Seers, Professors, and Death Eaters

The next morning, she stumbled down the stairs at noon. Remus looked up from his tea, and smiled at her. "Morning, sleepy head," he called.

She scowled at him, and yawned loudly. "That stuff tasted foul," she groused.

"Don't blame me, blame Snape," said Remus. "Blaming Snape is fun."

She blinked, and looked blearily about the room. "I see... blue," she said finally. "There are blue flames. All over."

Remus stared at her. "Sit down," he soothed. "You're seeing things. I don't think you're quite awake yet. I'll Floo Snape and ask him about it."

She sat down next to him. "They are there," she insisted. "They're coming from you."

Remus brushed off his sleeves. "Nothing there."

He was worried. Snape had said side effects weren't likely, but then again Philomena wasn't exactly the most normal child.

"Yes, there is," she said, going to him and grabbing at the air about an inch from his sleeve. "You see? I caught it!"

Remus started as her hand brushed his arm. He heard a snap! and saw a very real spark leap to her finger. She froze for a moment, eyes wide in shock, and then crouched to the floor, her hands covering her head. Instantly, he knelt beside her, and tried to help her up. To his horror, she was shaking uncontrollably.

"Philomena," he asked anxiously, "what's wrong?"

She shuddered violently once more, and grabbed his arm to pull herself back up.

"I... I..." she stuttered, "saw... saw... you... darkness."

"A vision?" he asked, while helping her to the sofa. "The flames must be the Energy Pulses, then. Snape said you'd be able to reach out to them. What did you See?"

She wrapped her arms around herself. "It was... dark. In a very torn down house. And you were... bleeding on the floor. Ralf was there. He was angry... shouting..."

Remus swallowed, and sat down beside her. "What was he shouting?"

"'Turn her back,'" she said. "Over and over again. 'Turn her back'."

Remus wrinkled his brow and tried to imagine the scene in his head. The building was most probably the Shrieking Shack although he couldn't think of a reason for him to go back to it. As for Ralf, Remus didn't really want to think about him.

She drew a shaky breath. "It's all right," she said. "It probably won't happen. They don't always. Besides... Uncle Ralf isn't coming back. He said so."

He sighed. "Philomena," he said, "I... I don't think I told you, but ... I never meant to leave you with him. I ... I thought you were dead, all this time..."

She didn't say anything but shivered, hugging herself.

"I swear to you, Philomena. I will do everything I can to make your future as better than your past has been."

Her reaction astonished Remus. She started to cry. He shifted uncomfortably, not knowing quite what to do. After all, she hadn't ever come out of her prim and proper persona before now. She fell back against the sofa cushions, shivering with mostly silent sobs.

Suddenly, the Wolf showed a side of herself she hadn't before, a fierce protective urge. Remus was suddenly filled with a rage against everything that had hurt his child. He gathered her into his arms and stroked her hair. She clutched reflexively at his shoulder, and sobbed into his chest.

He rocked slightly as the Wolf reared up inside him, telling him he had to make her stop crying. He had to comfort her somehow. His senses were overwhelmed with the smell of her distress, and the frantic urge to quell it.

"It's all right, my heart," he whispered into her hair, slipping easily into the speech patterns of the Clan, although he'd never spoken on such a level with other werewolves besides Ralf. "Love, love, I'll always tread the trails with ye."

He wasn't sure if she understood what he was trying to tell her; that he'd always be with her, and would always protect her, but somehow he knew it didn't matter what he said at that point, as long he eased her distress.

Her sobs stopped, but she continued to clutch his shoulder. Caught in a bubble of protective instinct, Remus continued to rock back and forth, stroking her hair. Gradually, she fell asleep. He didn't dare move for fear of waking her, and so he held continued to hold her.

XXX

Snape waited impatiently in the empty classroom Dumbledore had given him for an Occlumency classroom. Howard Pyle waved cheekily at him from the frame over the fireplace. Snape raised an eyebrow at him.

"It's all right, professor," assured the portrait. "He doesn't suspect a thing. I assume today's meeting will simply be a continuation of yesterday's... lesson? Some shouting, fainting, cursing, absolutely no mention of Legilimency?"

Snape nodded, curtly. "Of course. What else? After all, I'm a predictable, trustworthy, honorable Slytherin."

"Right, then," said Pyle cheerily. "In that case, I won't bother watching. I'll go back to the kitchens as that portrait's got my drawing supplies in it."

"Have fun," Snape called after him as the figure disappeared from the frame.

Snape looked over the room once more. It had been cleared out except for a large bookshelf, because broken furniture had so frequently been a result of their lessons. The bookshelf remained only because it was bolted to the wall, and the Bloody Baron liked to sulk on the top shelf.

Snape had spent a good deal of the early morning hours before breakfast visiting several book collectors who happened to owe him favors. He had returned with a satisfactory collection of highly illegal books he was sure suited his purpose.

Potter knocked, as he always did, and slipped in without waiting for a reply. He was out of breath and fell back against the door as soon as he'd shut it. "Sorry," he panted. "I ran all the way from the Great Hall."

Snape sneered at him. "Of course, the great Quidditch star can catch the Snitch easily as bat an eye, but can't make it from the Great Hall to here in under ten minutes."

Potter shut his eyes and muttered something under his breath. He opened them again to stare Snape in the eye.

"Professor Snape," he said, having counted to ten as Hermione had suggested, "please. We only have about twenty minutes before the next class. I can count on being as late as I want with Hagrid, but I'm sure your students would take all too well to being left in your classroom without you for any period of time."

Snape nodded curtly, biting back a scalding reply about Harry bloody Potter going off scot-free, no matter which rules he broke.

"Neither of us has time," he said, "for an actual lesson. But I have some books here. I would like you to read them before our next official Occlumency session, which is next week."

Severus handed Potter the books one by one. "Avada Kedavra- Charm or Curse? An Analysis," by Gaspard Shingleton. "Wilbert Slinkhard's Ultimate Guide to Not Dying." "How to Live without a Wand," by Blenheim Stalk. "How Dark is Dark?" by Quentin Trimble. "The Other Side of Arithmancy," by Adalbert Waffling.

"Yes sir," was all Harry said, as he put each book carefully into his bag.

"It goes without saying," continued Snape, "that under no circumstances is anybody to know you have these, nor are you to speak of what you learn. For your own good, Potter, I suggest you finish your own book on Legilimency, and bring that with you next week. I can dispose of it easier than you can."

Harry nodded, once. "Anything else, sir?"

"I'd thank you not to doodle in the margins," Snape added, "or mark the books in any way. Some books of the type are... sensitive to mistreatment, and can be very vindictive. I'd hate to have to explain your untimely demise to Albus, Poppy, and the Dark Lord."

"Yes sir," said Harry, nodding. "I'll see you next week, then."

He turned and disappeared through the door. Snape frowned, and took his favorite secret passage out of the room to his classroom. "One more week," he thought. "One more week and I can get my hands on that book..."

XXX

In Voldemort's underground city, two Wizards were working in a darkened room. Rabastan Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov weren't particularly happy with the job they had been given but they knew it was not a good idea to argue with Lord Voldemort.

"All I said," muttered Rabastan, "was that the Potter problem was a 'bloody mess.'"

"And you got us this job," snapped Dolohov. "Mind you, either the Dark Lord kills us because this project doesn't work, or Snape will kill us because he finds out we're the ones that messed with his blood."

"I'm sorry for getting you mixed up in it," apologized Rabastan. "We'll probably both be dead within a month or two. Let's just hope it works, or the Dark Lord decides to take us off of this job for something else."

"My own fault for standing next to an idiot," sighed Dolohov. "Just be glad we weren't sent out with the others to the Dragons. Mark my words, that lot won't live long, they won't."

"We aren't getting anywhere," Rabastan grumbled. "I'm sure Snape knows a lot more about Blood Magic than either of us. Bloody nuisance that he just happened to be chosen as the donor. Snape looked so angry... thought he'd kill someone. There's no way he'll help us. Especially if he thought we were the ones working on the project."

"He's so tetchy," sighed Dolohov, "and I'm sure he blamed us for him being chosen. I have the odd feeling he knows, some how. He's got that way of ... staring into your eyes, and just knowing. But what can I do if Voldemort thought he'd be the only one close enough to Hogwarts to use it, but pale enough for the blood loss not to be noticeable..."

"Damn it," cursed Rabastan. "It's congealing again. Isn't there a permanent Anticoagulant Spell?"

"If there is," said Dolohov, "then it's snug in a book smack dab in the middle of Snape's library. Trust me, he'd be happy as a lark if we ended up killed over this. You know how tetchy he is about being an ingredient. I can't figure out whether he thinks his blood is too Pure for that kind of thing, or whether he's just squeamish about adding his Essence to things."

Rabastan flipped despondently through a battered book. "I knew we'd never get anywhere with something written by Emeric Switch," he griped.

"It's simple, really," drawled Dolohov. "We bind the Essence of his blood to anything at all, and add the spells for Intent. We use some of Potter's blood to key it to him. We have it placed somewhere where that brat will find it. He touches it, the spell activates, and voom! he's dead as a stoat."

"A few small problems with that," sighed Rabastan. "Number one, we can't figure out how to separate the Essence, number two, we haven't got any way of getting Potter's blood and Snape is under orders to stay out of Potter's way so that Dumbledore doesn't suspect anything. Number three, nobody has the foggiest idea how to bind an Intent to the damn thing. It hasn't been done with any success since 1432, and that case wasn't documented. Number four is easy. We'd give it to Snape to plant in the kid's dormitory or something."

"Let's do number four and skip the rest," said Dolohov.

"Do stop joking, Antonin," snapped Rabastan. "Our little pink bodies are on the line, here. The Dark Lord is not a person to joke with, especially when it has anything to do with Harry Potter."

"I've half a mind to poison Potter's toothpaste," muttered Dolohov. "That is, I would if I weren't afraid of Snape suing me for infringing on his copyrighted assassination method."

"Ha," sneered Rabastan, "that was his only ever killing mission, and it failed."

"Not his fault, really," commented Dolohov, halfheartedly recasting the Anticoagulant Spell, "considering that his target chose that day to run off to Bulgaria, conveniently forgetting his hair brush, his toothpaste, and three boxes of chocolate frog cards."

"Never seen Snape so miffed," said Rabastan. "Thought he'd blow the house to bits when he didn't find a body to bring back. And the chocolate frog cards just took the cake. He was hoping against hope that old Mr. Krum had actually left the records there."

"Damn shame, really," said Dolohov lightly, "considering it was the chap's first assassination. Dashed embarrassing, too. Hasn't been sent on one since, come to think of it. Just spying for Dumbledore. Must be beastly boring for the poor man. Having to deal with bratty children all day, never once getting an opportunity to vent anger on Muggles..."

"From what I hear," said Rabastan, "he vents his anger on students."

"With good reason," answered Dolohov. "Children nowadays just aren't as smart, talented, or studious as we were at that age. It's Mudblood influence, of course. Makes them lazy as Flobberworms."

"It's the brain frequencies," agreed Rabastan, "from the Mudbloods they're exposed to in school. It corrodes their intellectual capacity. Shame, really, look what's happened to such promising lads as young Malfoy for instance. While his mind is shattered by the frequencies, a Mudblood scampers ahead to place top in the class. Never seen Lucius more peeved, honestly."

"Ah ha!" cried Dolohov happily, "I've found something! A Binding Spell. For Charms, actually, but I'm sure we could modify it a bit, to bind the Essence. Now all we need is a way to extract the Essence..."

"Let alone figuring out the rest of it," finished Rabastan. "I hope to goodness that boy falls off his broomstick tomorrow so that we can die naturally."

"Oh, don't be so moody," chided Dolohov. "The Dark Lord wouldn't kill a man with blood as Pure as yours over a thing like this. At most a Crucio, or two..."

Rabastan groaned and ran his hands through his hair. "Do you remember the way it was in the very beginning?" he asked quietly. "Remember? He never hurt us. Only them. He said we were perfect, he did. Said he couldn't rise to power without us, he did. And then bloody James Potter came along and ruined everything."

"Yes," said Dolohov dreamily. "It was so perfect. We were nearly there. Nearly had Britain under our thumbs. Idiot Gryffindor, organizing his Army of Light. If it weren't for those idiotic rumors that he'd created a counter curse for Avada Kedavra..."

"If only," agreed Rabastan. "Then our Lord wouldn't have killed him trying to find it. He wouldn't have insisted on making it a personal battle. And he wouldn't have tried to kill that blasted boy."

"He never was the same when he came back," said Dolohov. "Bitter, I suppose, that none of us came to look for him. Don't know why he can't see it our way. After all, we came to the house and all there was was a crater. Nothing left of him but his wand... Why shouldn't we have thought he was dead?"

"It started before that, I think," said Rabastan. "It started after Regulus tried to betray us all. Regulus was the first of us he ever killed... after that, I think he didn't want any chance at all of it happening again."

"Right," agreed Dolohov. "That is when it happened. I forget sometimes. Regulus... I never likedRegulus. He was such a silly lad. He was all for it in theory, but when they told him to go torture information from his brother... Stupid, really. He didn't even like his brother. Refused to hurt him, out of 'loyalty to his family.' I suppose he can't have been right in the head, to think of Sirius Black as family after he'd been disinherited."

"Do you think Sirius knew?" mused Rabastan, discarding his book for an even nastier one. "I can't remember when he started really fighting us. Before or after Regulus was A.K.ed?"

"Doesn't matter really, does it?" asked Dolohov. "Seeing that he was arrested for going after Peter. Bloody Ministry fools... Can't tell their heroes from their villains, you know. Lucky for us, and all, but I can't help feeling sorry for the poor fool. I wonder how he escaped."

"I lost interest after we got the Dementors on our side," shrugged Rabastan. "No point in learning to escape the hard way, when all you have to do is ask nicely, and pull up your sleeve."

"How do you think he did it?" asked Dolohov. "I keep thinking that Werewolf friend of Potter's finally worked out what actually happened and went to break him out. But then how would a Werewolf infiltrate Azkaban without ending up as Dementor feed? Pity the man died, really. I'd have liked to personally ... ask him for the information."

Rabastan shrugged and searched the index for 'Essence.'

"I've heard," he said, changing the subject, "from Avery, that there's some sort of illegal charms club started up in the Ministry. Wonder if we can get anybody from there. I'm sure some idiotic Light group runs it, and we might be able to infiltrate them that way; get back into the Dark Lord's grace. Not that we'll ever have the opposition we had last time. Not with all of the fools relying on Harry Potter to save them if anything goes wrong."

Dolohov shrugged. "Not our cup of tea," he said, "seeing as neither of us can spy worth a brass Knutt . If the Dark Lord has any interest in the matter at all, he'd send Snape, of course."

"Damn the man," said Rabastan. "How has he kept from dying all these years? You'd think somebody in that nest of Muggle-loving idiots would have figured him out be now. He wears his heart on his sleeve; no subtly at all. You can see from a mile away where his loyalties lie. Practically has a sign on his back, saying 'Proud Supporter of the Eventual Demise of Albus Dumbledore.'"

"Either Dumbledore really is an idiot," replied Dolohov, "or Snape has a few tricks up his sleeve none of us knows about. He's a tricky, slimy fellow, Snape is. Could trick a Leprechaun out of his real pot of gold. Seen him do it myself, during a mission in Ireland. Any man as can beat the little people in guile, is a man to be reckoned with. I never have been able to figure him out. Was in my year at school, too. He followed people around, he did; never said anything to anybody, beyond 'pass the butter.' I wouldn't trust him further than I could throw him, personally."

"Oh, don't be an idiot," chided Rabastan. "It's all an act. He's very bad at acting, shows through every time. When he stands there with that 'I know far more than you do' expression, he's bluffing. He hasn't got any more information than the rest of us. I just wish somebody would show him up, one of these days."

"Why don't you do it?" challenged Dolohov.

"Frankly," said Rabastan, "because he's probably still mad at me, and he's always been far better than I am at dueling. I swear the man's nose can smell Spells. He always knows when he's attacked from behind. Dodges every time."

"Maybe it's some protective Rune or something," speculated Dolohov, "though I've never seen him wear anything unusual..."

"He was wearing a throat clasp last meeting," said Rabastan, "come to think of it. It was simply pulsing with magic."

"He's never worn it before though," protested Dolohov, "and he's always known a spell was coming his way."

"Wish I was in his good books" sighed Rabastan. "I'd give anything to know how he does it."

"Nobody is in Snape's good books," said Dolohov. "Like I said, he's a slippery, stealthy man. He doesn't trust anybody at all, certainly not enough to give them a secret like that. Probably runs in the family. Took forever for the elder Snape to die. Many people hated him enough to kill him. Not that they didn't try either. But, curse him, he died at the ripe old age of one hundred and fifty-eight. Fell down the stairs, of all the bloody things."

"Let's quit for tonight, Antonin," sighed Rabastan, slamming his book shut. "I'm too tired to think."

"I'll try and get on Malfoy's good side," said Dolohov, closing his own book. "He seems to be closer to Snape than anybody else. If I can get him to have a personal interest in the project perhaps..."

"I'd take any help just about now," said Rabastan, putting away the books, and locking the blood back in its cupboard, "even from a House Elf."

"Good night, then," said Dolohov. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Do check your family library. Haven't you an uncle who was a Necromancer?"

"Yes, good night," yawned Rabastan. "If you see Snape, try and trip him for me. Bloody unhelpful git."