**** CREDITS for all unoriginal characters, places, events, and dialogue to J.K. Rowling. CREDITS for chapter titles to lyrics by Stevie Nicks/Fleetwood Mac. Original characters my own. ****

****MATURE CONTENT. Much like my original character, I make no apologies when it comes to sex. Prepare for mature content throughout.

****TIMELINE/NOTES: This is a love triangle- Sirius vs Severus x OC, set during the events of Order of the Phoenix. I've done my best to research dates and events to weave this story into the original, but please forgive me if I'm a bit off here and there. I also blend book and film together as it best fits this particular story and telling of the characters.

****Please comment! Would love to hear your thoughts and discuss the characters.

Chapter Title from "Rhiannon" by Fleetwood Mac.

The church bell tolled the eight o'clock hour as the sun started to wane. It mixed with the symphony of crickets and cicadas that hung in the early summer air, already heavy and thick with humidity. Rhiannon grew up thinking that hot, heavy air was what trapped the spirits here, as if they danced and cavorted their heady, passionate way along the invisible spectrum of dew and heat. That was the romantic way of thinking about it. Rhiannon's actual way of thinking was that summer in the South was oppressive and hellish.

It was the third summer she had been back home to New Orleans after leaving Ilvermorny, and she still could not re-acclimate. She longed for the crisp air of New England, the lush darkness of the forests and their bright array of color in the fall, even the ice and snow. Summers there were gentle, breezy, and the sun was a friend instead of Satan himself. She had felt alive during her five years at Ilvermorny- alive in every way. And even though she knew she would never return, she longed not just for the sacred, mystic halls, but for who she was when she was there.

She sighed as she strode past the old graveyard with the even older weeping willow trees standing guard over the souls resting there. Rhiannon knew just about every one of their names, having gone for endless walks in the two months since her mother died. Her mother was not buried there; she had insisted on cremation, but somehow visiting the souls of centuries of New Orleans' residents made her feel closer to her mother than sitting next to the urn in the little apartment they had shared. She knew it was because her mother had been a part of something bigger, part of the monolithic spirit that solidified this place in the history of the supernatural.

Her mother Epona had not been a witch. Not in the literal sense. She had never received an acceptance letter from Ilvermorny and was never trained in the magical arts. But her knowledge of the healing arts, mysticism, and even a dalliance in the more useful and strangely beautiful parts of dark magic seemed to be innate. Like she was born of the earth. Part of the very dust of the New Orleans ground and part of the wind that whispered in the willows. When Rhiannon went on these walks she felt her- her love, her power, and her memory.

Rhiannon was grateful she was able to remain on the street where they had lived together and in the little third floor apartment that had been their home since Epona had brought her there as a baby almost nineteen years ago. The apartment was essentially the attic of a 19th century Victorian, built of now-ramshackle dark wood with white adornments that looked like lace. They rented from an old woman named Ms. Pearl, who had been like a grandmother to Rhiannon, caring for her many nights while her mother worked. While she was kind, she was also pragmatic. Tears were promptly wiped away and replaced with chores, for "keeping busy is the quickest way to forget your worries."

When Rhiannon returned abruptly from Ilvermorny after her fifth year, completely distraught once she learned she wouldn't be returning, Ms. Pearl quickly got her a job working as a tutor and mentor for local children in their underprivileged community. While Rhiannon and Epona scarcely had more resources than the kids she cared for, Ms. Pearl was quick to remind her that there was always someone less fortunate, and self pity was a waste of time and mind.

Being as practical as she was, Ms. Pearl wasn't about to let Rhiannon live rent-free, even after her mother's passing. She remained there only by the blessing of a benefactor from overseas. Another one of the mysteries of Rhiannon's childhood that it seemed she would never understand. Her mother wrote to the unnamed benefactor, and contacted him in other ways as well, all with varying forms of magic. Rhiannon had no idea how her mother knew the man, who he was, or why he took an interest in their livelihood. She only knew that every time they faced adversity of some kind, he seemed to pop back into their lives again.

Most notably, it was the mysterious benefactor who insisted Rhiannon stay home from Ilvermorny for her sixth year, thus putting an abrupt end to her magical education and training. Rhiannon of course had been livid. She had achieved nearly perfect scores on her E.A.G. (with the exception of Potions, of course- it had always been a struggle for her.) Who the hell was this man that he had the power to ruin the life of a young girl he'd never met? To effectively wipe the slate of her future clean and relegate her to the life of a struggling New Orleans No-Maj forever.

Epona had been able to talk him into pulling some strings for Rhiannon to enroll in public school and finish her education, but of course it was a whole different world from Ilvermorny. None of her education transferred of course, and to this day Rhiannon had no idea how the man had gotten through the red tape to let her join her peers of similar age in her parish high school with such unexplainable gaps in her No-Maj education. He had to be magical, and well-connected, whoever he was.

She had often imagined that it was her father, but Epona was quick to shut down any notion along those lines. Rhiannon's father was gone. Not dead, not disappeared, not a run-away, just "gone." That was the only word used to describe him, in the few conversations they had ever had on the subject. It was natural for Rhiannon to dream that the man who took care of them when trouble called, the man whose pleasant, polite voice sometimes seemed to come from their living room fireplace, was her father. After all, when you didn't have one at all, your father really could be anyone, couldn't he? Even at nearly nineteen, part of her still dared to wonder.

As Rhiannon moved past the old church with its last toll still hanging on the twilight air, she noticed a small glow up the sidewalk ahead, followed by a puff of smoke. It appeared to be coming from in front of Compton's, a little bakery cafe she had loved dearly as a child that had been boarded up since the year after she returned. The owners had prepared the spot for an incoming tropical storm and had never returned, much to the disappointment of the community.

As Rhiannon got closer she thought she could make out an open door where the boards once stood. She focused on the figure outside the open door, whose gaze seemed to be locked on her as she approached. He was tall, with sandy brown hair and a lazy grin that exchanged places every so often with the cigarette in his hand. Rhiannon felt a little flutter.

He might be what gets me through this night, she thought grimly to herself. When she was in these pensive moods on her long graveyard walks, sometimes she needed something real to snap her out of her melancholy. A cute stranger could be just the thing.

It wasn't like her ex was in the picture anymore. No, he had packed up and taken off for a track coaching position at a New England college with only a note. He had been talking about it for a month and of course knew how badly Rhiannon wanted to return up North. Whenever she would mention tagging along, he would change the subject, suggest a movie or takeout, or go out for a run. The writing was on the wall, but the breakup on a piece of notebook paper still stung. It had been quite a hard few months.

Hooking up with random strangers was not her normal M.O. — until this past year. She was normally more of a loner— friendly and talkative when she met someone, but preferring to explore and seek adventure on her own, often floating between the real world and a dreamlike feeling that she could easily slip in and out of at leisure. But the pain of these past few months had been so intense that she desperately needed something, anything, to dull the ache. That had resulted in more sexual encounters than she would care to admit. In them she found not only comfort, but a part of herself she'd always known existed but never really had a chance to flourish— an empowerment, and a new kind of energy that was frightening and thrilling at the same time.

"You're a witch, aren't you?" a voice drawled from the previously boarded-up doorway. The man smiled again before briefly disappearing behind a cloud of smoke.

Rhiannon froze and tried to keep her face expressionless. She had been under strict orders never to reveal her place in the magical realm to anyone, ever. She was to live the life of a thoroughly modern No-Maj woman with no mentions of Ilvermorny and minimal (preferably no) magic. She had discovered a way to keep her wand on her, buried at the bottom of a carpetbag that she carried with her wherever she went. Not that it would be much use to her, buried under the combination of both useful and nonsensical things she had used to hide it in the seemingly endless bag. But having it on her person was essential. She wasn't herself without the 9 3/4 inch wand crafted of golden oak and horsehair.

Ms. Pearl had taken her to a shop on St. Peter to buy the wand as soon as she had received her Ilvermorny letter, along with her books and supplies, and a pet frog they had named Jekyll. The amphibian had been just as devastated to leave Ilvermorny as Rhiannon had been; he ran away from the apartment within three months of their return to New Orleans.

Rhiannon cleared her throat and placed a hand automatically on her carpetbag, straightening her posture. "I suppose my resting witch-face is strong, huh?" she joked in return. The man just eyed her.

"Not a witch." She continued. "And what kind of question is that, anyway?"

Rhiannon noticed that the guy was wearing black pants and a white shirt like he worked in a kitchen. She peered behind him into the open door to see he had obviously been working in the former restaurant space. She noticed a large rat scurry across the kitchen floor and wrinkled her nose.

"You reopening this place?" she asked before he had a chance to respond to her original question.

"Yep, I'm a chef," he replied. "Always dreamed of having my own place, even when I was at Ilvermorny." His eyes studied her, and she tried not to let her face betray the fact that her heart began to race. "This spot was pretty...affordable." He smirked and nodded his head toward the ramshackle building as the resident rat scurried out of the open door and down the sidewalk.

"Well, good luck to you. It was always one of my favorite places," Rhiannon said hurriedly, continuing down her path and mentally counting the steps back to her apartment.

"Wait!" he called to her. "I was about to whip up something for supper. Care to sample?" She noticed his accent had a unrecognizable quality to it and she figured he must be a transplant, though obviously trying to sound like he fit in.

"No, thank you." Rhiannon quickened her pace and refused to look behind her. Part of her, the Thunderbird part, nagged at the back of her mind, telling her to go back. She was lonely and she longed for magic, longed for Ilvermorny. Behind her stood a wizard, and a handsome one at that. And he could cook. Rhiannon adored food from all over the world. She loved the colors, the smells, the exotic spices, and the way her senses could transport her on adventures without her feet ever taking a step. Her meager stipend from the benefactor and the money she made from tutoring hardly lined up with her culinary tastes. In fact, she could hear her stomach grumble as she walked. She stopped for a second but didn't turn around. Dinner, sex, and if she was lucky, breakfast. It was tempting.

"What's your name?" she called, cautiously peering over her shoulder.

"Kevin," his voice returned, and she could hear the satisfaction in his tone. An image of her mother shaking her head crept into her mind. Not shaking her head in disbelief or disappointment, but in adamant warning. The Horned Serpent part of her was trying to take over now, telling her how ludicrous and dangerous and illogical this whole scenario was. In the end though, she chose Thunderbird. She always did.

"What's for dinner, Kevin?" she asked, sauntering back toward the wizard and to the restaurant where she had so many memories. He offered her his arm as she approached, and together they entered through the open door.

Severus Snape stood at the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place, his dark eyes raised to the heavens as the doorbell echoed through the halls of the "noble and most ancient House of Black." It was a pleasant summer afternoon, a nice breeze floating across the lilies of the planter boxes all in a row alongside the cobblestone streets. There was barely a cloud in the sky, and the voices of children on holiday filled the air. The happiness of a new, carefree summer abounded, and that meant that Severus could normally be found planted firmly indoors, in a high leatherback chair, his hooked nose buried in one of the thousands of dusty volumes found in his home at Spinner's End. Welsh mythology held his captive attention at the moment, at least it had until he received an owl from Albus Dumbledore summoning him to afternoon tea. That meant, of course, that the Order of the Phoenix was meeting at 12 Grimmauld Place. Attendance not optional.

"Come in, Snape," Kreacher growled, sulking as he held the door open for the tall, imposing wizard. "Which way is the breeze blowing today?" the elf added snidely. "Toast with your tea? Dark or light?"

Severus looked at him cooly, not gracing the crotchety house elf with a response. He stood with hands crossed in front of him and waited to be summoned into the dining room, where the Order would gather at their long table, deciding how to best run the world today. He planned to say as little as possible and exit as quickly as they would allow. With Harry Potter at home for the summer and not due back at Hogwarts for nearly two months, this meeting surely was a mere formality rather than a cause for alarm.

"Afternoon, Snivellus," a jovial voice greeted him.

Severus stared through slitted eyes at a clean, grinning, and polished Sirius Black, hair coiffed and curled, donning a smoking jacket and gold tokens of the Black family wealth. Ignoring the smear, Severus quickly asked the purpose of their gathering today, only to be met with a casual shrug.

He followed his obnoxious nemesis into the formal dining room, taking a seat at the seemingly endless long wooden table. It was the only room of the house that bespoke of its former grandeur, the rest in a sad state of disrepair. In the dim light Severus could make out an easel at the far end of the table, enshrouded with a fabric as if prepared for a grand reveal. Next to the easel sat Albus Dumbledore, robes glittering, eyes ever-twinkling over speckled half moons. To his right sat Minerva McGonagall, oddly standing out in a Gryffindor red blouse and black slacks as opposed to her normal school robes. To her right sat Hestia Jones. Also at the table sat Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody, and the parents Weasley. Severus knew the younger Order members Charlie and Bill were off elsewhere, Charlie recruiting foreign assistance to strengthen their ranks against Voldemort, and Bill on Gringotts business. Mundungus Fletcher was likely guarding Harry on Privet Drive, although Severus would wager rather poorly.

Sirius made a point to sit next to Severus on his left, no doubt to torture him at every given opportunity throughout today's events. Severus couldn't help but remark on a notable absence from the table.

"And where might your dearly devoted companion be, Black? I do hope I've not forgotten that time of the month, as my Wolfsbane ingredient stores are dwindling a bit."

Sirius opened his mouth to respond, but Dumbledore interceded before he could. "Always right to the point, Severus," he commended the younger wizard. "Indeed Professor Lupin's whereabouts are a key component of our discussion today. As are those of Ms. Tonks." He turned ceremoniously to the easel at his side, stripping away the fabric with a wave of his wand. "First, I must ask— do you notice anything out of the ordinary about this girl?"

The eyes of everyone at the table fell on an old magical portrait of a child, about six or seven, dressed in Muggle blue jeans and a rainbow t-shirt, a daisy in her long blond curls. She was laughing at whatever had caught her attention camera-side, light shining from bright green eyes.

"Her eyes," Hestia suggested hesitantly. "They are very, very bright. Obviously magical."

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. "But anything else? Anything 'sinister,' perhaps?"

Severus studied the portrait hard, always eager to discover the mystery before everyone else. He noticed Sirius lean forward next to him, in obvious competition. Both men came back from the task empty handed and silent, as did their fellow Order members.

Dumbledore smiled. "Good. I want you all remember that, even when I share this next bit of information. We cannot judge a person through preconceived notions. Nor we can judge them by their parentage or their associations." His eyes rested on Severus directly, and they heard Alastor Moody scoff a bit under his breath.

"Fellow members of the Order, in a short time you shall be introduced to this young girl, no longer a child, but a couple months shy of her nineteenth birthday. Her name is Rhiannon Aspenfell — though a name given by her mother, not taken from her father. Miss Aspenfell is Lord Voldemort's daughter."

Gasps filled the room. Severus heard Moody's cane strike the floor as he scoffed once again.

Severus narrowed his eyes at the elder wizard, the information not settling right away as the wheels in his head churned and clicked. The Dark Lord had never so much as hinted that he had children, although it could certainly be possible with his proclivities toward debauchery and sexual magic. Nearly nineteen would put her birth year five years before Voldemort killed the Potters. He did the math and realized he was still a student at Hogwarts then. In fact it was the very year Sirius, James Potter, and their merry tagalongs had seen fit to humiliate him publicly by tormenting him by the Black Lake. Lily had intervened, and in his embarrassment, Severus had met her defense with a blazing retort...

He closed his eyes briefly and cleared the memory from his head. Yes, Voldemort's power had grown quite great that year, but Severus wasn't sure his exact whereabouts or whom he would have possibly kept as female company. The Dark Lord's appearance would have already been horribly disfigured by dark magic then, not even a shadow of his former handsome features. Whoever the poor woman was must have been a victim or a concubine. Likely both.

"Albus, how do you know this for certain?" Kingsley asked. "And what role do Remus and Tonks play in all of this?"

"I have been in communication with Miss Aspenfell's mother since the child was born," the wizard replied. "We had a mutual friend that informed me of their unfortunate entanglement and kept me abreast of updates in the child's life and throughout her education at Ilvermorny."

"She's AMERICAN?" Moody asked incredulously.

"Indeed she is, Alastor. And I suspect Remus and Tonks are landing on a Muggle flight from New Orleans with her as we speak. The security risk was far too great and Miss Aspenfell's condition much too fragile to risk any magical means of transportation."

"You sent a werewolf on an overseas mission?" Severus sneered. "On a plane with Muggles?"

"Remus and Tonks have the temperament needed to care for the girl and earn her trust. And we are still nearly three weeks away from a full moon, Severus, as you well know." Dumbledore's tone was stern. "Now that Voldemort has returned, the girl must be in the Order's protection. Her mother sadly passed away two months ago and can no longer protect her. And I suspect she will be of great service to the Order. Her marks on her E.A.G. were most outstanding."

"And her H.A. ?" Minerva inquired.

"Ah, I suspect would have been quite impressive as well, had she been permitted to remain at Ilvermorny past her fifth year."

Severus had been staring down at his hands in thought but quickly snapped his head up. His intuition had become quite adept at suspecting when a Dumbledore assignment was on the horizon.

"I removed her from the school for her own protection the summer after the Chamber of Secrets was opened," Dumbledore continued. "She lived as a No-Maj with her mother and under the watchful eye of the voodoo priestess who had notified me of their connection to Voldemort years ago. I had always hoped that her studies could be continued someday, and that time has arrived."

"She will enroll at Hogwarts? At 18?" Minerva asked, aghast. "Albus, the statutes of the school are quite clear."

"No, Minerva, she will be privately tutored and under strict protection at Hogwarts. She will not be permitted to mingle with the students and staff until the time is right."

"And when will that be?" Molly Weasley spoke up. "They will eat the poor girl alive when they find out who her father is!"

"And for good reason," Moody growled.

"Now, Alastor, let's give the girl a chance," Sirius chided. "Surely you see the value of harnessing her power for our side."

Severus took a breath and prepared to ask his question in a measured tone, knowing his only bargaining tools with Albus were logic and a level head. He knew exactly where this would end up and knew he must put a stop to it immediately. His best bet was to force the wizard to lay the cards out on the table quickly.

"Headmaster, I must ask your plans for her lessons and how you plan to hide her amongst hundreds of curious eyes. Getting her from instructor to instructor without being seen will be impossible, and word will get out quickly."

"I completely agree, Severus. The natural place for her to remain hidden is in the dungeons, and the most appropriate instructor for her will be one who mastered every N.E.W.T. level enough to impart that knowledge to her. I thank you for volunteering for the task."

Minerva stood up indignantly. "Albus, you will not send an eighteen year-old girl to live in the dungeons with Severus Snape! Have you lost all sense of propriety?"

Sirius stood as well. "I must concur with Minerva, Albus. This seems ill-advised."

"For once I agree with the dog," Severus said sharply. "I am much too busy with teaching, Order duties, and the unfortunate task of responding to pesky and painful summons with little time to waste. I cannot take on the sixth and seventh year education of a student in every single subject and tend to the daily needs of her housing and well-being. You are asking too much."

"I'm not asking, Severus," Albus said somberly. "Your connection to the Dark Lord is precisely why you must be the one to train her and to guard her. You know him, and you'll recognize him in her. You'll find her great potential and channel it into use for the greater good. You'll monitor Voldemort's movements and know how best to keep her safe should he learn of her existence. This is the plan, and this is the role you must play."

"You'll have a house elf to aid with her daily comforts," Dumbledore continued. "You'll of course have Minerva and I for counsel, and I plan on letting our golden trio and the other Weasley children meet her before summer's end as well. They are old enough to be trusted with some of our secrets, and they will serve as friends to her. Arthur and Molly, please ensure their discretion."

"Will do." Arthur nodded.

Minerva pursed her lips, and Snape could see her surveying him disapprovingly. The woman's mind was clearly in the gutter. As if he would have the time and energy left for anything of the sort.

Severus rubbed his head wearily. And to think he had expected an uneventful meeting. He should always know better. "You said she is in a fragile state. What did you mean?" he inquired of the headmaster.

At that moment the doorbell of 12 Grimmauld Place rang.