The Red Dragon – Part Two

A/N:

Stoush – A fight or an argument (Antipodean slang)

Summat – Something (Northern UK dialect)

Kew (Kew Gardens) – The Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew (south-west London)

Severus' vision of Merlin summoning fire from the sky is summarised and re-worded from pp.241 – 246 of Mary Stewart's book: The Hollow Hills (1973). Unaltered dialogue from Ms Stewart's work is marked with an asterisk (*). The involvement of a dragon is my addition.

Senior Auror McPhee is adapted from the character Nanny McPhee in the film Nanny McPhee, Universal Pictures, 2005.

Pugsley Addams is the property of the cartoonist Charles Addams. I make no profit from his character.

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

Thank you, TeaOli, for your advice on style – and the sentence-smithing discussions that followed. Your suggested changes were enacted in subtle keystrokes, but they brought extra life to the drama and gave the scenes a touch of class.

---

Relieved that the Snape males had simply been startled by her dramatic arrival and had not been about to fight, Hermione plonked into Severus' vacated chair with considerable lack of grace. "That workshop was rather fun," she said, blowing a wandering curl out of her eyes.

Severus arched an eyebrow. "Because you were in command?"

Hermione stuck out her tongue.

"Very articulate," Severus muttered, pouring her a goblet of pumpkin juice. "Your linguistic abilities never cease to astound me."

Toby rolled his eyes, shook his head and devoted all of his attention to peeling the red wax coat off a wedge of Edam cheese.

Hermione ran her hands through her hair and sighed in mild exasperation as it immediately sprang back into wild disorder. "Just as well we finished early. It'll take more than a few charms to reverse this disaster. It happened as soon as we started revising examples of the use and abuse of the rune Hagall. Blaise thought it was hysterical until his textbook produced a wind storm and knocked him off his chair."

Severus gave a short laugh. "At least your classroom didn't become the site of a very localised, very intense hailstorm."

Hermione sat up, her eyes sparkling. "Did that really happen? Was it your doing?"

"Yes, and I would never!" Severus detachedly examined his fingernails. "Not intentionally."

"Of course not." Hermione gratefully drained her pumpkin juice. "Being the boss is thirsty work. Tobias, may I use your bathroom?" She tugged on a tangled lock of hair. "I really need to sort this out."

Toby pointed her in the right direction. "'Elp yerself." He waited until she had gone in and closed the door behind her. "I 'ope things work out for you both... after all this is done with," he said without looking at Severus. "It seems so bloody unfair that you've got to walk such a rough road when you two are just startin' out."

Severus reclaimed his seat and propped his feet up on an ottoman. "I seem to encounter a great many rough roads, some more so than others," he reflected. He pointed to his heavy duty footwear. "It's precisely why I invested in these."

Toby broke off another hunk of bread to go with a slice of "peppercorn cheese" and regarded his son with real surprise. "You remember that?"

Severus nodded. It was one of the few memories that he had never tried to expunge because it had such practical significance. On Severus' fifth birthday, his father had sat him on the kitchen table and laced him into a pair of stout leather boots, thus granting an increasingly curious little boy permission to see what went on in the workshop because he would have "summat decent" to protect his feet.

Stolidly holding his father's hand, he had clomped around the kitchen with an expression serious enough to impress a magistrate while his mother had looked on in amusement. As he got used to the stiff, weighty grip of his first pair of boots, Severus had asked why his new footwear – which would require the bulk of two pairs of thick socks until he grew into them – needed to be so heavy.

Coming out of his recollections, Severus claimed a plump green olive. "You told me that some roads were muddy and slippy, some were steep and rocky, and others were well paved and swept every day – but a good pair of boots would get me through all of them. It was advice worth listening to."

Toby shrugged and looked away, apologetically mumbling that he had just chewed on a peppercorn and it was making his eyes water. Recovering, he eyed his son's boots with the interest of a working man who had direct experience in the benefits of well made gear. "What're they made of anyway?"

"Dragon hide."

"You're jokin'! Did you kill it yerself?"

"No."

Toby frowned and tutted theatrically. "What kind of wizard doesn't kill 'is own dragons?"

"One that doesn't want to end up as dragon dung," Severus answered dispassionately.

Toby considered this answer very carefully. "Yeah. Fair 'nough."

"Speaking of peppercorns," Severus announced as a much tidier Hermione emerged from the bathroom, "we have a proposition for you."

"'We' bein' you pair?" Toby cut in, immediately sensing the need to play dumb, talk slow and think fast.

Severus tilted his head. "Hermione, perhaps you would begin by explaining a certain logistical difficulty?"

Hermione nodded. "Don't take too much notice of him, Tobias. I'm not about to try and snooker you into doing something that you'd rather not be involved in."

Severus rolled his eyes. "Gryffindors!"

"There's only one Gryffindor here," she pointed out with her sweetest smile. "The plural really isn't necessary." She looked Tobias in the eyes. "As you know, I've inherited a certain amount of property in Australia. I'm not in a position to give the place the care and attention it deserves, but at the same time, I don't want to put it on the market."

"Are y' lookin' for a caretaker?" Toby asked guardedly.

"Of sorts..." Hermione bit her lower lip.

Toby folded his arms, seemingly pondering while watching Severus with his peripheral vision. "'Of sorts', eh? And what do the sorts 'ave to do with peppercorns and propositions?" He concealed a smile when Severus' eyes widened slightly. "I might be gettin' on a bit, Sev'rus, but I'm none daft. Not yet, anyway. And with you two bein' magical folk, I'll wager they ain't ordinary peppercorns," he challenged, extracting a manifestly commonplace peppercorn from a slice of cheese and placing it in the middle of the table where everyone could contemplate it.

Severus took a deep breath. "They aren't. Some time ago, a cache of fruits – peppercorns – of a new species of pepper vine was found in Antarctica. It had been in extremely cold storage for over fifteen million years. Pugsley...What's funny?"

Toby quickly composed himself. "T'other day, Pugsley were chasin' 'is little lass through t' lib'ry... She were dodgin' under tables and 'round shelves and callin' out 'Bloody Baron' at t' top of 'er lungs. Tocky says that Malicia 'as a thing for the Bloody Baron – and t' Baron's gone into 'idin' in t' kitchens!"

Severus closed his eyes. "At least we'll know where to find him if we ever need him."

"Sorry. Y' were sayin'?"

"Pugsley succeeded in persuading some of the peppercorns to germinate, and they are now growing into healthy, viable vines. A suitable habitat for the vines has been located on Hermione's property. In accordance with the Magical Vegetation Act of Australia – Section three, Sub-clause two hundred twenty-four – an experimental site must be kept within magical barriers to prevent the translocated species running feral and to contain any pathogens not detected during the quarantine period."

Toby gave Tocky a sidelong glance. "And t' proposition?"

"It has two parts," Hermione said. "I'd like to have someone on the property to look after it so that it doesn't turn into an overgrown disaster – that's the first part. The second is to have the experimental site supervised and maintained, bearing in mind that the vines are a bit snappy when they're small. Not sure what they'll be like when they start to fruit, but inferences from other species suggest they get quite docile when the fruits form, presumably to allow dispersal by foraging fauna. Professor Addams and a team of Magibotanists from Kew will visit at regular intervals to run tests and collect samples. I'm not asking for any rent or anything... I think those tasks would be more than enough."

Toby poured himself another goblet of pumpkin juice. "So if I were to offer me labour... I'd need access to some form of magical capacity." He took his time absorbing Severus' inscrutable evaluation, Hermione's gaze of hopeful apology, and Tocky's wide-eyed, silent pleading. "As I said, I'm gettin' on a bit... I figured I wouldn't be able to roam from place to place forever. Now that I don't have the Llygad anymore, I don't 'ave to, I s'pose. Never made any plans, though. I reckoned somethin' would show up when t' time were right." He looked Hermione in the eyes. "I know people in that area, and I know that range in all its seasons. Yeah, I'll take it on if Tocky's willin' to do the magic."

Tocky threw his spindly arms around his adopted master's lower legs. "Tocky is being willing! Tocky is most happy to be serving Snape family forever!"

Beaming with delight, Hermione reached across the table and shook hands with Tobias to seal the arrangement.

"Talk about a peppercorn rent," Toby muttered as he turned to clasp his son's hand. "That's assumin' we all survive t' next stoush."

---

Dragons? The fire came from cooperative dragons? Even though Kingsley had warned him of the involvement of the fearsome creatures, Severus felt a flicker of disbelief cross his resolutely crafted expression of objectivity. He glanced at Kingsley, who opened his mouth to speak, then decided that he really didn't know what to say.

Hermione rested her elbows on the table, her features troubled and her eyes clouded with a distant sadness.

Master Vu raised an eyebrow and gave Theravāda a mystical smile, as if to say, I told you they would react in this way.

"No one can command dragons... Unless one animates a statue of a dragon or makes one from Fiendfyre...," Kingsley finally managed, his tone conveying that he wasn't quite sure what to believe.

Hermione sat up straight and bit her lower lip.

Theravāda pressed his palms together respectfully. "Honourable Minister, the dragons were true, living creatures. They were not made by the hand and magic of any human." The scholar surveyed his audience without judgement. "In the East, we have ancestral traditions to honour dragon-kind. Throughout our history, there are many accounts of dragons and humans assisting each other. We never hunt them or trap them, nor do we seek them out to challenge their might in battle. To us, they are wise, ancient creatures embodying Hidden Nature and Creative Principle. To see them in flight is a powerful omen of great good, not something to be feared and hated."

Master Vu nodded amiably. "Together with the light of many Patronus forms, the elemental heat of dragon fire was instrumental in driving the eaters of souls back through the rift that resulted from Subāhu's terrible curse. It is true that the dragons were not commanded by anyone – they were asked to act. In the face of a relentless menace that would have bled the world of its life and its magic – act they did."

Severus narrowed his eyes. Darkness flees at the touch of light; cold withdraws from fire's heat. Patronus charms and... helpful fire-breathing dragons. Well Seen, Hermione, in spite of your distaste for Divination. Thankfully, your latent ability gave you second thoughts about shopping in Weasley Lane. Lucky me – for once. He folded his arms and scowled. And just how is one supposed to ask a dragon for anything? He glanced across the table and quirked an eyebrow. His witch had gone pale. "Hermione, if you have something to add concerning dragons, please do so," he coaxed.

Hermione let out the breath she had been holding. "It's just that... well... I've ridden a dragon – with Ron and Harry. It's how we got out of Gringotts when we... took Helga Hufflepuff's cup out of the Lestrange vault. The curious thing is," she said, fiddling with her quill, "when we first saw the dragon, it roared and spat fire at us. It was a prisoner – chained to the ground and brutally treated. I think it was starving, too... But when we jumped onto its back, it didn't even snap at us." She looked around, lost as to how to continue her account.

"Did you and your friends do something to ease the creature's pain?" Theravāda asked gently.

"I... I don't know... Harry cast Relashio to break the chains that kept the dragon in the one spot – and we all used Defodio so it could escape and carry us out... Maybe that was why? But the other thing I can't work out is why it flew north – taking us in the direction we needed to go and giving us a head start in getting back to Hogsmeade. It was a Ukrainian Ironbelly – that much was obvious even if its scales had gone all pale and flaky. It should have flown due east... Dragons never get lost." She gave a rueful smile and shrugged one shoulder. "I still wonder if it managed to survive... and I wish I'd got rid of the iron bands around its legs."

Master Vu tucked his hands into the sleeves of his pale blue robe. "Younger sister, all creatures recognise compassion when they encounter it. Dragons are no different – he or she would have felt your concern as clearly as I can see it. Restoring the dragon's freedom would have certainly given you and your friends a point of favour. As for how your Ukrainian Ironbelly knew to take you north instead of heading straight across Europe, that will be known only to the dragon."

Hermione discreetly rubbed one eye and smiled hesitantly.

Severus marshalled his thoughts, dragging them away from questions he could not answer. He had heard about the escapade of the Ukrainian Ironbelly but had never considered why the beast hadn't thrown its passengers off its back and eaten them as an in-flight snack. It would certainly have been hungry enough to swallow three humans whole. He grimaced at the thought. His life debt would have been forfeited, and Hermione would have had to negotiate the Veil, regardless of how creepy she thought it was. It was a very lonely thought. "So," he intoned, feeling the Llygad grow warm against his skin, "what happened after the Dementors were herded through the rift and into the void? What power sealed them on the other side?"

Master Vu looked around at everyone seated at the table and nodded to Theravāda. The scholar consulted a scroll upon which he had written notes in the ornate Khmer script of his homeland. "As the dragons poured out their fire, charring the shrouds of the soul-eaters, a phoenix appeared. From where this messenger of the gods came, no one knows, but he brought with him a jewel of unsurpassable brightness which – we think – was plucked from the gardens of the sun. A gift sent to Earth from one of the seven heavens.

"The phoenix placed the sun jewel in the king's hand and sang to him. It is written that the king – after much travail – fought his way to the rift. With a mighty incantation, the words of which I have found and restored, he cast the sun jewel into it. There was a great cry of hatred, a blinding flash of light, and a roar that shook the Earth to its core – then the rift closed and vanished. The king survived, but lost several fingers and the tips of his ears due to the intense cold."

The power to seal the rift... Severus considered the image he had seen of the bridge in Pripyat and the figure holding... "The Spear of the Stronghold... It was thought to have been a gift from heaven..."

Merlin's power surged through his flesh, blood, and bone. No wonder that Nimuë had placed the old wizard's power in an inanimate object – to have two magical essences continuously housed in the one body would have been fatal. He caught Hermione's eyes and signalled to her not to be alarmed as he relaxed his senses to simply allow...

A rough land. Crags, caves, barren rock, stunted trees. Stinging sleet pelted down, taking turns with sheets of spiteful rain. Severus could read the terrain through Merlin's memory, even though in the vision he beheld, it was some hours into the night.

Merlin sat with his back against a curved wall of broken stone, his hands tied. A cloth gag prevented him from speaking, but his eyes surveyed his captors with the calm surety of one who knows he has the advantage.

Severus considered the fact that Merlin appeared to be somewhere between his late twenties and mid-thirties. Chronological order is not important in what the Llygad reveals, he thought. It's showing me what I need to know at this very moment. Consolidating this thought as a rule for future reference, he set his mind to observation.

Eight undersized, wiry men with gnarled faces and coarse clothing milled around Merlin, two of them calming the wizard's frightened mare in a strange, lilting language whose syllables might have been wrought from the form of the landscape and the calls of its birds and beasts. They talked freely, leading Severus to wonder if part of Merlin's equanimity was due to an understanding of the language – an understanding that the men seemed sure their prisoner did not have.

Another memory crowded into Severus' mind, giving him the confusing sensation of being in several places at once: Merlin as a boy, sitting cross-legged in the outer cave, reciting words and phrases while a white-bearded tutor looked on, occasionally correcting his pupil's pitch and inflexion. This must be Galapas – he who taught Merlin how to wield power, Severus concluded. As though it were something he had learned for himself, Severus began to understand the speech – and knew it to be the old language of the ancient Britons. The intruding memory withdrew...

Unaware that Merlin could understand them, the men argued amongst themselves in short phrases: who did they have as prisoner, was he the one the soldiers sought – and should they kill him?

Severus smirked to himself, interested to see what Merlin would do. Obviously, this didn't end in murder.

The men's arguments reached an apparent hiatus: they would send for someone called "Llyd" because he would know what to do...

The memory rippled and re-formed. The rain and sleet had ceased, but the ground was sodden, and the wind keen and bitter.

This must be Llyd, Severus deduced as a man clad in a jerkin of wolf skin strode towards Merlin and ordered the gag to be removed. At Llyd's command, two men ran to gather wood for a fire – though Severus seriously doubted that there was anything dry to be found. Ah, now we come to it...

Llyd addressed Merlin in slow, broken Welsh, asking him who he was and what business did he have travelling through their mountains.

Severus had the sudden insight that Merlin had been travelling in secret – and Llyd's men had been persuaded to find and intercept him. A fleeting vision of a jewel-hilted sword flashed through his mind. He's searching for Macsen's treasure... to prepare Caliburn for the time when Arthur shall claim it. Yes, Merlin, that would put a bounty on your head, wouldn't it?

The two wood gatherers stacked fallen branches into a sizeable pyre, glancing at Merlin now and then through eyes slitted with suspicion.

Bounty or not, Merlin calmly answered Llyd's questions – in Welsh – and allowed himself and his saddlebags to be ungently searched without any sign of resistance.

Severus' wand hand flexed as the men displayed what they had found: plenty of gold, the small harp that Severus had seen in the crystal cave, and the dragon brooch. One of them shoved Merlin into the light of a guttering torch and pulled aside the collar of his cloak and tunic to display a raven tattoo, black on the wizard's pale skin.

"A messenger carrying a harp, and the sign of the Dragon, and the brand of the Raven? And he rides alone out of Maridunum?"* Llyd's expression was unreadable, even to Severus. "No. There is only one man it can be; the magician from Bryn Myrddin."*

A muttered medley of half-fearful argument rose into the misting air...

"Him? The magician?"*

"He is too young..."*

"I have heard of that magician. They say he is a giant, with eyes that freeze you to the marrow."*

"He's no magician, see how he's dressed. Besides, if he knew magic, he could have stopped us."*

"...We will get the money the soldiers offered. They said they would pay us well."*

One man held up a fistful of gold. "He has more on him than they offered us."*

Severus scowled, forcing himself not to draw his wand. Merlin must have a reason for his lack of resistance... Perhaps these wild men know where Macsen's treasure is hidden?

Llyd's voice cut across the jumbled babble, stating that they were not thieves or soldiers' hirelings. They were Old Ones – descendants of the most ancient gods – and they would do their own work as they saw fit. He eyed Merlin implacably. "That is a man who counts among men. We will untie him and talk."* He gave the order to light the well-stacked pyre, but the flame would not take hold. The wood merely smouldered with thick gusts of dark smoke.

The Old Ones began to argue again concerning Merlin's errand, and Severus hissed when he heard the words:

"Knowledge is the only power we have. If he will not tell us of his own will, then we shall have to make him..."*

Merlin's obsidian eyes hardened in a look that Severus could read as clearly as if it were his own: Enough!

Merlin spoke clearly and fluently in the Old One's tongue, "Stand back from the fire!"* He ignored their gasps of astonishment and shocked, open-mouthed stares. The only sounds were the heavy shifting of the mare's hooves and a feeble sputter from the reeking pyre.

Severus held his breath. Merlin's eyes did not cloud over as they did when he used the Sight – they stayed clear and sharp. A thrilling tingle ran up his spine – then Merlin's magic flowed freely, running alongside his own in a heady charge of cool, honed power.

High above the gathering and the pyre, hidden in the night – its movement sensed in the blood and felt in the hollow spaces of the body – something huge dropped swiftly like a falcon to its prey.

A flash and a rain of burning sparks. Fire poured down in a roaring, twisting column. The pyre could have been anointed with oil, for the fire surrounded it and drove away the wet with a vast hiss. Rolling gouts of flame devoured the wood, illuminating everything in steaming light.

Severus tore his eyes away from the pyre to look up – and saw the whip-like tail of a dragon as the beast departed in a thunderous rush of flight. Gods... He called upon a dragon. The thought was scarcely believable, and yet he had just seen it for himself. And it came to his aid. Awestruck, he swallowed and tried to still his trembling limbs, clenching his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering.

Merlin sat alone for a moment, then one of the Old Ones darted into the light and cut Merlin's bonds with a stone knife before scrambling back into the shadows. Llyd appeared and approached Merlin cautiously, his voice wavering a little as he spoke. "You are Myrddin called Emrys or Ambrosius, son of Ambrosius the son of Constantius who sprang from the seed of Macsen Wledig?"*

The picture of contented serenity, Merlin raised an eyebrow. "I am Merlin Emrys."*

Llyd shuffled uncomfortably. "My men took you in error. They did not know."*

Merlin gave a wry half-smile and shrugged one shoulder. "They know now."*

Severus laughed quietly. They certainly do. He felt the Llygad's influence fade.

His eyes focussed on his companions, the echo of Merlin's magic still trickling liquid lightning through his blood. "Asking dragons to drive Dementors... From what I have witnessed by virtue of the Sight, it is a possibility."

Severus saw no need to divulge just whose Sight it had been, or by what means he had accessed it. Singing in his memory was the wild, haunting chant he had heard Merlin send forth without uttering a single word.

---

Arawn stared at the Dementors in disbelief. He was used to them indulging in the occasional bout of restlessness, but this was different. They were retreating from something. In fact, they appeared to be parting to let something through while staying as far away as possible from whatever it was. He drew his wand and exchanged baffled glances with the Death Eaters.

"Aww, is that all it is?" The Death Eater known as Jugson pointed and doubled up with laughter. "Great big Dementors all scared of one little Patronus!"

Arawn turned to look at the luminous glow of a swiftly approaching Patronus. He ground his teeth as Jugson continued to chuckle. Oaf! We shall all see how big you'll be when I send one of them after the pathetic shred that is your soul! He stiffened as the Patronus swooped low.

A peregrine falcon – one of the raptors favoured by the ancient powers of wind and sky. Myrddin of the High Places. The name of the god stalked through Arawn's senses with the voice of the wind in the high crags of northern Wales. A brittle sense of unease sent its sharp edges through his mind.

The falcon circled disdainfully. "Arawn!"

A Dementor hovered behind him, writhing in discomfort in the blue-white light. Wizard! Do not yield to it.

Arawn used his mind link with the Dementor to assure it that an attack was not imminent. Finally, Snape has deigned to answer us. The Patronus is merely a messenger. It has not been sent to attack.

The falcon continued to circle. "To prevent the loss of innocent lives, I propose that we settle our dilemma one to one. You have two choices: civilised discussion – which will give you the chance to see reason and revoke any claim to the Llygad y Ddraig – or an honourable duel, in which I will generously give you every reason in the world to surrender your imaginary claims. While you consider your reply, don't bother with any more empty threats – the Ministry has found nothing to substantiate them. Don't forget to name a place and time, Arawn. I look forward to hearing from you." With a haughty flick of its tail feathers, the Patronus vanished.

Surrender? Empty threats? Arawn was speechless. And just who was Snape to talk of honour and civilised behaviour in such patronising tones? "The Ministry position must have gone to his head," he growled. "If it's a duel you want, Snape, then that's what you'll get! On my terms." He signalled the Death Eaters. "Prepare the half-souls and keep the trolls busy. I'll go on ahead to Paris and ensure that Scabior and Rabastan have everything ready. Join me there tomorrow night. We'll show the half-blood the meaning of substantial!" I will command the Llygad y Ddraig.

The Dementors formed their ranks once more. The word is given. It is time. We shall feed. We shall take all and leave nothing.

In the damp, dismal gloom propagated by such a large number of Dementors, no one noticed an agile figure keeping to the deep shadow of rock and fissure as it darted back into the forest.

---

"Oriens!"

Oriens put down his quill, blinking at the sphere of light which hung in front of him. "Here I am."

T'eylun's voice held a tone of urgency, framed in the soughing hymn of a windswept forest. "I have news from our spy. The one called Arawn has received the challenge from Merlin's heir. He moves tonight, alone, to the place called Paris. He said he would duel on his terms, but our spy did not see him send a response to the challenge. He has directed his forces to join him in Paris tomorrow night. The centaurs have been alerted. They are ready and wait only for the signal."

The sphere had not even faded from sight when Oriens sent his Patronus to Severus and to Kingsley, relaying the information.

---

Hermione pulled her thick, woollen wrap close about her shoulders as the silver serow tossed its head and vanished. "I hate fighting. I feel as though I'm personally sending the centaurs straight into Death's arms."

"You're not," Severus murmured, brushing ash from her shoulders and hair. "If anyone can be pointed at, it would be Fawkes – he was the one delivering messages and summons. Don't forget, the centaurs themselves proposed an ambush."

Hermione chewed her lower lip, her expression doubtful. "Do you think Theravāda is right about a phoenix being a messenger of the gods?"

Severus shrugged. "I've no idea. Ask Fawkes next time you see him. Perhaps he'll give you a very cryptic answer." He raised an eyebrow. "How did your parents take the news?"

Hermione had only just stumbled out of the Floo when Oriens' Patronus had arrived. She had postponed her own communications to hear what the Unspeakable had to say. "They aren't happy about it; of course they wouldn't be... They're worried and upset... I didn't mention anything to do with the Llygad, or Fawkes, or Merlin. I only told them that it's another potential uprising involving Death Eaters and explained Dementors as well as I could. Mum and Dad both asked that we look after each other." Hermione attempted a smile. "Dad said he wants a word with both of us when order is re-established." She wrapped her arms around Severus and held him as though she intended to never let go.

Kingsley's lynx bounded into the room on soundless paws. "Password!"

Severus gritted his teeth. "Blibbering Humdinger," he ground out. Nobody would ever guess that one. Even with Legilimency, an interrogator would call it a preposterous hoax.

The lynx appeared to look down its elegant nose at the imposition of such an outlandish password. Kingsley's voice did not reflect his Patronus' opinion. "I trust you've heard Oriens' message." There was the sort of breath-stilling pause that comes with leafing through sheets of parchment before making an announcement. "London is secure – potential threats have already been very quietly addressed. Auror Proudfoot's team are standing by in Dover. Monsieur Roquefort's tactical response regiment have the infestation in Calais surrounded. We have a select group of our own Aurors there with them to back them up once they launch the offensive. That leaves the centaurs – and you, Severus. I've just had another update from Oriens. Arawn has definitely left for Paris."

Hermione experienced a horrible, cold sense of déjà vu... Voldemort's challenge to Harry rose up in her mind like an Inferius clawing its way out of a grave-soiled burial shroud. Oh, gods... Reluctantly, she consented to her wizard's postural prompting and let her arms fall to her sides. She watched as he effortlessly summoned his Patronus – two of them. How can he do this?

Severus gave her a grim half-smile. Because if I don't, my love, we will be overrun.

Hermione drew courage from the brave presentation of Severus' peregrine falcons. Have you made a habit of listening in when my thoughts are giving me curry?

Only when you look distressed. Severus appeared to hesitate. He allowed his hair to mask his features. I'm here for you, Hermione. He looked her in the eyes. No matter what happens, I'll be with you... Always. He pressed his knuckles into the tabletop and eyed his fierce falcons as if they were wayward chickens. "To Kingsley and to Bane: Arawn is expected to arrive in Paris this evening and will look for his army to assemble there tomorrow night before executing his intention of crossing into England. I shall detain him on the French side. Bane, he is away from the main strength of his forces. Strike when you will with Chiron's blessing.

"Kingsley, I shall set up the reception party with headquarters at the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris. We all know our roles. Minerva and Filius are setting the periphery charms as I speak. Remember to wait for the signal before you and Monsieur Roquefort join us there."

As the ethereal messengers departed, Hermione slipped her hand into Severus' coat pocket and drew out the dragon brooch. "I hope Merlin's Sight allowed him to see you," she whispered. With fingers made nimble by practice, she unfastened his coat buttons and affixed the red dragon to his waistcoat so that it rested over his heart. "Be proud of who you are, Severus."

For a passing moment, Severus looked a little bit lost. "Don't know about proud," he said, taking her hands in his. He gazed at her longingly. "If I'm proud of anything I've done... it will be that I trusted you back in the Shrieking Shack, when I dared to put my many misgivings aside in favour of your reputation as a witch who would keep her word." He brushed away a tear that Hermione let fall unheeded. "Come with me," he entreated huskily, buttoning his coat. "I need to ensure that Tobias remembers to put on that armour."

---

I am never going to be free of him, Severus concluded sourly, his eyes briefly meeting those of Harry Potter as Kingsley concluded his final briefing to the assembled members of the Order. But he had to admit – even if half-heartedly – the rigours of Auror training under Senior Auror McPhee were definitely having a positive effect. Harry's quiet attentiveness was both composed and thoughtful. While it was evident that the trainee Auror had to make an effort to hold his tongue on some points of strategy, there had not been a single insolent outburst.

Beside him, Hermione exchanged worried gestures with Ron, who gave a slight shake of his head and turned his hand palm upwards to indicate that he didn't have an answer to whatever it was that Hermione had asked.

Catching Severus' eye, the youngest Weasley wizard angled his head in George's direction, his eyes filled with concern.

George Weasley sat firmly enclosed in his own body language with an expression set in stubborn mutiny.

Severus watched him for a moment, then raised an eyebrow at Molly – who replied with a silent, sad shake of her head. Arthur glanced at his son, then at Severus, and mirrored his wife's assessment. Severus read the situation as though it were a book. With George's obvious troubles since his brother's death, the remaining Weasleys were reluctant to let him participate in Order duties. Evidently, George had other ideas. Severus wondered if the young man was suicidal, but some vague gut instinct responded to a hint of steel in sky blue eyes and said that Death had not placed his mark on the remaining twin's spirit. If George Weasley had enough spark to resist being packed away in cushioning charms like a fragile ornament, he had enough spark to fight.

"Have you anything to add, Severus?" Kingsley asked, looking as though he really, really needed a good strong cup of tea.

Severus ran through a mental checklist, ticking off items one by one until he found one that hadn't been addressed. He scanned the map that Petrus had found, which now occupied pride of place in the centre of the long table. "Arthur, may I draw upon your appreciation for Muggle culture and beliefs?"

"I... Of course," Arthur replied, a little bemused at what was – coming from Severus – an unusual question.

"When Emmanuel speaks, the cathedral will be revealed as the focal point of our operations. We have ground patrols in place around the cathedral. Hermione, two Aurors, and a Muggle archer will guard the ramparts while Petrus rings the bell. However, as an extra precaution, I'd like to see Protego Totalis on that building – from the highest point in its construction to the bedrock below the crypts. Every stone, every timber, every pane of glass, and every mote of dust." He looked at George as Arthur eagerly nodded his understanding. "I understand you have a close bond with a Thestral."

George raised his eyes, guarded and suspicious. "That's right."

"Would you help defend the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris if it should come under direct attack?"

"No!" Molly stood up, glaring at Severus and then turning her attention to George. "I won't allow it!"

"I will." The room fell silent when George loudly voiced his acceptance of the task. He steadily looked his mother in the eyes. "I want to, Mum. Hex away if you want to... but I have to do this."

Arthur clasped his wife's arm and, with Minerva's help, pulled her back into her seat. "It's better than sending him to harass Dementors, don't you think?" he whispered, not wanting to make a scene. "And I'll be close by to keep an eye on him," he continued, fishing out his pocket handkerchief and pressing it into his wife's hands. "That Thestral keeps watch over him, too. Anyone who wanted to get to our George would have to get past her first."

Severus maintained a mask of tactical detachment. Through his Legilimency, he had been the only one to hear George's unspoken protest to his mother's anxieties: I can only get into half the trouble, now.

A silver hare soared through the window. "We've spotted the target! He's talking with two Death Eaters. There's Dementors, too. Lots of. About a hundred and fifty so far, but we believe there's plenty more – it's usually dark at night, but this is ridiculous! Cold, too – freeze the balls off a Yeti. Chaz Darwin from the Institute of Magizoology is tracking Arawn en-Animagus – he's a beagle, so he won't lose him. Keeping observations until Emmanuel. Will Patronus again if anything changes."

---

In the deepest recesses of a shattered, drained mind, instinct stirred – instinctive fear at the impossible appearance of the figure on the ridge of a sparsely wooded hill to the east.

"What the freakin' hell is that?" The half-eaten Muggle's clumsily shrieked question drew the disinterested attention of his comrades.

Pair by pair, expressionless eyes turned to where the figure stood, outlined in a flickering nimbus of variegated light that shone brightly against the dulled pallor of a Dementor-plagued dawn.

A figure that was part human... and part horse.

Panic shivered through the assembled Muggles who felt its touch even as they groped to comprehend a growing sense of dread.

The Dementors acted quickly, strengthening their mind links with the half-souls and blunting human senses to a non-responsive state.

Death Eaters drew their wands, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Bloody centaurs!

Trolls pointed and growled, baring their teeth and slamming their spiked clubs into the ground.

The lone centaur raised a huge animal horn to his lips.

A commanding group of Dementors surveyed the centaur with calculating vehemence. Control the humans. Keep them together. Contact...

A single note rose into the frigid air, riding its currents and pouring down into the shallow bowl of the encampment. A single note of hope and courage. A single flame of pure light in a deep, dank well of sordid darkness.

The Dementors recognised it as soon as the magic-infused note touched them – a power that barred their way and repulsed them. Like the touch of a phoenix, the fiery breath of a dragon, the blinding silver force of a soul's guardian summoned to defend and attack, the harmonic voice of the Earth's own power as it denied them the freedom to feed and left them cursed and ravenous.

It reached into the threads that bound their consciousness and form – slicing, stinging, burning. A wave of Dementors surged towards the centaur, determined to smother the noise that irritated and pained them by the sheer force of their numbers. It was one centaur. One horn. One note. And they were a multitude.

The Dementors closed in on their target. The note waned and ran to echo.

Concealed on the other side of the ridge, several hundred horn bearers gave their willing breath to ancient magic, channelling their own power through the charms that Merlin had bound into the aurochs horns so many centuries before.

The massed sounding shook the air with a glorious, throbbing, unassailable harmony. Earth and rock trembled, and the trees of the forest leaned towards it as though drinking deeply. As if it had been summoned, the sun sent a red sliver of muted light above the grey horizon.

Bright with living magic, the music of the horns ripped through the Dementors with the fury of a fighting dragon. Tormented and blinded, they bunched together, colliding with each other in blundering desperation as they sought an escape. The noise was intolerable. The agony unbearable. Their mind links with the Muggles faltered and fell.

With an unearthly, ululating battle cry, the Ūnkhari poured over the crest of the hill, their loaded slings a blur of motion. Bryndorach's trollmord followed them in attack formation.

Magorian stood unmoving while centaur warriors thundered past him. Cancelling the Aurora Charm that had illuminated his body, he took his place among the horn blowers who would keep pounding the Dementors with continuous relays of charmed resonance.

Their instincts freed from the Dementors' influence, the Muggles stared in witless horror.

Swearing mightily, Death Eaters sent curses in searing bolts and snarling whiplashes, tinting the air with traces of red, green, and purple. In addition to shielding charms, they unconcernedly used any convenient Muggle or troll to protect themselves from the lethal barrage of stones deployed by the oncoming centaurs.

The trolls growled and spat, clustering together as the Ūnkhari pelted them with stones. Covering their eyes with one hand and squinting through the slits between their fingers, the trolls raised their clubs and charged.

Jugson sent an Entrail-Expelling Curse in a centaur's direction, only to have it intercepted by a panicking half-soul. The Muggle staggered and fell, trailing intestines from every orifice. A clumsy troll gave the unfortunate man a quick, accidental end by treading on his head.

Tāk easily caught a lurid purple curse on his shield, the protective symbols glowing white as Dark magic dissipated and died. He glanced at Lūt. Now!

Barely beyond the range of a troll's sneeze, the Ūnkhari parted like floodwaters around a mid-stream boulder. Some swept around the trolls to harass them from the rear. Others turned their attention to the Death Eaters who had formed loose groups to guard each other's back while they tried to coordinate a counter-attack.

Looking to left and right, the trolls grunted their surprise. Distracted and confused by the sudden evasive movement of the Ūnkhari, they did not see the trollmord bearing down on them with spears couched...

It was the clashing, grinding, flesh-rending impact that made the half-souls break and run. Like a herd of startled antelope, they fled towards the open land of the broad valley to the north. One Muggle clutched at his chest and breathed his last.

Six trolls fell, killed outright each with a spear through the heart. Amid the squealing, bellowing roars of the injured, an enraged troll dragged a spear out of its thigh and tossed it aside, turning to face the centaur responsible – who had circled back to attack again, now wielding a heavy mace.

Without any detectable signal, the centaurs regrouped and surged away from the centre of the battlefield as quickly as they had overrun it.

Exchanging baffled shrugs with his fellow Death Eaters, Jugson mounted his broom and shouted above the relentless reverberations of the horns. "I'll get a look at this from the air and find out what in Belial's name we're dealing with!"

He ascended in a vertical climb that would have done credit to a Seeker. His skin prickled as he levelled off and beheld the sight of more centaurs than he had ever thought existed. He breathed the most savage oath he knew.

"No... Too many..." He swerved out of an arrow's path. Something like a Hurling Hex nearly shook him from his seat. He willed his shuddering broom into a swooping dive. "Retreat! Get out! Go! There's too many! The place is crawling with them! Retreat!"

To the north of the battlefield, watching from the eastern hill, Bane gave his order as Arawn's disjointed, absconding forces came within range. "Archers! Five flights, then charge! Drive them south to the rocky tract – into the forest if you can!" On the flank of the western hill, Bryndorach gave the same order.

A hail of arrows hissed down in a deadly crossfire, mowing down those foremost in retreat.

In utter confusion, the surviving Muggles fled back the way they had come as a second flight, a third, and a fourth methodically reduced their numbers. Stumbling over the fallen, fighting with those still living, and snapping underfoot the wand of a Death Eater who hadn't maintained her shielding charms, they forgot about their fear of the forest whose brooding trees loomed to the south. They forgot about trolls and Death Eaters and magic and mind-numbing, soul-sapping cold. A fifth rain of arrows cut more of them down from behind. The only thing that mattered was escape.

Bane and Bryndorach called the advance. Sweeping downhill like a living earthquake and shooting arrows as they came, the centaurs quickly secured the northern valley – a galloping wall of merciless wrath.

The horn bearers kept at their task with renewed enthusiasm. The swift-moving Ūnkhari rejoined the battle, paying special attention to stragglers – and those who tried to escape in any direction other than south.

Bryndorach pounded through the chaos. In his path, a trollmord battled mace to club with a bleeding troll. With a sweep of his axe, the Schwarzwald herd's leader severed the ligaments behind the troll's right knee. Keeping his weapon moving as he galloped, he casually beheaded a Death Eater, ignoring the sharp tingle that ran up his arm as the rune-forged metal passed through the wizard's magical shields.

Ronan felt the blistering slash of fire – then the cool caress of water. Breyūn's brief eye contact told him that she had just used her own magic to quench a curse that would have incinerated him alive.

---

Singing to himself, Fawkes flew high above the clouds, using his internal compass to direct him to the high peaks of the Central Carpathians.

A patch of cloud billowed and swirled. Emerging from the turbulence on strong wings, a young Ukrainian Ironbelly greeted the phoenix with a low, hissing call.

The phoenix replied in kind, flaring the tips of his flight feathers as the dragon briefly folded his wings and rolled twice before diving into an updraft with his wings extended to full display.

Fawkes joined the proposed game with glee, chasing the dragon's tail and flitting beneath the great beast's wings. Together, dragon and phoenix danced with the clouds – diving and soaring, climbing and rolling, swerving, and plunging with folded wings. Occasionally, the dragon let a thin jet of fire stream into the air, where it marked his path like a trailing ribbon before fading to a misty trail.

Fawkes gave a questioning trill, and the dragon blinked his ruby eyes and rolled into a steep descent, the handsome iron-grey scales of his body collecting beads of condensation as he passed through the clouds. The phoenix followed the dragon through a serpentine maze of peaks, crowned with clouds and scarred by rock slides. Deep within this concealing sanctuary, the young dragon trumpeted an announcement.

An answering call – deeper, longer, and bleached with the dry winds of age – echoed from beyond a high peak draped with snow.

From several lesser rises and ridges, more Ukrainian Ironbellys raised their heads to investigate, extending their wings as the phoenix flew past.

Fawkes spotted the old dragon resting by the edge of a deep mountain pool. Spiralling down with a warble of farewell to his guide, the phoenix perched on a boulder and lowered his head as a sign of respect.

The dragon rumbled a greeting and performed the same gesture, then raised her scarred face to regard the phoenix with milkily clouded eyes as the bird told of impending events where a dragon's elemental power would be needed. The dragon commented in soft, hot, metallic hisses, being careful not to let fire come forth in anger when she told of sensing a great, rapacious hunger that threatened to devour all life and magic. She listened to all that the phoenix told her: especially when he sang of a wizard who had become a friend to dragons in return for defending a clutch of Welsh Green hatchlings from marauding human warriors while the parents were out hunting – most dragons knew that story, but few European dragons believed it. Of particular interest, a descendant of that same wizard was soon to battle the devouring ones – and he would do so under the sign of a red dragon.

Finishing his account, Fawkes whistled sadly when he heard the metal cuffs around the dragon's legs scrape against bare rock as she moved. He knew much about this particular dragon – his twinkling-eyed human had mentioned her many times. The phoenix cocked his head to observe her while she took another draught from the pool which smelled of dissolved metal with a hint of sulphur.

The dragon's scales could no longer be described as pallid and flaking. Well fed – as evidenced by a half-eaten deer carcass – and free to bask in open air, she had gained in health and strength, her metabolism binding excess dietary iron into her scales to form natural armour of renowned strength. Bearing witness to the dragon's age, the iron binding process had become less efficient over time, allowing air and moisture to turn the iron from grey to red. The old dragon's head, wings, back, flanks, and tail were the colour of what humans used to call "blood-ore" while her belly and legs still held the grey tones of her youth.

Fawkes could do nothing about the goblins' bonds, or old age, but he could certainly help with the milky film in the dragon's eyes. He gave a string of melodious instruction, and the dragon sat very still with her eyes wide open. Fawkes flew up and perched on her head. Leaning forward, he let two tears fall – one into each of the dragon's eyes.

The dragon closed both eyes, shifting her eyeballs left and right, up and down. When she opened them again, she hissed in delight and sent a triumphant jet of flame high into the air while Fawkes flapped to keep his balance.

---

Bane scanned the battlefield. There she is! Through the morning mist and glowing smoke of magic, he could see Esnyë retreating from a limping mountain troll – shooting arrows as she dodged the creature's spiked club. Behind her, a Death Eater was creeping closer...

With a roar of fury, Bane charged, jinking left and right when the Death Eater saw him coming and responded with a string of curses. One curse struck a boulder – which exploded and sprayed Bane's flank with stinging needles of shattered stone. He was out of arrows. "Esnyë! Behind you!" He cast his useless bow aside and slammed into a wounded Muggle who stood in his way, frozen with shock. Bane hardly noticed the impact, but it sent the human sprawling, knocked completely senseless. He galloped on, his hind hooves nudging his underbelly as he gave everything he had to speed.

He soared over a fallen troll. From a desperate melee to his right, someone called his name and tossed a trollmord's spear into his path. Without breaking stride, Bane caught it and yelled challenge to the lumbering monstrosity that threatened Bryndorach's daughter.

The troll turned and leered at him.

Ensyë seized the opening. In one swift motion, she swivelled and loosed an arrow over her tail. The Death Eater went down, her arrow lodged in his forehead.

Bellowing and drooling, the troll raised its club and shambled towards Bane.

Ensyë kept her focus, knowing that she had to distract the troll. Leaping into a gallop, she aimed and shot, striking the troll below its left ear. It slapped at the arrow, just as she shot again, this time piercing one of its eyes. It turned towards her with a murderous growl...

Bane used all of his strength and momentum to drive the spear home, angling it up and under the troll's ribs. But he didn't have the weight and experience of a trollmord. The force of the collision jolted him off balance and his hooves slid out from under him, bringing him to the ground with a lung-jarring crash.

Snarling in pain, the troll looked stupidly from one centaur to the other. Coughing blood, it gave a slobbering grin when it saw that one of them was down.

Bane struggled, desperately trying to breathe and get up. Esnyë covered him with her last arrow on her string, screaming defiance.

The troll stepped forward.

Jugson considered his options. If he deserted, he had no doubt that he would soon have a Dementor shadowing his steps with every intention of Kissing him. Not desirable. Still airborne, he shielded a half-soul from an arrow – only to see a grey centaur with long blonde hair transfix the human with a fire-hardened driftwood javelin. A sinking ship and a sea full of Krakens, he thought desperately. He looked toward the accursed forest, into which broom-mounted Death Eaters and running Muggles were rapidly disappearing. It looked to be the safest place – for the moment. It seemed that even the centaurs avoided crossing its fringe. He eyed the rocky tract where a few Muggles staggered and stumbled under a rain of arrows, then steered his broom into the deep green wilderness.

The Dementors could hold out no longer. The constant barrage of magic held them at bay, crippled and impotent. Withdraw. We must withdraw.

Back to the city. Call more of our brethren.

What of the humans...

Leave them. There are many more that we can turn into slaves...

Esnyë shot, blinding the troll's other eye.

Gasping for air, Bane staggered upright and shouldered her out of the path of a sudden backhanded swipe. The spiked club gashed his loin. A hiss of pain escaped through his clenched teeth. He turned to face the troll once more... To the death!

The blinded troll swung its club wildly. The end of the protruding troll spear caught in the rough ground. With a hair-stirring howl, the creature dropped to its hands and knees...

A mahogany bay blur. A gristly slice and a wet thump. Röthvar slewed to a circling halt, his broadsword a flashing arc of steel and gore.

The headless troll seemed to try to stand, and then it slumped to one side, wetting the stones and melting the snow with gouts of hot, dark blood.

His legs shaking with fatigue, Bane stared at the gruesome sight. He realised that Esnyë stood beside him with one hand resting on his back, her flank brushing his. Speechless with exhaustion, relief, and various clamorous thoughts on the best way to explain himself to Bryndorach, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

Röthvar reared, pointing excitedly. "Look to the sky! Look!"

Bane and Esnyë looked. The darkness slid away. As though it were a parting taunt, bitter cold poured down over the battlefield, travelling on a soul-freezing, voiceless cry of pure hatred.

The cry faded. The mist lifted. A waxing half-moon emerged from behind a murky veil to momentarily greet the strengthening light of the sun.

A cheer rose from the battlefield – a cheer of victory and raw delight, further enlivened by the wild yells of the Ūnkhari.

Lūt quickly bound a profusely bleeding wound on Etùyen's upper arm.

Magorian blew another long blast on his aurochs horn as the winter sky arched over them, clear, cold, and vivid blue.

Wincing through the pain of a wrenched shoulder, Firenze raised his bow to the sun in salute.

Bryndorach tore his eyes away from his daughter and Bane. He grinned at Ronan's slightly wary expression. "Don't look so worried," he huffed, thinking that it seemed only yesterday when Esnyë was celebrating her first year – a gangly little flaxen chestnut with a will as strong as her dam's and a head full of adventures. He gestured upwards. "I think those portents have to be good."

Breyūn wiped sweat from her brow and watched, her quick mind fitting the sight before her to song and story so that its memory might be preserved forever.

In the forest, concealed by bough, bole, shade and tangle, pale gold eyes with slitted pupils patiently followed the progress of the fleeing humans. Snag lines were tightened. Darts tipped with lethal poison were loaded into blowpipes. Magic was whispered, and trees seemed to murmur Pan's name as they meshed their high branches with those of their neighbours, forming leafy nets that sealed off any airborne escape.

Appearing from nowhere, Fawkes flew low over the centaurs' heads, singing with all his fiery heart.