Part Second: The Hart Rampant, Chapter 26

Chapter 26:

It was entirely possible that Lucius Malfoy had meant for his comments to Emily Swain to be taken as flattery.

Indeed, another sort of woman may have been pleased with this show of regard. It was quite probable that he had done this sort of thing before – had men who had incurred the wrath of one or another of his women murdered, when it suited his own purposes, and then presented that murder to the woman in question as a sign of his affection. Perhaps such women had, in the past, spent a quiet evening pretending to read, but really watching the drawing room clock, then smugly smiling to themselves as that clock struck a certain hour. Perhaps Lucius had received fervent thanks from some of them before, amidst rumpled bedclothes in some hotel room, or in his master's suite at Malfeasant.

It has, however, been noted that Emily Swain is not Lucius Malfoy's usual sort of amusement – and it never entered her mind that she might simply do nothing, wait until eight o'clock, and be forever rid of a man who she believed had cruelly used her and unfeelingly trodden on her affections.

The fact remained, however, that despite her estrangement from her King, and despite her less than honourable conduct regarding another woman's husband that year, Emily still thought of herself first and foremost as a knight, and a knight's job, for better or for worse, was to defend and protect. No matter what the King personally thought of her, and no matter what she personally thought of Albus Dumbledore, the inalienable fact was that her liege had ordered her to serve his ally, and she was going to fulfil that command. Both she and Snape were loyal to Dumbledore against all enemies, and that trumped any personal dislike she may have felt for the Professor absolutely and utterly.

Also – had she had time to really consider her feelings at that moment, it might have come to her that the intensity that always coloured her every interaction with Severus Snape was founded on something unnamed, and perpetually thwarted, but still quite vital – strong enough to leave her course of action absolutely clear, and instantly resolved –

Find him, and save him.

She took off towards the Slytherin dungeons, hurtling up the green toward the castle.

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But Snape was not in his classroom, his office, the library, or the teacher's lounge – so finally she headed down to his apartments, getting past the Slytherin guard painting with a bit of judicious Deceivre. She pounded on his door for most of a minute, and then finally just opened it with a powerful unlocking charm used by the Fianna to force the doors of enemy citadels, one that was quite frowned upon in most respectable quarters when not used for strictly defensive purposes –

Not there. The room was deserted.

He was not in his apartments, although his scent was very fresh here – he had left probably less than an hour ago.

There was a Pensieve sitting on his desk – she gave that a very wide berth, not wishing to violate his private thoughts even accidentally. There was a strong scent of fresh ink coming from the vicinity of the desk and the wastepaper basket, so apparently he had been working on something just before he left. Emily paused before her colleague's desk, clamping down on the urge to rifle through his things for some memory, some bit of paper than might reveal where he had gone.

Then something occurred to her – both the Wizarding and Faery magic canons contain rituals by which anyone who is not actively trying to hide can be located – and Emily knew she must invoke one of them that night. But in order to do so, she first needed part of Snape. His blood would have been best; his hair, skin cells, or fingernails would work, his saliva or tears would do in a pinch. She headed toward his bathroom, hoping to find a used comb or hairbrush, a bit of tissue used to staunch a shaving cut, or perhaps beard scrapings left behind in the sink.

When she arrived there, the bathroom was immaculate. There was not a hair, whisker, fingernail paring, or speck of dandruff anywhere to be found. For a single long moment she cursed house-elves and their anal-retentive ways with every word in the earthiest recesses of her soldier's vocabulary.

But then she remembered something – and left his rooms, racing back up to her own chambers in Ravenclaw Tower.

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Back in her own rooms, Emily ran down into her Holding Trunk and found two items of clothing that she had long ago tossed into a drawer, intending to send them to be cleaned someday, but really stowed out of sight until they ceased having guilty associations for her –

A pleasantly short black dress with a row of jet buttons down the front and a long black coat, both of Muggle style and cut – the clothes she had worn on that long-ago night in King's Cross. On the bodice of the dress, and on the coat's lapel and collar, a lint brush picked up five strands of raven-black hair. And as this was not a time to be hedging one's bets – she then opened a side pocket of a satchel she had not used since the evening of September 22nd of the previous year and drew out a torn pair of black lace knickers, finding, as she had hoped, long-dried white stains on the lace.

Now she needed some sort of container suspended on a chain or string – and the silver locket she had ensorcelled into an Amulet of Protection, lying on her desk, was handiest. She hurried back into her bedroom, picked the amulet up and coiled the strands of Snape's hair into the empty compartment inside it. Then, using the tip of a freshly sharpened quill, she scraped some of the white substance into the interior of the locket.

There – if one needed part of a man in order to locate him by magic, one could scarcely hope to have better than strands of his hair and particles of his dried semen.

She went to the world atlas on her desk and hastily threw the book open to the map of the U.K., then dangled the locket over it, muttering a sentence in Old Arcadian and then her True Name. As the phrase she spoke is at once an incantation, a command, a philosophical query, and a prayer, all of its nuances do not translate precisely into English. But the gist of it was this: If you are of this world and can be found in this world, show me where, if the Mother wills it.

The locket instantly jumped to a point on the map –

LONDON. And at this moment, she didn't have a more specific map than the atlas on her desk.

Emily glanced at her watch – it was now 7:14 p.m.

Which gave her exactly forty-six minutes to find him and avert whatever means of termination Lucius had planned for him.

She quickly looped the amulet around her neck; glanced down at the black leather flats she wore over bare feet, and stepped out of them. Then she snatched up the suede leather paper of swords lying open on her desk, rolled it up, and stuffed it into her jacket pocket.

A moment later, she had Obscured herself with a word and was heading for the Ravenclaw Tower exit, which let out on the north lawn below the Quidditch pitch. In an instant, she was racing toward the gate that marked the end of the Hogwarts Anti-Apparition wards, fast enough to tear up chunks of turf beneath her cloven hooves.

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Leave it to Lucius to pick somewhere so deucedly hard to fecking find.

Snape had never been to this particular part of Muggle London before and was having rather a time of it trying to get there. He had a city atlas and Lucius's letter in his hand and was now trying to find the road he wanted. All right, he had now found Wilton Row – number 2379 Wilton Row.

Only a rather long distance due south, then. Snape supposed he could have tried Apparating there, but as he had never been to the Fusilier before, he wasn't exactly sure how far to project himself southerly, and it was possible that he might have entirely overshot the place. Also, he had no Invisibility Cloak about him, and wasn't experienced enough with Obscurantis yet to be sure if the resounding popping and cracking sound that accompanied Apparition would be enough to break an Obscurantis effect. The last thing he wanted to do was Apparate solid as life into the middle of a crowd of gaping Muggles.

He checked his watch – 7:16 p.m. – which seemed like enough time to get there if he went at a good clip. Ah well, at least it was a nice night for a long walk, in a reasonably pleasant part of town, and the Merlin knew he had some nervous energy to get rid of. He turned the corner and made his way south.

As he went, he slid a hand into his right coat pocket and felt the crisp parchment of his sealed letter to Professor Swain – to Emily. After Midsummer's night, it was probably fair to say that they were now on rather more familiar terms than Professor Swain and Professor Snape.

Yes, as soon as he got back from this meeting with Lucius, he would Floo the letter to her through her fireplace... and see whatever arose out of that. Most likely she would turn him down, or even more likely, just ignore it... but (You have to be joking if you don't think I'd want that again) what if she didn't refuse?

What if (You were lovely. Just witty and clever and damned fine company. And then later, you were incredible) she accepted his explanation and his apologies and replied in kind? What if (Well, hello my dear, isn't this just bloody convenient, what are you doing tonight?) she fervently hoped to just get past any previous misunderstandings and get on with their original plans for the evening after Midsummer?

You poor, dear, lovely, long-suffering, frightfully ill-used man. I want you to have such fun letting me make this up to you... Yes, he quite liked the sound of that. Knowing her, her ways of making things up to a bloke might be rather enjoyable.

I think I'll insist on being taken to dinner first, just so you don't get it into your head that I'm easy. Even if you know damned well that I am, where you're concerned... Such a blunt sort of woman at times, wasn't she. Well, he didn't feel like playing too hard to get himself, now, after hearing that...

Of course I will come, dear heart. I'm very much looking forward to it... And now he was looking forward to it as well.

He had now come up to a small commercial district, shops and coffeehouses, a wine bar and restaurants of various ethnicities. He glanced in the large picture windows of one of those establishments in passing – people sitting at elegant linen-draped tables with china plates in front of them, the occasional bottle of wine in silver buckets of ice. Yes, that sort of thing, especially when shared with a witty female companion, really looked rather pleasant.

Regarding their potential dinner date, it now occurred to the Professor that perhaps it would make a better impression to take her to dinner in London, rather than one of the restaurants near Hogwarts. Hogsmeade was such a rustic suburban hamlet of a place; the best they could do as far as fine dining there was probably some sort of teashop or meat-and-potatoes pub supper. A place like the one he had just passed, with white tablecloths and silver candlesticks and something besides shepherd's pie on the menu, might make a more cosmopolitan impression – she seemed the sort who could appreciate something a cut above the Three Broomsticks. According to Swain's Encyclopaedia, the Court of the Third Kingdom was famous for its wine and cuisine and stylish hospitality. Was there perhaps a fine Arcadian-cuisine restaurant in London? More than likely there was, but he probably wouldn't be able to find it unless he knew the right people or some such... maybe he could ask that Lord Puck fellow, if he ever managed to catch him on the library steps again...

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Emily reached the gate, Apparated in mid-stride as soon as she cleared it –

to reappear with a clatter on the London walk just in front of the Muggle-world entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, half by force of habit, and half imagining that it would be a good central location from which to start. She glanced frantically around and spied a red callbox perhaps a block up ahead.

Her hoofed form could cover a city block with nearly supernal alacrity, and a moment later she was riffling through the phone directory, muttering Fusilier Pub – Fusilier Pub under her breath. She found the Taverns section of the business listings and frantically paged through it –

– only to discover that some unobliging soul had torn the pages between Fuhrmann's Biergarten and the Gable House Inn clean out of the phone directory.

She slammed the book shut with an eloquent curse, checking her watch again.

7:23 p.m.

Oh, fuck the bloody phone directory. What she needed was a fecking computer, hooked to the goddamn Internet, that could get her an address and directions in about five seconds. But then she glanced down at her own hoofed feet – she could hardly saunter into someone's house or office, especially looking like this, and say, "Oh, don't mind me, I just need to use your computer. Won't be a minute."

All right, calm down. This was a business district. Somewhere in this area, there had to be an empty office with a computer hooked to a modem or T1 line. She had to find a law office, a library, a realtor's, anything.

Ah, there, a sign up ahead – Pacoli & Pacoli, Accountants – perfect. In another second, she had Apparated into the dusty little dark-wood front lobby. There was a computer on what must have been an assistant's or receptionist's desk facing the front door – she lit the area around the desk with a quick Lioht spell, and switched it on.

Why had she never bloody noticed just how bloody long it took Muggle computers to boot up.

Entire eons seemed to tick by as she stood, all but drawing blood from her own palms with her fingernails as the screen lit up, displayed the Windows 95 logo, and finally – finally – went to a graphics-user interface desktop screen. She scanned for a browser – Netscape Navigator. Brilliant.

May the Goddess bless whomever was responsible for a miraculous little thing called the Yahoo!UK directory, which told her that there was one Fusilier Public House in London, located at 118 Wilton Row, London, SW1X 7NR, UK. And the Mother's blessings be upon the makers of a site called Mapquest. Once she entered her current location, which she found on a business card in a little holder on the receptionist's desk, it told her that she was currently 10.6 kilometres from the Fusilier, and that it would have taken her twenty minutes to drive there. Luckily, it would only take her half a second to Apparate there.

She picked up the phone from the receptionist's desk, called the Fusilier's phone number. A man's voice replied with a cheery, interrogative "Thank you for calling the Fusilier Pub?"

"Hello, just wanted to confirm that you're still at 118 Wilton Row, in London?"

"Sure are, love, have been for the last twenty-five years. Come on down, we've got the game on." The dull roar of a television, and the murmur of many chattering voices in the background.

"Thank you very much." She hung up.

She opened up another menu – selected Print Screen – and was rewarded with the instantaneous sound of a printer whirring to life. As she snatched up her printout, a digital clock glowing red on the receptionist's desk moved from 7:35 p.m. to 7:36 p.m. – but now, she knew exactly where she was going.

For good measure – as Yahoo!UK themselves warned to use one's own best judgment as far as directions went – she neatly pilfered a road map of London from an all-night newsstand just across the road, making a mental note to come back, buy something, and give the owner a seemingly-impulsive huge tip.

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Could it have been any easier than 6.4 kilometres in this direction, turn right, 3.9 kilometres in that direction, bear right 0.3 kilometres in this direction, arrive at 118 Wilton Row, London. Really, Emily had no idea why wizards didn't use the Internet more often.

She Apparated in front of a large, prosperous-looking pub on the corner of a pleasant little middle-class commercial district, appearing completely Obscured on the paved walk, perhaps a dozen steps from the front door. A carved and painted sign out front read: The Fusilier Publick House, straightforward white block letters around a picture of a soldier in an old-fashioned British uniform, with a flintlock musket in one hand and a mug of ale in the other.

She had found it, and it was only 7:37 p.m. Twenty-three minutes to go.

Emily pulled her purloined atlas from her pocket, opened it, and again dangled the silver locket over it, hurriedly muttering the incantation – and the locket leaped to a point on the map – WILTON ROW, near the crossings of Penhallow, Harrington, and Grenadiers' Walk. Emily loped a few yards to her right, glancing at the corner signs – the Fusilier was on Wilton and Grenadiers' Walk.

Unfortunately, though, the locket was too large and the map was on too small of a scale to be able to say exactly where on Wilton Row Snape was at that moment, but he had to be either inside the pub, or nearby.

Emily went back toward the Fusilier's entrance, folding her map – but then she paused, staring up at the Fusilier's sign. Her eyes narrowed in thought – why would Lucius send Professor Snape to his death in a Muggle pub? Who in the flaming Christian hell had ever heard of Death By Pub? Could there be an assassin waiting inside? But why would the Death Eaters choose a public place to kill him, where there might be witnesses, or even someone who would try to summon help? What would be the logical method of his death, and how would it escape detection by the Muggle authorities?

Could she have been entirely wrong about the assassination? Could it just be that Lucius had an innocent date to talk to Snape over drinks and she was reading entirely too much into what he had said? Had he exaggerated for her benefit? She clenched the amulet in her hand, pondering.

A knot of bluff, laughing men with thick South London accents came up from behind Emily – totally oblivious to the sweating, shaking Arcadian faun making a threat analysis of the facility. They made for the front door – and Emily slipped into the pub behind them.

Once her eyes adjusted to the darkened interior, suddenly the situation became a great deal more obvious.

Neither Lucius nor Professor Snape was anywhere to be found, but the Fusilier, judging from the flags, banners, framed photographs of military units and men in uniforms, and any number of other bits of memorabilia on the walls, and, now that she took a closer look, the number of men in various types of military-issue casual clothing, was a hangout of off-duty members of the British Army. There had to be training facilities, or a military base nearby. Of course – with such a military-sounding name, she wondered why she had not thought of that before.

Additionally – while the inhabitants of this pub seemed to be completely and entirely Muggle, there was magic, powerful magic, somewhere in this room. She could feel it the moment she walked in, prickling the hairs on the back of her neck like faraway heat lightning. The atmosphere felt faintly electric, like the moment of low pressure before a cyclone hit. Some sort of puissance was at work here, and make no mistake about it.

Lucius had sent Snape to a military hangout in the Muggle world, a place where soldiers congregated; and there was live magic within that pub.

Why?

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The Third Kingdom had its own share of military taverns – watering holes near the barracks with names like The Valiant Crow, Finn's Inn, and Sir Toby Belch's – and in times of war, they were not much frequented by civilians, as everyone knew a certain kind of glory-seeking Orc soldier liked to try to burn down such establishments. Emily had also spent seven years living in Cambridge, three of them as a student lecturer teaching at university – even after an eight-year absence from the Second World, she was somewhat acquainted with British Muggle politics in June of 1995.

If anyone was going to attack a British army pub in London, the likeliest perpetrator would be some Irish Republican extremist group, if historical precedent was anything to go by. And in such attacks, the Irish Republican Army tended to use explosives. She could still vividly remember reading about an IRA incident in October of 1981; a newspaper account of a bomb that had gone off in the Wimpy Bar on Oxford Street, killing one innocent bystander.

So in all likelihood, it was to some kind of magical spontaneous combustion – which to the Muggle authorities would look totally identical to a pub bombing.

A canny choice, really – such an attack would naturally be blamed on a Muggle political group, which would probably lead to retaliation against the Irish somehow. No doubt Lucius would find it utterly amusing that he had first killed a pub full of Muggles, thereby prompting another group of Muggles to murder even more Muggles. Yes, her father had told her that the Death Eaters had used to enjoy the recreational slaughter of Muggles. She could practically hear Lucius telling the story now, in that archly amused, conspiratorial drawl of his.

She had to avert the explosion somehow – could she?

After a long moment's hard thought, she abandoned that idea. More than likely, Lucius or one of his confederates had left a timed-release, large-scale Incendio spell on the building, set to go off at the meeting time. Even if she could have located the source of the spell in the time she had left, she had only sketchy ideas as to how to magically negate such a thing. Which left one option at 7:44 p.m.

Originally, her singular objective had been to save Professor Snape.

Now – she had sixteen minutes to somehow evacuate this pub.

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How to convince over a hundred British soldiers, and a pub staff, to abandon the place completely.

Emily knew very intimately what soldiers were like – frightening them would be difficult. If she created a distraction terrifying enough to cause a crowd of stalwart English fighting men to panic and run out into the road, people would no doubt be injured and left behind in the crush. Not to mention an overt use of magic in front of all these people would bring the wrath of the entire British Wizarding community down on her head and probably get her permanently deported.

Who did these people worship – could she conjure up a Glamoured angelic visitation, an appearance of the Virgin Mary? That might have worked in centuries past, but not now, and would do nothing to account for the explosion. A Glamoured fire, perhaps – that would appear to have spread to the furnaces, the boilers, the kitchen gas main, thereby causing an explosion –

Wait, no – she had a better idea – a reason for all the inhabitants to quickly leave this place, and a completely non-political reason for the explosion that would inevitably follow, that would not result any deaths in retaliation –

She raced for the kitchen, carefully avoiding any Muggles in her path.

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The kitchen staff was made up of a couple of cooks in stained white chef's tunics, one tall and thin and energetic, and one thoughtful and bespectacled, submerging chips and battered fish and onion in a deep fryer and assembling pub suppers on plates freshly scrubbed by a dishwasher with a bald head and a luxuriant beard in a smeary white t-shirt. They chattered and joked amongst themselves as they worked, cracking wise in thick working-class accents, talking about sports scores and teams they supported, and occasionally singing along with a radio playing some classic-rock station. Just a trio of regular guys working the night shift.

They looked like a pleasant bunch, like they had known each other for years – and Emily was not going to let them be torn apart by explosion debris, or have their skins cooked off by waves of flame this night.

She closed her eyes, scanned her memories for the telltale scent of an unlit pilot light in her London flat – and silently spoke a word.

The dishwasher paused in his work, stopped humming along to a Beatles tune, and frowned. Then he raised his head and sniffed the air. "Oi, lads, do you smell that?" he suddenly called out, in a voice of mild alarm.

Yes. She concentrated hard, sending another cloud of false sense impression out in the direction of the cooks.

Now both of the cooks were sniffing the air as well. "Holy shite, Wil, that's a lot of gas," the one nearest to Emily said.

"Is pilot light out?" the dishwasher called in alarm.

"Smells like a mother of a lot of gas, Ev, stand over here," the first cook said.

"Bleedin' hell, Charlie, turn off the burners!" The second cook said, nostrils flaring. "Goddamn old stoves – "

The dishwasher snapped off the flame under the deep fryer, now very alarmed. "It's only gettin' stronger, lads. We've gotta go tell Jack."

"We gotta get the hell out of here, at any rate – go on, you lot," Charlie, the first cook, furiously motioned the other two men out of the kitchen. The three of them hurried through the crowd toward the front rooms. Emily followed close at their heels, filling the air with the Glamoured scent of natural gas as she went. Some of the men she passed recoiled, coughing.

"Oi, Jack, lads, everyone – it seems we've got a big old gas leak started in the kitchen," Wil, the dishwasher, called. People were paying attention now. A dozen people were hastily stubbing out their cigarettes.

A young girl at the bar, who had been just about to light a cigarette, flicked her Zippo closed with a stricken look. "Holy shite, Jack, I can smell that from here," she said to a fortyish, goateed man in a tweed cap, who was pulling pints behind the bar. "We're going to need to call the gas company and get someone out here – "

"We're going to need to get everyone out, is what we're going to need to do, Miss Rachel," Jack said, setting down the pint glass in his hand. "You get your pretty face somewhere safe."

"Maybe I could try to close the valve, Jack – " the first cook began.

"Don't risk it, Charlie, the place could blow with you in it. I've got enough insurance to cover the British Isles if someone misplaces them." He called to all of his customers – "Listen, lads, we've got an emergency, we're going to need to get everyone out of here, there's a big old gas leak started in the kitchen! Nobody light a cigarette! No one strike a match! Gather yourselves up and get out!"

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The bartender opened the cash register and emptied the till into his cap, and then clambered across the bar and hurriedly began to corral everyone out of the pub with a crisp, drill-sergeant's sort of efficiency. Clearly the pub owner had some military experience in the past and knew how to lead an evacuation. This lot of military personnel were a sensible, level-headed group, and they were reacting to the emergency admirably, without panic or trampling.

Or, at least most of them were, but a very intoxicated and somewhat dotty white-haired man and a young couple enmeshed in a heated embrace far back in the shadows were not quite so eager to vacate the premises. The old man was finally removed by a couple of hale, thick-necked fellows who each took an arm and all but carried him out, but Emily had to go up to within a foot of the young couple and just blast them with enough natural-gas Glamour to smother kittens. Thankfully, this threat gave the young man the opportunity to further enflame his love with a demonstration of his gallantry in leading her to safety – at last, the two crossed the threshold and were safely away.

Emily lingered unseen at the pub entrance as the young couple retreated out the front door, glancing down at her watch as they made their exits. Mother be blessed, they had completely emptied the pub of every living soul within it – and it was 7:51 p.m.

Yes. She sagged against the doorframe in an ecstasy of relief.

She stood just outside the Fusilier's front door, scanning the crowd for a tall thin figure in soberest black, and found no one. No signs of Professor Snape yet, but given his reliably punctual habits, he had to be nearby – all she would have to do would be to keep him out of the building when he did arrive, which seemed easy enough compared to all that she had done earlier. Someone else might even stop him and warn him about the danger when he arrived – someone might have already done just that. Worst case scenario, she would simply Stun him and drag him back to Hogwarts and explain everything later. Or just leave him on his bed, make her escape, and explain nothing.

Across the road, the owner had borrowed a cell phone from one of the patrons – no doubt he was now trying to place an emergency call to his utility company. Apparently many of them were familiar with flammable gases and explosions and knew to keep the others a good safe distance away from the pub.

Now, all she had to do was wait for Severus to arrive.

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It had taken longer for Snape to cover the twenty-two blocks than he originally estimated. By now, he was hurrying along at a good rate, checking his pocket watch every few seconds and scowling to himself.

Snape hated to be late with every bone and sinew in him, and by now, he had concocted what he thought were some really bloody ingenious justifications for his behaviour since 1991 and was eager to present them to Lucius. He had just remembered that Quirrell had always been a hypochondriac, shying away from other peoples' sneezes and handshakes, and was going to present this as proof of an ingrained fear of death and disease that made him, the ever-vigilant Severus Snape, think Quirrell was trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone for himself... The poison antidotes were merely a means of playing up to Dumbledore, and a means of carrying on his research on poisons undetected... He had in fact improved on the composition of Veritaserum, more to amuse himself than anything else, but that was a handy thing to point to... He had been careful to create medicinal potions that only he himself was subtle enough to actually brew and put into practical use, like, for example, Wolfsbane... Yes, he could win Lucius's confidence again, he was sure of it.

Ah – the sign up ahead indicated that he had just reached the 100 block of Wilton Row. He continued on, spotting a round wooden sign. White letters read The Fusilier Publick House, framing a picture of a soldier brandishing a mug of ale and a Muggle firearm of some sort.

But oddly enough, there was a crowd of Muggles lingering across the road from the pub for some reason, all talking in high, nervous, shrill voices, and looking very agitated indeed. Some of them were talking into lozenges of illuminated plastic held to their ears. They all seemed to be watching the pub's front door with expressions of fear on their faces. What was going on? No one was going in or out of the pub that he could tell – actually, from what he could see through the front windows, there didn't seem to be anyone inside the Fusilier at all.

He paused, apprehensive shivers crinkling between his shoulders. Then he ducked into a narrow alleyway on his right, and silently spoke a word to Obscure himself, wishing to investigate whatever circumstances had arisen untroubled by either Lucius or that crowd of panicky Muggles. Then he checked his watch – 7:52 p.m. He would have to hurry if he didn't want to be late.

Then he started toward the Fusilier's front door.

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7:52 p.m., and still no sign of Severus – why isn't he here yet, he's fucking anal about being early, where is he –

Emily was scanning the road impatiently from the Fusilier's doorway, her heart hammering in her throat and temples. Still no Snape anywhere to be found –

no, wait –

there was something on her left, some yards up the road, a glimpse of a black figure, like a silhouette barely seen through mist. She concentrated, invoked the third form of Obscurantis with an utterance of her True Name –

There he was. The unhelpful son of a bitch had Obscured himself to make his approach. Probably wary of some sort of ambush, and rightly so. Professor Snape was hurrying past the crowd across the road, looking quite annoyed by the proximity of all of these edgy, crowding, shouting people.

Ah well, at least with characteristic fetishic punctuality, he had arrived far too early and given her plenty of time to dissuade him from entering the building, she had eight or nine minutes, it was 7:52 or so –

As she gazed down at her watch, the second hand ticked to the tenth second before 7:53 – and she realised, she didn't have seven minutes –

she had ten seconds.

Because Lucius Malfoy had known Severus Snape since he was a child, and if there was anything one could be certain of with him, it was that he would be seven minutes early to everything. And what a perfect excuse for Lucius – he had been delayed, and his cousin had been characteristically early, which was why Snape had tragically died and Lucius had been spared by circumstances.

Tick.

No – now she had nine seconds.

He had just cleared the edge of the crowd and was still coming toward her –

Stay back! Severus, what the fuck are you doing!

He started toward the front door, and she started toward him.

She half-instinctively realised that if she physically touched him, her Obscurantis effect would be negated and they would all see her, so she gathered herself for a long lunge in his direction on her hooves, and arrived beside him on bare feet. Her time sense was gone; she had no idea how long she had before the explosion –

In another second, she had torn the protective amulet from around her own neck and thrown it over his, tackled him around the midsection, and was dragging him toward the ground. The elderly, drunk, and dotty fellow screeched in fear and cowered at the sight of a tussling man and woman appearing from nowhere –

"What the... Let go of me this instant!" Snape shouted indignantly.

She wrapped both arms around his head and shoulders, and hugged them hard against her chest, ignoring the tearing pain in her shoulder –

There was a long silent moment as air was drawn in and –

Waves of flame and concussed air ripped outward from the pub front, the door and front windows exploding out in a blast of broken glass. Emily could feel hot debris impacting with her back and arms, and rushing past them both. At the sound and then the impact of the blast, Snape had stopped fighting her, and was now clinging to her.

Then, extreme quiet. The sound of car alarms going off in the distance.

Emily sat up.

Her ears rang numbly, and her senses were full of fire and fear. Then she became aware of a burning sensation in her left hand – that intensified as she focused on it – a cold fire that seemed drawn with inexorable weight through her flesh to –

cold iron

– she shook off a bit of window debris like someone else might have shook off a hot coal. A dark blue blister was rising from the back of her left hand.

A second later – a wave of frightened voices shattered that unnatural quiet completely. Jack, the pub owner, let out a howl – "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph – me pub!" The young woman, Rachel, was very sensibly calling the fire squad on her mobile phone, shouting to be heard by the dispatcher over the racket of the crowd's reactions.

Behind Emily, Snape sat up too, looking half shell-shocked, half angry. "What in Merlin's name are you doing here?" he burst out, staring at her in amazement. He then turned and took a long, disbelieving look at the burning storefront before him, then back at her. "You could have gotten hurt!"

Emily shook her head hard, raking dust-covered hair off her face. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"What happened?" he demanded, brushing stray bits of shattered wood and powdered glass off his sleeves. He sounded like he couldn't quite believe in the truth of what had just happened.

"Well then," Emily said inanely. "You seem all right to me."

She got up and started to hurry away, but then stopped. Her feet were bare, and the area around her was covered with glass shards and bits of the iron-framed front windows. And with the number of people milling around, it would be impossible to Obscure herself and go back to her hoofed form. She looked around as helplessly and despairingly as any soldier facing a napalmed field.

But Severus Snape had finally reached the absolute end of his patience with her less than forthrightness. He was up and beside her in an instant, seizing hold of her arm. Around them, terrified Muggles continued to race about panicking and shouting, and their own private conflict went unnoticed in the chaos of the scene.

"Goddammit, Emily, I'll have no more of this. Start talking, now." His fingers bit into her elbow.

She stepped back, anxiously pulling away from him – "Professor, we both have to go. There are bits of iron all around here. The Muggle authorities are going to want to question both of us if we don't leave right away, and Lucius might be along any second – "

Snape savagely yanked her back around to face him. "How did you know that I was going to be here? Who told you?"

Then he seized her left wrist, turned her arm over, and forcibly pushed up her sleeve, almost ripping it open, and uncovered her left forearm. He stared at her unblemished skin for a long moment, his face white, and his expression unreadable.

Emily wasn't sure just what he thought he would find hidden beneath her sleeve, but didn't want to stay to find out. She glanced over his shoulder, trying to divert his attention, if only for a second – "Why, Minister Fudge, sir!"

But instead, he grabbed both her wrists cruelly, snarling, "Oh yes, I'll turn away, and you'll vanish. I know how you are."

He either hadn't noticed, or wasn't concerned about, the fresh iron burn on the back of her left hand. "I got burnt, and you're hurting me," she snapped, wincing.

"I regret that," he said – sincerely – but his grip never slackened on her wrists. "But you're not leaving until you explain all of this to me."

Lucius Malfoy just tried to kill you. And he said he was doing it for me.

"I don't have to tell you anything," she spat. She tried to break his grasp, but he hung on with fierce tenacity.

"Well, maybe you won't be so recalcitrant if I bring you before Dumbledore. Why don't you come have a nice chat with him – so you can figure out where your loyalties lie, Professor. And if you try to get away from me again – " his hands clenched bruisingly hard on her wrists, refusing to be shook off – "so help me, I'll break your bloody arm."

"I could break your arm before you could break mine, and you know it," she said evenly. She had already broken one man's arm that day and at that moment would not have scrupled to break another's.

He did know it – but he never wavered.

"You don't want me as your enemy, Professor," he said quietly, warningly. The look on his face gave her pause – she had been as physically intimate as it was possible to be with this man, seen him sleeping, seen him hallucinating and dreaming – but in that moment, she saw what he was capable of and feared it.

But she was a soldier, and she had seen worse sights than Severus Snape's eyes when he was angry.

"You're right – I don't," she flashed back. "But I've had to endure you as an enemy all year, so pardon me if I find that threat rather meaningless. What remains to be seen is whether or not you want me as your enemy, which is what I'll become if you don't let go of me, right now."

The red-black eyes glinted. Then he opened his hands and relinquished her.

"I'm glad you can be reasonable, Professor," she said, backing away from him. As soon as he looked away, she could get away from here, find some sheltered area where she could Obscure herself, and be gone, in blissfully restful anonymity.

But then Snape stretched a hand toward her – "Stupefy" – and silently spoke a word.

There was the smallest flash of red light – and then her eyes closed, and she crumpled, Stunned, toward the ground – but Snape deftly caught her up before she could fall. He paused, pressing his fingers to her wrist to check her pulse, and found it strong and regular.

"Pardon me, please – my wife's fainted," he said brusquely, pushing through the frightened crowd.

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Albus Dumbledore's office, over the course of his tenure as Hogwarts Headmaster, had seen a great deal.

From the vantage point of his expansive desk, Dumbledore had seen young Harry Potter come into his office carrying the sword of Godric Gryffindor, all scarlet with basilisk blood. He had seen Lucius Malfoy stalking across the threshold in high operatic fits of temper on more than one occasion. He had seen Fawkes the Phoenix spontaneously combust and be reborn any number of times. His visitor of that very evening had arrived in the form of a very large and shaggy black dog, who had then transformed into a tall, wild-haired and gaunt-cheeked man who looked older than his mid-thirties. The two of them had now been closeted together discussing the future of a certain green-eyed, bespectacled Gryffindor student for some hours.

Nonetheless, when Albus Dumbledore saw Severus Snape stalk into his office carrying Emily Swain's unconscious body – carrying her with a great deal of care, he would later recall – his heart lurched. Gwydion's kinswoman, Buckminster's daughter... at Hogwarts under his protection, already been assaulted this year, and he hadn't been able to help her afterward –

Dumbledore stood up, alarmed. "Severus – what on Earth – "

"What did you do now, Snape!" Black shouted.

"She's alive," Snape said. "She's not hurt. Just Stunned." He laid her on one of the overstuffed armchairs in front of Dumbledore's desk.

"Who Stunned her?" Dumbledore went to Emily's side.

"I'm afraid I did, sir," Snape said coolly, composing her hands in her lap.

"Severus!" Dumbledore started toward Snape, horrified.

"What the hell, Snape!" Black cried, scandalised. "Terrorising children isn't enough for you anymore, you've got to start Stunning women – "

"If I might be allowed to explain?" Snape thundered back at him.

Silence. "Do tell us," Dumbledore said.

Snape took a deep breath. "I told you, Headmaster, that Lucius Malfoy wanted to meet with me tonight. He wanted to meet me at a Muggle pub, where no one would see us or recognise us."

"Yes. I recall."

"When I arrived at the pub, there were a lot of Muggles milling about across the road. I got past them, and was heading for the front door, when someone wrapped something around my neck, and forced me down onto the pavement. At that moment – something inside the pub exploded, completely demolishing the building's front facade. When I sat up, I found the person who had knocked me down was Professor Swain. Needless to say, I was shocked. Then I asked her for an explanation, and she got up and started to leave. I pressed her, and she refused to answer me. So I demanded that she come here and tell you what had happened, and she refused again, and seemed about to disappear, as per her usual habit.

"So... regrettably, I Stunned her and brought her here. I know you don't like it, sir, but I felt I had to. There is something important that she's not telling me about what happened tonight, and I feel you should know."

"Were any Muggles injured in the explosion?" Dumbledore asked, his white brows heavily creased with worry.

"I don't believe so, sir. From what I could see through the front windows, I thought the pub seemed empty when I arrived. I was coming towards the door for a closer look when the explosion occurred."

"But Professor Swain prevented you from coming any closer."

"She knocked me to the ground at least," Snape said sourly. "I can only guess as to what her intentions were. She wouldn't tell me."

"Could she have been acting under the Imperius Curse, Severus?"

"I somehow don't think so. She seemed uncommunicative and very eager to get away – in short, very much herself – just panicky and agitated."

"You said she wrapped something around your neck – do you know what exactly that was?"

"Oh... yes," Snape said, "I'd... forgotten about that. It's still here – " He rummaged through the lapels of his black frock coat, and found a round silver medallion on a long chain, which he handed to the Headmaster.

Dumbledore took a piece of unmarked parchment from a stack in one of his desk drawers, then laid it flat on his desk, and laid the medallion in the centre of it. "Monstra Incantatem," he intoned softly, passing his hand over the amulet.

All three men bent over the Headmaster's desk – as the silver medallion glowed with a bright, silvery-green light, and runes and diagrams began to appear on the parchment page. Dumbledore nodded understanding as he looked them over.

"This is a Faery Amulet of Protection," he said, turning to Professor Snape. "The Professor taught her classes how to create them second term. I recall Hermione Granger showing me a Faery amulet that Professor Swain loaned to her, just after Miss Granger received a letter filled with bubotuber pus. This is, I believe, that very amulet." The Headmaster continued to face Snape, his eyebrows raising slightly. "And you said she threw this around your neck just before the storefront exploded?"

Snape glanced back down at the amulet on the desktop – and the hard expression on his face softened slightly. "She did, sir."

"Tell me, are you in any way injured, Severus? Any cuts, any abrasions? If there was an explosion, certainly there would have been some flying debris."

Snape paused, reddening. "I haven't... gotten the chance to really examine myself for injury, sir. I came straight here after – "

"But surely, if you were in pain from a laceration, or bleeding profusely, you would have noticed?" Dumbledore persisted.

Snape looked down at his hands, which were unblemished, and his clothes, which were remarkably clean for a man who had very recently been in frighteningly close proximity to an exploding building.

"I... don't believe I sustained any injuries, sir," he said slowly.

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Dumbledore knelt down at the side of the unconscious woman in the armchair, brushing her dusty hair back from her smudged face with one careful, seamed hand. Then he lifted her hand off of her lap and pulled back the sleeve of her jacket – to reveal a spot of livid, blistered iron burn on the back of her hand and wrist.

"It appears there was some iron amidst the flying debris," he observed quietly. He put her hand down on the arm of the chair, then gently lifted one of her bare feet, which was so abraded from skidding on asphalt that blue blood welled in a dozen small scrapes.

"She's been associating closely with Malfoy all year, Albus," Snape said, turning an accusing look at Emily. "Who knows what he's told her. Who can imagine what the two of them have gotten up to."

"Your colleague is injured, Severus. It would seem that some of your Healing Potion is needed, if you please," the Headmaster said. He took a clean lavender handkerchief from one of his voluminous purple sleeves and began dabbing at Emily's bleeding foot.

"When I asked her what had happened, she said, 'I don't have to tell you anything,'" Snape said, through gritted teeth. "How much can you, can we, really say that we know about her? What if she's working for them – what if she's betrayed us?" No man could have described a lover's betrayal with more anguish in his voice.

"Albus? Who is this again?" Black looked from Snape to Dumbledore, at loss.

"Professor Swain is a native Arcadian, a knight of the Fae military. Her great-uncle is one of my oldest friends, my sworn brother of over a hundred years. He sent her to us to teach an elective session of Defence Against the Dark Arts this year. As such, she is a colleague of Severus's, and of mine," Dumbledore explained. He fixed Snape with an unwavering blue eye – "And we have no substantive reason as yet to assume that she is in league with Voldemort, and a great deal of reason to believe that she would find his political views unsavoury in the extreme, just as her father did. Now please, Severus, if you could fetch some Healing Potion, and your laboratory First Aid kit."

Snape paused, seemed to concentrate on containing himself. "I'll... I'll be back in a moment," he said, and left the room.

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Snape returned momentarily with the First Aid kit and a bottle of blue Healing Potion. Dumbledore dipped his handkerchief in the bottle and busied himself with wiping away the bleeding abrasions on Emily's bare feet and hands. The iron burn would not heal completely, however, as was usual with such wounds, so Dumbledore thoroughly cleaned the burn, and then taped a surgical gauze bandage over it.

"Well then, hopefully she won't be in too much pain. Now, it appears that the only way to find out what happened this evening, then, is to ask the Professor herself and see if we can perhaps persuade her to be a bit more communicative." Dumbledore reached for his wand, but Snape held up his hand to stop him and put a bottle of clear liquid onto Dumbledore's desk.

"Sir, might I suggest... seeing as how she vehemently refused to be questioned, perhaps we should give her a dose of Veritaserum while she's still unconscious," Snape said. "If we want to hear the real truth of the matter – "

"Severus, a word to the wise – administering Veritaserum to a Faerie unawares sounds like an excellent way to get oneself direly cursed for a lifetime," Dumbledore interjected. "I don't see how her actions warrant such a violation of privacy." He raised his wand and began to point it at Emily –

Snape put his hand on Dumbledore's arm and stopped him. "But if it is Imperius – and earlier, when we interrogated Barty Crouch – "

Dumbledore turned to Snape very patiently. "I do not intend to interrogate your colleague – she is not being held for questioning. I intend merely to ask her to tell me what happened tonight." He began to point his wand again.

"But sir – "

"Severus," Dumbledore said, a note of frustration finally creeping into his voice, "do you know your colleague to be a convicted Death Eater, the way you did Barty Crouch? Do we have evidence that she, by her overt actions, has abducted an Auror, held him captive, and assumed his identity? Is there any proof that she set a trap at the end of the Third Task, that resulted in the death of one of our students? Do we suspect her of patricide – of the murder of her own father?"

"Well, no, of course not," Snape said quietly.

"I find it difficult to believe that a Fianna knight, one who was raised by Elaine and Buckminster Swain, no less, will ever find her true calling as a Death Eater, no matter how often she is flattered by Lucius Malfoy. I also cannot find it within myself to be too suspicious of someone who, by your own account, first put an Amulet of Protection on you and then prevented you from approaching a building just before it exploded. Some might think such actions bespoke a desire to preserve you, rather than harm you, my friend."

Dumbledore leaned forward and gave Snape a searching look over the tops of his half-spectacles. "So you might consider giving your colleague the benefit of a doubt."

Snape stared at the floor, his cheeks reddening slightly. "But sir... if she was not under Imperius at the time, it is entirely possible that she will be very angry to have been Stunned when she is awakened," he ventured.

Dumbledore's expression was not entirely sympathetic. "Yes, I expect she might be. Would you prefer to leave while I speak to her?"

Snape frowned uncomfortably, but shook his head. "No."

The Headmaster pointed his wand at the unconscious woman in the chair. "Ennervate."

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Emily came to herself, shaking her head and rubbing at her temples. She glanced up in surprise, startled to discover herself in totally different surroundings, when a moment earlier, she had been amidst the explosion-aftermath scene in front of the Fusilier. She was in Dumbledore's office, sitting in one of the chairs in front of his desk. Dumbledore was sitting in front of her, looking at her with concern; there were at least two other people in the room.

Professor Snape was leaning on the side of Dumbledore's desk, his arms grimly folded in front of him – Perhaps you won't be so recalcitrant if I bring you before Dumbledore, he had said. Next second she was up from the chair and confronting him.

"You Stunned me, didn't you?" she blazed at him.

He smiled poisonously at her, unrepentant. "Yes, I did. You didn't seem in the mood to accept a polite invitation."

"Why, you indescribable bastard – you should consider yourself lucky I can't issue a real challenge in your world – "

"If you weren't so bloody pigheaded and impossible, it wouldn't have been necessary," he snapped back. "Your unwillingness to – your inability to answer even the simplest question – "

"Stop this bickering immediately, both of you," Dumbledore said, in a voice like quiet thunder. Both Professors immediately fell silent and turned hard away from each other. Both were visibly breathing hard; Emily clenched her fists at her sides and Snape crossed his arms over his chest, both, presumably, in an attempt to hide how much their respective hands were shaking.

Emily caught sight of Sirius Black, leaning against the edge of Dumbledore's desk and watching the proceedings very curiously. She looked at Black for a long moment, her head cocked to one side. "I don't think I know you."

Black held out his hand. "Sirius Black. Pleased to meet you."

She shook his hand with a rather discomfited expression. "Emily Swain. Likewise."

"Now, Emily, I do apologise for the manner in which you came to see me tonight," Dumbledore said pleasantly, with a moment's glance at Snape – "But after the events that your colleague has related to me tonight, he and I are left with a great many questions we would like to ask you. You are not being detained, and you are under no suspicion of unlawful conduct – but you have to understand that we three have quite an interest in hearing anything you have to tell us about what occurred this evening." He motioned to the chair in which she had been sitting when she awakened. "Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water, tea? A large brandy, perhaps?"

Emily gave Dumbledore a long look, her eyes narrowing warily – but after a long moment, she took the proffered chair. "No, thank you," she said.

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The Headmaster faced her across his desk, while Sirius Black stood beside the armchair to her left. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Snape's dark silhouette lurking at her right. She took a deep breath, straightened her spine and shoulders, and looked Dumbledore in the eyes; for all the world like a penitent soldier facing charges at a court martial.

Dumbledore leaned forward and folded his hands in front of him, with a kind, sympathetic smile. "Now, I understand that both you and Severus were present at the scene when a Muggle pub exploded this evening. And from what your colleague has told me, it appears that you took precautions to prevent him from entering the building, and to ward him against being harmed in the explosion. From this, I can only gather that you somehow came to have some foreknowledge of this attack. Which leaves me very curious about how you knew this would happen, Professor," he prompted.

Emily took a long pause, her jaw tensing hard. "The... party who precipitated this attack entrusted its particulars to one of his agents, and that agent rather obliquely mentioned it to me this afternoon."

Dumbledore's usually gentle blue eyes took on a steely light for a moment. "And who is the person who sought your colleague's death?"

"I believe it was Lord Voldemort, sir. Professor Snape's death apparently has rather a high priority with him." Behind her, she could smell the salt tang of Snape's exertion and anger suddenly coloured with a prodigious amount of rank fear.

Dumbledore was still watching her closely. "Am I to understand, then, that you are currently the close confidante of one of Voldemort's supporters?"

Emily took another long pause before replying. "It would appear to be so, sir," she said finally.

"Does this person know that you are in fact a Hogwarts teacher and Professor Snape's colleague?"

"Yes, sir."

"And yet he told you that an attempt would be made on Professor Snape's life?"

"Yes, sir. He more hinted than said, but his meaning was clear to me."

"Why do you think he told you this?"

"I believe he thought I would be pleased by this news, sir."

Behind her, Snape began to splutter questions, but Dumbledore silenced him with a long look, then turned back to Emily.

"Do you have any idea as to why he thought this news would please you?"

"My... acquaintance has noted the open dislike Professor Snape seems to feel toward me. He knows there has been some resentment between the Professor and me since I arrived at Hogwarts. So no doubt he thought I would be glad to hear that someone he presumed was my enemy was to be killed."

"But you were not glad to hear it, yes?" Dumbledore asked.

Emily swallowed hard before replying. "No, sir, I was not."

"From what Professor Snape has told me, it appears that you were so distressed by this news that you took it upon yourself to go to the Fusilier Pub and prevent Professor Snape from entering."

"Yes, sir. I also did my best to induce its Muggle inhabitants to evacuate as well. I don't think there were any casualties incurred tonight."

Dumbledore's eyes widened in momentary incredulity. Then he asked very gently: "Professor – can you tell us why this person would entrust you with such sensitive information?"

Emily froze for a long moment, then stammered out: "I... can only surmise that he holds me in a... position of confidence, sir."

"Why do you think that is?"

"He has known me for some time, and it appeared that he believed I might be sympathetic to his... political ideals."

"Are you in fact sympathetic to these ideals?" Dumbledore asked, very gently.

Emily stared at him in hard disbelief. "I don't see how anyone could want to see that horrible... thing in power over the Wizarding world. Or over anyone," she said, her lips peeling back from her teeth in an attitude of revulsion.

"She hasn't taken the Mark, Albus," Snape interjected quietly. "I checked for it myself."

"Emily... would you be willing to attest to what you have just said under a dose of Veritaserum?" Dumbledore asked quietly. "I hesitate to even ask you, but in desperate times – "

She turned on him with a look of such offended severity that he fell silent. "Albus Dumbledore. I swear, by the Nine Kingdoms, by the love I bear my liege, my parents, and the Lady of All the Worlds, that I am not now, and never have been, a supporter of Lord Voldemort. I pledge my true and original word as a Knight of the Order of the Morrigan that this be true. May I suffer the fate of an oathbreaker if I speak you false." Then she silently spoke a word.

Her voice reverberated something strange and profound; a ring of formality and deepest, ritualised solemnity. Dumbledore's blue eyes glinted.

"Shall I get the Veritaserum, sir?" Snape asked, after a moment.

"No need," Dumbledore said softly. "She belongs to no one but herself, my friend."

"If I had ever been told that my friend had become a Death Eater, sir, I would never have spoken to him, or accepted his hospitality, from that moment on," she said, her eyes fixed on Dumbledore's. "You know what they did to my father. I would never count someone I knew to be a Death Eater amongst my friends."

Behind her, Professor Snape's eyes fixed on the side of her face with an indescribable look, his jaw tensing painfully.

Dumbledore kept his eyes on Emily's face, then asked: "Am I correct in assuming, Professor... that he, the confidante you speak of, is Lucius Malfoy?"

"I... you see... " She took a long pause, breathing hard. "My confidante comes from a family that has long had my father's friendship, sir. I cannot name him... without... Sir, my father respects and admires the Malfoy family. Now, you know as I do that my father is often called a brilliant scholar, and a kind man, but never a shrewd judge of character. He will give others the benefit of a doubt up until the moment they bury a blade in his back."

Dumbledore nodded, smiling ruefully. "When your father was at Hogwarts, there were those who loved him because he was a true friend, kind and generous to a fault. And there were also those who sought his company because he was the son of an ancient pureblooded family with vast piles of gold. Unfortunately, at times, Buckminster treats those two the same."

Emily clasped her hands in front of her with a pained expression. "Sir, you know him well. But he is my father, and he and I can be more fond than wise when it comes to each other. My habit is to support him even in his folly. I fear that in that tendency to blind himself to the most unattractive qualities in people he is fond of – that I appear to be very much my father's daughter. But to name the... without feeling as though I was being disloyal, sir, I – "

Dumbledore held up his hand to stop her. "I understand. But can you say with absolute truth that your confidante is not Lucius Malfoy?"

Emily looked at him and said nothing.

Dumbledore nodded. "I see. And am I correct in assuming, Professor, that perhaps your confidante, whom we need not name here, holds you in such a position of trust not... only because of the longstanding friendship between your two families?"

She remained silent. From behind her, the scent of blistering rage and upset boiled over her shoulder. I'm sorry, she thought. I didn't want you to have to know this.

"Professor?" Dumbledore prompted gently.

"I don't want to answer that question," she said distantly.

"I hesitate to ask you that question," the Headmaster said. "I would not have, if circumstances had allowed. But Professor... an attempt on the life of one of your colleagues occurred this evening. We cannot ignore that. You cannot ignore that."

"I didn't ignore that!" she cried shrilly. "I stopped it – I didn't let them kill anyone, not Severus, not the Muggles – "

Again Dumbledore held up his hand to stop her. "Yes, you stopped anyone from being hurt. But if we are to know what we are dealing with – Emily, you must be completely honest with me. There is no other way."

Emily was silent again for a long time, then finally said: "Send them out then. I'll only talk to you." She gestured behind her, presumably at both Snape and Black, but in Snape's direction.

She then heard Professor Snape turn and leave the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

He hadn't even cared enough to slam it. He really hated her.

"Sirius... if we might have a moment alone?" Dumbledore said, to the other man behind her.

"Yes, sir," Black said, striding out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Dumbledore turned back to Emily, and waited, just listening.

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"He didn't tell me solely because of the longstanding friendship between our two families," she said, after a long pause. "He holds me in such a position of trust because he's... he seems to be quite fond of me personally, and has been since we first met, the same year I finished at Beauxbatons. There was... back before he was married and I was just out of school, there was... we had a very brief romantic sort of involvement, when he was twenty-three and I was seventeen.

"When he and I renewed our acquaintance after I came here... there was something left of our old regard for each other. So – he and I have been... seeing each other since shortly after the New Year."

"I take it that when you say 'seeing each other,' you do not mean that you met for tea," Dumbledore said delicately.

"No. The truth is... " She averted her eyes. "I've made the same error in judgment as so many other foolish women, and allowed myself to become infatuated with another woman's husband." Her head drooped, her fingers punishing the roots of her hair.

"I do not doubt that... your friend... was no innocent party in encouraging your affection for him." His words could not have been more gentle, but she still could not meet his eyes.

"That doesn't excuse me," she said quietly. "If Narcissa sent an agent to call me out, I'd deserve it. I'm at fault."

"And with the tragedy of your recent past, you may have been more than usually vulnerable to such persuasions," he said. His voice was understanding, as though he knew much of loneliness and frailty.

"You're too generous, Albus. It's distasteful and sordid, and I have no excuse for it other than it felt good at the time. Their marriage always seemed to me to be one of convenience, with no real love there to dishonour. Somehow I didn't think it would really matter. I didn't think it would hurt anything." Her hands clenched in her lap. "Bloody hell – and to think I used to be considered a hero."

She shook her head, with a bitter, mirthless little laugh. "It's no wonder that creature was so sure I would become his supporter, after the way I've behaved this year."

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Dumbledore glanced up, electrified. "You have spoken, personally, with Voldemort?"

"Yes. I spoke to him earlier today, a few hours ago. My friend took it upon himself to arrange a personal introduction."

The Headmaster's eyes were like blue ice. "What were your impressions?"

"That he wanted very badly to bring me round to his side. He wanted to meet my mother and Gwydion and discuss ways to better the status of the Second-World Faery community with them."

"So Voldemort seeks an alliance with the Fae." Dumbledore's voice was graver than she had ever heard it. "He has the giants, perhaps the goblins... now he wishes to stir your people against us. Tell me, what does he promise you in return for your loyalty?"

"If we support his rule, he promises to severely punish those who persecute us for our differences from Wizardkind... he promised to restrict iron manufacture and make attacking a Faerie with cold iron a capital offence, the same as it is as home. He promised to punish the families of the wizards responsible for the Faery massacres during the Plague years, and he promises that under his rule, the Fae would be free to go about without Glamour and without persecution. He pledges his aid in destroying the Orc tribes – he swears that he can win our freedom from their aggressions."

"Does any of this tempt you? Be honest."

She stared past Dumbledore. "If I could trust a leader to keep us safe from those who would hunt us with iron... if I knew that the Fae could finally move freely in this world without fear, if I knew we could get work papers at the Ministry, and get a fair trial if we come under suspicion of wrongdoing... " Her eyes narrowed with grim resolution. "And if I could say that I had seen the last Orc genocide... if I knew with certainty that we had defeated them, once and for all... that seems a worthy thing to me."

"But there are other ways to go about achieving those goals than allying yourselves with Dark Wizards," he said. "Your desire to help your people is laudable, but believe me, you will not accomplish that by working with Voldemort. He seeks only to serve his own hateful agenda against his enemies and will not hesitate to exploit your people to further it. You cannot trust him, Emily – no one can."

Emily got up from her chair and began pacing, her hands working before her. "He said something to me today – The Fae seem to me a proud, magnificent race... I see no reason why you should not let your real selves be seen in this world. And I agree with that, Albus, even if it was Voldemort who said it. But we can't let ourselves be seen as we are in this world, not without running into prejudicial treatment. When I walked into the Department of International Magical Cooperation the day I got here, Bartemius Crouch seemed to hold me personally responsible because he didn't have paperwork for me. He looked at me like I was instantly suspect in some way. And I constantly see that attitude reflected in other people in positions of authority in your world – in Ministry employees, in Law Enforcement officials."

Dumbledore's white brows creased with concern. "Certainly no one at Hogwarts has made you feel that way, I hope – ?"

"No, no, you've all been wonderful, but I don't imagine that the teachers at Hogwarts are typical of the Wizarding community. You're all highly educated intellectuals, which makes you statistical outliers in your society. Your average wizard on the street, however, is a lot less tolerant. Did you know what happened to me when I went for a walk in Knockturn Alley this year? Some bastard of a wizard thought I was a prostitute and bloody solicited me – and I won't even go into what happened to a young friend of mine who – " She seemed about to go into an indignant diatribe on another topic, but then stopped herself.

"Anyway. The stereotype is that we're all shiftless, untrustworthy, oversexed, bestial freaks who have no morals. I know I'm not exactly speaking from a position of strength, given my own behaviour this year, but I was running into those kind of attitudes when I was eighteen years old and before any of this had ever happened, too." She stopped in front of Dumbledore's desk, her eyes flashing and breath labouring.

"If the time has come for the Fae to stop hiding, there are those of us who would be willing to support you, my friend," Dumbledore said, his voice full of quiet resolve. "But if you allied yourselves with Voldemort, you will not be helping your people to become full citizens of our community – you will only stigmatise them further, I promise you."

Emily was still pacing before his desk, her face set in a deep, thoughtful scowl. "But what if we took a very hard-line stance with him – what if we refused to allow ourselves to be exploited. Yes, he's ruthless, but he's also very proactive, much more so than any other wizard leader. He wants things to change rapidly, whereas everyone else seems content to muddle along in the same way it's always been, even if the way it's always been is accomplishing nothing."

"I agree with you that change is needed – but the kind of change Voldemort seeks will benefit no one but himself. I can promise you, though – if you look for wizard allies to help support your people in becoming full-fledged members of our society, you need to look no further than within this school. And of that, you can be certain, and could always have been certain, Professor."

Emily turned a withering look on him. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I'll make up my own mind in this matter, thank you. It wasn't too long ago that the greatest threats to the Second-World Fae in general were wizards – so do excuse us if we don't see too much difference between Wizarding factions. The Fae have taken care of ourselves for a great many years – or rather, millennia – without any help from our wand-waving friends, after all," she said, not without some disdain. "Indeed, it seems to me that if we waited for our wizard friends at Hogwarts to aid us in our hour of need, we would be waiting a very long time, for help that never arrived, if recent precedent is anything to go by." She paused in front of his desk, eyes blazing with fury.

"Have I done something to make you angry, Professor?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes never leaving hers. "If so, then I would like to know about it."

"I don't see how you can offer your support to my whole community, when I can't even count on you to support me when I'm sent before a judge, Albus!" Emily snapped at him. "Yes, I know my family has a little money in the bank, but that doesn't make me any less of an outsider here, with all the political clout that entails. I still can't believe you let me face all of that alone!"

"Emily, please, slow down," Dumbledore said, holding up a hand. "Are you referring to the inquest that went on after you were attacked?"

"Yes, the inquest where they hauled me up in front of a judge because I defended myself from a murder attempt. Did you know that they posted armed guards outside my hospital room? They didn't even ask me if I wanted legal representation, did you know that?"

"No, no, I didn't, the authorities should have – " he began –

"I don't know how you expect me to believe all these declarations you've just made, after you ignored the letter I sent you that morning, Albus – and the only way I got it out at all was because a friend came to visit me in hospital. They never even asked me if there was anyone I wanted to contact! If you're as supportive as you say, why didn't you send anyone to testify as to my good character, any sort of help at all – do you have any idea how terrified I was? I'm here because you asked for me – how in the hell could you just abandon me like that?" Her voice rose furiously, and she slammed both hands down on his desk.

Dumbledore stood up and faced her head on, but his voice remained calm and level. "Emily. I swear upon my sacred honour that I did not receive your letter until after the inquest had already begun. Had I received it even one hour earlier, I would have been there. Had I received it even five minutes earlier, I would have either gone myself if at all possible, or sent the Deputy Headmistress to support you."

"But that's not possible," she snapped. "It was barely noon when I asked for the letter to be posted. I asked Lucius to take it straight to the – "

And then she realised what she had just said.

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Emily and Dumbledore were both silent, staring at each other. "You gave the letter to Lucius Malfoy to post?" he asked, after a long pause.

"Yes... he was at my bedside in the hospital when I woke up – there were guards outside my door – he asked if there was anything he could do to help. I didn't know that he was a Death Eater at the time – "

"Emily – " Dumbledore's hands clenched on the edge of his desk. "Emily, do you not see what he's done?"

"He tried to make me think you abandoned me... that you looked down on me. He tried to turn me against you," Emily whispered. Her eyes sought his – "He very nearly did it."

"Voldemort, and his servants, have a gift for sowing distrust and dissension... it is their greatest weapon," Dumbledore told her.

Emily went to Dumbledore's side and took both of his hands in hers. "Albus... Albus, I'm so sorry, I never should have thought you would abandon me like that. It didn't seem like something you would do for a moment. That's why I was so upset about it. I should have realised... "

"There is no need for you to heap blame on yourself, my dear," Dumbledore said. "He is a consummate deceiver, and you were in an hour of great need. He wanted to make you beholden to him – he knows the Fae, knows how seriously your people regard your obligations. When you were attacked, he seized the opportunity to ingratiate himself with you, make you feel dependent upon him."

The Headmaster then faced her very simply and humbly. "Emily... I know now that I should have been more concerned when you didn't turn up for your classes that morning. But I was confident that you would soon return, with some excellent reason for your absence. I have no excuse but complacency, my dear... it just never occurred to me that a Fianna Master-At-Arms might be in peril. I am well aware that you came to this world because I asked Gwydion to send you and never intended to shirk my responsibilities toward you. I am also well aware that your people are a minority here and that the courts may have been biased against you in the matter of the attack. But I would never have abandoned you to that situation, not so long as there was breath in my body or any friend still loyal to me. You have my true and original word on that."

His voice was full of urgent sincerity and the desire to prove his friendship and loyalty to her. She believed him.

"I'm sorry to have doubted you," she whispered.

"I'm sorry, too," Dumbledore said, gently pressing her hands in his. "Now... if you'll excuse me for a moment – Severus is all but frantic to get to the bottom of the circumstances of this evening, and we really should let him know exactly what happened." He excused himself with a polite smile and nod and started for the door.

"Sir, must we... say anything? He's alive and well – does he have to know exactly why?" Emily asked, her voice breaking. She was grasping at a last, feeble hope that Snape might never know what she had done that year, and she knew it.

"Emily... while I can understand your embarrassment, Severus was very nearly murdered tonight," he said. "Surely you won't deny him the whole truth behind it?"

She stared down at the floor. "I... suppose I can't, sir," she said, in a very small voice.

"Also, both your colleague and Sirius Black, the other fellow you met tonight, are deeply involved in the effort against Voldemort and should be kept apprised of any new intelligence we receive of the Death Eaters' plans. If you prefer, you don't have to be present while I tell them. I promise that I will be as discreet as I can regarding the details of your, er, involvement."

"Yes, I... I think I'd rather not be there," she said faintly. "Thank you."

"I also hesitate to leave your colleague alone with Mr. Black for too long. Unfortunately there is a long and very unpleasant history between the two of them, and I don't want to have to scrape one or both off the corridor steps with Mrs. Skower's Magical Mess Remover."

"I see." She breathed a heavy sigh. "You know... I think I will take a large brandy after all, sir... if it's not too much trouble."

The Headmaster crossed to the cabinet behind his desk, poured a glass from the small cask of Faery calvados, and handed it to her. Then he ushered her up the gallery steps and through a round, gilded door, into a spacious chamber full of overstuffed armchairs and lined with more books than she would have thought possible. This was, it appeared, the sitting room of Dumbledore's own living quarters – both his office and his apartments faced out onto a high tower walk overlooking the serenely glimmering lake below.

"Now make yourself at home. I'll be back in a moment." Dumbledore still managed a subdued twinkle at her as he left the room.

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Sirius Black and Professor Snape were waiting in the stairwell outside Dumbledore's office when he came to collect them. Snape was waiting at the top of the steps, as though guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's lair; the great three-headed Cerberus himself could not have looked more forbidding. Sirius Black was standing at the foot of the stairwell, glaring up at Snape as though he didn't trust the other man not to send him sprawling down the steps the second his back was turned.

"Gentlemen," Dumbledore called to them. "Please join me, I have much to tell you."

Both Snape and Black filed back into Dumbledore's office, studiously keeping their distances and watching each other peripherally with identical wary expressions. They both took up positions on either side of Dumbledore's desk.

"So what happened?" Black asked.

"Where is Professor Swain?" Snape asked.

"I left Emily in my sitting room – she will be fine. Regarding what she has told me... I believe that Lucius Malfoy has sought to exploit his old connection with the Fae to seek an alliance with them for his Master," Dumbledore said in an unusually flinty tone. "He knows that Emily has ties to both the Third Kingdom's military, and to its throne.

"Apparently... when Emily came here to accept her teaching position, Malfoy took the opportunity to renew a former involvement between the two of them. He persuaded her to pay him a personal visit at Malfeasant this afternoon, during which he introduced Emily to Voldemort, and did his best to open negotiations between him and the Fae military. At some point today, he confided to her, in not so many words, that Professor Snape was to be killed tonight. Whereupon Emily took it upon herself to find Severus and avert the danger."

Black stared at Dumbledore. "Renew a former involvement... ? A former involvement of what nature, may I ask?"

"Of... from what I have heard, of a romantic nature," Dumbledore said.

Black stared harder, his grey eyes all but starting from his head with disbelief. "So what you're telling us, Headmaster, is that... that nice lady I met tonight... heard about the plan to kill Snape from Lucius Malfoy himself... because she's... she was... paying personal visits, of a romantic nature, to him? In not so many words – she was sleeping with him?"

"That... would appear to be the case, Sirius," Dumbledore answered.

Behind Black, unseen by anyone but Dumbledore, Snape lowered his head miserably into his hand.

"In her defence, Emily was widowed in the recent past, and she trusted Malfoy as a long-time friend," the Headmaster hastened to add, more in Snape's direction than Black's. "Seeing her left desolate after her husband's death, no doubt Malfoy saw his opportunity to turn her vulnerability to his gain. As we are all three aware, Mr. Malfoy can be notably unscrupulous in his dealings with women."

"So... this person is, or was, Malfoy's... girlfriend, mistress, bit on the side, whatever you want to call it. She was living here, working for you, and having an affair with him at the same time, and no one had any idea what was going on. I can't... I don't... I'm... I don't believe it, sir." Black flexed his hands in front of him. "Really... you've made some interesting hiring decisions in the past, but I must say, this – "

"The... relationship does not seem to be of long standing," Dumbledore interjected gently. "I doubt that Professor Swain herself had any idea of what would happen during her year at Hogwarts."

"That may be so, but to take up with Lucius Malfoy, of all people? I know these Scottish winters are long and cold, but there are better ways to comfort oneself than to nurse a viper at her very – "

"I would thank you not to be so bloody crude when referring to our colleague, Black," Snape snapped, straightening up.

Black turned on him. "What can you really say in support of a woman who is... seeing a married man – a man who is also the ringleader of You-Know-Who's supporters, then, Snape? Not exactly a shining example of female virtue, is she? I say, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck – "

"The only name that I will be using to refer to Emily Swain is her own name, as I have been doing since she was first introduced to me, and I would advise you to do the same," Snape said evenly. "I've worked with her all year, and believe me, she isn't going to appreciate hearing you pass judgment on her character or her personal life. She wasn't even going to hang about and explain herself to me after the pub was destroyed. She's here because I made her come here. I bloody threatened her and Stunned her to make her come here."

"Well, Snape, if that's the way you like to treat women, no wonder no one ever wanted to go to the Yule Ball with you," Black sneered. Snape's hand went for his wand, but Dumbledore threw back his head and simply radiated so much disapproval at both of them that they fell silent and turned away from each other.

Black paced for a moment, his brows knitted. "All right, have it your way. Suppose for a moment that her motives in protecting Snape were entirely pure and altruistic and she's still loyal to you, Dumbledore, even if she has been sleeping with Lucius Malfoy for Merlin knows how long." He seemed to have picked up on Snape's sensitivity to hearing such words said, and pronounced them with relish, watching his former classmate as if eager to see him squirm. "So then, why did she not immediately come to Dumbledore when she heard what Malfoy was planning? Why did she try to take care of it herself, and not tell anyone?"

"Is it so unbelievable that she might have been embarrassed about the affair, and didn't want to admit to anyone exactly how she heard I was to be killed tonight?" Snape demanded. "Surely you know what that's like? Are you trying to tell me you have never done anything that you were ashamed of, and didn't want anyone else to know about, in all your life?"

They stared at each other for a long, tense, hateful moment – until Black turned away and leaned hard against the side of Dumbledore's desk.

Dumbledore coughed gently. "Now that the unvarnished facts are out in the open... there is the issue of what is to be done."

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"There's only one thing to be done," Black said. "This... connection of hers could be an awfully valuable source of information to us. I think we all know that Lucius Malfoy, er, enjoys the companionship of women – I can't think of anyone in a better position to hear his confidences than the latest of those women. If Malfoy was already in the habit of pouring his heart out to her, then might she not learn a great deal more if she can convince him that she sympathises with him? Can the two of you even imagine what all we could learn of Malfoy's plans if the man's mistress is loyal to our side? If he trusts her enough that he's willing to tell her who he plans to have killed – "

"No, we most certainly cannot ask her to do that. You haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Black," Snape interjected witheringly. "She's already helped us tonight – that's enough. If we asked for her aid – "

"You mean – she's helped you tonight, and that's enough for you," Sirius snapped back –

" – if we asked for her aid," Snape pressed on, "we wouldn't be asking her to face trolls, or Dementors, or dragons, at Hogwarts with Dumbledore and all the other teachers behind her. We'd be asking her to go amongst the enemy alone and pass herself off as one of them." Snape's face was grave as death. "You can't understand what that's like."

"You do it," Black said bluntly.

"I don't have to sleep with anyone in order to do it, let alone someone I despise – it's not the same," Snape retorted. "Also – what you're both forgetting is that our fight against the Dark Lord isn't even truly her cause. Professor Swain didn't come here to fight on our side – she came because her King commanded her to, and he did that as a favour to you, Dumbledore. Buckminster Swain never joined the fight against the Dark Lord – he left our world and severed his ties to it. He didn't send his Faery daughter to school here even though he was an alumni himself, and sent his other four children here. No, I don't think his youngest was at Beauxbatons only because her father wanted her to learn French – I think he made a concerted effort to keep his child away from the political situation here. What right do we have to ask her to take up our cause?

Snape rounded on Dumbledore in agitation. "Headmaster – I cannot implore you strongly enough to declare her duty to you at an end and send her home. Don't let her get involved in this."

Black's face was a vivid scarlet. "Listen, both of you. She's just proved herself to be a source of valuable inside information on You-Know-Who's supporters – no matter how she got that information. You can't just send her back home without making it clear to her what her role could be in turning the tide of this conflict in our favour. From what you've said, she's been... involved with Lucius Malfoy for some time, of her own volition – she just has to keep seeing him. No one's asking her to take the Dark Mark and become a Death Eater herself if she can help it."

Snape interjected, shaking his head furiously. "She'd be taking a chance with her own safety, the likes of which you can't even begin to fathom, Black. First off – if the Death Eaters realize that she's informing on them to us, they will kill her. Slowly. Painfully. That you can be certain of. I've seen them do it.

"And even if she manages to gather intelligence successfully, there are plenty of those on our side who can't tell the difference between a double agent and a real Death Eater. With Alastor Moody in the way he's been since his abduction, it'll be a wonder if she doesn't end up in Azkaban even if she brings us the information that puts the Dark Lord out of commission forever."

"You're being melodramatic, Snape," Black shot back. "They won't put a woman in Azkaban simply because she chose the wrong lover."

"I don't see how you, of all people, can be so cavalier about the possibility of wrongful imprisonment in light of what's happened to you," Snape replied scathingly. "They put you in there for twelve years for choosing the wrong friend. They put Hagrid in Azkaban for keeping the wrong pet."

"She won't end up in Azkaban," Black scoffed. "She's a Faerie – the Ministry of Magic has no real jurisdiction over her even if it did come to that. The worst they can do is deport her back to Arcadia – "

"Faery mother, wizard father – there's your jurisdiction." Snape turned to Dumbledore again. "I've spent most of the second term reading Swain's Encyclopaedia – the main precept of her religion is the worship of... joy, growth, nature, the creative impulse, dynamism, whatever you want to call it. She has another hundred thirty-five years to live, most likely, and human diseases can't kill her. They consider Dementors to be their perpetual and hereditary enemies, the antithesis of everything they are. Think of what the continual presence of Dementors would do to one of them. Imagine a Faerie in Azkaban, Albus. Behind iron bars, unable to escape from the Dementors."

Snape raked a hand through his hair, his eyes flashing, and continued. "Also, if you send her into this conflict, and she dies in it – how will that go over in the Third Kingdom? Will Gwydion the Fifth really respect your decision to allow his kinswoman, who I might add, is a knight commander in his active service, to go risk her life in some foreign war? As I recall, she was sent here to teach Faery magic, not to square off against the most dangerous wizard alive. Will the Faery community – who are already angry over the attempted assassination in June, mind – become even more upset once they hear that the Hogwarts Headmaster sent an oathbound Fianna knight to her death, all to serve his own purposes?"

One long finger jabbed into the surface of the Headmaster's desk. "This is folly, Albus. Nothing good can come of it."

"Your consideration for your colleague does you credit, Severus," Dumbledore said, very gently. "But I do believe Professor Swain herself is the only person who can make this decision. Emily is quite capable of forming her own opinions and making up her own mind, as you and I are well aware. She may also have her own personal reasons for wishing to lend her aid – "

"Why can't we ask anything of... this... of this Professor?" Black interrupted, with a hard stare at Snape. He turned to face Dumbledore head on. "You've both let Harry face all the dangers he has, including You-Know-Who himself, on more than one occasion. When my own life was in danger last year, Dumbledore, you relied on Harry and another thirteen-year-old child, Hermione Granger, as your agents in rescuing me. Harry regularly faces challenges more difficult than this.

"From what you've both told me tonight, this woman is not some fourth-year student like Harry, Ron, and Hermione. She's not barely out of school like Sniv – like Snape was when he was gathering intelligence for us. She's taught at Hogwarts, so she has to be a fully qualified witch – and Snape just said she's a Faery knight commander besides, so she seems pretty damn well suited to the job to me. That's more qualification that Dung or Molly or even Hagrid has to be a part of this fight, when you think about it. I don't see why we don't simply ask her to join the Order and to use Malfoy's confidence in her toward our ends. It can be her decision – if she doesn't want to be a part of it, she can say no."

"You're wrong!" Snape protested hotly. "It won't be her decision, not really – if Dumbledore asks this of her, she'll do it, no matter how stupid, foolish, or suicidal it is. You don't understand how the Fianna work, Black. The only authority they recognise is their King. Her loyalty to him is absolute – and he ordered her to come here and serve Dumbledore, which means that that absolute loyalty now transfers to him.

"Now unlike a thick-headed Philistine like you, I've actually spent some time studying Faery military history, with what wildly conflicting accounts we have in the library. These are not the kind of people who are cut out for complex intelligence work, Dumbledore – and you know that.

"We've all read the stories – those of us who read, at least – " he glowered at Black – "and we all know that no one can beat the Fae in a straight-out fight. They're considered legendary heroes in some quarters. I've personally seen Professor Swain slaughter a wild boar armed with only a sword. It's obvious that they have the military might to destroy the Orcs – but where the Orcs always, always defeat them, is through treachery. What always happens is – the Fianna beat them to the point of extinction in battle, the Orcs offer a non-aggression treaty, and the Fae accept it, and believe it's their sacred duty to uphold it to the letter. Then the Orcs replenish their numbers and massacre some Faeries in a little village somewhere, and the whole thing starts over again.

"Emily is the sort of person who would die upholding that meaningless non-aggression treaty, Black. She's the person you call when you need someone to help you raise an army. She's the person you call to rescue someone from your enemy. She's not who you call when you need someone to spy on your enemy."

"And you are?" Black said witheringly.

"Yes, I am," Snape replied with blistering certainty. He turned back to Dumbledore. "If we ask this of her – it will end horribly. I just know it, Albus. You've been her father's friend for more than half a century. You know what kind of people Buckminster Swain, and his daughter, are. Don't ask this of her – she should not be involved here."

Dumbledore slowly clenched his hands in front of him, regarding Snape with a terrible awareness and compassion in his eyes.

"You know, gentlemen, the more I listen to Mr. Black here, the more his plan makes perfect sense to me," came Emily's voice.

All three men turned hard toward the sound.

She was sitting on one of Dumbledore's low bookshelves, near one of the windows open to the turret walk. "Do forgive me for eavesdropping, but when you took such a long moment away, I fear that my curiosity got the better of me." She addressed them all without looking at them, her burningly white face fixed straight ahead.

"What have you heard, Emily?" Dumbledore asked.

"You don't have to ask me for anything, Headmaster. I would prefer to volunteer." She turned to face them fully. "When can I start?"

Severus Snape threw up his hands in frustration. "Oh, spare us your noble gestures – you're impressing no one," he snapped. "You have no place in this conflict. Just accept it."

"That is not your decision to make," Emily said, regarding him with flinty calm. "Under the terms Gwydion laid down, I was to serve Albus Dumbledore, in whatever capacity he required, for a year and day, not for the duration of the British school year. If he wishes it, he can command me to carry out his orders until the twenty-third of September, and I am under oath to comply."

Snape's hands were trembling with fury; at that moment he looked quite capable of seizing hold of the woman in front of him and shaking her. Emily remained entirely unmoved, her eyes fixed on his. Dumbledore and Black were both silent – it would have been obvious to anyone looking at Emily Swain and Severus Snape at that moment that they had ceased to be aware of anyone else in the world at that moment, that their argument was between the two of them alone.

"By all that's holy – think what you are doing!" Snape's hand slammed down on the corner of Dumbledore's desk in a fury. "Why do you think all of us are involved in this? Because we have to be – it's our world and we don't want a violent dictator in power over it. You have a choice as to whether you involve yourself or not – and if you have even the remotest shred of sense in that head of yours, you'll take yourself as far away from here as you possibly can, and never return."

"No, for once you listen to me, dammit," she snapped back. "I'm tired of skulking around afraid of something I can't name – it's my job to protect people, and I would rather do that than flee like some bloody coward. I'd thank you to remember that you do not own this fight, and that you are not the only person alive who has a reason to hate Voldemort!"

"Oh, you vain little fool," Snape rasped and turned away from her in disgust.

Emily stared, white and shaken, at his stubbornly averted back – then turned toward Dumbledore. "Sir. If you wish my service for the duration of my original order, it is yours."

Albus, came Snape's piercing whisper. Albus, tell her she has to go.

Dumbledore looked from Emily to Snape, a look of gravest deliberation on his face. He seemed to consider his reply for a long, long time. Finally, he appeared to come to a decision.

"I wish it," Dumbledore said. He turned to Emily and made her a very formal small bow, one veteran soldier to another.

"Commander, if you will accept the invitation, we welcome you into the Order of the Phoenix."

End of Part Second –

To Be Concluded in

The Knight Errant Chronicles

Part Third: The Hart Subvertant