Part Second: The Hart Rampant: Chapter 24, Part 1

Chapter 24, Part 1:

Emily Apparated into Diagon Alley after she left Hogwarts and wandered through Flourish and Blotts for about for an hour or so before rather arbitrarily deciding to sit down somewhere and have some supper and a cup of tea. She decided to avoid the usual spots – the Leaky Cauldron and the restaurant bars of any of the hotels where she had used to meet Lucius. Instead, she chose a tiny, fragrant restaurant with water-spotted rugs and the scent of spices in the air, well off the high street. A young witch in a sari appeared to take her order for a plate of chicken curry and a pot of orange spice tea, no sugar.

A moment after her waitress had walked away, she briefly considered cancelling her order and Apparating over the Channel to Dublin to pay an unannounced visit to her friend Aelfraith Reilly. Raith was a Muggle-born witch, a semi-reclusive software engineer who lived alone, in the basements and bottom floor of a converted warehouse. She worked at home, surrounded by banks of computer equipment and magical grimoires, and kept rather unstructured hours. More than likely she was still awake and wouldn't mind an old friend's company... but after a moment's consideration, Emily decided against it. Despite her intentions to spend some time with Raith during her year in Scotland, she really hadn't made much time to see her other than at the Tolkien Society's first LAN party, and had missed her at the Midsummer Revel. Emily thought it would be rather inconsiderate to now show up unannounced on Raith's doorstep, wailing to be comforted after being disappointed by two different men – one of whom was married – after neglecting her all year.

The waitress reappeared with a plate of savoury meat, vegetables, and brown basmati rice, and a steaming white china teapot and mug, and poured out the tea. Emily picked up the cup, inhaled its steamy fragrance, and forced her heart rate to slow. After a moment, she began to take stock of her situation, as dispassionately as she could.

The school year was almost over – after the Third Task tomorrow, there was only one more week left, during which she would be busy grading her end of term tests and essays. In theory, she would only have to see Professor Snape one more time, at the annual Leaving Feast, July 2nd, and then they would be out of each other's hair forever. Under the terms set down by the King, Dumbledore could have commanded her to carry out his bidding until September 23rd – but nonetheless she doubted that the Headmaster would have any use for her after the end of the school year. In all likelihood, he would just tell her that her obligation to him was over sometime during that last week, or at the Leaving Feast, and send her on her way.

Emily picked up her fork and dug into her supper, some appetite finally returning. All that year, she had assumed that she would find the nearest open portal back to the Faerielands and return home as soon as Dumbledore gave her leave to go. She knew exactly which portal and what day and time she would have taken for the journey back, whether he dismissed her at the end of the school year or in the unlikely possibility that he required her to stay till September. Now and then during the last few weeks, she had been imagining those first reunions with her father, her mother, Gwydion and Dahlia and Corryn, Bill, Victoria, Corvus and all the other members of her unit. She had previously thought that Gwydion would have thrown the usual sort of cosy dinner with all of her favourite people to welcome her back. Victoria would then probably prevail upon her to spend a few days at the Priquettes' agricultural estate out in the north, and Corvus and Eithne, and Bill and Mary, would ask her over for dinner. Bill and Mary's two little girl-cubs, Catrine and Eireann, would no doubt have shot up in height during her year's absence and be in that gangly, huge-paws phase. She had been thinking of all the times they had rushed up and engulfed her in furry, wiggly hugs, squeaking, "Aunt Emily, Aunt Emily!" after her return from some absence, and had been greatly looking forward to a repeat performance.

But now she couldn't rejoin her loved ones, potentially for an entire year more, because Grainné Robinett had died, and Gwydion didn't trust her two surviving sons. (Or at least, so the King said, had pledged his very word that this wasn't punishment... she was going to try to be calm and take that at face value.)

Yes, dear Lady Grainné. Emily thought of Jayson's mother, with her large, mournful, ever-tearful eyes, her whiny, obsequious voice, her endless capacity for adoring and spoiling her three sons, especially Jayson, the youngest, who was the image of her late husband. Lady Grainné with her complete inability to instil any sense of honour or responsibility in Jayson, Steifan, or Richert, and who had raised all three of them to inalienably believe that the indulgence of their whims was the highest calling of any female creature to ever draw breath. How Lady Grainné had wept and fainted and carried on when Emily challenged Jayson, the day after Dorien's funeral. As she had faced her husband's murderer in that grassy clearing, it had been with the sound of Grainné Robinett's wailing in her ears. After Jayson had lost the combat, there had been no end to her tearing of hair and rending of garments. Emily couldn't help but think that if the woman had told her sons No once in a while, had raised them to realise that there were some things, some people, that one simply could not have no matter how much one wanted them, then perhaps she would have spared herself this grief.

No, Lady Grainné's passing did not provoke much sorrow in Sir Dorien Tumnus's widow, and that was certain.

At any rate, there was no way she could stay at Hogwarts. Most likely no one stayed at the school over the summer besides Hagrid and Filch, anyway. Perhaps Raith would rent her the top floor of her warehouse for the summer – after her friend had inherited the building, she had the top floors converted into lofts with the intention of renting them out someday, but as far as Emily knew, had never gotten around to it. Summer in Ireland sounded all right – Raith was excellent, if eccentric, company, and knowing her, the building probably had top of the line Net access. Emily thought about going back to Cambridge and asking Professor Atreus if he had any professorial openings in his department... but suddenly Cambridgeshire seemed entirely too close to Wiltshire, and Malfeasant, for her taste. It would have been far too easy to run into a prominent personage like Lucius, or maybe even Professor Snape, if she spent any more time in the small, insular world of the British Wizarding community.

But there was the whole of Europe to be considered. The south of France was a possibility – there were very few wounds to the heart that couldn't be solaced by enough time in the French countryside. The French wine country was probably the closest she would get to home, here in the Second World. Perhaps Beauxbatons was hiring? Or maybe Alain or Mackenzie knew a pleasant Muggle lycée out in the middle of pastoral nowhere that needed an English teacher or a fencing coach...

Emily finished her meal and wearily poured another cup of tea. Going back to Arcadia was out of the question – if she did, there were magics that would allow the Robinetts to find her almost anywhere, and it would be embarrassing to beg Gwydion to ask one of the other sovereigns to extend sanctuary to her. She didn't want to stay in England. But, she could pack up everything she owned in one small case and be anywhere on Earth in a matter of hours. There had to be somewhere on this globe where she could spend a year, in some pleasant and preferably uneventful manner.

But no matter where she ended up, there would be NO more impulsive sex with intriguing dark strangers in public phone boxes, nor affairs with other women's indecently Machiavellian husbands, and that you could be certain of.

There was one week left of this academic year, during which Emily would be completely distracted with grading tests and essays anyway. The entire school would be too preoccupied with the end of the Triwizard Tournament to pay much attention to her at all.

After that week was over, she would never have to clap eyes on either Lucius Malfoy or Severus Snape ever again.

I can do this, she told herself, taking a deep breath and pressing the palm of her hand against her eyelid. It's not as though thousands of heavily armed Orcs are advancing on Rivendale. Irma and Albus will visit, and Hermione will be a Tithe page in a few years.

Emily raised her head and nodded to the waitress. "If I could have my check, please, miss."

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Outside, a nondescript middle-aged man in a grey tweed overcoat stood up and ground out his cigarette as the blonde woman in the black velvet cloak emerged from the little wog place on the corner. His eyes followed her as she started rather listlessly down the street, but she paid him about as much heed as she would have one of the alley lampposts.

Didn't seem to much care where she was going, either, just wandering sort of aimlessly – oh yeah, that was good. Whatsa matter, why the long face, did poor ickle Tinkerbell have a bad day? Well, whatever misery she was in, she would be out of it soon. He indulged himself with a dark little chuckle, his fingers ready on the hilt of the iron dagger under his coat.

Ah yeah, that's it, yeh troublesome little dandelion-eating slut, just keep walking that way.

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Emily spent awhile wandering about Diagon Alley after finishing her tea. (She didn't even consider another stroll down Knockturn Alley.) It was late, past ten p.m. by her watch, and the only establishment still open was the Leaky Cauldron pub. She could have stopped in and drowned her sorrows in a bottle of dandelion wine, but she didn't like the idea of drinking alone because of the vagaries of some man, and in her opinion, that bastard Snape had done quite enough already. Later, she might be able to look dispassionately at the scene in her classroom with Professor Snape, and recognise that perhaps he had reacted the way he did because he had been painfully afraid of having been humiliated, but for now, she still felt miserably ill-treated.

As such, the footsteps, stealthily following her along the walk where Diagon Alley bordered on Endustree Alley, never really registered.

Emily felt safe in Wizarding London, even here in this relatively isolated part of it, and was confident of her ability to protect herself in almost any situation. Her mind was still full of the ugly scene in her classroom – as such, she was not paying as much attention to her surroundings as she might have under different circumstances. Also, as she thought of herself as a protector of the persecuted, rather than as a likely target for persecution, the idea that she was making herself vulnerable by taking a walk in a deserted area had not occurred to her.

As it happened, she never realised that she was in danger until her attacker was within half a dozen steps behind her on that deserted side street. Suddenly she noticed the sound of running footsteps behind her, a sudden lunge forward – an upsurge in someone's breathing – the scent of rage and murderous intent –

She was turning hard around when she saw the knife in his hand.

The force of his downward blow staggered her on her feet for a moment, and then the pain registered – blinding, a thick ribbon of searing heat driven into the meat of her shoulder –

Emily faced the man Bartemious Crouch, Jr. had paid to kill her, and silently spoke one word.

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As the man in the grey overcoat watched his commissioned prey, the air around her shimmered, warped, effervesced – she was staring at him with lucid eyes, more real than reality. Then he noticed the street elongating around him, as if the alley had grown unutterably longer, the buildings taller and more forbidding, around the focal point that was this skinny, brown-eyed woman. She now seemed very far away from him.

This was magic he had never seen before – he knew magic, that which people other than himself could do with wands or incantations – but this was different. The very air crackled around him, as if with the portent of lightning soon to flash.

He clutched the handle of the knife and blundered forward, swinging it in front of him in a wide arc. Where was she? She shimmered, half-corporeal, in front of him, out of his reach.

But then something very strong stopped his swing, and seized his knife hand in a vicelike grip. No, wait, that couldn't be her – she wasn't that close to him, she was several yards away –

She was directly in front of him, her pitiless eyes fixed on his face, her hand clasped around his own – and then she forced the blade of his knife back in his direction, and unerringly drove it into his throat. A second later, she had severed his carotid artery, then slid the point down until she found purchase between two neck vertebrae and cut through his spine, her arm tensing and teeth gritting with the effort of severing cartilage. All feeling and muscular control below his neck was lost in less than a second, and all blood flow to his brain in slightly more than a second.

He fell forward, and was dead before his cheek came to rest against the cobblestones of the street.

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The knife clattered to the street beside her attacker's body, its blade enpurpled with a combined welter of human and Faery blood, but it never occurred to Emily to pick it up or examine it. She knew by the ominous crackling heat that blade exuded when it entered her shoulder, and when her hand closed around that of her assailant, what it was made of – pure, forged iron. As she staggered away from her attacker, it also never occurred to her to check on his condition, or investigate the body in any way. She knew the feel of a killing blow when she dealt one.

She pressed her hand to the wound on the back of her shoulder – it felt like a gaping hole in her flesh, as though her entire back had been laid open. Her hand came away richly covered with ink-blue blood. She paused for a long, numb moment, watching her blood collect into heavy droplets on the heel of her hand, to fall and slowly plash on the street.

The wound was high on her back, out of her sight; she had no way of examining it and discerning the extent of the damage. Her entire shoulder throbbed with anguish – she couldn't tell how deep the blade had gone, didn't know what had been severed or punctured; her lungs might be filling up with her own blood right now...

Dorien, is this how it felt?

She stood for a long moment; just breathing hard, shaking, and bleeding.

After a moment, she coughed hard into her palm, but found no blood in her saliva. All right, that was a good sign, and she didn't appear to be dying, at least she didn't think she was... she could still move her left hand and arm, although it hurt horribly to move much at all... what should she do now... she had heard of St. Mungo's, the Wizarding hospital, but had no idea as to where it was, which made Apparating directly there impossible. She thought about Apparating directly into Catherine Orson's clinic, or Catherine's flat in London... but she didn't know if Catherine would be there without calling her first, and this being Diagon Alley, there were no phones...

The blood was now pouring in a heavy curtain of wet heat down her back, and she was starting to feel very tired, light-headed, and disoriented. Emily picked up a fold of her cloak and packed it hard back into her slashed shoulder, attempting to stop the bleeding, but the angle was so awkward it didn't seem to be helping much.

Please, oh Lady of the Worlds, I know I've been awful all year, but please let someone help me.

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Emily finally staggered back to the little Indian restaurant where she had had supper and knocked on the door, then reached for the doorknob with her blood-soaked right hand. The door was locked.

A rotund, brown-skinned, middle-aged woman came out from the back kitchen area, and came toward the door. "Closed!" she called.

Emily rattled the doorknob with increasing desperation. "Madam, no, please, this is an emergency, I don't want supper, please – "

"Supper over! Closed!" the woman called. The incomprehension on her face and the intonation of her voice indicated that English was not her native tongue. "Closed!" she repeated.

"Oh, bloody hell." Emily glanced down at the doorknob – "Alohomora" – and then silently spoke a word, and the doorknob turned and the door opened. "Please, madam, just let me explain – "

The dark woman let out a cry of outrage, then started toward her with a torrent of fluent Hindi. Emily tried to compose her thoughts, concentrating on exactly what she wanted to tell this woman, and trying to muster up a Deceivre charm so as to properly communicate with her, but then the young waitress who had waited on her at supper came out of the back room, her black brows knitting with concern.

"Miss – miss, please... call the police, call a doctor," Emily called desperately.

"What happened?" the waitress cried, starting forward in alarm. The older woman was still shouting, her voice high-pitched and anxious.

"In the alley... he had a knife, he stabbed me in the back. Please, miss, I didn't mean to frighten anyone, if you could just call for help... "

The waitress looked worriedly down at Emily's bloodstained hand, but didn't seem to recognise the ink-blue substance as blood, didn't realise it was a sign of injury. Emily could feel a thick rivulet of blood oozing down her back, heard it dripping on the floor behind her feet. The back of her dress seemed to be saturated with it.

The older woman was frightened now, histrionically gesticulating to the waitress, and the girl was trying to calm her and explain the situation to her. Emily gritted her teeth, jammed the fold of her cloak back into her shoulder as best she could, and cursed her own luck.

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Oh, flaming Christian hell – getting stabbed with an iron blade hurt.

Hurt worse than anything Emily could have imagined, worse than any wound she had ever received in battle. The pain was so bad that just moving her left arm or turning her head to the left was enough to make her nauseous, but she refused anything but tincture of willow bark for the pain. Morphine or anything opiate-derived – in short, any of this world's most effective painkillers – were absolutely out of the question.

Back at the restaurant, the young waitress had finally managed to communicate to the older woman, her mother, that their after-hours visitor had forced her way into their dining room because she had been stabbed and was seeking aid, not trying to rob them. Then Daireen, the waitress (may all the blessings of the Lady of the Worlds be upon her and hers forever), had immediately Flooed the emergency medics at St. Mungo's, who then came to collect Emily. The triage mediwizards examined her wound and told her that she had gotten very lucky – she had turned away from her attacker's knife thrust in such a manner that the only damage had been a long but relatively superficial slash in the muscle just below and to the left of her neck. No arteries or major veins had been severed; the wound wasn't life-threatening, just painful and bloody.

She was then taken to the hospital, where a nurse helped her to partially disrobe and then lie on her stomach on an operating table. A skilled surgi-witch then arrived, put Sterile Anaesthesia Field Spells in place with her wand. She then cleaned the wound, reattached the slashed muscle tissues with dissolving staples, and neatly glued the wound shut with a tube of Dermal-Stik Paste. Then she took some alcohol pads and began to clean up Emily's back and neck, which were stained with a copious amount of her own blood.

"That's the worst of it – let's see if there's anything else I should worry about. No, looks like he only got the one swipe at you." Emily thought she was lingering rather a long time on her shoulder, and looked back to find the surgi-witch peering closely at her left ear. "I'm sorry – just curious. I've never treated a Faerie before. I'll take it that your blood is normally this colour?"

"Yes, it is." She hadn't been able to feel any pain, only some slight pressure as the reparation surgery went on, as though someone was rearranging the inside of her shoulder. The alcohol cleanup felt pleasantly cool, and made her skin prickle.

"It's strange – this wound is partially cauterised. It's like the knife he used was red-hot or something."

"It was an iron weapon," Emily said dully. "Iron is toxic to Faeries. It burns us."

"Very interesting," the surgi-witch said, laving the closed wound with Healing Potion, then antiseptic, and then a healthy amount of Numbing Potion, before dispelling the surgical field. "This should heal quickly. Change your bandages twice a day, keep the shoulder bound for the first week, don't lift anything at all with your left hand, or lean on your left arm, for at least a week, and no strenuous exercise for at least three. If you take the antibiotic potions regularly and apply Healing Potion to it twice a day, it should heal completely without infection or scarring.

"For someone who's been stabbed in the back, you're actually in quite decent shape. This is just a bad slash, not a deep puncture. Consider yourself lucky," the surgi-witch said, patting her good shoulder.

Emily was then escorted to a Spartan little hospital room, where she finally fell into a fitful sleep at about two a.m. – only to be awakened shortly after five a.m. by a pair of Magical Law Enforcement detectives, come to take her statement as to what had happened in the alley. Afterward, they told her that corpse of her attacker had been collected, identified, and investigated. He had apparently been a Squib, with a long history of unemployment, and an even longer criminal record.

The two investigators seemed to have concluded that he had thought a slight, well-dressed woman would be an easy and lucrative mark, and seemed to find it very peculiar that she had evaded the worst of his attack and turned his own weapon on him. The investigators also seemed to think that being a Faerie was a very suspicious thing indeed, and to be a combat-trained Faery knight was downright sinister. As with so many other wizards, their gazes got as far as her eyes, which were widely dilated in the dimness of her room, and her ears, then stopped. They informed her that she would have to appear at a special inquest in the very near future and warned her not to "get any fancy notions about finding one of you people's dimensional portals and leaving town."

By the time Emily finished the interview, the sun was coming up outside her window. She pulled the thin pillow over her head and tried again to sleep.

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The sun rose bright and clear over Hogwarts Castle on the morning of the Third Task.

Breakfast was accompanied by a cacophony of excited student voices – to Severus Snape, the Great Hall seemed a veritable echo chamber of high-pitched squealing young voices. As he sat at breakfast, nursing cup after cup of black coffee and pushing breakfast disinterestedly around on his plate, he idly wished that he hadn't taken all of that headache powder from yesterday, as he could use another dose of it right about now.

The Gryffindors in particular seemed to be outdoing themselves as far as creating a head-exploding racket, especially after the morning's owl post was delivered and they all opened that morning's Daily Prophet. The hall was soon alive with scandalised whispers – probably another ridiculous puff piece had appeared about how Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, noble Hogwarts champion, had stubbed his toe or some such idiocy, and now he could look forward to another day full of Draco Malfoy braying about the injustice of living in a world with such a Potter in it. Oh, joy.

Professor Swain hadn't shown up to breakfast this morning, and her continued absence was now becoming a bit worrisome. Perhaps she was busy with her finals, or perhaps she was still on edge over Moody's recent fit of contentiousness toward her, or... perhaps she was still in a snit over their argument in her classroom, Snape thought, with a second's downcast grimace.

He was turning away from Professor Swain's conspicuously empty chair when he noticed that Professor Moody, who was seated to his immediate left, was glancing at her vacant place at the table as well – and just for an instant, something about Moody's expression gave him pause. Moody just looked entirely too satisfied to see her chair empty, for some reason. It was just odd.

Moody wanted to kill me out there today – he positively reeked of it, she had said. I'm not going to feel safe until I'm a dimensional plane away from him.

It was just... odd.

Snape finished his own breakfast quickly, then left the high table and approached Argus Filch, who was feeding Mrs. Norris her morning bowl of tuna at the back of the Great Hall.

"Mr. Filch? I had hoped to speak to Professor Swain this morning. She left the castle rather late last evening – did you see her come in?"

Filch shook his head. "Never saw her come in." He turned toward Mrs. Norris – "You spy a towheaded Faerie flitting in evening last, my sweet?"

Mrs. Norris cocked her head and chirruped Wrowrrrr in a distinctly negative tone.

"I see." Snape curtly took his leave of the two of them, then turned back toward the high table. He caught up to the Headmaster as Dumbledore headed toward the anteroom adjacent to the Great Hall, where the four champions were soon to be greeting their families, friends, sycophants, and well-wishers. "Albus?"

Dumbledore stopped and turned back toward him. "Yes, Severus?"

"I had a question for Professor Swain regarding our, er, tutorial curriculum this morning. She missed supper and our instructional session last night, and I couldn't help but notice that her usual seat is again empty this morning. I also know that a messenger delivered a letter to her yesterday evening with what appeared to be some rather distressing news, and then I saw her leaving school quite late last evening. Mr. Filch has just told me that he didn't see her come back last night. Has she told you where she was going, or when she would be returning?"

"No, she has not," Dumbledore said. "Have you any idea what news she received in the message?"

"No, sir."

The Headmaster paused thoughtfully. "I shall pay a visit to her first class session, this morning, and see if she appears. Given the nature of Professor Swain's vocation, it is possible that she had pressing business to attend to last night, but if she had been unavoidably delayed, I am certain she would have sent word in time for me to obtain a substitute."

"Of course, sir," Snape said. "If you see her in class, please tell her that... I would like to reschedule our last night's meeting at a time more convenient to her, if that is... acceptable to her."

Dumbledore's eyebrows went up in faint surprise – perhaps he was unused to hearing such consideration from the Head of Slytherin. "I will be certain to tell her, then, Severus."

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Emily finally fell asleep perhaps an hour after the investigators left. She usually slept on her left shoulder and kept shifting her weight in that direction, only to wake herself up with the pain of pressure on her wound. There seemed no way to get comfortable, as though she were trying to sleep on the precarious edge of a razor, but more potent painkillers were out of the question. This necessity of lying on her right side and the position of the bed also meant that she had to lie with her back facing the door, a set-up to make any soldier feel ill at ease. It was only sheer exhaustion that finally allowed her to fall into a light doze well after dawn.

Sometime later, she gradually became aware of the warmth of a calm presence beside her, someone's gentle hand stroking her hair. Ah, that was nice. So soft, so affectionate, like the times her father had sat up with her when she was sick with the white fever as a child.

But then she remembered she was in hospital in the Second World, not at home in her childhood bed. She opened her eyes and turned toward the person beside her, expecting to see a mediwitch or nurse or Healer come to check on her condition – and gasped.

Lucius Malfoy was sitting beside her bed.

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Emily immediately sat up and flinched away from him – then crumpled backward with a little sob of pain, arrested in mid-flinch as the violent motion pulled hard on the laceration in her shoulder.

"Careful, dear! You don't want to reopen that slash, whatever you do." Lucius steadied her with both hands, his blond brows drawn together in concern.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, pulling away from him.

He released her immediately and leaned back in the chair, putting a discreet distance between them, his expression registering some genteel shock at her vehemence. "Why, I came to see how you were, of course. First thing this morning, I got an owl from Draco saying that you quite unexpectedly hadn't turned up for classes this morning and Dumbledore had to substitute for you. He wanted to know if I knew what had happened – poor boy was dreadfully concerned about you. I immediately Flooed Magical Law Enforcement and St. Mungo's to see if anything amiss had befallen you, and a Healer friend of mine checked the records and told me you had been admitted to the hospital late last night. I promised Draco I would visit you immediately and make sure you were all right."

She remained silent, breathing hard, staring at him accusingly.

"I'm sorry if I startled you – you were asleep when I came in. I've only been here for perhaps five minutes," he said mildly.

"Oh, bloody hell – my classes already started?" Emily asked, raking a hand through her tousled hair, and half-heartedly smoothing her worn hospital gown. "What time is it?"

Lucius consulted a heavy gold pocket watch – "A bit after half-past eleven."

"Oh no, they're into my second session already. Damn it, I need to get back to school." Back to school, and well away from Mr. Lucius Malfoy, thank you very bloody much. She looked around for her clothes, which were sitting in a slashed, bloodstained heap on the cheap institutional nightstand beside her bed. Her black frock and velvet cloak looked crumpled and badly in need of some industrial-strength Textilis Reparo and Waskan cleaning spells before she could have even hoped to look presentable.

"Er, confidentially, dear, I think you might have a bit of trouble going back to school at this time," Lucius said, in an even milder tone.

"Why is that?" she demanded suspiciously.

"You're welcome to try, of course, but the two fellows from Magical Law Enforcement sitting outside your room might have something to say about it," Lucius said. "I think they're under orders not to let you leave, and to see that you get to the inquest this afternoon."

"What?" Emily gasped.

"It's standard procedure after there's been a violent death, dear, nothing to worry about necessarily. They just want to make sure that you get to the hearing," Lucius said helpfully.

"After there's been a violent death... ?"

Then it hit her – this was the Second World, and she had signed a legally binding agreement promising that she would abide by British law and Wizarding law while she lived on British soil, thereby granting them the power to try her, sentence her, and imprison her for offences committed against the Crown as they saw fit –

– and the previous evening, she had killed a man. A man native to this country.

"Yes, whenever a man turns up in an alley with his throat cut, you of course know it has to be investigated," Lucius said. "Due process of law, and all that."

No... no, this couldn't be happening.

"But I didn't murder the man – I defended myself. He tried to murder me," Emily interjected, her voice cracking. "Without provocation – he sneaked up behind me and tried to put a knife in my back – "

"And you managed to take the knife from him, and take his head half off with it. Good work, my dear," Lucius said, with genuine admiration. "He should have thought twice before trying to steal some Galleons from you, eh?"

"Lucius... " She turned toward him, white-eyed with terror. In her desperation, even Lucius seemed sympathetic at that moment. "I don't think it was just some desperate fellow out to steal some Galleons. I think someone hired him – someone arranged this specifically."

He stared at her, shocked – and then his grey eyes gleamed with that icy rage that had so unnerved her the last time she had seen him. But now, seeing him flare up furiously on her behalf, she found it oddly comforting. "Why so? Emily – why would someone do that?"

"He used an iron knife. Not steel – iron. He would have had to look awfully hard to find a low-tech weapon like that – even in Wizarding shops, you find tempered steel. Or he would have had to use a really difficult Transfiguration spell to transmute it from steel into a less refined metal... no, this bloke was hunting Faerie. Most definitely."

"Could one of the Robinetts have sent an assassin after you?" He could not have looked more deeply concerned about her. "Tried to make it look like some random attack from some Faerie-hating Second-worlder?"

"I don't think so, but... " But could they have? Could Richert and Steifan, as they saw their mother's health failing, have come here and commissioned someone? Could the Robinetts have actually sunk to the level of condoning the use of cold iron against a countrywoman? It was unthinkable, it was blasphemous... but how else could the assassin have known to use an iron knife against a Fae target?

Emily turned back to Lucius. "We both know what they're like... I just don't know. But even if it was them, they're going to have hidden their tracks – and how could I explain to Magical Law Enforcement that enemies from another dimensional plane set me up for this? The investigators who were here earlier seemed to think my account of what happened sounded suspicious... there are guards outside my door... oh, sweet Mother... "

Her heart gave a wild lurch inside her chest, and suddenly it seemed very close and airless in her hospital room.

Lucius put a supportive hand on her arm. "Did you get the investigators' names, by any chance?" he asked gently. "I do flatter myself that I have a bit of influence with that department – "

"It doesn't matter – you know what's going to happen," Emily cried. "The judge at the inquest is going to take one look at me, see some pointy-eared foreigner, and he's going to instantly assume that I cold-bloodedly murdered a British subject. There are guards outside my door – they already think there's cause to suspect me – "

"Calm down, dear! You're working yourself into a state – "

"I'll never get a fair hearing here – I already know that. All some solicitor will have to do is find out what happened with Robinett, and they're going to try to paint me as some sociopathic impulse killer – "

"Emily. You'll get your fair hearing," Lucius said, but she wasn't listening to him.

"Of course I won't – have you looked at me recently?" she snapped. "There is no way some British wizard judge is going to have any sympathy for me, and there weren't any witnesses."

"I have looked at you, love," he said. "Intimately. And only ever with the greatest of affection."

"Oh by the Mother – I'm going to end up in Azkaban. I know it." She covered her face with her hands in despair.

"No, no." Lucius reassuringly took her hands in his. "You're not going to Azkaban, love, believe me. If I have anything to say about it – "

"If you have anything to say about it?" She shook him off furiously. "If you have anything to say about it, I'll probably get life in prison. What are you really here for? What deal am I going to have to make to get out of this? My True Name in exchange for my freedom, is that it?"

Lucius stared at her, shocked. "Emily, really! I'm amazed that you would even think that I would... " He averted his eyes, his face crumpling; he seemed to swallow hard. "Well then. I can see that I'm not welcome here. I'll... leave you to your rest."

He picked up his briefcase and walking cane and turned to leave – but somehow Emily's heart lurched when he turned away from her. This was Lucius, slipped her a telepathic potion and tried to learn her True Name bloody Lucius, and she hated him. But... seeing him make for the door suddenly made her feel that her only advantage in this situation, her only lifeline to the world outside that door, was about to leave her behind.

"Lucius, wait," she called lamely. "What do you mean, if you have anything to say about it?"

He paused, turned back to her. "Well... you've probably already done this for yourself, but I was wondering if I could do anything to help," he said hesitantly. "If I could notify your solicitor, or your work, or some such, seeing as how I doubt that the blokes outside are going to fetch owl and parchment for you, I'd be happy to do it."

What he was suggesting made a great deal of sense – in the aftermath of the attack, the shock, pain, and exhaustion had been such that she hadn't really thought of contacting anyone until now. "Well, all right, I should probably send a letter to Dumbledore and to my family solicitor... if I have to go to an inquest today, I'll need Dumbledore, if he can come, and my solicitor, and some fresh clothes, I guess... if you could just bring me some parchment, run something to the post office... "

"Yes, of course I will." He took a seat beside her bed again, opened his briefcase, and handed her a monogrammed leather folder with a sheaf of Ministry letterhead stationery, and a self-inking pheasant feather quill.

"I'll just be a minute... " she said with a sidelong glance, opening the folder on her knee.

"Take as much time as you need," he replied graciously.

Emily hastily composed two letters, one to her family solicitor at the firm of Barak & Cicero, and one to Albus Dumbledore, with an account of what had happened, and explaining that she appeared to be very much under suspicion of wrongdoing, and was scheduled to appear at a court inquest that afternoon – and that she would appreciate some immediate assistance.

When she was finished, she sealed the letters and turned back to Lucius. "If you could just get to the post office, then... ?"

"Of course, I'd be happy to." He paused, looking at her with a haggard, miserable expression. "Emily... I know I offended you very much, and you're absolutely right to be so angry. I was... back in May, I just so bloody swept away by everything that was happening... and you know I've always sort of wished that I had my own True Name, so... well... I tried to take something I shouldn't have, and I can't describe how much I regret that now."

"Lucius, it was... it was just that you know what a True Name means to one of us. It's not like you wanted to borrow my wand for a moment, it's – "

"Yes, I know what it is to you. It was... my behaviour was just inexcusable and I know it. I don't expect you to forgive me or take me back, but... " The polished drawl broke and became for a moment falteringly human. "I really do miss you desperately, and I can't stand seeing you like this. I keep thinking of how you looked the first day I met you, flirting with me in your little black dress, without a care in the world – that's how you should be, not lying all pale and lonesome in a hospital bed. Can't we... oh bloody hell, can't you at least let me try to do something for you when you're in hospital at least? Isn't there anything more you would let me do to help?"

"Well... " He seemed so sincere, so penitent, and eager to be given some task to carry out so as to prove his worth to her again. In her present situation, that was not unwelcome, even from him. All that mattered was that she was terrified, wounded, alone, and very far from home, and he seemed the only person who could protect her, or who seemed to care about what happened to her at all. Some part of her had hoped that Dumbledore would have somehow gotten wind of her misfortune in his own mysterious sort of way, and have already come to her aid, but he seemed to have other things to do at that moment. "If you could just get these out. For what it's worth – there's probably no way I'll stay out of prison at this rate, but... I don't know. If you thought there was anything besides asking Dumbledore and my attorney for their help that can be done, I don't know that I'd say no at this point."

"All right then, just leave it to me." Lucius took her hand again, pressed it to his lips. "You'll get a fair hearing, and you'll be free as air by tonight. I would never let anything hurt you, my love – you know that."

He hadn't let go of her hand, and she let him hold it. She glanced down at herself, noticed that she didn't look anything like she had usually gotten herself up before him – her hair had to be a mess, her breath was probably rank, and she was wearing a shapeless hospital gown – but that didn't seem to dim his ardour one bit. Lucius looked very handsome today, in extremely sharp business robes of what looked like black raw silk, an intricate serpent brooch on his lapel – the sight of all that power, wealth, and influence holding her hand and pledging never to let anything hurt her was suddenly a very welcome sight. She let her fingers curve affectionately around his cheek, and he closed his eyes and seemed to sigh into her touch. It looked as though he truly was sorry and really had missed her desperately.

After a long moment, Emily reluctantly disengaged herself from him and handed him the letters to her solicitor's office and to Dumbledore. "Here... please, could you post these as fast as possible?"

"I shall, dear," Lucius promised, tucking the two letters into his pocket. He gazed very seriously at her face for a moment, then pressed a soft, tender kiss to her cheek. "Don't worry, love. Everything will be all right."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

When Lucius Malfoy left St. Mungo's, he did not immediately go to the post office, as he had told Emily. Instead, he made his leisurely way down to League Alley and paid a call to the Law Office of Leach & Rapyne. Shortly thereafter, he had a pleasant lunch with an associate of that well-regarded firm. Then, he took a walk down to Sartor Alley and made stops into a few high-end shops. It was two o'clock p.m. when he returned to his office at the Ministry of Magic.

His new secretary, Miss Ginger Leigh, was standing on a stool shelving some books when he came into the office – and Lucius paused a moment to appreciate the view afforded of that young lady's commendable legs by the high perch and her pleasantly short navy flannel business robes before greeting her. Upon the retirement of his long-time former secretary, Ministry veteran Mrs. Mehitable Wattles, Lucius had personally hand-picked Miss Leigh, whose qualifications were impeccable, whose education was exemplary, and whose stunning brunette looks made her very easy to look upon. "Good afternoon, Ginger."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy, sir. The files you asked for are on your desk, sir."

"Thank you. Oh, and when you get a chance, be a dear and post these for me." He put Emily's letters on Miss Leigh's desk.

"Any rush, sir?"

"No rush," he said pleasantly. "They can go out with the usual evening's mail. Thank you very much, Ginger." He then went into his office, but not before he smiled at his secretary like to make that pretty young lady feel warm all over.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Any number of Hogwarts alumni and some of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang parents had shown up at Hogwarts to watch the Third Task, and Professor Snape had (very much against his will) been conscripted by the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress to play host that afternoon. This consisted of loitering around the Great Hall anteroom making inane small talk (yes, I am still teaching Potions, thank you) and answering the same two questions as to when exactly the Third Task was to begin (that evening at dusk), and who was leading as far as points went (Diggory and Potter tied at eighty-five points each, followed by Viktor Krum with eighty points, and Fleur Delacour with fifty-nine points.) He was asked these questions with such regularity that he began to debate writing this information down on little index cards and simply handing them to anyone who approached him.

His mood was especially tetchy at that moment, because Professor Swain hadn't shown up to lunch, either – and although Snape would never have admitted it to anyone, he was starting to worry, and starting to feel just a touch guilty. This feeling intensified exponentially after lunch, when Dumbledore took him aside and told him that Professor Swain had not appeared for her morning's classes, and that there had been no word from her explaining why.

"So, you have no idea as to why she left the castle so suddenly, Severus? Do you have any inkling as to what news she received, any at all?" Dumbledore asked, his white brows knitting together.

For a single long moment, Snape wished that he could tell Dumbledore the whole truth – What really happened, Albus, is that she and I had a very bitter personal argument perhaps three hours before she left the castle and effectively vanished. I don't think she's the sort to do something rash or self-destructive out of anger, but you have known her much longer than I, what do you think?

"No, sir, I don't know what news she received," Snape replied. "Although I do recall that the message was delivered by someone who appeared to be another Faerie, not by owl. And Professor Swain appeared to know the fellow quite well – she embraced him before he left."

Dumbledore nodded. "I see. If a Fae messenger delivered the letter to her personally, then most likely, it was from either Emily's mother, or King Gwydion himself, and concerned a matter of some importance. If she said a warm farewell to the fellow, he was probably a close friend from Court, or a member of her platoon. I have not heard of any escalation of conflict in the Third Kingdom of late, but the Orc tribes can be highly unpredictable." Dumbledore considered that thoughtfully for a moment. "If you will excuse me, Severus, I would like to see if Emily said anything to Irma last night before she left."

The Headmaster then nodded and left the anteroom, leaving Snape to his own speculations – and he always had a pessimistic habit of assuming the worst. He envisioned everything from out-and-out desertion of her job, to sudden freak accidents, to life-and-death crises in the Fae community, to assassination by anti-Faerie hooligans; all of which had absolutely nothing to do with any shouting matches with him. The idea that she might have stormed off and disappeared following what could loosely be defined as a lovers' quarrel with him (although he resisted thinking of their confrontation in her classroom as such with every cell in him), was a very new one for poor Professor Snape, and one that he did not like at all.

He was so deep into this dire sort of reverie that he barely noticed someone approaching him – "You've been to the Mushroom Circle, Professor Snape?"

It was the eldest Weasley boy, Wallace, or William, or something, one of the Weasleys who had turned up to support Harry Potter that day. He was one of those alumni who went Bohemian after graduation, growing his dark red hair long, and getting an ear piercing. Snape had nothing against him, really – he had been the best of the Weasley lot by far, well-behaved in class, a fine student. Too bad the younger brothers didn't all take after him. But now he was glaring at the lad, wondering if Weasley had perhaps seen his embarrassing behaviour at that establishment and was now going to start the rumour that destroyed his tenuous respectability that very day. From the look of him, it was entirely probable that he frequented places like Faery nightclubs.

"How did you hear about that?" Snape demanded.

Bill pointed to the faded remains of the ink stamp on the back of Snape's hand – where the calligraphy logo with the club's name was clearly recognisable. The management of that establishment apparently used some rather potent indelible ink for such stamps.

Snape crossed his arms over his chest, tucking the offending ink stamp out of sight. "Yes, I was there the night before last. I was aiding another professor with, er, a social work case she undertook, and she chose that rather improbable venue to meet with some colleagues."

"She does social work? Good for her, then. How's the club – I hear that place is bloody amazing."

"Rather loud and crowded for my taste, but I'll not deny the music is quite well-done, and it seems inhabited by some rather enthusiastic dancers, if you like that sort of thing," Snape said stiffly.

Bill Weasley didn't seem at all fazed by the fact that it hadn't been to Professor Snape's taste. "It's really hard to get in though, you have to either be a Faerie or be married to one or something. How did you pull it off?"

"Professor Swain is a Faerie herself – I went as her guest."

"Oh, that's right, Ron and George said something about her. Is she here today? Mind pointing her out?"

"She doesn't seem to have decided to grace us with her presence today," Snape replied tightly. "However, Professor Swain does often adhere to the usual Arcadian notions of punctuality and time management."

"Oh, I wouldn't mind that so much," Weasley said, with a little sidelong grin at Snape. "Sure, they show up late to everything, but you'll never see a plain Faerie. They just grow them beautiful out there or something."

Snape realised to his irritation that Weasley was trying to share a man-to-man sort of moment with him – it was really shocking how some students simply dispensed with all respect for their professors once they graduated from school.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The two Magical Law Enforcement officials outside Emily's hospital room told her to be ready to be escorted to her inquest at five o'clock p.m. that evening.

In her letter to Dumbledore, Emily had asked the Headmaster to have the house elves send her some clothes appropriate for a court appearance. Instead, several boxes arrived at half-past three p.m., from three of the most exclusive boutiques in Sartor Alley. Inside one was a full outfit of fresh, professional clothing, in another were several bottles and jars from a Purveyors of Fine Toiletries Since 1671 sort of shop, and the last held a small travel valise of glove-soft black leather. The robes weren't what she would have picked out for herself, but they were exactly what Lucius would choose if he was trying to approximate her taste.

When she emerged from her hospital room, ready for her court appearance in the (she had to admit, wonderfully tasteful and elegant) new black silk dress robes, she was immediately greeted by an extremely well-dressed, balding wizard with a briefcase, who shook her hand and introduced himself as Cratchit Thimblewick.

Cratchit Thimblewick, Esquire – her solicitor.

"You're my solicitor?" Emily asked, blankly. "But I have a solicitor, Deborah Barak. Why was she not contacted?"

"Mrs. Barak didn't appear to be in the office today, Miss Swain."

"Then you should have sent her an owl at home, Mr. Thimblewick," she replied, an edge in her voice.

Thimblewick's calm smile never wavered. "I do apologise, but my employer thought it would be a better idea to begin analysing your case with all dispatch, madam, given the time-sensitive nature of this proceeding. My firm, the Law Office of Leach and Rapyne, has long been retained by the Malfoy family, and Mr. Lucius Malfoy has sent me along to oversee your inquest."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Snape's final class let out for the day at four o'clock p.m. – as was the habit of most Hogwarts professors, he usually scheduled his classes to leave a long break just before supper. After class, he joined most of his colleagues in the teachers' lounge, where they had congregated to gossip about the Third Task. Hagrid, Flitwick, McGonagall and Moody, Task referees, were clustered in an animated little caucus near the front of the room. Professor Snape, however, didn't much feel like joining any of their conversations. He positioned himself at a table in the back with a pile of compositions to grade, and tried not to look like he was watching the door for his missing colleague's arrival. The door opened some time after five p.m. – but it was only Madam Pince. A rather worried-looking Madam Pince, at that. The librarian went over to Professor Sprout and began talking to her in a low voice.

Not long before supper, he heard the door opening again – and Snape quickly looked up as the Headmaster came into the room, with an extremely grave look on his face. Dumbledore took a position at the front of the room, and Snape noticed that there was a letter in his hand, on the distinctive letterhead of the Ministry of Magic, London.

"Everyone – if I may have your attention for a moment, please." Dumbledore's face was sombre as he addressed the roomful of his colleagues. "Unfortunately, I must play the bearer of bad news this afternoon. It seems that Professor Swain has been unavoidably prevented from returning to school today, and may not be attending the Third Task. She was injured last night while in London, and was admitted to St. Mungo's at approximately ten-thirty p.m. last night."

Instantly, Madam Pince, Hagrid, Flitwick, and McGonagall came out with some variation on Is she all right? almost in unison.

"Yes, she is in good health, given the circumstances," the Headmaster said. "They will be discharging her this afternoon."

"What on Earth happened, sir?" Madam Pince gasped.

Dumbledore's eyes gleamed with icy anger, but his voice remained calm. "Apparently, someone had the poor judgment to attempt to kill her last night."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

In the back of the room, unseen by anyone but Dumbledore – Professor Snape suddenly paled so far beyond his usual pallor that he looked almost green, and gripped the table in front of him with a stricken look. Madam Pince's face crumpled, and then she turned to Pomona Sprout and wilted onto her shoulder. Minerva McGonagall gasped audibly, her hand pressed to her lips, and tender-hearted little Filius Flitwick burst into tears. Rubeus Hagrid was furious – "Kill her? Kill her? Poor little sprite – I'd like to tear the bastard apart meself."

Snape silently glided up to the Headmaster's elbow in the uproar. "Where is the assailant now?" he asked, in the quietest, coldest voice imaginable.

"He's quite dead," Dumbledore answered levelly.

"Did she kill him?" Snape asked, in the same deadly undertone.

"I'm afraid she did, Severus."

"Good," the Potions master said softly. Then Snape's gaze went briefly past the Headmaster to Alastor Moody, who had not stirred from his seat next to Professor Binns. Among the staff who had just heard the news about the attack, Professor Moody alone seemed entirely stoic and unmoved, expressionlessly gazing into the empty hearth. Even the ghostly Professor Binns, who had long since shuffled off this mortal coil and would never have any more reason to fear death, was jittering with shock and amazement.

"The Professor's letter seems to have been delayed in getting to us," Dumbledore said grimly. "There was to be a inquest hearing this afternoon at half-past five p.m., which means that it would have started – " They both glanced at the teacher's lounge clock – "ten minutes ago. Which of course means that I was not able to attend it." The Headmaster looked very concerned and distressed at this turn of events.

"I need to talk to you privately, sir," Snape said, aside to Dumbledore, and left the room.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Minutes later, Snape and Dumbledore were facing each other with deadly seriousness in the Headmaster's office.

"So, you say she came to you with these suspicions immediately following her demonstration on physical methods of pre-empting Unforgiveable Curses?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes, sir. I assisted Professor Swain with some questions regarding Unforgiveable Curses last Monday, and then attended her demonstration that Thursday afternoon, as you know. Immediately after her class was over, she asked to speak to me privately, and seemed very agitated," Snape said. "At the time I didn't think there was real cause to suspect Moody of any kind of murderous intent, sir, though Professor Swain seemed completely convinced herself. Now, however...I think that perhaps she might have had real cause to suspect him."

"Your colleague confided to you that she believed Moody wanted to kill her – and then an attempt was made on her life six days later," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "It does indeed look suspicious. But Alastor was here at the time of the attack."

"Of course he was," Snape said. "We're both familiar with the tactic of hiring someone else to carry out one's dirty work while the real perpetrator is amongst any number of witnesses. It's the most foolproof approach imaginable – it's ingenuity worthy of any Death Eater. Could it be that Alastor Moody, in pursuing the evildoers he hates, has become more like them than any of us could have imagined?"

Dumbledore considered that for a long moment, his white brows creasing, then breathed a heavy sigh. "I wish that I found your explanation more implausible. Severus...I must ask you to keep yet another secret for me," he said gravely, turning toward Snape. "I have, this year, had my doubts about Alastor Moody's mental state. He simply does not seem to me to be the same man I have known, for so many years, though I cannot say exactly why. If his paranoia has escalated to a point where he seeks to harm others, based on some false assumption that they mean him harm...then he must be compelled to seek psychiatric treatment, against his will if necessary. I beg of you, my friend – keep a close, close eye on Professor Moody. I will ask Minerva, Filius, and Pomona to do so as well."

"I shall, sir," Snape said gravely. "One more thing – when Professor Swain was trying to convince me of her credibility last week, she said: "Professor Moody practically subsists off that herbal tonic he keeps in his hip flask, but occasionally he'll go out in the evening and come back smelling like fine aged brandy." And you and I both know very well that Moody has always professed to be a rabid teetotaller. Alcohol impairs one's judgment and interferes with constant vigilance; therefore it's unacceptable. If he's indulging in private, could that be a sign of increased strain?"

"It could be," the Headmaster said, shaking his white head thoughtfully. "At any rate, if the inquest goes well, Emily should be back at Hogwarts late this evening. If the inquest does not go well, however, I shall need to pass on our celebration of this evening, and lend her all the support I can. There is so little precedent regarding the Fae in our judicial system...I dearly wish that she finds herself before a sympathetic magistrate. My only hope now is that she is somehow making the best of this situation on her own." He glanced down at his desktop, his jaw tensing under the wealth of white beard.

"Of course, sir," Snape said, nodding.

"When she returns...if Alastor was somehow behind the attack, Emily will need to be on her guard as well. While there is no doubt in my mind that she can take care of herself in most situations, taking a knife to the back could put a damper on anyone's spirits. I know you and she have had your differences this year, but please, Severus – promise me you'll help me make certain she comes to no more harm."

"I will, sir," Snape promised, with a solemn nod.

Dumbledore pulled his pocket watch from his robes and mused over the tiny planets dancing around the watch face. "Ah, the Third Task is almost upon us, my friend. We should get down to the Great Hall for supper."