A Note from the author: Hogwarts and all of the established characters attached to it belong to JK Rowling. The original characters and backstory in A Traveller's Tale, I would like to claim as my own (if it is legal to do so). Miranda Traveller the telepath and spy is her own person and woe be unto the being who tries to own her.
A note to those wishing to adhere to canon: This is not a Mithrandic tale of light versus dark, but rather an exploration of power and how it affects people who seek it, hold it and even those who turn their backs on it. It is set after the end of book four.
And please, don't take it so seriously – I just make this stuff up.
Enjoy!
A Traveller's Tale
by Greta Jameson
1: A Midsummer Night's Scheme
The last light from the setting sun shared the sky with the first stars of the moonless midsummer night. Fireflies signaled to each other, and crickets began their songs as clouds gathered outside of Hogwarts castle.
Albus Dumbledore, the school Headmaster gazed out of the tower windows and contemplated the coming tempest. He stood for several minutes with his hands on the leaded-glass windows watching the storm roll in from the east. The warm winds whipped against the open panes and rustled his long silver beard. He had been expecting a sign for months, but the rains had come only now.
"Voldemort is mustering his forces for war," the woman at his side said silently. "With my own eyes I have seen them rebuilding the Druben fortress. They're tunneling underground - a vast pit for all of their vipers."
"Yes, my dear, He is growing stronger. I fear that he will soon test our preparedness. We must do more to make our selves ready," Albus thought. "I'm very glad that you've come to help us, you know."
"I'm glad you asked me to," she smiled as she looked out over the lake and the verdant fields surrounding the school. "It's so very good to be home."
He closed the windows against the gusting wind, smiled down at her and said aloud, "Come dear, it's time."
Their footsteps echoed as they walked down the torchlit corridors towards the Great Hall. With no students to distract, the sentinel stones of the old castle whispered to Albus as the first drops fell. Soon, sheets of rain soaked the earth and lightning raged. After a few angry minutes, the rain eased to a gentle shower and Dumbledore entered the hall.
The cavernous hall was lit only at the front where the Hogwarts' Professors sat eating their supper. The rest of the room, which always bustled with students during the academic year, slipped off into an inky blackness.
Dumbledore took his place at the center of the table and raised his arms clad in grey brocade as he began his announcement:
"With the beginning of the academic year almost at hand, I wanted to inform you that the Board of Governors has come to a decision concerning the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor." Silverware and crystal clinked as the entire faculty stopped eating and drinking and listened closely as his words echoed through the hall. Severus Snape, Master of Slytherin House and Professor of Potions, held his breath and waited as Dumbledore continued:
"Miranda Traveller is a remarkable young woman who I have known personally for many years."
Snape closed his eyes and looked inward. Yet one more year he would have to wait.
The oak door behind Dumbledore creaked on its ancient hinges and Miranda stepped to his side. She wore a dress that was azure like the early evening sky. It had strings of eight-pointed silver stars sewn into the fabric with metallic thread, and sparkled when she moved. Her dark brown shoulder- length hair was parted on the left and pulled straight behind her ears. Matching jewelry adorned the base of her neck and ears with blue and white starlight.
"She is a resourceful and powerful witch," Dumbledore continued, taking her hand, "with experience far beyond her years in detection and defense. Her gifts are transformation and telepathy."
"Telepathy, that's really rare! Where did you find her, Headmaster?" asked Professor Binns, teacher of Magical History. "There are only a few adults in all Europe!"
"Another freak," muttered Snape; disgust putting an unpleasant edge on his usually silky baritone.
"This is her first time as an instructor," Dumbledore went on, "but I think she will be an excellent addition to our staff. Over time, she will become a fine and I think beloved teacher," he added, kissing her fingers. "Please extend a warm welcome to her."
Light applause filled the Great Hall as she took the traditional place at the table for Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor - next to the Potions Master, Severus Snape.
The house elves sent up her food and wine. She placed her hand over her goblet, and asked for water, because wine and telepathy don't mix - at least not well. From across the room, she heard Leland Miller the new Design Professor think, "Oh, my!" as he walked over to her, running his hand though his short dark hair.
"Professor Traveller?" Miller asked.
"Yes . . . I suppose so." She said turning to him, with a small smile.
"Bienvenue," he said, raising her right hand to his lips.
"Merci," she answered, demurely.
"That, I'm afraid dear, is the extent of my French. But, if you would be interested, I would like to show you around our lovely school, say, after dinner?
"Yes, thanks, I'd like that," she said, not wanting to go, but not wanting to refuse any invitation.
Miller went back to his place, leaving Miranda and Snape to eat in silence for several minutes. She felt him trying to recognize her, as he kept comparing her with the visage of every dark-haired woman he had ever met. Snape sensed that they had met before, and he wondered when and where they had met - and under what circumstances. He had not wandered freely in the world since he arrived to teach at Hogwarts years ago.
It had been years since she had last seen him, and he looked so much older and paler than the image of him she held in her memory. She smiled to herself though, to see that some things were still the same. His black hair still hung straight to his chin and he still carried himself with an air of self-possessed superiority that he had so long ago. She wanted to tell him of the many times they had helped each other. But instead, she turned to him and said, "Good evening."
He nodded, and replied, "Yes, it is . . . I wasn't aware of your arrival. When did you get in?"
"Earlier today."
"And where did you come in from?"
"Most recently, Romania, but before that Russia, the Far East, Africa. . ."
"I see. And you are a telepath. That is a strange and rare gift. Very poorly understood."
"No, and yes," she replied. "It's not as rare as it seems, but it's still poorly understood. You see, very few telepaths live freely. Most are never recognized and never trained to block out the cacophony of voices they hear. Some wind up in hospital. Some are driven to violence by the voices and wind up dead. Some are strong, and undergo a sort of self- training. These telepaths somehow survive, but often fall prey to excesses later on. They feed upon others' thoughts and memories, and live twisted lives."
He didn't know that there were unrecognized wizards and witches in this day and age and asked with genuine concern, "has anyone ever tried . . . "
"Yes, and we failed miserably," she answered quickly. "It seems that there is a narrow window of time in childhood when training and intervention can be successful. If the proper training is not received, the brain doesn't develop correctly, and it's not possible to help after that."
"And this happens right here in Europe?"
"All over the world, Severus."
He started at her use of his familiar name and a long strained silence followed.
"Tell me, Miss Traveller," he asked, not wishing to address her as Professor. "What brings you to Hogwarts, really? You have no prior teaching experience, and it seems a little unusual for you to . . . start at the top."
"Well I think that teaching is . . . an honorable profession," she began haltingly, unprepared for his sudden attack. "And I wanted to share my knowledge of self-defense with young people. So when Albus offered me the job, I jumped at it."
"Yes, you must know him quite well. He usually doesn't KISS the new hires."
She stared coldly at him as she replied, "He is an old family friend. It was he who recognized my telepathy, and made sure I received the right training when father had all but given up on me."
"Ah, your father. And what does he do?"
"He manages the Ministry's Office of Transformations, but back then he was just an auror. Did you ever, run into him, back then?"
"Not that I can recall," he said quickly to avoid a discussion of his own past. After some silence, he continued more politely, "Albus made no mention of your extraordinary travels. Do you have a profession, or were you just seeing the world?"
She stiffened as she lied, "I have worked for Albus since I left Beauxbatons."
"Doing?"
"Reporting on technological developments in the muggle world - larger trends and discoveries."
"Since when have muggles become the concern of the aurors?"
"We have been watching them for about the last twenty years - since they developed weapons that could inadvertently destroy us. Anything that poses a threat to our world is now monitored."
"Observing muggles is a horrendous waste of time and money, he said coldly.
"Perhaps it is. But you know we have a common ancestry. Long ago, we just chose the rational, and they the spiritual."
He rolled his eyes, but she continued, "Muggles are born everyday with the seeds of wizardry in them, and some secretly cultivate their skills. If we could just get beyond our prejudices, we could learn so much about our origins from these cases."
"We are self-directed and, yes, usually rational," he said angrily, clutching his knife like a weapon. They are full of lust and greed and violence and live to satisfy their appetites." .
"Yes. True, all true. They can be horribly primitive. But we can learn from them, even if they choose not to learn from us. Don't you see, by casting them as separate from ourselves, we can never use our knowledge of them for our own self-examination. And despite this antiquated notion of "pure blood," that some of us still hang on to, ours is exactly the same.
"No one knows that for sure," he answered quickly.
"I do. My work has led me into many labs around the world, and I have tested my own blood against many muggle samples. I assure you, it is exactly the same."
"You should publish that; there would be a great deal of interest."
"Yes, and a big upset for all those old families, still clinging to the notion of their purity. I would make lots of enemies."
"The concept of pure-blood, goes far beyond cells and genes, it is about honor and tradition and. . ."
"Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. More than a few of the pure-bloods became death eaters. And some of them went on to commit the most horrendous crimes. . ."
Even as the words left her mouth, she knew she had made a big mistake. She moved the remains of her dinner around on her plate as he glared at her, contemplating his response.
What a pity. He had enjoyed talking to her. She was interesting, and certainly that was refreshing. But he couldn't let such a remark just slip by. Through gritted teeth he said slowly, "You know NOTHING about what led people down that path. NOTHING about the choices they made. All this talk of learning from muggles is misguided. You are nothing but a young woman, who has gotten her choice position through family connections. And what's more, you are falsely convinced of your own uniqueness. You imagine yourself to be experienced by all your world travels, when in fact, you are simply running from the past or trying to recover something you lost long ago."
He remained, as ever, razor-sharp.
"Well, evidently your perception hasn't flagged in captivity, Severus, even if so much else has," she said quietly, but without any hint of her usual softness. "You were once so magnificent! Lord Voldemort's powerful and feared commander, then Albus' invaluable agent. Now, reduced to teaching potions to children and trading insults with your colleagues. She leaned closer, and whispered, "You know Albus keeps you here for your own protection, and he keeps you away from my job, which you could easily do, because that grotesque scar on your arm is a conduit into Voldemort's world that puts us all in danger." She leaned even closer, and lowered her voice to a hiss, "I just came in from over there, Severus, and your name is on all their lips. You didn't respond to His last summons and He wants you dead. A terrible choice really: return to Him and be killed, or stay here and die a little more each day."
Her words wounded him like blunt daggers.
"Professor Traveller! Are you ready for our little tour?" Leland Miller chimed, interrupting their argument. Not wanting to be rude to Miller, Miranda quietly got up and followed him. As he escorted her out of the great hall, she turned back towards Snape, and spoke silently to him: "Fighting amongst ourselves only strengthens His hand. I'm so sorry, really I am."
Snape was riveted by the sound of her voice in his mind. He had heard that voice before . . . many years ago. That was the voice. The one he had heard during his imprisonment in Voldemort's darkest dungeon.
He winced as he remembered the terrible days and nights he spent there. His only crime had been wanting to save the woman he had loved from Voldemort. How he had languished in that pit, forgotten by his Master, until one day he heard that sweet voice whispering to him of the world above.
Oh, that Traveller was a wretched woman for stealing that memory from him! How could she? HOW DARE SHE? Some things in this life were inviolable, and that pure, beautiful voice was his one thing. Wretched woman!
He hardly realized that he was moving, but he walked quickly out the door after her. Down the hall he saw that fool Miller telling her about the haunted armor. He stopped in front of them, grabbed Miranda by the upper arms and jammed her roughly against the castle wall. She cried out as she hit the wall, but it was a small cry. He had caused much worse. His teeth were bared, and his eyes burrowed into her - as if to pull his memories back - dark and flashing even in the hallway's half light.
She started to resist, but then fixed her eyes on him and just let the waves of his emotions wash over her.
ANGER . . . she shouldn't have done it, even if she could. FEAR . . . of the ease of her apparent violation. DESIRE FOR CONTROL. . . she would not do this to him again. Then simply, DESIRE. He moved closer, leaning into her. That odor, her scent mixed with some flower he didn't recognize. Finally, his will wavered, and she had him. She looked into him, and parted her lips - barely beckoning. She inhaled slowly, and drew him nearer still.
"Severus, really! I must protest this brutality!" Miller yelped.
Snape released her, his hands shaking slightly, and backed a forearm's length away. She hit the floor, but she did not break her gaze. He placed the two long fingers of his left hand on the base of her neck, just above her collarbone, and said, "If you EVER speak to me like that again, I will consider it a declaration of WAR between us." He backed away slowly, and swept off towards Slytherin House.
Miranda stood against the wall, with her eyes down.
"He's a madman! Are you alright?" Miller asked, stunned at what he had just seen.
"Yes I'll be fine."
They walked in silence until Miller's curiosity got the better of him, "What did you say to him?"
"Oh, nothing really. Our discussion at dinner turned nasty. We traded insults, and one of mine was about how poorly he had fared in captivity."
"You said that? To him?" he laughed "Oh, dear girl, you're lucky he didn't kill you!"
She knew that those words had not hurt Snape, but the sound of her silent voice did. She didn't expect him to react violently. She miscalculated and had narrowly escaped, but luck had nothing to do with it.
Snape took the long way back to his room and stopped at the library. A touch of his wand and the lock on the door clicked open. A gentle push of his hand and the door gave way to him. The heels of his boots pounded the floor as the scent of oiled leather and old parchment filled his senses. He made his way over to reference, to the bookstand with the 322nd edition of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the UK on it. He touched the cover of the book and it flew open to the correct page:
Traveller: Phillip, b 1913; auror; Ministry; m. Sophie (deWald; b 1918), auror; deceased, 1972. 1d. Miranda G., b 1972; telepath, auror; Bacc.(hon) Bb.
He tapped the page. More entries appeared, back one, two, five generations in Britain and France. All deceased. So, she was almost thirty years old. Her parents were old, quite old when she was born, and her mother died soon after - unusual. Both aurors, then Ministry, it figures. Wait! Phillip Traveller, the auror turned Minister? Not him . . . not again.
Snape breathed hard and he clutched the pedestal as he remembered Traveller raging at him during his interrogations. Traveller's pale skin had turned scarlet as he paced in front of Snape. He wanted more information, more details . . . more, always more. So many times he had been grateful for being tied to his chair, for he surely would have come to blows with that horrible man if he had been free. He recalled the suspicions, the derisions and the endless terrible insults Traveller had hurled at him in his potion- induced weakness. He laughed ruefully as he thought that that was how the Ministry treated men who had volunteered to help bring Voldemort's reign to an end.
Snape's sad reverie ended abruptly when the library door creaked open and Argus Filtch, the school's caretaker thumped in followed by his cat Mrs. Norris. Filtch bared his teeth as he squinted into the shadows beyond the lantern. His eyes fell on Snape and he startled.
"Oh! My apologies, Professor. I saw the door ajar and wanted to be sure there wasn't an intruder about."
"Quite alright, Filtch," Snape replied softly. "I'll lock up when I'm done."
"Yes, sir, Professor," Filtch said as he slipped quietly out of the room.
Snape turned back to the book, hesitated, suspecting what he might find, but then tapped the book once more. The pages fluttered softly, like wings of a great moth until he found the correct entry:
Snape: Salazar, b 1946; m. Madeline (Greenstone; b 1950); 1 d. Samantha b 1992.
Madeline Greenstone, Gabrielle's older sister. It was supposed to be another one of his father's great mergers: The Greenstones and The Snapes, two old, pure-blood families. And now, a niece he had never seen. He tapped the page twice more, no other entries. His fingernails scratched lightly down the page as he reeled. His brother had erased him, their father and all of their ancestors from history.