Part Five

His head jerked back as though she had slapped him.

He closed his eyes, his face went blank and she knew, from seeing it so often in the faces of her patients' families, that he was banking down a flare of pain.

She sat back and waited, an eye on Severus who shifted as though finding a more comfortable spot.

Sylvester suddenly sat at the foot of the bed and leaned back against the bedpost. She found herself wondering why wizards and witches tended to bed down in four-posters, something that Muggles had long ago left behind.

She'd been surprised to find more of the beds, built for their size, in the house elves' quarters. Usually house elves used whatever furniture their Masters no longer cared to use. In large houses, the house elves shared rooms at best, though dormitories were more the norm. Here, each had his or her own room, with privacy, with furniture of all kinds that were obviously not cast outs.

And each room was a reflection of the elf who used it. Ariette's was definitely feminine, with ruffles and delicate fabrics, done in pinks and purples, a wall shelved with a collection of small dolls that she must have picked up along their travels. Parlante's reflected his love of the sea, with tones of cool greens and blues, and a collection of model sailing ships, one of which was larger than he. Solfeggio's was plain. The only furniture in the room, other than the bed, was a large, human-sized armoire. It was obviously only a place in which he slept.

The kitchen was his domain and his world. He'd allowed her to follow him into it when she'd insisted on seeing what there was that could be used to help Parlante's system ingest the recovery potion. She doubted that in ordinary times she would have been so privileged but Solfeggio had conceded almost immediately. She had been stunned at the modernity of the room, how bright it was, how well ordered. And at how many cookbooks filled the shelves of a large alcove with its small desk and comfortable chair, angled for the light.

No, when she'd offered to take the house elves with her, it had been a tactic, not a true offer. Mind, she'd have been delighted to accept them into her household. But she'd needed to have the man himself confirm that he did indeed treasure his elves. And his elves had needed that reassurance.

"What makes you think that I lost a child?"

His voice was rough, his tone not overly confident.

"I see too much of that in my work. I know when a household is mourning a loss."

Sylvester sighed. When he finally spoke, he did so softly, as though not to disturb Severus. Or maybe ghosts. She listened.

"I'm certain that you've done as much research on me as I have on you," he began, a little belligerently. He liked to think of himself as a private person, a persona closed to the outside world.

Her voice was even, calm, cool as she recited, "Born 1880. Younger son. Hogwarts. The first in many generations to be sorted into Slytherin, not the usual Ravenclaw or Gryffindor. You disappeared some time around 1899, returning to the wizard world much later, already involved in making a fortune. You have...a certain reputation in the world of finance."

Sylvester shook his head in reluctant admiration. Succinct and to the point. Why was he not surprised? So many little details missing.

"In 1899, I went off to join some Muggle pals fight the Boers." He glanced over his shoulder for her reaction and found only a casual kind of polite interest. He was suddenly aware that he wanted more from her. He wanted to see understanding, sympathy and, damn it, yes! Interest. Real interest!

And maybe to see some pain on that aristocratic face of hers. Like the one she'd awakened in him. In all of them.

He turned slightly, just enough to see her face. He stretched his legs out, crossed his arms over his chest and rested his back against the bedpost.

"All because of a motorcycle."

She didn't rise to the bait. Sylvester mentally tipped his cap: she was going to be a hard nut to crack.

"I was breaking the usual family rules the summer before I finished at Hogwarts, wandering off to explore the Muggle villages that were fairly near the old family manor. That's how I met a couple of lads. They were working on a motorcycle. A Daimler. At the time, they were still an innovation, motorcycles. My cousin, Rus, has a particular fondness for them, but back then... Well, needless to say, my proper, conventional family was horrified. Not just that I joined them in racing around the countryside, but that I kept in touch with them. With Muggles."

She nodded slightly. "The wizard world tends to look down on Muggles, but I find their curiosity about the workings of the mind, especially damaged ones, particularly useful."

Sylvester grunted softly. So, Madame was not against using Muggle knowledge to her benefit, was she? His family had been repulsed by his preference for Muggle comrades than his "own kind".

"I was working my way through a dutiful Auror apprenticeship when they went off to South Africa, to fight the Boers. That sounded far more interesting and I joined them. I learnt a great deal about Muggles and their needs, the lengths to which they'd go to satisfy those needs. I was repulsed by some of their actions, but others were adrenalin highs."

Ah, some reaction. A small moue. But for what? Muggle needs? Or his own for the highs?

"As you can imagine, the Department for Magical Law Enforcement was not pleased with me, but the skills I had acquired while behaving as a Muggle were of great interest to the Department of Mysteries."

A raised eyebrow. That was all. Damn, the woman was cool. The mere mention of that particular department made strong wizards uncomfortable.

"It was a time of change, not just in the Muggle world, but in other regions of our own. And they were looking for someone who could comfortably fit in either world, who had a sense of adventure and who, quite frankly, craved adrenalin highs. I honed those skills to their greater satisfaction during that Muggle fiasco, which had such consequences in both worlds.

By 1920, I was based in Rangoon, working mainly for myself with the occasional job for the British Ministry of Magic. All highly classified, of course. Very hush-hush and usually very illegal. Which I fully admit didn't bother me much."

Apart from a slight frosty look, it didn't seem to bother her much either.

"I was building the foundation of my Muggle fortune at the same time as the Galleons were piling up in my vault at Gringotts and I had a great deal of fun doing both."

He took a breath, giving her time to make some disparaging remark on his ethics, but all she did was sit back in her chair, as though making herself more comfortable to listen to a story. He turned a bit more so that he could see her face clearly.

"One of the Muggles I regularly did business with in that part of the world was Evgeny Ivanovich Kataev. Like me, he was building up his fortune, with the same ethical code as myself. He was a product of that part of the world. A mixture of Tartar, Mongol, Muscovite, with a Chinese great-grandmother who had ties to Tongs. He had a sister. Ivanna. Usually called Vania."

He paused, surprised at the mixed feelings even saying her name awoke in him. So many years and the pain had never truly left him. He'd only hidden it away, and not that well if just saying her name aloud...

"When Kataev wanted to tease her, he called her Ivanna the Terrible." He felt the smile on his face. He'd named her well, Kataev had. Sylvester's ability to duck flying objects had come quite handy at times. So had the spells for restoring broken items to their original states.

After a few moments, he shook his head, bringing himself back to this room and time.

"Vania was ten years my junior, a spinster. In her boots, which she wore most of the time, she was as tall as I." He could see her so easily. "She wasn't classically beautiful: her personality was too strong for that. And her features reflected her ancestry. But she radiated life and humour and a sense of joy. A daring to meet life straight on. Very unlady-like attitude for the times. And, yes," he laughed softly, looking at Madame as though asking her to share in his delight, "she did have a temper which she could lose in a spectacular fashion."

Madame teased, "Which, I am certain, she had full grounds to lose."

Sylvester shrugged, neither confirming nor denying the truth of that. "When we argued, it was eye to eye. She rode like a man, shot like a man. Played cards better than most men. She's the one who got me smoking cheroots; she liked one in the evening, now and then. The only thing she didn't do like a man was drink. She was very ladylike in that. And when she wanted to, she could outshine most of the ladies who pretended she didn't exist."

He wondered how lady-like Madame herself was and added, "And there was no one like her in bed. Neither of her world nor of ours."

Madame's eyebrow slowly rose , indicating "too much information". But she didn't shy away from his eyes or turn a delicate pink.

He went on. "One night, I was supposed to meet her brother for an exchange of...well, for an exchange. When I arrived, it was to find that he and his men had been killed and all the goods had been stolen by a rival of ours who had every intention of wiping out all the competition. I managed to get to the Kataev residence before he and his men did. I gave Vania ten minutes to pack. She was ready by her horse in five. She took only the clothes on her back, her rifle and pistols and a couple of saddle bags that, it turned out, she always kept packed, ready for any eventuality.

"I married her in a Muggle ceremony in Singapore."

"Did she know that you were a wizard?"

He nodded. "Yes. She thought nothing of it. Her Chinese greatgrandmother had, according to family legend, powers of some sort."

Madame's voice was kind. "You loved her."

Sylvester, remembering, felt for a moment like a bewitched youngster in the first throes of love. "I adored her."

"What happened?"

He surprised her with his grin. "She got pregnant. She wasn't supposed to. That's what the doctors had told her and that's why she hadn't been married. We'd been together ten years when Vania suddenly became ill. She tried to ignore the nausea, but when it grew too much, she finally agreed to see a physician.

"The man was very nonchalant about the whole thing. He thought it was obvious to anyone with common sense what was happening. He roared with laughter when we told him he was wrong, that she couldn't be. `Invite me to the christening, in about six months,' he told us."

Sylvester shrugged. "She was forty. I was fifty. What the hell were we going to do with a child?"

Madame gave a soft, very feminine snort. "You mean, what was she going to do with two children?"

Sylvester found himself laughing softly. He glanced over at Severus to see if they were disturbing him before continuing with his story.

"The doctor was concerned that it was a first pregnancy at her age, but he assured me she was strong. I wasn't about to take any chances with her. We went to England and found a Muggle doctor who specialized in late pregnancies. By then, my family had washed their hands of me, but I found us a small house, in London, and had her looked over by a Mysteries mediwitch, just in case."

Madame interjected softly. "You...and your wife?"

Sylvester nodded. The Head of Mysteries hadn't been that keen, but they'd been a packaged deal.

Madame only said, "Ah," as though that confirmed something she'd suspected all along.

"I was assured by both physicians that Vania was going to do well. Our son was born with very little labour on Vania's part and..."

He stopped at her loud scoff. "What?"

"Labour is labour, Mr. Black. Unless you have suffered the pangs of delivery yourself, I think it may be quite an assumption on your part that it was `very little'. But do go on: your son was born and?"

Sylvester decided not to belabour - he snickered to himself - the point. "And we both fell in love with him the moment he scrunched up his face and protested his leaving the warmth and comfort of her womb for the bright, cold world."

He could feel the pride swell up in him. He didn't say anything to her about how he'd felt the moment he'd held his child in his hands, the deep love, certainly not the sense of accomplishment. He was sure that Madame would have a comment to make on that.

"We called him Nicholas. Nicky. And I informed the Department that I...that we would no longer be available to them.

"When we moved out to the seaside, near St. Osyth, they came and warded the property against certain elements. I played the Muggle Market and conferred with Gringotts over investments." He smiled to himself. "Life was actually quite good."

He laughed softly at his memories. "Vania was horrible at running a settled household."

Madame smiled. "I empathize with your wife. I, too, would not know what to do."

That's what he'd thought, too, about her. She was far too involved in her work.

"So I visited the old family home and asked if there were any house elves who would be interested in serving a Black master away from the estate. My mother, who was still alive then, informed me that the elf had to be willing. She doubted that any would be. You know, the usual pure-blood Wizard prejudice against intermarriage. What self-respecting house elf would want to serve in a semi-Muggle household? And all that.

"But Tully, the elf who had helped my nurse, was now a widow and being courted by an elf she didn't particularly care for. He had a higher position than she and her family was pressing her hard to accept him. So, on the condition that she could bring her children with her, she was willing to join us."

Madame cocked her head. "Ah, so they've been with you that long."

Sylvester nodded. "Solfeggio is my age, Ariette, about twenty-five years younger and Parlante, by house elf standards, was then just a babe, about ten years old." He smiled. "He and Nicky became partners in crime almost immediately. Nicky loved water and, as soon as he could..." He heard himself boast proudly, "He walked at seven months, ran at nine. We had to watch him carefully. He was into the sea, the stream that crossed the property, the small pond I dammed, any puddle after a rainstorm and Parlante ploughed right in along with him. They were inseparable.

"Solfeggio, though still an adolescent, decided to take me over while Ariette joined forces with Vania. Their mother, Tully, was given complete control over the household, something that would never have happened at the old homestead, and kept us all in line with a gentle hand."

Madame's smile warned him. "Her hands must have been full."

Sylvester nodded, ruefully. "I suppose we were a handful."

There was that snort again. "Suppose?"

Sylvester ignored her. "Vania decided that if we were going to be domesticated then she should try her hand at some domestic activity. She decided on the garden. She hadn't a green thumb by any stretch of the imagination, but she loved going around, cutting flowers for the house."

Fucking damn, she'd loved that bloody garden. Mucking about in it, with Ariette at her side, muddy the two of them from digging around in the soil. Discussing colours and searching in some bloody book for plants and flowers. Trying to pronounce those damn Latin names.

And laughing.

All of them laughing.

How could they ever have guessed...

"Sylvester?"

His eyes focused on the hands on his lap, now digging into his thighs: he could see the whiteness of the bones in his fingers.

"It was...so...fucking...stupid." He couldn't keep the pain out of his voice. "So minor. She never even paid any attention to it. And she was used to precautions. The life we'd lived had demanded it."

"Sylvester..."

He lifted his head, staring at the wall. "She cut herself with the pruning shears. One day, while gathering some flowers. Just a nick. She barely felt it."

Madame sighed. "Blood poisoning."

He had to swallow hard against the pain and the loss. They cut through him and he felt as though it had just happened. "She was dead in a week. No matter what the Muggle physician tried to do. And I called in the medi-witch and her potions were of no help. Nicky wasn't quite two."

"Sylvester, I'm so sorry."

"We all were. We all loved her, Tully, Solfeggio, Ariette, Parlante, Nicky. And I...

"I know I would have lost her sooner or later, but I thought...

"Fuck, it's been over seventy years and there's still this hole in me..."

He suddenly felt the tears on his face and used his hands to wipe them away.

"Sylvester, what happened to Nicky?"

Sylvester stood up and walked over to the French doors which were shut to keep out the heat. He slouched against the wall, looking out and not seeing the greenery.

"Oh, Merlin! It was going to be his fourth birthday and the elves wanted to go to Diagon Alley to find him a gift. My son was definitely a wizard. Strong with it. He'd had things flying around the house while he was still in swaddling. Vania..." He had to clear his throat. "Vania liked to explain his powers not on the fact that he had a wizard for a father, but on her greatgrandmother."

He took a deep breath and braced himself for the next onset of pain. Another hole that hadn't healed.

"They'd saved up their Sickles and Knuts. Yes, I did pay them. Tully was against it, but we called it an `allowance' and she accepted that. They wanted to buy him a special present. I'd agreed to accompany them.

"When we got back..."

Dear Merlin! Would it never stop hurting!

"The wards had been breached. Tully was dead and Nicky was gone. From the marks on her body, she'd defended my son before they killed her."

It was some time before Madame's quiet "Did you ever find..."

"Find Nicky?" He focused so that he could actually see the trees in the front of him. "Yes. In a way. Nine days later."

He forced himself not to think of that.

"There was a ransom demand from a wizard who had felt aggrieved by my activities in the Far East. A couple of my old connections in the Department of Mysteries managed to track his lackeys down before I paid. Unfortunately, they not only discovered who was responsible but that...Nicky...

"My son had been accidentally killed by one of the men when they'd kidnapped him. Which was why they'd killed Tully. Because she knew that Nicky was dead."

When she next spoke, he was taken by how quickly she'd gotten to the heart of the matter. "How did this rival of yours breach the wards? Surely if the Department of Mysteries set them up..."

Sylvester felt the coldness of that long ago self-same conclusion rise in him. When he turned to look at her, she flinched. He noticed it and felt a returning sense of the satisfaction his once reputation in a dark world without rules had earned him.

"Ah, yes, the Department," he scorned. "The closest my former associates would come to admitting that someone within the Department had given my son's killers the passwords was to tell me that they were very sorry for what had happened."

Her nervousness finally penetrated his anger and, closing his eyes, he began burying the man he had once been back under so-called layers of civilization.

"I buried Nicky beside his mother and I took the remainder of my household back to the Far East."

He shrugged and, calmer now, opened his eyes. "There was another socalled world war about to begin and they needed people with my talents. I found a safe and secure place for the elves, set up the wards myself, and went to find my son and Tully's killer."

"Did you find him?"

He pushed his shoulder off the wall and went to stand by Severus's bed. Another who had trusted and paid for it.

"No, actually, I did not. Solfeggio found him. He couldn't kill him: elves can't kill, it's not in them. But he came and got me. And I killed him." He looked at her, watching for disgust, disapproval at the very least. "I made it last as long as I could in the circumstances. Solfeggio stood by me and, when our enemy finally did die, he helped me dispose of the corpse."

Madame had held his eyes while he'd spoken. She'd looked neither disgusted nor even disapproving. Maybe she understood. There must have been times when she'd worked over some tortured body that she too would have killed had she been able.

Her voice was lightly inquiring. "Did he ever tell you, before he died, who had revealed the passwords?"

"Oh, yes, he did." That memory helped ease the pain of the others. "The Department had its suspicions, but it never followed through on any of them. It is one of the reasons, however, that I haven't settled in Britain, and never will."

"It's why you were willing to help Severus."

He granted her that. "Those of us who were betrayed by people who should have protected us are not unique. When we find each other, we do tend to stick together. The Auror who is representing me now in a certain investigation belongs to our particular club. He was left to die after being betrayed to Death Eaters in the first Voldemort uprising. He lost a leg, part of his face, an eye and they like to think he's crazy."

"And is he?"

Sylvester pushed the last of his pain away and sat on the edge of the bed. "Paranoid, but no more than he has grounds."

She leaned forward in her chair, as though to impress what she was going to say upon him. "Sylvester, Severus is not your son. If that's what you're worried about. He will not take Nicky's place in your heart. No one can."

Sylvester smiled ruefully. "He's too young to begin with. And far too old." He shook his head. And he was Severus, not Nicky. In his mind, Nicky was forever four. "But as you so rightly pointed out, he does needs a parent. A loving parent, because Severus also has a hole in his heart. His mother was killed when he was eight and no one ever bothered to try and heal that space."

Ah, she hadn't known that. He leaned against the bedpost. Her face bore that all too serious look he now recognized as her concern. She was worried about something.

"Yes," her voice was intent, as though it would help her make her point, "Severus needs someone parental, but not a parent. Just as you may enjoy a relationship with someone filial who is not a son. But, Sylvester, neither of you should endure the promise of someone fulfilling those roles only to have them leave or push you away.

"This time, should you decide to commit to Severus, you need to do so whole-heartedly. He deserves no less, and neither do you."

She stood up and paused by him on her way out. "Sylvester, the rewards can be great but it will not be easy. Don't for one moment fool yourself into thinking it will be easy. I have to go check on Parlante."

"Madame?"

She smiled at him. "Marguerite. Please, call me Marguerite."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Marguerite de Navarre?"

She shrugged, "What can I tell you, my parents were quite taken with Muggle History."

Ah. Well, that explained a few things.

"Marguerite, will Parlante truly recover?" Damn, when had he become so complacent that his actions put his household...damn that, his family in jeopardy?

She nodded, "Yes, I think so. He is strong and determined." She took pity on him and he heard the forgiveness in her voice. "And the love that surrounds him will make it hard for him to do less."

He was humbled. "Thank you. I know that I've been remiss in some considerations, but I do love them. They've been with me for so long that they are part of me and I don't want to lose them. Any of them."

That evening at supper, with Ariette and Solfeggio sitting at the table with them, Sylvester announced. "Wake Severus up here. Unless you judge him too traumatized, he's home."

Ariette smiled approvingly. Solfeggio sat back in his chair and nodded.

Marguerite hadn't been understating the situation when she'd told Sylvester that she had no idea what they would be facing when Severus woke.

It was like waiting for an egg to hatch. Wondering if the hatching would be successful. Wondering whether the hatchling would be chick or dragon or something in a vegetative state.

She knew that Solfeggio didn't doubt that Severus would be "back". He was in fact preparing some of Severus's favourites for his first real meal in several days. Soft, easily digestible food, but food for which Severus had indicated some preference.

Ariette was with Parlante, who was rousing more often. Marguerite was not all that surprised to see this elf was recovering far more quickly than she would have thought. Two days and already he wanted to sit up. Mind, he didn't have the energy to do so and she didn't want him trying, expending what little strength he was regaining. She already had shared a commiserating glance with Ariette who would be dealing with him during his convalescence.

Severus twitched as he slowly came out of the sleep she'd imposed on him.

He opened his eyes and closed them as they encountered light. He frowned, squinting against the light that bled though the draperies. He sleepily moved his head, closed his eyes again, yawned. He made faces as though stretching the muscles, waking them up.

He opened his eyes and this time she could see that he was more aware, truly waking. He caught sight of Sylvester who was sitting at the side of the bed and frowned once more, as though trying to understand why Sylvester's presence required wondering. He turned his head slightly and saw her standing behind the man. His eyes opened widely and the frown turned to concern.

"Have..." He cleared his throat and tried once more. "Have I been away again?"

Marguerite smiled at Sylvester and placed her hand on his shoulder. In her calmest voice, she answered, "One could say that."

Severus sighed. "Sorry."

Sylvester jerked under her hand and she heard him take a deep breath before he spoke. "No, I'm the one who's sorry, Severus. I'm the one who's responsible for what happened."

Severus shut his eyes and frowned again, obviously trying to remember. He raised a hand to rub at his face. His eyes snapped open and he stared at the white mitten. Incredulous, he raised the other hand and his mouth dropped open. "What..."

There was an element of panic in his voice. She started to go around Sylvester, to get to Severus but Sylvester beat her to it. He reached out and took hold of Severus's hands at the wrist and brought them down onto the blanket. "Severus. Look at me."

His voice was firm, unthreatening, exuding calm.

She stepped back and watched, ready to involve herself at the merest hint of trouble.

Severus's breathing was elevating into gasps and he lost the little colour he had regained.

"No, Severus. Look at me. See me. That's it. You can do this. No reason for any kind of panic. We're here. Madame and I are here for you. That's it, lad. Take the time to breathe properly." He waited, holding Severus's hands down, leaning forward as though to impress calm on the man who was feeling anything but.

Sylvester smiled encouragement and finally it worked. Severus's breathing dropped to something more normal in pitch and his face regained some colour.

"Is this..."

"Yes?" Sylvester allowed his hands to release their prisoners and to move back and forth, soothingly, between the cuff of the bandages and Severus's elbows. "Is this what?"

Severus closed his eyes. "Is this when you bind the lunatic to his bed?"

Marguerite gasped, completely astonished. What was it about this household that no one reacted as was her experience to matters that overwhelmed her other patients and their families? Marguerite shook her head slightly. Or was it that Sylvester Black had the ability to draw to him beings of such bravery and resilience?

Sylvester laughed softly. "No, lad. Remember I told you before, you're not a lunatic. Well, no more than anyone else in this household."

Severus opened his eyes and looked over Sylvester's shoulder at her. "So Madame is here for you?" His voice was raspy and still held a hint of panic but she was amazed both at the daring and the tease of the question.

She smiled at him. "In a way. Severus," she approached the bed, once more the medi-witch, "do you remember what happened?"

He closed his eyes and frowned in thought. When he spoke, his voice was self-mocking and tired. "I freaked out. After that, I don't know."

She leaned over and rested the back of her hand on his forehead. "Yes, well, after you freaked out, the house elves freaked out and came to get me. Then I freaked out and when Sylvester arrived, I made him freak out."

She was delighted when a small smile made an appearance on his face. "I see," he said, though it was obvious that he really didn't.

"Give the man some space, will you? How's he expected to eat with both of you hovering over him like that, stifling him?"

Sylvester quickly rose to his feet, making room for Solfeggio who was carrying a tray of food. Marguerite leaned over and helped Severus sit up, efficiently piling some pillows behind him so that he could eat. Solfeggio placed the tray down on Severus's lap and then saw to it that it was steady. He glared up at the man. "And see that you eat it all."

Severus nodded warily.

Solfeggio grumbled. "And who the hell's going to help him eat?"

Marguerite sat down. "I shall. Thank you, Solfeggio. As usual, your choice of nourishment is perfectly selected."

Solfeggio grunted. Marguerite smiled at him. He would never be able to fool her again with the disgruntled act. She could tell that he was pleased and relieved at finding Severus himself.

She raised the first spoonful of custard to Severus's mouth. "Yes, I know," she told him, "you have a great many questions that you want answered and they will be. After you eat. And after Sylvester eats as well." And she pointedly stared at the door.

Severus, sitting up, examined the fading scars on his hands. Madame had assured him that though they might be stiff at first, within a few days he should be able to use his hands as he had.

He thought that he'd handled her explanation of what had occurred quite well. The panic, though never far, had been controllable. He had finally acknowledged to her that it was never far. She'd noticed when he'd thought it would overwhelm him as she had explained about Parlante. He liked the small elf who often sat by him, book in hand, while he worked on his studies. They were, on the main, picture books of sailing ships.

He rotated his hands, noting that the scars he had inflicted on them were more pink than the scars on his wrists. Those would never fade any more than they already had.

He tried to understand why Parlante would put his life at risk for him. Him, Severus Snape. Why would a house elf, who barely knew him, do something like that when people he had fought alongside hadn't...

No, Madame had been very strict about thoughts like that. She'd informed him in front of Sylvester and Solfeggio that he was not allowed to dwell on the past. That she wanted him focused on moving forward and reclaiming his abilities as best he could. That only when Sylvester deemed it appropriate, after discussing it with her, was he to begin some testing as to what magical powers he had.

She'd sighed then, her hands on her hips, and she'd glared at both of them.

"Considering the way events are unfolding in this household, I shall not be surprised to be informed that you do have some but, under no circumstances, is this to be forced. Magic must come naturally or it will not allow itself to be used."

He hadn't thought it wise to mention that he already had tried, some minor spells that even a first year could do, with no results. He doubted that his lack of a wand mattered much.

Severus allowed his head to sag against the pillows. She'd also insisted that he was not to get out of bed until the morrow. Something about recouping his strength.

"You all right?"

Severus looked around: Sylvester was in the doorway with something in his hands.

"I have to admit," Severus shrugged, "that the little I remember makes me wonder why you are allowing me to remain here."

"Because what happened was my fault, not yours, Severus. If I had kept my promise..." Sylvester ambled into the room.

Severus grimaced. "Please, let us be honest. What happened would have happened at some point."

With a grin, Sylvester sat himself on the bed, allowing whatever he had in his hand to drop to the floor. "Feeling better, are you?"

Severus responded with a raised eyebrow.

"You're argumentative. A good sigh. Severus," he reached out and took one of Severus's hands in his, "if that's what you truly believe, then it's happened and it's over and done with. The others are less kind than you and far more willing to drop the responsibility exactly where it belongs, on me. I made you a promise and I didn't keep it."

Sylvester sighed. "And now we have to deal with that, you and I."

Severus felt the panic in him flutter.

"Lad, one of the reasons we let you sleep this long was so that I could think matters through. Take all facts into consideration and decide if I was willing to accept you in our lives with all that entailed. It was not a decision made lightly, but on our part, it is one that we all support. Now we come to you. I know that Madame will have my head for this, but the final decision must be made by you."

Severus had to swallow hard to prevent the panic from screaming out. He managed to force it back down and made himself listen attentively.

"We want you here, Severus. Never doubt that. Though Solfeggio and Ariette put the final decision in my hands, I knew exactly what their positions were. Parlante was delighted when Ariette told him. But you were the one whom I let down. The one whose trust I violated."

Severus was startled. He knew he should be saying something, but Sylvester shook his head.

"Listen to me, Severus. If you think that you cannot trust me again after this failure on my part, I will understand. We will all understand. If you fear too much for yourself, then living a life in fear of anything I tell you will not be good for you. I want you to consider this seriously. If you think you may be so unsure of me that it hinders your improvement, if you would prefer to go live in Madame's clinic, we will not stand in your way. And that offer is not just for today, it is for all time.

"Marguerite...Madame is here and will be for a few more hours. If you want to go with her, if you will feel safer with her, then you should go with her. We will miss you, Severus, but you must decide."

Severus tried to ignore the panic which was more than fluttering. He looked down at the hand holding his. He found the sight blurry and then realized that his eyes were tearing. He took a deep breath and made himself think. He was being offered a choice. To stay or to go.

He closed his eyes and said nothing. Sylvester only held his hand and waited.

Damn, he wanted to stay. He liked it here. He liked Solfeggio and Ariette and Parlante. He liked Sylvester and had thought that the man had liked him in turn. And, yes, he did feel safe here. Well, he had until Sylvester hadn't returned when he'd said he would... The fear and panic and terror he'd felt...

The discouragement.

Sylvester had said they wanted him to stay. He wanted to stay. The panic he felt would also stay with him, probably forever, in one form or another Madame had explained to him. He would learn to deal with it, she'd assured him. She would teach him strategies that he could use whenever it demanded his attention. Whenever it tried to overwhelm him. As it did now.

He looked up to see Sylvester waiting for him to work his way through this decision. He bit his lower lip.

"Severus," Sylvester spoke gently. "It's time to be selfish. To consider only yourself. No one else. Only your feelings. What do you want?"

Severus had to cough to deal with the panic down enough to choke out, "I...I want...to stay here, if I may."

Sylvester's relieved smile helped control the panic. "Well, then, that's it. You're staying. And I promise you, Severus, on all that I hold dear to me, that I shall never again make you a promise that I am not a hundred percent certain of keeping."

Severus found himself gripping the hand that held his as tightly as he could and nodding, not daring to speak his acceptance.

"Now then," Sylvester's smile lightened the situation, "I have something for you. I was afraid that Marguerite might refer to it as bribery so I waited until after we'd had this little discussion to offer it to you."

He stooped and picked up the item he had dropped. It was a book. Bound in a deep red leather.

Severus looked at it as Sylvester placed on his lap and wondered why his heart was suddenly beating more quickly. Gifts were not a common occurrence in life. That he did know. He passed his fingertips lightly over the leather, feeling the smoothness of it. The newness. The scent of the leather reached his nostrils and he breathed it in. It was with a certain wariness that he opened the book, finding the title page.

He couldn't read it immediately: it took him a moment or two to realize that the reason he couldn't was that it wasn't written in English. Italian. He had to think hard, to concentrate to make out enough of the words to be able to grasp what he had in his hands.

           L'antologia dei saggi di Lucrezia Barolo,
                      esperta di poziono,
                publicata in `Filtri e Pozioni',
              il settimanale publicato a Napoli. 

Severus found it hard to breath. He looked up and saw Sylvester smiling at him. "You found my books?"

The smile wavered a little. Sylvester shook his head. "I was in Italy. I stopped by the offices of `Filtri e Pozioni' and they were more than happy to locate all the essays she had written for them. I thought binding them would be an easier way of your keeping them together."

Severus could hardly breath around the lump in his throat.

Sylvester cocked his head. "If I may?" And he took the book back. Severus wanted to weep at its loss. But all Sylvester did was flip the pages until he found an envelope. Then he placed the book back onto Severus's lap. "This is a letter they found in their files, one in which she argues about some changes they wanted her to make to one of the essays. I thought you may not have anything with her writing on it and ..."

Severus gasped. "She burnt everything that Mamma had written."

Sylvester nodded, face serious, knowing the "she" was Severus's grandmother. "I thought she might have. Would you like me to open the letter for you?"

Severus sat on his bed, the book of his mother's essays on his lap. The same essays that Voldemort had given to him but somehow this copy felt cleaner than the one.

And a letter.

He had to blink hard to bring the handwriting into focus. He couldn't read the words: he hadn't been working on foreign languages. But he did recognize the slope of her hand, the firmness of the pen on the paper...and the little loops she made with her capital "S". He'd seen his name often enough in her hand to find himself laughing, a little hysterically, at the sight.

And for several minutes the panic in him ceased to exist.

"That was very kind of you."

Sylvester shrugged, knowing that Madame was still not happy with the way he'd allowed Severus to determine whether he would be staying or not.

Strange how he had begun thinking of her mainly as Marguerite. But, right now, the woman standing in front of him was a definite "Madame", not a "Marguerite".

He had ground to reclaim.

Though he'd expected it, she'd taken more than his head: his ears still burned from her scathing opinion of him, of his actions, of how no matter what she'd thought he'd finally understood, it would seem that he hadn't.

She'd barely forgiven him even when she'd realized that Severus seemed far too taken with looking at his mother's letter and essays to be dwelling on his decision.

She'd had a last meeting with Ariette and Solfeggio, about both patients, and she'd sternly read the riot act to Parlante, about even thinking of disobeying his siblings and their care of him. And though her tone had been gentle with Severus, he too was fully aware of her expectations.

"It wasn't bribery," murmured Sylvester, trying to sound contrite. Damn, he couldn't remember the last time anyone had dared tear a strip off him as Madame had. Well, maybe Vania. Who probably would have sat back and thoroughly enjoyed Madame's performance.

It suddenly crossed his mind how alike the two women were. Vania, he thought, would have liked Madame. And Marguerite.

"I am aware of that." She sounded slightly more like herself.

He looked up at her. "But this is."

She paused in the act of putting on her gloves. It was warm here, but she was portkeying back to colder climes.

He handed her a small card.

"What is this?" But she took it.

"In a couple of months, you should be receiving some communication from Hermione Granger-Weasley. Requesting a meeting."

"And should I grant this request?"

She certainly didn't look very trusting, thought Sylvester. Damn, how was it that she managed to make him feel guilty? Severus was doing well. Wasn't he?

"Hermione was a student of Severus's. One of his very best. She and her husband, an excellent herbologist, are in the process of establishing a new lab where they will be working on medical potions, among other things."

"Medical potions? The making of them?"

He nodded, trying to look his most innocent. If he remembered well, that had worked, to a certain extent, with Vania when she was in one of her moods. It seemed he was sadly out of practice: he saw no discernible softening on Madame's face. "Well, the inventing of them as well. It's an experimental lab."

"And the bribery aspect of this work of theirs?"

He shrugged, noting the sudden interest in her eyes. She had nice eyes, now that he thought about it. "Well, they will need to have some idea of what potions require inventing, now won't they?"

"Won't they indeed." She sighed and slipped the card into her pocket. Sylvester noted that she kept her hand in that pocket, clenched as though not to lose the card. He was smart enough not to show his delight.

"You'll like them, I think. His mother was the one who took care of Severus before he came here."

She shook her head reluctantly as she sighed. "I'm certain I shall."

Just when he thought he might have been forgiven, Madame glared at him again. "You will remember... No, I shall begin this over again. You will do your best to remember what I've said about Severus and putting too much pressure on him. Merely because he's come through this far better than he should have..."

Sylvester pulled out the big guns and a production of hanging his head, the very image of pitiful contriteness. He hoped it would work. For some reason, he really didn't want her to remain that angry with him.

She scoffed. "Ariette will keep you all in hand. I trust her. She has an excellent head on her shoulders. As for the rest of you..."

And she was gone.

Sylvester wondered where the members of his household were. No one was about.

He came out of his office, his work for the day done, and found no one on the porch. Funny, he would have thought that since Severus had been officially allowed out of bed, he would have been back at his books. He checked Severus's bedroom but it too was empty. He looked out onto the lagoon, verifying that the man hadn't decided to go swimming alone.

So where was he?

Not in the kitchen. Nor was Solfeggio. Sylvester thought and remembered that it was market day. Solfeggio would be shopping. Had he taken Severus with him? Sylvester shook his head, rejecting the idea of Severus leaving the security of the house and its grounds. Mind, they were going to begin working on that, taking walks further away from the house and familiarity. And more than exposure to people and the village, the walks would be good exercise. For both of them.

He wondered if Ariette might know where Severus was. He headed down the hallway to her room, hand ready to knock when he heard Severus's voice.

Through the open doorway that was Parlante's room.

He went carefully, on silent feet, and listened. It didn't take long to identify what Severus was reading aloud. Robert Louis Stevenson's "Treasure Island". One of Parlante's favourite books.

Parlante was not that handy with reading words. Oh, he could read simple notes and the words written on his charts. He was a whizz with charts, with anything nautical: it was just that he was less interested in words. Sylvester had read him that book several times over the years. Parlante adored nothing more than listening to someone read him the story of pirates on the high seas, or anything nautical for that matter.

Sylvester came around the door and looked in. Severus was sitting on a cushion on the floor, back braced against the bed, head bent over the book in his hands. Parlante, eyes closed, was curled up on his side, arms clutching a pillow to his chest as he listened, a slight smile on his face.

Sylvester rested a shoulder against the doorway. He wondered if Marguerite would have approved. Severus was not resting as she would have insisted: it had only been a couple of days. And Parlante was definitely not sleeping as he sighed happily when Severus's voice deepened as he read some Long John Silver dialogue.

As Sylvester turned to leave them, he caught a glimpse of red leather tucked under Severus's thigh, as though he needed to remain in contact with it. And Sylvester knew that he'd been sleeping with the book under his pillow. He was taking his new responsibilities seriously: he now checked in on both Parlante and Severus before going to bed. Severus slept with his hand under the pillow and, that first night, Sylvester had raised it slightly, just to see that there was no problem with the hand.

Such a little thing, he thought, as he went out to sit on the porch. It had been the matter of an hour's attention to visit "Filtri e Pozioni" in Naples and make arrangements for the essays to be found and bound. Surely a father could have done this little for a son who desperately missed his mother? Instead, it had been left to Voldemort to use it as a tool in his gathering to him one with talents he needed. Severus had been bright enough to understand that game, but too needy to reject it. He wondered just what Edwin Snape was up to these days.

Alastor Moody scowled as he tossed the message onto his desk. The pigeon stood cooing on the window sill, happily pecking at its payment of peanuts. He would never mention it to Sylvester, but he missed the damn parrot. The pigeon didn't attract any attention, did its work efficiently, but it was a boring bird.

So, now Sylvester wanted to know what had happened to Snape's books and, if possible, to gather them together. Especially the ones with the name Lucrezia Barolo on the title page. Cost was not an issue. And he wanted a name added to the list: Edwin Snape. Funny that, since the man had already popped up in one background search.

There was a coded knock on the door. Moody pulled out his wand; his magical eye focused, ready to see through anyone who tried to enter without the correct passwords.

The door opened and a slight woman dressed in jeans and sweatshirt under her open robe waited until he nodded to enter.

Abigail Decourcy was a graduate student. The fact that she was the granddaughter of the only man in the Department of Mysteries in whom he still had some trust had been a key factor in his hiring of her. Added to that was the subject of her thesis: A Comparative Analysis of Auror Education and Training During the Voldemort Years: 1971-1981 and 1991-2000.

The fact that it was a Ministry approved thesis topic meant that Ms. Decourcy could investigate all sorts of documents, interview wizards and witches and ask all sorts of impolite questions, all under the security of sanctioned research.

That she was now being paid, and handsomely - the brat was a shrewd negotiator - accounted for the smile whenever she reported in.

She was also one of the few people who could look upon him without flinching.

"Good morning." She came up to the desk, tossed her reports onto it then leaned over to plant a loud kiss on his forehead.

Moody growled. It was expected of him, and it pleased her to no end whenever he did.

"So, I see we've had another message from Command Central. What does the Grand Pooh-Bah require this time, Uncle Alastor?"

When Decourcy had introduced them, he'd indicated that he expected Moody to treat the girl as a benevolent uncle. As if he had the energy to be up to the kind of shenanigans for which he had once had a well deserved reputation. The brat had delighted in picking that up. He should have known immediately that she also had her grandsire's sense of disrespect in shades! He'd never understood how Decourcy had ended up sitting behind that big desk in the Department of Mysteries upper offices. He and Sylvester had been certain someone would stick a knife into him long before he got to that age. Hell, they'd wanted to do it often enough themselves when they'd been on the wrong end of one of his scathing assessments of their work.

"He wants some background on Edwin Snape."

"Ah, the ever so much more interesting Mr. Snape." She plunked herself on his couch and propped her booted feet up on the armrest.

His magical eye went into spasm. "Well, spill it, girl!"

Her grin reminded him too much of the old days. "Guess who's just popped up in Neville Longbottom's background. Seems Edwin and Neville's granny once had a thing going. Before he was sent off to Italy."

"She's the wicked witch his mother wanted to get away from him? The unsuitable match? Why she went to Barty Crouch pater and used family ties to have Edwin sent out of country?" Moody's "Humph!" was followed by laughter as he sat back in his chair. "Hell, she must have kicked herself silly when her precious boy came back with that Italian witch as his bride!"

Abby waved her wand in the direction of the kitchen. They heard the refrigerator door open and close. A bottle of American beer - horse's piss, Moody called it - made its way over to her outstretched hand. She twisted the cap off her favourite brew and chugged a good third of it down. "Do you think," she wondered, "Severus had any idea that his grandmother had approached Dumbledore and asked him to convince Edwin to divorce Lucrezia?"

In his office on the upper floor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Wyman Osegood, Head of Operations, Auror Sub-Section, tossed the report onto his desk. He thoughtfully rested his mouth against his steepled fingers for a moment then sat back, resting against his executive dragon-skin armchair. It was unfortunate that the girl had such good connections. Decourcy was occupying an office similar to his at the Department of Mysteries and his power was something to be reckoned with. The power behind the throne, so to speak. The throne that Osegood fully intended to occupy one day sooner than later. Then there would be a power shift and those who had stood in his way would understand just what power was.

As Spring Equinox approached, in order to help Severus deal with the forthcoming Weasley visit, Sylvester began extending the limits of their daily walks. He showed him more of the island that was their present home, gradually leading him closer and closer to the village. Muggles, he was pleased to note, did not particularly affect Severus. He watched them, commenting that they seemed to be smaller, finer boned than those in Britain.

"And far more accepting of things magical, though, frankly, I think that may be something particular to this island," Sylvester pointed out.

The island was not all that large. It had the form of a rounded square, a little narrower at the north. Two villages, each with a population of some 500, had long been established: Vanua to the north-east and Viti to the north-west. Northern access to the sea was not rendered difficult by the series of reefs that wove in and out the rougher southern section of the island. It was in the largest of the southern coves that Sylvester had set up residence.

The centre of the island was dense foliage covering the slopes of an ancient, long dead volcano. The populated sides had been cleared and provided excellent soil for those interested in farming. Sylvester found the small mountain provided him with the privacy he so desired and a safe location for the satellite dish he used for communicating with the Muggle world. His yacht was moored in the closest village, Viti, a casual 30 minute stroll away.

"Solfeggio has no trouble at all going to the Muggle market as a house elf. Not something that he could do back in Britain. Not that he would even think of doing something like that: there are more than enough magical places in which to shop. In the Far East, as long as he dressed in local garb, he passed without much if any questioning. Here, they accept him as he is."

Market day before the visit, Solfeggio announced that he didn't have enough hands to help him with the shopping. Parlante still spent most of his waking hours in his bed and Ariette wouldn't leave him unattended, just in case.

"So the two of you are going to have to come along, if you expect to eat anything at all until next market day."

Sylvester shrugged. "As you say." He pretended not to be carefully watching for Severus's reaction. It wasn't as though Solfeggio truly needed the two of them to help him, but the elf had thought it would be a good excuse to ease Severus into the next phase of his progress.

Severus looked intently at Solfeggio. Sylvester didn't think that they had completely pulled the wool over his eyes on this, but he was pleased when Severus took a deep breath and nodded. "Now?"

Solfeggio growled, "Well, if we want the good stuff, we have to get there early."

Severus stood. "I'll go get my shirt."

Some of the men in the villages were heavily tattooed and, as a result of that, Sylvester didn't think anyone would pay particular attention to Severus's scars. But he remembered a small rag doll that Nicky had carried about with him after Vania had died. He thought that Severus's shirts provided the same sense of security for him as the doll had for his son.

The Muggles of the village nodded in greeting Sylvester but they addressed Solfeggio by name, waving to him as he passed by. Severus seemed to find that interesting. Sylvester noticed he paid more attention, his head up, eyes interested, as they arrived in the small market with its brilliant variety of colours, the aroma of exotic spices and flowers, the particular scent of fresh fish, the squawks of fowl ready to have their necks wrung on the spot. Solfeggio kept Severus away from that stall, filling his arms with baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables of all kinds. Sylvester found himself hoisting a large bag of flour over his shoulder and trying to keep the basket of eggs from rattling too much. Solfeggio carried the fish and fowl.

They were on their way back through the village when Sylvester was hailed by name. He looked over and grinned. Penaia Tanumafili, the size of a small house, came ambling towards them, his large brown face split nearly in half with a huge white grin.

"Ah, Wizard, it is good to see you in the village again." Then he pointed to the bag of flour, "It is good to see you using your natural body instead of your powers. Keeps you young."

Sylvester laughed, shaking his head. "I've never seen you lift anything heavier than a cup of tea, Penaia. So what keeps you young?"

Penaia Tanumafili roared with laughter. He gestured behind him where a group of some six or seven women were gathered, all grinning lasciviously. "My wives. I don't dare be anything but young with them, otherwise they will go find themselves younger husbands to keep them satisfied."

Severus watched the exchange, a slight look of bemusement on his face.

Penaia Tanumafili made a production of looking him up and down before grinning at him. "So, we have a new wizard among us."

Sylvester considered that comment while performing introductions. "Penaia, this is Severus Snape. He's joined my household. Severus, I take great pleasure in introducing Penaia Tanumafili to you. He's the local witch-doctor and shaman."

Severus blinked, but found his manners. He bowed his head, not offering a hand as they were both filled. "Doctor Tanumafili."

Penaia grinned widely. "Doctor, eh?" He turned to Sylvester. "When your visitors leave, you two will come for tea. In a week's time." He waved and ambled off, followed by his satisfied wives.

Sylvester got along well with the witch-doctor because he respected the man and his powers. When he'd first arrived here, Penaia had taken time to accept the presence of another with powers on his territory. But Sylvester had made it very plain that he intended no take-over and some judiciously applied donations had helped paved the way to friendship. That and the fact Penaia loved exploring the differences between Island and European Magic had lead to many a long supper between them.

But as witch-doctor and shaman, Penaia's territory covered many islands and he'd a been off doing the rounds, reminding his people of his powers and dealing with some problems that always occurred when his back was turned. He'd been gone for nearly a year this time.

And though this was the first time he was meeting Severus, he had immediately identified him as a wizard. Sylvester knew that no one on the island could know that about Severus and he wondered if Penaia would be willing to elaborate how he had sensed powers in Severus.

Severus sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the voices in the main room. The Weasleys had just arrived and, under Sylvester's instructions, Severus was to come out only when he felt comfortable with the idea.

He stared at his hands, clenched tightly, and wondered what would happen if he never went out.

"Is Sir all right?"

He looked up. Ariette was watching him, her head cocked, considering him. He didn't blame her. Hell, he'd be wary of approaching someone who had huddled in a corner, chewing his hands to shreds when he hadn't been screaming the roof down.

She smiled as she came up to him. "Sir is fine," she reassured him, as though she'd known what was going through his mind. She reached out and placed a long-fingered hand on his arm, her skin dark against the whiteness of the sleeve. He knew the shirts that had appeared in his wardrobe were due to her: he'd heard Sylvester grumbling about how his old shirts were all disappearing and her response that he needed to use his new ones.

Severus shrugged, then frowned at her. "Why do you call me Sir when you call Sylvester by name?"

She thought before answering. "Sylvester not likes being called Master. He tells us to call him Sylvester. Many, many years ago."

Severus was used to house elves. He'd been raised with them, had dealt with them at Hogwarts. He'd been aware of them, thanking them when they'd done something for him, gifting them at the holidays. He even knew several of them by name and could recognize them in a group. But he'd never had the kind of relationship with them as he had with those of this household. And if...since he was remaining here, part of this same household...

"Please, could you call me Severus and not Sir? I must admit that, all things considered, it would make me feel more comfortable."

Her delighted smile was reward enough for this familiarity, which would have shocked many in his past life. But then, as Madame had told him, it was time to leave the past behind and move on.

"Severus."

He found himself smiling at the way she rolled his name off her tongue, as though savouring the taste of it.

"Yes."

"Severus, when too much of visitors - even if they be nice visitors - Parlante's room is nice and safe. Very quiet. No one bothers you there."

Severus thought a moment, then nodded. "Yes, thank you. Ariette."

Then under her smile of approval and encouragement, he stood up and went to greet and thank two more people who had saved him.

Molly couldn't believe how warm it was. "Like our hottest days. But breezier." She was reclining on a lounge chair, under a tree, watching Arthur exploring the lagoon with Severus.

Sylvester handed her another of the house elf's marvelous mixed drinks. "You don't notice it after a while. Mind, I did notice the dampness when I was in London."

Molly sighed happily. No wonder the boys had come back so brown: nudity seemed to be totally acceptable here. Of course, she hadn't succumbed to that...yet. The sarong the female house elf had shown her how to tie was far less than she could remember ever wearing in public.

In the lagoon, Arthur was laughing at something that big fish was doing. She wasn't so fond of the idea of getting that friendly with something that looked as though it wouldn't mind taking a chunk out of you.

"Severus looks well."

Sylvester smiled at her. "He has his ups and downs, but he surprises both Marguerite and myself with his resilience."

Molly paused in taking a sip. The use of the medi-witch's first name was new: at their first meeting, she had been Madame. Molly wondered if her host realized that his voice had soften slightly on saying her name.

"Does he have any magic?"

He met her eyes right on, not trying to prevaricate. "I truly don't know. We're going to investigate that after you leave. Marguerite has insisted, and rightly, that we are to move into such matters very slowly and very carefully. She is already astonished that Severus is not a vegetable, that his intellect has recovered somewhat. She feels that we should not expect more and that if we do, we might push him into a depression from which he might not recover."

Molly agreed with that assessment. She'd been surprised at how likeable this Severus was compared to the sarcastic, dour Potions instructor. "We brought something with us that might be of help. A trick wand from an order the boys got in. They proved to be too strong for children to use safely. In fact, Wheezies got a visit from Ollivander, reminding them that they were to be dealing in toy wands with a minimum of power. The boys were most apologetic and took them off the shelf right away, but slipped one to Arthur."

Sylvester grinned at her. "That might prove to be an excellent aid. I was wondering how we were going to find Severus a wand to use."

"And how are your investigations coming along?" She smiled to herself, gratified that she'd taken him unaware. Then wondered if she should have left well enough alone.

"I don't understand."

She tried to pretend that he suddenly hadn't become dangerous though she found it hard to look at him. Instead she found Arthur and focused his comfortable self.

"Hermione and Ron had a visit from Abby Decourcy. She asked lots of questions, about the Voldemort days, for her thesis she told them. But she also asked all sorts of other questions." Molly dared glance at Sylvester who, to her relief, had dropped the dangerous for mere coldly curious. Still, she thought it best to explain in a little more detail. "Abby was in Ravenclaw at the same time as Ron and Hermione were in Gryffindor. Then Hermione and Abby were at Muggle University together. Gerald Decourcy is a firm believer in being able to move from one world to the other. Hermione had no trouble concluding someone was interested in what had occurred with Severus, and it was only a step further for her to deducing that you were behind it. It certainly would not be the Ministry or the Headmaster: they're all trying to sweep everything under the rug."

Sylvester sat back. "Who else knows of this theory of Hermione's?"

Molly felt the tightness in her relax: he sounded himself again. "Ron, of course. And Arthur and me. It seems that Abby has also visited Wheezies and had a very lovely evening there, with the boys, reminiscing. I doubt they understood the true purpose of her interest in them. She's very good.

"I think she mentioned to Hermione that she'd tried to get in touch with Harry Potter. But since beginning work at Beauxbatons, Harry has refused to grant any interviews about that time."

She noted that bit of information produced a small frown on her host's face.

"He's taking teaching very seriously, you know. Which is a relief because he went pretty much over the top there after Voldemort. We were quite worried about him for a while."

Sylvester looked unimpressed. She shrugged to herself. Harry was like a son to her, even if he was a fairly distant son these days. And he, like her other children, was an adult. She and Arthur had a hands-off policy when it came to their children. It would be a totally different matter, of course, if Harry came to her, to the family, for help. But right now she was not going to allow Sylvester to blame her daughter-in-law for any concerns he might have.

"The only reason Hermione caught on is that she and Abby had often discussed her thesis before leaving the University, so Hermione was well aware of the limits of her topic."

Molly sensed a certain relaxation and nodded. "I won't mention my suspicions to anyone else but, it's just that if Hermione could figure it out, maybe someone else will as well."

Sylvester's smile chilled her. "I'm counting on it."

Penaia Tanumafili sat on his small stool and grinned happily at his guests. One of his wives had served them tea and left behind a heaped platter of his favourite flat cakes.

Sylvester, on a stool of his own, was, of course, as charming as ever, chatting easily about Penaia's recent travels. It made a good cover for what he could be. Penaia had sensed the true potency of the man's powers at their very first meeting and never underestimated the wizard. He was an excellent friend and a possible formidable ally, but he would make a dangerous enemy.

The other wizard was sitting cross-legged on the mat that protected them from the ground. He'd accepted a cup of tea, had set it down on his thigh while he was nibbling at one of the cakes. Apart from greeting him courteously - he was "Doctor Tanumafili" again - and thanking him for the invitation, then the tea and cake, he had remained silent.

There was an aura about the man that bothered Penaia though he was too far away and too polite to mention it. He caught it in ripples mostly, a wave now and then. It would be inconsiderate of his role as host to pay the kind of attention to his guest that this aura required, but he noted that Sylvester keep looking from him to the silent one, as though he too was trying to find a way of bringing up some matter.

A long pause in the conversation allowed Penaia the occasion to shift attention to the wizard called Severus.

"And what kind of wizard are you, Master Severus?"

The man started, upsetting the balance of not only the cup of tea but the peacefulness of the meeting.

Sylvester reached out, catching the cup before it did more than splash some of its cooled liquid onto the man. The man stared blankly at the wet stain on his sarong.

Sylvester looked worried and yet relieved at the same time. Ah, so this had been the matter that his fellow wizard had wanted to broach.

Severus finally looked up, his face more still than it had been up till then. His voice was barely audible. "Not a wizard any more."

Penaia quickly glanced at Sylvester who bit his lip and nodded his head very slightly, shrugging. Penaia noticed that he kept his hand on Severus's knee, offering contact and comfort.

"Really?" Penaia sounded merely curious. "Then why do I sense powers in you?"

Sylvester slipped off the stool and sat next to Severus on the mat. "We've been experimenting with some basic spells and a wand..."

Penaia scoffed loudly, rolling his eyes. "You Europeans and your wands." He shifted his attention once more to Severus whose eyes were slowly tracking from nothingness to him. "I went once to a wizards' meeting in Tasmania. You Europeans have lost the true sense of Magic: you've intellectualized it to death."

Severus grew more attentive. Penaia smiled at him. "You seem to have forgotten that wands were once used only rarely, if at all. Probably too far back even for your histories."

Sylvester interjected, "I know we've had many a discussion on the differences between our version of Magic and yours..."

Penaia shook his head. "Magic is Magic. It is in the Core of each and every one of us who has such powers. We differ only in how we use this Core. Over the years, you Europeans have turned your focus from the Core to the mind. You have regimented your Magic, forgetting that it flows naturally. Let me show you that you have Magic in you, Severus, no matter what some wand tells you."

He moved slowly off his stool to kneel in front of the man now watching him, eyes a mixture of hope and fear. As he got closer, the aura hit him hard, a powerful slap. Penaia squinted his eyes and focused on the aura. He felt the fear but the pain was unexpected. It made him wince and pull back slightly. It also made him look at Sylvester who was watching them both intently.

Sylvester met his eyes and nodded. Permission granted, Penaia once more moved closer to the man until his knees touched the other's.

And then they were alone, this broken wizard and the witch-doctor.

The village sounds ceased, the birds were silent. There was no sound of the water splashing gently onto the beach, no trees shading them, no one holding tightly onto the wizard.

Penaia reached his hands up to touch the man's head and had to stop as the level of fear and pain intensified.

"Wizard," he whispered in a voice and tongue only the wizard could hear and understand.

It took a moment but the wizard's eyes found the courage to meet his.

"You have been hurt and I understand your fear. I want you to look upon these hands of mine. They are large, aren't they?"

The wizard looked down and the fear increased. But the wizard fought it back, finally nodding.

Penaia continued. "Large though they be, they have never been used against another as someone used his on you. Yes, they have on occasion caused pain. I am a physician and setting broken bones can cause pain. I have caused pain in dealing with wounds, and again that is unavoidable. But on purpose, for the pleasure of it...never, Wizard. I know I am asking much of you, but trust me. I merely want to show you that your Magic is still there. Unless, of course, you don't want to know."

He gave the wizard a moment to gather his thoughts, then asked again. "Wizard, what kind of wizard are you?"

The wizard licked his lips and answered in this same language, his voice faint yet heavy with mourned loss, "Potions."

Penaia smiled at him. "And it is this skill that you think you have lost?"

"Yes."

Penaia fought to keep his expression calm: the pain in that one word more than equaled the pain he could feel in the wizard's aura.

"Shall we see," he offered softly, "if you can find that skill in yourself again?"

The eyes were black with disbelief but Penaia was pleased to see the wizard in him was stronger than his acceptance of his loss: the wizard nodded. "Please," he whispered.

Penaia placed his large hands over the wizard's head and allowed them to hover a small space above, near enough to sense but not to touch.

"Ah, yes. Only a wisp of Magic here: here it is truly gone. But let us see if it abides in other places." He moved his hands slowly down to the wizard's chest and there he let both his hands hover over the wizard's heart. He smiled. "Ah, yes, still there where it belongs. You need Magic in your heart at the very least, for the love of it. Now let us see how strong it is in the Core."

That seemed to surprise the wizard. "In the Core?"

Penaia smiled. "Of course, in the Core. Where else would the basis of Magic exist but in the Core? And, see, I feel its strength as I approach." His hands hovered over the wizard's navel. "There. Do you feel it as well?"

The wizard's face concentrated and Penaia knew the moment the wizard was aware of the Core within him. His surprise radiated joy, such as a parent did when a child thought lost was found.

"Yes, there. As strong as it should be, even if it has been neglected. You are not without powers, Wizard: you merely have to learn how to use them. Is this something you'd like, Wizard: to learn how to be a wizard once more? To ply your potions?"

The wizard's voice was heavy with his longing. "Yes," he whispered. "Please."

"Even if they should not be as the powers you have used? Should not be as the potions you have known?"

The wizard frowned in confusion but then stilled as he thought. His voice was strong when he answered Penaia this time.

"Yes."

Sylvester had no idea what was going on between Severus and Penaia. Both men seemed unaware of him: all he could do was remain very still and hope that something was truly going on of which he was not part.

He watched Severus's face, knowing that if anything went wrong, it would tell him it was time to interfere. Once, there was a hungry on it that ached to see but apart from that, nothing out of the ordinary.

He waited, his hand on Severus's knee.

It didn't take long. Less than a minute all told. Then Penaia sat back on his heels and Severus shuddered, letting go of a deep breath.

Penaia smiled at Sylvester and kept silent, waiting as Sylvester was for the first move to come from Severus.

Severus closed his eyes and bent his head. After what was, for Sylvester, a tense moment, Severus looked up at Penaia.

"Truly?"

Penaia nodded. "It will not be easy, Wizard. You will have to unlearn all those European methods and learn to depend on the Core. But I think you may want it enough to overcome such problems. We can only know if we try."

"And when shall we begin?"

Penaia grinned. "Well, not right now. Now we need to eat. You need to remember that the body needs nourishment as well as the Core. So today, we will take care of the body and tomorrow morning, you and I, we will begin to nourish the Core."

Sylvester had insisted on accompanying Severus to the clearing by the village where he was to meet with Penaia.

It brought back a long buried memory, of the first day he had attended the small local Basics school near Snape Manor. Mamma had accompanied him there as well, in spite of his grandmother's insistence that doing so was "coddling the boy." In fact, the Dowager had been absolutely shocked and livid that he was attending the school, protesting loudly to his father that Snapes had always been privately tutored until old enough to attend Hogwarts. Needless to say, once his mother had died, he'd been quickly installed in the dark, somber room that had prepared generations of Snapes for Hogwarts.

The previous evening, Severus had swung between hope and despondency. He gathered from the glances he intercepted now and then from the man at his side that he wasn't as able at hiding his feelings as he had once been. And last night, Sylvester had looked in on him twice after he'd gone to bed. Severus had eventually become aware that Sylvester checked in on him before finding his own bed: every night at first after Madame's last visit, though less and less over time unless something had happened to make Severus anxious during the day.

He tried hard not to think about what was coming, but it was almost impossible to ignore the flutter of hope battling with the fear. And so often these past months the fear had won.

The clearing was quiet. In the near distance was the sound of the waves on the shore but the clearing itself was silent, as though in expectation. There were two stools in the clearing, one of which was in use. Penaia was watching them approach, a smile of welcoming on his face.

Severus wondered at the size of the man. Larger than the Goyle and Crabbe he had known as Death Eaters, but with far more grace. His movements were never awkward, he moved with ease and his size was strangely not intimidating. But he wasn't allowing Sylvester to stay. Shooing him away as though a child.

"No, no. We don't need you. You are too European, Sylvester. You will interfere. Go home and have that Solfeggio of yours feed you up. You're far to skinny for a wizard."

And though Sylvester smiled at Penaia, he looked at Severus. "Severus?"

Severus looked at the large man and slowly nodded. "I can find my way back."

And then they were alone. And Severus wondered if his hopes were going to come to naught.

"There is a second stool, Severus. Wizards sit on stools."

He found himself chewing on his lower lip. The last time he'd sat on a stool... No, he wasn't going to think about that. Still, if wizards sat on stools and he wasn't, where was he to sit?

He came closer to the man who was a wizard and slowly sat himself onto the grass, cross-legged, and waited.

Penaia nodded. With a wave of his hand, the second stool suddenly disappeared. He smiled at Severus's surprise. "It is a brave decision you have taken, Student."

Student? Yes, that was what he was now. Back to being a student. Hell, he was almost fifty years old. He'd been standing at the head of the class for some twenty years, not sitting among the students. And he'd been a right bloody bastard, hadn't he? Expecting only the best and, frustrated, snarling with sarcasm when he didn't get it. How was this wizard, his teacher, his instructor, going to react when he proved to be useless?

He felt his gorge rise with the fear and fought not to vomit the breakfast Solfeggio had insisted he eat up onto Penaia's feet.

A warm hand settled on his cold, trembling shoulder. The warmth spread, easing the nausea, helping him calm himself. He took a deep breath, released it slowly and forced himself to look into the wizard's eyes.

Penaia nodded slightly, his expression knowing.

"Student," his voice was kind, "let us reward your bravery."

Penaia smiled at the man who sat at his feet, his head slightly cocked, his brow furrowed in concentration. He could tell when he lost the broken wizard: his head would lean more forward than to the side and his eyes would darken. When he had to think something through, he often chewed on his lower lip. When something caused the fear to claim him, his hands would claw his knees and his breathing harshened.

He tempered his lessons to the man's responses.

"The main difference between your old Magic and mine is that yours worked through your mind. It's based in book learning. You Europeans have intellectualized yourselves and Magic over time. But since that was done at the same time, it works well for your people."

The eyes of the man sitting at his feet were still tinged with fear, but he was listening with intent concentration. If this was what the man was like, damaged as he was, Penaia felt a rising respect for what he must have been at the height of his powers.

"But here, we have had and still have an oral tradition. And oral traditions are more emotional."

Ah, that worried the broken wizard, did it? Yes, he had thought that like all intellectual men, the dependency on emotion in their Magic might cause the most problems. Time would tell.

"This is because emotions are more linked to the basic self. And so our Magic still comes through our Core."

A small nod. At least this one was willing to try. So many of his kind were not. But then, they hadn't lost as much as this one had.

"Your traditions have tried to tame Magic while we respect its wildness. That means it can at times be out of our control, but we accept that. It is not something that you Europeans appreciate. It makes you uncomfortable."

That had made his student frown slightly. These European wizards, well, the ones he'd met, so prized their control. But this one already had a lot of experience in loss of that control. He was more than half-way there. Would he care to go on?

"You will have to learn to accept this discomfort but you should also revel in it. It is an exhilarating part of our Magic that some of it is never tamed."

Penaia hid his smile. He could see that his student didn't believe that. But should this work, he would understand. Control had been taken away from him, but being in the midst of Magic at its wildest would make up for it. It wouldn't happen right away, of course. Being able to call up Magic to that level took time. But he had a feeling about his broken wizard.

"From what Sylvester has told me, from what I have seen and learnt from the wizards of your culture, you begin with the acceptance of the Core within you - you use it to identify which among you are witches and wizards - but then you quickly rely on education, on spells and chants that are written down. All of you use these same words in the same way for the same effect.

And what I know of your potions, it is the same. A recipe that is followed precisely each and every time for the same effect. Do I have this right?"

His student nodded, a little put out that his previous potions had been reduced to mere recipes. Good. There was emotion in the man. Probably more than he himself thought or accepted.

"So that the only time there is any kind of difference is when you are creating the spell, the potion. Once you have the result you're looking for, you lock that formula forever."

Other than a small grimace, nothing. A student who listened and didn't interrupt. That would make a difference. Usually Penaia took on youngsters as his students. When he found one with Core. He'd never before instructed someone of this age. And he had to remember not to inflict too much at one time: his wizard was broken and he had to keep that in mind.

"Here it is different. Oh, there are some basic spells and potions that are common to all of us, but we don't lock them in.

Because the Core is different in each of us, our Magic is also different. More personal. I will teach you what I find works, but then you will take it and make the changes needed for your Magic to work with your Core."

The hands spasmed into claws and his student's breathing grew harsh. Penaia gentled his voice, and soon Severus was listening again. He would have to find a way of dealing with his student's fear. Not simply because it would interfere with his learning but the man had had too much of it in him.

"It sounds frightening to you, this lack of regimentation, but it is liberating, Student. If I understood correctly, should one of your wizards wish to make a certain potion and some ingredient is missing, the potion won't work as it should, or the wizard won't even attempt it. Here, we don't care. If an ingredient is not at hand, then another can be used. Our measures are less precise than yours. You have predetermined measures, we use our hands, our fingers to measure. We don't expect each and every version of a potion we make to be precisely the same. So long as it has the effect we want, that's all that matters."

Ah, the eyes had certainly come to life there. All this must sound like...like blasphemy to his broken wizard. Good. A little anger was a good thing.

"And though you go through years of training, ours is very simple. We depend on the Core to supply the Magic and the Source-Of-All-Life, Mother Earth, to refurbish it, to supply us with what we need.

And all that I shall teach you is how to liberate the Magic at your Core and how to recognize the bounty that is Mother Earth. The rest is in your hands, Student."

And Penaia could feel the fear rise in his broken wizard.

Part Six

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