The Bell, The Spear, and The Book – Part Two

A/N:

French – English (Google Translate)

Adieu – Farewell

Approprié – Appropriate

Je peux y voler – I can fly there

Moi – Me

Mon Dieu – My God

S'il vous plait – If you please

Due to my inability to keep to word limits, this chapter will be presented in three parts.

Petrus' reference to the heart is remembered and adapted from the Upanishads of India. If I can ever recall or find which Upanishad it came from, I will give a proper citation.

'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.

Many thanks to TeaOli for beta reading, helpful suggestions, and plenty of laughs. I was naughty and added a post-beta sentence here and there, so mistakes are my fault entirely.

---

Keeping her eyes on the dragon, Hermione summoned her Patronus and sent it to alert Petrus with a predetermined message: the Dementors were retreating eastwards, and a few more hearty peals should do the job nicely. As her merlin streaked away like a small feathered comet, she mounted her broom – a single purpose burning in her mind as she left the cathedral behind.

Come on, faster! Gods, I wish I had Harry's Firebolt! She flew higher, following the dragon as it banked and spat a jet of flame after the routed Dementors. Her heart soared when she saw how healthy the old dragon looked. She drew her wand. Just a little closer... Good! I'm in range. "Relashio!"

Her charm wrapped around the iron fetters in a mist of bright sparks. Two sharp cracks rang out. The bonds of imprisonment fell away, tumbling down to make twin splashes in the River Seine, where Sequana would obligingly ensure that they rusted away to nothing.

The dragon turned its head. It scanned the air behind itself – and then down a little. A pair of liquid ruby eyes locked onto Hermione.

"Oh gods, it can see! Er... Gotta go!" Hermione swung her broom around in as tight a turn as she dared, trying not to think of Harry's desperate flight from a Hungarian Horntail. A sickly yellow curse screeched up from the streets, heading straight towards her and too quick for her to cast a shield. Without really thinking about it, she let go of her broom and dropped below it, prepared to let herself fall and rely on a well-timed Arresto Momentum. Above her, her broom exploded in a flaming ball.

---

"Hermione!" Neville seized his broom, ready to fly to the rescue. From behind a wall to his right, he heard Draco yell, "Stupefy!"

Neville froze mid-mount, staring upwards with his mouth open. "Draco? Oi! Draco! Are you seeing this too, or have I been hit with something weird?"

Draco checked that the Death Eater who had tried to blast Hermione to pieces was well and truly stupefied, scrambled back over the wall, then followed Neville's gaze. "Merlin's Beard...," he breathed.

---

Hermione gritted her teeth against the sickening pull of gravity, willing her eyes to stay open, her mind to stay calm, and to not start screaming Severus' name. I can do this... The neat Parisian streetscape rushed towards her...

What...? She was looking at the dragon from above. She was falling towards it slowly. No, I'm not falling slowly... it's descending slower than I am... Her confusion turned to mute astonishment as she landed on the dragon's back with a gentle, somewhat graceless thump. Gasping, she wriggled to a sitting position with a death grip on two of the dragon's dorsal spines, slipping one leg between them so that she was astride the high ridge of its backbone. Hermione tried to find her voice, but only managed something between a sob and a hiccough. Looking straight ahead, her view of the gracefully tilting world was flanked by a pair of dragon ears. She was suddenly certain that the dragon was female. "She", not "it"... Now how did I come to that conclusion... WhoaaaMerlinhelp!

Hermione willed her stomach to stay in its proper place as the dragon banked again, climbing twice her body length with a single mighty sweep of her wings. With a rumble that began somewhere deep in her ribcage, the dragon let out a low, undulating, sonorous call that sounded very like a summons.

Swift, broom-mounted movement flickered to the left. Hermione turned to look, her heart nearly bursting with relief. "Severus! Thank the gods, you're safe! Oh, love! Severus, I'm fine! I don't think she's going to hurt me! She saved me, did you see?"

Severus nodded, steering his broom on autopilot as he slipstreamed in the dragon's wake, his body reflexively shifting to compensate for turbulence.

"Look how red she is! Like the dragon in Merlin's cipher! I remember Hagrid saying that Ukrainian Ironbellys go a bit red in their old age... Did you know it, too?"

Severus opened his mouth as if to speak, then simply nodded again.

Hermione started to laugh. Severus' black eyes were wide in his pale features, and he had not yet said a word. Her beloved was absolutely, adorably, thunderstruck.

---

Rabastan braced himself against the curving stone wall, ordering himself not to lose his stomach contents. The closer he got to the cathedral's bourdon, the worse he felt. His head throbbed in time to the monstrous peals of the bell – he could feel the vibrations drilling into his clenched molars – and some dreadful force lanced his muscles and bones with hidden fire. Another bout of painful retching had him looking around desperately. He pointed his wand at the wall. "Defodio!"

With a groan, he slid down to sit on one of the steps as his spell work produced nothing but agonizing pain. Through the rippling patterns in his vision, he made out the shape of a door not far above him. Crawling up the stairs, he reached the door and pushed it open. He fell into a cold night breeze, catching himself on his hands before he landed, face down, on dressed stone.

Gulping air, he got up and looked around. He was standing on a narrow walkway between the two bell towers. Feeling dazed and sick, he wandered distractedly until his eyes rested on a tall spire, flanked by statues, rising above the spine of the cathedral. It presented the opportunity for a compromise: if he could not physically climb the stairs and murder the bell ringer, he could probably attack the entire south bell tower from the spire – it appeared to have a crow's nest arrangement for just such a purpose. Fumbling slightly, he dragged his broom from a large pocket in his robes and winced through "Engorgio." Rabastan waited until another wave of nausea passed, then made a short, shaky flight over to the spire.

As soon as his feet touched a solid surface, something arrested his questing vision. Down on one of the ramparts above the flying buttresses, he could see a man moving about. A man – and a house-elf. As he watched, the house-elf reached up and took the man's hand. They both vanished with a distant pop, then reappeared on a wide, flagged tier over which the highest, most delicate arms of the flying buttresses soared to touch stone walls.

Rabastan fished an eyeglass out of his pocket. "Telescopium," he muttered, touching it with his wand. He peered through the glass and hummed softly to himself. "And what have we here? Bow and arrows – not a wizard's choice of weapon... I wonder, could this be the same fellow who gave Arawn a persistent limp? If it is, there's a prize for his corpse – a fairly generous one."

---

Petrus raised his head when Mademoiselle Hermione's merlin swooped boldly around him, nearly brushing his nose with its ethereal wings. "Ah! Cheeky falcon! You show the mischief that your mistress keeps on the tight rein, non?" The merlin perched high above Emmanuel and bobbed its head three times – this being the signal for Petrus to stop ringing the bell. Needing to keep his ears well flattened to protect them from the noise, he would not have heard a spoken message. Petrus grinned and braced himself, gleefully roaring, "Ave Maria!" as he gave Emmanuel the means to shake the bell tower to its foundations a few more times.

As the bourdon began to slow and settle under his careful ministrations, Petrus chanted a blessing, coaxing the wildly surging magic into calm restfulness. He kept chanting until Emmanuel stood still, quivering slightly with a barely audible hum. Knowing that this would continue for some time, he bade his bronze friend adieu and swiftly made his way down the spiralling stairs on foot.

At the door leading out to a narrow walkway between the two bell towers, he came to a sudden halt. Ears pricked, he snuffed the air, grimacing at the taste... the faintest trace... of evil.

---

Severus had never been so close to a live dragon before. The last thing he had ever expected to feel was gratitude. Temporarily shelving the inconvenient annoyance of Arawn's disappearance while he sped to snatch Hermione out of the sky, he had seen the enormous dragon intercept his witch's fall as attentively as a Welsh Green dam would catch an overtired dragonet on its first flight – a deeply moving spectacle that he had observed, only once, from a very safe distance.

The Ukrainian Ironbelly's wings flexed slightly as the dragon adjusted the air pressure beneath them, allowing her to gain altitude with very little effort.

Still slipstreaming, Severus caught the scent of the creature – heat-softened metal, scorching sparks, air rippling dry and hot from a blast furnace. It evoked a bittersweet memory... Lily and himself, in the blacksmith's shop on the Salford Docks, hands clamped over their ears just as Mr Evans had told them to do, watching in awe as a lump of glowing steel was deftly shaped into a perfect hexagonal shaft.

The Llygad warmed his chest. A sibilant voice with a tone not unlike the described sound of Parseltongue – but richer, older, accented with strong syllables, resonant growls, and treble hisses – spoke directly into his mind:

Arkhré-ach nu, Sévérūs. Khea-ourskh, Sévérūs gnaveâ Myrddin.

Severus shook his head and called to his witch. "Hermione? Did you just say something?"

"Not me!" she shouted back, still keeping her hands firmly clamped around a dorsal spine. "But she rumbled a bit just then – and sort of hissed."

Severus flew level with the dragon's head, forcing himself to keep his nerve as "she" observed him with an air of detached amusement. Her worn yellow teeth were easily two feet long and backlit by an orange glow that flared and dimmed with her vast breaths. Severus hoped that she wouldn't notice that he wore boots made of dragon hide – even if the donor had died of natural causes. "Her eyes are clear, Hermione!" he called again, recalling Hermione's description of the once imprisoned dragon's near blinded state. Was it simply better nutrition, or did she receive some healing? But who could have healed her? His eyes narrowed. I have my suspicions... A thought challenged him. I suppose if I can talk to a half-Kneazle, I can try talking to... to a dragon. Bloody hell. "Did Fawkes – a phoenix – heal your eyes, by any chance?" he asked the dragon, trying not to swerve away as she swivelled an ear in his direction.

Awrrgron yé né phœnechs. Khea-ourskh, Sévérūs! Réâgh! Gnœr eskh nu-a schérâkh.

At an increasing distance to the east, the dark shadow of massed Dementors fled in ragged retreat, tumbling over itself like some grotesque parody of a sea fog. It seemed as though the air it had passed through was left dry and desolate, tainted with hatred's poisonous chill.

"Severus, look!" Hermione pointed to the shadow.

Long streams of bright yellow fire appeared at the shadow's flanks, harassing the cold menace like herding dogs at the heels of obstinate cattle. Over the hollow thunder of the red dragon's flight, Severus could make out a distinctive, yowling screech. Gods! Hungarian Horntails!

Réâgh! The Ukrainian Ironbelly emphasised the instruction with a smouldering growl, flames flickering between her teeth.

The Llygad felt suddenly hot, as though it were glowing with a power that threatened to burst through its confinement. Merlin's magic unceremoniously punched through Severus' uncertainty. Gathering his resolve, he allowed his ancestor's magic to complement his own...

Quickly! He jumped at the abrupt translation which came as forcefully as the dragon's urgently repeated instruction. I will carry you, Severus, blood-kin of Merlin. Quickly! Come with me and fly with your wingless mate.

Severus unconsciously copied his wingless mate's habit of biting the lower lip. He miniaturised his broom, stuffed it into his coat pocket and flew under his own power. "Yes, I can fly without wings," he said in response to the dragon's rather abstract stare, being careful to keep sarcasm out of his tone.

"If she's asking you to do something, please do it," Hermione warned. "I think she's getting impatient – and going all fidgety."

"Far be it from me to test the patience of a dragon," Severus proclaimed with true sincerity. He flew over the dragon's back and landed neatly between the next pair of dorsal spines behind Hermione. A Cushioning Charm was necessary before he felt comfortable enough to survey his position. They were sitting right between the immense wings that stretched out on either side, the tips just visible in the starlight. This was a good position, Severus decided, feeling the smooth spines that pressed snugly into his lower back and abdomen. Ukrainian Ironbellys possessed fused thoracic vertebrae – an adaptation for structural strength to contend with unimaginable flight forces – which meant that the dragon could not forget they were there, arch backwards, and mangle them both. "This wasn't part of the plan at all," he said resignedly, "but saying, 'No, thank you, now may I please have my witch back?' would not have been advisable."

"You might have hurt her feelings," Hermione replied, ignoring Severus' spontaneous eye roll as she consolingly patted a dorsal spine.

"Spare me the... Never mind. Expecto Patronum!"

A little surprised at how untroubled she felt at being a dragon's passenger, Hermione bit her lip to stop herself smiling. Severus' falcon looked just as wind ruffled as he did – even more so when Severus began a precisely dictatorial message to deliver to Kingsley regarding a "slight change of plan". Hermione quietly laughed in her sleeve as the falcon departed to deliver its news. She could have sworn that the ethereal peregrine had given its owner a professionally sullen scowl.

The Ukrainian Ironbelly gave a long, penetrating call that seemed to resonate to the horizon, then laid back her ears, stretched out her neck and roared. A jet of flame warmed the air ahead of her, and spiralling columns of sparks rolled back along her flanks. Hermione could see the deep, heaving movement of wing joints under scaled hide as the dragon shifted from easy cruising to distance consuming speed. "Severus?"

Severus reached forward and wrapped his arms around Hermione as though it were the usual thing to do while riding a dragon. "Yes, my love?"

"She – the dragon – talked to you, didn't she? In a proper language. And you could understand her through Merlin's magic?"

"She did, indeed. And I could."

Hermione wriggled around to look at him. "Does that make dragons beings, do you think?"

"At the moment, I would like to think so." He scowled and shook his head. "The arguments surrounding proposed amendments to the definition of 'being' would take, I imagine, centuries." Even without Legilimency, he knew the focus of Hermione's concern. "But I believe that we, with our combined efforts, will ensure that dragons are never, ever, imprisoned again."

Hermione nodded grimly. "If we get through this. I'm putting a lot of faith in that vision you had of two black-haired children."

Severus couldn't help a small smile of masculine pride. He placed two fingers under Hermione's chin, all the better to properly position her for a kiss... which continued on... for longer... than he intended. It was an intoxicating mixture, feeling Hermione melt into him – challenging him to match her passion – while a magical being of terrifying power carried them into certain danger. Just at the point where he would have blissfully lost himself in the stolen moment, a comment from the dragon made him pull away with a soft laugh.

"What did she say?" Hermione asked, intuitively placing her suspicion in the correct place.

"She said that before we go too far in our mating rituals, we should ensure that we have a well-built nest in place prior to our dragonets' arrival."

Hermione felt herself blush. "Well, I suppose she would know," she said, turning to face the front again.

A buck rabbit Patronus appeared alongside them, running at a pace to outstrip a bullet from a farmer's gun. "Password!" it demanded in Auror Proudfoot's voice.

"Hares and hounds," Severus answered.

"Dover is clear! Once we'd got the Dementors out into the open, two flights of seven Welsh Greens came roaring in from sod all nowhere – fourteen dragons in all! Fourteen! Nobody had ever seen the like of it – but the timing was perfect! Seven of 'em kept going over the sea on a bearing that'd take them straight to Calais. Merlin, we were bloody terrified, but those fine specimens of Ormr cymru ignored us and gave the Dementors one hell of a flaming hurry-up – and pursued them due east from the Dover shore. Keep your eyes peeled if you come across them. Auror MacFusty said he thought he saw a pair of Hebridean Blacks in the mix as well – the first warning you get with those purple eyed stealth flyers is a charred arse.

"I'm in Calais now. I'll give Kingsley and the French Obliviators a hand with the clean up before we Portkey to Paris. Kinsgsley said that the entire Calais infestation was also packed up and sent due east with dragons hot on their shrouds. He says he'll try and catch up with you, but if he can't, he wishes you the best of luck with whatever the next phase turns out to be. His orders for you and Miss Granger are not to get eaten – by anything – and to come back alive. If you come back as ghosts, he'll be very cross." The Patronus ran a few more strides before fading into the night.

"What did they do with the Dementors in London?" Hermione asked, absently reaching down to stroke the dragon's scales.

"I believe that they were handed over to the Department of Mysteries for unspeakable experiments."

Hermione shuddered. "Ugh!" She gripped Severus' hand. "You told Kingsley that she's taking us to the city you saw – the place where your Sight showed you a hooded person holding the spearhead from Macsen's treasure."

"Yes, she is taking us to Pripyat," Severus murmured, wondering against ungrounded speculation as to who the hooded person might be. He scowled into the darkness, in two minds as to whether he would have preferred the company of wizards and witches – as he had originally planned – or an alarming number of dragons.

Ahead of them, the dark wall of Dementors flinched with the pyrotechnic wrath of dragon fire. Behind them, the lights of Paris twinkled distantly. Beneath them, the red dragon carried them onward...

---

Murmuring sacred Sūtras and invoking Buddha's Mercy as Emmanuel's voice softened into silence, Oriens took only a little time to absorb the doings of the Ukrainian Ironbelly as it flew over, and out of, Paris. His duties did not extend beyond the city, and he would not disregard an instruction to stay back and assist wherever he could. Trusting in the great, traceless power that he referred to as "The Way", he knew he was there for a reason.

A mongoose Patronus danced sinuously around his broom. "One Death Eater, stunned and bound. Please follow to collect," it said. Oriens signalled the Auror who flew alongside him and followed the mongoose as it bounded through the air with its head and ears up, its tail held aloft in a declaration of war.

The mongoose lead them down to a narrow lane between a clothing boutique and a stone wall surrounding a small two-storey house that time had most likely forgotten.

A young wizard hailed him and pointed to the tiny yard behind the house. A short distance away, another wizard sat with his back against a wall, resting his blond head on his knees. "He's in there. The bastard tried to curse our Hermione. Draco took him down."

"I'll look after our new friend," the Auror told Oriens. He indicated the two young men. "They're two of Hogwarts' students. The dark-haired one is Neville Longbottom – the one who beheaded Nagini. The other one... well, the less said, the better."

As the Auror dropped into the yard to formally apprehend the Death Eater, Oriens dismounted in the lane to make sure that the students were unhurt. "Any injuries, gentlemen?" he asked without preamble.

"No, sir," Neville answered. "At least, not physical ones." He turned his body slightly towards his blond companion, who had raised his head but made no move to stand up. "Draco was fine until a few minutes after he stunned the Death Eater. I'm not sure if that dragon spooked him, or if it's just... just everything."

Oriens watched Draco with careful concern. Moving slowly, he crouched down in front of the young man until hesitant eye contact was made. Terrible pain... A heavy burden... Lost... Dreadfully lost... Oriens could see it all there in a single glance. "Where does it hurt, Draco?"

Draco reddened and raised his hands despairingly. "Nobody has ever asked me that question before," he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. "It hurts everywhere," he said suddenly, desperately. "It hurts so much and it won't stop... I don't know how to make it stop..."

Oriens sat back on his heels and studied Draco for a moment, using his skills as an Unspeakable – and his nonhuman senses – to divine the young wizard's truth. Slowly, the impression of Draco's Fate-spun path began to emerge from the Unknown. "You were never meant to cause harm to anyone," Oriens stated, having seen enough to make a diagnosis. "But you have done so, and that is the root of your pain." He took hold of Draco's left wrist and pushed back the sleeve while the blond wizard watched, unresisting and miserable. "One who has been taught how to hurt, must learn how to heal," he said, resting his index and middle finger over the small, round scar left by Voldemort's branding. "Thus is the balance of your soul restored."

"It's too late," Draco murmured, shaking his head.

"Codswallop!" Neville snorted. "You've heaps of time – we're not even out of school, yet. And if I were you, I wouldn't go telling Snape that you think it's too late, or else it really will be. Didn't he turn out to be the wizard you just don't mess with! Did you see him fly right up to that dragon? Gods!"

Draco wiped his eyes. "I wouldn't dare. I know he put his soul on the line for me. I wouldn't have been born in the first place if he hadn't carved a bind rune out of turquoise and stained it with Merlin knows what potion to stop Mother miscarrying. He saved her life. If she lost a third child – me – Grandfather was going to poison her. Father couldn't let that happen..." He managed a weak smile. "Hermione was riding the dragon. It saved her. I saw that." He hung his head, ashamed. "And the best I could do for all those years was call her a Mudblood," he whispered. "And I let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. I tried to murder..." His upper lip curled slightly. "Still think it's not too late?"

Oriens stood up and held out a hand to help Draco to his feet. "Ultimately, Draco, you shall be the one to answer that question. But the answer may take some years to find." He considered the natural aptitudes he had seen in Draco's path – the path he had been forced away from by having to be someone else. No wonder he feels lost. Young Malfoy would never be personable enough for frontline Healing, but he did possess the intelligence, patience, and tenacity that could lead to great discoveries in the often solitary field of applied research.

Oriens had an idea. "Draco, when you have completed your N.E.W.Ts, how would you feel about undertaking further study abroad?"

Draco shrugged. "I've been toying with the idea – maybe somewhere in Eastern Europe... if they'll take me on. Some place where my name means nothing..." Curiosity furrowed his brow, and he stood a little straighter as he took refuge in social etiquette. "Sir, do you have something in mind?"

Oriens summoned his broom. "I do. If you are agreeable, I'll speak with the Sage of Borobudur to secure a three-year apprenticeship with the school's Master Healer. There are three positions available. So far, there is only one applicant."

Draco blinked. "Healing? Borobudur? In Java? I mean no disrespect, but did I hear you correctly?"

Oriens gave an enigmatic smile. "You did. Be advised that Borobudur follows a Buddhist tradition," he said gently. "They only use herbs, various plant parts, and minerals gleaned from the Earth. No creature's life is taken for medicines – or for sustenance," he added with meaningful emphasis.

Draco paced, his mind quickened with the prospect of a real future that didn't involve watching light fade from dying eyes. "Sir, if you would speak to the Sage on my behalf, I would be most grateful," he replied with his most formal bow. He stood still and stared at his boots. "The truth is... I've seen..." He shivered. "I can't stand the sight of joints of meat anymore. Especially if they're medium rare... and on a dining table. In fact, dining tables give me nightmares, and I never want to sit at one ever again."

Oriens considered the dining arrangements of Borobudur: simple woven sitting mats spread on the floor, giving easy access to a carpet of banana leaves piled high with fruit, steamed rice, and clay pots containing a bewildering cornucopia of spice-fragrant dishes. "If you wish to avoid dining tables, nobody in Borobudur will consider that unusual. I'll be in touch," he said, shaking Draco's offered hand before taking flight.

Neville watched Draco's surprise benefactor go. "Merlin, I think the Fates smiled on you tonight, Malfoy." He vaguely wondered if either of them had caught the benefactor's name... but couldn't remember... He grinned affectionately as his Patronus returned from another scouting mission. "Hey, you," he said to the silver mongoose.

Draco watched the lithe, glowing creature as it gambolled around Neville's feet, pausing on every second circuit to raise its sleek head and gaze at him with intelligent eyes. "I'm still working on mine," he said. "I'm not sure if I have the right sort of happy memories. Or maybe I'm just worried that it'll be a ferret," he added, shoving one hand into his pocket with embarrassment.

"Give it time; the memories will come. Chin up! My Patronus only took a corporeal form after the war. Before that, it was just a blobby thing... Not sure why it came out as a mongoose."

Draco's brow creased, and then he gave a short laugh. "Compulsory Muggle Studies!"

Neville arched an eyebrow. "And the explanation, sir?"

Draco actually grinned. "For my library assignment, I had to select and read two pieces of classic Muggle literature from the inter-library loan catalogue. When I got stuck for a second choice, Petrus suggested The Jungle Book, by Rudyard Kipling."

It was Neville's turn to smile. "Sorry, I haven't read it, but the title sounds fun – so unlike you."

"Thank you. I liked the story so much that I focussed on it for my essay topic. In that same book is another small side story about a mongoose who protected a boy from two cobras – Nag and Nagaina. The mongoose killed them both."

Neville's eyes widened in surprise at the cobras' names. "So Voldemort was inspired by Muggle literature? Who'd've thought..."

Draco shrugged. "He probably read it during his days in that Muggle orphanage." His eyes held a flicker of repugnance. "But I'm inclined to think that he would have wanted the cobras to win and kill the entire family. Slowly."

"I'd rather not think about it. Hey, you'll be heading into a real jungle!"

"If I run into any talking pythons, I promise I'll be careful."

---

"Do Dementors 'ave ears?" Toby asked uncertainly, needing to say something reasonably meaningless after watching a real, live fire-breathing dragon swoop over the city and carry both Hermione and Severus away on its back.

Tocky hopped from one foot to the other. He had been just as captivated as his master had been at the sight of the huge creature and had needed to bite his hands quite hard to stop himself from applauding and attracting unwanted attention. "They doesn't, Master Tobias, but they is being able to hear. Tocky isn't knowing how." The house-elf lowered his voice to a whisper. "The Deep Magic has hurts them terribly – Tocky is thinking this is good. Tocky wonders what that says about Tocky."

"That you reckon it feels good to kick their arses? So do I."

The house-elf glanced up at him and shrugged. "Tocky is not knowing if they have..." Tocky squeaked, then froze. Literally.

Toby hissed an oath. The house-elf's entire body was entombed in ice. He turned around...

It came out of the blue – a hammer blow to his chest, a sharp, stinging scourge that pulled at his skin, then faded to a crawling itch. Toby knew by instinct that had he not been wearing the armour Severus had given him, he would have been seriously injured. Cold with fury, he faced the wizard responsible, sensing spent traces of magic sliding down his body in foul, clammy threads.

Rabastan Lestrange gaped in momentary shock. This was the third time in a row that he had been thwarted. The curse should have turned the Muggle's – and this time, he was sure it was a Muggle – skin into a weeping mass of raw ulcers, yet the inferior creature was unscathed. Furthermore, it was snarling insults and had the temerity to sight him down an arrow. He cast a shield just in time – the Muggle's arrow bounced harmlessly away and clattered into a flying buttress. The remains of Rabastan's curse pooled on the stones and evaporated.

"Hah! A Muggle in charmed armour," he shouted, remembering details of the Goblin Wars. "And where did a knuckle dragging primitive like you get hold of a wizard's armour?" He stopped suddenly. His eyes narrowed venomously. "You! You look like... Could it be? Moloch's Mother-in-law! Oh, this explains much – you're a Snape!"

"Rather me than you, sport," Toby growled, wondering if it was actually possible to "get out of this one".

Rabastan shook with rage and hatred. "Muggle maggot! Air-thieving parasite!" He raised his wand. "Let's relieve you of that which you should not have and then give you some lengthy lessons in respect!"

Toby fitted another arrow to his bow, staring his challenger directly in the eyes and instantly loathing the air of arrogant superiority that he saw there. The little red dragon on his arm guard extended its claws and seemed to roar at the wizard – who was grinding his teeth fit to fracture them. A movement above the south transept caught Toby's attention. A familiar silhouette. He only gave it a glance, but it was enough to alert his attacker.

Rabastan turned side-on to the Muggle, but before he could risk a proper look, something glided over his head, spun in mid-air and dropped lightly between him and his intended pupil. He looked the intruder up and down, then laughed. "Gods! Is that all? An animated gargoyle?"

The animated gargoyle growled and took a step towards him.

"Oh, please." Rabastan casually flicked his wand: "Finite Incantatem."

The gargoyle froze. With a creeping ripple, it turned to inanimate stone – blind, deaf, dumb, and harmless.

"Should've run while you had the chance, Muggle!" Rabastan called around the gargoyle's still form. "I'll just get this rubbish out of the way, and then we can have a nice little chat. Expulso!"

---

He could smell it before he reached it: blood, churned mud, excrement, sweat – and fear. Arawn strode to the crest of a hill and beheld what he simply could not believe. The site where his army – trolls, Dementors and all – had been encamped was an empty swathe of complete annihilation.

By wandlight, he examined the heavily pocked ground. Blast craters, shattered rocks marked with crystalline burn scars, the itching tang of conquered Dark magic. Here and there in the semi-frozen agitation, he could see distinctive shapes clearly marked: hoof prints. Baffled and still disbelieving, he sent out a summons for any Dementors in the vicinity and searched for any further clues.

Broken wands, torn pieces of Muggle clothing, a fragment of a silver mask. No bodies. No Dementors.

He noticed part of a troll's club protruding from the ground. Summoning it, he examined the broken piece, puzzling over the deep indentations in the wood. A mace, of some sort? Who could have...?

As he mused, a great, rushing wind swept through the forbidding darkness of the forest. The treetops tossed violently, seeming to gesture in his direction, pointing and accusing, reaching and grasping. Arawn's skin prickled. For a moment, he thought he heard the sound of reed pipes. He backed away from an unseen force that flowed out from between the trees. Whatever it was, it was coming towards him like the vengeful hand of an elemental god. Somewhere, a falcon screamed. An unexpected surge of sheer panic shook him to his bones. He turned and fled, back up over the ridge of low hills, adrenalin giving him a fine turn of speed.

When Arawn finally stopped running, he was well away from the forest. He gathered his wits and focussed his attention. He had to retrace his steps under a Disillusionment Charm and find the first of a series of Portkeys. Faced with the kind of power he had just experienced, he knew where his absent Dementors would have gone: Pripyat.

---

Toby barely had time for his mind to scream, "No!" It happened too quickly. He had seen the curse leave the wizard's wand in a flicker of light, but instead of striking Petrus, the stone being's seemingly inanimate hand had whipped out and deflected it. Hah! Petrus was playin' possum!

Rabastan fell back in a defensive crouch, too astounded to think clearly. He had never seen anything like this before. The gargoyle had brushed away a curse with its bare hand... which should not have happened because gargoyles couldn't do that and he had cast..."Finite Incantatem!" The second iteration of the spell washed over the gargoyle like water. This time, there was no return to simple carved stone.

Completely unfazed, the gargoyle flattened its ears, bared its teeth and prowled towards him with narrowed eyes blazing magma orange. There was no doubt about its intention: it coming for him.

"Reducto!"

The gargoyle swatted the spell away with a gut-rumbling snarl.

Rabastan felt the cold press of doom. "What the hell is this? Homorphus!"

The gargoyle's shape didn't change at all.

"Crucio!"

The curse was caught and tossed aside as neatly as a child's toy ball.

Rabastan pushed his growing fear aside and mustered all of his willpower to cast the Killing Curse.

Petrus sensed the magic building. Crouching low, he launched himself at the Death Eater with a leonine roar, catching his wand hand and curtailing the cast as they fell together in a wrestling hold.

With his superior physical strength, Petrus quickly had the advantage. "Villain!" he thundered as he sprang to his feet, dragging the source of evil into a kneeling position by the scruff of his robes. "Servant of Darkness! You dare to defile the stones of this sacred place!" His grip tightened on the Death Eater's arm as the wizard struggled and swore, spitting curses and hexes in a fluent stream of venom. Wandless magic raged around Petrus' body in vicious, lurid snarls, seeking any point of weakness.

Rabastan felt the bones in his right forearm crack and splinter. His wand slid from his fingers. With a garbled howl of agony, he clawed at the gargoyle's eyes – and the world spun as he felt himself upended and slammed roughly against the balustrade above a second tier of buttress spans which arched like de-fleshed ribs from windowed walls to their massive stone anchors. He squirmed and writhed in the gargoyle's grip, shrieking as the stone guardian placed its foot over his wand and ground it into broom straws. He gathered all of his malice, all of his desire to maim, torture, and kill. He looked the gargoyle in its molten eyes. Catch this, if you can. "Avada Kedavra!"

Trying to get a clear shot at the Death Eater through the riot of motion and dizzying flashes of bitter light, Toby soon realised that the combatants were too close for him to do anything at all to help. Unsure of what to do, he glanced at Tocky, whose eyes gazed at him pleadingly from inside his icy prison. His mouth went dry when he heard two words that chilled him to the soul with their ruthless hatred. Toby dropped to his knees and covered Tocky, shielding the snap-frozen house-elf as well as he could. Power sheeted through the air, howling like a Banshee, electric and tasting of ozone...

Silence...

"M-mast-ter?" A slightly blue Tocky placed chilled hands on his master's arm and dazedly got to his numb feet.

Toby steeled himself, then turned around. Oh, bugger. He brushed bits of ice off Tocky's pillowcase, then took his cloak off and tossed it a short distance away. "Listen, Tocky, go wrap that cloak around you and warm up b'fore y' shake yerself to bits. Don't worry, lad, I'm not givin' it to you. You're not gettin' presents of dismissal."

"Mast-ter Tobias is g-giving Tocky an-n ord-ders?" Tocky asked through chattering teeth, stretching to see what had happened to Petrus.

"I is. Am. Go on." Toby nudged Tocky in the direction of the cloak. Standing, he forced himself to walk through what felt like a slithering swamp of static electricity. He peered over the wall. "You earned every bit of that," he said to the Death Eater's corpse, which drooped like an unstrung, broken puppet across one of the lesser buttresses.

Toby kept hoping that Petrus would move, or say something... But the stone being lay silent and still, stretched on his belly with limbs and wings akimbo. "Petrus?" Toby knelt beside his ally. "C'mon, mate... I don't know any last rites or nothin' – and if I send for a priest, well, d'you think 'e's gonna believe me?" He reached out and shook Petrus' shoulder.

"Oui... Do not worry, Monsieur, I remember the prayers approprié...," Petrus mumbled hazily, his talons scraping stone as his fingers curled. His tail twitched feebly.

"Prize swot in Sunday School, eh?" Toby couldn't keep relief out of his voice.

Petrus' tail gave an encouraging lash. "I am not the prize swot... Ave Maria, that was the Dark magic most terrible." He slowly pushed himself onto his knees.

"Those words 'e said... were that a Killin' Curse?" Toby winced when he noted the weals and gashes covering Petrus' chest and arms.

"Oui." Petrus gathered his wings into a loose approximation of order and shakily rubbed his eyes.

"It didn't kill you... obviously, as Sev'rus would say... But you've got a bit of damage there."

Still on his knees, Petrus examined his injuries. "These are nothing, Monsieur Tobias. A waxing moon, a handful of fine clay, and the touch of rain will heal them. As for the curse Unforgiveable, faith was my shield – that is why it rebounded on the one who cast it."

Toby sombrely considered the grievous tale Severus had told him regarding the deployment of that particular Unforgiveable. He still felt guilty about having asked his son about the "Unforgiveables" mentioned in the Daily Prophet – and how a baby could survive one. Severus, after a moment of clinical silence, had given more than an academic answer to Toby's questions – he had offered the gift of trust by revealing the source of a torment that had been a raw burden of secret vulnerability. "Sev'rus said it were love's power... actin' through sacrifice... that gave protection from the curse."

Petrus nodded, his eyes shimmering moonlight silver as he got to his feet. "Monsieur Severus is correct. But consider this, Monsieur Tobias: true faith – and sacrifice – they are always grounded in love."

Toby considered this for a moment. "Faith in who, or what?"

Petrus tested his balance with a few tentative steps. He lightly tapped Toby's chest, right above the heart. "To know this, here is where you must search. The word 'heart', in your English, it seems to be made of two words – 'here' and 'art' – those words, they are saying, 'here it is'."

A Scots-accented shriek descended from above: "Oh, great Merlin!"

Petrus and Toby instinctively ducked as the headmistress of Hogwarts swept out of the sky like an outraged Hippogriff, an alarmed Charms master in tow.

"Madame la Headmiss..."

"Petrus! What on Earth... Look at the state of you! Irma will have a blue fit!"

Toby valiantly tried to rescue the situation – and Petrus, who was retreating before Minerva's insistent examinations. "One of them bloody Death Eaters got into t' cathedral, and Petrus..."

"The despicable scoundrel was going to kill you, Monsieur Tobias..."

"And 'e 'ad a pretty convincin' go at knockin' you off as well..."

"S'il vous plait, Madame la Headmistress," Petrus pleaded, guiding Minerva's searching wand light away from his wounds. "I know how to mend..."

"Give me some light, will you, Filius?" Minerva firmly steered her damaged staff member into the instantly provided illumination. "Tch! Stop fussing, Petrus..."

"Fussing? Moi?" Petrus angled his ears back in the pained disbelief of the falsely accused as his hands were lightly slapped away from a defensive position.

"We'll have to get you down to the muster point..."

"Je peux y voler..."

"Don't you dare!" Minerva took her assistant librarian firmly by an unscathed wrist. "You're coming with me, laddie."

Petrus gave Toby and Tocky a desperate glance. His silent appeal to Filius was answered with a wince and a shrug. "Mon Dieu..."

As Minerva bustled away with her prayerfully protesting patient, Filius quietly shook his head. "Never come between Minerva and an injured staff member," he advised. "Especially if the staff member resembles a gargoyle." He signalled a pair of passing wizards with a burst of orange sparks from his wand.

Toby looked up and waved in recognition. "Oi! Oriens! I reckon Petrus needs some moral support."

Oriens landed as soundlessly as a cat, while his flying companion spiralled down to examine the Death Eater's body. "What happened? Where is he now?"

"'E took on a Death Eater and got a bit scraped up. I thought for a minute 'e'd been all done in – but it were the Death Eater that done a perish, not Petrus." He pointed in the direction the headmistress had taken. "Minerva took 'im that way, fussin' and cluckin' like old mother 'en – so be careful!"

A voice called up from the buttress, "Oh, I know this one all right – Rabastan Lestrange. I'll get him bagged and tagged. A killer for the chiller. Couldn't have happened to a nicer chap."

"Rabies Lestrange? Name says it all," Toby muttered as Oriens looked over the edge of the cathedral. "Petrus survived a Killin' Curse. It bounced back and killed 'im instead," Toby explained, pointing to the corpse.

"Really? How?" Filius asked, intrigued.

For a moment, Toby was at a loss as to how to repeat Petrus' explanation. He caught Oriens' steady, searching gaze and decided that the phenomenon was not his to relate. "I didn't see 'ow," he said. "Besides, d'y' think I'm the one to try explainin' magic to wizards?"

---

Crack!

Sister Clarise pressed her back against a crumbling wall and listened. She could hear footsteps crunching over frost and rubble.

Beyond the bridge into the city, and high above the ruins, Dementors massed before the cold void, pouring down into the decaying streets as their numbers increased at a terrifying rate. She had seen a great swarm of them come back to the city not long after dawn. They had returned in a hurry, darkening the doleful morning even further – and somehow, she could sense that they were very, very angry. She knew that Dementors could not speak as humans did, but she fancied she could hear their thin screams of agony and wrath. She had clamped her hands over her ears to stop herself fainting from the horror of it.

Sister Clarise supposed that it was the magic within the spearhead that shielded her from the Dementors' notice and kept her warm in the bleak wretchedness that would otherwise suck the life heat from her body. She certainly did not have the means to do so herself. Curling her fingers around the spearhead's jewelled bindings, she peered cautiously around the corner. Through a concealing snarl of stark brambles, she caught sight of the recent arrival. She sadly considered that he would have been handsome if not for his soulless eyes. Even from the distance of her vantage point, she could feel their piercing chill. Her grip on the spearhead tightened until the jewels pressed sharply into her palm. The phoenix feather brushed against her knuckles, a whispering touch of courage.

She knew of the charms that Nimuë had set in place when she concealed the remaining objects of Macsen's Treasure. Nimuë had mentioned them in her book without hinting at the crafting of the charms – she had only said that no one could find or lay hands on any part of the Treasure unless they were fit to do so. Now, the memory of those written words murmured through Sister Clarise's mind in a solemn chant, evoking a ghostly collage of sights, sounds, and scents from an age long departed.

Sister Clarise had not fully Seen the one to whom she should surrender the spearhead – she only knew that he had black hair and wore black robes, and that a most princely Patronus had flowed from his wand. She looked again at the soulless wizard. He was not the one. You are definitely not fit to touch it.

She continued to watch as the Dementors gathered around the flaxen-haired human. He was furious, though not directly with the Dementors. She struggled to hear his words, the flow of which were interrupted by occasional stretches of... telepathy?

He demanded to know what had happened at the forest and paused as though listening.

Sister Clarise noted how his expression melted into disbelief, then shock, then white-faced rage.

"Centaurs!" he roared. "An army of centaurs bearing magic from the First Fire?"

The Dementors inclined their heads.

Sister Clarise felt a flicker of light in the midst of darkness. These would be the same centaurs from whom the phoenix had taken the food and mulled mead. Bless you all, brave warriors!

"I know you find them inedible," the wizard snarled in response to a Dementor's postural protestation, "but consider how you may watch them starve to death when we have taken everything else. Snape had his chance. We shall make sure that he is the very last to die."

Snape? Sister Clarise dared not yield to the impulse to run, hide, weep, or scream her deepest sorrow to the sky. The spearhead's warmth flowed into her blood, calming her and restoring courage.

The soulless wizard emerged from another wordless exchange and announced that to guard against the failings of weak-minded cowardice, no other human would ever again be part of their company.

Sister Clarise pressed her lips together in weary disapproval. Company? They are Dementors. They only take, fool. They never give. Their allegiance is only for themselves. But you belong to them, now, don't you?

Training her ears on his next words, she heard one phrase very clearly. It made her heart leap and race: the wizard had mentioned the Llygad y Ddraig. And he had it in his possession.

---

"Are you coming down to the muster point now?" Filius asked, turning to follow Oriens who had calmly stated his intention to give Petrus moral support – though he had expressed his doubts that Headmistress McGonagall could be dissuaded from her ministrations.

Toby saluted the Auror who flew from the cathedral at a leisurely pace, Rabastan Lestrange's wrapped corpse floating eerily behind him. He consulted his watch and shook his head. "Not yet. There's another 'alf 'our before we're all s'posed to be there. If y' don't mind, I reckon I'll stay up 'ere for a bit." He stared in the direction the dragon had taken. "Sev'rus..."

"Certainly. I understand," Filius said perceptively. Leaving Tobias and Tocky to pensive vigil, he hurried away to see if the Unspeakable really could save his stone friend from being thoroughly Minerva'd .

For some while, Toby stared into the darkness, breaking his reverie only to accept his cloak from Tocky. Together, they watched and waited...

A light clatter of hooves made them jump to face the new danger.

Tocky swiftly put his hands behind his back to hide a glowing shield while Toby eased an arrow off his bowstring and slipped it back into his quiver. Both recognized the red-haired wizard astride the winged, horse-like creature – the surviving Weasley twin. "George Weasley?" Toby offered as an introduction, noting that the wizard was lacking one ear.

George nodded and slid down from the creature's back. He looked Toby over with the air of one whose mind was on the verge of being somewhere else. "You'd be Tobias the Archer. They talked about you at the Order meeting. Nice shot, by the way. The half-soul with the knife would have slit Auror Gallius' throat."

Toby shrugged. His attention was drawn to the strangely morbid creature which was now nibbling George's cloak. "Can I ask... ?" Toby wasn't certain how he should phrase his question. He had heard that some magical creatures understood human speech perfectly well. He didn't want to cause insult by asking "what" the creature might be, when "who" would be more appropriate – and safer.

"You can see her? Of course you can. You've seen death. And I didn't bother with a Disillusionment Charm." George gave a small smile. "Her name is Styx. She's a Thestral. She came to me just after Fred's funeral," he added distantly. "Did you know about... about my brother?"

Toby nodded. There were no words he could offer that could bring any sort of comfort. Styx approached him cautiously, nostrils questing and ears pricked. Toby slowly extended one hand and let the Thestral make the next move. For a moment, Styx's warm breath puffed into his open palm, then she relaxed and nudged him confidently.

"At the funeral, she'd been pulling the..." George's face twisted with unvoiced pain. "When Hagrid took her out of harness, she came straight to me. I know she looks... well... forbidding... But she became my best friend. She's quiet and dignified when everybody else wants to cry and fuss and hug. Respectful, you know?"

Toby nodded, running his hand along the Thestral's bony, glossy shoulder while she nuzzled at his sleeve. "Sometimes, y' need to find yer own way of managin' 'ard times. What works for some won't work for others."

George leaned on the balustrade and looked out across the city. "I wanted to go away... anywhere... to be alone. I couldn't cry. Couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Styx seemed to know... She didn't expect me to do anything. And she stayed with me..." He looked to one side as though expecting to see someone – then his blue eyes glazed with heart wrenching despair.

"You okay, mate?" Toby asked as the Thestral stretched her neck and pressed her head against George's shoulder.

George turned to rub Styx's cheek while she anointed his hair with slobber. "I owled Hagrid to let him know what she was doing. He owled back, saying that to bond with a Thestral was a rare privilege – and to remember to cast a Disillusionment Charm on her should she be about during the day. He said he wasn't about to tell Styx where to place her loyalty... or her love." He combed the Thestral's long, black mane with his fingers. "Whenever... it gets really bad... and I think I can't breathe anymore... when things couldn't get any blacker... She keeps my heart beating, this one."

"Good to know. So you're not about to do yerself in, then?"

George shook his head. "No, not me. Fred would give me what-for on the other side of the Veil." His next words sparked with resurrected mischief: "And that's a question, that is, coming from a bloke who was hanging over a lethal drop – with no flight capacity at all – dodging hexes and picking off assassins! Blimey!"

Toby sighed. "Tocky 'ad the magic sorted. In a way, I wish I could've done more."

A slow grin crept over George's face. His eyes were suddenly bright and lively. "If you want to do more, come with me!"

"What?"

Tocky wrung his hands. "Tocky isn't certain..."

"Styx can carry both of us. She's strong and she's fast. They weren't going to let me wrangle Dementors either. Worried that I'd give it all up, I guess. But I won't." He gripped Tobias' arm. "Come with me! You too, Tocky!"

Tocky folded his arms disapprovingly. "Tocky always goes with Master Tobias," he fired back with an unusual amount of truculence. "In case something is needing to be done."

---

"You should've seen it, Ginny," Ron proclaimed to anyone within earshot. He gave Harry a Quidditch-strength slap on the back. "His supervisor just had to stand there, and Lestrange was off like a robber's dog – but the best bit was when Senior Auror McPhee changed those star knives into butterflies!"

Ginny exchanged a conspiratorial smile with Harry. "If I was her, I'd have turned them into spiders – lots and lots of big, hairy spiders with one goal in life... To find Ron Weasley and run across his chest just before he goes to sleep."

"You're charming, you are," Ron grumbled with an involuntary shudder.

The enthusiastic, milling chatter of assembled wizards and witches faltered under the imposition of a rising shriek:

"Arthur Weasley! What do you mean you haven't seen him?"

Ginny hissed through her teeth and shook her head. "I've had a gut feeling for ages that something like this would happen."

Ron winced as his mother wailed in acute distress. "Something like what?"

"Like George deciding to cut loose." Squaring her shoulders, she marched towards the sounds of maternal displeasure.

Ron glanced at Harry and shrugged. He blinked after his sister. "Where are you going?"

Ginny returned a resolute eye roll. "To save Dad. Coming, gentlemen?"

---

Of all the reckless things he had ever done in his life, this had to be the chart topper. So said the more responsible side of Toby's nature. The less responsible side seemed to be revelling in some sort of second adolescence.

The charm George had placed over Styx's back was actually quite comfortable – both cushioning and supportive – and Toby had been grateful for it during the eyeball-bursting acceleration the Thestral had performed as she took flight. Determined not to grab hold of George out of sheer fright, it had taken him a few minutes to adjust to the breathtaking speed of the creature, during which he had maintained a firm grip on the surprisingly solid steed with his legs. After what felt like an hour into the flight, he was thankful that, as an experienced horseman, he could stay in the saddle for the best part of a day and not suffer for it afterwards. He looked around, wondering why Tocky had chosen to travel while invisible, but he knew that the house-elf would appear the instant he was needed.

Styx snorted and tossed her head, yawing slightly as though startled by something. Toby instinctively made his body move with the Thestral's, much as he would while letting a cutting horse work a lively calf.

"All right, Tobias?" George called out, patting Styx's neck and asking her what the matter was.

"Yeah. Is she okay?"

"Something gave her a little scare, but she's calm now."

Thinking that he would rather know what could give a Thestral a scare, Toby hesitantly looked behind them. The first thing he saw was a pair of incandescent purple eyes staring back at him. The second thing was the outline of the eyes' owner – mapped in splintered starlight on dark, shiny scales. It was long, lean as a race horse, and winged.

"Um... George? There's a dragon be'ind us."

"Well, two's company, I suppose."

"Two?"

"I wasn't going to say anything, but there's one in front of us, as well. A Romanian Longhorn – I can see the glitter of its horns. My brother Charlie got burned by one of those."

Toby suddenly longed for a drink of water. "Nice." He whispered a question through his teeth, "Tocky? What d'you reckon about all this?" He felt the house-elf's hand at his shoulder, as though Tocky were standing on Styx's bony rump.

"Tocky is reckoning that the dragons is not attacking us, Master Tobias. Tocky is asking dragons... Dragons is saying they is not here to eat."

"They can talk?" Toby exclaimed, forgetting to keep his voice down.

"Who can talk?" George asked, turning around. His eyes widened as he looked past Toby. "You didn't say it was a Hebridean Black!"

"Sorry, mate. When I were lad, I collected Know-Yer-Dragon cards out of Rington's Tea packets, and I must've missed that one. Knew I should've joined a bloody swap meet and got the whole set."

"Yes, you should have. Rington's Tea, eh? Dad has one of their tins in the shed."

---

The Dementors sensed it first. Pressing close together, they pointed westward. The soulless wizard turned and looked, then drew his wand.

Sister Clarise felt the shift in the air. The heavy cold stirred and trembled, growing colder by the second – and beyond it, a mighty thunder roared in tones of fire and light.