He came to in the chair with a start, his wand still in his hand and a pale light outside. He was – in Lupin's rooms. On Christmas morning, very early. He had slept through the entire night in Lupin's chair.

He turned, raising a hand to his stiff neck, to look at the wolf, which lay curled up on the rug, asleep. All seemed well.

He got slowly to his feet – and realised with a jolt in his chest that the wolf had raised its head from the rug and was looking right at him. Its golden eyes were calm; he had no idea if it knew who he was.

'Happy Christmas, Lupin,' he murmured, not quite knowing why.

The wolf yawned, showing rows of gleaming white teeth, then lowered its head and went back to sleep.

Severus took a final look at the huge slumbering creature, and, feeling rather odd, left the room.


Of course he had a quick debrief with Dumbledore, straight after breakfast. It consisted mainly, on Dumbledore's side, of variations on 'I'm glad you were with him,' and 'You have helped Remus so very much', punctuated with twinkles from the sparkly hat, robes, socks, and beard the Headmaster was sporting for Christmas, and little flying mince pies which tried to zoom into Severus's mouth every time he spoke. He let Dumbledore know he would be leaving for a holiday as soon as he'd asked Lupin a few more questions, opened his new socks with a kind of grim gratitude, and made his escape.

He spent the rest of the morning in his rooms, drinking coffee and looking out over the snowy, sunlit hills. Lucius had sent him a bottle of McNeil's whisky, an elegant crystal glass, and a short note promising more gifts to come. He had stowed the bottle and glass away in a cupboard and taken down a chess book, intending to read. But now the book was open on his knee, unattended, while his mind insisted on returning to the events of the previous night. He had seen a man transform into a wolf. The huge creature – the moment it stood upright – and its neat curled-up body on the rug. A moment in the midst of transforming when Lupin had been half-man, half-wolf: a man-wolf, a wolf-man. The strange golden eyes looking at him this morning. Did the wolf know it was Lupin? Had it known him when he had wished it a happy Christmas? Would Lupin remember it? And anyway, what had been different about the potion this month, for it to have affected Lupin this way? Had there been any danger of it not working? Perhaps there were other factors he should be taking into account; he would need to talk seriously to Lupin about it when he came back. The rosewater had seemed such a good idea, but so often a complex potion could be thrown off by something unusual about a person's mood, or constitution. He might need to know a lot more about Lupin's habits, and about the nature of lycanthropy in general, to understand what had happened.

It was frustrating knowing he couldn't speak to Lupin for another three days – not least because he couldn't quite work out his own feelings about the whole incident. He was not angry. He had not even been afraid, not really. It was more that he was realising more and more that there were things about Lupin he didn't know. All the years he'd spent in exile. His travels. The story of meeting a vampire in Italy. His ease bantering with Lucius Malfoy. Whatever his history really was with Sirius Black. Perhaps, Severus wondered, he had been irresponsible not asking Lupin more questions. Could an old friend of a mass murderer really just show up out of the blue and be trusted with students' lives? He was so mild-mannered – but one could not ignore the blunt fact that every month Lupin really did – he had seen it – transform into a wolf.

There were also things Lupin was uncomfortably close to. No one had ever remarked on Severus's habit of making potions without magic. Probably no one had observed him regularly enough to notice it before now. But he needed to be careful. Even Muggle-lovers like Charity Burbage used magic constantly, he'd seen her in the staff room dictating letters to a charmed quill. It was imperative that no one should ever suspect what he had done in the years after Voldemort's fall – or rather, what he had nearly done.

He looked down at the open book on his knee. The chapter was about the French Defence. It had been one of Pyotr's favourites, before the diagnosis, before ...

Severus had a sudden urge to go back to Lupin's room and sit with the sleeping wolf for the rest of the day. Even to stay another night. To lie down on Lupin's bed, perhaps. There had been a profound calm in that room. He had slept all night without magic – in a chair, with a wolf. But of course it was out of the question. It would have to be Occlumency practice.

He closed the book and put it on the table next to his chair. Then he lowered to a kneeling position on the rug, placed his hands on his knees, and began to clear his mind.


It wasn't until after a long, awkward lunch, characterised by Dumbledore's clumsy jokes, Flitwick's enthusiastic laughter, and an appearance from Sybil Trelawney that was both unexpected and uncomfortable, that Severus remembered he still hadn't cleared up after giving Lupin the Wolfsbane the previous night. Reluctantly he tramped down to the dungeon. There was his open ledger, the half-full cauldron, the tongs still glowing silver where they had held the acorn. And another thing he'd forgotten: Lupin's Christmas present, still wrapped in its dark green paper.

Well, he reasoned, it was Christmas Day now, and there was no one there to watch his reaction. He picked up the parcel, ripped off the paper and saw, in elegant gold writing across a dark blue cover, the words

Theory of Magical Cadence

by

Professor Alessandra Gondolini

Accademia di magica antica, Bologna

Immediately he opened the book. Lupin had inscribed the title page in his slightly sprawling handwriting: Severus – Happy Christmas, and happy reading. Remus.

For a second Severus caught a glimpse of something. Something far off, like a star seen through a lattice of dark branches. Then he turned his attention to the first chapter of the book, which was printed in an elegant, well-spaced type.

Cadence is a rhythm, a modulation, a sequence. It is musical and it is mechanical. It describes the human voice, and it describes the thump of human feet running across a courtyard. Above all it is texture. In one with magical powers, cadence is the collection of small inflections and harmonies which make up that being's magical signature …

He was twenty pages into the chapter – the Wolfsbane cauldron and other equipment lay untouched next to him on the workbench – when there was a knock at the door.

'Yes?'

The door opened and McGonagall appeared, looking her usual harangued self. 'Severus, oh good, you're here.' She made no comment on him sitting reading in the dark dungeon on Christmas Day. 'I need your help.'

'What now?' Severus said wearily, putting the book down.

'Potter has received a Firebolt for Christmas.'

Oh, good. More mentions of Harry Potter were exactly what his Christmas had been lacking. He raised an eyebrow. 'Should I know what a Firebolt is?'

McGonagall sighed. 'It's a broom, a very expensive broom. One which I'm sure Potter has been longing for since the summer, that's when it was released. Goodness knows I wouldn't object to – But there was no card with it, no name, so we're naturally concerned it may have been sent with malicious intent, by Sirius Black or one of his associates. We've confiscated it for the moment.'

'What will you do with it?'

'Filius and Rolanda are going to look at it. But I think you should too. You have knowledge in – in areas they don't. They might miss something. And, well, after the incident with the Dementors at the last match I'd like to know Potter won't be in any extra danger. Have you heard that Remus is going to try and teach him the Patronus Charm?'

'Yes,' Severus said. Then he added coolly, 'Though one can't help feeling Potter should be allowed to get used to the feeling of being in danger most of the time. Having his teachers run around trying to keep him safe will not teach him to take basic precautions.' It was because she had made reference to his knowledge of the Dark Arts, he knew that. But this was exactly the point. He himself had never had a series of adults falling over themselves to preserve his innocence. He had learned, and stayed vigilant. Knowing you were in constant danger, keeping it at the forefront of your mind at all times, was the only way to survive.

McGonagall looked at him curiously. Then she said, 'Dumbledore mentioned what happened with Remus last night. It sounds frightening.'

He nearly laughed. People were always trying to soften his irritation by expressing sympathy. 'There was no danger,' he said. 'It became clear very quickly the potion had worked as it was meant to. I observed him for the first couple of hours just to make sure.'

'But' –

'I'll look at the broom,' he said, cutting across her. 'But make it tomorrow. As soon as I've spoken to Lupin I'm leaving for a few days' holiday. I won't be back until the new year.'

McGonagall nodded. 'Thank you. Where shall I bring it?'

'Here is fine. Has Potter touched it?'

'Yes, he unwrapped it in his bedroom this morning.'

Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 'Then he is lucky not to be dead already. How did it get past the post checks?'

'We don't know that either,' McGonagall admitted. She looked pale. 'It seems it may have come in another way, but we don't yet understand how.'

He stared at her. 'Another way?'

'Yes,' McGonagall said. 'I know. It's very concerning. Anyway. Potter does at least know now that he may be Black's target, that means we can be much more direct about these things. I'll bring the broom to you tomorrow. Will you join us for some chess this evening?'

He nearly declined – he was itching to get back to Gondolini's book – but remembered that, after all, it was Christmas Day. 'I'll come up for an hour or so,' he said in the end.

McGonagall bowed her acknowledgement, and left the room.

Severus stood there for a few minutes, thinking. Sent with malicious intent by Black or one of his associates. He remembered Lupin's absence just before Christmas. A useful Christmas shopping holiday, clearly, judging by his own present. But what if –

He remembered all too well sitting in the Quidditch stands that day – what, two years ago? – whispering as fast as he could form the words, trying to counter Quirrell's curse and keep Potter's broom under control. It was an obvious place to attack the boy, when he was high above the ground and his attention was elsewhere. Black or one of his associates. And not sent by owl post. Would Lupin have had the nerve to walk into a shop in Diagon Alley and buy the most expensive broom available? Who would have funded him? Did Black have money? Were there others amongst Voldemort's servants who might have funded the purchase? Would Lucius ever consider –? (He banished this thought instantly.) Anyway, who better than Lupin, the Defence teacher, whom Potter seemed to trust more than almost any other adult, to tamper with the broom unsuspected?

For a moment it struck him as almost amusing: that he, a former servant of Voldemort, would be testing for Dark curses and hexes that might have been set by the Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. He cast an eye down at the open pages of his new book: a model of magic use which is entirely personal, built anew every time from one's own cadential dynamics … He wanted, he longed to carry on reading. Then he turned back reluctantly to the workbench, and started to clear up.