The Node
The headmaster lifted his head wearily, glancing at his clock. In a few seconds it would strike ten, past time for him to retire-
In time with the tolling bell, three sharp raps fell on his door, and then it was pushed open without so much as waiting for his go-ahead. Mroczek marched in, mud-spattered hem swirling about his ankles, eyes narrowed, mouth tight as his fingers gently grazed the back of a student's shoulders.
Unsurprisingly, the student was his enigma-of-present, Hermione Granger.
Tiredness vanished as his eyes widened, the brightness of concern taking attention from the black smudges increasing in darkness under the blue gaze.
"This is our culprit." There was no satisfaction in the red-robed man, and Dumbledore could easily see the stiff fingers barely touching Hermione's back, light and tense with a kind of respect - and fear.
Who or what was this girl that he had accepted from the future?
"I see." He spoke to steady himself, needing time to think, to ponder. He silently cursed his lack of knowledge, and his inability to remedy it. Was this what she was supposed to be learning? Could he forbid the future her knowledge out of deference to the laws of the present? He knew quite bleakly that he was at one of the few points in his life where he truly had nowhere to go, no option that could possibly be acceptable to everyone. The law would want her instrument confiscated, the girl possibly expelled and likely placed on magical probation. But the war might be lost twenty-three years from now if he allowed her to be punished as the inspectors were going to demand.
But instead of presenting him with a concise statement of judgment, Mrozeck waited, gaze trained unflinchingly on Hermione.
He doesn't know what to do, he realized. He is at a loss. She is…different. Clearly more than she's told me. Probably more than she knows.
"Headmaster, if you wouldn't mind, a word before any of us pass judgment on the girl…?" Mroczek murmured when it was clear that Dumbledore wasn't going to offer him an out immediately.
"Of course," the headmaster assented gracefully. He gestured with his wand, and two squashy armchairs scuttled up to his desk. Another sweep brought a beautiful silver samovar into existence, covered with delicate china teacups, shining spoons and a steaming pot with pink flower pattern.
"Sit down, my dear. Mroczek." Girl and man seated themselves awkwardly, Hermione curling her fingers around her knees nervously, nails tapping her legs. The silence continued as Mroczek wrestled with what he was to say, and the headmaster busied himself pouring tea.
The two men caught each other's eyes as the silver sugar spoon clinked gently in the bottom of Dumbledore's cup, and they smiled wanly, warily. Dumbledore took a dim view of those who interfered in his school, and Mroczek was accustomed to ruling by his own counsel. The chilled respect they accorded one another glittered in their gazes, and the marked lack of warmth in Dumbledore's usually bright blue glance told Mroczek that he was treading on very thin ice.
As stillness stretched and both men reached for their tea, Hermione sat frozen, arms still locked about her legs protectively, grateful for Klytemnestra's intervention, protecting the daughter of Zabini and her cousin, ensuring that only Hermione, with her iron-clad excuse, had to explain her actions to the headmaster.
The clarinet's melody suffused her, surging through her-
-a rustle accompanied by snapping wood sounded to her left. She stopped singing, voice halted by alarm. "Snape," she whispered.
A last note, turned into a squeak as his breath suddenly went the wrong way, he stilled at her warning, Klytemnestra's viola already dropped, her wand raised.
"Stay down," she ordered hoarsely. "We will be lucky if it is a professor. There are things in this forest much, much worse."
Neither Hermione nor Snape obeyed, their own wands coming out, his instrument in one hand and wood in the other, forming a v as they flanked the girl.
"I suggest you put your wands down," said a soft, cold voice, "unless you want to add assault to your considerable crime."
Moonlight struck the figure's robe, and it flashed blood red. Hermione's guts chilled. Inspectors indeed. Nor were they members of the Order of the Phoenix. They were music hunters. This, then, was what they had been summoned for…
Klytemnestra dropped her wand arm and stood up straight, the instinctive crouch fading into the ramrod back and arrogant carriage of aristocracy. When she spoke again it was unmistakable who held the high ground, and it was not the hooded man in front of them.
"You are not at liberty to give me 'suggestions', Consular Mroczek."
Hermione could almost hear the man blink. She and Snape exchanged puzzled, nervous looks, and Hermione's wand subtly shifted it's focus, no longer pointed directly at the robed intruder, it fell somewhere in space between Mroczek and Klytemnestra, ready to strike either at the first sign of real danger from either of them.
"Miss Zabini?"
"Klytemnestra Zabini," the dark-haired girl confirmed, her voice coldly determined. "And this is my cousin." The wave of her fingers included Snape, and her voice dropped to a smooth, warm, barely audible sound. Hermione strained to catch, "Surely if the Headmaster can ignore the details of our presence, my father will ignore yours."
Hermione heard the man swallow in front of them, and dark brown eyes lifted to hers-
-a rush of sound, almost like wind, an orchestra in her mind- this man knew music, intimately, inside and out, if she but opened her voice-
"Sweet Merlin." His terrified whisper brought her crashing back to earth, symphony vanishing into trees trunks, moss and the grass beneath her feet. His shaky breathing echoed hers, and Hermione was only dimly aware of long, slender fingers wrapped around her elbow, steadying her.
"Granger, are you all right?" Snape's mouth was so close to her ear she felt the whisper of his exhale, and a shiver shot down her spine. His wand was still out, pointed unfailingly at Mroczek. But the older wizard had no care for the younger's mild threat. His eyes were only for the witch with a tangled mane of hair almost hiding orbs that blistered with power.
"She," he said raggedly, one hand lifting shakily. "She will come with me."
"She is a friend," Klytemnestra started her objection, halting as Mroczek's head snapped towards her furiously, hood falling back to reveal livid eyes, thin lips and drawn cheeks, the hand not extended towards Hermione plunged into his pocket, clearly gripping his wand.
"Your presence will go unremarked, as will that of your cousin, but her…" he took a deep breath, scrutinized Hermione once more with sharp, unyielding eyes and sneered at Klytemnestra. "She is not of your family, Zabini, and I-" he broke off, flaring his nostrils in a manner not unlike Professor McGonagall's. The strangely familiar gesture was absurdly comforting to Hermione, and she dropped her wand, stowing it once more in her robes. This man was many things, but whatever her eyes had told him, his had told her that he would not bring her harm.
"It's all right, Klytemnestra," she whispered. "I'll be all right."
A beat, and the tension faded, Klytemnetra's role of nobility fell, leaving her another sixteen year old. Mroczek moved up to her naturally, tone quite neutral, almost pleasant.
"All of you, inside. These instruments are not trinkets you carry and your talents are not to be taken lightly." His focus was once again on Klytemnestra, tired and aged, a well-meaning man.
Klytemnestra dipped her head in assent. "Of course, sir. Come, Severus."
"Will you-" Snape had not moved, his hand still fastened about Hermione's arm.
"I will be fine." She smiled. "I promise. Go before he decides to report all of us." Klytemnestra snorted, and Mroczek raised an eyebrow. She arched hers back, low-level tension stringing the air again. "See you in class tomorrow," Hermione added gently. His black eyes bored into hers for a moment, and then his fingers detached, leaving the skin they had covered suddenly exposed and cool in the night air. Klytemnestra and her cousin disappeared into the trees, and Mroczek gently touched her arm.
"Come. There is much that must need explaining."
And now they sat awkwardly, the three of them, imprisoned in the usually inviting atmosphere of the headmaster's office. Hermione reflected bitterly that she had indeed gotten her wish. Klytemnestra Zabini had helped her discover the true identity of the so-called inspectors. Finally, with the chink of porcelain on porcelain, Mroczek set his tea down and spoke.
"This girl is the Node."
Dumbledore, hand busy moving tea to mouth, stilled, half-formed words fleeing his tongue. Whatever he had expected the man to say, this had never occurred to him. Mroczek saw the shocked hesitation in his eyes and smiled sardonically.
"Speechless? What many a powerful wizard wouldn't give to be in my shoes." His smug voice was neither teasing not gentle, and the hard note in it told Dumbledore that the man had gained a small victory as far as he was concerned.
Hermione was staring at him. That appellation again. It was not difficult to recall the first time she had heard it, perched behind the tapestry, on the cusp of the corridor, Dumbledore's voice and Snape's carrying back to her through stone. Now it fell from the lips of this stranger- though the peculiar quality- excited and afraid, when he said it left her with little doubt that it was not an easy pronouncement to make.
"What does that mean?" she asked softly, fear making its appearance in her tone.
Dumbledore reclined in his chair, long fingers absently stroking the coarse white-grey-red of his beard. His gaze, thoughtful and not one jot less cool, did not acknowledge his momentary lapse and he said, quite seriously, "I don't know. I thought the Node was a myth to make us lay wizards relax."
Mroczek's lip curled with contempt of the ignorant, but the gaze he turned on Hermione brimmed with a respect bordering on awe. She squirmed, and hastily reached for a cup to take cover behind. "No. She is quite clearly real." He cleared his throat, straightened his back and looked directly at the Headmaster. "You need apply no punishment. We will be taking her off your hands. The Node is to be cared for by the Concilium. It is our duty, and we will see it done."
"No," Dumbledore denied him instantly. Mroczek drew himself up- a futile gesture. The Bucharest-born wizard barely stood five and a half feet high, and sitting down in a squashy cushion that sank under him only underscored the uselessness of the maneuver.
"It is not for you-"
"It is for me." The sudden fury in Dumbledore's voice cut across the other man, causing him to sink back, paling slightly against the dark purple cushion. Without rising, or even sitting any straighter, the older wizard pinned Mroczek with a glower that few had suffered. "Hermione Granger is a student of mine, specially trusted to my care-"
"The Node is the exclusive ground of the Concilium!" Mroczek exploded, his tea dousing the carpet as he surged to his feet. "You cannot deny us the right to her training. It is the major foundation for our continuing existence!"
"Then perhaps you should not. You shall not take Miss Granger," Dumbledore replied evenly. He could not explain to this man why the girl had to stay. But she had been delivered to him for his safekeeping, and the hidebound Concilium would not remove her. Whatever she had to learn, she would not learn it in the dark caverns inhabited by this order of men.
Mroczek's jaw clenched so furiously the veins in his forehead popped, throbbing. "She safeguards," he muttered through his teeth, "the Echo of Creation. She is immeasurably dangerous and must be trained specially. Dumbledore, the power that girl holds in her voice can irrevocably alter or destroy the world!"
"I know," he whispered. Mroczek's face slackened in hope, but the look in the headmaster's eyes made it clear that he was seeing something else, something in memory perhaps, or a new revelation.
The smile that tugged at Dumbledore's mouth was entirely inappropriate, but strong enough to glitter in his eyes. The Echo of Creation was endangered- both now and perhaps in the future. He had sent the girl back to learn of the Echo, and how to control it. But he was equally certain she had not been sent here to take instruction from hidebound old men.
"Thank you for your concern, and for finding this extraordinary woman right under my nose, Mr. Mroczek," he said, pulling back to himself as if from a great distance. He smiled at Hermione. "I have but one request for you before you depart."
Resisting the urge to unleash his wand on the valuables in the room, Mroczek's teeth ground together painfully- before giving way to a sigh. Years of dealing with Albus Dumbledore had taught most of Britain's magical leaders that rearranging constellations was easier than changing the old man's mind. If it came to pitched battle for custody before the Wizengamot, the whole of Britain would know, the Concilium's existence would no longer be private, and greater consequences might ensue. "What might that be?" he asked, seating himself with resignation and waving his wand listlessly to clean up the tea soaking into the carpet.
Dumbledore leaned forward, and his next words brought Hermione out of her attempts to meld into the fabric of the chair. "Educate us. What is the Node?"
"What is the Echo?" Hermione's question followed hard on her professor's. "And what does it mean to safeguard it? How can I change the world?"
Mroczek shifted uncomfortably in his chair, squirming under the intent blue eyes of the older wizard and the suddenly sharp brown eyes of the young woman next to him. "It is not…I cannot release that information."
"What, then, does training the Node consist of, if not telling her what she is?"
Mroczek looked, if possible, more uncomfortable still. "We don't know. A Node who is also a witch is an exceedingly rare occurrence." He twisted his knuckles furiously. "Miss- Hermione Granger?" When Hermione nodded, he continued, "Is the first in fifteen hundred years."
Dumbledore and his young charge exchanged puzzled frowns. "Fifteen hundred years?" Hermione pressed.
His mouth curled into a smile without mirth, and some of his previous composure returned. "You will not like what you hear. However…as there is no precedent…are you sure you want to know? With the knowledge comes great responsibility."
"Everything. We cannot fight the war without it," Hermione answered passionately. Mrozcek's eyebrows rose.
"War?"
"Against Voldemort."
His eyes narrowed at her. "You intend to use this knowledge as a weapon, child?"
"We are losing, sir. I intend to use anything I can lay my hands on as a weapon." The quiet devastation in her voice brought Dumbledore's sharp gaze to rest on her. "We are losing." After twenty-three years of warfare, was the light being destroyed? A new urgency prompted the headmaster's next question.
"You said she is the first witch in centuries?"
Mrozcek sighed deeply, gave Hermione an odd look, which was met by steady, burning brown eyes, and answered. "Yes." Hesitation, a man making a decision, and finally, "Please pull out your wands."
Dumbledore produced his without hesitation. Hermione watched the headmaster, then obediently copied him, though not without reluctance.
"He is binding us to secrecy. Should we speak the contents of this meeting to another, we will suffer colossal misfortune."
Hermione nodded her understanding, thinking privately that it was very much like the charm she had used last year- more than twenty years from now- to keep the DA list on the hush.
Light flared between the wands, snaking up and over each, sealing them together. As the light faded, Mrozcek sat back, tracing his mouth and lengthening stubble with an exhausted finger.
"To begin with. it fully explains why the wards have gone crazy," he told Dumbledore. "She has more power in her naturally than the entire Wizengamot. But as for the rest…" He tapped his upper lip, and just when Hermione was certain that he had completely lost his train of thought, his eyes snapped back to her and he began to speak softly.
"The Echo of Creation is an ever-changing piece of music, the song that is the imprint of the creation of the world. It is unwritten, unrecorded - the sound that embodies every living and non-living thing on the planet. When a new tree is born, it has its own individual sound, added to the string. When your grandparents died, the chords that riddled their personalities faded. It shifts constantly, it is never still and it never ceases. It is the shadow of the magical power that created all life, and, like life itself, is unpredictable and uncontrollable.
"This magic- for the Echo is a brand all its own- was harnessed by Merlin in the days of Arthur and wedded to the Muggle world for safekeeping. Mage-musicians once spent all their lives to learn the musical secrets to one tree in one forest, or one creature, learning to create a difference in their environments and the inhabitants thereof. Virtuosos could grasp a little more, manipulate a little further, and wars were fought using music as both creator and destroyer.
"Prior to Merlin, the Echo had neither name nor structure. But to give it structure, to imprison it within the human limitations of musc, Merlin made a bargain with the magic: that one person in every generation would be capable of controlling the entire world if they ever discovered their talent. For to command of the Echo is to have power over the whole earth, to be capable of bending anything in creation to your bidding. To play the Echo meant that one could alter the fabric of the story it told, for good or ill. It is this secret that Grindelwald was seeking, and the reason that music has been outlawed in Europe and much of the world.
"To avoid the wars that had destroyed much of Africa, Merlin bound the Echo to Muggles instead, knowing that they would never use the magic. Using the Echo itself to ensure the succession, the station was delivered to his Squib son, born days after Merlin's one-time lover Niniane killed him and buried him in an old oak.
"The dormant Echo became the heart of a brilliant Muggle musician, the Node, safely imprisoned in a world that knew nothing of magic, and therefore had no knowledge of the potentially disastrous power they carried. So it has passed down from each generation since Merlin's son carried the burden." He breathed deeply and pinned her with an even look.
"Until now."
888
Lucius Malfoy's stood completely still in the middle of the tiny clearing, a space so small it almost didn't break the trees at all. But his practically-completed magical training told him that this was the place. The remnant of the magic-born mist that had boiled over the lawn was still thick here. She had been here- this was her handiwork.
He sank to a stone, legs folding under him as he considered. The abundance of energy and magic in the clearing spoke quite thoroughly for itself. His hopes of being able to get to her were slim and none, dying fast. If she already had this much magic flowing out of her, he would never be able to subdue her. And his lord's impatience, literally branded in his skin, made it all too unpleasant to contemplate failure.
But would a replacement of lesser power be acceptable? For now, he had to plead that he hadn't the strength yet- as much as he dreaded admitting weakness, he valued his life above his pride, and capturing the American-born witch by force or by charm seemed now about as attainable as holding the moon.
He shivered, standing hastily. The magic swirled around him aggressively, sensing an intruder, perhaps reading his very thoughts and objecting to them. He hurried from the forest, slipping back into the castle unseen, the movable grate dropping him directly into his dormitory.
Whatever his decision, he had to deliver to his master soon. The Dark Lord was not accustomed to waiting for his servants' obedience.
Kassandra. He had to speak to Kassandra. She had been remarkably scarce lately…but surely she would know how to subdue the girl?
888
Severus sat impatiently at the breakfast table the following morning, craning his head towards the Gryffindor table, his stomach sinking as his eyes settled on his worst enemies, but did not find the bushy-haired girl who had been marched off the night before. His nerves pricked in his body and he swallowed. He didn't know how Kly had talked the two of them out of punishment. He knew his uncle was important and rich. He had no idea that his aunt's husband was this prestigious. Enough to erase a serious crime. He set that aside to examine later. For now, he wanted to see that dark hair, those brown eyes, that bright smile…she had assured them that she would be all right. But if the consular's response was anything like his own mother's…
He recalled all-too-well his father's one outing with him as a child, a trip to the Muggle orchestra, the London Phil Harmonic, and the vicious fight that had ensued afterwards.
"Mum, Mum!" The five-year-old wizard pelted through the house in his dress clothes, tearing around the corner and into his parent's bedroom where his mother sat brushing out her long hair.
She lifted her head and smiled at him through the mirror, heavy-lidded eyes taking in the small, tailored slacks, the stainless white shirt, the miniature jacket now crinkled from a child's squirming and the bow-tie cocked haphazardly at her son's throat. "There's my handsome boy! Where did your father take you today?"
"To the symphony," came his Tobias Snape's baritone voice in the door, watching mother and son with a small grin.
Severus felt his mother's arms around his back stiffen, and she pushed him from her as she slammed her brush against the wooden vanity, standing to glower at her husband.
"The symphony? Tobias-" she hissed, glanced at the suddenly worried boy that came about to her waist, and controlled her immediate reaction by grinding her jaw. "I told you-"
"Eileen." Severus bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. It had been such a good day, sitting at the symphony in his child's black suit, letting Stravinsky transport him, feeling his spirit rise as if it would surely carry him to the ceiling. But his father's voice promised a harsh return to earth.
"You know what I told you about my family and music."
"The boy loves it, Eileen. Why keep him from it because of your foolish superstitions? So the wizards banned it because it frightens them, but we were not listening to the music of a wizard."
"I liked it. I want to learn how to play," Severus piped up quickly on his father's behalf, giving his mother the gap-toothed smile that had always won him her good humor before.
Her palm connected with his face so hard he staggered backwards, staring at her. His hand did not move to his face, nor did water leak into his eyes. He merely stared as the furious red of her open hand and fingers glowed on his white skin, black eyes large, the shadow of what would one day solidify into distrust flickering to life in his pupils.
"Never, ever say that again." Her voice was so low she almost swallowed it. But her young son had no difficulty hearing her, or the fury. A storm which she then turned on her husband. "Wizard's music, no- but see what you have done- opened a door which I now have no choice but to close on him. He cannot play. Cannot, Tobias. Music is not for wizards, and like it or not, your son is a wizard. No amount of your wishing can change that."
"I'll not have the boy grow up a coward- afraid of something that can do him no harm because of your dogma!" Tobias Snape snarled, crossing the room.
Severus felt his mother flinch backwards and scrambled out of the way, curling up near the bed, the excitement of dress clothes and Stravinsky forgotten as the sound of flesh striking flesh filled his ears.
And in spite of the musical talent that Severus knew his mother harbored, he had not been allowed to so much as listen to classical music- in any form- with his mother around. His father's one act of defiance in raising his son, his tie that kept the boy turning to him as Severus grew into what was proving to be astonishing magical power, was the clarinet his father had given him when he turned eight.
"She might not want you to know it, but your mother played clarinet like the devil himself had given her skill. Don't you let her hear you play- but I'll want to be hearing you every so often."
Severus' mother had not discovered it yet. Thanks to the influence of his cousin and uncle, it was unlikely that she would be discovering it now. But worry continued to darken his face as students seated themselves and Hermione Granger was not among them.
888
"Your flute player was out again last night," Lucius said quietly, running his long fingers over Kassandra's taut belly. She frowned at him, rolling over to stare into his gaze.
"I know. Why do you care so much?"
"You know? How?"
"I saw her," Kassandra replied, frown deepening between her brows.
Lucius blinked. "You saw her?" His stomach tightened unpleasantly. It was her. And her growing power put her farther out of reach every passing day.
"Yes." A long pause, and then-
"It's the American, isn't it?" Lucius pressed, an unpleasant look in his eyes.
Kassandra sat bolt upright, throwing his hand off her abdomen, disgust, disappointment and triumph in her black eyes. "I knew it! I saw you at Slughorn's dinner," she hissed. "You couldn't take your eyes off her."
Lucius sighed internally. This would take careful navigation. Kassandra had been willing to sleep with him knowing that his relationship with Narcissa precluded any real commitment. But the exception granted Narcissa did not seem to include other women, and he could not afford to lose his beautiful, passionate, resource.
"Kassandra-"
"But it isn't the American," she cut him off, fastening her bra and pulling on her robes, sliding off the bed at the same time.
"I'm not- what?" He lunged for her, missing as she flicked the edge of her school robes over the side of the comforter to fall around her feet.
"It isn't the American. The flute player. She's someone else." There was a savage delight glittering in her eyes, pleasure at denying him the prize he thought himself near.
"What? Who?" he demanded. But she had finished dressing and her eyes were cold and hard as she turned to him.
"Find out yourself, Lucius. I'll not help you make another conquest." The heavy green drapes fell around him, and by the time he had untangled himself from his sheets and was standing naked outside his bed curtains, the door had closed on her heels.
He cursed himself roundly. He needed her. She knew things he couldn't even guess about. And now he had an entirely different problem.
It wasn't the American. It seemed his master was mistaken.
But regardless of who it was, he needed her, and if it wasn't the American, who was it?