Part Four

Mad-Eye Moody was surprised to get mail.

Not just by the fact that it was delivered by a large, colourful, yellow and blue bird but that he was even the recipient of a letter. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten one.

He sat back in his sagging chair and stared at the paper in his hand, his magic eye rotating erratically.

"Hey! There's payment due," squawked the bird.

Moody's good eye swung from the letter to the bird who, unlike any owl who had ever delivered mail to him, glared at him, unfazed by the wild gyrations of his magical eye.

He humphed loudly and the bird remained where it had landed on the railing of the balcony off his room in the "Old Wizards and Witches Home".

With a rueful nod of appreciation to the determined bird, Moody limped inside and came back out with a hard hunk of cake that his neighbour, a witch with a far more determined glint in her eye, had brought over just that morning.

The bird took it in its beak, transferred it to a taloned foot then pecked at it.

Moody was surprised to find that the bird was more than satisfied with the taste. He himself had never managed to swallow a mouthful: he hadn't lived this long by trusting gifts from people he had no intentions of ever knowing better.

As the bird happily dealt with its "payment", Moody opened the letter and angled it so that the moonlight lit up the writing. The signature gave him pause. For several minutes, he watched the bird finish the cake.

"So, you going to answer? I haven't got all night, you know!"

Moody felt a strange sensation begin to grow in his belly. As it grew, it worked its way up. It took him a moment to realize that the rusty sound coming out of him was actual laughter. It had been long years since that had happened. When he'd been whole and...

He went back to the letter and began reading it, forcing the memories of those days back into their bleak, dark compartment somewhere in his brain. The medical staff at St. Mungo's had tried to get him to transfer those memories to a pensieve, but he'd never trusted those damn things. Who the hell knew who could get their hands on it?

`Dear Alastor,

Been a few years, hasn't it? The last time we got together, I seem to have lost a week or so of time. I still don't remember anything after we decided to hoist that witch's silk drawers - they were violently pink, or was I imagining that? - from the flagstaff of the British High Commissioner's residence in Singapore.

Come to think of it, I do remember waking up in the dungeons of the local constabulary, alone. Without my partner in crime.

Still, you went on to bigger and better things though I also understand you paid a hard price for all that in the long run.

Since this has found you at the indicated address, I assume that you are not just bored out of your mind - assuming you have some of that left - but are chafing at the bit. What the bloody hell is an old war horse like you doing pastured off?

Might you be interested in getting out of said pasture and back into the game?

Think about this seriously, Alastor. You are one of the few I actually trust and this game will require stealth, subtle underhanded investigation and total secrecy. And though I call it a game, similar to the ones we once played, it is deadly serious stuff.

Fiji awaits your answer.

Sylvester Black.'

Deadly was underlined.

Mad-Eye Moody looked again at the bird. "You've got a name!"

The bird preened, fluffing out its head feathers and shifting its weight from one foot to the other. "Fiji. The Magnificent."

Moody felt another of those funny feelings want to work its way out again. Trust Sylvester to find something like this to act as his courier.

"Well, Fiji, the Magnificent, tell your master yes."

The bird cocked its head. "That's all? Yes?"

Moody nodded.

As the bird disappeared into the night, Alastor Moody sat back in his sagging chair on the balcony and felt another strange feeling wake within him.

It was an interest in life.

The last night of the visit, Severus had a nightmare. Not one of his more quiet ones. His screams woke the entire household.

As he grabbed his sarong on the rush out of his bedroom, Sylvester wondered how he hadn't been paying attention this time, what had he missed? All things considered, the visit had been going rather well.

Severus spent his mornings working over his books, as usual. Now and then Remy or Rus would go sit with him, often not talking, just keeping him company. Afternoons, after the heat of the day, he would join them in the lagoon, swimming accompanied by the grouper, who wasn't certain it liked all the attention it was getting.

Sylvester had taken the visitors on a tour of the island, visiting the local village market - it had suddenly dawned on him that Severus had never been further away from the house than the lagoon - for gifts to bring back with them. Another day, he'd taken them out on the sloop. Though he'd offered Severus the chance to join them, the man had simply shook his head. Solfeggio had growled at him, "Get them away from us, will you? A day of peace and quiet won't kill the rest of us."

Parlante had been in seventh heaven. The most silent of his house elves, Parlante was the one who, like himself, most loved the sea. He loved nothing more than to be at the wheel of the "Silver Spray", allowing the sloop to race along with the seabirds.

He had to stand on a specially made box in order to manipulate the wheel properly and be able to see all pertinent instruments. Now and then he pushed up the captain's hat he wore on his head, as it was slightly too large and tended to slip down over his eyes.

And here in his element, he had to speak, to order his "crew" about. That day it had been Rus and the twins who'd run about laughing as he told them what to do.

At one point, Remy had dropped onto the bench next to Sylvester and watched as Rus insisted he needed to climb up the mast to the small platform that was what passed for a crow's nest on this vessel.

The twins were at the bow, playing "Titanic", screaming with delight as Parlante sent the boat into a swooping turn to one side.

"They're going to fall off," Remy had muttered, eyes worried.

Sylvester had taken the cheroot out of his mouth. "Don't worry. Parlante has a net spelled around the ship. If they do tip off, it'll catch them."

Surprised, Remy had sat back and sighed, relieved. "You think of everything."

Sylvester had shaken his head. "Not my idea. Parlante set it up the third time I fell off." He'd laughed. "Well, where do you think Rus comes by his sense of daring? It used to be a family trait, still pops up now and then though the Blacks like to think they've been gentrified."

The twins had spent that entire evening regaling them with the stunts they had pulled in Severus's classroom. The man had listened quietly for the most part, though his eyes were lighter and he actually watched everyone's reactions. And once he did relax enough to chortle at a stunt that had gone wrong and backfired on the twins.

But now he was screaming down the roof.

"Too much of the good old days," murmured Sylvester as he opened the door to Severus's room.

Solfeggio and Ariette were already there, talking calmly to the man huddled against the headboard, eyes wide open, blind to them, seeing Merlin knew what nightmare.

"Severus." Sylvester kept his voice calm, aware that the others had arrived in various states of dress. Remy, he was glad to notice, was holding them back from getting any closer than the doorway.

"Sylvester, do you need anything?" Remy asked, in a normal toned voice, not adding to the tension in the room.

Sylvester shook his head. Solfeggio growled, "Done enough, haven't you?"

Ariette hit her brother on the shoulder. None too gently. "Not theirs fault."

"Severus." Sylvester approached the bed, keeping his voice level as he always did in this circumstance. Severus was not awake, but he hoped that the sound of his voice would pull him from his dreams.

"Severus."

The sound stopped, though the eyes were still no more focused on reality.

Sylvester passed a hand over his scalp, wondering if all the advances had been merely an illusion.

Behind him, he heard a soft, "No!" and then George was at his side.

"He did that at home, too," he whispered. Then he carefully approached the bed. "Mum used to do this."

George sat on the foot of the bed and slowly begin humming a tune.

"Of course," murmured Fred and he too slipped under Remy's arm and came to stand by his brother.

Their voices were not particularly good: nor were they bad. They just weren't exactly suited for a lullaby. A little shrill at times in hitting the notes that had been composed for a woman's voice. And the words sometimes tripped over and replaced with la-la-las.

Sylvester watched Severus for any sign that the song was unwelcomed. Instead, his body slowly let go of its tension and gradually the eyes seemed to open.

He looked around the room. Sylvester noted that he stopped at each face and looked at it until he identified the owner and then he moved on, finally alighting on the twins who had continued with the song all the while.

Severus closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the headboard. "I don't know what's worse," his voice rougher than usual from screaming, "the nightmare or waking to the sight of all of you waiting for me to implode."

Sylvester closed his eyes in relief for a moment then nodded to the twins who stopped singing. "Thank you. We'll remember that."

On their way out, the twins grinned at Solfeggio who nevertheless glowered at them.

Sylvester shook his head: Solfeggio was not one ever to admit that he'd been wrong. Mind, the twins would probably find their favourite foods waiting for them at breakfast.

"We'll say goodnight," said Remy.

Severus sat still, unmoving until the door closed when he raised a trembling hand to smooth the hair off his face. "That's a finale I'm sure they'll remember for some time."

Sylvester sat on the side of the bed. He used the edge of the sheet to wipe the lines of sweat off Severus's face, neck and chest.

Severus tiredly turned his head and opened his eyes. "Why are you smiling?"

Sylvester grinned. "Because I think I just heard a touch of their Professor Snape and I find I liked it."

Alastor Moody looked around the small flat whose keys had arrived with the macaw's next visit. It was housed in what passed as just one of the many modern sound-proofed buildings in this Muggle neighbourhood. Moody wasn't surprised that, in spite of years out of country, Black would still have the connections necessary to allow him to requisition a flat in a highly warded building used to house certain members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Included in the list of directions that had accompanied the keys were the passwords to the general wards that allowed him entry into the lobby and elevator. The ones for the door of the flat were extremely specialized. They protected it not just from the magical listening spells and charms but from anything and anyone that might attempt to approach the flat from any direction, including from above or below. From the tiniest flea to a stampeding herd of rogue elephants.

Or rogue Aurors.

Moody smiled to himself: Sylvester hadn't changed at all in the passing years. He'd been the only one in the old days to take his obsessions seriously. In this time, only Arthur Weasley had ever come near to understanding and accepting him as he was.

The flat was furnished, with older furniture. The couch was long enough for a wizard to stretch out on comfortably. The desk in the corner had scads of drawers of all sizes, ditto for the pigeon-holes and, he was certain, more than ample secret compartments to satisfy his paranoia. He would have fun tomorrow locating them all.

The small kitchen was already stocked, with all the basics including a cupboard with several bottles of his favourite firewhiskey. On the wall by the fridge was a list of local restaurants that delivered, with a star next to a couple that Moody understood were safe for him to use. He'd verify that, of course, but it was a thoughtful gesture on the part of the man who had arranged all this.

The bedroom had him laughing aloud. It looked like something from the Singapore brothel he and Sylvester had used as a meeting point. He entered the room and checked the blood-red satin spread that served as bedspread and raised it to his nose. Damn if it wasn't permeated with the same horrible perfume that...what was her name? had used.

He sat down on the bed and was pleased that Sylvester hadn't carried verisimilitude on to the mattress. This one was good and firm.

He looked over at the dresser by the door and saw the envelope. With a sense of the game beginning, his heart beating faster and his feeling more alive than he had in some time, Moody carefully opened the envelope and removed a sheet of paper with a list of names.

The instructions were short and to the point.

`Background needed on:

All members of the Weasley family, based at the Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole;
Hermione Granger-Weasley, working at Ministry subsidized medical lab; Sirius Black, Wheezies, Diagon Alley;
Remus Lupin, Wheezies, Diagon Alley;
Harry Potter, Professor, Beauxbatons;
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster, Hogwarts; Severus Snape, former Potions Instructor, Hogwarts; Neville Longbottom, present address unknown; The Malfoys, be they dead or alive; Lucius, Narcissa, Draco.

Fiji will pick up whatever reports you have this day, midnight, every week beginning the next.

Account at Gringotts opened for you. Alastor, remember to pay yourself as well as informants.'

Arthur Weasley was happily humming to himself as he took inventory. Officially on holiday, he and Molly had agreed to "babysit" Wheezies while the proprietors were off for a week.

He looked over his shoulder at Molly who was helping a couple of youngsters choose a selection of "candies" as a birthday gift for their older brother who just happened to be a student at Hogwarts. Arthur snickered as he went back to counting the False Wands. He'd always wondered what he and Molly would do with themselves when he retired. Now he wondered if he was going to wait that long.

They'd enjoyed this week away from the Burrow and the Ministry. Molly was much more relaxed and quite enjoying helping people choose the right joke for the right person. He couldn't remember her laughing this much in...well, since the children had grown up and gone on with their lives. And as for him, well, away from the stresses and strains of the Ministry, he too was more relaxed.

And there were other benefits. He glanced once more over his shoulder and caught Molly watching him, with the twinkle he had put into her eyes last night still shining brightly at him. A match for the one he suspected was still in his.

The parent accompanying the children asked a question and Molly's attention reverted back to her. Arthur grinned to himself and began to count the Rubber Chickens.

He finished inventory as they closed for the day. Arthur rolled the scroll up and watched as Molly prepared the cash for securing in the small vault that was hidden behind the model Paint-It-Yourself Squirting Flowers. She cast the counterspell that prevented the bouquet of tulips and daffodils from squirting neon lime green permanent ink over anyone who approached.

"There, all done." She smiled at him.

Arthur took his time coming up to her, appreciating the slow blush that was colouring her face as he did. That it did so after all these years made him feel as though he could conquer the world. "Have I mentioned lately that I love you, Molly Weasley?"

Molly was more than willing to play this game. She cocked her head and pretended to think. "No, I believe not. Not since...hmmmm? Not since lunch time."

"That far back?"

She nodded. "Rather derelict of you, Arthur Weasley."

He took her hand in his and slowly brought it up to his lips. He passed his lips over the back of her hand and then turned it to trace the lines of her palm with the tip of his tongue. Her hand trembled in his. He looked up. "Then I shall have to do something about that, shan't I, dear heart?"

Her free hand reached to caress the side of his face and he leaned slightly into its warmth.

She took a step closer to him as he took one closer to her.

Their lips met with years of knowing what pleased the other.

"MY VIRGIN EYES!"

They broke apart, gasping. Arthur looked around, wand in hand, ready to deal with the intruder. Molly found hers and turned so that her back was to Arthur's.

"Molly and Arthur in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G."

"What the hell..."

"Arthur! On the cash register."

He spun around, wand ready to cast any kind of spell from Expelliarmus to Avada Kedavra. And froze.

The bird cocked its head, snickering delightedly to itself. "Gotcha!"

"What the..."

The bird shifted to one foot and held out the other, shaking it. "Mail!"

Molly shook her head as she went over to the bird. "I think we're less relaxed than we thought, Arthur."

He sighed and lowered his wand though he didn't put it away. Since the boys had let it be known that they knew about Snape's arrest and conviction on false charges, the Weasley clan had been under suspicion. If anyone other than Albus Dumbledore had been involved, the suspicions would have been laughable. But the Headmaster knew his former students too well. The sixth sense that made him such a good headmaster had been alerted and though nothing could be proved, Dumbledore was uneasy.

And if Dumbledore was uneasy, the Minister was probably on tenterhooks.

It had been Dumbledore's acceptance of Longbottom's so-called revelations that had led to the Ministry's immediate arrest, trial and incarceration of Severus Snape. And now that the grounds had been called into doubt, there was the potential disaster of a massive pie-in-the-face of the Ministry should the truth ever be known. Something that the Minister felt was to be avoided at all costs. Even to the cost of a man's reputation and life.

Arthur had been less ready to accept Snape's innocence than Molly, but he'd had to rethink his innate desire to trust his superiors when he helped Molly one night with Snape.

He viscerally hated Azkaban and its dementors though he understood and accepted the need for both.

But not torture. There was no need for torture. An Imperius followed by a good dose of Veritaserum negated any need for it. No, torture, such as Snape had undergone, was for someone's amusement and he had been disgusted by it.

He'd still held some belief in the Ministry until Hermione had been approached and it had been suggested that she withhold the Wolfsbane from Remy. With this attack on a member of his family, Arthur lost the last of his reticence and now fully believed Snape to be innocent and the Ministry to be guilty, at the very least, of a cover-up.

"It's from someone called Sylvester Black. He says he's Rus's cousin and that the boys are with him now. He has to come to London and he's wondering if we would like to have dinner with him one evening next week."

Arthur had come closer, examining the large blue and yellow bird who was pleased with his attention, ruffling its feathers and preening itself. "Did they ever tell us where exactly they were going?"

Molly shrugged. "Somewhere in the South Pacific."

Arthur smiled at her. "Well, it won't be the first time we meet the in-laws."

Hermione Granger-Weasley was livid and slamming the door to their small rented house didn't appease her anger in the least.

Ron looked up from the meal he was preparing. "Another bad day?"

She threw her satchel to the couch and rubbed her face with her hands. "My request for funding has been refused."

Ron came up to her and put his arms around her stiff body. He said nothing until she sighed and sagged tiredly against him. "They're only cutting off their own noses, Mione, love."

She sighed again and rubbed her face against his throat. "I put out feelers to some of the other labs. No nibbles." This time last year, she was the one being felt out. She looked up at him. He'd grown that last year at Hogwarts: he was built like Bill, tall, slim with shoulders on which she loved to rest her head. Strong and dependable. "At least, if I stay at this one, I have some chance of getting my hands on the ingredients needed to make Remy's Wolfsbane. That is if they continue to order them."

Ron held her tightly. "They're making too much money off that potion with other werewolves to discontinue it."

She snorted.

He kissed her cheek. "Come on. I've made some of my famous blue-ribbon if-it's-in-the-fridge casserole. We can easily scrape off the burnt top."

Hermione giggled: Ron's ability to burn any meal he tried to make was now family legend.

"Plus there's a bottle of wine. Not the kind of stuff we can afford, but a really good bottle left over from the time my parents came for supper. We can drink it all and get drunk."

She snickered. "That's not usually what we do when we drink a bottle of the good stuff."

Ron wriggled his eyebrows at her and twirled an imaginary moustache. "Ah, but that's part of my evil plan to have my wicked way with you, my dear."

"Are you Weasleys always so horny?"

Both of them turned to the voice.

An exotic-looking bird stood in the window Ron had opened to deal with the smoke from his overcooked casserole. With a squawk, it shook a leg with a message dangling from it at them.

Hermione stared at the official looking letter. "Why would my Muggle banker want to see us?"

Harry Potter grinned at his students who were dealing with Cornish Pixies gone wild. As part of his special lectures on the Dark Arts, he was introducing them to species not native to the country. It gave him great pleasure to see his graduate students, elegantly garbed in their latest designer robes, hair never disheveled as his own, try to deal with the pixies, who were having the time of their lives wreaking havoc on said robes and coiffures.

He snickered under his breath when one of the witches squealed as a pixie grabbed her by the thick braid of hair and, with the help of another couple of the creatures, dragged her up to the high ceiling. Harry shook his head, keeping an eye on her. Wouldn't do for her to fall to the floor and break something. He kept his wand at the ready, waiting to come to the rescue. As late as he could hold off.

He'd enjoyed his first year here at Beauxbatons. When those who had signed up for his courses had been serious students of the Dark Arts. But this year's group was more into the "vedette" of the course. Wanting it to be known that they were studying under "le grand sorcier, Harry Potter".

He knew that he'd been a disappointment to them. The witch with the braid in particular. She had been rather vocally condescending in her assessment of the looks of the wizard who had dispatched `le Seigneur des tnbres'. Not to mention her additional disappointment that he seemed impervious to her charms.

Harry waved his wand and caught her a foot above the floor. She glared at him, knowing that he'd waited to catch her. With a disdainful huff, she found her feet, straightened her robe and went stomping off, muttering about her papa and his connections.

The trio of serious students, who were suffering through this group with Harry, were having a much better time casting their spells and recaging the pixies. Harry grinned at them: nothing like actually listening to a lecture and doing the reading to be able to handle whatever was thrown at them.

Harry allowed his attention to wander, knowing that the trio had the upper hand. He liked teaching. It was a pity that the students this year didn't want to learn anything. He sighed. He finally understood Snape and his moods.

He refused the help of his trio for clean-up and slowly put his classroom back into order. The recaptured pixies were shrilly demanding attention in their cage. He ignored them.

"Professeur Potter. J'avais oubli. Quelqu'un m'a donn cette lettre pour vous."

Harry accepted the letter from one of his less serious students and waited until he was gone to open it.

It was from Neville Longbottom.

So Longbottom had found another way of getting a message through to him. One thing he had to give Neville credit for was his perseverance. No matter that Harry hadn't answered any message, even those delivered through mutual acquaintances, Neville hadn't given up. Pity he'd never shown any such determination and attention to detail in the Potions lab or when he'd dealt with logistics during the war.

What Harry had once considered to be a light crush or a case of heroworship on the part of his then friend had grown into an obsession that made Harry more than uncomfortable. He blamed himself: he should have noticed before it had become ingrained in Neville. But he'd had other things on his mind at the time.

And yes, he had been rather indiscriminate in his choice of bedding partners, but he'd never been attracted to Neville. Not in that way.

Not to Neville.

Harry examined the letter in his hand, paying careful attention to the small details: the way his name had been written, the small smudge under the address, the bent corner.

He'd made quiet inquiries after he had to face the fact that his godfather was right, about both Snape and Longbottom. Oliver Wood was now a fully certified Auror who had been more than pleased to report that Neville no longer resided in an exclusive Ministry-subsidized flat. He'd keep his ear to the ground on that and send Harry any further information should he come across it. And, he'd added, unasked, that Draco Malfoy was nowhere to be found these days either.

From which Harry deduced that Wood's hands were pretty much tied and that he was giving Harry a go-ahead. Had Harry been the only one who hadn't questioned that Snape had been capable of betraying them?

No. Dumbledore hadn't changed his mind. And neither had the Ministry. The threat to Lupin's Wolfsbane was ample proof of that. It was obvious that no one within any of the Ministry departments was going to be allowed to pursue this any further.

But he wasn't within. And he had no one ordering him to keep his nose clean.

Harry opened the letter, scanning it for an address of any kind, for something that might tell him where Neville could be found. Nothing. But Neville had changed his tune. The letter was short, a mere telling of how much Neville missed Harry. Nothing extreme, more along the lines of `wish you were here.'

Harry cast a location spell on the letter but it had been through too many hands for that to work.

So Neville was covering up his tracks, was he?

He stared at the letter in his hand. When he'd taken on the position here at Beauxbatons, he'd told himself that he'd no longer be the Boy Who'd Killed Voldemort and all that entailed. That the war was over and all that he had been taught and learnt was to be put aside, never again to be used. He'd be a mere instructor on the Dark Arts who doubled as Quidditch coach.

Harry folded up the letter and slipped it into the pocket of his robe.

It was, he told himself, time to re-enter the game.

"Thank Merlin that's the last of them!"

Solfeggio sighed loudly as Sylvester turned and laughed, coming up the steps to the porch. Their visitors had just portkeyed themselves back home. In the shadows inside the house, Sylvester caught a glimpse of Severus who, he thought, shared Solfeggio's sentiment.

"Well, it'll be even more quiet for all of you slug-a-bugs," he tossed out, making for the debris of the breakfast table and a waiting cup of coffee.

"How?" growled Solfeggio. Severus hesitated and remained where he was, not heading for his books. Ariette and Parlante stood waiting to clear off the table.

"I have some business matters that require my personal attention so you'll be on your own for a few days."

He smiled at all of them, making certain to include Severus.

Sylvester finished checking himself out in his mirror. It had to be a good year since he'd last worn the kind of Muggle clothes that were needed to make an impression. These were made for his body but they still didn't feel natural. He'd spent too much time in sarongs these last few decades for that. Still, his tailor in Singapore had done him proud: he'd look the part and that was all that was important.

He turned to check out the back when he realized that Severus was waiting by his doorway.

"Severus, is there anything special you'd like me to bring you back?"

Severus entered just enough so that he could rest his shoulder against the doorway. His eyes were more interested in the floor than in answering.

"Severus?"

"How long will you be gone?"

Sylvester shrugged, smiling, his mind already on the meetings he was going to surprise upon his bankers and brokers. "Shouldn't be more than five, maybe six days. Seven at the outmost."

"Then seven," said Ariette knowingly, offering him a flower for his lapel.

Sylvester smiled at her. "Yes, probably."

"You'll be back in seven days?"

The note of anxiety in Severus's voice finally penetrated Sylvester's distraction. He turned and took a good look at the man lounging with deliberate casualness in the doorway.

There was a tension about him that worried Sylvester for a moment, then he brushed it away. A fair deal of what he would be doing would see to this man's security. Besides, the anxiety was probably a remnant of last night's nightmare. Peace and calm would do Severus a world of good after their visitors. And the house elves would keep an eye on him. All would be well.

He smiled reassuringly at Severus.

"Seven days at the most."

"Promise?" Severus asked softly, as though daring himself.

Sylvester nodded. "Promise."

Sylvester Black, financier, was a far different person than Sylvester Black, eccentric island-hopper.

This Black was as focused as the other was laid-back. He tolerated fools not at all and he knew the exact disposition of his every pound, Euro, American dollar and Galleon. Which did not surprise anyone at Gringotts, where his annual meeting with the Director himself went along in its usual straightforward manner. Nothing like Goblins for efficiency and cold, hard facts.

Muggle bankers, though they considered themselves equally astute, had the unfortunate tendency to clutter up business with useless small-talk, a habit Black tried to dissuade. He could usually accommodate a certain small amount but, this year, he was less patient. He had other meetings to attend and far less patience than normal, as one of his brokers discovered, much to his dismay.

"But the market is coming back," he insisted, trying to ply Sylvester with yet another prospectus for high-technology stock.

"No, it isn't," snapped Black. "And if you keep insisting it is, I shall be forced to find brokers who are less fanciful."

Hew Guillyn, the branch manager of a small, out-of-the-way bank, was more down-to-earth. Black made a mental note to keep an eye on him.

"No, certainly, the days of dot-com millionaires are long gone, probably never to return. Short term gain for long term pain, I thought."

Black agreed, though he forbore to mention the several million pounds and dollars he'd made selling out just before the crash.

"There is a great deal to be said for secure, long term investment," continued Guillyn, "for even there, one can find companies in which there is a sense of adventure and daring if that is what one wants."

And Black did. Guillyn looked taken by surprise at the request. Black knew that Head Office had only made arrangements for him to use Guillyn's office for a private interview. The manager seemed quite pleased to go use his assistant's office to compile a list of some such companies, with documentation, of course, to send on to Black's hotel.

Black watched from inside the office as Guillyn politely greeted the young couple rising to their feet. He shook hands with the woman then with the man she introduced as her husband. With a smile, Guillyn indicated that they should enter his office. Black chuckled quietly to himself when he caught the surprise on their faces as Guillyn shut the door, with himself on the other side.

"Ms. Granger. Mr. Weasley. My name is Sylvester Black. I have a proposal I'd like you two to consider."

Hermione watched Sylvester Black through narrowed eyes. So this was Rus's famous swashbuckling cousin. She'd heard, of course, all about the holiday the twin and their partners had taken. Sun, sand, warm ocean and more sun. She'd been jealous there for a while, thinking of their glorious tans while she had her usual winter pallor.

Like Ron, she'd been rather surprised when they'd come back from their honeymoon to find the twins had set up house with men who were old enough to be their father. One of whom they all had once had as a professor.

Molly had seemed far more willing and ready to accept them into the family than Hermione herself. Well, not so much Lupin, but Sirius Black. Even if he was Harry's godfather and had helped them immensely during the war, his wasn't the most stable of personalities. Mind, he'd certainly been proving her wrong these days. He was drinking less and pulling his fair share at Wheezies.

But that didn't mean she was ready to transfer that feeling of family onto this man, Sylvester Black.

She didn't liked the fact that this man knew so much about them. About the troubles she'd been having with the Ministry. She glared a little at her husband. About the troubles Ron had been having, which he hadn't shared with her.

"Mione, love, you had enough of your own."

"Yes, well, I think the fact that you've been under constant review by the Ministry might have been something you would have liked to share with me."

Black tried to redirect her attention. "Unfortunately, Ms. Granger, no matter how liberated you would like men to become, the need to protect our loved ones is stronger than social mores. It is genetically bred in us. You might be able to alter many facets of our behaviour, but that one, I fear, is too closely linked with testosterone."

Ron nodded, but ruefully. "Unfortunately true."

Hermione shrugged: they would discuss this later in the privacy of their own home. She had fought the Dark Forces alongside males, she didn't need to be protected.

"No," agreed Black, "you don't need to be protected." He smiled charmingly at her. "Your face is very revealing, Ms. Granger. But, please, do allow us the pretense if nothing else."

Ron smiled at her. His most beguiling smile, which he used whenever she was in a bad mood.

Black turned serious once more. "But back to the reason I asked you both to come here. You, Ms Granger, are in need of a lab where you can work without fear of having your work stopped at the whim of some nebulous authority. Where you can produce, among other potions, all the Wolfsbane necessary without having to worry about the availability of ingredients."

Damn, how had he heard of that? Rus, of course. She was going to have a heart-to-heart with Padfoot, about keeping family business within... Hell, he'd only tell her that this Black was family.

Black had turned his attention to Ron, who, she was pleased to see, had finally cottoned on to the fact that this man knew too much. "You, Mr. Weasley, need a greenhouse establishment where you can cultivate rare species of plants, develop others that can be of great help to our society, all without having to look over your shoulder to see if someone is noting that you've used two liters of earth where only one is permitted. Have I summed up the situation?"

Hermione keep her face as neutral as possible while Ron slipped on his poker face. He finally moved his head enough to indicate agreement.

"All right. Now then, the reason I chose this site for our meeting is that I doubt very much that anyone from the Ministry..."

Hermione held her breath. She had a bad feeling about this. Especially if the Ministry kept being mentioned. She made a conscious effort not to look at Ron.

"...is going to be at all interested in the Muggle banking practices of one of their Muggle-bred witches. Safe from prying eyes and ears. But," he held his hand up as if he expected them to interrupt him, "I have cast a few protective spells on the room, just in case."

That was supposed to reassure them? Hermione glanced at Ron who now wore a face of faint interest. He might have been listening to some commercial on the radio.

Black sat back and smiled at both of them. Hermione didn't think their calm, cool act was impressing him.

"I have recently purchased, in Kent, a farm that had been used at one time by a now defunct agricultural college. It's not particularly large, about 150 acres, but it has its own water source, outbuildings that could easily be converted into labs and several greenhouses that need only some repair to be useful. There is a house on the premises as well with several cottages that could be used for assistants. And it is safely distant from its Muggle neighbours, which assures a certain ease in warding it for security reasons."

"What's the catch?"

Hermione was surprised by the coldness in Ron's voice. She hadn't heard that tone from him since the war. She sat back and waited.

"There are conditions, Mr. Weasley, not catches. I am a businessman. I am not a philanthropist."

"And these are?"

Black steepled his fingers and watched them both in such a way that Hermione wondered if he would know the number of breaths each would have taken by the end of this interview.

"One, that you, Mr. Weasley, will be responsible for growing all those ingredients Ms. Granger requires for the Wolfsbane potion. That way, she will not need to depend on any Ministry imports. I shall provide the connections you need to get the initial seeds. I shall also provide links to the sources of the non-agricultural ingredients. You will be independent of the Ministry in every way."

Merciful Merlin! Did this man truly have those kinds of connections! Hermione clasped her hands on her lap and waited for Ron's response. He said nothing.

"Two, that you, Ms. Granger, will continue producing the Wolfsbane Potion, but with modifications so that we don't have to worry about the Ministry claiming that they own the formula."

Hermione wanted to challenge that but he continued, "Yes, I know that, right now, the Ministry is not overly interested in the actual formula: it is complex and difficult to make and you are one of the few who has the patience and ability to make it. But the moment you agree to work for me, there will be problems. So, we must see to it that the formula we use is not exactly the same."

Hermione couldn't hold back any longer. "Why are you doing this?" Ron flashed her a quick look but, still silent, kept his focus on Black.

Black stood up and went to look out the window. He sighed and turned to face them. His voice was less officious and more accommodating. "Look, Rus is the only member of my family who is of any concern to me. As I'm certain you know, he and Remy and your brothers, Ron, have just spent some time with me. There are other reasons, personal ones, but let's just say that I don't like the games the Ministry is playing with Remy's wellbeing. And through him, that of other werewolves."

"So, what you're saying is that this is a family thing," Ron finally offered, sitting back in his chair, more at ease with that concept.

"I will provide you with the opportunity to divest the potion of its links with the Ministry." Black switched his attention to Hermione. "Surely there are other ingredients, combinations, quantities as well as improvements that can be used?"

Hermione bit her lower lip and thought of the opportunities being offered. She shook her head. "The potion, no matter what, will still be based on the Snape formula. The Ministry might accept the changes but they will undercut us."

Black smiled. "No, they won't. As ours will be classified `experimental', we could not in good faith charge for it, now could we?"

Hermione felt her interest truly caught.

"And how do you expect to make money out of this?" Ron crossed a leg over his knee. "You are, after all, a businessman."

Hermione relaxed in her chair and listened while Ron dealt with negotiations.

Black smiled, appreciating the small hit. "From the other products you will create. For which we will charge. I'm willing to subsidize both of you for ten years. After which, I expect dividends."

"How involved do you see yourself being?"

"Silent... No, that's not quite true. There will be some areas that I would like you to investigate. Have either of you ever heard of Madame de Navarre?"

Ron shook his head. Hermione's brow frowned with thought.

"She's a medi-witch who works with severe trauma patients."

Hermione nodded slowly. "That's where I've heard the name. I read something she wrote in `The Journal of Medical Ethics'. About medicines and potions being used...for purposes other than what they should be."

"What exactly do you mean by severe trauma?" Ron sat forward, interested.

"I mean..."

"Victims of torture." Hermione glared at Black. "She mentioned something about that in her article."

Ron stood up. "Is this yet another attempt," he snarled, "by the Ministry to find out what we know about the disappearance of Severus Snape? I would think..."

Black held up his hand, his tone placating. "No. I already know where Severus is. He's under my protection." He smiled at their stunned faces. "More than that I can't tell you. Does that allay your fears?"

Ron slowly sat down.

Hermione had to give Black credit. If that were true, the Ministry would have a special cell waiting for him in Azkaban. And suddenly she found that she did believe him.

"What other conditions do you have in mind?" Hermione finally said.

This time when Black grinned, it transformed his face so that Hermione could see a definite semblance to Padfoot. "We'll work those out later. Would you like to see the farm? I've already informed the bank manager that we would use the back door out of here. If you're interested, we can apparate there and you can take a good look at the situation."

Oh, bloody hell, thought Hermione, another Black in the family!

Alastor Moody glared at the man sitting on his couch, glass of firewhiskey in his hand.

"You think Snape isn't guilty."

"I know he's not." Sylvester shrugged. "I want you to find out why someone went to the bother of making it appear he was. From what you've discovered about Longbottom, I have no problem accepting that though he was the means of Severus's arrest, he was not the originator of the idea."

Moody stared into his own glass of firewhiskey. "Maybe someone just took advantage of the fact that Longbottom was planning some sort of revenge to make use of that."

Sylvester thought. "Possibly. The fact remains that had that so-called revelation been made about anyone else, it might have been investigated, but I doubt that the accused would have found himself so summarily arrested, tried, found guilty and sent to disappear in the bowels of Azkaban. There to be tortured. Have you any ideas as to the identity of the Auror Malfoy said he hired whose methods are so decorative?"

Moody shook his head. "I know that there were blind eyes turned when prisoners were taken. We both know there is little honour in war. But no one who was so diligent and finicky as to produce patterns." He sighed loudly. "You know, I think I'm too old for this game of yours, Sylvester. In spite of all the things we did in the old days, we were never responsible for something like this." He looked up. "We knew there were innocents who were going to be hurt, but they were consequences, not direct hits."

Sylvester nodded. "The old days. There were some rules... Well, we thought there were some rules by which both sides abided. We were probably deluding ourselves, but today there's no attempt even made at delusion..."

Moody broke the silence. "All right. You want as much information as I can dig up. On all facets of their lives?"

Sylvester looked up. "What you've given me about the Weasleys and Granger will do unless you come across any of them again in your other searches. I wouldn't mind more on Lupin and Rus, merely because they've had longer ties with Severus. I want you to focus mainly on the Malfoys, Longbottom, Dumbledore, and Snape."

"What about Potter?"

"Yes, him as well."

Moody nodded. "There's something linking all of them, isn't there? You think that as well."

Sylvester checked his watch and rose, finishing off his drink. "Frankly, Alastor, it's just a feeling. But we both know about my feelings."

Moody snickered. "Saved our necks a few times, those feelings of yours."

At the door, Sylvester turned. "Alastor. No chances. You're to do nothing that calls attention to yourself. Don't put your neck on the line. Stay here. Hire a pair of legs. Use your connections, the budget is large enough. And if there are problems, you use that portkey I've given you. And I want your word on that, you old bugger."

Moody's magic eye stopped spinning and focused on Sylvester. After a moment, he nodded. "All right. But that bird of yours, find another to send me messages. It's too distinctive for the neighbourhood."

Sylvester grinned. "All right, though Fiji is going to miss your scintillating chats." At Moody's growl, he offered, "A pigeon. Will that do?"

"A private room in a fancy Muggle restaurant," muttered Molly under her breath.

Arthur smiled encouragingly at her. He knew that Molly was less than pleased with the location of this meeting with Rus's cousin. As for himself, he tried hard to keep his delight and enthusiasm under control. Not very successfully according to the glares his wife sent his way as the waiter, dressed in a formal black suit, led them through. Their black capes allowed them to pass through the Muggles without garnering too much attention.

There were both dressed in their finest, for the occasion. As they had done whenever meeting the family into which their child was marrying. First impressions and all.

And the first he'd had of Sylvester Black was still wrapped up in the car that had picked them up at the Leaky Cauldron. A "ly-moe-zeen" the driver had called it. And he'd taken the time to explain all the gadgets and gizmos, which had kept Arthur occupied as the driver had worked his way through Muggle London evening traffic. Molly had been less impressed, though he thought her delighted with the bouquet of white roses and the champagne the driver had indicated in their special containers.

She was still carrying the roses clutched under her arm as she nodded to the waiter when he bowed them through the door of the small room.

"Mrs. Weasley. Mr. Weasley. Do come in."

The man who greeted them was dressed in a suit similar to that of the waiter. He came forward to offer his hand. Molly placed hers in his with some reluctance. She was wearing her "Oh, yes?" face, the one she wore whenever the children had arrived with some new story fabricated to get them out of trouble.

Arthur had to give the man points: he met it straight on and smiled amiably, raising her hand to his lips. "Molly Weasley. As beautiful as your children told me you'd be."

Arthur bit his lip: flattery was not the way to Molly's heart. Not unless she knew the compliment to be deserved. And the way this one had been worded... Well, what woman didn't like to think that her children found her beautiful? His estimation of Sylvester Black rose.

"Arthur."

The man's handshake was solid. Arthur grinned back. He thought he was going to like Sylvester Black as well as enjoy this evening.

"Thank you for the flowers." Molly was trying to sound gracious. But he knew she was harder to please than he was.

Black nodded as he helped take the winter cloak off her shoulders. "I must confess that I had help in choosing them. Fred told me that you liked roses but didn't have the time to spend growing them."

Arthur hung up his cloak next to his wife's and took the chair indicated. The table was round, set for three. There was the sound of a soft knock: the door behind their host opened and two men rolled in a small table.

"We'll need a vase for these, please," said Black, pointing to the flowers.

One of the men nodded and returned in barely a minute with the required item. Meanwhile, the other had served them all the first course.

"I hope you don't mind. I put us in the hands of the chef here. He is quite superb and I look forward to the menu he has selected for us."

The waiters bowed their way out of the room and closed the door behind them.

"Now then. You'll be wanting to know how Severus is doing."

Molly stopped inspecting the bowl of soup and slowly raised her head. Arthur sat back in his chair and wondered what trap they had fallen into.

"I choose a Muggle restaurant because anyone appearing in wizard's robe would immediately stand out. The room is specially warded against eavesdropping. And it is spelled against anyone with Magic entering without my specific invitation. It is safe to speak here."

He turned to Molly who was watching him with a certain displeasure. "Severus is doing very well physically. I had a medi-witch check him out and she was very complimentary as to the care he had been given."

Molly had caught the distinction. "Physically?"

Black tasted his soup and nodded with approval. "There are problems with his mind. His abilities are not what they once were, but he's working on that. We've had, on the recommendation of Madame de Navarre, to go back to basics, but apart from some trouble with fractions, he is progressing."

Molly picked up her spoon and tasted the soup. "Delicious," she judged after the second spoonful.

Arthur smiled. The soup wasn't the only thing that had passed judgement.

The meal was as delightful as the conversation and as varied. Once they had discussed the particulars of Severus's recovery, they talked about Wheezies, Muggle vehicles, the twins and their partners. Arthur was fascinated by the way Sylvester went back and forth between the Muggle and Wizardry worlds. Molly quietly questioned about Rus, ferreting out Sylvester's few memories of him as a child and then a young man, what he thought of him now. It was a measure of how accepting Molly was of Sylvester when she sighed and confessed that while she had been worried about the quantity of drink Rus and Fred imbibed, she was pleased now that seemed to be under control.

Sylvester thought for a moment and then nodded. "You know, you're right. While they were visiting, no one overindulged. Remy didn't drink anything other than juices and tea. George had wine with dinner. Fred and Rus did join me for an afternoon drink and then an after-dinner one, but at no time was Rus drunk." He smiled at her. "I think, Molly, he doesn't want you to be disappointed in him. You've been good for him. Blacks are rather lackadaisical when it comes to rearing their children. They don't expect much and they're rarely disappointed. Rus used to be too undisciplined. He's better at it now. Probably some effect of Azkaban. And though Fred, if you will allow, is less serious than George, he too seems to have been good for Rus."

He smiled at them both. "May I congratulate the both of you. Those of your children I have met have done you proud."

Molly humphed and wriggled a little in her chair. "All of our children have done us proud."

Arthur reached out and took her hand in his. "More your doing than mine, love."

There was a knock on the door that they had come through. Sylvester rose and smiled as it opened. " Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasley, do come in."

He turned to the others. "I thought it might be pleasant to have them join us for dessert and coffee."

The waiters hurriedly brought in two chairs and set two additional places at the table.

Sylvester once more waited until they were alone to ask, "Well?"

Ron pulled a scroll from under his robe. "I think we have an agreement, though I would prefer to have my father take a look at it before we sign."

Arthur took the scroll with raised eyebrows while Hermione and Ron sat back in their chairs, watchful. Molly cocked her head, waiting for him to say something.

Arthur scanned the contents quickly and then passed the document on to his wife.

"Oh, my," Molly gasped.

Arthur reached for it once more, pulled out his glasses from one pocket of his robe, an inkwell and a quill from another, then carefully went over the contract, letter by letter. Sylvester and the others continued with their conversations while he did so.

He finally looked up. "There are three items that I believe need some greater clarification."

Ron grinned. "I knew if there was anything I'd missed, you'd find it."

Sylvester shook his head, smiling. "Remy warned me not to be taken in by the absentminded persona. He said that you were the one who worked out the agreement with Gringotts for them as well as the lease on the building."

Arthur shrugged. "Nuances have always appealed to me."

And while the others watched, Arthur and Sylvester worked on those nuances.

Outside, as the women were being handed into the ly-moe-zeen, Arthur took the cheroot out of his mouth and stared at the tip. Molly had uncharacteristically not glared at him when he'd accepted Sylvester's offering of the after-dinner cigar. "Are you planning on helping Wheezies in any way?" He kept his tone as neutral as he could.

Sylvester slipped a hand into his trouser pockets. He shook his head, then removed the cheroot out of his mouth. "I'm keeping an eye on them, but that's all."

Arthur nodded. "They need to make their own way."

Sylvester smiled. "Ron and Hermione will as well. I'm only providing them with the basics." He laughed ruefully. "So, 68% of all profits made before the ten year limitation, 47 after that. You play a rough game, Arthur. And you're that certain of them?"

Arthur offered his hand before stepping up to the car. "Yes, I am."

Sylvester ignored the hand to pull the man into an embrace. "The best thing Rus ever did in his life was take up with a Weasley."

Arthur laughed, returning the hug.

"And I'll see you and Molly at Spring Equinox. If you like the limo, you'll love the sloop."

Sylvester finished reading Guillyn's report along with the brandy in his glass. This man was wasted in a branch. He would be doing more than keep an eye on him. That idiot broker with the mania for high-tech needed replacing. Guillyn would do well in a bureau of his own.

The man had understood, without having it pointed out to him specifically, that Sylvester was interested in diversification. There were a couple of Italian companies that bore looking into.

Sylvester smiled. Rome was beautiful this time of the year. And it had been some time since he'd visited a certain house. He wondered how much Maria-Teresa had aged since he'd last visited her establishment.

"I'm home!"

Sylvester tore at the clothes on his body, only desirous of getting them off as quickly as possible. He toed off the new shoes he'd picked up in Rome and kicked them aside.

It was late but someone should have heard him.

He dropped the shirt and jacket he'd removed as one on top of the boxes he'd brought back with him.

"Hey! Where is everyone?" he called out, louder than his first greeting.

"Trying to get some sleep."

Sylvester stilled his hands at the waistband of his trousers. Not a voice he was expecting.

He turned to face "Madame de Navarre. What are you doing here?"

She was staring at him coldly from the entrance of the hallway to Severus's room. Lights suddenly appeared and Sylvester saw Solfeggio glaring at him from the other hallway.

"How nice that you've condescended to come home!"

Sylvester opened his mouth to protest his house elf's tone: Solfeggio had never spoken to him with such disdain, such anger. Then he noticed how strained the elf looked. His eyes were deep within his face, bruised purple. His cheeks were sunken as though he'd undergone great stress. And he trembled. With fatigue? With anger?

Sylvester redid the button of his waistband and allowed his hands to drop by his side. "What happened? Solfeggio?" And when the elf only scowled at him, Sylvester turned to the other person watching him with no great welcome. "Madame?"

She said nothing, only stepped back. He understood and quickly made his way down the hall to Severus's bedroom.

There was a soft light by the armchair and ottoman that had been moved from his office. It was obvious that someone had been sleeping in the chair as there was a blanket hanging over one side of it.

He looked to the bed and found Severus, a Severus that he hadn't seen since his arrival some eight months previous. Grey face carved out of skin and bone. Sleeping under the influence, Sylvester guessed, of more of the Healing Sleep. Otherwise Madame would not be here.

Then Severus moved slightly, moaning as though in pain. That's when Sylvester noticed that his hands were lying on the covers, bulkily swaddled in bandages. Nearly to his elbows.

"What happened?" Sylvester turned to find Solfeggio and Madame watching him with equally disapproving visages from the doorway.

"You didn't come back," growled Solfeggio, "that's what happened."

Sylvester found the financier he'd left behind only minutes before in Europe. "You're pushing my tolerance, Solfeggio," he snapped coldly.

Madame stepped forward. "You didn't come back, that's what happened." Silently daring him to respond to her accusation as he had to the house elf's.

She met his glare well, not backing down. Sylvester passed his hand in frustration over his head, pushing back the hair that had come loose from its tie. "Well, I'm here now. So tell me what happened."

She ignored him for the man in the bed, placing the back of her hand against his forehead, as though checking for fever. When she was satisfied, she deigned to look up at him.

"You promised to come back in seven days. You didn't. Severus assumed the worst and reacted to that fear. Parlante came to find me. And here I am. By the way, Ariette has been dealing with Parlante. We think he may live. As for specifics, I think it would be better to deal with them in the morning. When we, who have been here, have all had time to catch some much needed sleep. I shall see you then, Mr. Black. Please leave. Your presence seems to be affecting this patient."

He was at the door when she said, "And please do not bother my other patient. He can't afford any of your concern right now. Neither can Ariette. I finally persuaded her to get some sleep and had to potion her so that she could. Do close the door behind you, Mr. Black."

Solfeggio was nowhere to be found.

Sylvester slowly untangled his shirt from the suit jacket and slipped it on. He picked up the jacket, his cloak, found his shoes and carried them to his room where he tossed them onto a chair. He thought a moment then went back into the hallway and down the corner to the part of the house where the elves had their quarters.

At the first door, he paused then quietly opened the door. By the soft light of a lamp that stood on the small desk in a corner, Sylvester could make out Ariette in her bed. He approached, careful not to make any noise, not to disturb her.

She was sleeping, but restlessly. She looked worse than Solfeggio. And she'd been crying, her face still wet from her tears.

Sylvester closed his eyes. Merlin, he thought, what the hell had been going on?

He opened them again and, leaning over the elf, he drew up the covers that her restlessness had slipped off, gently tucking the edge around her thin shoulders.

With equal care, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

As he went pass the room with the open door, Solfeggio's, it was easy to see it was empty. When he pushed open the door to Parlante's room, he found the remainder of his household.

Solfeggio was sitting in the small armchair pulled up as close as possible to the bed. His head was resting against the top of the chair, eyes closed, silent. One of his hands clutched his brother's which was lying loosely in his.

Parlante... Sylvester's breath caught painfully. The youngest of his house elves looked as though he were indeed at death's door. There was no colour at all in his skin; it was as though he had been drained of all blood and life. He lay limp against the pillows, the bed clothes that covered his chest barely moving.

In his life, Sylvester had encountered death far too many times to have kept count. He knew that he was looking at it once more.

From the doorway, not daring to step inside this room uninvited, he whispered, "Solfeggio?"

There was no response, even though Sylvester knew the house elf was not sleeping, that he was very aware of his presence.

"Solfeggio. I'm sorry."

And Sylvester backed away.

In the living area, he found a bottle of firewhiskey and a glass then went to await the coming of sunrise sitting on the veranda, watching the horizon over the lagoon.

Madame de Navarre looked at the group gathered around the table. She had already checked on Parlante and had concluded that the crisis had been passed. He would survive, but it had been close.

She'd placed Ariette next to her. The house elf was sitting very still, looking almost lost in the human-sized chair, one night's sleep not having been enough to deal with her exhaustion. Her eyes were focused on her hands gripped together on her lap.

Solfeggio was equally silent in his chair at the side of his sister, his eyes on her. He'd been the one to provide them all with something to eat this morning, not that any of them had eaten very much. Madame noted that he had expected that and had also prepared non-alcoholic eggnog for them to drink. She hadn't been impressed with the house elf's attitude when she'd first met him, but now her estimation of all these house elves had risen.

Sylvester Black had changed clothes since last night, his wet hair indicating that he'd also had a shower. He sat, a mug of coffee in his hands, to her other side, yet close to none of them. She supposed she should be more charitable, but yes, it did appear from the seating that they three were sitting in judgement of him. Which, to an extent, they were.

"First of all," she said, in her calmest voice, "I would just like to say how impressed I have been by the manner in which Ariette, Solfeggio and Parlante have dealt with this situation." She allowed some of the warmth she felt towards these particular two to infuse her words. "My own house elves could not have done any better and they are specially trained."

Solfeggio seemed to understand that this was her highest compliment. He looked up at her and gave a small nod. Ariette kept on staring at her hands.

Madame turned her attention to Black, her tone deadly serious. "As I understand it, you had visitors who remained for a week, during which time Severus had what Solfeggio calls a `going away attack'. That he was `gone' for almost twenty-four hours. That he did seem to recover well from that episode but then, their last night, had a nightmare during which, and I again quote Solfeggio, `he screamed the roof down.' Is this correct, Mr. Black?"

Black opened his mouth and then shut it. He nodded.

She was pleased that he wasn't going to waste time arguing.

"You then informed Severus, along with the rest of your household, that you were leaving for some time. That you did in fact leave the very same day of your guests' departure. Is this correct, Mr. Black?"

He raised his head and met her eyes. He nodded.

For the rest of her discourse, he kept his eyes on hers. She gave him points for courage. Not many could do so when she was this coldly angry.

"Before leaving, I understand from Ariette that Severus inquired as to how long you would be gone and you indicated seven days at the most. Again, is this correct?"

"Yes." Black's voice was unemotional.

She nodded. Ariette whimpered softly and Solfeggio's hand reached out to rest on her clasped ones. Madame checked to see if the elf should remain with them. She silently inquired from Solfeggio for his opinion on the matter and waited for his nod to continue.

"I shall begin with the medical assessment of the two patients. Parlante used up all his powers and abilities to come find me, probably also depleting any resources he might have had. He will survive, but he will have to remain in bed until he is fully recovered. Even then, he will have to be watched carefully for any relapse, any illness, any indication that he is tiring. Which he will do far more easily for some time to come. Before I leave, I shall go over a schedule with both Ariette and Solfeggio as to what he should eat, what they can allow him to do until I give him a clean bill of health. If all goes well - and frankly under the care of these two house elves, I expect nothing less - Parlante should be his old self within three to four months."

Ariette looked up at her. "Truly?" she whispered.

Madame nodded. "Truly. Though I must warn you, my dear, he is a male and males make notoriously bad patients. Right now you are very pleased that he will live but there will come the day when you will, also truly, want to kill him."

Ariette giggled and managed a timorous smile as she raised a hand to wipe a tear from her cheek. Madame pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and passed it onto the small elf who murmured her thanks.

Solfeggio patted his sister on the arm and nodded to Madame.

She turned back to Black. "Should this be an inconvenience to you," she spoke purposefully coldly, "I shall be more than happy to accept these house elves into my household."

The heads of Ariette and Solfeggio snapped up, their mouths dropping open.

Black looked taken aback. He stuttered, "N-n-no. Why..." Then his voice matched hers for coldness at the implied accusation that his concerns were more important to him than the lives and health of his elves. "No, Madame, this will not be an inconvenience to me. These are my house elves and I will take care of them."

She slowly raised her eyebrow: the bravest of her assistants had been known to quail under this look of hers. Black raised his chin and waited. The house elves had seemed relieved at his response. So, as she'd hoped, this fiasco had been caused not from cruelty or lack of care, but inadvertently, from lack of knowledge. If she was proven correct, she would forgive him. But not immediately.

"Professor Snape may recover but we will only know that when I allow him to wake. At present, I am keeping him asleep. Not just because Healing Sleep is so necessary, but it is a way of keeping him calm."

"His hands..."

She glared at Black. "Yes, indeed, his hands. I have used a healing spell on them as well as a scar-diminishing salve, but I shall have to see how well those are working later this morning when I change the bandages."

"What happened to his hands?"

Madame waited a breath before answering. She had done some research on Sylvester Black after that first visit. She knew he was rich and that he had a reputation in the financial world of being a shark to reckon with. She hadn't thought him capable of that before this event, but now she wondered if the caring man she'd met truly existed.

"When you did not return as indicated..."

"Promise," Ariette interrupted, accusing. "You say promise."

Black allowed his eyes to leave Madame and to settle on his elf. Madame expected him to snap at the elf for her tone, to remind her of her need to respect his role as Master. Strangely, Solfeggio, whom she had determined early was head elf, didn't seem to be upset or worried about Ariette's attitude. She could not remember the last household - if any - in which house elves spoke to their master in the ways these did to theirs.

"Yes, Ariette, I did." Black's voice was gently accepting. "I'm sorry that I didn't keep my promise. I have no excuse to provide other than I had no idea that this would be the result of my staying away."

Ariette was watching him intently and finally nodded. "Yes, I understand," she said softly, her voice calm.

"Thank you."

Madame was impressed by the sincerity in his voice. The relationship between this wizard and his house elves was very special indeed if it could overcome this situation without any rancour. Maybe the shark did exist, but so did the caring man. Not that it diminished the seriousness of these events.

"Go on, Madame."

"When you did not return as promised, it would seem that Severus assumed you were not going to come back. That, in fact, you had abandoned him. From what he allowed to slip out, he thought you were tired of him and his inability to function as a proper wizard and had stayed away to arrange for the Aurors to take him off your hands."

"Fuck!" Black passed both hands over his scalp. She ignored the profanity but took note of his frustration. And his passion. "I've told him several times that wasn't going to happen. That he was safe here. That there's no way I'd let anyone touch him again." Black shook his head, obviously baffled by this inability of the man to accept his statements. Solfeggio had nodded, obviously supporting Black's statement.

Madame sighed: they would deal with that later.

"Not wanting to call attention to himself, Severus tried, as do many of these patients in time of stress, to make himself invisible. As the hours went by, he went from sitting very still in a chair to hiding in the corner of his room. He knew he had to keep silent and, though the fear was building to uncontrollable levels within him, he also didn't want to make any noise, thereby attracting attention. So when the need to scream grew intolerable, he tried to stop the noise with his fingers and his hands. And in the process chewed them to the bone."

Black closed his eyes at the image she'd conjured up for him. "I told him he was safe. I gave him my prom..."

"Yes, your promise." Madame leaned forward, towards Black for the first time since this had started. They were now at the crux of the matter. Merlin knew how Black would deal with it.

"Mr. Black. You need to understand how literal Severus has become. His mind has not yet recovered enough for nuances. It may never. And in this case, too many events occurred too quickly that, though he seemed to take them in stride, he truly hadn't."

Ariette bit her lower lip, eyes wide open. Solfeggio scowled, his head occasionally nodding in agreement with what she was saying. Black just listened.

"Let me try to explain. In a very short matter of time, Severus went from being here alone with you to having to deal with four visitors. Visitors whom he had known in his past life. With whom he had a tumultuous relationship at best. Who felt he owed them something. Yes, they did save his life, but he should have been prepared not only for their visit, but for what they might have been expecting from him. He needed to know how he had been rescued before, long before their arrival.

"Once they had arrived here, he should not have been allowed in their company for more than a few minutes at a time until he was acclimatized to their presences. Reminisces of his past self should have been kept out of his hearing. Mr. Black, Severus is not stupid: he knows full well that he is not what he once was. The others may have been well-meaning with their attempts to include him, but all that only reinforced the differences between Professor Snape and Severus. Do you understand, Mr. Black?"

His slow nod pleased her: it meant that he was thinking.

"The fact that you left so immediately on the heels of the others, especially when Severus had `screamed the roof down', only indicated to him when you did not return that he had pushed your tolerance to the extreme. He knows very well that he was imposed on you. Yes, I know. You made a verbal commitment to me and to him about his remaining here, but it seems Severus has stood alone too much in his life to believe that easily. He was betrayed into torture by people he knew and trusted. Why should he believe you whom he's only known for a few months?

"His physical self is growing strong. He eats well. With Solfeggio keeping an eye on that," she spared a smile for the elf, "he daren't do otherwise. He exercises, which keeps him healthy. But his emotions, his mind... Think of it this way. They are the ice on a lake. Severus is walking on this lake, never knowing how thick the ice is under him. Sometimes it is thick enough to bear his weight and he can move on. Other times, it is thin, fragile, cracking, which terrifies him. Not supporting him, breaking under him thereby sending him plunging into the cold water of his terror."

Both Solfeggio and Ariette, who had had to deal with that Severus, winced.

"Severus is impressive in his courage to make his way across this frozen lake. It would be so much easier for him to curl up on a thick spot and not move. Instead, he keeps on. But he needs help. He needs hands to support him when the ice is thin and hands to release him when it is thick so that he can take the next step onwards by himself. But the hands must never forget that the ice is treacherous, that it can crack and break without warning.

"Which brings us to the purpose of this meeting. Where am I to allow him to wake up? Here or at my clinic?"

She raised her hand, stopping speech before anyone had time to start. "This is something that has to be considered very seriously on all your parts. It means more than taking care of him physically, it means thinking ahead. In many ways, he is like a child. And he requires the care and thought one gives a child."

Ariette's head rose sharply. Her eyes went from Madame to Black where they remained. Solfeggio's attention also focused on Black who had gotten very still. Madame wondered just what had she said to garner this response from all of them.

She had no choice but to go on: right now Severus was her priority.

"He needs watching over, constantly. Twenty-four hours a day. He needs to be allowed to toddle and to fall, but always with the knowledge that someone is there for him, to - if you will - kiss his hurts better and to help him back onto his feet so that he can try again. He needs to be watched for fatigue, for stress, for striving too hard, for illness. He needs to be cuddled and held when it's necessary..."

Ariette pushed back the chair and, with a sob, went running out of the room. Solfeggio looked as though he wanted to follow her but, after hesitating, remained where he was, leaning forward in his chair, eyes now only on Black. Worried eyes.

Madame caught her breath, a glimmer of an idea coming to her; but holding Black's eyes, which had been growing duller by the word, she continued. "He needs to be encouraged to find himself and, to do that, he needs to understand that he is cared for, as he is."

She sat back in her chair and folded her hands into her sleeves. "Before I wake him, I want you to think seriously about all this. I want you to consider as though it was one of those deals you have the reputation of being so good at conducting. All facts must be taken into consideration. And it is imperative that you think about the needs of yourself and your household before you think about those of Severus. Keeping him here when you can't commit totally to his care will only result in your feeling constrained and frustrated. Which won't be of any help to him as he will sense those feelings.

"And you also have to consider that Severus may have suffered a major setback with all this. That it could mean starting over again from where he was the first time that I saw him. And even all that could be moot. It could be, even should you decide that he remains, when he is allowed to wake, that he is truly a candidate for a ward in my clinic."

She stood up. Black's eyes followed her with a bleakness that made her hesitate. For the first time, she allowed some gentleness in her voice. "I know that this decision is something that requires a certain amount of time. Unfortunately, I haven't all that much to give you. I can give you until tomorrow morning and then Severus must be allowed to wake. I shall check on Parlante and then, if you need me, you can find me in Severus's room."

Sylvester pushed the partially open door and stepped into Severus's room. He was alone. Sylvester had waited until he'd heard Madame take her hourly walk down the hall to Parlante's room to take advantage of her absence. He needed to think and he wanted to take a good look at one of the considerations in this decision he was making.

Solfeggio had been straightening up his room when he'd returned from a long walk after Madam's little speech. They'd been together for too many years for Sylvester not to understand the forgiveness behind Solfeggio's presence.

They'd spoken no words, but the elf had come up to him and Sylvester had crouched down. They'd held each other a moment and then released, Solfeggio to go back to the pile of boxes Sylvester had brought back with him. "Whatever you decide, we support."

Sylvester had nodded, accepting the trust of his house elves, and the sole responsibility of the decision to be made.

Severus was lying still, deep under the influence of Madam's spells and potions. His face was less grey than it had been the previous night and less taut, as if he were more relaxed. The bandages on his hands were less bulky: Madame had redone them as mittens covering from fingertip to wrist.

Sylvester sat down beside the man and wondered at the emotional cost of keeping him here. On all of them.

Madame silently slipped into the room and made no comment about his presence. She went over to the other side of the bed and, after visually checking on her patient, found her chair.

"I need some information," Sylvester finally said.

"Yes."

"This clinic of yours, what is it like?"

There was no coldness, no condemnation in her voice this time. He could tell that she loved her clinic. "It is in what used to be the old kingdom of Navarre. I selected that location for its beauty, its peace, it climate. Its temperament. The house is old, with lots of light in spite of its age. The grounds are well-kept. They are all warded against apparation and against any of its residents accidentally wandering off. If you decide that he should return with me, I can guarantee you that he will be safe, protected from any who mean him harm."

Sylvester played with the edge of the light blanket, weaving it in and out of his fingers as he thought.

"Will he be the only one there who can take enjoyment out of this lovely environment?"

"Ah, yes. You remember what I told you both about people who have been subjected to prolonged Cruciatus. Yes, Mr. Black, there will be others with whom he can socialize. As Severus well knows, Cruciatus is not the only method of torture."

"But other than the staff and these...residents...will there be anyone who is..."

"Normal? No, Mr. Black. Unfortunately, due to security, other than staff and the occasional restricted visitor, no one else is permitted on the grounds. Though I do promise you that I and my staff would do all that we can to provide him with the stimulation that he requires."

"But in an enclosed, protected environment."

"Yes."

He turned to look at her over his shoulder. "I doubt that he would find that very stimulating."

She shrugged. "There is a price to be paid no matter which decision is taken. There, the freedom to associate with the outside world is his: here, the freedom to live as you have been is yours." She paused then continued. "Mr. Black, I will not think less of you should you decide that he is to come with me. Taking on the responsibility for and care of someone who has been so badly damaged, it is not for everyone. I began this clinic some twenty years ago and very few of the staff that were with me then still are. This is not easy work."

Sylvester shrugged and went back to his contemplation of the sleeping man.

"How did Parlante know where to find you?"

"I left an itinerary with Ariette. It updates automatically, indicating where I am."

"And you were where?"

"Christchurch, New Zealand."

Sylvester frowned, trying to make sense of that. "But how..."

She understood. "I asked Solfeggio about that. When it became obvious that you were not returning and that I was needed, they mapped out a route by which Parlante might be able to get to me."

He turned around to face her. "Why didn't they just contact Gringotts? They know how to do that."

"They did. But Gringotts had no idea where you were. You were no longer in your Wizard persona, but that of Muggle. They don't follow you into that world."

"But surely Gringotts could have gotten a message on to you?"

She shook her head. "Gringotts does not take the word of house elves. They barely recognize that they exist and then only as conduits of messages from their Masters."

Sylvester closed his eyes and swore softly. "I'd forgotten about Goblin prejudices."

Madame said nothing.

"How long did it take him to get to you?"

"He left the afternoon of the ninth day, when Severus no longer responded in any manner to Ariette or Solfeggio."

He expected her tone to be accusatory but it was as though she were merely giving a report.

"When we had a moment, Solfeggio and I charted Parlante's actual route with a tracing spell. As you know, house elves can apparate to a certain extent, but it is very draining on their abilities and they rarely do so over long stretches of distance." She hesitated and he met her eyes. "Rarely over water."

He nodded. "Go on."

"According to the tracer spell, he did manage to follow the route he and Solfeggio had planned, apparating from island to island, no matter how small. But there were times when his strength waned and..."

"And?"

"And he apparated not onto land, but into the ocean."

Sylvester stood and began pacing the room, trying to deal with that information. He kept his vehemently muttered curses low, in order not to shock Madame.

She allowed him time to get hold of him self-anger. "You seem to have gathered to yourself house elves with incredible bravery. I can only imagine the terror he must have felt to find himself surrounded by water, in the dark, with no land in sight. But he kept his calm and once he'd recovered some strength, he kept on with his journey. By the time he apparated the next morning in the lobby of the small hotel in which I was staying, he remained conscious only long enough to say my name and yours."

She cleared her throat and continued, more brusquely. "Fortunately, I always travel with all the portkeys I might require in order to respond to an emergency call. I used it to bring him back with me. On first examination, I believed that he would prefer to die with his family around him. I only hoped that the reason he had come to me was not that something had happened to everyone else."

Sylvester stopped his pacing to rub his hands over his face. "Merlin!"

"If I might suggest," she waited until he seemed less fraught, "should Severus remain here or not, that the next time you leave behind an itinerary scroll such as I use and a portkey keyed to your presence, no matter where that may be."

He looked at her, his thoughts obviously still with his house elf, then he nodded. "Yes. I should have thought of that. It's just..."

She nodded, sympathetically. "It's just that these are new circumstances, something your household has never had to deal with, and you hadn't really thought the entire situation through." She sat back in the chair. "And some of that is my fault, Mr. Black. I was too pleased with Severus's progress to think of all the potential snares waiting for him. It is not often that someone who has been so traumatized as he has appears so...so well. I should have insisted on greater caution on all our parts. I too needed to take the situation far more seriously. Whether he remains here or not, I promise you that I shall do so from now on."

Sylvester nodded absentmindedly and went back to the bed.

"If I may..." She hesitated.

He looked at her, surprised by the tone. Madame did not strike him as someone who often hesitated. "Yes?"

"Perhaps, Sylvester..."

Her use of his name didn't prepare him for what followed.

"It might help you in making your decision if you tell me about the child you did lose."

Part Five

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