hermione's skin prickle. She wondered if the Whomping Willow had originally come from this part of the Forest. Was it kidnapped – abor-napped – as a seed, or a sapling, merely to guard the opening of a secret passage? Could human-assisted displacement explain why all known representatives of Salix brutalis were so damnably tetchy? She jumped when a hanging branchlet of a silver birch tugged at her hair. Standing still, she carefully disengaged it, holding it for a moment before letting go. Glancing behind her, she saw the young centaur smile approvingly.

At last, the path Bane took began to widen, and the scrutinising press of the Standing People was replaced by a wide avenue of yew trees, their ancient boles resembling frayed hawsers of corded shadow. At the end of the avenue, a low hill formed an island of cleared ground. Circling the top of the hill like a crown, an imposing silhouette of standing stones stood black against the paling sky.

---

Sister Clarise held her breath as she surveyed the devastation. The wind moaned and cried between lightless houses like a persistent requiem and piled drifts of snow against the frozen, lifeless bodies of humans and livestock with detached gentleness. In the timber plantations surrounding the village, even the hardy pines had perished. Denuded of needles and their burden of snow, they stood like grey, rattling skeletons risen up to denounce a murderer.

Sister Clarise's blood chilled as she felt the remnants of insatiable, devouring hatred... It clung to everything – a damning testimony as vivid as a fresh bloodstain. Too late. Distressed and afraid, she reached for the warmth of the spearhead concealed beneath her habit. Too late for these, she thought. But the quest must be completed. Unexpectedly, the warmth of the spearhead spread over her entire body, bringing with it the gift of courage. It is not done yet... but it shall be. Whispering a prayer for the souls of the dead, she continued on her way.

---

For the second time that morning, Hermione cautiously sampled the dark amber mead being passed around in a drinking horn, searching for the identity of an elusive taste. It reminded her of summer-warm grassy hills, the laughing flash of sunlight on water, drowsy breezes heavy with the drone of bees, and just a hint of smoke. Sharing mead had marked the start of the dawn ceremonies – and, obviously, sharing mead concluded them as well. The young mahogany bay centaur – who had introduced himself as "Röthvar, son of Bryndorach" as soon as speech was permitted – took the drinking horn from her and topped it up from a stone ewer before handing it to Magorian.

"Heather honey," Severus whispered. "A true single flower honey was used to brew the mead. Little wonder the ancient gods were said to be fond of it."

Hermione nodded and licked her lips, multiple layers of flavour still lingering on her tongue. "I bet it has healing properties, too."

"It does," Magorian said, nodding his thanks to Röthvar and turning slightly to address the two humans. "After the Battle of Hogwarts, we cleansed our wounds with mead and dressed them with husks and heather honey. When we learned that Firenze had lost blood and was being cared for by Madam Pomfrey, we sent him mead infused with thyme to help him make it up again."

Hermione chewed her lower lip as she watched Röthvar serve his sister. "May I ask a question?"

Magorian cocked his head, a little surprised. "Of course."

"You'll live to regret that, Magorian," Severus muttered with the dogged patience of one who knows how to suffer for a cause. "The trickle will become a flood."

"I thank you for the warning. At the first sign of peril I shall move to higher ground," the centaur replied, casually swishing his tail and giving Severus a yes-I've-heard-the-legends look.

Hermione sighed and shook her head, resolutely pursuing her enquiry. "Why is Röthvar doing all the serving? He's a guest, isn't he?"

Magorian nodded. "Yes, he is. Even so, our tradition is that young centaurs should learn the grace of service – the lessons being humility, courtesy, and observance. While he is in our lands, he is under Bane's direction. Röthvar's elder sister, Esnyë, will have performed service back in her homeland – hence she is free to move about as she will. Besides, our young thane had not met humans before: he considered this morning's duties to be quite an adventure."

Hermione longed to ask about the shy gathering of female centaurs who had clustered together and appraised both herself and Severus intently from a distance. Esnyë had stayed exclusively with the other females and appeared to be an encouraging influence with her confident movements and gentle gestures. However, Hermione could sense the fragility of the female centaurs' participation – they were wary of Bryndorach and his son, and even more wary of human company – so her questions were best left unasked. With a small ache of sadness, she watched them retreat into the forest. Looping her arm through Severus', she looked at him to make a speculative comment, then stopped in surprise at the slightly devilish expression on his face.

---

Toby dutifully recorded the number of repetitions of each exercise Jean Granger had sent to him to aid his recovery and was pleased to see that he was ready for the next level. When he began what he had described as the "geriatric" exercises in the Hospital Wing, Hermione had drawn up a chart for him so he could monitor his progress visually. Toby liked charts for that very reason, and the one Hermione had designed was a real purler. Finishing up with a series of stretches, he decided to take a walk along a circuit of corridors that Minerva had deemed safe – provided he keep Tocky with him.

He put on the Prussian blue cloak and fastened it without needing to consult a mirror. He had no objection to wearing the cloak these days as the Warming Charm woven into it was a very welcome thing in the raw morning cold of the castle. Acknowledging this, he could not help but reflect upon his attitude to magic back in Spinner's End. Moving to the fireplace, he picked up the boxed set of Gobstones Filius had loaned him. Eileen had been pretty damn good with the things, according to the Charms professor.

"Master Tobias?"

"G'day, Tocky," he answered pensively.

"Master Tobias is been looking unhappy. Tocky is wondering if it is because of the phoenix," the house-elf postulated.

"Nah, mate, not 'cause of that. Besides, I couldn't get the bow to a full draw just yet. Maybe that's a good thing, eh? Means we 'ave some time – Sev'rus reckons that Fawkes wouldn't give me t' bloody arrows if I weren't meant to use 'em." Toby could see that Tocky still wanted to know what had him out of sorts. "C'mon," he said, heading for the door. "I need to wander for a bit."

"Master Tobias is bringing Gobstones?"

Toby couldn't help grinning at Tocky's puzzled, slightly concerned expression. "Yeah. Looks that way, don't it?"

House-elf and Muggle set off at a brisk pace, their breaths showing briefly with each exhalation. By the time they had traversed five corridors and several staircases, Toby felt that he had pushed his recuperating body hard enough for the time being – and had earned an extra serving of black pudding for breakfast. Minerva had insisted that he partake of the "delicacy" every day during convalescence, saying: "It will get your blood back up". Toby had saucily informed her – with a brash wink – that his interpretation of her statement might differ to what she actually meant, at which Minerva had left the Hospital Wing in a slight huff, and Poppy had scolded him for the second time in as many hours. Now, Toby made a point of consuming black pudding to ensure that, if given the opportunity, he could look Minerva in the eye and tell her that his blood was getting up very nicely, thank you.

At the highest landing of an especially long staircase, he sat on an oak bench positioned below a stained glass window, stretched his legs out in front of him, and opened the box of Gobstones.

"Master Tobias is going to practice?" Tocky asked, still pondering a reason for his master's strange behaviour.

Toby shook his head. "Just thinkin'. Filius said me missus – Eileen Prince, 'er name would've been when she were schooled 'ere – was captain of the Gobstones team."

Tocky shrugged forlornly. "Tocky is knowing nothing of Hogwarts' previous students – except for Crabbe family." The house-elf shivered as he mentioned his previous masters. "Else Tocky would certainly be telling Master Tobias all about her. Tocky is sad to know she is gone." He fidgeted anxiously.

"What's the matter, lad?"

"House-elves is not supposed to... But Tocky is wanting to ask..."

"Spit it out, then."

Tocky twisted a stray thread around his fingers. "How did Master Tobias meet Mistress Eileen?"

"'Ow did a workin' class Muggle like me get together with a pureblood witch?" Toby raised an eyebrow at the now squirming house-elf. "God's Teeth, Tocky, you 'aven't done anythin' wrong. Sit up 'ere and I'll tell you." He waited until Tocky climbed onto the bench and settled himself with his hands tucked firmly under his spindly thighs. "Let's see... It were about forty year ago...

"Back then, once a week, meself and t' other local lads would go down to the dance 'all for a bit of fun. Between the dances and the picture theatre, there weren't much else to do around t' mill in those days. Me old mam 'ad recently died – but I reckon she'd been gone longer than that 'cause me da' were taken by t' war. I don't remember much of 'im at all.

"Anyway, I first saw Eileen when she were walkin' past t' dance 'all one evenin'. She were checkin' things out, lookin' like she were curious or somethin'. I sung out to her and asked if she wanted to come and join in." Toby shrugged. "She looked t' other way and kept walkin', so I thought "Suit yerself" and left it at that.

"The next week, she were checkin' the dance 'all out again, but this time from behind a bloody letter box, of all things. She really looked like she wanted to come over, but were maybe a bit shy, so I crossed the road to ask 'er... and the next thing I knew I were back at t' door. Couldn't work it out at the time, but now I think I know what she did.

"A few months went on, and it were gettin' like clockwork, 'cause she kept doin' the same thing. I figured I'd try again. So I got cunnin' and went 'round by a side alley and through the back of t' chippie. I reckon I surprised 'er, 'cause she just stared at me all confused. God's Teeth, she needed a feed, and she looked kind of sad. Then she just walked off without a word. I didn't follow... Didn't want to fright 'er, y' see.

"One day, I were out runnin' errands for the foreman, and I saw 'er 'angin' up linens in t' yard out back of a boardin' 'ouse a few streets down from t' mill. Earnin' a crust by doin' washin' by the look of it. So I sat on the brick wall surroundin' t' yard and asked 'er if she wanted to dance or not. I told 'er I was pretty sure she did want to and, if I were right, I'd claim 'er for the first dance. And I offered a feed of fish and chips afterwards. She started talkin' then. I'd just got 'round to askin' 'er name when Bessie Bruiser – so we called the woman who ran t' boardin' 'ouse – threw an empty bean tin at me and screeched at me to bugger off. Called me a tomcat, too. Flamin' cheek!

"Well, the mystery girl showed up on dance night, and we introduced ourselves properly. None of us 'ad much in the way of fine clothes, but we could turn out pretty well with what were at 'and. Eileen did too. Tocky, from the first dance, I were right taken. Lor' Crikey, Eileen moved like an angel... Like she were born to it – and properly taught. I 'ad no idea she where she came from. No idea 'bout 'er magic, schoolin' or family – she refused to talk about 'em – except that raven 'air and black eyes were a family trait. Not too long after that, there were moves other than dancin'. I s'pose the rest is 'istory, as they say." He scowled and rubbed his eyes. "She must've been 'idin' from someone – it's the only logical explanation for why a witch from a blue-blood family would shack up among workin' folk and try to live without usin' 'er power."

"Master Tobias loved her very much," Tocky observed.

"As much as I knew 'ow to at the time. Loved and lost, mate. Through my own doin'."

Tocky regarded him shrewdly. "Master Tobias misses her..."

Toby sighed, shook his head, then shrugged. He produced the brass ring he kept in his pocket. "I might, a bit. T' rest'll be a great mess of regrets and what-ifs. You keep quiet about it, okay?"

Tocky ran his fingers across his closed mouth, placed his hand over his heart, and nodded.

Turning his mind to other matters, Toby took one of the Gobstones out of the box and held it up to the light. "I need to know more about these things. Filius started me on the Classic Game, but 'e also said there's Jack Stone and... Snake Pit?"

Tocky nodded. "What is Master Tobias needing to know?"

"Rules, strategies, that kind of thing."

The house-elf frowned in thought. Suddenly, his ears twitched and he leapt off the bench. Running to the stairs, he looked down and pointed excitedly. "Tocky is thinking a librarian could help!"

---

"What is it?" Hermione whispered, pulling Severus to face her to try and hide his expression from the centaurs, who milled about in small groups discussing everything from planetary portents to the likely depth of the first snowfall. Behind the surrounding trees, she briefly heard the female centaurs mention the placement of artificial grype-nuts before they dispersed at a purposeful canter.

"You didn't see?" Severus teased silkily.

Hermione folded her arms. "Obviously. Not."

"It's quite a distraction when you do that," he noted, letting his gaze linger on her chest. He held his hands up in surrender as she glared at him with slightly exasperated amusement. "It looks to me as though Bane has a secret admirer," he murmured.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Esnyë?"

Severus gave her a single-eyebrow frown. "I thought you affirmed that you didn't see."

"I didn't see. Esnyë is the only female centaur I've met face to face."

"Guessing, Miss Granger? And I placed such faith in your deductive abilities..."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Then, wizard, save me from guesses and tell me what you've seen, lest I strike a bargain with your conspiratorial friend and incite rebellion in your black silk boxers."

"Below the belt... I like it," he purred. "For your information, Esnyë has been covertly observing Bane whenever his attention is elsewhere. Unbeknownst to Esnyë, Bane observes her whenever she is not observing him."

Hermione and Severus shared a knowing eyebrow-raise, then quickly schooled their expressions to "respectful interest" when Firenze, Bane and Bryndorach approached them.

Bane raised his hand, a small black stone firmly held between thumb and forefinger. "Before we plan a gathering to discuss Fawkes' messages, I found this during patrols of the forest after the Dementors attacked," he said, his features clouding with a passing shade of antipathy. "It was pressed deep into a hoof print. It is a human tool made with human magic. We have no use for this stone of false resurrection, nor any desire to keep a thing whose purpose is to summon those who have flown beyond the stars."

In silence, Severus took the Resurrection Stone and held it up to the light. The faint etchings of the Peverell coat of arms stirred a bitter echo of repugnance: under these same arms, blood purity had been flaunted, murder committed, and a fragment of a fractured soul stored in the quest for immortality. He wrenched his eyes away with a suppressed snarl. A cold wind rolled out of the surrounding forest, swept up the hill, and mumbled around the standing stones.

"Severus." Firenze's blue eyes held a depth of solemn purpose. "While we burned the herbs to welcome in the true change of season, Alaya..." he gestured to the sector of the Stone Circle where the females had gathered for the ceremony "...felt the whisper of a soul with a message. She has the gift for such things. She told me there is someone who would speak with you."

Thinking that the "someone" would probably be Lily – he really hoped it wasn't Albus – Severus glanced enquiringly at Hermione, who mouthed a silent "Go on" and pointed to a spot a short distance away. With a small smile of appreciation for Hermione's understanding, he moved around the outside of the Stone Circle until he found a position sheltered from the wind. Without looking at the Resurrection Stone, he turned it three times.

"You're looking healthy, for once."

A woman's voice: but it was not Lily's. Guilt and... shame knifed through his heart. "Charity... Gods, I'm sorry, I..."

Severus paused as Charity impatiently waved him into listening. "I shouldn't stay long, Severus. Tell Hermione I send her my very best regards and wish her luck with the N.E.W.Ts. I didn't take it all that personally when she dropped Muggle Studies: I understand that the subject was not challenging enough for her." Charity looked him over. "Unlike yourself," she murmured in a sultry I-know-what-you've-been-up-to tone.

Severus felt a rush of colour tingle its way up from his collar to his ears. "I shall," he said. "And purely for Hermione's benefit, I'll tell her you look remarkably well – and at peace."

Charity pantomimed a swoon. "Severus! If wizards did it for me, Veil or not, I'd make a move on you. That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard you say!" She laughed when the wizard grimaced, then regarded him with compassion. "I know there was nothing you could do. It must have been horrible for you... I'm the one who should apologize to you for losing my grip and appealing to you for help – I could've gotten you killed!"

Severus folded his arms and shook his head. "You apologize to... That's ridiculous! It's not as if you knew!"

Charity adjusted her robes with a hint of indignation. "It's not ridiculous. And I know now. Lily made Albus tell me everything."

"I sat there, pretended to ignore you, and let you die..."

"Oh, take a dose of reality, will you? I'm sure you brew and bottle it along with your fame and glory! If you had stood up to defend me against Voldemort, a whole twelve-course-formal-dinner-setting of loyal Death Eaters – and that snake – how long do you think you would've lasted, hmm? Where would dear old Albus' plans have been then? By the way, I'll pull the old codger's beard for you, next time I see him."

Severus allowed himself a half-smile. "I'd appreciate it if you would. With a bit of luck, by the time I cross the Veil, the infernal meddler will have gone... somewhere else."

"Else he'll hang around just to plague you!" Charity cautioned good-naturedly. Her expression communicated contented warmth. "With life's luck and destiny's blessings, you and Hermione will not cross the Veil for a good many years. She's a very fortunate witch, having you by her side. You can tell her I said that, too! Now drop the Stone, dear friend. I would like to go. There's a lot of beard-pulling to do."

Severus let the Resurrection Stone fall to the ground. For a moment, he watched the spot where Charity had, in so short an encounter, assured him that her gift of uncomplicated friendship still held strong. He hadn't even known how to say farewell – but he suspected that she would have heard him whether he had spoken or not. A sense of peace embraced him. Charity's final moments would never maul his dreams again.

Allowing his hair to cover his eyes while he recovered his composure, Severus considered what should be done with the Resurrection Stone. He felt the steady, inscrutable gazes of the centaurs and knew that they would read much into his decision. Concentrating on his breathing, he let his magic touch the steady pulse of power flowing outwards from the Stone Circle – the power of the Earth and its constantly interacting elements, the blood-beat of a planet sustaining life. Stone is strong, but even mountains are carved by the breath of wind and the caress of water. The mightiest boulder can be split by the growth of a tiny seed.

Severus remembered overhearing Albus' advice to Potter while he loitered in the shadows after leading the headmaster to where the boy sat staring into the Mirror of Erised. Picking up the Stone once more, he returned to the three centaurs and took Hermione's hand. "Like the Mirror of Erised, this Stone holds a power that would lead the vulnerable to dwell on dreams, exist in memories, and forget to live," he said. "The Resurrection Stone was crafted to transgress Nature's law and will, over time, bring only suffering – on both sides of the Veil." Spotting a half-grown Whomping Willow brooding by the bank of an ice-ruffled stream at the foot of the hill, Severus instinctively knew what to do: he threw the Resurrection Stone at the willow.

As expected, one of the tree's branches whipped out and caught the stone. The branch curled as the willow examined its prize. Then, with a crack and a leaping flash of green light, stone yielded to wood, and the powdered remains of the Resurrection Stone merged with the frosty earth to become part of the resurrection that would commence with Spring.

---

Toby forced himself not to retreat as Petrus landed with a smooth backsweep of his wings. In spite of feeling quite comfortable around house-elves, interactive portraits, centaurs, unicorns, and ghosts, he still had a little way to go before he could feel at ease around a Being of stone who looked as though he could kill a man with one careless swipe of a taloned hand.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Tobias, Tocky. Pardon the indoor flight s'il vous plait, it was quicker than walking up the stairs," Petrus explained with a gracious bow.

"Reckon I'd do the same if I 'ad a choice," Toby mused. "Bon-jore to you, too," he said, mustering what was hopefully courage.

A long-eared owl soundlessly flew over the stairs and settled on an elaborately carved newel post with a polite hoot.

"Ah, très bon! Here is mon hibou: I named him Porthos." Petrus reached towards the owl, and it climbed onto his forearm without hesitation.

"Porthos, eh? 'E was a bit of wine and women bloke, that one."

"You know the book, Monsieur?" Petrus asked, delighted at the prospect of literary conversation.

"Got to know it pretty well," Toby affirmed, remembering being stranded in the town of Cunnamulla – thankfully with non-perishable freight – when floodwaters cut every surrounding road for several weeks. A dog-eared, coverless copy of The Three Musketeers unearthed from a motley collection of books in the truck stop provided a welcome distraction from enforced residence. He eyed Petrus curiously. "I 'eard you'd come from a cathedral – I would've thought you'd name yer owl Aramis."

Petrus took a step closer to Tobias, causing the human to really test his nerve by keeping to the one spot. "Regarding the cathedral, Monsieur Tobias: oui – and perhaps non." He shrugged and flexed his wings. "Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris is where I first... how to say this... knew that I am alive. I felt the touch of earth and water, I opened my eyes to the fire of the sun, and the wind was blowing with great strength. A long time ago, I was told that I was originally found in the deserts of Arabia under a strange circumstance... I remember nothing of it." Petrus grimaced and shook his head. "Forgive me, Monsieur, if I do not like to discuss it. Perhaps I was destined to be a slave..."

Petrus glanced at the stained glass window as a pale lance of sunlight broke free from the piling clouds and, for no more than a second, turned the design into a glorious blaze of colour. "Aramis... He was the most scholastic of the musketeers – given to deep reflections on the Holy texts," he said, apparently cheered by the fleeting display. He raised his arm, causing Porthos to open his wings. "This hibou, he is not so much that way. I notice that he prefers to serenade les femmes when they rest after delivering the letters. He is also very fond of food."

"Ah, I see. Not into the wine as well, is 'e?"

Petrus scratched Porthos' head affectionately. "Not that I have the certain knowledge of. But like the musketeer, he is most dedicated to his duty, is very strong, and I know he is loyal to the death."

Toby had a sudden flash of insight. "Porthos wouldn't be yer favourite musketeer, by any chance?"

Petrus stared at him, open mouthed and prick-eared. The usually neatly hooked tip of his tail hit the floor with a soft thump.

In a storm of ginger fur, Crookshanks burst out of an ambush point and pounced on it with glee.

Porthos flew to the newel post, raised his head-feathers, extended his wings, and dramatically hissed his disapproval of the half-Kneazle's ignoble tactics.

"This... This is true, Monsieur Tobias," Petrus said, then added apologetically, "Am I so transparent?"

"You? Nah. Out of everyone I've ever met, I reckon you're the most opaque. I liked D'Artagnan's style, meself."

Calming Porthos with a gesture and a few phrases of softly spoken French, Petrus obligingly slid the end of his tail under a hall rug, sending Crookshanks into an ecstasy of frenzied carpet-fighting. "Bold deeds of almost reckless daring... Oui, I can see it," he said, his eyes glowing as he looked Tobias over. "Monsieur D'Artagnan would have been enthralled with the tale of Tobias the Archer."

It was Toby's turn to stare with incredulity. "The... What?"

"It was incredible valour, Monsieur Tobias. Do not tell to me that it was anything less, because I will never believe you," Petrus stated, angling his ears back and placing one foot firmly forward. "However Monsieur, as you go about the castle, you should be aware that your deeds have... how do you say... grown in the telling?"

Toby groaned inwardly. Being the subject of tall tales was one of many last things he wanted. "By 'ow much?"

Petrus cocked an ear and folded his arms. "Three Death Eaters with one arrow."

"So it's only grown a little bit," Toby commented dryly. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Portraits?"

"Oui, Monsieur. And from the gossiping portraits to the untamed imaginations of the excitable young students."

"Well, that's grand, that is. Right bloody grand."

Petrus nodded. He straightened the rumpled carpet as Crookshanks gave in to temporary madness and raced away with his bristling tail held at a ludicrous angle. "Oui, everybody thinks so. Now, Monsieur Tobias, Tocky tells to me that there is something I may assist you with?"

Toby nodded and showed Petrus the box of Gobstones. "Yeah. 'Ave you got anythin' in t' library on these little devices?"

"Ah, there are twenty shelves filled with books detailing the history and techniques of this sport, Monsieur Tobias – from novice to advanced – some written by the international champions!"

"I'll stick to techniques for the time being, I reckon. S'pose I should start at novice level – I've been gobbed on before and it's bloody messy. What's the process for borrowin' books?"

"For you, Monsieur Tobias, I will take care of the administration myself. Shall I make une selection for you and have Tocky deliver them after breakfast?"

"Oui... Um... yeah... please. That'd be good... Thanks."

Petrus bowed once more. "It is a pleasure, Monsieur."

---

Opening the folder in which he had filed the raven's message just one week previously, Kingsley sighed heavily and stood up, motioning the Russian Unspeakable to remain seated by the fire. "No need to get up, Valentin, you look like you need as much rest as you can get. Again, thank you for acting so quickly at short notice – and on the basis of an anonymous message." He handed Valentin the raven-delivered note.

The Unspeakable shrugged stoically. "Things have improved very slowly since the fall of the Iron Walls – our resources are still very limited," he said in heavily accented English. Having spent a gruelling six days in the Ukrainian winter, concealing his magic and searching for the truth of rumours, he was exhausted to the point of collapse. He read the message and handed it back. "It was fortuitous that we had noticed all was not well and were pushing our Ministry to investigate. Miserable weather and bad vodka could not account for the sudden spike in suicides and mental afflictions seen by our Squib operatives. Your message put spurs to our Granians. The Muggle population has been – is being – hit very hard."

Kingsley nodded. "And not just by raids on their villages."

Valentin nodded slowly and rubbed his chapped hands before the fire. "Cold camps are wretched places in such a climate. Winter has the land firmly in its teeth, now." He indicated the report he had brought with him. Producing his wand, he tapped the document once to produce a copy, and handed it to Kinglsey. "All of the targeted villages share the common trait of being small and isolated. The few survivors say they were attacked by nezhit – the undead. These undead are not Inferi, which is a small spark of good news. I followed tracks from one village and caught up with a group of them. True to the villagers' words, they showed a certain absence of soul: with my sight-glass, I could see the emptiness in their eyes."

Kingsley picked up the report and speed-read the summary. "They are a mixture of Muggles and wizards..."

"Dа – yes, Minister. I saw magic used to gather wood and make fire." He hesitated before emphasising the most disturbing item he had noted. "They travel, and attack, with Dementors." He shivered and summoned his reindeer skin cloak. "And that is not the worst thing..."

"You believe that the Dementors are responsible for the emptiness. And are somehow using the humans?"

Valentin nodded, his expression as sombre as a forgotten grave. "Your Patronus-source was correct about the ruinous city. There was only one place I knew of that fitted the description: the dead city of Pripyat. I made it to the bridge, but could go no further. The cold is so intense, the despair and... hatred... so heavy, that it threatens to crush body and mind. I hadn't the strength to withstand it, Minister. I am sorry." The Unspeakable lowered his eyes in shame.

Kingsley placed a consoling hand on Valentin's shoulder. "There is enough here for me to begin assembling a plan of action." I hope Severus and company can work out what Fawkes' way-markers mean. "Go and have something to eat other than black bread and salted pork fat."

Valentin managed a wry grin as he stood and bowed. "With pleasure, Minister. Especially in the absence of Ukrainian vodka: it burns like dragons' bile and kicks like a rabid Re'em." He handed over a package wrapped in brown parchment marked with the seal of the Durmstrang Institute. "These records took a little time to obtain, Minister. I hope you find what you seek."

The raven strutted importantly across Kingsley's desk and pecked at the parchment wrapping.

"You are going to keep him?" Valentin asked, indicating the sooty bird.

Kingsley distracted the raven with an Owl Treat. "I tried letting him go so he could find his own way home, but he started flying in and out of the grounds of the Tower of London and caused quite a bit of fuss and bother. There are superstitious Muggles about who say that the kingdom will fall should the ravens leave the Tower."

"Maybe he likes London and wants to stay."

The raven cawed and tucked into a bowl of plums.

"Hey! Those are mine, feathered thief!" Kingsley warded the bowl to prevent further pillaging. "Perhaps I should send you into Her Majesty's service – where a Yeoman Warder can keep a sharp eye on you!"

---

Severus gave up trying to stride. A little over a foot of powdery snow made it ungainly and undignified – if not impossible. Behind him, Hermione questioned Oriens on the methods of Vedic Arithmancy, rattling off formulae and theorems for the Unspeakable to match with examples from his own schooling. He knew Hermione would be searching for common principles between the Arithmantic teachings of East and West. She had a fascination for how the methods of calculation, derivation and dimensioning had evolved – a fascination that had not been blunted by an extremely "Nastily Exhausting" Arithmancy N.E.W.T. the day before. He still hadn't told her about the Sight-visioned children. Part of him genuinely didn't want to distract Hermione from the last labours of her formal schooling, nor did he want her to think he would impinge on her career prospects – of course he wouldn't. But another part of him worried that she might interpret the prospect of offspring the wrong way and conclude that he only wanted her to carry his heirs, given that his bloodline was far more illustrious than he would ever have imagined.

He caught up to Petrus, who had gone on ahead in short bursts of flight, and balanced on a large rock to escape the snow for a moment.

Petrus shook his head as Hermione paused to draw a complicated symbol in the snow. "When Oriens and Mademoiselle Hermione began to talk of the dimensioned matrices with poly-directional vectors... Je ne pouvais pas comprendre."

"It's probably safe to say that most Beings wouldn't," Severus offered, silently willing Hermione to put her right mitten back on before her fingers turned blue.

Petrus scooped up a double handful of snow, held it in his cupped hands until it melted, then lapped it up with fastidious delicacy.

Just what are you, exactly? Severus wondered as he watched the stone Being. Apparently made of stone, yet with enough life heat to melt snow. He had only touched Petrus once – while screening him for Dark Magic down in the Ministry vaults. He had noted that Petrus' "skin" was perhaps a little warmer than a typical human, had the texture of smoothed sandstone, and yielded slightly to pressure – at least, when he was animate. "So you do take in sustenance," Severus commented, stating the obvious to prompt further explanations.

Toby slogged through the snow and gratefully leaned against a leafless tree to catch his breath.

"Oui, Monsieur Severus, though I do not need to. It is nice to do so." Petrus licked his lips. "Water tastes so sweet when it is freshly melted." He shook his hands to dry them. "I must admit some small partiality to the cidre of Normandy – but it must be taken in a bowl to be properly savoured."

Severus could only agree with that recommendation. During his first year of apprenticeship he had been sent on an expedition with Pugsley – then a senior apprentice – to gather rare seaweeds from the Normandy coast. Their mission accomplished after several tide-dodging days, the two weary, ravenous wizards had feasted luxuriously on mussels steeped in cream, and slow roasted Rouen duck – washed down with many bowls of potent cidre. "And solid food?"

Petrus shook his head. "I have tried it several times, but it is not to my liking." He rubbed his stomach. "It makes too much heat inside."

"Sounds good to me," Toby grumbled. He gave Petrus a crafty look. "So y' like cider, and yer not so keen on food. What about..."

"Monsieur Tobias!" Petrus protested, his face and ears taking on a definite iron oxide tinge.

Toby grinned innocently. "What? 'Ow do you know what I was goin' to ask?"

Petrus narrowed his eyes. "Because the little warning bells, they told me to beware! You know the identity of mon favourite musketeer and you have the look of mischief."

Severus reluctantly interrupted the beginnings of banter for the sake of punctuality. "I doubt that Petrus is the type to kiss and tell," he said as Hermione and Oriens caught up – exchanging conclusions on imputation techniques to identify power series in Transfiguration Spells.

Petrus strolled past Toby and nudged him lightly. "Certainement pas!"

Toby nudged him back. "I've 'eard about you librarians," he muttered. He squinted at a movement in the forest. "G'day, Firenze!"

The palomino centaur threaded his way through the snow draped trees. "Good day. I was beginning to wonder what had become of you all."

Severus rolled his eyes. "There were some minor impediments to progress in the form of a steep hill, snow, and a little bit of Arithmancy."

"Arithmancy?" Firenze shrugged thoughtfully. "Transient cryptomorphic impedance can show up in the most unexpected places."

"Unlike ley lines," Toby put in without having the slightest idea about the subject matter. He had noted Severus' slightly desperate expression coincide with Hermione's gasp of interest. A distraction was needed. "Firenze, don't you feel the cold?"

"Ley lines have been known to move – usually in response to earthquakes – otherwise, yes, they are very predictable," Firenze answered, ushering the small group into the relative shelter of the trees. "I can feel the cold, Tobias; I simply do not respond to it in the ways that humans do."

Severus felt Hermione's mittened hand slide into his gloved one as they walked with Firenze to the appointed place. Wanting her to himself for a while, he loitered until the others were a slight distance ahead of them. "Sorry, I got a bit carried away," she said, looking at him and biting her lower lip.

"There are worse things to take an interest in than Arithmancy." Severus couldn't keep the affection out of his tone as he used his free thumb to gently release her lip. "I cite Miss Brown as an extreme example of one given to indulging in superficial pursuits."

Hermione nodded, wincing at the memory of dormitory conversations that seldom went beyond fashion, boys, make-up, boys, hair care, and boys. "Poor Lavender! But I shouldn't have called her a bimbo."

"Yes, you should."

Hermione lightly punched her wizard's arm. "Snarky-pants! There's a rumour she was trying to get back together with Ron, but he seems to be the property of another witch."

Severus scowled, though he was secretly quite pleased to hear it. "As written in the Daily Prophet?"

Hermione squeezed his hand. "Where else? Don't act as if you don't know – you read the Prophet at breakfast!" She coloured a little, still coming to terms with the fact that she had finally persuaded Minerva into allowing her to surrender her room in the Gryffindor Tower. Hermione's confidence in the lasting strength of the bond she shared with her wizard had convinced the pragmatic headmistress that there would be no need of a "safe retreat" should things not work out. She was certain to the core of her soul that she would be breakfasting with Severus for many years to come.

"Not the gossip column. Nosy Niffler, forsooth! I haven't forgotten what Skeeter wrote about you on what passed for front page news."

"You don't know what you're missing!" Hermione laughed.

"I beg to differ, Madam."

"As I was saying... Don't groan like that! Ron is the property of Bronnie Thatcher – the Harpies' new number two Beater. Sporty, strong, likes a pie and a pint... child-bearing hips..." Hermione looked down at her steadily plodding snow-boots and frowned.

Severus saw an opportunity. Using his Legilimency, he made his presence known at the edges of Hermione's mind. May I? I'd rather not be overheard. A slight flurry of startled thought brushed past him, then the answer came:

Of course.

You showed a certain despondency when you mentioned...

Bronnie's breeding potential.

Not quite how I was going to describe it. This troubles you?

No, not really. It's just that... You know when I told you about my recurring dreams, and how I could see myself with two children?

Severus nodded.

Well, I can't see them any more. All the other memories of the dream are fading – ghostly, really – but the children have disappeared completely. It's not as though I've committed murder or anything... Or regret my decision – don't ever think that... I just wonder... Hermione shrugged.

Noting a jumbled pile of unasked, interrelated questions, Severus took his best guess as to what his witch might have been going to say. You wonder if you might yet have the opportunity to...

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes searching his even though their minds were still linked. Will I? Her thoughts almost tripped over themselves. Have the opportunity?

Feeling a misty echo of future hopes, Severus took a deep breath and let Hermione touch the strange mixture of emotions that raced through his mind – taking physical manifestation as a raised pulse, anxious stomach, and a postural shift indicating a slight stirring of pride. Warily, he held up two fingers.

Hermione clamped her hands over her mouth to muffle an involuntary squeak. You've seen them! Oh, Severus, why didn't you tell me?

Severus struggled to explain himself. I didn't want you to think that I'd put any... pressure on you... to... delay your career prospects... Because... Because of my ancestors and all that guff about continued blood lines and...

Hermione pushed him playfully. You've been hanging around exclusivist purebloods and their sacred family trees for too long! I don't think that at all! Nor do I believe you'd insist on domesticating me. I just wasn't sure if you'd ever planned on...

"Oi!" Toby waved at them from a rounded stone archway. "Are you comin' in, or would y' prefer it if we dug you both out of a bloody great snowdrift later on?"

Severus withdrew from Hermione's mind and looked around. The snow had begun to fall again, and both of them had acquired a light dusting of delicate crystals.

"Just tell me, "Hermione whispered, "All I want to know is: are they healthy?"

"From what I could see, they are indeed," Severus replied, escorting her through the stone arch and into a warm, earth-walled cavern.

---

In Hogsmeade, people hurried to get out of the weather as much as the bulk of necessary woollens would allow. Mothers paused to cast anti-slipping charms on young children's boots and shoes, patiently telling them that now would not be the best time to stop in at Honeydukes. A group of wizards emerged from the warm, ruddy glow of The Three Broomsticks and agreed amongst themselves that it would be a "Five Charm Night" – alluding to the number of Warming Charms one would need to stay comfortable.

---

In a narrow lane snaking its grimy way into Knockturn Alley, a Dementor waited unseen. In its bony, clawed hand was a scroll – sealed with spell and ward – addressed to Severus Snape.