The Red Dragon – Part One

A/N:

French – English (Google Translate)

Les petit cadeaux – Little presents

Exagération – Exaggeration

Finalement – Eventually

Jardin du Luxembourg – The Luxembourg Gardens, Paris

Je ne sais pas – I don't know

Légendes – Legends

Mon ami – My friend

Mon Dieu – My God

Pureté – Purity

Saviez-vous – Were you aware/Did you know

S'il vous plait – If you please

Other translatables

Dahn – Down (Northern UK dialect)

Mind yer beeswax – Mind your [own] business

Nowt – Nothing (Northern UK dialect)

The scene that Severus and Hermione witness in the Pensieve is summarised and re-worded from pp. 428 – 434 of Mary Stewart's book: The Last Enchantment (1979). Unaltered dialogue from Ms Stewart's work is marked with an asterisk (*). The presence of the Llygad y Ddraig and the existence of a child are my additions.

As always, thank you, TeaOli, for the time and effort you put into beta-reading. I appreciate it – and so do the characters!

Thanks also to AmyLouise for stepping in to help with my web-based French.

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

---

The Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris was usually peaceful after the tourists had left and the evening Mass concluded. One would have expected to hear the respectably slow creak of aged timbers, the tuneful whisper of night breezes as they explored mighty structures and elaborate adornments, and the occasional flutter of a sleepy pigeon – but one would not have expected to hear a running commentary that lapsed occasionally into French or Latin, numerous questions in English, and silky baritone urgings to focus on the real reason for their visit.

Hermione took a detour to re-light a votive candle that had gone out before its wax was consumed. "May your prayers be answered," she whispered as the little flame took hold. She shrugged, forgetting that Severus and Petrus could not see her. "I thought it would be a nice thing to do. Who knows, in return I might get a bit of help climbing the stairs to Emmanuel's place." She turned away from the candles and bumped into Petrus' unmistakeable form. "Sorry! I hope he's expecting visitors."

"Oui, I told him we were coming," Petrus said, lightly patting her shoulder to assure her all was well. "Saviez-vous, it is said," Petrus whispered in excited tones, "that when Emmanuel was recast in 1631, the pious ladies threw their golden jewellery into his molten metal, offering prayers as they did so – and the pureté of the gold and the prayers, they are now part of his voice. I would very much like to hear it."

Severus checked that the French Aurors had temporarily suspended the Muggle security systems. Finding that they had, he cancelled the three Disillusionment Charms and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just not tonight. You promised you wouldn't."

"I remember, Monsieur Severus," Petrus chanted, rolling his eyes when Severus wasn't looking. "I shall save the enthusiasm for the proper time."

Thank my illustrious ancestor. Severus stalked up the nave towards the high altar, casting his eyes over the dimly illuminated windows. He was quietly pleased that he and Hermione had spent some time in the cathedral during daylight hours while a Disillusioned Petrus roamed the roof and bell towers – and no doubt availed himself of the chance to fly over modern day Paris. The windows were truly works of time, devotion, and the kind of exacting precision that Severus instinctively admired. The intricate rose windows in particular had held him in a state of contemplation for over an hour, until he noticed that Hermione had dozed off in the jarringly modern chair next to him and had begun to recite ancient runes in her sleep.

He halted a short distance from the altar, critically eyeing the kneeling statues of Louis XIII and Louis IV – until Hermione stood beside him and began to voice quiet outrage at the Louis IV's opulent, impossibly expensive expansion of Château de Versailles. Her anti-excess lecture was interrupted by Petrus' sudden flight-assisted arrival between them and the altar.

Petrus clasped his hands together as he regarded the two humans, and then he looked around the empty cathedral and gestured an instruction to be seated – to an invisible audience.

Standing side by side, Severus and Hermione looked at each other quizzically, then at Petrus – their minds drawing a complete blank as he began some sort of welcoming...

Severus' eyes widened as he interpreted Petrus' Latin. He knew that the stone Being didn't have the authority to make any sort of binding pronouncement as such... but this unexpected rehearsal of a nuptial Mass set his stomach into what felt like a Celtic knot. He glanced at Hermione, who stared at Petrus with her mouth slightly open and her cheeks a beguiling shade of pink. Feeling unexpectedly coy, he took her hand and turned to face her. Well, I suppose we asked for it, standing side by side before the altar in a Parisian cathedral.

After several demure attempts, Hermione raised her eyes to look at Severus, her lower lip caught firmly between her teeth. She faced him and took his free hand as Petrus recited an age old prayer with the soulful grace of a poet. She felt her wizard's presence at her mind's door and opened herself to hear what he might say:

Hermione... I will... I do.

Simple words that carried the promise of a lifetime of love and unswerving devotion.

Hermione felt suspended between one breath and the next, measuring time in heartbeats while she held Severus' slightly anxious gaze. She knew that this was no real ceremony, but the reality of his statement ran through her body and soul like a warm, golden light. I do. Her delight burst out of her in a flurry of motion as she threw her arms around his neck... Severus Tobias Snape: I do!... and kissed him with a raw, unchecked passion rarely witnessed in the venerable cathedral.

Petrus interrupted himself mid-verse: "S'il vous plait! I have not yet begun the liturgy of the Word!" Finding himself completely ignored, he shrugged and strolled away to address the silent statue of Louis XIII. "Ah, but that was fun! Always, I wanted to try that Mass. Some of the celebrants, they did not say the prayer with the sentiment it deserves." He took another look at the couple – who were still caught in an ardent lip lock – and covered the statue's eyes. "Ai, Mon Dieu! Perhaps I should have kept the silence, non?"

---

"Who's there?" Toby demanded, turning his back to the wall at the sound of a fretful moan. Beside him in the sconce lit corridor leading to the staircase where Petrus had offered his assistance, Tocky narrowed his eyes and looked around, his ears and fingers twitching.

"Up there," the house-elf whispered, pointing. "Is a ghost on the highest window ledge. Tocky has not seen him before."

Toby looked up and spotted the ghost of a boy in school robes – and it did not escape his notice that the robes were torn and marked with the ragged, blackened sign of fire. God's Teeth! "G'day! Are you new 'round 'ere?" he called.

The ghost looked down fearfully. "I didn't think so... I'm lost... I don't know how I got up here, and I can't come down." He made a frantic grab at the wall and whimpered when his hand went straight through it. "I fell through the tower!" he wailed.

Flamin' bloody 'eck. Stone the crows and strike me purple. "Were you in t' castle when the fightin' were goin' on?" 'E can't be more than fifteen year old...

The ghost nodded. "I was... Then I wasn't. Then I woke up, but it didn't feel like waking up... I'm dead, aren't I?"

Oh bugger. Toby had never felt the burden of honesty as much as he did in that moment. He looked up at the young ghost. 'Ow's a bloke s'posed to tell a lad...? "'Fraid so... I'm sorry."

The boy peered over the edge of his window ledge. "It wasn't your fault. You're the first person I've talked to since...," he said, frowning. "I can't remember how it happened. You're not a wizard, are you?"

"Nah, lad. Muggle. 'Ere on special business by t' permission of t' 'Eadmistress."

"Headmistress? I thought we had a headmaster... Snape." The ghost looked frightened again. "How long have I been dead?"

Awkward... "Yeah, Sev'rus were 'eadmaster up until t' battle. Just so y' know, 'e were loyal to the light... as a spy. When 'e were made 'eadmaster – it didn't sound fun – 'e tried to save as many lives as 'e could without it bein' obvious. That's what Minerva – t' 'Eadmistress – told me. Sev'rus doesn't say much about it." Toby sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. "T' battle were a bit over six months ago. Been lost all that time, 'ave you? S'prised you didn't run into t'other ghosts."

The boy made a tentative effort to climb down from his position, but thought better of it when half of his leg disappeared into heavy stone. "Everybody hated Headmaster Snape – even the other professors. But I did wonder about him, once... I defended a Muggle-born from the Slytherins, and Amycus Carrow caught me. He set me up as target practice in Defence Against the Dark Arts – but the Carrows just called it 'Dark Arts', which says it all, really. Before he could give the order for the class to throw curses at me, Headmaster Snape interrupted – all furious and bombastic – and said that I'd stolen from the Potions store. I hadn't, I swear it, but he dragged me out of there by the collar, made me write a six-foot essay on counter-curses and gave me a week of detentions with Madam Sprout." The ghost shrugged mournfully. "I guess I didn't learn much from the essay."

"Anyone can be caught off guard." Toby knelt, pretended to fiddle with his bootlace and whispered to Tocky, "Go find Miss Myrtle and ask 'er to come 'ere."

Tocky nodded and vanished with a snap of his fingers.

Toby leaned against the wall as if settling in for a neighbourly chat. "Can you remember anythin' else? Yer name? Some of yer friends?"

The ghost's expression brightened a little. "My name is Paulus van Rijn. Before you ask, yes, same family as the artist. I'm in... I was in... Hufflepuff." Paulus cautiously manoeuvred into a kneeling position, not yet game enough to try standing. "Sir, whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

What artist? Toby clamped down on a wince. "No need to be so formal, lad. M' name's Toby Snape."

Paulus' eyes widened.

"Yeah, before y' ask, same family. Sev'rus is..."

A come-hither giggle announced the presence of Moaning Myrtle. "Hello, Tobias."

Tocky folded his arms and scowled disapprovingly.

Myrtle gave a soft gasp when she spotted Paulus. Keeping her eyes on the boy, she glided over to Toby and hovered close enough to make him shiver. "Was it you who asked for the ban to be lifted from my bathroom?"

Toby nodded. "Yeah, I 'ad a word with Sev'rus about it. 'E snarked and snarled for a bit, but 'e agreed to undo it. I take it that 'e 'as?"

"Oh, yes. He has. But he's still horrible even if he is your son." Myrtle sniffed primly. "But you're nice." She simpered and fidgeted, making no attempt to disguise her flirtatious behaviour. "Do you have your own bathroom?" she asked with dangerous innocence.

"You mind yer beeswax, lass." Toby pointed up to the window ledge and an anxiously watching ghost. "Now then, up there's a new ghost by t' name of Paulus. Roughly your age, I'd reckon. 'E's worked 'imself into a right tizz 'cause bein' dead is... well... all so new, and 'e's feelin' lost and out on 'is own. I thought you might like to take 'im under yer wing for a bit until 'e gets used to it."

Remembering Myrtle's usual moniker and how much it seemed to upset her, Toby waved at Paulus to get his attention and winked to emphasise Myrtle's unofficial title: "Miss Myrtle 'ere might be able to sort you out – get you off that ledge for a start..."

Paulus nodded his understanding. "Miss Myrtle," he said with a polite half-bow.

Myrtle cocked her head and tossed her hair, a faint smile touching the corners of her mouth at the civilised address. "I've seen you before, Paulus, when you were alive. You're a Hufflepuff, aren't you? Before I died – and after I died – Hufflepuffs were the only ones who never called me names. None of them called me four-eyes or ugly or miserable, moping, moaning Myrtle!"

Paulus shook his head. "Most of us wouldn't. I guess teasing is something we're not cut out for, but we receive it often enough. I think that's the real reason our animal is a badger – tough skin, you know. In our common room, I heard about what happened to you... with the Basilisk... It sounded awful."

"Oooooh, it was terrible!" Myrtle floated up until she was on eye level with Paulus. "Welcome to death, I suppose. Most of the ghosts around here were old, or boring, or old and boring when they were alive. And they never talk to me," she added with a small cry of misery. "But Sir Nicholas can be quite pleasant. Peeves is abominable. Do you remember how you died? You might not, at first. But it will come back. I've been helping some of the younger students deal with their post-war nightmares. They're good children when one gets to know them. They call me 'Aunty M'."

Toby and Tocky exchanged a crafty glance. Together, they stealthily made their escape.

---

Hermione opened the pouch Firenze had given her and sprinkled a thin layer of ley detection dust on the floor. Casting the charm the centaur had taught her during many hours of intensive tuition, she stood back as powdered diamonds and iron pyrite began to shift like beach sand in an onshore breeze. Sparkling and flashing, the dust aligned itself into a very dramatic pattern. Hermione examined it and announced her findings: "There are two primary leys – running in straight lines. A north-south and an east-west – so they're cardinal primaries." She concentrated as her eyes followed the lines and the interlocking spirals that flanked them. "They intersect somewhere under the cathedral. See the five smaller traces?"

Severus and Petrus nodded.

"Those are secondary leys. They can take random paths at times, but tend to follow watercourses, fault lines, and magnetic anomalies. Look here," she said, pointing to one with a distinctive rippling texture. "This one is running parallel to the River Seine."

"Is there any way to find out where, exactly, the primary leys intersect?" Severus asked, motivated by curiosity rather than a real need to know.

Hermione took a handful of dust from the pouch and whispered a charm over it. The dust formed a loose sphere. Setting it carefully on the floor, Hermione motioned the others to observe. The sphere spun clockwise three times, then began to roll towards the central portal of the western façade. It stopped some eight feet before the portal – and dissolved into a conical mound.

"The Portal of the Last Judgement," Petrus whispered, circling the mound. He looked up, his tail describing a lateral sinusoidal wave as he considered what it all might mean.

Hermione summoned the dust and marched it back into its pouch. "An intersection of primary leys results in a node of upwelling energy – Earth's own power – but it tends to spread out once it surfaces, so it feels like the surrounding area is full of it. We get a strong sense of it here in the cathedral. Because the primary leys are also cardinals, the node of intersection is particularly powerful. Some of the more sensitive Muggles would be able to feel it very strongly."

"Oui," Petrus agreed. "I have seen this... Some are overwhelmed and fall to their knees. Others will weep. Some look entranced, and others, their faces light with joy. And, Mademoiselle, there are people who feel it and are very afraid. And the point of the intersection is right here..." He took a few steps toward the portal and gave the doors an affectionate rub. "Perhaps it is why this portal, it was given a name so formidable."

Severus began to pace. "Given Petrus' observation that the power amplifies the resonance of the bourdon... Would I be correct to assume that this upwelling of power is focussed by the tolling of Emmanuel – similar to the focussing of magical power through a wand?"

Petrus shrugged. "Je ne sais pas. I have never used a wand, nor do I think that I have any power to focus."

Hermione frowned and bit her lower lip. "Actually, I'll ask Firenze about that. It sounds very feasible."

Severus quirked an eyebrow. "Thank you, Miss Granger, for your vote of confidence." He gestured upwards. "I think it's time we paid our bronze friend a visit."

---

In the dark, dripping labyrinth of the sewers, a jostling swarm of Dementors clustered around one of their own, waiting for the message it would give. Rats shied away and, fur bristling, scampered into any inlet or crevice that would put distance between them and the things that had invaded their home.

The messenger hovered close to slick black stones. It will not be long. The wizard is sure of this. We shall wait. When the word is given, we move immediately.

The other Dementors crowded closer, pressing in their impatience. We wait. We hunger.

Its errand completed, the messenger drifted up an access hole and pushed aside the heavy, metal cover. Merging with the night, it scanned the immediate surrounds, one bony fist clenching in ravenous anger as its senses detected the untamed power of Earth's pulse. It could trace the outlines of a stone structure that rose above the source of the power. The structure stood on an island, embraced by the muscular arms of a river. The Dementor retreated back into the sewers with a lifeless swirl of rotting rags. The Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris meant nothing to it.

---

Hermione shivered in the cold air and looked down to the streets far below, noting that the horned, winged monkeys in the gallery of chimeras looked rather sinister at night. The flight up to a secret access door high up on the south bell tower had been her first experience with broomless flight, and while she had been quite safe in Severus' arms, it had been one of the strangest sensations of her life.

Petrus held out his hand and assisted her up to the door. "In return for the lighting of the candle, some help did come to you, Mademoiselle Hermione – you had no need of the stairs at all!"

"Uh huh. You knew about the secret door all along. You could've told me!"

Petrus shrugged and flicked the end of his tail.

"You're going to say that I should have asked about alternative routes, aren't you?" She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him until he retreated through the doorway. With a knowing smile, she followed and picked her way around a geometric arrangement of huge supporting timbers to where Severus waited – looking slight and boyish next to the hulking bourdon. Around them, the wind moaned faintly through the slats in the bell tower. Hermione could feel the node's influence – a deep, slow, rhythmic beat of power. A little dizzy, she sought Severus' hand. He turned to her, eyes shining like polished obsidian.

"Use Occlumency if it gets too much," he advised. "It doesn't block the sensation completely, but it will prevent you from being overwhelmed."

Hermione nodded and gulped. "It pulls, then it pushes, and it spirals, rises and falls," she whispered.

Completely unfazed by the palpable energies, Petrus stood next to the great bell. "Emmanuel, mon ami, it has been such a long time." He gestured to his human companions. "Come closer, s'il vous plait. It is quite safe."

Severus and Hermione approached Emmanuel with careful steps. The power from the node made it feel as though they were walking through treacle. Severus reached out and brushed his fingers over the cold metal.

"You need to do it a little harder, Monsieur Severus – like this..." Petrus made a fist and gave Emmanuel a sharp blow with the outside edge of his hand. For a breath, nothing happened. Then a soft, sonorous hum filled the air. Barely audible, it was joyful and solemn, welcoming and defiant. "And that is just un petit whisper," Petrus stated proudly. He stood back with his head bowed. "The Earth's ancient power, it responds."

Severus and Hermione could feel the fluid shift of energy – rising, building, it coiled around Emmanuel and seemed to gather itself like some great primeval beast preparing to leap. For a moment, the tone of the bell took on an extra dimension – clear as crystal and pure as light – power given voice. Their blood tingled in their veins. As the soft hum subsided, the power quietened: a dancing flame withdrawing to take its rest as a glowing coal. Both wizard and witch felt a brief moment of loss and longing.

"If that was just a whisper, no wonder Quasimodo went deaf," Hermione muttered, trying to dispel the mood.

"He did not go deaf!" Petrus snorted. "Quasimodo, he knew how to protect his ears because I told to him a method most sensible!"

Hermione almost shrieked, "Quasimodo was real?"

"Ah, oui, though he lived a century before the time Monsieur Victor Hugo used to re-tell several..." Petrus cleared his throat and attempted to look innocent, which made him appear less than angelic "...légendes about... unusual occurrences... here." He briefly angled his ears back. "Cotton wadding and sealing wax," he said. "He told to me that he often forgot to remove the protections... but I think it was because he did not want to hear what the people said about him."

Hermione looked stricken. "Was he really... you know... like Victor Hugo described him?"

Petrus nodded soberly. "There was only a little of the exaggeration."

Severus considered what a young man of Quasimodo's description would have had to deal with every day of his life. As an eight-year-old languishing in Muggle school, he had often sought refuge from a gang of tormentors – and the increasingly spontaneous and vengeful things he could do to enemies – in what passed for a school library. He had found a calico-covered copy of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame in the back of an old cupboard which smelled of mothballs and coal tar. Reading it, he had felt a small pull of empathy as he remembered unsuccessful attempts to make friends with stray cats. He gave Petrus a half-smile. "And the only ones he truly could talk to were gargoyles. It seems that one of them answered him."

Petrus showed the tips of his canine teeth in what the humans knew to be a smile. "Until he ran away to be with a farm girl who would come to worship from beyond the city walls. She spotted him watching from the shadows one Holy Saturday. She began to secretly leave les petits cadeaux for him to find. In return, he would carve animals from wood and leave them for her. Ah, the trouble I had persuading him to go and talk to her! Finalement, he did... and discovered that she could see what most of the people were blind to."

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. "You mean... He fell in love? Did she love him?"

"But of course!" Petrus cast his arm in a broad semi-circle to indicate the city beyond the bell tower. "This is Paris," he stated, as if it were the answer to everything.

---

As the eastern sky began to grey, the waiting centaurs trained their senses on the sound of galloping hooves. Those that had been resting after the long journey to the south-west border of Hungary got up and joined their companions, many of them eager to have their first meeting with the legendary Ūnkhari.

Three centaurs pounded out of the deep gloom, seeming to dance as they slowed to a prancing trot and reared in salute. Each centaur carried a round leather shield marked with protective symbols, a long knife, and a pouch full of slinging stones. All three were bay dun in colour, and the skin of their human parts a similar hue. Their features could be described as Mongolian, harking back to a lineage shared with distant kin living in the wide, treeless plains and tundra far away to the north. Their head hair was styled in a bristling crest which continued down their backs in a black dorsal ridge that decreased in height until it merged with their tails.

One of them stepped forward and pressed his right fist over his heart. "Bane of the Forbidden Forest! Bryndorach of the Schwarzwald! Etùyen and Breyūn of the Camargue! Well met when shadows threaten – show us the enemy!"

Returning the salute, Bane honoured the greeting. "Tāk of the Ūnkhari, we thank you for your allegiance. Break the night's fast with us before we talk of enemies, for the planets have said that the time of fighting is not yet upon us."

Tāk grinned broadly and lead his two companions into the makeshift camp, dark eyes flashing with eager anticipation as he looked around. Everywhere, centaurs from distant lands sharpened blades, tested bowstrings, arranged stockpiles of provisions, hefted ewers of mulled mead and discussed the techniques of war and healing. A taut sense of readiness permeated every action. The centaurs were ready to fight.

---

Arawn smiled to himself as the Death Eaters bawled instructions at their huge charges – who seemed to be more interested in fighting over an unfortunate Muggle's remains than paying any heed to wizards and witches. Trolls were uncivilised at the best of times, but these had to be the ultimate barbarians of the species. Even the Dementors made a great show of ignoring them. He fingered the Llygad y Ddraig thoughtfully.

So far, no resistance had been encountered by the scouting party in Calais, or the vanguard in Paris. Nobody suspected how much real force he had at his command. He had not yet heard back from Snape – which meant that the ex-Death Eater was probably plotting something – so Arawn decided it was time for his next move.

"Scabior! Rabastan!"

The two Death Eaters loped towards him immediately, presumably thankful to leave the trolls to noisily lick the wounds they had inflicted on each other while brawling over raw bones.

"Go across to Paris and activate the Portkey. Make sure it takes you to Calais and not to some other location. And while you're in the middle of salubrious surroundings, do feel free to enjoy the Jardin du Luxembourg."

"Just us two?" Scabior asked.

"I'd suggest taking a few of our more restless half-souls," Rabastan said, referring to the partially consumed humans. "They're salivating for some action."

Arawn nodded. "A good idea. Just keep out of sight until I give the word – which depends on when your old friend Snape gets off his arse and responds."

"Friend?" Scabior sneered, grinding his teeth. "That Muggle-spawned..."

"Don't underestimate him," Arawn warned, feeling the arrow wound in his thigh spasm painfully. "As soon as I hear from the half-blood, I'll send the scouting party across into England. They know what to do once they get there. I cannot see Snape giving his cooperation without being forced – so make sure the Paris vanguard is ready to do some serious damage. I'll pay you a visit in person before I deal with him."

Rabastan tucked his thumbs into his belt. "What happens to him after the dealing?"

Arawn eyed the Death Eater coolly. "Assuming he lives after I've finished with him, whatever takes your fancy."

---

Hermione woke reluctantly to find Severus gently shaking her shoulder. Her first thought was that he didn't look annoyed or vigilant, so there was no immediate danger. To the contrary, his expression was one of mingled, shifting shades of awe, dread, and sadness. "What's wrong?" she asked, her words slurring a little as she dragged them from the depths of sleep.

Severus held up the Llygad y Ddraig. "It showed me...," he began. His eyes locked with hers. "I know what this is."

Hermione sat up, properly awake. But before she could say anything, Severus summoned her clothes.

"Get dressed," he said softly. "We'll use Minerva's Pensieve. It's in my memories now and... I want to show you."

Noticing that Severus was already dressed, Hermione hurried to put on enough layers to shield her from the leaching cold of dark stone walls. She glanced at her wizard occasionally, only to see him staring at the floor as though he were struggling to make sense of something that both troubled and grieved him. She looped a scarf around her neck and dropped a kiss on his head. "Right. Let's go."

Without a word, Severus led the way to the fireplace and took a handful of Floo Powder.

Hermione eyed him sceptically. "Does Minerva know you're about to do this?"

Severus shrugged evasively. "She said I could Floo to her office at any time and that if I need to avail myself of any facilities there, I have her full permission to do so."

"Aren't you the golden boy?" Hermione teased.

"I can't imagine why Minerva didn't recognise that fact decades ago," Severus rejoined. "I dare you to dare me to ask her about that. Headmistress' Office!"

Hermione counted a few seconds, then followed before Crookshanks could wake up enough to assert his gods-given right to investigate and, in the process, get under her feet.

She stumbled into the gloomy office just as Severus was lighting some candles. He held one finger up to his lips and pointed to the heavily snoring Albus, who was slumped awkwardly in his painted chair with a large jar of peppermint humbugs lodged possessively in the crook of one arm.

With ghostly stealth, Severus and Hermione made their way to the Pensieve. Hermione wordlessly cast Muffliato, earning a nod of approval from her wizard. Severus carefully extracted a string of memories and placed them into the shallow stone bowl.

As the memories coiled in silvery wreaths, Severus took Hermione's hand. Together they entered his memory of what the Llygad y Ddraig had revealed to him:

"That's Merlin," Severus said, pointing to a rail-thin, obsidian-eyed wizard whose grey hair was streaked with white. He nodded to the woman who stood holding Merlin's hands. "Nimuë."

Hermione moved a little closer, looking from Merlin to Nimuë to Severus, and back again.

"This memory takes place before the vision I had of Macsen's treasure," Severus whispered. "Possibly only days or weeks before," he added, looking pointedly at Nimuë's heavily pregnant state.

Hermione made a conscious effort to breathe. These are Severus' ancestors, as is the child she carries... Her thoughts faded as Nimuë spoke:

"Magic," she kept saying, "it's magic, stronger than any I could ever know. And you told me you had given it all to me. I should have known. I should have known. Ah, Merlin, Merlin..."*

"Known what?" Hermione hissed, too enthralled to wait for an explanation.

"That Merlin wasn't dead," Severus replied simply. "Watch. Listen."

Merlin drew Nimuë into a close embrace while she repeated over and over: "It's you. It's really you. You've come back."*

"It was only the malady, Nimuë."* Merlin's voice was soft and consoling. "It deceived you all."*

"He's talking about the malady that had plagued him ever since Morguase poisoned him," Severus explained in response to Hermione's wordless, round-eyed plea for information. His wand hand flexed. "The effects Merlin described suggest that it was a variant of the Draught of Living Death." He nodded towards Merlin again. "Now comes the explanation..."

Merlin stroked Nimuë's hair tenderly. "It was not magic. I gave all that to you."*

Nimuë raised her head from Merlin's chest, her eyes tragic and brimming with tears. She reached into her gown – and drew out a pale blue disc of milky crystal flanked by two silver dragons whose jaws gripped a long silver chain. "Yes, and how you gave it! You had told me to learn all that you had to tell me. You said that I must build on every detail of your life, that after your death I must be Merlin... And you were leaving me..."* Nimuë impatiently brushed away the grief that spilled over her cheeks. "But then, even all the power and knowledge you gave me could not show me that we had buried you living and sent me back to get you out. Merlin, I should have known, I should have known!"* She wiped her eyes. "I went back to Bryn Myrddin, did you know?* I went to your sealed cave and I called for you for so long... but there was no sound."

Severus stood behind Hermione and wrapped his arms firmly around her. "The Llygad y Ddraig holds the power of perhaps the greatest wizard of all time – and his lifetime of memories. Contrary to the lore books, Nimuë did not usurp Merlin's power, nor did she seek to destroy him. It's true that she would have had to draw out his power as he slipped under the malady's influence... to all appearances, dying... But she could only have done so if he had responded to her and given it willingly."

Hermione bit her lip and tried to will her threatening tears away. "The Llygad... That would be why... sometimes, you see memories from Merlin's lifetime... but at other times, his power works through you, and you can see things that are yet to be." She turned to look at him and frowned. "But what about your sixteenth-century ancestor?"

Severus gave a small smile. "The Llygad does indeed act like a Pensieve in its own right. Sir Sixteenth Century would have placed the memory there because hiding Merlin's royal cipher was an important event." He scowled. "It was a risky venture to show the cave so clearly."

"Perhaps he used the Llygad himself, and Merlin's power showed him that you would be the one to claim the cipher," Hermione reasoned.

"Perhaps he did. Look. The memory changes..."

Merlin and Nimuë sat close together on a low couch. A lit brazier cast a warm glow over them as Merlin told of his eventual, not uneventful escape from the under-hill tomb.

Curled snugly in the circle of Merlin's arm, Nimuë took his free hand in both of her own when he had concluded his strange tale. She nodded to the Llygad y Ddraig, which lay on a small table between the couch and the brazier. "There were dreams, or visions,"* she said, knitting her brows as she stared at it. "Then other dreams, other visions, crowding and confusing."*

Merlin's jaw clenched briefly as she explained how his Sight had warned her of the theft of King Arthur's sword – and guided her through the perilous journey to bring the real Caliburn back to the high king's hand. She told him of being forced to stay in Luguvallium – instead of following the prompting of a dream that featured a breach in the rock slide that King Arthur's men had caused to seal the cave at Bryn Myrddin – because Morguase had arrived with her five sons: one of whom, Merlin's power and vivid memories of a decades old prophecy showed, would bring the end of King Arthur's reign.

Severus noted that the very mention of Morguase's name made Nimuë shiver.

Nimuë told of how she had tried to reach into Morguase's mind to learn what potion she had used on Merlin, daring to hope that knowledge might yet have a saving use. How, troubled by constant dreams of her lover's tomb, she had attempted to use the Sight to gain some sign of Merlin himself... But the Sight had taken its own course, showing instead a vision of living light in which floated a wondrous grail – and a terrible warning of what would occur should it be claimed by the wrong hands. Spurred on by the warning, she had used Merlin's memories to locate the three remaining objects of Macsen's treasure – the Grail, the Spear, and the Platter – before Morguase could seize them and turn their power to her own dark purpose.

Hermione felt Severus' arms tighten around her. He seemed to be holding his breath.

Merlin exclaimed his surprise that Nimuë – not Morguase – had found the treasure first. Then Merlin recounted that only two days before, a shepherd boy had told him that the treasure had been taken by a queen. And he had assumed that queen to be Morguase.

At this, Nimuë looked at Merlin with a mixture of appeal and dread, one hand resting on her swollen belly. But Merlin merely smiled his understanding as though he already knew what news she would give, his dark eyes showing only compassion as she explained how she had needed to make a prudent and practical decision. Thinking that Merlin was truly gone, with the rumour of gathering enemies, no family to turn to – and with Merlin's child thriving in her womb – she had accepted an offer of marriage from a young king: Pelleas of the Isles.

"He is a good man," Merlin said when Nimuë fell silent. "Kind and jovial – a good thing considering the burden of external power that you had to take up so suddenly."

"You told me that power was a hard master."* Nimuë sighed sadly and picked up the Llygad y Ddraig. "You won't take it back?"

Merlin shook his head. "The time of my doing is over, Nimuë. Now it is time for me to simply be until the gods see fit to call me home."

Nimuë's eyes clouded like smoke over water. For a minute or so, she was quiet, and then she blinked, swallowed and pressed his hand to her belly so that he might feel his child's movement. "You'll meet him – and even tutor him at some time. I've just glimpsed those moments." She gave a tearful smile. "Pelleas knows whose son I carry. He said that he will honour the loyalty he has sworn to the high king – and to you, as King Arthur's cousin and closest confidant – by raising our child as the grandson of Ambrosius should be raised: as a prince of the realm."

---

Tāk washed down dried apple and oatcakes with a deep draught of mulled mead. "The portents in the skies warned us first – and from the mountains to the plains, our bands began to gather. Soon after, we could smell it on the wind and read it in the patterns of cloud and snow. We have seen wild creatures flee across the land: their frantic pace and the fear in their eyes tell of a cold and deadly shadow. On a path from the east and the north, even the trees bear scars; their guardian spirits are weakened.

"But we bring harder news. Lūt volunteered to watch the shadow's progress – she has the stealth of a wild cat and can vanish into the landscape like a minnow in swift water. She came back yesterday evening to tell us that trolls have been moving across the humans' borders – in the company of the ones who would defy death."

"Death Eaters," Firenze murmured, tightening the strap on his quiver.

Lūt nodded in affirmation. "As for trolls, I counted eleven of them. Mountain trolls. Not many, but... We have fought them before... Âtu says you need a sure aim with the sling to blind them."

"Even with a direct hit to each eye, trolls are hard to bring down," Âtu grumbled, swishing his black tail. "We do not encounter them often – and try to avoid them whenever possible."

"It's been many centuries since we encountered any breed of troll," Etùyen said. "Even when we did, they were only river trolls from the waters draining into the Camargue. They were more interested in poaching fat geese than making war with us."

Bane shook his head, troubled. "The forest trolls in our lands are no great nuisance... But mountain trolls are another matter." He looked to the leader of the Schwarzwald herd. "And your people?"

Bryndorach gave a mysterious smile and signalled to Esnyë, who nodded, wheeled and disappeared into the encampment at a swift gallop.

Bane watched her go, admiring her grace and strength. Feeling eyes upon him, he glanced to one side and caught Firenze studying him a little too knowingly. "What?" he growled, scraping a shallow furrow in the earth with a hind foot.

Firenze mildly contemplated the last saucily winking stars as they faded in the pale wash of dawn. "Have you consulted your alignments lately?"

"Chiron's Herbs! Leave my alignments out of this." Bane pointedly sidled and stared fixedly in Brydorach's direction. "There are more important aspects to consider."

Bryndorach shook himself and stretched. "I thought we might encounter this problem when I looked at the terrain on Severus' map. In our homeland, we deal with mountain trolls reasonably frequently – when they get it into their heads that haunch of centaur would be good for dinner. They don't have the intellect or the memory to learn from the thrashing we give them each time. Usually, a display of strength and some nonfatal arrow strikes give them the message. When they persist..." He held up one finger as the ground vibrated with the disciplined tramp of hooves. Ten of the Schwarzwald herd's brawniest centaurs presented themselves for inspection, heavy plate armour glinting as the sun's rays slid over the horizon. As one, they dipped their long lances – which a human would have described as greatly oversized boar spears. "We call these warriors trollmord. I brought ten of them here. The other ten I left with my life-mate to defend my people at home, should the need arise."

Âtu raised his eyebrows. "By the Goddess of the Stars, these will be enough." He gave Bryndorach a look of careful curiosity. "Who is Severus?"

Etùyen discreetly nudged Breyūn. "That question was made for you, Keeper of Wisdom. Legends live on in story and song," he whispered.

The Camargue herd's Keeper of Wisdom gave an enigmatic smile. "They do." She addressed the Ūnkhari respectfully, "As we go down to the riverbank to plan our strategy, I shall tell you of a legend long past – and a legend still coming into being. After so many centuries, Merlin's red dragon flies again – with his descendant."

With a great murmur of hastily finished breakfasts and thudding hooves, the herd leaders and their immediate designates headed to a nearby river to plan their attack.

Röthvar caught his sire's arm before he had a chance to leave. "Sire?"

Bryndorach turned to acknowledge his son. "Your eyes hold a question."

"The Ūnkhari move like the wind in the long grass, quick and supple... So why are their names so hard and blunt?"

"They roam freely, Röthvar, over long distances. They give their names in song as they travel, so the spirits of mountain, plain, forest and river may know who passes by. Names like yours and mine would be lost in the noise of the journey."

The young centaur nodded as he absorbed this information. He nudged a pebble with a forefoot. "Sire, how did you know there would be trolls?"

Bryndorach's eyes lit with rough mirth. "My son, in mountainous lands – no matter where in the world they are – there are always trolls. Count on that."

As his sire cantered away to attend to his duties, Röthvar's attention settled on his elder sister. Following Esnyë's line of sight, he discovered who held her gaze so completely. "Venus trine Bane, is it?" he teased. Laughing, he half-reared, shied, and dodged – but wasn't quick enough to avoid a smack in the ear with a well-aimed oatcake.

---

Toby eyed the scale model of the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris. "So me and Tocky will be stationed 'ere?" he asked, pointing to a narrow walkway well above the dizzying, plunging lines of the flying buttresses.

Severus chewed thoughtfully on an olive. "That's the plan. Not afraid of heights, are you?"

Toby gave a short laugh. "Too bloody bad if I was, I reckon." He tore a bread roll in half and dipped it into a bowl of warm herbed olives, mopping up some of the savoury oil.

"We'll have Order members stationed here, here... and here," Severus continued. "Petrus is going to look after Emmanuel. Hermione will be stationed within sighting distance of you. Remember, we'll have two Aurors roaming the premises as well. Kingsley and his French counterpart will handle the situation in Calais." He quirked an eyebrow. "You have another question?"

"Plenty of 'em. But I'm wonderin' 'ow you know Arawn will stop off in Paris after 'e gets your message. God's Teeth, Sev'rus, y' don't even know if 'e'll respond in a way that gives you any warnin'."

Severus gave a benign half-smile. "Arawn has invested significant effort and resources in Paris. Our watchers saw two renegade Death Eaters in the Luxembourg Gardens, along with a motley tribe of blank-eyed Muggles. A Portkey was activated, and the Muggles concealed in the sewers along with the Dementors." He strolled to the window and counted snowflakes for a moment. "I'm sure he knows I have plans of my own – though he will not know what they are. Uncertainty regarding my delayed response has forced his hand, and he has revealed enough for me to be quite certain that he will pay that city a visit and consult with his friends – to ensure that they have complied with his instructions. But he will not do so until he hears from me."

"And 'e doesn't know that you plan to be in Paris as well?"

Severus inclined his head. "With a reception committee."

"Crikey. Yeah. I'm part of the reception." Toby eyed the cheese platter that Tocky had brought in. "Still, it seems to be a bit of a gamble."

Severus raised an eyebrow.

"I mean... Yer plan might shake those Dementor things out of their nest, but what then? Unless Fawkes shows up again with a whole flock of friends... what do you do after that? Let 'em all go? And then there's t' mongrel 'imself... not that I doubt yer abilities... Just make sure there's nothin' between you and t' back door if things go pear-shaped."

"Indeed." Severus cut into a hard cheese, producing a small booklet of slightly crumbly slices piquantly illustrated with whole peppercorns. "When Hermione comes back from her Ancient Runes workshop..."

"S'prised she can concentrate."

Severus sampled the cheese and murmured his approval. "She has to. She's directing the workshop." He nonverbally challenged his father to interrupt again. Taking Tobias' "who, me?" look as an agreement to be quiet and listen, he nudged the platter towards him. "When Hermione has finished her Ancient Runes workshop, she will be coming with me to attend a meeting over in the Ministry buildings. Two Eastern wizards – Master Vu, Sage of Borobudur, and Theravāda of Angkor Wat – have studied the methods used to thwart a large-scale Dementor invasion ten thousand years ago. The question is can we can replicate the method, or achieve the same procedure by another means?"

Severus paced, pondering the briefing Kingsley had sent to him concerning the "method". It sounded impossible. But then again, a great many things did – until properly evaluated.

Regardless of whether or not the ancient tactic could be of help in driving the Dementors back to the void, Arawn and his forces had to be dealt with as a matter of urgency. They were a threat that had potential to build and that could not be allowed to happen. Severus gave a quiet sigh. Even Alastor would have seen Mad-Eye-to-eye with him on that point.

With respect to the Dementors, the present aim was to drive them out of populated areas, monitor their locations, and somehow work out what to do with them. If Master Vu and Theravāda could be of help, so much the better. As for closing the void that the creatures were coming through... It has something – perhaps everything – to do with the Spear, Severus thought. Putting his trust in what the Llygad had shown him – what Merlin's Sight had shown him – he knew he had to go to the dead city of Pripyat and... What then? Would the person who had the Spear in his or her possession know what to do with it? He considered trying to use the Llygad to see what he thought he might need to know. I could try... But even Nimuë found that it was not an obedient oracle. He put the thought aside for the moment.

Through the Llygad y Ddraig, Merlin's Sight had revealed that the person was already in the vicinity of Pripyat. Or they would be when he got there. Severus scowled and shook his head irritably. It was all very nebulous. A floorboard creaked as he walked across it. Hearing Tobias' sudden shift, he turned to find his father staring at the offending timber with a horrified expression. "What is it?"

"Just remembered somethin'."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "Something to do with so innocuous an object as a creaking floorboard?"

"Yeah. Listen... When Eileen made that... that..." He paled and shivered.

"Golem."

Toby nodded. "You saw me memory of it, right?"

"Yes."

Toby sat forward. "Just before she told me to run for it... there was a dog barkin' and... and..."

Severus recalled everything he could about the witnessed memory. "A floorboard creaked upstairs – in the master bedroom."

"And that floorboard would only creak... When?"

Severus' posture stiffened. "On a re-bound. I got to know it extremely well. It would only make a noise within several seconds of someone walking on it." He locked eyes with Tobias. "If there was someone there who shouldn't have been there, my mother would have known."

"But what if someone was? Someone she knew about... Or some-bloody-thing."

Father and son shared a simultaneous, unspoken exchange of the same breathtaking, skin-prickling suspicion...

A vigorous clatter at the door startled both Snapes into a combat stance, one with a clenched fist, the other with a drawn wand.

Hermione blustered through the door, wrestling with an armload of books, uncooperative robes, and rebellious hair. She thanked Tocky for letting her in, then stopped abruptly when she saw Severus and Tobias. Her brow furrowed with concern. "You two aren't fighting, are you?" she asked cautiously.

---

The herd leaders examined the battle plan one last time, committing every detail to memory. They stood back from the diagrams drawn in the rich, dark silt. With a whispered invocation, Tāk called upon the spirit of the river, pouring a little mulled mead into the waters as an offering.

The water near them began to churn. A hand-shaped mass sluiced up and over the riverbank and swept away all evidence of the centaurs' planning. As the water retreated, losing its form and seeping back down to the river in a thin lattice of foaming channels, a silvery light bounded out of a copse of trees and paused on the opposite bank, respectfully awaiting acknowledgement.

Bane recognised the Patronus immediately and signalled to his companions that it did not signify the arrival of an enemy. He called out over the water, "Oriens!"

The serow lowered its head in a graceful bow, fading as the Unspeakable appeared and mounted his broom.

---

Severus was still thinking about how to explain why he had his wand drawn when...

Pop! "Password!" A silver serow leapt gracefully onto the mantelpiece.

Anything he might have been going to say was lost in Hermione's exclamation of surprise and relief, "Oriens! Are you all right? Where are you?"

Severus sleeved his wand and methodically prised the stack of books out of Hermione's arms. "You have to give the password, Hermione, else the Patronus will not deliver the message."

Hermione straightened her robes with dignity, not wanting to admit that, in her concern, she had momentarily forgotten all about the necessity of ever-changing passwords and launched straight into a one-sided conversation. "Trouble at t'mill!"

Toby snorted and sat down again. Having heard the word "Patronus", he knew there would be little point in looking for – or trying to listen to – something he could neither see nor hear. "Always trouble at t' mill," he grumbled, scowling at his smirking son. "And dahn in t' pit. Mark me words, nowt good'll come of it," he added for Severus' benefit.

"We have an allegiance," the Patronus announced, pawing carved stone with an ethereal fore foot. "I located the centaurs and have contacted them in person – I had some concerns when I saw that Arawn now has eleven mountain trolls at his disposal, but it appears that Bryndorach had anticipated troll trouble and had brought some of his specialist fighters with him. The centaurs will start moving towards Arawn's encampment this evening, in scattered columns to lessen the chances of detection. They will keep back from the ambush point by a half-day's journey until we hear from you, Severus, and Kingsley. I've told them to leave the rocky tract near the forest open so that Arawn's crowd will think they have a means of escape when the centaurs launch their attack – cornered troops can have a tendency to fight to the bitter end, and we don't want that!

"If Arawn's forces try to use the escape route – or of they try going into the forest – our new allies will let them think the escape is good. Trust me, it won't be. Please don't ask who these allies are. Information concerning them is classified at the highest level, and I am bound by oath not to give away their identity."

---

"There now, Petrus. How does that feel?" Minerva placed the last extracted memory into her Pensieve and anxiously looked her staff member in the face.

Petrus opened his eyes and stretched, swaying a little on his feet as he emerged from a meditative state. "No problems, Madame la Headmistress." He cocked his head and waved to an overly inquisitive portrait. "It is most strange... The memories, they feel like they are still there, but it is as if they happened to someone else... someone else in a dream."

Minerva pursed her lips. "Severus said he had experienced the same sensation after he'd extracted his memories of Lily. He reinstated the memories without incident quite recently, but Hermione said that he had a bit of a headache for hours afterwards – possibly because the memories had been out of mind for some time. We'll avoid keeping these from you for too long, dear," she said, affectionately patting the stone being's hand. She addressed Filius, who had used a modified chair to comfortably access the Pensieve. "How long do you think it will take?"

Filius shrugged. "Somewhere between five hours and all night," he said, peering into the swirling, silvery clouds. He consulted a hovering scroll. "From Petrus' written description of how to ring bells, the trick will be in the timing... which in turn depends on the physical ratios of the bell in question – something that Petrus can calculate just by looking at them. A study of his memories will help me devise the correct equations to embed his experience into a transferable charm that can be left in situ until activated."

Minerva couldn't hide her excitement as she consulted a parchment map, which showed every place of Muggle worship – with intact bells and suitable gargoyles – within a five mile arc of the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris. The arc was left conspicuously open to the east. The prospect of using what was now, officially, her favourite spell filled her with an impatience that reminded her of Christmas Eve. "Do hurry up, Filius!"