The Bell, the Spear, and the Book – Part One

A/N:

Australian de-coder

Eukered – Worn out beyond any hope of repair (archaic in most areas)

Shockies – Shock absorbers

Undies – Underpants

French

Alles vite – Quickly/hurry

Merde! – Shit!

Mon ami – My friend

Pour la France! Pour Paris! Liberté! – For France! For Paris! Liberty!

Trois... deux... une – Three... two... one

Une moment – A moment

Scottish

Gie it laldy – Do it with gusto

Pugsley Addams is the property of the cartoonist Charles Addams.

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

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

Thank you, TeaOli, for beta reading and being endlessly patient. I made some post-beta adjustments to keep to the word limit. Any mistakes are my fault.

This chapter will be presented in three parts.

---

In the Polyjuiced guise of tourists, Harry and Ron strolled nonchalantly down a neat row of shops in the Rue Saint Louis en l'Ile. Harry betrayed no sign of recognition when he spotted Senior Auror McPhee ensconced in the window seat of a small café. His supervisor added more water to a glass of pastis and gazed out over the gloomy streetscape, apparently lost in thought and oblivious to his presence.

Harry knew that she was not held in the depths of contemplation. Senior Auror McPhee – for whom he had developed a profound and increasingly loyal sense of respect – would not fail to notice a single thing. He quietly wished that she had been around during his years at Hogwarts.

At the next intersection, Molly and Ginny waved their thanks to a driver who had stopped to let them cross the road.

Turning the corner, Ron whooped and, dragging Harry with him, pressed himself against the window of a temporary exhibition featuring several sporty concept cars – keeping up the appearance of a young Muggle male with an ease that Harry couldn't seem to settle into. "Blimey... look at her," Ron breathed, fogging up the glass and having to clean it with his sleeve.

Harry noted a bright red, low slung, oddly femme fatal creation that seemed to breathe leather, speed and Malfoy-esque wealthy disdain even while standing still.. "Yeah... So?"

"So?" Ron incredulously appraised his best mate. "Can you imagine how quick the journey from the Burrow to Surrey would be in that? Sod the old Anglia. Bloody thing has its own mind, half the time."

"Smarter than you, is it?" Harry asked, a glimmer of his old pre-war cheekiness showing in his eyes.

"Ha-bloody-ha. I'll have you know that the cranky old rustbucket has never once bested me at chess." His blue eyes narrowed and he turned back to the window. "See that mirror wall up the back there?" he whispered. Without waiting for Harry to reply, he continued, "Use that to scan behind us..."

"Muffliato. So you had an ulterior motive for checking out fast cars. Since when did you turn Slytherin cunning?"

"Since I heard about Snape's old man clocking you one and escaping. I had firsthand experience of the nasty little trap he engineered – retrieving your wand came with a huge snake which was hell bent on filling my supervisor full of holes." Ron turned to wink at a pretty young woman walking an excessively pampered lap dog. "There's something about Snapes and snakes, I'm telling you. Still, it was sneaky, Slytherin-snaky cunning, and I aim to charm some for my own use."

Harry grinned. "You won't be charming the mademoiselle. She ignored you."

Ron shrugged. "Her loss."

Harry raised his eyebrows. Unswervingly faithful to Ginny, he couldn't understand Ron's roving eye. "What would Bronnie say?"

"Not much. We're not working... I mean, it's fun – we both agree on that – but we know it's not permanent, is all." Ron searched the mirror at the back of the showroom. "I'm kind of glad 'Mione had second thoughts. Being out of touch with her until Skeeter found a new headline to play with was a real eye opener. Merlin, I could almost see a future of: 'Mioneee, can you write the introduction to my evidence for the Wizengamot?" He shrugged. "I'd always be tagging along behind her like a piece of baggage. Merlin knows, I spent enough years at the back of the queue tripping over my brothers' footprints – it was like there was no fresh ground for me to make a mark on." He snorted softly. "Don't get me wrong; I love my family and you and 'Mione to pieces... but I want to be something more original than the youngest Weasley wizard who went to Hogwarts with Harry Potter and the brightest witch of the age."

Harry cleaned his glasses. "That's one hell of a teaspoon."

"Like the one Mum used one time to chase us out of the pantry – she Engorgio'd it to the size of a broom... Hullo..." Ron tucked his hands into his jacket, bouncing on the balls of his feet as though trying to keep warm. "In the side street down from the shop of a thousand cheeses. Near the bread place."

Harry perused the mirror and saw the reflection of a shrouded form and a cloaked human loitering in the shadows.

---

"So what is it? BSA? Norton? Triumph?" Toby fired questions at Arthur while he scanned the fog-wreathed ground far below. "If it's a Vincent Black Shadow, I'll make y' an offer for it – saw one when I were lad; it were t' grandest machine I'd ever set eyes on." He swore under his breath as a wall of grey mist obscured the view of the Seine. "Crikey, Scotland's the land of eternal sunshine compared to this." It was late afternoon, but a layer of baleful, bruised clouds and a meteorologically impossible fog had turned the remnants of the day into a convincing portrayal of an ill-omened dusk.

"It's part of what Dementors do, Tobias," Arthur supplied helpfully. "Even the weather gods are miserable when those things are around in great numbers.

"As for the late Sirius Black's motorcycle, it has 'Triumph' written on the shiny part, so that's probably what it is. You won't tell Molly that I have it in pieces in the shed, will you? I'm waiting for a chance to cast a few Reparos and see if I can get it working again."

"Sounds like it's really been thrashed about – I reckon as far as parts are concerned, y'd be better off with Replace-os. The shockies and seals'd be eukered f'r a start." Toby scowled. "Tell? Wash yer mouth out! Listen, Arthur, there's a code of 'onour among blokes, right?"

Arthur nodded hesitantly.

"One of t' rules in that code is that a bloke shall never, ever, tell another bloke's missus what said bloke keeps in 'is shed. Secret bloke business, that is."

Arthur stood to attention. "Secret bloke business. Is there a rule book?"

"Of course. There's rules for readin' it, too."

"Does anyone ever break the rules?"

Toby slowly turned to look at Arthur, his eyes full of foreboding. "Only 'appened once. The penalty was... awful. Too awful to say."

Arthur was captivated. "What happened?"

"Well... all right... since you asked..." Toby looked to his left, then to his right, then behind him, then up at the thickening sky. "De-bloked," he whispered.

"Gods!"

Toby gravely shook his head. "Even they couldn't intervene."

Arthur jumped, groaned and fished a gold coin out of his pocket. "Auror patrol," he said, consulting it as though it were a timepiece. "They'll be here shortly, so I'd best get down below for a briefing." He held out his hand. "Stay safe, Tobias."

Toby shook the wizard's hand. "You too, mate."

---

Severus surveyed the empty square in front of the cathedral – the place du Parvis Notre Dame – and grimly wondered how the centaurs were faring. He repressed a shiver. Disillusionment Charms were no protection against the pervasive chill. Hermione's hand felt warm on the inside of his left elbow, a small oasis of comfort in a miasma of predatory despair.

"The French Ministry must have an excellent rapport with the Muggle authorities," Hermione said quietly. "The broadcasts for a severe and extreme weather warning sent most people into go-home-and-hide mode." She gave the sky a pale, angry glance. "Mind you, nobody could argue with the apparent evidence."

Severus silently agreed. "Arawn will be expecting his reinforcements this evening. More Death Eaters arrived before this morning's dawn." He couldn't bring himself to add anything further.

Releasing Severus' arm, Hermione circled a bronze star which marked the official centre of Paris. "Point zéro des routes de France. All the distances for the national highways are calculated from this point," she said.

Severus shook his head, staring at the star because he couldn't see her. "Little know-it-all," he murmured almost lovingly. Scowling at himself, he restored his proper persona. "Point zero. Ground zero." A magical signal caught his attention – a rhythmic sequence of dots and coils. "Oriens," he hissed. "Come. He may have word concerning the centaurs."

Locating her wizard by the sound of his voice, Hermione took hold of his sleeve and followed him to the threshold of the Portal of the Last Judgement. Used to the way his body felt in most of his moods, she could feel tension stringing his nerves and quickening his movements. She curled her fingers around his left forearm, feeling his muscles standing corded and hard where they usually rested close to his bones.

Without a sound, they crossed into the Portal and cancelled their Disillusionment Charms.

Within a few heartbeats, Oriens joined them, a slightly awkward bundle held gingerly under one arm. "The centaurs have prevailed," he whispered.

Severus nodded grimly. Sentiments of relief could wait until later. "Casualties?"

"On the centaurs' side, not as many as anticipated – remarkably few, in fact. They had the advantage of surprise and used it well. It was a complete rout. They are marshalling their injured and seeing to those who will now mark their paths in the stars." Oriens touched the fingers of his right hand to his forehead, lips, and chest. "In case you don't know their traditions, they do not speak the names of the star travellers until the constellations complete their dance and begin it again." He glanced at Hermione. "Speaking names might tie the star traveller to an Earthly sphere, instead of allowing them the freedom to leave and roam with the ancestors."

Hermione nodded, a little embarrassed. "I think you read my mind..."

"Not so," Oriens replied. "It would be a logical question to ask when one seeks to work for the better treatment of non-human magical beings." He placed the bundle on the flagstones of the cathedral. "Firenze, of all centaurs, thought you might find a use for these."

Curious, but at the same time sensing the macabre nature of the useful things, Severus had a question of his own. "What of our allies in the Restricted Area?"

Oriens nodded, his pale gold eyes closing briefly. He was very still for a moment. "Let's just say that the spring growth will be quite vigorous for the next few years."

Severus and Hermione exchanged a weighted glance and a thought that would never be given voice: He was there! He was in the Restricted Area – in that deep forest we saw on the map – with whatever else lives there. The hair stirred on the backs of their necks. A shade of ancient memory flitted between them, fading before definition could grasp it – the dappled green light of regal forests, the haunting strains of breath and reed, the watching eyes of creatures great and small, the thread of fear that commanded respect for a certain god...

Severus frowned and forced his eyes to focus, noting that Hermione appeared as diverted as he had been. Unsure as to what form of unmentionable power had caused such a spontaneous reaction, and finding no trace of magic to conveniently point at, Severus levitated the bundle Oriens had brought and unwrapped it with a twisting flick of his wand.

Hermione leapt back with one hand clamped over her mouth.

Severus raised his eyebrows.

A Death Eater's silver mask hung in the air, cleaved in two and smeared with drying blood. Next to it, the miniaturised head of a mountain troll favoured them with a dead-eyed grimace.

---

Sister Clarise opened her eyes. Accustomed to functioning with very little sleep, she was mildly surprised that she had succumbed to an unscheduled doze, during which she had dreamed of a huge dragon flying high overhead – and of a phoenix sitting on a nearby tussock. She felt for the spearhead to make sure that it was still concealed in the woollen belt under her habit, even though she could still feel its sustaining warmth.

Slowly stretching her legs, she looked towards the tussock where her dream phoenix had sat watching her. Blinking in disbelief, she looked again. She closed her eyes, pinched herself and looked for a third time.

With shaking hands, she picked up the bright, glowing feather which rested on top of a neat parcel wrapped in woven grass. A stoneware flask stoppered with cork leaned against the parcel. "A phoenix's song," she whispered. "How I would love to hear it." She swallowed, thinking of sunlit days and the heady scent of flowers in the mountain meadows around the priory. Tucking the feather into her belt alongside the spear head, she picked up the parcel and read the distinctive pattern depicted in the weaving. "Centaurs?" She examined the knots securing the package. Deceptively intricate, the knots only needed a firm tug on one free strand to release them.

Sister Clarise felt herself smile as she unfolded the grass wrappings. Dried apple and oatcakes would make a welcome change to her meagre ration of hard bread and water. She pulled the cork out of the bottle and very nearly wept. "Mulled mead – a rich gift indeed, phoenix, but do the centaurs know you have been making off with their food and drink? They don't part with this beverage easily." She inhaled the rich aroma of honey, heather, and summer. A single mouthful refreshed her body and soul. "May your herds be blessed with health and happiness," she whispered into the dark.

---

"Rabastan!"

Behind a pile of empty cardboard boxes, a beagle hunkered down and kept absolutely still. A rat leapt off the beagle's back and, following the sound of footsteps, concealed itself in a shallow drain.

Rabastan turned at the hissed sounding of his name. The Dementor beside him retreated a little as Arawn emerged from the slinking murk. "As you can see," Rabastan said, waving a hand at the low sky, "the Dementors have been very industrious."

Arawn folded his arms, his expression cold and calculating. "Any movement from the Ministry?"

Rabastan shook his head. "None. The French Ministry sent out a few Aurors, but they didn't hang around for very long. I fear the pull of the café was stronger than the need to actually find out why the weather is so suddenly inclement," he opined, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "They never thought of checking beneath their feet. Not that they even bothered to get off their brooms."

Arawn grinned. "Good. We'll hit central Paris and Calais simultaneously and be across the Channel before the British Ministry can rouse itself. Our main forces should be here within the hour." He paused, staring at two young Muggle men admiring cars in a display window. "So trivial...," he muttered.

Rabastan fingered his wand. "A pathetic sub-species. Given to drooling and sighing over mere baubles."

"They'll have something more pressing to sigh about very shortly." Arawn addressed the Dementor, "Empty the underground. It's time."

The Dementor inclined its head. Shroud swirling, it turned and vanished into the gloom.

Arawn produced his broom. "When the Dementors come forth in their full number, you may start with those two," he said, pointing to the two young men. "It appears that you still have some unsatisfied urges."

---

Severus ran his thumb over the warm Galleon in his pocket and drew it out with a scowl. Holding it up, he read: Rattymagus to beagle to Order – attack is on. On an irresistible impulse, he swept Hermione into his arms and kissed her deeply, willing his soul to touch hers with warm, fervent movements. He released her reluctantly, vaguely registering that Oriens had politely looked the other way. "Go, Hermione. You know what to do."

Hermione bit her lip and nodded. Running one hand over his chest, she whispered, "I love you," then barged roughly through the doors and into the cathedral before he could see the wetness in her eyes.

Without waiting for anything to be said, Oriens saluted, mounted his broom, Disillusioned himself and went to join the Healers who waited to attend to any injuries.

Severus summoned his own broom and took to the air.

---

"Mademoiselle?"

Swallowing hard against the lump in her throat and the icy, heavy knot in her stomach, Hermione nodded to the stone being kneeling before the altar. She collected her broom from where she had hidden it behind a saintly statue.

Petrus stood up, murmuring what sounded like an ending to a prayer. "Do you need a une moment to gather yourself, Mademoiselle?"

Hermione bit her lip. "No. Thanks..., but it's okay. I'll go up now." She looked Petrus in the eyes and touched his upper arm. "Good luck."

Petrus flexed his wings and bowed, his features grave and fierce. "And you, Mademoiselle. I will watch for your signal." He turned on his heel and, with a curling flick of his tail, disappeared into the ambulatory.

Arthur Weasley emerged from the shadowed choristry with a pensive, moustachioed Auror. He looked back over his shoulder. "Not that I can sing to save my soul, or anyone else's," he admitted with bashful, boyish look. "I left George and Styx keeping watch over the riverbank. I should get back to them or Molly will skin me. Gods be with you, Hermione."

Hermione braved a stoic smile. "May they watch over you and your family." Her brow wrinkled as she carried her broom through the south transept. "Who is Styx?"

"George's Thestral. Or a Thestral with an uncanny sense of attachment to George. She gave me the creeps when she first started hanging around, but she seems to be his closest friend since...," Arthur sighed and wandlessly opened the door. "Well. Here we are."

Hermione mounted her broom. With a parting nod to Arthur and the Auror, she flew up to where Tobias kept vigil. Landing soundlessly, she smiled when Tocky's ears twitched, seeming to pull the house-elf around to facing her. Tocky waved and tugged at his master's cloak.

"Halt! Who goes there?" Toby shot gruffly over his shoulder, his theatrical tone suggesting that he already knew the answer to the question.

"Only me," Hermione answered, moving to stand beside him. She peered over the edge of Tobias' position. "Seen anything?"

"Nothin' yet," Toby muttered. "Whole lot of mist and misery, but that's about it. Tocky says there's none of them Dementors in sight."

Hermione chewed her lip and sighed. "'Yet' being the word."

Toby rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Reckon. So far, everythin's runnin' to plan, I s'pose." He eyed her seriously. "And there's nothin' 'only' about you, lass. Guard yerself well. Sev'rus'll mope away t' rest of 'is life if y' don't. I've seen 'im crack the sads b'fore... 'e were only four, but 'e curdled milk up and down Spinner's End."

Hermione couldn't help an amused grin. She could easily imagine that a four-year-old Severus would have expressed his displeasure with intensity well beyond his years.

Toby cocked an eyebrow as she turned to go to her position below the imposing grace of the south bell tower. "Fair dinkum, 'e did! At t' time, I reckoned summat 'ad gone wrong in t' ice works. Now, I know it were our Sev'rus."

---

High above the centre of Paris, Severus held his broom in a motionless hover. Waiting. As he had waited before numerous raids in Riddle's service. As he had waited before the Battle of the Seven Potters. As he had waited for Albus to throw him another scrap of information. As he had waited for Riddle to give Nagini the order to kill. He waited as the python waits when it has tracked down its quarry – power coiled in ambush, trusting senses and instinct, secure in the knowledge that the prey has no choice but to come within range. But this time, Severus did not wear a mask of any kind.

Kingsley had given explicit orders not to kill Arawn on sight. Through a transient disappointment, Severus had understood the reasons. Arawn was the only known person who could provide, willingly or not, an explanation of how mind links with Dementors were established and maintained – as well as valuable insights into how the foul entities reasoned, perceived and planned. It would also be crucial to discover what incantation was used to disguise a Dementor as a shadow in order to devise a counter-spell. Severus had filled several sheets of parchment with some rough ideas on how it might have been done – and how a Dementor Eumorphus could be structured. His exploratory calculations agreed with the Healers' prognosis in that successfully disguising a Dementor depended on a bond between caster and subject... and that using it would expose the core and roots of the caster's magic – and soul – to slow, insidious depletion.

The fact that the Dementors had been partially consuming specific types of Muggles gave the problem another dimension of urgency – one that Number 10 Downing Street was definitely interested in. Nobody could even guess how long that little picnic had been going on, but it would certainly explain some of the horrendous stories taking the headlines in the Muggle newspapers. In recognition of the existing and potential danger, a secure contact between Auror Headquarters and the Muggle Secret Intelligence Service had been authorised by the British Prime Minister and the Minister for Magic. Privately, Severus thought that the nom de plume used by the contact was a little bit kitsch. "M" for Muggle. Indeed.

Still scanning his surroundings for any sign of trouble, Severus curled his lip in a sneer. He had, thank every god in every universe, not been present for the interrogation of Dolores Umbridge. Dosed into compliance with Veritaserum, she had revealed that her position as Senior Under-Secretary to the Minister for Magic had been essentially that of a parasite on an unsuspecting host. Loyal to Cornelius Fudge only for the power that he could grant her, Umbridge had identified the former Minister's weaknesses and exploited them mercilessly. Nudging him with rumours of discord, dissent, and disruption, she had succeeded in finding out just how well she could steer him. However, over the years, she had reached a point where Cornelius' basic decency began to prompt him to question her advice and recommendations.

Umbridge had visited Azkaban several times as part of her duties, and what she had seen there had whetted her appetite for enforcing regimented authority. But one occasion stood out for her as a turning point in her career ambitions: as she had walked past one of the dark hollows that passed for cells, a prisoner had thrown himself against the iron bars of the door, alternately snarling like a wild animal and screaming obscenities. Dolores had watched with some admiration as a Dementor glided toward the cell – and as the inmate collapsed on the floor in a silent, submissive, shivering heap. This was uncompromising control! Umbridge's mind had quickly outlined possibilities of using the creatures to extend her influence over Cornelius. Soon after, she had scheduled an appointment to meet with the Chief Administrator of Dementors.

The meetings between Umbridge and Arawn had quickly become regular events. Arawn provided the intellectual muscle – and several cold, silent subjects – for their research, and Umbridge set spurs to the pace with no-questions-asked funding and innocently phrased questions on the possibility of Dementors being used in targeted searches for criminal fugitives.

Upon reading the interrogators' report, Severus had concluded that Arawn had never truly been blind to the real nature of Umbridge's motivation. The Unpseakable had been as enamoured of power and control as the puffy pink toad had been – but Arawn's purpose had lain in a different direction. Severus had felt sick to his stomach when he read of how Umbridge had convinced Cornelius that Dementors would be effective bodyguards for the students of Hogwarts... and that they would be effective bodyguards for the Minister himself in the climate of unrest that had been generated by false rumours of Voldemort's return.

Umbridge had then engineered circumstantial proof for the sagacity of her advice and, simultaneously, removed any chance of the Minister being troubled by something she really didn't need him to know. She had watched Arawn feed the Minister's brooding bodyguard with memories drawn from several Azkaban inmates to see if highly charged memories really could help a Dementor home in on a specific target. One of those memories had featured Barty Crouch Jr – whose testimony would have caused far too many complications.

The Minister's mental state had continued to fracture and crumble, at times swinging wildly between affable bumbler and vicious accuser. He was, as Remus had grumbled to Severus after grimacing his way through a goblet of Wolfsbane Potion, "not in his right mind." With the constant, sinister presence of a soul-sucking bodyguard, and Umbridge's relentless goading of his fears, Cornelius really stood no chance.

Umbridge's rise to power had been ultimately evidenced by her certain guarantee of a plum position in the Ministry for a senior Slytherin in exchange for a memory of Harry Potter throwing one of his famous temper tantrums – which she personally fed to a Dementor.

After the attack in Little Whinging, her influence had coloured Cornelius' every move – the unscheduled relocation of Potter's hearing, the biased prosecution, and the blatantly nasty attempts to discredit any attempt at defence all held a touch of fluffy pink cardigan.

Severus had skipped the section featuring her Hogwarts appointments.

Brockdale Bridge had been the final straw for Cornelius Fudge. Umbridge had told him that the threat was false: mere illusions and lies spread by anarchists who sought to take power. The fatal reality, when it eventuated, could not be disguised.

The bridge had not been the only thing to collapse.

Kingsley had informed Severus that the former Minister for Magic now resided in St Mungo's Janus Thickey Ward, where he spent his days fussily signing imaginary decrees and chairing meetings with important officials that no-one else could see. In the evenings, he would consult his silver pocket watch and ask what was on the menu for supper... because one should never be late for meals, you know...

Severus had been gratified to read that under interrogation, the simpering, saccharine abomination had suffered some vivid flashbacks of her time with the centaurs, in which Bane had repeatedly sent her into a cave full of Mortis Bats to gather guano by hand – with casual warnings to watch out for flesh-eating cockroaches that would lay eggs under her fingernails. By the time Bane had forced her to retrieve all of the guano from the cave under threat of being kept in the Forbidden Forest forever, Umbridge had desired only one thing: to feel the cleansing touch of water. She had barged past the ranks of tail-swishing centaurs, trying not to notice their disgraceful state of nakedness, and dropped to her filthy knees at the edge of a nearby pool.

Severus had been immensely gratified to read the interrogators' description of the squealing shriek Umbridge had suddenly emitted – it had been loud enough to frighten the seagulls off Azkaban's ramparts. When forced to tell of her reasons for rendering the interrogators partially deaf, she had revealed that she had seen her own reflection in the still water.

In whimpering tones, she had told of Mortis Bat faeces and other undefined defilements coating her from head to toe, cockroaches clinging to her fluffy cardigan with their spiny legs hopelessly entangled, and that a cave centipede had decided that her hair bow would be a suitable place to coil up and have a rest. She had looked away from the pool and back to the centaurs who had gathered around her in an engrossed semi-circle to better observe their pungent captive. From her kneeling position, she had – in one of the interrogator's fairly illustrative phrasing – "got an eyeful of undercarriage" and had begun to scream in earnest. At that point, Bane and Magorian had thrown her into the pool, where a helpful swarm of eels immediately began an intimate search for hapless insects.

Severus had passed this useful information on to Hermione: it would prove that Bane and the other males of his herd were not guilty of what many openly prejudiced humans suspected. Having written "Centaurs – popular myth – debunk" in her scroll of Things to Do, Hermione had agreed that a centaur as mindful of honour as Bane would feel dreadfully ill and would need some of the unicorns' Grype Nut Substitutes if he so much as let the mythical propaganda cross his mind.

Still waiting, Severus allowed a sigh to slip between his clenched teeth as he perused the vista below him. At least he didn't have to keep an eye out for bloody Potter.

---

As soon as the Death Eater had Portkeyed to Calais, Arawn mounted his broom and flew low over the Seine, watching as shrouded forms rose into the air in snaking columns. Hungry, deadly, and ready, they restrained themselves – waiting for their entire company to assemble. Arawn fancied that he had taught them well. He reached into his robe and clasped the Llygad y Ddraig. A feverish rush of adrenalin swept through his blood. Yield to me...

---

Monsieur Roquefort was actually relived to see a trout Patronus leaping through the brisk stream of North Sea air that buffeted the Port of Calais. The waiting had been cold and tense, and he was more than in the mood to banish unwelcome invaders from French soil.

The silver trout sheltered in still air behind an ornamental planting, fanning its gills and adjusting its position with deft movements of its fins. "A Death Eater has just Portkeyed out of Paris. He's going to order the Calais infestation to advance."

Monsieur Roquefort nodded soberly. At least the message had not been delivered in a broad dialect – English was hard enough to understand at the best of times, with its flattened consonants and impossible vowels. He summoned his Patronus and, having given the proud, silver cockerel a message, dispatched it across the sea to Dover. It was time to send the Dementors back where they came from.

He signalled to his response team, pleased to see that the British Aurors also jumped to attention with wands at the ready. One of them was reported to have a lion Patronus – which should make for an interesting spectacle when it got among the Dementors.

---

"They don't know how to use it," Arawn said out loud, single-mindedly enamoured of the object held covetously in his hand. To his left and right, an escort of Dementors glided in voiceless malevolence. "They can never use it. They are afraid of it." But I am not afraid. I will use the Llygad's power. Snape cannot refuse me now. I'll show him the price of refusal, and I'll show him the meaning of...

"Going somewhere, Arawn?"

Arawn pulled up with a gasp. The silkily precise tones of Severus Snape had come from right above him.

The Dementors whirled quickly enough for their ragged shrouds to snap in the heavy air. Arawn sensed their confusion – they too had been caught by surprise.

Severus sat his broom with an air of stiff-backed dislike. Some distance behind him, the centuries old bulk of Cathedrale Notre Dame de Paris crouched like a monstrous creature waiting to pounce. In a sense, it was. "In fitting company, I see." He didn't raise a finger as Arawn flew up to face him. He didn't break eye contact with the renegade Unspeakable as the Dementors circled at a distance. He didn't give any sign that he noticed the steady stream of Dementors gliding up to join their fellows with the aim of ensuring that he could not escape.

"Come for your duelling lesson, Snape?" Arawn spat contemptuously. His expression turned quizzical. "You'll be a worthy opponent – you have enough backbone not to begin without declaring your presence. Or you're merely foolish."

Treating Arawn with the same bland ambivalence with which he had so often treated Bellatrix, Severus shrugged one shoulder. "I issued the challenge, Arawn. I do not ignore my own protocol." He gave a half-smirk. "Therefore, you are still unscathed."

Uncertain as to whether he was being taunted or not, Arawn gestured to the steadily building, shrouded masses. "My Dementors do not fear human magic," he hissed. "And they do not fear you."

"Perhaps not. But word in the Ministry is that they would very much like to consume both magic and myself. Maybe they are saving you for the last course."

"Word in the Ministry!" Arawn sneered. "After how many years' worth of injunctions and bloated focus groups?"

"Probably far too many," Severus conceded, noting that Arawn had ignored the prospect of his own demise by consumption. By conscious choice, or is he too far gone to even recognise the danger?

Arawn looked thoughtful. "Then you know how useless they can be. We could take action to remove so much dead, rotten wood." He fingered the Llygad y Ddraig, making sure that Severus could see it. "I have something that you want, and you can make all of this so much easier by unlocking its power. Think of how many lives you'll spare if you would just be reasonable."

"Reasonable? As in swear fealty to you and, at some point in the future, have one of your acquaintances half-Kiss me when I least expect it? What then? Use me as some sort of thrall to access the Llygad y Ddraig's secrets until you tire of having to share? Power desired, lusted after for its own sake, cannot be shared – and its effects are manifestly poisonous. Believe me, I know what longing after such things can do. And I doubt very much that obsessing over the Llygad y Ddraig is the only thing that has been slowly consuming you."

Arawn drew his wand. "When I want a lecture from you, I'll ask for one! Haven't you noticed that you are surrounded and outnumbered? That the odds against you are... Oh, you'll see. They will tear this city apart." His demeanour turned coolly sly, as though he had come to a definitive conclusion. "Are you afraid to release the Llygad's power? Too much of a coward to expose its secrets? I know it has something to do with Merlin..."

"Why would I be afraid of something that, by right of inheritance, is mine? Why would I relinquish any part of it to a perfidious ex-Unspeakable who takes Dementors, Death Eaters, and madness as his allies? By the way, if by 'odds' you are referring to your reinforcements, I'm afraid they are otherwise engaged."

Arawn visibly started. "What?"

"They're. Not. Coming." Severus added shock value to his statement by levitating the bundle Oriens had passed on to him. "See for yourself."

Arawn's next words froze in his throat as the wrappings slid away, leaving the ghastly trophies to stare at him accusingly.

Severus shifted slightly on his broom. With his thumb nail, he scratched a mark on a Galleon concealed in the palm of his hand. "Shall I restore the head to its proper size?"

"You lie!" Arawn screamed.

"With the evidence right before your eyes?" Severus tutted. "And you call the Ministerial minions useless."

Waiting just inside the secret entrance to the south bell tower, Hermione felt her Galleon warming in her hand, Severus' mark etched plainly on its surface. She alerted Petrus with three pinpoints of light from her wand.

The inside of the bell tower being too structurally complex to allow him to freely use his wings, Petrus swiftly negotiated the massive internal supports hand over hand, dropping between them, catching the next, and swinging to the next hand hold – much as Quasimodo had done so long ago.

He threw himself at the mechanisms – their electric motors disconnected by Arthur and Tobias – that had been installed to replace the once familiar medieval machinery and urged the great bell into motion. "Alles vite, mon ami, alles vite," he whispered. Catching Emmanuel's momentum, he delivered his prodigious strength in measured doses. The bourdon seemed to shake itself – a titan roused from slumber.

"Death Eater!"

"Ex-Death Eater. Shall I take that as a compliment, seeing that you appear to enjoy their company?"

"Coward!" Take him!

In one obscene wave, the Dementors surged towards Severus.

Severus' jaw clenched as he forced himself not to yield to the foul wind that ran before the soul eaters. Without producing the true Llygad y Ddraig which lay hidden against his skin, he removed the charms that concealed its power.

The Dementors blundered to a halt, jostling each other and confused by the sudden revelation of an immense amount of magical muscle. Severus could feel the questing tendrils of their consciousness, but was careful not to let a single one penetrate his mind. He channelled some more of his magic into his Occlumency shields. "Come to me," he murmured to the noxious entities. "I can reward you with far, far more than what he can." Merlin, be with me. Silently, he recited the chant that Merlin had used to call upon dragon-kind for aid.

The Dementors wavered, vacillating, evaluating...

Thirteen tons of bronze thrummed a deep, humming note. The air danced with overlapping vibrations. Emmanuel's oaken supports trembled and groaned.

"Pay the half-blood no heed," Arawn snarled imperiously. "All who know him say he is filled with deceptions and lies."

The Dementors hesitated. Two vital pulses dragged their hunger this way and that. But one was stronger, deeper, throbbing with ultimately devourable energy. Slowly, deliberately, the Dementors began to shift their positions.

Mine is bigger than yours , Severus thought with a satisfied smirk.

For a moment, Arawn seemed vaguely indecisive... then cast a Stunning Spell with a commendable lack of warning.

Severus was waiting for it. Attacking and defensive magic collided with a searing blast of sparks and a shuddering, molten hiss.

Arawn quickly disengaged and attacked again – two vivid cords leapt from his wand simultaneously, coming at Severus from different directions.

With the fluid ease of a master duelist, Severus wandlessly blocked a Disarming Charm and engaged a Body-Bind Curse. Breaking both connections and swerving steeply to the left, he cast an Anti-Disapparition Jinx.

Arawn deflected it and dived suddenly. Severus followed, rolling to avoid another Stunning Spell – and well aware of the Dementors' intention to feed on the first wizard to falter...

---

Ron spun into a low crouch, casting a silver shield in front of himself and Harry as a green-tinted curse ripped towards them.

With an explosive impact, the curse screeched across Ron's shield with the nerve-jangling pitch of fingernails griding across a blackboard.

Harry retaliated immediately, his teamwork training now part of his instinct – "Expelliarmus!" He squinted in recognition as his Disarming Charm ricocheted away from the target and fizzled into the pavement. "It's Rabastan Lestrange!" He sensed the next curse coming. "Come away!" he yelled, dragging Ron away from the display window just in time – the glass geometrically fractured into a cloud of spinning star knives which seethed towards them like a swarm of angry hornets.

Ron redoubled his efforts with the shield. With a sniper's reflexes, Harry ducked and weaved in and out of its protection, sending counter-curses and binding spells with grim-faced intensity. But the star knives kept coming, slicing away plasma-like gobbets of protective magic faster than Ron could patch them.

---

Petrus felt the power of the node roar up through the bell tower, swamping himself and Emmanuel in an eager torrent of galloping energy. "Now, Emmanuel! Let the filthy things know fear! Pour la France! Pour Paris! Liberté!"

---

Rabastan grinned to himself. No matter that what he had assumed to be an easy Muggle extermination had turned out to be a pair of wizards. They were experienced and well trained, he decided after several creative curses were successfully blocked, but he relished the opportunity for a challenge. Even more so, he relished the anticipation of what would happen when his knives got through the shield. They always did, sooner more often than later. Besides, this unexpected resistance wouldn't make any difference to the outcome of tonight's little adventure. There weren't enough wizards and witches in all of Paris to rebuff Arawn's Dementors – not to mention the approaching body of the army.

He was abruptly aware of the grin melting from his face. Even in dimly backlit outline, he would know her anywhere. The ridiculous antique cape. The composed, rather pear-shaped figure. The grotesque cudgel that made Bella's wand appear elegant. To engage her in a duel was asking for pain – the scars that she had given him on their last encounter shivered as though they wanted to peel away from his skin and run away without him. Blocking another Disarming Spell, he heard his own voice come forth in a shuddering gasp that was flattened to a frightened squeak as the voice of an immense bell issued from the cathedral in tones of thundering majesty, heralding a roaring tsunami of primal magic. "Senior Auror McPhee!" Showing neither honour nor courage, Rabastan Disapparated.

---

Hermione gasped when Emmanuel shook the stones beneath her feet in a tone so commanding and defiant it nearly brought her to her knees. It gave her pins and needles all over – and made her want to laugh and weep at the same time. I wonder if this is what they mean by Divine Wrath? she thought.

"Holy brown undies!" Toby gasped, unwilling to use any sort of profanity out of respect for the purpose of the building on which he stood. He had thought that perhaps the weight of ages gave the cathedral a convincing sense of presence, but now he knew there was something else: something unknowable and alive in a way that he could not fathom.

Beside him, Tocky stood at his full height with his eyes glowing emerald green. "This is being Deep Magic, Master Tobias," the house-elf whispered. "Tocky is knowing this. In all the world, none is deeper, none is older. It is speaking through the bell."

If Severus could give sound a colour, then Emmanuel sang in shades of living, liquid gold. He yielded slightly to the barreling shockwave and tasted elemental magic drawn from the planet's seething core – light as air, pure as water, sustaining as earth, and irrepressible as fire. It poured over him, through him, searching every part of his being and baring even those dark places he would have preferred to keep hidden. But it was useless to resist, for this magic was far beyond anything he had ever experienced, and Severus discovered that he didn't mind if it saw his thoughts and read his soul – it did not judge or condemn, nor did it hurt, taunt, or expose him. Feeling as though he had received some sort of healing touch, Severus was momentarily encapsulated in a peaceful sense of simply existing.

The fleeting sensation passed, and all he could see were the shrouded forms of Dementors, their ranks smashed asunder, swept before Emmanuel's onslaught in a helpless, tattered tangle. He searched for Arawn, spotting the Unspeakable looking at the cathedral with disbelief and rage. Their eyes met...

A fleeing Dementor collided with Severus, skewing the aim of his Stunning Spell and leaving him with the nauseating impression of having unwittingly plunged his hand into the cold innards of a submerged corpse, softened and putrid with rot. The Dementor was more interested in escaping than sampling his soul, but Severus threw a brutal pulse of infrasound point blank into its face just to be sure. Damn the swine! Where is he?

---

Minerva gripped Filius' arm as tremors of singing power roiled and boomed around them. "Merlin! Now there's a bell! Gie it laldy, Petrus!" She fidgeted excitedly. "Let's see our friends come to life!"

"Ow! Don't pinch," Filus grumbled, extricating his now bruised arm. "And you know they don't come to life..."

"Oh, let a witch dream, will you? Come on! I wouldn't have picked you for such a stick-in-the-mud." As she set off, she sent a pair of hissing, spitting cats after a frantic Dementor that was trying to escape in a westerly direction. "Oh, no you don't, you oversized bog wight!"

With an amused sigh, Filius steered his custom-built broom after the headmistress, keeping his eyes peeled for potential attacks. But even his caution couldn't hold back the excited smile which spread across his face. The intricate charm that he and Minerva had carefully crafted – the headmistress being responsible for working Piertotum Locomotor into the lattice sequence – and placed in readiness for this very moment was being activated...

The winged, the horned, the tusked, and the tailed – most with features scoured and scarred by time and wars – the pre-selected gargoyles of Paris began to move as Emmanuel's deep tone rolled over them. Shambling, climbing, limping, and loping, the animated stone forms headed for the bells of their consecrated homes.

In the streets of Paris, the few Muggles who had chosen to brave the menacing, soul-sapping weather emerged from cars and restaurants, theatres and bars. Those having faith crossed themselves and whispered prayers. Others stood and gaped in voiceless appreciation. Even though an inexplicable malaise of thought-muddling bewilderment hung over the entire city, nothing could blur the steady, strong tolling of Emmanuel as he stirred the hearts, minds, and souls of everyone who heard him.

In a broad arc to the west of Cathedrale Notre Dame de Paris, other bells began to ring. These were higher notes – some soft, some sharp, some mellow, some laughing – and they all merged to form a carillon that cavorted through every scale, skipping between chaotic order and orderly chaos. Beneath them all, Emmanuel marked the time and dictated the measure, supporting the smaller bells and lifting their chorus to the sky.

Minerva and Filius listened and watched in wonder. Minerva prodded her colleague's arm. "You have that calculating look about you, Filius," she said, keeping her voice low.

"I'm thinking that... if I were to describe what we're hearing... it sounds like fractal geomorphic Arithmancy expressed in sound – listen to those ratios between amplitude and..."

"Honestly, Filius! You and Septima are the only people I know who can go all dewy eyed over multi-thingummy power equations."

Several ragged groups of Dementors fled past them to the equation-free opening to the east, one of them looking decidedly clawed, and all of them harassed beyond endurance. A solitary Dementor quickly joined then, Ginny Weasley's silver horse nearly trampling its shroud.

Filius rolled his eyes and enthusiastically practised the non-Patronus method of Dementor repulsion simply because he wanted to and because it was fun... a bit like playing at nine-pin bowling. Other Patronus forms swooped into the air, luminous and graceful, ensuring that the Dementors did not escape in any other direction than the one they were supposed to. "Miss Granger enjoys solving them," he retorted, well aware of Minerva's fondness for the young witch. "They form the basis of everything: transfiguration, spell crafting, curses, counter-curses – even devising new potions. Ask Severus and Pugsley if you don't believe me."

Minerva smiled as one of her cats tore at a Dementor's head and returned to sit imperiously on the end of her broom. "Hmph. Each to their own. You can keep your brain benders, but I want one of those gargoyles to keep in my quarters. I really like that little winged monkey."

"Fly, fly, fly!" Filius muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Headmistress." You don't covet a pair of ruby red slippers, by any chance?

---

Rabastan didn't have much time to congratulate himself on his timely escape – Arawn was heading his way, demented with fury. Even more bells were ringing, forming a wide, resonant arc that soared to the low clouds and beyond. For a moment, Rabastan fancied that it formed some sort of wall, woven with intertwining notes voiced by a huge number of bronze throats.

"Leave the Muggles!" the renegade Unspeakable shrieked. "Attack the cathedral! Find whatever – whomever – is in there and destroy them!" Arawn's soulless gaze swept over a ragged group of half-souls. "Go in through the rear!" he shouted, pointing them in the right direction.

The half-eaten Muggles eyed him with fearful suspicion. Several of them shifted uneasily as they exchanged lost, bewildered mutterings with their brethren. Arawn realised that without the Dementors' mind links, the half-souls could break and run at any moment. "Imperio! Much better. Now run along to church, like good little Muggles. Whatever you find in there is yours."

Two masked Death Eaters approached at a brisk jog. "Nothing from Jugson," one of them gasped. The other, a tall, husky wizard, gave a derisive snort. "Gutless sod might've gone into hiding..."

"Enough!" Arawn barked. "Go with the half-souls. Kill any that turn back. They'll need some help to bring down that pile of stone." He turned to Rabastan, who had the look of one who hoped he wouldn't be noticed. "Get in there, and put a stop to that infernal noise."

---

"Master Tobias!" Tocky pointed down to the grassy enclosure where stonemasons working on the cathedral's ongoing restorations had stored their works in progress.

Toby searched through the drifting layers of damp chill. Like restless ghosts in a graveyard, he could see figures moving stealthily between blocks of half-carved stone, stopping every now and then to look about them. "At least they're 'umans of some sort. Best let them Aurors know, lad," he whispered. He fitted an arrow to his bowstring.

---

Arawn searched the horizon and examined the Portkey. There should be some sign from his reinforcements. But there was no message. No movement. Nothing. Narrowing his eyes, he decided to inspect the nature of the delay for himself.

---

The Aurors were quick to act. Toby noted robed figures on brooms, flashes of light, and spoken incantations without even blinking at the magic which he now regarded as simply another expression of "normal". Four of the prowling humans dropped to the ground, struggling in their bonds and swearing fitfully instead of uttering anything that sounded remotely magical. So they're not all wizards, he thought. His eyes locked on movement – a wand in the process of being raised while an Auror's attention was engaged in the wizarding equivalent of a gunfight – and the sinister glint of a silver mask. But that one is! In a single, detached action, Toby loosed his arrow and dropped the Death Eater mid-curse.

Something flashed in a shade of poisonous green. Tocky snarled and made a throwing motion with one hand. A ball of light ricocheted off the house-elf's shield and bounced off the magically fortified stones of the cathedral in a fountain of sparks, leaving not a single scratch.

Possibly tracking the lurid, hissing trace, another Auror dived at suicidal speed and leapt from his broom with the confident daring of a circus acrobat, dropping and rolling onto his feet in the midst of unfinished ornaments. He was challenged at once with a volley of explosive curses.

Toby whistled through his teeth. Whoever had engaged the acrobatic Auror was a real bruiser who had no trouble fighting two Aurors at once. Bugger's built like a brick shit'ouse... Something large, winged, and dark as a clot of shadow flew through his field of view, a red-haired wizard on its back.

The acrobat was in serious trouble – he barely managed to deflect something extremely violent which tore a large limb cleanly from a tree. From behind, another human shape leapt from the mist, a long hunting knife gleamed...

Toby acted automatically, disabling the knife bearer with an arrow through the shoulder as he heard the red-haired wizard shout, "Impedimenta!" The bruiser stumbled as though he had waded into a lake of molasses. A few more magical words had the bulky Death Eater trussed like a chicken, hanging from a convenient stone adornment, and silenced.

"Expecto Patronum! George! What in Sequana's name do you think you're doing?"

Toby recognized Arthur's airborne voice. Looking to the young wizard on the black, winged whatever it was, he felt a stab of dismay at the rebellious scowl and dismissive shrug that was flung back at Arthur's exasperated concern.

"Dementors!" Tocky raised one thin arm and pointed, his green eyes blazing with revulsion. "They is leaving! They is hating the Deep Magic! The Deep Magic burns them like white-hot needles through the bones."

Toby raised one eyebrow in slightly discomfited surprise. "'Ow d'you know that?"

"House-elves know, Master Tobais." Tocky replied distantly. He pulled his pillowcase a little closer about his body. "Deep Magic is our old friend. We is knowing."

Toby watched more broom-mounted figures crossing the air from street level to the clouds, their movements suggesting pursuit of invisible quarry, their wands marked by flashes of silver light. He saw Arthur sternly wave his son back to the banks of the Seine before darting into the thick of the airborne action. Searching for any sign of his own son, Toby considered that while he understood Arthur's concern, he thought it was a little unfair. Wizard or Muggle, boys should be allowed to grow into men.

---

The first few Dementors emerged from the Calais sewers with orderly stealth, unaware of the Patronus forms sent down to flush them out into the open – and unaware that they were being observed.

Roquefort consulted his charmed map, which showed the entire network of branching underground tunnels and their access points. Many of these access points bore a silver star, which indicated a Patronus form waiting to participate in what had been dubbed, with predictable British toilet humour: "The Great Dementurd Flush". Trois... deux... une...

Dementors erupted out of the sewers like rats stampeding from a gang of stoats. All stealth abandoned, the manhole covers were left to clang and roll noisily down the empty streets. A magnificent silver lion burst out of the underground, mane bristling and claws spread wide on paws the size of dinner plates. The Dementors fled before it, but the lion moved above them, keeping them down with great swipes of its huge paws. The lion did not act alone. A swarm of Patronus forms poured in from all directions – corporeal and non-corporeal – surrounding the Dementors and holding them in one, writhing, tightly packed mass.

---

"Bloody Aurors and everybody bloody else! Where'd they all come from?" Rabastan muttered to himself. He knew that somehow Arawn's plan had been exposed and would not be running to the envisaged schedule. His colleagues, and the half-souls, appeared to have walked straight into an ambush. Still, he would not risk making a run for it just yet. Aurors preferred to capture. Dementors preferred to Kiss. Arawn would definitely kill. "Alohomora," he hissed petulantly, scowling at one of the lesser doors as though he would rather have blown it to bits. Once inside, he looked around the echoing, cavernous space. There was something about it that he instantly hated. Unsure of how to ascend to where the offending bell ringer was ensconced, Rabastan thumbed through a tourist brochure. With fervent expletives, he memorised the route he would need to take to get up to a great, noisy bell referred to as "Emmanuel". "Three hundred and something friggin' steps," he swore under his breath. Wand raised, he began to climb the stairs.

---

"'Old ze Dementors down! 'Old zem!" Roquefort screamed in English. A pair of shining border collies streaked through the air to round up a would-be escapee, herding it back into the pack with enthusiastic efficiency.

Roquefort sent his plumed, spurred cockerel back into the fray and shot a glance into the slumbering darkness above the North Sea. He had been told that help would come from this direction – and when it did, he was not to be afraid. More importantly, no one was to raise a wand against whatever help it might be. Any 'elp would be welcome, he thought. As satisfying as zis is, we cannot keep up our energies forever.

A spark of orange light pierced the darkness. Two more sparks answered, like fireflies conversing in a luminous language.

The number of sparks doubled and brightened, approaching swiftly in a broad wedge – a seventh took the lead and the sparks rapidly grew to streams of fire.

"Merde!" Roquefort felt dread seep from the marrow of his bones to the tips of his hair. Was this the advertised help? Ever mindful of his duties, he steered his broom aloft, putting himself between now audible clarion calls and the increasingly distracted Dementor attack forces. "Minds on ze job!" he roared through a Sonorus spell in French and in English. "All of you! Keep your courage and 'old ze filth down!"

Kingsley was suddenly at his side, his features held between savage elation and unashamed fear. "Here comes one hell of a cavalry!" he growled.

Roquefort shook his head in horrified confusion. "But 'ow...?"

"Never mind. No time." Kingsley's amplified voice called for a monumental leap of faith. "Drop the charms when the dragons get here – and for the blessed love of all the gods, hold your fire!"

A blast of wind and heat nearly swept the two wizards from the sky. A triple-toned, melodic roar rang in their ears, and they caught a flashing glimpse of deep green scales and inscrutable amber eyes.

Two enemies of Dementors mingled in a dazzling riot of silver form and red-gold fire. For a moment, it seemed that the Patronus animals delighted in the presence of seven Welsh Greens as they danced between the searing jets of flame and leapt over the dragons' backs before fading away, their eyes filled with reluctance.

---

Hermione stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to stop herself squealing with excitement as the air began to clear, revealing a pristine night sky dotted joyfully with stars. She readied herself to summon her Patronus to send a message to Petrus... and gasped as her eyes filled with tears of compassion.

Above the city, an enormous dragon – a Ukrainian Ironbelly, for no other dragon grew to such a size – released a curling plume of flame. Around each of the dragon's legs, Hermione saw the cruel glint of scarred metal. "It's you," she whispered.