Hi All,

First thing first: Rowling owns it, I know it, you know it, she knows it.

Welcome nivarcruz and LikeMy to this story, and welcome everyone else, reading in silence. I'm so glad you joined. Please review!

So we are through the introductory chapters, and now we dive in. I hope you'll enjoy it, pls tell me your thoughts!

Oh, and the description of a death eater party is to follow. Violence, non-descriptive drug use, not overly descriptive sexual deeds and questionable morals with foul language. For matured audience only – please BE WARNED.

Lia

Chapter 3. The Wizard and the Woods

The morning owls came early. Way too early for Severus' liking, but it could not be helped. The post landed on his desk, and the owls made a show of an impatient step-dance until he paid the fee.

Severus summoned a house-elf and asked for a light breakfast with a strong coffee in his quarters. While he groomed himself the way he usually did, he dressed his mind in his typical attitude. By the time he was ready, the breakfast tray had popped up on his table. He examined the daily Prophet and his letter. It was from Dumbledore. He put it aside with a silent growl until he finished his coffee and ran through the news instead.

Muggles had more mishaps than usual; two wizards disappeared without explanation, one of them already found in a remote forest in Kent. Both relatives of Ministry-workers… - Malfoy-style. A strange detonation - heard a few miles south of London, but the authors could find no evidence when they reached the place. Severus did not hear about this particular clean-up, and now he wondered whose handiwork it could be. Blasting something this spectacularly against straight orders… something most certainly went wrong, so he betted on Avery. Maybe Knott. The Knight Bus had an accident, but no one was injured. Well, that was uncommon—he might find out about this one later.

Finishing his coffee, he turned to the letter with a sigh.

Dear Severus,

I regret I had no chance of having dinner with you and Minerva. I am entirely sure it would have been an extraordinary experience. I hope you two got along well in my absence, although if I learn you both spent last night in your respective quarters, it won't come as a surprise. I would be sorry if that were the case, but I understand you are very different – at least you think so.

Severus grimaced. Those few who gave their time to get to know him quickly thought they understood him completely like Dumbledore. Last night was a prime example that this was not the case.

Unfortunately, I am not writing now only from politeness. I wish I had someone to share my concern about the proper summer rest of my staff. I'm sure you'll understand how important it is for me. For example, our greatest friend seems to have more company on his journey than he hoped for. All kinds of company, as I understand, that may hinder his rest. If you happen to have time, I would be very appreciative if you gave him a hand. I know how much he treasures his solitude.

Sorry for the inconvenience,

Yours,

APWBD

"Give him a hand,"… Snape reread the letter. He had no idea how the Death Eaters learned about Hagrid's journey. "All kinds of company." So someone in the Ministry knows something too. He could easily imagine a Ministry-worker getting wind of something and sharing the gossip at the wrong place. Stupid amateur! Wonderful. He grimaced and packed for a long journey to the north. It occurred to him if he should notify Minerva of his absence, but he decided against it. She would think he had a severe overdose of shared confidences and would not bother searching for him. He took time to watch Dumbledore's letter burn completely and swiped the ashes flat on the hearth's floor before he left, closed his doors meticulously and walked down to the main gates as if to Apparate.

Walking downhill, he sorted through the memories of his destination. He knew Hagrid was on the way to see the giants, a job that found its best executor. But no one knew precisely where they lived, only that it was to the north-east on the Continent. He had a hazy memory about Siberia's nearly empty and mainly road-less lands, and he suspected Hagrid's destination was further north. How far could the gamekeeper get in three and a half weeks?

His furthest adventure into that part of the world had taken him to a small village in the Urals, not far from the Mongolian border, maybe seventeen years ago. Karkaroff had an ungodly party there with his closest friends in arms. When he received that invitation, he was yet to understand the real meaning of the Dark Lord's rule. Few would believe now, but it all had looked like fun before the terror began, even with all that talk about the older generation's political program. Old stuff to entertain Abraxas Malfoy and his peers until the fresh graduates of Hogwarts all had their share of "living life the fullest" – meaning banging what let them and destroying the rest – with their friends. He was not proud of it, but he had been so green he hardly knew what was going on and so heartbroken that he did not care.

He had gone via portkey happily as a child, enjoying the newfound comradery with Avery and Crabbe. Their first destination was Kyiv, where they met Karkaroff, a dude named Rushnev, who shortly after deceased, several Russian witches who were more than welcoming and a French guy, Lennier. He couldn't help but contemplate the nature of those witches' welcome for a few seconds… there were two of them he remembered with clarity. Lena, and a red-haired phenomenon, Anastasia. She preferred to go by the name "Nasty." The most open witches he ever had the fortune to encounter ever since, with exceptional ability to hold their liquor no matter how hard it was spiked up with potions. A man cannot help but admire outstanding skills.

Lennier was not a particular idiot, only when it came to women. At least Snape could only debate his wisdom to take his girlfriend on this tour. A bewildering creature, by the way, dressed in black lace – and nothing else. In the cold. Iris Never was a death eater and found herself very much sought-after among the guys, despite Lennier and the Russian girls' efforts. He remembered how much he and Karkaroff had snickered as they watched the situation unfolding. In those days, Karkaroff had seemed to be a good mate with connections and so the best party-organizer they had ever known. Gods, Lennier was livid! Snape still had to chuckle.

He remembered they took a portkey and landed in that remote village not far from the border, where everyone could live out their shadiest inner selves. Semi-legal potions (and some totally illegal) only helped the worst in them all to bloom. Here the power craving idiot could imagine himself a smaller god, the weak played as if being forceful, vanity got filled. Iris seemed to have an urge to please and be pleased, as much as Severus lusted for human touch and acceptance.

From that point, everything had been a little hazy.

After a few days of fun with the local muggles and maybe even more with the local spirits, he still had some vivid memories of Crabbe lying unconscious with some mixed potions; Lennier blasted most buildings about them and danced with the corpse in the fire… Iris was best in lying on her back, but she did that in the most sensual ways, not truly bothered by the one's identity topping her. Snape never touched the witch, just like he never took part in the destruction or the kill. He only watched. He was so high he hardly registered a thing outside his focus, and the only focal point was the erotic movement of the French witch's body. Eternal gratitude to Nasty for taking care of the consequences!

He shook his head when he reached the gates. None of these memories were of use now. The last hours of the party had been filled with people vomiting. Severus and Karkaroff were the two closest to being sober, so now he was in a position to remember some details with disgust. Like when Crabbe felt sober enough to stand and piss the fire but halfway he leaned ahead and fell on his dick; or when Avery gave out everything on the ground, leaning on the wall of a small temple of some unknown deity and… That will be it! That temple should still be there even if the village were destroyed! It had strong stone walls, and he could recall an oak tree reaching above the entrance. Finally deciding on the location, Severus pulled a spare quill from his robe's pocket and, after a moment of concentration, whispered, "Portus."

After the familiar portkey-ride, the first thing he noticed was the rain. It showered him from the grey sky, dampening his robe to the skin. Still, his usual internal growling was cut short by a shrill voice exclaiming in an unknown language before an agonizing scream—all before he could truly take in his surroundings. Snape focused now on the sounds because he could hardly see through the curtain of rain. He heard fast footsteps and more agitated voices in the distance. Finally, he saw through narrowed eyes distant figures on the street of what seemed a poverty-stricken village and a fleeing form of a woman hurling herself in a stretched-out arm. Then more voices…

"Similoquato"- he mumbled and waved his wand about his ears to make the air twist the resonations of the unknown speech into a form he could understand.

"They are back!" – The shrill voice explained hastily to the group of people. "I saw it, brother, one just stepped out of thin air! We are all to die!"

"What?" A more resonant voice replied. "Calm down, my sweet. What have you seen?"

"They are back, brother, the evil ones, who killed mama and the others!"

"Look!" A strong voice joined in – "I can see one under the oak!"

"Under the oak!"

"Under the oak!" – Two more voices, male voices, then an agitated cry:

"The killers are back! Get the scythes!"

"Look, he's alone!"

The last cry changed the chorus. The men sent away the screaming girl, and loud male voices filled the air calling for scythes and hoes and rallying for an attack. Snape did not wait to see them coming. Instead, he ran behind the temple, looking for somewhere to hide. Not five minutes passed since he made that freaking portkey! Blasted bad luck!

He finally managed to discern at least fifteen different voices from his hiding spot, all angrily searching by the oak tree and the temple's entrance. He considered the effects of a strong enough Confundus charm. If he missed just one of them, he would have to do something more violent, and he found himself reluctant to do that. The sheer horror in that young woman's voice called up unpleasant memories. Worse than unpleasant, they actually made him shiver with goosebumps. These screams multiplied around him as the Dark Lord's rule became stronger all those years ago. At the height of his terror, these screams filled the air wherever the Dark Lord sent his followers every day, and they clenched around his heart with suffocating force. He never wanted what became the rule of the Dark Lord, he never imagined it could be like that, and those screams followed him to his nightmares, years after the terror broke. It didn't matter if he took part in the bloodshed or just been present… he could never empty those voices from his ears, and Severus Snape was not ready to restart those nightmares after a decade of struggle for a piece – whatever small piece – of redemption.

He never felt comfortable with this aspect of walking on the dark side in the first place. Bellatrix would say he was a softy, but it was about more than that. Even as a child, he preferred his quiet corners, so-called logic, science, and cauldrons. He wanted to learn dark magic, oh yes, he did, but he craved to understand it, research it, admire its endlessness and all the possibilities it opened without really wanting to use it. Well, maybe apart of occasional tests or experiments when the Marauders got too close. Otherwise, he wished to admire and not to consume.

Using dark magic came with the job later, in a manner of speaking, and he had never been enthusiastic about that part. If there was a wizard who understood the perverse easiness of adding fifteen more souls to his kill, it was Snape. Taking a life, or fifteen, was morbidly simple with his knowledge and experience, but he was disgusted by its crudity. Back then, he had not always had a choice… but now?

He searched the land behind the temple with his eyes and saw a small shack maybe two-or-three hundred steps away and the beginning of a forest with close-standing birch trees about five hundred steps more. It shouldn't be that hard!

Snape showed himself for the first few muggles who turned the temple's corner and petrified them with a single wand-move wordlessly. Using them as a cover, he waited for the others. When they noticed him, Snape was only glad to watch how all stepped on each other's toes to get to him, nine muggles, all close enough to get them with a single and forceful Confundus. He quickly turned back to the petrified group and confused them too, before releasing the charm, promptly Apparating to the shack, finally sure that no one would look for him.

Catching his breath, Snape did not look back. He was confident in his abilities; instead, with a deep sigh of relief, he continued towards the forest with long strides. He was safe from the avenging muggles, but how could he find Dumbledore's precious half-giant? He secretly hoped for someone to talk to, inquire after Hagrid or the giants' land. Those insufferable villagers must not have their memories obliviated. The haughtiness of the old times! Karkaroff must have found it a great joke to leave the survivors with their memories. Who could have they turned to? Who would have believed them? Typical Karkaroff, the stupid idiot, now he would pay for all his bad humour and treachery. He shivered in his dampened robes. This bloody rain would never cease…

Under the birch trees, he stopped and dried his clothes and cast a warming charm. A heavy sigh escaped his lungs again. "I must have softened with the years." He clutched his teeth and wandered deep into the forest. He could sense by the dim lights the afternoon turning into evening way too soon; he remembered this land was far enough from Britain to be ahead in the time zones… nuisance again.

Already two hours in the woods, and he was yet to see a soul but birds. He could not hope to find a trace, path or actually anything under the cloudy sky, especially not after nightfall. At the moment burning the whole damned forest to ashes only to take a good long look around seemed a tempting solution, but that wouldn't serve his purpose, now would it? Gods forbid, he would have scorched the beard off the gamekeeper's face! He stubbornly continued towards the north until he couldn't see enough even to stumble anymore. The rain still poured, and the air became bitingly chilly. He cast Lumos to find some shelter. His only choice was an abandoned wild-bore cove. Snape climbed in with embarrassing hurry, cast a drying charm and several warming charms before warding the ground about him with all of the defensive spells he could think of, and fell asleep with uncommon rapidity.

He woke with a start a couple of hours later without any particular reason. The rain finally stopped. The air was still chilly, and the sky starless – a sure clue that the clouds remained – but at least he didn't have to walk around in a damp robe anymore. "Praise the small joys; that's the most you may have,"- he mumbled absently, straightened his numb joints with a yawn and tried to think. This journey was not exactly successful so far… he knew he had to find help but had no idea where to turn for it. He was still sure Hagrid headed for the north, maybe north-east. As he recalled, the fellow did not go alone, but Dumbledore never told him about Hagrid's companion. He found himself calling forward his memories of the hairy fool. He never really cared about the gamekeeper as a child; he mostly just belonged to the grounds. Severus only learned to appreciate Hagrid after becoming a professor. First, the big fellow was tremendously welcoming, so he tried to scare him away before he understood that in Hagrid's mind, they were similar in a way… pets of Dumbledore. The difference lay in their acceptance of the situation. Hagrid rejoiced by this "opportunity," and Severus was grudgingly resigned to it as a necessary commitment. Later he began to enjoy the big man's expertise.

The Forbidden Forest was an incredible store of fresh potion-ingredients, and the gamekeeper knew everything he needed to learn about its tricks and tracks. He was even grateful to Hagrid on more than one occasion. Probably this stopped his tongue last school year when this big hairy man became so obviously enamoured with that mock of a woman! Hell, that witch must have had something in common with the giants either …what was her name? Maxime? How absurdly fitting! Birds of a feather… - he grimaced, but then: might it be they had departed together? If Hagrid were to play gallant, he wouldn't proceed as quickly as he initially supposed!

One thing Snape knew for sure, in this abandoned forest, he stood no chance of finding the man, however big he was. Sooner he would get to the land of the giants himself before finding the gamekeeper – probably in hiding -, even less probable to find those who might track him. That was when Snape had a flying thought about getting back to Hogwarts and apologizing. Dumbledore would not use the Crutiatus for his failure… but something prevented him from risking one more life in his circles; it called forth memories of failure to protect others. That feeling arose often enough to push him into situations such as this repeatedly.

Snape swallowed against the dryness in his throat, then busied himself, pulling clear water from the surrounding mud. It was complicated magic, not only extracting but cleaning the water, leaving the specific mineral signature with the primary fluid… much more complicated than an Aquamenti and most didn't even dare to try. He levitated the tasteful, clean water in growing drops, then he drove it toward his mouth with a simple wand-move and drank smugly, which turned into satisfaction when the cool water filled him. Something he was finally grateful for, and he took boyish pride in the mastery of the exceptionally tough spell. By the time dawn came upon him, Severus had drunk again and again, watching the first rays of sunshine fighting their way through the thick layer of clouds. The air lost some of its chills, but it was so humid, breathing felt like biting. Thinking about biting, he quickly produced the sandwiches he took from Hogwarts. He never thought he would flee as soon as arriving, but this morning it was just the same because this morning seemed special.

It made him feel alive and something strange… joy? He felt his health, his strength. He was proud of himself no matter how sappy a reason he had for it… He realized he enjoyed his perfect solitude despite all the hardships. There were no one within miles and miles of forest land to pry into his mind, no one to judge him, no one to question him, his motives, his deeds. He stopped occluding. It made him feel his magic pulsing erratically under his skin again, which made him feel young. As he technically was young indeed. It was easy to forget this in a world where a wizard could age nearly two hundred years how insignificant his thirty-some shitty years could have been if he lived a different life. A less tasking, less stupid, less… at the moment, he just didn't care. Even his wand produced unruly sparks, mimicking the magic he felt within.

Severus vanished all evidence of his night in the cove with a groundless smile and decided to modify his route and head to the northeast instead of north. This curious mood reminded him of a long-meditated question about the source of magic. As for he was into a day-long walk with not much to dwell upon, he let his mind busy itself with the problem.

Of course, everyone knew that magic was imprinted at birth, but most expressed it like "you were born with it or not" or "the in-born magic." He once read the phrase "imprinted" and intuitively used that word associated with the phenomenon ever since. His mind connected this now with his recent experience. Leaving his insecurities aside, if he accepted the existence of such a creature as a working concept, it was not too wild to connect imprinting with an "imprinter," someone responsible for planting the magic within a child. That would pose the question of said creature's mechanism of sorting all the children. What influenced such sorting if it happened?

There was an easy answer, the Dark Lord's propaganda. Golden-blooded families produced pure-blood children, well-skilled with strong and pure magic. The bullshit was so obvious he was ashamed even to give it a thought. He saw enough pure-blood squibs and half-squibs – like that pathetic Longbottom-kid who cost about a dozen cauldrons a semester – to recognize the stupidity of such a notion. Of course, it had its political complexity, but he wanted an intellectual answer, not a political one.

Added to the fact that he saw too many pureblood half-squibs and muggle-born talent throughout his teaching career – again, the phrasing! Being stuck with basic potions and dunderheads at Hogwarts did hardly make up for a "career." Nevertheless, besides that, there was much more to this question than ideology.

He was skilled enough to experience his magic dutifully flowing through him and not only his wand. Sometimes it felt effortless; other times, routine compensated for the shortage. Since his childhood, he was mesmerized with the concept of magic because he remembered feeling it in his veins as a living entity, even at his earliest age. Nothing he ever read supported this thought; he could not get rid of it anyway. The effortless times magic pulsated inside and outside like it was floating on its own terms, and a wizard only had to check its peaks to contain it within reasonable boundaries. Like today.

Learning and using - really rather overusing – occlumency only made the experience more palpable, requiring frequent meditations. Today his magic had a definitive peak, and it flew through and through him with all the joy he remembered of his otherwise joy-deprived childhood. Severus adored magic in every possible form without prejudice or restrictions. A fact that led him to his present predicament, no doubt, and honestly to worse. Still, as much as he could regret some – most – of his choices, he could never regret this devotion to magic as an entirety. Depriving the One True Art of its polarities felt like denying the life of the magic he felt pulsating within him even at the moment.

The problem remained unanswered; he still came no closer to the origin of magic itself, only if he presumed someone planted it. He could not prove it is alive only by personal experience, which was not measurable or scientifically repeatable. Which meant it was nonsense. Only it was not.

Annoyed with himself and feeling he missed an important point again, Severus flopped down next to a vast tree, leaning his head on the trunk. He tried to glance up to the sky but could hardly see the greyish blue behind the cover of green. He ate his fill of the berries he found nearby and rested for a while, never turning away from the forest's ceiling. If he had a chance to look from above, he might have a better notion of his best direction.

Every sensible wizard would have taken a broom – may be transfigured – to such an escapade, but he had a long-time aversion of broom-flight… that story should never be told. However, as a child, he experienced an unaided flight. It was years before his Hogwarts letter. Years before Lily. He was frightened by his father and flew up the roof so quick the old bastard couldn't see him when he turned the corner. Severus remembered how terrified he was on the roof alone. As the day dragged on, he became hot, then thirsty, eventually hungry and sleepy. So tired, he had no more strength to fear, and then – as soon as the fear subsided – he just flew down. Somehow. He could never explain it. If he managed as a frightened child, there must still be a way…

Severus got on his feet and eyed the distant limbs above him like an enemy in a duel.

Of course, the broomless flight was scientific nonsense, and he had no wand-moves or spells to aid him. The Dark Lord showed the ability, which proved it was possible. Simultaneously it proved it was dark magic, hateful, regrettable…. at least all society marked it as so. Although he was sure that the Dark Lord cast even Lumos several times, still the spell was never deemed black…- he smirked. Clearly, dark magic could not be determined only by the Dark Lord's acts. He may fly without risking his soul if he finds a way… the temptation was even harder to resist when Severus considered how alone he was. If he tried and failed miserably, no one will be the wiser. If he succeeded… well, he already had enough to conceal, hadn't he?

First, he tried to imagine himself up at the highest branch of the tree. He focused with all his formidable ability, and… he nearly apparated! Shit, this is not the way he was looking for, and he caught himself only last-minute in turning. He tried again. Focused long, and …nothing happened.

He took some deep breaths before looking again. This time he remembered his childhood memory. He wanted to escape, desperately. He focused on that desperate need to be up there. Nothing on this world could help him, but to get up there… the yearning he called up tired him long before he gave this up.

"Why am I doing this?" Oh, yes, his morning peak of magic. It determined his train of thoughts… He still felt it humming inside… constant strong flow… he trusted it more than any human being… adored it more than anyone he ever knew… it had endless potential, magic could do it… and by instinct, he leaped.

The branch he was focusing on approached him with incredible speed… only it didn't move…a high-pitched yell of a startled bird, and his focus went astray. Severus found himself falling, smaller branches, leaves, the tree's bark scratched his skin and tore his robe as he slapped on them before catching a limb. He sighed, probably also cried out, but now he was hanging safely about forty feet from the ground, adrenalin pulsing through him in rashes. He adjusted his hold on the limb and prepared to Apparate down when the bird that had startled him now landed next to his grabbing hand and began to watch him curiously.

"Did you come to laugh at me?" – Severus snarled at the bird. It only leaned its head aside questioningly. Partly driven by his anger, partly by curiosity, he nudged the bird's mind to see what it wanted. He immediately saw himself flying up the tree, suddenly falling, then hanging. Could it be… that this bird was curious?

"How do you fly?" – Severus asked the bird, partially mortified by his own stupidity, but at the moment, it seemed a bit of a joke, and honestly, the lack of humans was liberating.

The bird leaned its head on the other side.

Severus shook his head and decided in advance he will banish all memories of this day as soon as it gets safe to forget, then tentatively sent pictures towards the little mind about flying birds. Just before he gave up, an image formed in the tiny brain. A nest. The bird showed him its last nestlings' first attempt to fly. They one by one edged to the side of their nest and leaped on the air. Stupidity or mortification be doomed, Severus now felt some eagerness to complete this "discussion."

"Yes, but how?" – He sent the images back.

A series of pictures and emotions answered him. Younglings of different years leaped after their parents, one after another, while the bird stepped up-and-down on the branch, chirping furiously. The last series of memories showed the nestling's view. The mother-bird spread her wings, and the youngling stepped from the nest. Severus felt its apprehension; then it spread its wings too. The emotion the bird relayed was trust, and the joy of success as the air enveloped the youngling. The image was lost when Severus looked at the chirping bird. It could fly because it trusted the air.

The realization was astonishing. He did exactly the same, not fifteen minutes ago! He trusted. He trusted his magic without even a wand, without research or preparation… unless most of his life's musings prepared him for that leap. He closed his eyes and trusted magic against everything he learned, against everything he was ever teased about… and he leapt.