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

A/N:

Ahov – An informal greeting (Ukrainian)

Kozak – I have used this Old East Slavic variant of "Cossack" to differentiate between Wizarding and Muggle populations.

Russian (GoogleTranslate)

Babushka – Grandmother

Da – Yes

Ushanka – A thick fur cap with ear flaps

Ved'ma – Witch

Volshebnik – Wizard

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

A big box of thanks to TeaOli for beta reading and keeping my use of colons within reasonable bounds.

I had this chapter drafted before the geopolitical tension between Ukraine and Russia hit flashpoint. I held off posting for a while, hoping that things might improve. Tragically, they didn't. Thoughts and prayers for those caught in the conflict.

---

Hermione felt Severus' arms tighten around her waist.

"That will be the Dover infestation," he murmured distantly, distaste clipping his tone.

Following his narrow-eyed stare, Hermione could see a murky pall of Dementors being driven eastwards, travelling parallel to the red dragon's bearing and moving at about twice the speed. As Hermione watched, lances of fire pierced and slashed the cold shadow while the melodic roars of Welsh Greens meshed together in a timeless, polytonal chorus. "It sounds like they're singing," she mused aloud. "I know Welsh people have the gift for singing – Professor Flitwick says they're always the mainstay of the choir – but I wouldn't have thought the Welsh dragons had it too."

"Perhaps the gift is inherent to the magic hidden in the bones of the landscape," Severus proposed. "If you live on the land – and from it – part of it becomes part of you, regardless of what species you happen to be." He shook himself out of the diversion into the esoteric and back into more familiar territory. "You'd have to give the magic back, though, through the process of death and decay."

Hermione was about to comment on the use of song in applied magic when a second flight of Welsh Greens appeared, driving another writhing dark knot before them. "The Dementors ousted from Calais," she said.

The red dragon hissed and snorted a shower of sparks.

A single Welsh Green flew towards them, but its attention was on the old Ukrainian Ironbelly as it gave a gentle, fluting call and rolled to one side in its flight, exposing its chest and belly before returning to its conspecifics.

Hermione relaxed, having pressed back against Severus in alarm at the speed of the Welsh Green's approach. "I wonder what all that was about."

"Respect," Severus answered. "The exchange was very quick and succinct, but I gather that the gist of it is respect for one's elders. Our dragon is quite venerable it would seem – even for dragons of other lands."

---

We do not need it! A Dementor turned to face its companions, rebellion cast in every movement.

The wizard is still useful, another argued. It has power. It knows the ways of our prey.

Does it know the magic of the First Fire? the first asked, gesturing to the approaching menace.

It did not know when we were burned by the inedible ones, a third put in, twisting awkwardly in agony. We had to withdraw... hungry.

A fourth Dementor drifted between them. It was not with us then – it is with us now. We will not retreat again. It turned to face the commotion to the west.

This is not surety! The first Dementor seemed to swell in anger. Here are more of our brethren... Hear them call their pain! It surged towards the fourth Dementor and seized it by the front of its shroud. We will not retreat again? It gestured to the approaching swarm as rotting cloth frayed in its clawed grasp. What, then, is this?

Returning Dementors began to swoop past them, mind-linked warnings coming as a keening shriek. Deep Magic! It rose up from the living core. It spoke through metal and air. It told us we shall not feed. It banished us. It tore and pierced us. Light guardians chased us. It follows! It follows in the First Fire!

The Dementors stirred erratically as the word passed among them, spreading from mind to mind like a ripple through still water. Simultaneously, their attention was seized by a rolling roar. The next communication flitted through them as one realisation: Those... they breathe the spawn of First Fire!

Still intent on rebellion, the first Dementor seized its moment and took command. We shall not retreat! Take the blue crystal. Feed and grow strong on its power. Smother the souls of the Fire breathers with our numbers. Spread through this living world and use the humans as our sense slaves, just as the wizard taught us. Starve what remains. When life yields to us, the Deep Magic born of the First Fire shall fail.

What of the wizard?

Eat what remains of its soul.

---

"Minister, I thought you should know..." Charlie Weasley's dragonfly Patronus performed a sideways leap mid-hover. "The entire Sanctuary is empty – it wasn't our fault – and I'm not kidding when I say that a wild Ukrainian Ironbelly did it! But gods, it was a really big one! You know how big the Gringotts dragon was supposed to be? That big! It flew in just below the clouds – it roared, we felt some scarily powerful magic, the containment wards dropped, and our dragons began to move as though they'd been given orders. Even Norberta went with them – every single breed followed the wild Ironbelly."

The foot-long dragonfly landed upside down on a stair rail and wiped its eyes with silvery forelegs. Charlie's tone carried wistful contrition. "I know it sounds weird, but I think Norberta wanted me to fly with her... I really wish I'd had the bottle to try it... That flight was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

---

"I wonder if Charlie was down there," Hermione speculated through a mischievous grin, now reasonably sure that the somewhat noisy, multi-species array of dragons was not about to attack them.

Severus settled himself smugly. "I hope so. Few things are as gratifying as a discomfited Weasley." He was mindful to call himself back from what could be a perilous path. When the red dragon had told him to use "both powers" – meaning his own and Merlin's – to release the Sanctuary's dragons as she called them to war with an ear-throbbing roar, he had enjoyed the thrill of what felt like unlimited power a little too much. His spartan standards of self-discipline, toughened with the lessons of brutal experience, sounded a warning: I didn't survive the scourge of Dark Magic for nothing, he reminded himself. True vigilance also recognises the potential danger within. A sharp prod in the chest brought him back to the relative buoyancy of the present moment.

"I wish you'd stop it," Hermione scolded. "Really, what has any Weasley ever done to you that couldn't be dismissed as a transient petty annoyance?"

Severus shrugged, smirked and directed her to the sight of a Chinese Fireball spitting volleys of mushroom-shaped flames as it soared and danced in lissom, coiling flight.

---

Kingsley Shacklebolt steadied himself as he emerged from the Portkey's turbulent embrace, then stepped away as more wizards and witches arrived at the broad, frosty plain that stretched before high, ancient walls of battle-scarred stone. Order members, Aurors, Unspeakables, War veterans – anyone who could cast a Patronus – had answered his request for help without hesitation. Travelling through a number of strategically positioned Portkeys, they steadily filled the space with lively chatter which carried the accents of Norway, Northern Spain, and every land in between. Waving to Victor Krum, Kingsley would have felt proud if he had not also tasted humility as the crowd looked to him with ready bravery and unswerving loyalty. He would have happily credited every stalwart member of his staff if time were not so demanding.

From groaning gates bristling with ragged defences, the few inhabitants of what had once been the finest school of witchcraft in Baltic Europe ran forward to greet everyone with boisterous enthusiasm. It had been nearly a lifetime since Castel Dacia had echoed with the noise of so many people, and the worn, oft-repaired stones of its structures seemed to shake off dogged, hard-bitten suspicion to allow the visitors to touch the magic of their making.

Spotting a wolf Patronus, Kingsley excused himself from the press of hands and voices to receive its message in private. The silver wolf loped towards him, nimbly dodging an ethereal Shetland pony and unconcernedly leaping over one of Minerva's indignant cats.

"Please to give password," the wolf growled in the Unspeakable Valentin's voice.

"Babushka," Kingsley responded, allowing his formal, Ministerial accents to explore a robust, earthy pronunciation.

The wolf sat down and briefly raised a front paw. "Aurors and Unspeakables from Rossiya, Ukraina, Belarus, and Polska are assembled outside of Kiev. From Gulf of Riga to Adriatic Sea to shores of Black Sea, volshebnik and ved'ma, they have come. Following your plan, we will make attack from east of Pripyat while you and your company make attack from west." The wolf fleetingly flattened its ears and licked its nose, conveying uncertainty. "I hope you know already, Minister... Many dragons also fly to Pripyat. Is good? Is bad? I do not know. Our Chinese ambassador says it is very good fortune... but we have never seen this before. At least they do not attack us – word spreads that Dementors are these dragons' quarry."

---

"Me and Fred never had that much trouble from him, really," George reflected with bittersweet nostalgia. "We did the old twin switcheroo to try and rattle his cage, but he evaded the snare... You see, he'd just say, 'Mr Weasley,' in that I'm-Potions-master-here-forget-it-at-your-peril tone and either look right between us – or not look at us at all." George shrugged. "Many times, we tried to fool him by swapping our names on our essays, but he always returned the right essay to its true author. Even scarier, he could tell which one of us had brewed what potion!"

"Strewth," Toby muttered, impressed.

"We gave up trying to get under his skin after we had an... an unanticipated and rather wrinkly incident with an Ageing Potion."

"Used that to make a point or two, did 'e?"

"You know him better than you think you do, Tobias. Gods, he was like a walking Cruciatus Curse – but he never said a word about what happened. You know that way he has of looking at you that makes you feel like you're wearing a dunce's cap, and then you've spontaneously grown a pair of donkey's ears to hold it in place?"

"I know it well," Toby affirmed, raising an eyebrow when George sat up straighter as though looking at something intently.

"We got it. And some. But I could only grow one donkey's ear now. Merlin, that'd look even sillier!" George pointed briefly. "Up ahead," he hissed over his shoulder.

Toby peered into the darkness, catching a dull, flaring glow and a winged silhouette that, even at a distance, was enormous. "D'y reckon that's the one we saw in Paris?"

George turned side on. "I'd say so... I wanted Styx to follow it, so she did."

"She followed it without directions... 'cause y' wanted 'er to?" Toby asked sceptically.

George nodded, his slight smile only just visible. "I can't explain how; it's a Thestral thing. Anyway, Ukrainian Ironbellys aren't the fastest dragons around, and as I said, Styx is swift on the wing. The Ironbelly will have been using the stiff tailwind we picked up somewhere over Germany – which added to its head start – but that Romanian Longhorn has been giving us a ride in its slipstream, so we managed to catch up." He leaned down and patted the Thestral's neck. "Hold this position, Styx."

"I 'ope Sev'rus and 'Ermione are still in one piece," Toby said under his breath.

The Hebridean Black that had been silently following them suddenly appeared alongside, then glided away, its wings only beginning to move once it was well clear of Styx's air space.

"Master Tobias is not to worry," Tocky whispered, still invisible. "The black dragon is been going to help."

---

Valentin had expected a swift reply from Minister Shacklebolt, so the silver lynx did not surprise him when it arrived within minutes of him sending his wolf. Nor was he surprised by the lynx's grave expression – or the verbal affirmation that it gave. Immediately he sent word to his commander, then mounted his broom and flew over what looked like a small nation of magical folk to an upland plateau where a heartening number of Kozaks stood alongside their snorting, stamping Granians.

"Ahov, Valya!" one of them shouted, shouldering his way between wizards and winged horses to make himself easily seen.

Valentin grinned. He couldn't have missed the Kozak leader whose gaudy, shimmering attire would have put the proudest peacock to silent shame. "Ahov, Bohdan!" he called back over rollicking banter and restless neighing. Landing, he braced himself for a rough embrace – and mentally prepared his stomach for the dose of even rougher vodka that would follow.

Wizards – and an occasional wild-haired witch – crowded around him expectantly: a solid, good-humoured wall of ushankas, fur-lined cloaks, lavishly embroidered tunics, and snow-stained boots. A dragon soared overhead, its fire complementing the misty glow of torches.

"Another Ironbelly – a young one," Bohdan commented, pressing a generously filled shot glass into Valentin's hands. "Khoryv has been watching many dragons fly over... They have not given us one single glance, but they make our Granians nervous. They go to Pripyat."

Valentin nodded. "Da, I have heard. They are after Dementors."

Bohdan scowled, his moustaches flexing impressively. "You are sure of this, Valya?"

"As sure as I can be. I trust my sources." Valentin tracked the young Ironbelly for a moment, then gestured towards the Granians. "Too nervous to go into battle?" he asked. "Information suggests that Pripyat's ghost skies will soon vanish behind dragons' wings." He looked Bohdan in the eyes. "We advance now."

Bohdan bristled proudly, the blood of generations of knightly warriors bringing hearty colour to his face. He raised his own shot glass as he addressed his fellow Kozaks in barrel-chested tones, "Dragons or no, our Granians have courage beyond their nerves – if they didn't, we could fill them with a share of our own and have plenty left over! You! Kozaks! We fight!" With a bawdy salute, he drained his glass.

Valentin saluted the Kozaks and swallowed the burning liquor, for a moment unsure if it was the fuming alcohol that brought water to his eyes and punched the breath out of his lungs, or if it was the tumultuous whooping of the Kozaks as they vaulted astride their Granians' backs and urged the rearing, prancing steeds into the air.

From the lower ground, several thousand wand lights glittered in the darkness, preceding a massed shout of invocations, war cries, and cheers.

Valentin raised his wand, adding his own voice to the dinning chorus. His heart clenched with fear and awe when a passing Romanian Longhorn joined in with a muscular roar and a vivid jet of fire.

---

Severus scanned the horizon, searching for any sign of their destination. Through the increasingly oppressive, obfuscating darkness, dragon fire flickered sporadically – red and gold lightning amid ragged, lurking clouds. But the cold was beyond intense. Even their dragon seemed to be labouring in the burdensome air. "We must be close now..." He turned his head at a half-perceived movement. "Hebridean Black," he whispered, momentarily staring the dragon in its glowing amethyst eyes. He felt Hermione shift and gasp softly. "Such a fierce form, but such grace," she murmured. "Just like you, Severus."

"Silly witch," he growled while squeezing her lightly. The lean, athletic dragon swooped in front of them, cutting through the frigid resistance with strong, rhythmic wing strokes. The sudden increase in the Ironbelly's speed gave a sense of the inexorable. "I love you. Don't forget that."

Hermione's hands grasped his tightly. "I won't forget." She felt the blood drain from her cheeks as she raised her eyes. Reaching upwards in wordless supplication, the mournful shapes of abandoned buildings slid reluctantly into sight – the empty, silent husks that had once formed a city – Pripyat.

---

"Remember," Kingsley directed through a Sonorous Charm, "use your Patronus for distance attacks, keep the infrasound method for close combat should you need to – and you probably will." He paused to scan the closely packed crowd before him, seeing nods of affirmation and the steely glint of resolve. Evidently, Severus' precise instructions on how to deploy a non-Patronus defensive move against Dementors had been enthusiastically practised. "By now, you all know about the dragons, yes?"

A buzzing murmur answered him. In it, he detected fear, but no weakening of purpose. By now, most knew of what had occurred in Dover and Calais – or were in the process of being told.

He spread his arms in an urgent gesture of appeal. "Tonight, we are not their prey. And we are not their antagonists. No-one – no-one – is to attack any dragon in any way. Are we agreed?"

The cheers of assent momentarily took his breath away.

"They would follow you into a dragon's jaws, Minister."

Kingsley clasped Gawain's shoulder, thankful for the unyielding solidity that he felt there. "I thought that only Albus could have rallied such a response..."

"You've done better than Albus," Gawain said with solemn gravity. "You have a true gift for diplomacy with a human touch."

Kingsley shook his head. "Honesty and simple courtesy goes a long way. But even if I'd had old Albus' style, I'd have achieved very little without Severus' expertise in applied planning."

"Dumbledore's right-hand man," Gawain said resignedly. "Is he yours now?" He sighed at Kingsley's sharp glance. "I thought he was supposed to be here with us. I must confess I'm in two minds about him, still. Alastor never trusted him."

"There was an unavoidable change of plan involving a very large dragon. Severus will be in Pripyat before us." Kingsley frowned at a memory. "Alastor didn't trust anyone – Merlin, he barely trusted himself! Gawain, you were there at the Wizengamot... You heard what Albus' portrait said about Severus' loyalties – and you heard Harry Potter's testimony."

"Suspicion, once fostered, is hard to erase," Gawain said. "Replacing it with trust is even harder."

Kingsley gave the signal for the move to the western side of Pripyat: three streams of white light issued from his wand. "When I offered Severus his position in the Ministry, I also offered him my trust and respect and said that I knew he was the best person to lead our new Department. Before he signed the contract, he told me that he regards it as a duty of personal honour to make amends for what was done and witnessed during his time in Voldemort's service. I believe him absolutely." He silently dared Gawain to challenge his statement while knowing that he could never disclose Severus' kinship with Merlin – or that the former Death Eater carried Merlin's power with him. "I don't regard Severus as my right-hand man any more than he does. I'd say he's thoroughly sick of being treated like an appendage."

Gawain held up his hands in surrender, a wry smile crossing his features. "I'll work on it, Minister; by my wand, I will. But if Severus isn't at your right hand, who is? Perhaps that raven of yours?"

Kingsley's eyes held a gleam of subdued mirth. "Well, why not? Jamîn gave Madam Skeeter quite a scare just as she was becoming unbearable. Best laugh I'd had in ages."

---

How do I find you? Severus thought, having attempted to coax information out of the Llygad y Ddraig with no result at all. For the moment, it seemed that he was on his own. He swore under his breath when the building murk shifted, revealing the heart stopping sight of the shimmering rift that hung in the sky with the pallid luminescence of rotting flesh, liquid and poisonous. He could see the Dementors massed before it and streaming through from the void beyond. He ran his tongue over the familiar, irregular angles of his front teeth as he considered the converging options available to him – and made a decision.

"Stay with her, Hermione," he said, leaping clear of the dragon's back. "We'll find each other again!" He hovered as the Ironbelly's length passed beneath him, Hermione's cry of dismay sharp and faint in his ears. Look after her, please, he silently beseeched the dragon.

The red dragon's voice glided through his mind: Yreng-uârth ngaurr, Sévérūs.

As one of my own, Severus repeated to himself. Checking the charms he had set in place to mask the Llygad y Ddraig's power, he drew courage from the Ironbelly's words and flew down to the city without the faintest idea of what to do next.

Hermione choked back her fear and a paralysing sense of loss. He's doing what he has to do, she reminded herself. But I didn't think he'd have to do it like this. Oh, gods... What's that?

A formless shadow reared up from the centre of Pripyat, spanning the city's footprint, building upon itself and climbing to the clouds. Like an ocean wave storming to a steep shore break, it crested and wavered, ready to crash down and deliver ruin to anything it touched. Hermione's throat constricted around a scream. It was not a shadow. It was an uncountable number of Dementors.

---

Arawn felt the Dementors massing behind him, their minds pressing into his with thought-freezing force. He turned to face them as their numbers curled and swarmed, surrounding him completely.

We hunger for the Llygad y Ddraig. It is no longer yours.

A Dementor extended its skeletal hand, fingers flexing with anticipation.

"Never," Arawn snarled, furious and avaricious. "It belongs to me!" But his hand moved against his will, reaching into his robes and drawing out the coveted object. For a moment, he could see the crystal disc as the Dementors did – a source of power, pulsing with vital energy. Hunger gnawed in the pit of his stomach as he looked upon it – a living thing to be devoured...

"No!"

The shout of a woman's voice rang in Arawn's ears, a sound distorted into shrill echoes by the Dementors' invasion of his senses. The Dementors surged forward, then recoiled, their wrath hissing in his blood. He was half aware of her – a woman swathed in robes of black wool. Partially hidden by a hood, her features were thin and pale. Arawn stumbled backwards, momentarily blinded. The woman held something in her right hand that burned with a vengeful light. Jewels blazed with magic both ancient and fearsome, flashing with a fury that was not of the world upon which he stood.

The Dementors slid away from her, skulking into shadow. Their hold on his mind fell away, taking with it the dazzling display. A spearhead?

"It is not yours!" Sister Clarise charged the obviously disoriented wizard, dropping her shoulder into his chest with a much force as she could gather. In one swift, desperate move, she snatched the Llygad y Ddraig and flicked the chain over his head as he fell to the ground.

She glanced skyward... and stood stunned with horror. Oh, Powers that be, help us! Wherever she looked, the sky was seething with Dementors – they hung over Pripyat like the weight of an impending avalanche. A Ukrainian Ironbelly flew right towards them – looking as small as a garden lizard against the heaving bulk of doom – banked at the last bare second, then spat a twisting column of fire straight into the Dementors' midst and gave a roar that sent echoes bounding between the empty buildings.

Too late, she heard the wizard scream, "Crucio!" The world shattered in flashes of searing pain. The spearhead fell from her grasp, landing point down between two loose paving stones.

Dementors circled her as the torrent of agony ceased, leaving her body cringing helplessly with ripping spasms and dry retching. The wizard strode towards her, his empty eyes fixed on the Llygad y Ddraig which lay just beyond her reach, his features twisted like a tortured demon's.

In the sky space between two buildings, she saw a wizard coming – flying without a broom. Black robes. Black hair. A silver peregrine falcon erupted from his wand as he ploughed through the Dementors, hurling them left and right by some means she could not see.

A peregrine... The falcon of a prince... He's the one...

The falcon tore into the Dementors that surrounded her, a hurricane of vicious talons, hooked beak, and blinding speed.

Arawn recognised the peregrine. Snape!

---

The dragon's fire tore into the Dementors, charring their shrouds and forcing them back in defiant retreat. The Hebridean Black that had flown with the old dragon soared higher with a skirling shriek. The Dementors rallied to close their ranks.

Hermione gritted her teeth, bracing her aching legs against crushing g-forces as the Ironbelly swerved away from the Dementors with a roar that made her yelp and cover her ears. Far higher than the clouds, the sky rumbled ominously. Thinking quickly, she pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and transfigured it into a pair of ear muffs.

She stared, open mouthed, as the voices of answering dragons grew to a constant, growling thunder which vibrated in her bones and made her insides squirm. In one colossal blast, pulsing jets and dazzling columns of fire rained down on the Dementors from above. Shielding her eyes, Hermione saw dragon after dragon diving, attacking, and veering away to make room for the next.

The Sanctuary's Chinese Fireball hurtled past, protuberant eyes reflecting inferno and Dementors, golden facial spikes bristling with wrath. A mushroom-shaped flame spouted from each nostril, leaving behind a trail of shimmering sparks that exploded in every colour of the spectrum. I didn't know they could do fireworks, Hermione thought. She spotted a band of perhaps a hundred Dementors leave their comrades and stream after the Fireball like a noxious tentacle. They're going to try to bring the dragon down!

"Expecto Patronum!" Her merlin streaked towards the Dementors. Hermione punched the air when its bold attack threw a good number of them into the path of the Ironbelly's fire. "Hah! Get roasted, you disgusting things!"

The old dragon turned her scarred head to examine her passenger and hissed enquiringly. Hermione candidly looked the dragon in the eye. "Well, I couldn't just sit here, could I?"

---

Severus didn't bother with a smooth landing – he cannoned straight into Arawn, snarling as he heard the breath explode out of the renegade Unspeakable's body. With a twisting move he had learned as a streetwise boy, Severus seized Arawn in a headlock and positioned him to take the impact of both their weights as they slammed into the ground.

Above the darkness of the Dementors, the sky thundered, then flared with an unearthly, faceted, flaming light. To the east and west, a sudden riot of human voices and the arcing silver glow of Patronus forms announced the arrival of allies.

Severus tightened his choke hold as Arawn struggled and thrashed with feral, inhuman strength. Before he could magically immobilise him, Arawn's hand lashed out...

With a strangled scream, the person Severus' Patronus had defended was thrown high into the air – and left to fall.

A witch! There was no choice. Severus could not let the witch he had seen – by strangely well-timed coincidence – holding the spearhead fall to her death. "Arresto Momentum!" His magic caught her a few inches above the ground.

A Repulsion Hex threw Severus clear of Arawn. Then he couldn't breathe.

Three half-souls in the company of a masked Death Eater and a swarm of Dementors quickly surrounded him. On the Death Eater's command, delivered in Russian, one half-soul turned away and levelled a Kalashnikov rifle at the witch's head, threatening to kick her as she tried to sit up.

Arawn snatched up the Llygad y Ddraig. He levitated the spearhead, assessing its worth. The Dementors are afraid of its magic. It will be useful. He ignored the protests of the cringing witch.

A rough shout. "Tocky! Get 'elp!" At the same time, someone else yelled, "Stupefy!" The force of the spell hurled the Russian Death Eater headfirst against a wall. He folded limply to the shattered pavement, leaving a bloody trail. The half-soul with the rifle swung around, searching for a hidden target. He staggered, a short burst of gunfire going wild. Dropping the rifle, he grasped an arrow lodged in his upper chest. Turning, he tried to run, then fell with a second arrow through the base of his skull.

Through his tunnelling vision, Severus saw someone charge past while pointing a wand at him.

"Anapneo!"

He gulped cold air as though it were a gift from the gods. George Weasley?

As the second half-soul fled, the third hefted the Kalashnikov and took aim at George. Appearing from nowhere, Styx seized the man by the neck and killed him with a single violent shake of her head.

Sister Clarise tried to throw herself between the cold-eyed wizard and the spearhead, but barely managed to get to her knees. "It is not for you to touch!" she cried desperately, unsure if Nimuë's protective charms were still strong after so many centuries.

Severus heard her – and Arawn's answering expletives – but he couldn't see where they were through the passing dives of the Dementors and their trailing shrouds. They're about to feed! Coughing, he wordlessly cast his Patronus to hold them off a little longer. He knew that since Fred's death, George, while able to use the infrasound method of defence, had been unable to summon his soul's guardian.

"On yer feet, lad! D'y' think it's a bloody tea break?"

Severus blinked in astonishment as his father grasped his arm and yanked him upright. "There's too many," he gasped, feeling the cold, dulling pressure of the Dementors' intentions.

Tobias' eyes held the gritty glint of one who held an all-pervading despair at bay through sheer stubbornness. "Yeah. I can feel 'em. But I 'ope we're both wrong."

Arawn reached out and grasped the spearhead in his right hand, holding it and the Llygad y Ddraig aloft with a yell of triumph.

A silver boar slashed through the Dementors, a battering ram of temper and tusks. Working with Severus' peregrine, it tossed them in every direction as it charged, spun with lowered head and charged again.

Through the scattering Dementors, Severus saw Arawn staring at him with a menacing grin... which faded to a grimace of pure agony.

"God's Teeth...," Toby whispered hoarsely, sighting Arawn down an arrow, even though his hands trembled at what he saw.

Moving to stand beside Tobias, George looked on with mute horror, grasping Styx's mane like a lifeline as he raised his wand.

"Drop it, Arawn!" Severus bellowed. "By the gods, drop it!" He raised his wand, but knew that there was nothing he could do. Vivid images of the incurable curse that had weakened Albus' last days flashed through his mind in sneering taunts.

The renegade Unspeakable's right hand smoked and blistered, flesh peeling from tendon and bone in crackling ribbons. "It's mine, Snape! It's mine!" he shrieked, insanity lighting his eyes as he watched the burning travel up his arm. "You'll never take it..." He took a few steps towards Severus, the spearhead clutched in his blackened finger bones like a dagger – as though he meant to stab his adversary to the heart. "You're like all of them... a coward... afraid of real power..."

Severus sleeved his wand and locked eyes with Arawn. "George, Tobias, there's no need for defence. He's not going to make it."

Arawn stumbled as his legs began to fail. "You've lost, Snape...," he hissed. His soulless eyes clouded and bubbled, and then he fell face down on the broken stones of the dead city. The spearhead jolted free and landed, clean and bright, at Severus' feet.

A dark-haired Auror mounted on an Aethonan pounded towards them, casting another boar Patronus as he came. The winged horse reared, rising several feet into the air as its rider dismounted in a flying leap with wand drawn. Severus recognised him at once, having consulted with him many times in the Ministry – a young wizard with a nobleman's bearing and one shoulder noticeably higher than the other. The Auror halted in disappointed disgust when he caught sight of Arawn's body, which was rapidly crumbling into ashes. "Oh, bollocks," he grumbled in a pleasant West Midlands accent. "We were supposed to take him alive."

"I know, Ricardus," Severus stated baldly. "It seems that the end of the matter was not ours to decide."

"He was already done for," a thin voice put in. "The Dementors had eaten most of him."

With a look of quizzical surprise, Ricardus quickly moved to assist the witch who had spoken. Her posture suggested that she was close to fainting.

Severus stealthily summoned the false Llygad y Ddraig. He cast a Cleansing Charm over it to remove a film of soot and ash, warded it, then handed it to Tobias. "Look after this," he murmured.

"Noooo... Sev'rus! Not again. Strike me bloody purple!"

"That can be arranged. Fear not, it won't be so long or so perilous, this time," Severus hissed. He eyed the spearhead warily. "Now, let's find out who our friend over there..." His jaw dropped as he looked at the woman who had thrown back her hood and was approaching him, leaning heavily on Ricardus.

"Bloody hell," George muttered, looking from Severus to the woman and back again. "Tobias?" He transfigured a house brick into a chair. "Mate, you look a bit green – I think you should sit for a bit." He waved to Tocky, who had appeared at a street entrance.

"More peoples is coming," Tocky announced. "Tocky is found them...Master Tobias?"

Severus stared into the witch's black eyes, too stunned to think.

"He was not the one to wield the Spear of the Stronghold," she said weakly. "He signed his death warrant as soon as he touched it."

"Nimuë's magic?" Severus asked, even though he already knew. His words fell heavy and dull.

Surprise flickered across the witch's pale features before she nodded. "She was told to ensure that no person could find... the Spear... except that they were fit to do so. Nimuë added an extra layer of protection in case it should ever be claimed by one with evil intentions. He was such a one. But you are not. Severus, take it. It was meant to come to your hand."

Still staring, Severus nodded dumbly.

"I assume that this will all become classified information?" Ricardus asked, cocking an eyebrow at the spearhead. He transfigured a paving tile into a stretcher, levitated it and helped the witch lie down.

The Auror's perceptive sensibility hauled Severus out of borderline shock. "Indeed. Will you ensure that the need for secrecy is understood in my absence?"

Ricardus nodded. "Aye, Severus, I will."

With great trepidation, Severus summoned the spearhead. He held his breath for a moment as its weight settled in his hand. Magic tingled through his fingers. It felt warm, but not hot. As he looked around, unscathed, even Styx seemed to sigh with relief.

---

With her eyes on a knot of Dementors that had dodged a Hungarian Horntail's fire, Hermione cast her Patronus again and simultaneously used her left hand to blast another Dementor with infrasound when it tried to dive at her from above. It vaguely occurred to her that she was fearlessly riding the dragon without holding on. I can be proud of that later. She felt the dragon's right wing dip. Gripping with her legs, she pressed her heels into iron-hard scales and tried not to squeal through a steep, corkscrewing descent. Evasive move...

The Ironbelly flared her wings and lashed her tail. Her body swung almost vertical as she spat fire at any Dementor that had dared to follow.

Hermione could see wizards mounted on Granians, holding their wide-eyed steeds on steady courses while dragons flew over their heads. Those who saw her cheered with enthusiastic abandon, waving and standing on their Granians' backs to bow to her, then dropping astride again to launch their next Patronus attack. A few cheeky wizards even blew her a kiss.

As the Ironbelly flew higher again, Hermione realised what the dragons were doing. She had seen a similar strategy on a nature documentary in which a pod of humpback whales dived deep under a shoal of herring and began to circle their way back up. As they circled, they blew streams of bubbles to corral their next meal. Bubble netting! Except the dragons do it with fire... They start from high above and circle... towards the rift. Blessed Merlin! It's working!

On the ground, from the west and the east, rivers of corporeal and non-corporeal Patronus forms met and merged to form a rising sea of molten silver, forcing every Dementor in Pripyat up and into the fiery net. The dragons worked furiously, driving the soul eaters back to the rift. Gold above, silver below. Severus, where are you? As the two colours met and mingled, the Dementors were forced to begin a straggling retreat into the void.

Severus had only just flown clear of the drab, concrete buildings when he heard a distinctive, melodious whistle. Surely not, he thought. Then again, sure enough! "Where have you been, you necessary nuisance?"

Fawkes circled, singing urgently, and flicked his long tail feathers into Severus' free hand.

Hermione wiped sweat out of her eyes and discarded her ear muffs. The Dementors were now pressing close to the rift, which meant that the dragons themselves were also closer together. The undulating heat of their fire soaked into Hermione's body, and her muscles throbbed from the effort of riding the mighty being in combat flight. A dolphin Patronus soared over her and plunged into the dazzling melee which held a clot of dense black, shroud-streaming cold at its centre.

Her heart leapt when she heard Fawkes' song – and her spirit sang when Severus let go of the phoenix's tail and resumed his seat behind her.

"I must say, you look particularly bewitching when you fight from dragonback," he purred, holding his arms out to the sides to submit to a brief, slightly damp hug. "I'd reciprocate, but my hands are full," he said.

"You found the person!" Hermione exclaimed, eyeing the spearhead with instinctive wariness. She glanced at Severus left hand. "Fawkes gave you a feather..." She touched his face. "You've been in a fight..."

"And I'm still here," Severus replied, his tone heavy with meaning. There was simply no time to explain. His Sight – or perhaps Merlin's – had outlined the final steps he needed to take with ruthless clarity. With a deep sense of reverence, he placed Fawkes' feather quill first into the spearhead's bindings, and transfigured it into a long shaft of orange-red wood.

Fawkes flew around and between the dragons, singing of mighty deeds from ages long past. The great beings listened – and comprehended.

The red dragon roared with all her voice. She slewed around and aligned herself with the deadly rift.

In one precisely coordinated movement, the dragons redoubled and focussed their efforts, producing an immense ball of white-hot fire. The Dementors fled before it, clawing at each other as they passed back into the realm from which they had come.

The red dragon's wings moved in deep, powerful strokes. She pinned back her ears and flew straight towards the churning conflagration.

"The Sword has gone home through the waters, the Grail has gone home through the empyrean..." Severus stood up, one hand on Hermione's shoulder to steady himself. He raised the Spear of the Stronghold, and its magic blazed in glorious splendour.

The dragons pulled away, their fire subsided, and Severus stared through the rift and into the bowels of the lifeless void beyond. The red dragon released a great jet of flame. "And the Spear shall go home through the fire!" Severus drew the Spear back and hurled it through the streaming flames and into the maw of cold destruction, crying aloud the sacred words that Theravāda, scholar of Angkor Wat, had lifted from obscurity and passed on to him.

The dragon swerved as a vast bubble of venomous hatred burst through the rift. Clawing with dead, boneless hands, it groped around the dragon, dragging, freezing, trying to draw them into an eternal tomb. Severus wrapped his arms around Hermione, seeking to warm her with his mortal heat. "Occlude, Hermione! With everything you have!"

The dragon's flight faltered, her wings labouring as she was brought to a near standstill.

Three Hungarian Horntails streaked overhead, strafing the rift with purifying fire.

Two Romanian Longhorns swooped under the old dragon, lifting her on the bow wave of their wings.

Hermione felt the cold pressure trying to break through her chest, pressing on her mind, seeking her soul. Then, with a dreadful screech, it withdrew.

The red dragon screamed as she left the rift behind, its ragged edges spitting and writhing. A bright light flared within the gap. A deafening howl of thwarted hunger raged and gibbered, overwhelming...

A thunderous boom threatened to split Heaven and Earth, followed by a shockwave of stunning power.

The air juddered as the rift's edges crashed together. Fire leapt along its length, glowing white, yellow, orange, and red... then fading into an unscarred night.

"No!" Hermione felt her wizard slipping from the dragon's back, his arms limp at her waist. Frantically, she tried to grab his robes, but her hands were numb and feeble. Darkness muddled through her vision. The words of a Sticking Charm tumbled through her lips as she wrapped Severus' arms around her and fixed his cold hands around the dorsal spine in front of her. Consciousness left her as she fell back against him...

---

Sister Clarise tried to resist waking up. She was warm and comfortable, the effects of the Cruciatus Curse an unpleasant memory. She could hear someone whispering. A house-elf? Memory invaded resistance. Severus! The name washed through her in waves of disbelief. She had thought that he was long since lost to the Dark and most likely dead. And there was someone else she had thought she had recognised. She opened her eyes.

She focussed on white painted walls, then on a house-elf wearing an old pillowcase and a tattered scarf. Her eyes travelled to examine the person the house-elf was addressing. Scuffed work boots... heavy cotton trousers – is that armour from the goblin wars? – and a Prussian blue cloak. She gasped at how familiar his features still were. So I wasn't hallucinating... His hair, once dark brown, was now iron-grey – and longer than she'd ever seen him wear it. At a prompt from the house-elf, he looked at her. His grey eyes still held a northerner's steel, but the sharp edges of mill town life were gone, replaced with a rough, ready, confident pragmatism. Her senses drifted, floundering – he seemed quite at ease with the house-elf. Toby?

She watched as he stirred himself and paced the floor, shaking his head as he muttered, "Bloody woman!"

The house-elf trotted beside him, hesitantly waving to her at each turn, then pulling his ears as though he wasn't certain if he had done something wrong.

After several minutes, Toby spoke: "God's Teeth, Eileen – I know you're Eileen 'cause I 'ad someone check that you're not a... golem... or somethin' else."

"I'm..." I'm Sister Clarise. No, no longer. "I left everything behind," Eileen said, pushing herself up to rest against a pile of pillows, trying to determine what had happened and where she was.

Toby folded his arms and glared at her with a mixture of annoyance, curiosity, and concern. From the leather arm-guard covering his left forearm, an engraved red dragon peered at her with its head tilted to one side. "Y' don't say."

"The Llygad y Ddraig... what happened to it?"

"T' real one? Yeah, we know of t' copy. Sev'rus 'as it, now – t' orig'nal. I gave it back to 'im. 'E's not with the Dark anymore."

Eileen absorbed this information with heart-rending relief. "I'm sorry..."

Toby sighed and sat on a wooden chair. "Sev'rus is the one y' should apologise to, not me." He rested his elbows on his knees and examined his work-hardened hands. "Y' know, that golem turned out to be good med'cine. I 'aven't touched a drop since that night. Got the chance to start over. And maybe set a few things right with Sev'rus."

He scowled and searched for something in his pockets. "We're in St Mungo's, by t' way. You blacked out after Sev'rus took t' Spear. An Auror – Ricardus – got you out of Ukraine. Oriens, an Unspeakable, brought us 'ere. They said yer magic is very weak, and there's no lastin' damage from t' curse... but you're well underweight."

He knows Aurors and Unspeakables by name? "Where is Severus?" Eileen asked cautiously.

"Dunno. They – Sev'rus and 'Ermione – 'aven't been seen since them dragons made what looked like a second sun over Pripyat. That were late last night. It's six in t' mornin' now." Toby cast a critical eye over Eileen's apparel. "If y' really are some sort of nun, maybe y' could say a prayer or two for 'em. If that's yer thing, nowadays."

"Toby..."

Toby cut her off with a gesture. "I said I'd let 'em know when y' woke up so they can take another look at you," he said, opening the door. He hesitated on the way out. "Should I come back?"

Noting the house-elf's sorrowful expression, Eileen nodded.

---

"Master Tobias?"

Exchanging a nod with the duty Healer who had just finished assessing Eileen, Toby stopped in the antiseptic corridor with his hand on the doorknob. "Tocky?"

The house-elf squirmed shyly. "Tocky is been wondering if Master Tobias and... and..." Tocky glanced pleadingly at his master, his fidgeting fingers tearing a small hole in his pillowcase.

"Stone t' bloody...There's no gettin' 'round this, is there?" Toby gave an exasperated sigh as he entered Eileen's private room, then quickly retrieved his quiver from the house-elf's grasp. "No, y' don't, lad. I'm not 'avin' y' wander 'round lookin' like an echidna. You've not done anythin' wrong." He gestured to Eileen, who looked much better after a bowl of porridge and was sitting properly upright looking ready to talk. "Tocky, Eileen. Eileen, Tocky."

Tocky bowed. "Mistress Eileen, Tocky is being delighted to serve – with Master Tobias' permissions."

Eileen couldn't help raising her eyebrows. Master Tobias? "Hello, Tocky," she said as gently as she could. "It's a pleasure to meet a house-elf again... It's been so many years."

Toby rolled his eyes. "Right. Now what was Tocky wonderin'?" he asked gruffly.

"Tocky is been thinking perhaps Master Tobias and Mistress Eileen is wanting pots of tea?" The house-elf prompted hopefully.

---

When the ward clock chimed the first hour of the afternoon, the Healers arrived to make sure Eileen ate and rested. Leaving Tocky to keep an eye on things, Toby retreated to a small roof garden to consider what Eileen had told him. He morosely shook his head.

Her own family had tried to push her into an arranged marriage with an unspecified member of the Carrow family. He grimaced, remembering the leering look on Amycus Carrow's face as he threatened Hermione in the villa. For a fleeting moment, Toby was glad he'd knocked the bastard off. It was harder to comprehend that the then Prince patriarch had threatened to kill Eileen if she brought dishonour to the family name by refusing the marriage.

Eileen had unequivocally turned the arrangement down.

Her brother, Drusus Prince, sounded like a decent bloke – no, a good man. Toby was pleased that Drusus had enjoyed meeting baby Severus, even though Severus would have been too young to remember the occasion. In a wandering moment, he wished he could have been there too, to share the pride he had felt in his sooty-haired, obsidian-eyed son...

Toby scanned the skyline. Where are you, Sev'rus? Stop dickin' around an' send someone a message...

The threat of death had been real. To save his sister's life, Drusus had created a golem to stand in for her in an "accidental" drowning. Then he had helped her escape Wales, knowing that any future contact between them would be brief and sporadic.

Eileen had chosen Manchester as a refuge because of its size – she could hide among the Muggle population without attracting attention – and its industry, where she hoped she could find enough work to survive on her own. Keeping her use of magic to a bare minimum, it had been much, much harder than she had anticipated. Many nights, she had gone to bed hungry, her hands raw with blisters and her heart crying for a family she could never return to. When Toby had enticed her out with the promise of a full stomach, she had never considered the possibility of falling in love with him... that event had caught her completely by surprise.

Toby grinned just a little. An embryonic Severus had also caught her by surprise.

Her brother's death had effectively torn the world out from under her feet. The unwelcome responsibility of safeguarding the Llygad y Ddraig had hung over her like a sentence of lifelong damnation. As she told of her last encounter with Drusus, Toby had sensed that she was hiding some extra information, and he was pretty sure he could pinpoint what it was. As far as he dared to think he knew, reputedly powerful witches didn't just lose their magic.

Eileen hadn't mentioned the closure of the mill or Toby's drinking. She had simply said that after a visit from two of Voldemort's most trusted Death Eaters, her wand had been stolen, and life had become a steadily worsening progression of problems and burdens during which every visage of hope had turned its back on her and walked away. "I gave up," she had said, her thin hands clasped around a cup of tea. "Everything inside me just stopped and would go no further. I had nothing left... not even for Severus. Don't think, don't feel, don't exist... that was my daily creed."

"And I weren't man enow to 'elp," Toby had muttered, resisting an urge to brush a lock of silver-streaked hair out of Eileen's eyes. "I made everthin' worse for both of you."

"You helped in Pripyat," she had replied quietly. "You helped Severus, too. And not for the first time... I see a ruined villa, a young woman bound... a young woman whom Severus loves – Hermione, is that her name? Then I See her tormentors felled with arrows. My magic is weak, but the Sight has stayed with me."

Toby shuddered. With her Sight, Eileen had known that Voldemort's Death Eaters were coming to execute them both as a test for Severus' loyalty. She had taken the true Llygad y Ddraig from him while he was "indisposed", tapped into its power, and summoned her golem from the tomb that bore her name. Being made with nine drops of her blood, it had followed the scent of its blood bond and journeyed, by night, to Spinner's End. She had patched up its damages with a Glamour and hidden the thing in his tool shed under a Disillusionment Charm.

And it had been wandering around in the master bedroom, making that floorboard creak while he had been barely sane with the terror of seeing such a thing in the making. After he had fled for his life, Eileen had hidden in the attic, concealing herself in a tiny alcove behind a false wall and hoping that the Death Eaters would be thrown off the trail by a pair of golems. They were. They hadn't even bothered to check the "corpses" for signs of humanity, so great was their disdain.

Toby kicked at a discarded chestnut shell. "So... there's two golems... one of 'er and one of me... and that's what's in our... in those graves." He shivered and glanced up at the sky. It had the look of evening snow.

---

"There's somethin' I don't get...," Toby said guilelessly as Tocky contentedly arranged the makings of afternoon tea. "Sev'rus reckons you 'ad some serious power. 'E said yer school records show you were somethin' special. So why did y' need to tap into Merlin's power to... to call yer golem and... I s'pose... and make one of me?"

Eileen started, then stared at him. "How do you know? How did you find out it was Merlin's?" she demanded, colour flushing her cheeks. "What do you know?"

"Calm down! It's not as though I could use t' bloody thing. When I found the Llygad y' Ddraig, I found somethin' else."

Eileen eyed him warily. "Oh... Did you?"

Delving into his memory, Toby recited, word for word, what had been written on the scrap of Graphorn hide he had retrieved from the fire grate. Then, taking his time, he described the wending pathways, fortuitous crossroads, and tangled mysteries that had lead to the confirmation that Myrddin Emrys was also Merlinus Ambrosius, that Severus was Merlin's heir, and that the Llygad y Ddraig – the real one – was the repository for Merlin's power and memories. He finished with a return to the Graphorn hide – which had once been part of The Book of Nimuë.

Eileen closed her eyes. A tear traced its way down her cheek. "You know most of it... And you kept what you held safe." Her eyes were bright when she looked at him again. "After Merlin gave his son – Prince Lepidus Merlinus – his blessing, Nimuë herself entrusted the Llygad y Ddraig to him. After Merlin's true death, she wrote her book and gave that to Lepidus as well. Those two treasures became part of our family's heritage. They were meant to complement each other. The Book was intended to further magical knowledge in the wider world, but the Llygad had to be kept, and consulted, in secrecy.

"It was said of the Llygad y Ddraig that only one of Merlin's blood could learn its secrets and be able to wield its power. This was why we grew afraid of it when a faction of our family turned to the Dark Arts and began to quest for it. It is knowledge and it is power: forces of terrible destruction if used for the wrong reasons. For generations, we kept the Llygad hidden and concealed anything else that may have lead the Dark to us, and to it.

"When Drusus' guardianship was discovered, he asked me to make a copy of the Llygad y Ddraig so he could..." Eileen shook her head and wiped her eyes. "I knew it had to be convincing... it had to contain the promise of great power. The copy contains most of my power, Toby, with some illusions of amplification to make it seem far greater than it is."

Toby nodded his understanding, a little surprised that his suspicions had been correct and sorely tempted to reveal that her power was – at that very moment – nestled against his chest. Sev'rus warded it... She can't sense it.

"On the night I created your golem, I found that I was able to access Merlin's power, even though I wasn't touching the Llygad. Physical proximity seemed to be the opening: you were within arm's reach of me the whole time, but the flow of power was enabled by the bond I shared with you. Otherwise, I would have used an Imperius Curse for more than just forcing you to watch."

Toby bit his lip, not knowing whether he fully understood what she had said – or what to say in reply.

Eileen nibbled on a gingernut biscuit. "The Book of Nimuë... In the beginning, Lepidus established a protocol for consulting it which effectively screened out anyone with an affiliation to the Dark Arts. In the treacherous times after King Arthur's death, he treated the pages detailing Merlin's appearance and family connections with a combination charm to hide them – and to make anyone who consulted the Book believe that there was nothing more to it than what they could see. For many generations, his charms were renewed each year and held their purpose.

"Sadly, there came a time when it was simply too dangerous to keep the Book intact. We could not risk having our kinship with Merlin widely exposed. By then, the family legends surrounding the Llygad had grown into dangerous fantasy, the truth forgotten in nightmares of bloodshed. Centuries ago, the hidden pages were excised from the Book and held – with the Llygad y Ddraig – in secret by those of our family who kept to the Light. The rest of the Book was placed in the Very Old Bodleian Library under a Secure Loans system. Until a scholar – Johann Whicher – discovered that parts of it were missing and correctly deduced that the omissions detailed Merlin's familial connections. Quite innocently, he made that discovery public knowledge.

"We persuaded the Ministry to place an embargo on the Book, arguing that Merlin's treatises on Druidic magic and Deep Earth Geomancy could too easily be harnessed for Dark purposes. By the early fourteen hundreds, and after several attempted thefts, even that became perilous. By then, Nimuë's name had become synonymous with treachery.

"We hid The Book of Nimuë in a Muggle priory in Abergavenny, where a watcher had been stationed to give warning should the Dark begin to assert its influence."

"So you 'ad the missin' pages from Nimuë's book." Toby stated.

Eileen nodded. "Drusus gave them to me when I went into hiding. With the Dark extending its reach and slowly closing in, it was too risky for him to keep them. When I thought all was lost... that last day I saw my brother alive... I hid the Llygad and burned the pages. I still had enough of my own power left to generate a small amount of Fiendfyre. I let it grow no bigger than a caterpillar, but it consumed the pages voraciously. Controlling it drained me so much... In my fatigue, I hadn't noticed that a single scrap remained."

For some minutes, silence paced the distance between them.

She studied Toby's hands. "What's that you're holding?"

Toby held his brass wedding ring in his thumb and forefinger. "I were never right for you, I know that...," he said, melancholy softening his tone. "You're wizardin' royalty... You knew full bloody well y' were descended from Merlin." His breathing quickened. "I thought you were dead. I thought the vows I 'adn't managed to scupper 'ad died with you."

Eileen quickly deduced which particular vows he referred to. "If you've made a life with someone else, it's not your fault..."

"There's nothin' with anyone," Toby growled. "Once in a while, yeah, but never anythin' serious. I were too busy lookin' out for wizards who might want to pinch the Llygad y Ddraig." He stood up. "I better go. You're lookin' tired again."

Eileen fingered the brass cross which hung on a chain around her neck. "Will you come again after supper?"

"If y' like."

Receiving a small smile and a nod as an answer, Toby went out into the corridor, a studiously silent Tocky close behind him. He spotted Oriens talking to the duty Healers. "Any news?" he asked when he had come close enough not to have to raise his voice.

"Nothing," Oriens answered. "I've tried sending a Patronus every few hours, but there's been no reply. Mind you, Severus – and presumably Hermione, as they say she was with him – would've had to draw on a lot of their power to hold off the energy release when the rift closed. It could be that they're simply too drained to respond at the moment."