Chapter One: Honoring the Intent

Old beyond memory, carved from the earth by fists of ancient glacial ice, the Valley of Gwaun rests at the mouth of the River Abergwaun, beneath the shadow of Carn Ingli, the Mountain of Angels. The hills bear traces of primal forests, with ruins of sacred henges and ancient stone buildings scattered among them. The folk of the Valley are a hardy and resourceful lot, adhering to the Old Ways, aiding neighbor or stranger as needed, and respecting those seeking sanctuary in a place so shrouded in solitude.

Cleaving to the top of one such hill, encircled by birch groves shivering pale against the surrounding heath, stand the remains of a fortress dating back to those times when the Romans came in conquest. A solitary man, Gareth Islwyn, dwells there, his weathered face hewn and lined by weather and age, marked by fog gray eyes that look away into the past. As is the custom, the people of the Valley refer to him simply as “Gareth the Healer”. They consider him fey, kin to the Tlwyth, “The Good People”, believing he is beloved by the Deities of the Otherworld. No one is quite certain of his true age. Small in stature, slight of build, wiry and tough as a tree root, he stands resilient as the birches, belying his years. Thick gray hair threaded with copper, pulled into a long thick plait, runs down his back, contrasting with skin darkened not only by the sun but also by the distant bloodline of those early Roman conquerors. All in the Valley know him well, and are accustomed to seeing him trekking the hills gathering healing plants and elements, tending his hives and gardens, or sitting for countless hours among the trees, creating exquisite, ethereal carvings in wood and stone, his dogs lolling at his feet.

Many stories are told about him -- that he was once a fierce and courageous warrior grown weary of the trials of battle -- a wanderer who traveled the world seeking adventure, wealth and glory -- a scholar of profound intellect who studied with Masters of healing, magic, and spiritual teaching. Those who have known him longest claim all the stories are true -- at least in part. Interwoven into every aspect of daily life of the Valley folk, his presence is a haven of comfort in times of sorrow and tribulation. In times of celebration, there is no one more filled with joyous abandon than he. Always welcomed in any home, his songs and stories are eagerly anticipated by all, his wonderful carvings grace the mantle of every hearth, his healing balms and medicines are highly prized and relied upon, and his sage council is sought whenever there is conflict or sickness. Any receiving the benefit of his nurturing accept this blessing with glad hearts, recognizing a connection through him to the soul’s forgotten desire, the unspoken yearning to be cherished and sheltered by a kind and loving Guardian.

In the spiritual tradition of the Valley, he honors the Christ for His sacrifice, and loves the Blessed Virgin for Her gentle faith and intervention, respecting these as profound manifestations of more ancient Deities and the deepest ways of Magic, the Old Ways that he follows. This balance of sacred truths is the core of his strength. Loved and respected as a Knowing One, and skilled Healer, he has tended the sick and the wounded, both man and beast, for generations, sheltering those most desolate in body, mind, and spirit. Though prepared always to guide and honor the final breath and soul’s release of the dying, he fights with unflinching ferocity for any still clinging to life, doing battle with death. Possessing an inner vision to perceive those with magic in their deepest nature, he knows full well that witches and wizards are not tales but truth. He does not have a wizard’s power, but has always acknowledged and accepted its existence. Over many years, gifted with an innate sensitivity, he has developed the ability to touch a patient and enter carefully into their mind to understand fully suffering of both body and soul, a skill that has enabled him to save many who might otherwise have been lost. Always he honors the Source from which this gift comes, and on those rare occasions when he has encountered true wizard folk, he has been exhilarated and awed, but never shocked or fearful.

Gareth was therefore not alarmed, but greatly intrigued, as he tended his hives shortly after dawn on a mist shrouded May morning, to see appear a group of individuals whose magic was immediately evident to him. They simply… arrived, with a sharp crack, like rock splitting asunder, and to his eyes, their magic shown as light around them. He recognized the presence of both witch and wizard.

There were three. One a regal woman in dark tartan robes, a witch whose dignity was as a shield before her, the eyes behind her spectacles exhibiting sharp intelligence but deep sorrow, standing stalwart as a lioness guarding and watching. Close behind her towered an enormous man, around whom storytellers would have woven mythic tales -- tall and broad as an ancient oak, with hair and beard thick and wild as the brush which tangles at the base of mountains. Standing quietly with tears streaming down his face, he carried the third person in his arms with infinite gentleness. His massive strength seemed barely restrained, his tear reddened eyes sweeping the surrounding hills as if ready to do battle in defense of the burden he carried.

The Healer focused keenly on this third person -- pale as the sharp edge of a translucent shell shattered on the shore by a punishing tide, deathly still, slight as a youth in those huge arms, without defense other than the shelter they provided. Long oily black hair matted with blood and sweat fell across his brow, veiling the harsh features of a hawk, the gaunt face without expression, blank as silent stone. No light or power emanated from him, only the rising darkness of impending death. His limp form was clothed in long black robes bearing the violent stains of a terrible struggle, with the white of a loosened collar, soaked with crimson, evident at the blackened, swollen throat.

Silently and swiftly, the group approached. Solemnly the witch inquired, “You are Gareth Islwyn, the Healer?”

Bowing slightly, as if in ceremony, he responded, “I am Gareth Islwyn.”

Riveting his eyes with her own, she answered. “Your name spoken by another acknowledges true self. Speaking your own name affirms true self.”

Gareth nodded. “That is the Old Way. How then shall I acknowledge you?”

Standing arrow straight, she responded in a voice resonant with authority. “I am Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration.”

The giant bowed his shaggy head and replied more softly than one would have imagined possible. “I am Rubeus Hagrid, Professor of Care of Magical Creatures.” Gareth inclined his head in respectful welcome, sensing only the most basic information was being offered, and a great deal more was not.

Directing his gaze to the silent figure in Hagrid’s arms, the Healer queried softly, “What name acknowledges this man, whom Death seeks?” Gesturing towards the surrounding heath, he continued. “Corpse candles flickered on our hills last night, foretelling his coming, with Death at his side.”

Hagrid began to protest, but was silenced by a look from the elder witch as she cautioned, “His name must not be spoken”. Hearing a gasp of horror from Hagrid, she gently admonished him. “No, Hagrid, not to shun him, only to protect him.” Her eyes shadowed and troubled, she fixed her gaze on the motionless man in his arms. “We will not speak his name for fear of losing him forever.”

Turning her face to Gareth, she continued, her voice constricted. “He lives, though we scarcely believed it when we found him. Whether through Dark Arts, by some unknown protection, or both, we are unsure. He is gravely wounded, afflicted by the venom of a cursed snake, an awful creature which served an evil master.” As she spoke, Hagrid lowered himself onto a low stone wall, sheltering his burden with abject concern, tears still coursing down his cheeks. The witch, her face grim, knelt beside him, taking the lifeless hand of the pale man into hers, as if seeking assurance that some vestige of life still lingered within him.

Stepping closer to kneel in front of them, the Healer extended his own hands, looking up into Hagrid’s anguished eyes. “I ask permission to touch his thoughts.” Focusing on those bright eyes swimming with tears, Gareth recognized in this great guardian of creatures wild and magical, a compassionate forgiving spirit, and simple wisdom. He waited with hands outstretched, until with a nod of the great shaggy head, permission was granted.

Softly the Healer placed his hands, one on the heart, and the other on the dank brow of the pale wizard. After only a few moments, he pulled back, his own face ashen and drawn. “Terrible pain… raging in darkness… his mind struggles to close around him in protection… his suffering approaches madness… ” Gareth paused momentarily, gathering strength, before standing abruptly. “You must bring him inside immediately.”

Hagrid rose carefully, muttering through his tears to the haggard man in his arms, as though to a wounded creature of the forest. “Yeh jus’ weren’t ever quite right, were yeh… wouldn’t let nobody close to yeh… lonely, bitter ol’ dragon in yer dungeon… jus’ never right… ” His voice trailed away as Minerva reached up, gently touching his shoulder offering comfort.

Gareth swiftly led them into the restored tower of the ancient fortress -- up steeply winding stone steps to an immaculate and peaceful room, its walls lined with shelves and cupboards, with a low bed placed under a small window looking out over the Valley. Hagrid would not relinquish his burden, though he struggled to enter through the narrow door and up the twisting steps, not until he had gently laid the comatose man on the bed. Gareth observed respectfully as for the first time a wand appeared, the witch speaking soft incantations, placing protective wards upon the room, with Hagrid close beside her. The Healer felt the full presence and force of her magic, and silently placed his own blessing charm upon the room.

Hurrying from the room for a moment, he hastily returned with a large earthen basin of steaming water, in which pungent herbs were steeping. He then turned to Hagrid and Minerva. “These robes must be removed, and all blood and venom thoroughly cleaned away.”

The witch glanced at Hagrid, hesitant and anxious. “He rarely permitted anyone to touch him, even those he knew. He detested being fussed over.” Her tone was brusque, attempting to mask her emotion. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she wiped them away fiercely. “He was so fastidious about his robes, but his hair was always such a… ”

Her voice broke, and it was Hagrid reaching now to comfort her. “I’ll do this part, Minerva. He’ll not know it was me, and even if he does, still it’s the best thing I do, carin’ for wounded creatures… ’specially the ones that snap and bite ‘cause they’re hurt so much.”

Hagrid looked over to Gareth. “Let me do this for ‘im, and when he’s cleaned up some, I’ll call for yeh. If his eyes were to open, at least it’d be me he’d see. Might make ‘im angry enough to bring ‘im round.” His attempt at a chuckle cracked in his throat. “Take Minerva downstairs then, would yeh, while I tend to ‘im? She’s about to drop ‘erself.” He moved towards the bed, softly keening under his breath, “S’all right then, s’only me, and I don’t mean to harm yeh… stay quiet ol’ dragon and don’ snap at me… s’only Hagrid… yeh know me… ”

Gareth guided Minerva from the room, back down the steep winding steps. Reaching the bottom, she swayed, shivering with exhaustion. Steadying her, the Healer led her to sit by the fire, moving away to pour strong black tea, laced with a healthy dose of whiskey. Handing the cup to her, and cradling another in his leathered hands, he spoke softly. “Now, you must tell me, who is this man you have brought to me, and why, for in truth I do not know if I can heal him. I may only be able to ease his death.”

Sighing deeply after taking a restoring swallow from her cup, Minerva hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “We know of those in the non-wizarding world, what we call the Muggle world, who still honor the Old Magic, those of you willing to shelter and protect one of us should there be the need.”

Gareth absorbed her words in silence before asking, “Why have you not taken him to your own skilled Healers? Surely their knowledge is greater than mine, and they would have far better ability to deal with the illnesses and wounds of wizard folk?”

Minerva carefully set her cup on the low table beside her, and picked up a small wooden box with intricate Celtic runes and knot work on all its surfaces. “Your work?” she asked, and Gareth nodded. Deep in thought, she traced the carvings with her slender wrinkled fingers before continuing. “His story is as complex as these knots, twisting and turning, doubling back onto itself. Much of it I am not yet prepared to share with you. It would be unwise. I will tell you he is a brilliant Potions Master, a powerful wizard with deep knowledge of Dark Arts, fallen in a terrible conflict which ended only a few brief hours ago. For the moment, we do not deem it safe for him in our world -- he must be hidden in yours.”

Silence followed this pronouncement until the Healer asked, “What do you ask of me?”

She looked up then, and locking his eyes with hers, answered without hesitation. “We ask that you shelter him until he returns to Life or passes into Death. You are not to know his true name. There are those who would follow the very sound of it to this place. Those serving Darkness will hunt him, seeking fulfillment in revenge, wanting to subject him to a hideous death in accordance with their Master’s wishes. Many serving the Light would condemn him to imprisonment in a dreadful place, unwilling or unable to comprehend the price he has paid. Only a very few know what is owed him.” Her voice fiercely intent, she demanded, “Gareth Islwyn, do you understand the power of a Life Debt, or the grave commitment of an Unbreakable Vow?”

Rising to her challenge, the Healer responded with equal fervor. “It is not only your people who understand such a Debt and the unfaltering obligation of such a Vow.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across the witch’s face. “My apologies, Healer, for my harshness. I would not require such a Vow from you, but I would ask you to honor the intent. This wizard honored his own Life Debt and fulfilled his own Unbreakable Vows, with great courage. I ask you to trust that our need is honorable and necessary. If you cannot, we will carry him away, and will not trouble you further.”

Now his eyes locked onto hers as he responded with great solemnity. “I am a Knowing One, and Healer. None whom I may have the ability to heal leaves my home unless they wish it. None shall ever be dragged by force from my home to die alone in suffering. I must do as you ask, or betray my own nature. You have my word.” Their eyes remained fastened, each understanding that an unprecedented Vow now bridged the gap between Magical and Muggle.

Gareth broke the profound silence. “He must be named, even if the name is not his true one. He may not respond to this name at first, but its sound will sooth him as he comes to associate my voice with relief from pain. Something in the old tongue would do well. This man is valuable to you.” A strange expression flickered across the witch’s face before she nodded. “And you have spoken of his courage. Neirin in the old tongue means “treasured” and Maldwyn “courageous friend”. Let the name Neirin Maldwyn be his while he remains here.”

Minerva gave a sadly wry smile. “Oh, I can just hear him! ‘How pretentious and loathsomely sentimental.’, but it bears no resemblance to his true name, so it should help to keep him hidden.”

She looked over at Hagrid, bending low to enter the room, shaking his great shaggy head in dismay. “There’s no wakin’ ‘im. I near smothered ‘im in blankets and quilts, but he’s so wretched cold he don’ even shiver. He moaned once when I was washin’ the blood and all from the wound on ‘is neck, but so faint I hardly heard ‘im. ‘Twas a pitiful sound… the lonely ol’ dragon’s got no fire in ‘im… ”

“And the bleeding?” the Healer asked, moving across the room to the staircase.

“Thas’ stopped, but maybe ‘cause there’s hardly any blood left in ‘im.” Hagrid bowed his head, and having no task now to occupy him, again began to shed great tears.

Stepping to his side, Minerva directed Hagrid towards the outer door. “We must leave quickly before we are missed. There is so much to be done, and many dreadful situations still to be dealt with. We must devise a reason for the absence of his body. He should have died almost immediately from that cursed wound, and when he can’t be found there will be those from both sides of this War seeking him, all with their own purpose and intent, for good or ill.”

Gareth nodded thoughtfully. “I have observed terrible curses placed before by certain of your folk, and some of mine as well. When I touched his thoughts, his mind was wandering between the Worlds, his soul a guttering flame -- but he is still fighting, with amazing ferocity for one so broken… I will endeavor to heal his body, but a shattered mind and abandoned soul are another matter. He may remain a Wanderer for weeks, months, even years. If I succeed in reversing the effects of this venom, he may wake… if he chooses… and if he is able. If he is held there by Dark Arts, you will have to reveal much more to me, or we cannot reach him.”

Minerva looked away, her face pinched with weariness. “There is nothing simple about the situation. But be assured, we will abandon neither of you.” Hagrid, his eyes set with grim determination, the tears dried upon his face, nodded his agreement.

As Hagrid negotiated his way outside, preparing for departure, Minerva hesitated, and then motioning for Gareth to accompany her, climbed rapidly again to the room above. Crossing to the bed, the elder witch knelt beside it. The Healer watched in shock as she lowered her head into her hands, openly weeping, for the first time appearing frail and aged. He stepped quickly to her side gravely concerned, and was stunned when she raised her face to him, her eyes streaming tears. “I cursed him, Healer, as a coward and murderer. Only a few hours ago, I raised my wand against him, and he fled.”

“Was it you who did this?” he challenged in horror, motioning to the unconscious man.

“No, not this, never this… but I would gladly have seen him dead at my feet,” she answered.

“But why, when now you ask me to protect him?” Gareth demanded.

Her response was barely audible. “He killed someone I loved.” She turned her eyes to the pale wizard and stretched out her wrinkled hand to touch his marble cheek, her face twisted in misery, speaking to him as though he might respond to her voice. “In spite of yourself, you might have trusted me enough… this is not what he intended… you must have known that… ” She clasped one waxen hand tightly in hers. “Had this happened to one of us, before you cast… before he… died… it would have been you we turned to first for help.”

Gareth stood over her, greatly troubled and confused. Indeed, as she had said, this man’s story was epic in its complexity. He stepped back as Minerva rose stiffly to her feet, and watched as she reached into a pocket hidden in the dark red lining of her robes. From it, she produced an ebony wand, without adornment, stark in its simplicity. Balancing it carefully on the palm of her left hand, she extended it towards the Healer.

“His?” he inquired quietly, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” she responded, her voice heavy with grief.

In all his years, Gareth had never seen, touched, or held the wand of a true wizard. He made no move to do so now, though it was easily within his grasp. “I may not touch it, you know that.”

Standing with her dignity wrapped around her as encompassing as her robes, she replied, “Forgive me. A final test for you, Gareth Islwyn. If you had reached to take it from my hand, we could not have left him here with you, no matter how great your skills as a Healer.” He nodded in understanding.

“But his wand must remain close to him,” he asserted.

She nodded. “For the time being. Its power may call him, and give him strength.” Gareth moved across the room, stopping in front of a beautifully carved chest of white birch. Kneeling before it, he brought forth a long narrow box of blackest marble, with veining colored in the deepest greens, silvers, and golds running through it. Its surfaces were covered with exquisite carvings of knot work and ancient runes, so intricate and delicate they seemed to shift like a shadow of smoke across its face.

Handing it to Minerva, he said, “I have worked on this piece for nearly twenty years, and have only recently completed it. I sensed it had great purpose, but did not know to what end. That seems evident now.” She carefully took it from his hands, and gently placed the ebony wand inside, a perfect fit.

Before handing it back, she moved to position the beautiful lid in place and suddenly sank onto the edge of the bed, dazed and shaken. Centered on the lid of the box, hidden among the other carvings, following the natural veining and colors of the marble, was the image of a tiny green snake with black eyes, its scales flecked with silver, gently curled around the base of a slender golden lily, as though to protect it. Tracing the image with her thumb, she raised her eyes to the Healer, her face white with shock, and whispered, “You could not have known… ”

He answered quietly, “I carve only what the stone reveals to me. I do not question the meaning.”

The elder witch took a deep breath, gathering her composure, and rose to place the box into his hands. “Protect this wand, and its wizard. We will return soon, and try to do more.” Suddenly, to his amazement, she stepped nearer and for the briefest instant embraced him, whispering, “Thank you, Gareth Islwyn”. Turning back to the bed, she looked down at the man who lay there. Her lips moved silently, and the Healer understood she spoke neither charm nor spell, but rather the most ancient of all prayers, a simple entreaty to the Divine to show mercy. After a moment, she hurried from the room, not looking back. He moved to stand at the end of the bed, where he could watch from the window, and in an instant heard the sharp crack of Apparation, and saw the two vanish, leaving the third behind.

Chapter Two: Blessed Angels Come

Still holding the marble wand box, the Healer turned from the window to cross the sunlit room to the birch chest, above which hung a small altar bearing sacred elements of Blessing, Healing, and Protection, dedicated to Brighid, Mother Goddess, Patroness of Healers. Gareth trusted his Goddess and the Guardian Spirits of the house would insure the wand from falling into Darkness. Having concealed the wand box in the farthest reaches of the chest, he returned to sit on the edge of the bed, contemplating the face of the man whose life -- or death -- was now in his keeping.

“I must enter your thoughts again, if you will permit me.” As before, he laid his hands upon heart and brow, steeling himself against what he knew he must encounter. The tide of suffering that swept over him was staggering. Advancing cautiously on a fragile bridge of thought, Gareth sensed a presence retreating deep into hiding, fighting to maintain tenuous control, but faltering.

Speaking aloud so his voice would begin to become familiar, while simultaneously reaching out in thought, Gareth addressed his patient.

“Wizard, do not fear me. I hold no power over you, and am not your enemy. I am Gareth Islwyn, a Healer. Your wand is near, safely guarded, and your true name hidden from me. Neirin Maldwyn is the only name by which I will know you. Find shelter within this name, Wizard -- it is intended to conceal and protect you.”

Summoning an image of Minerva and Hagrid, he sent this thought forth into the darkness, hoping to offer some anchor of stability to the hidden presence. “I am sworn to aid you in whatever way I am able. My Word is given, my Vow made.”

As though treading on brittle glass, Gareth prepared to step back across his bridge of thought, halting suddenly as a ragged scrap of whisper brushed past him, surfacing out of the abyss from which the next wave of agony surged forward.

“There is no one… ”

He shuddered in empathy as the cruel wave swept inexorably forward and the whisper died.

Understanding the urgency, Gareth hurriedly scrubbed his hands and arms in a decoction of purifying herbs before dressing in spotless linen. Knowing a long and awful battle lay ahead, he paused for a moment in prayer.

“Mother Goddess, be with me. My skills to heal come from You. Fill my heart with courage and compassion. Grant wisdom without fear or doubt. Let my hands be guided to do only what is just and good.”

Hagrid had vanished the wizard’s ruined robes, cleansed all traces of blood, venom, and sweat from the lank hair and rigid body, and desperately seeking to bring warmth, had swathed him in a cocoon of woolen blankets and soft quilts. Gareth noticed an assortment of bottles, vials, boxes, pouches, and small implements, situated on the bedside table -- no doubt carefully and respectfully placed there by Hagrid. The Healer resolved to examine these things closely as soon as possible, for surely a Potions master would always carry on his person the elements and tools most necessary to his Craft.

His first crucial tasks were to warm the wizard’s icy body and replenish blood. From a small deerskin pouch he had placed nearby, he drew forth five perfectly matched sets of stones, each the size and shape of a birch leaf, wafer thin, carved with a single rune. A student of the ancient would have recognized these “Blue Stones” from Carn Menyn -- source of the mystical stones carried, some said by Merlin himself, to the first circle of Stonehenge. Channeling profound Magic of the Otherworld, birthed from the depths of the earth, washed for millennia by the healing springs of sacred mountains, they were treasured by Celtic Healers above all else for their ability to focus and strengthen the Flow of Life. Each pair bore the rune of a specific deity -- Dagda, Don, Gwydyon, Lenus, and Andraste, and had been handed down through a myriad of generations, from Healer to Healer, the most cherished of gifts.

To reassure his patient while he readied the Stones for bandaging at ten crucial pulse points, Gareth began singing softly -- an old lullaby of blessed angels gathered around a sleeping child. Sung for generations to Valley children, the message of the song was rooted in ancient beliefs -- if called upon with humility, the Guardians of the Otherworld would gather to encircle and defend the helpless. How odd, the Healer thought, to sing a lullaby to a dying wizard -- yet somehow this poignant sweet song seemed fitting. Who other than a Healer and the Angels might protect such a man, whose need was so great?

Lifting his patient, shifting the blankets to position the Healing Stones, Gareth was shocked at the man’s thinness, his body close to emaciation. He began speaking to the wounded man, as though in conversation with an old friend.

“Well then, Neirin Maldwyn, whatever sins you may have on your soul, gluttony certainly wasn’t one of them, was it?”

What he saw when he turned the man’s slight body dismayed him. “Whose work was this then, lad?”

His eyes swept over the web of scars and wounds that covered much of the gaunt body, some the faint silvery threads and shadows of traumas long past, others much more recently acquired.

“How many of these were dealt you when you were just a boy, then? I imagine you learned to protect yourself early on. Probably gave as good as you got, didn’t you. Hagrid calls you an old dragon… says you are a bitter, lonely man. I do not doubt it. I’m sorry to say, you’ll carry yet another scar soon, but what a tale we’ll have to tell, if we manage to pull you through, eh, lad?”

Turning the left arm gently to wrap two Stones with soft flannel bandages at the pulse of wrist and elbow, the Healer drew a sharp breath. On that forearm was a grotesque scar, faded but still showing clearly the gruesome image of a twisting serpent emerging from a Death’s Head. Frowning, the Healer signed against evil. “That’s the darkest magic you carry there, Neirin. What could have caused you to accept such a brand, I wonder.”

Examining the slender, scarred hand, the fingers long and tapering, a reflection of the wizard’s wand, Gareth continued his soothing soliloquy.

“You’ve Healer’s hands, an artist’s hands, don’t you, lad. Most likely, the only thing about you anyone ever considered beautiful. You are not blessed with a fine face, Neirin, but I am told you are exceedingly brilliant and quite powerful. I imagine you wield that ebony wand of yours like a swordsman, swift and elegant. I hope I may see that for myself one day… ”

Thus, the Healer continued, interspersing gentle speech with quiet song, until all Stones were positioned. One final Stone, larger than the rest, marked with the rune of Brighid the Mother, he bound gently in place upon the wizard’s heart, to sustain and strengthen the Wellspring of Life. Taking both glacial hands into his own, he spoke aloud a prayer of intervention.

“My Mother, Lady of Fire, great Brighid, this man is dying. I ask You to bestow Your Healing Flame, bringing the warmth and flow of Life into him, burning away all that is destroying him. Yet, should it be Your wish that he join You in the Otherworld, I pray You take him swiftly and gently. I ask this humbly, always having cause to praise You.”

So saying, he released the man’s hands and bent to examine the blackened, swollen neck where a ghastly wound punctured deep into the flesh, grazing the artery.

“How is it you didn’t bleed to death, Neirin, or die from the venom of such a snake?” the Healer pondered.

With deft hands, he bathed the wound, dressing it with linen bandages treated with a poultice of cattail, sophora, and sedum to slow further bleeding. Slipping his arm behind the wizard’s bony shoulders, with infinite patience he coaxed three medicines, drop by drop, down the ravaged throat -- burdock, rosemary and linden to induce replenishment of blood, an anodyne of wine laced with turmeric, saffron and monkshood to ease deep pain, and tincture of valerian, chamomile, passionflower and skullcap to lessen mental torment.

Finally, pulling a soft linen sleeping robe over the wizard’s rigid body, and pushing the long black hair back from the icy brow, Gareth wrapped him securely again in the blankets and quilts, before settling him gently onto the mound of pillows positioned to ease his breathing. The faintest of moans issued as before from the wizard’s spectral lips. Thoughts of a lonely, unloved child passed through the Healer’s mind, and he wondered if such simple comforts had ever been afforded this man.

Hours, even days, must now pass before the effects of the Healing Stones would begin to be evident. The medicines would encourage renewal of lost blood, and a dreamless, sedated state would offer some small measure of relief from the unrelenting agonies inflicted by the venom. The witch had said the snake was horrible, and had served an evil master, which Gareth understood meant Dark Arts had strengthened the intensity of the bite. He would consider carefully before proceeding, but knew all traces of venom would need purging, by Bridgid’s Fire, and skillful use of medicines and time-honored healing practices. Gareth was pleased to note the wizard’s breathing, while still shallow, was less labored, and his heartbeat, though still faint, was more constant. Silently, he thanked the Goddess for Her kindness to his patient.

Seating himself in a chair at the bedside, the Healer began to examine each of the items taken from the wizard’s vanished robes, jotting notes and commenting aloud in a quiet, steady tone, as though in consultation with a colleague.

Picking up one of several small objects, misshapen, but smooth. Gareth cocked his head to one side, a slight smile playing across his face.

“Now then, is this an assortment of bezoars we have here? I have used these as well -- very helpful in most cases of poisoning. I learned of these in Crete, many years ago. Lumps of charcoal, and terra sigillata, too. The Healers of Egypt and North Africa prefer those, don’t they? Effective in certain circumstances, that’s true… but trifles against anything as potent as what’s afflicted you.”

A rolled leather case, supple and soft from years of use, revealed a silver knife, its blade honed to a pristine edge, along with assorted measuring implements and other tools bearing strange symbols. Padded pouches contained a small crystal mortar and pestle, and a set of compact copper scales. Gareth perused the labels on the many bottles, vials, and boxes, noting the precise labeling, and the meticulous care with which all these items were maintained.

Stacked carefully next to the other items, were several texts on potions, brews, and medicines, all in the original Greek, Latin, or German, with notations scribbled in the margins. Curiously, a volume of Muggle verse, Dante’s “Divine Comedy” in Italian, was also present, a frayed scrap of green ribbon serving as the bookmark. Clearly, this Potions Master respected, perhaps even cherished, the tools and elements of his Craft, and was a man of keen intellect who did not limit himself to Magical writings only.

The Healer recognized many of the tinctures and potions, but others were unknown, their components beyond even his extensive knowledge. His brow wrinkled with concern and distaste when he discovered one vial containing an infusion of Asphodel and Wormwood, for he knew its purpose. Finally only two items remained, one a small bottle of amber glass. Reading the label before removing the stopper, he took a small sniff of the remaining dregs.

“An interesting concoction, this one, Potions master -- bistort, yarrow, nettle, rue, red clover, alchemilla, Bach flower, and several ingredients I don’t recognize. You must have kept this with you at all times. A daily dose no doubt, to develop resilience against severe bleeding and restore blood loss. Was this what slowed your hemorrhaging long enough for someone to find you? That was your intention I expect.” He put the bottle carefully back on the table. “I am treating you with similar medicines of my own. I hope we may compare notes when you’re well.”

Gareth hesitated for a moment before picking up the final item from the table. A small box of old bronze with a deep patina, oblong and flat, the size of a man’s palm, adorned with the ancient Greek symbols of the Alpha and the Omega -- the Beginning and the End -- the label, “Virus Infinitas”, written in the same precise, spiked hand, as all the others. The Healer translated the words aloud, with dread.

“The Venom of Eternity.”

Opening the box gingerly, he noted a layer of thick, odiferous paste, marred by fingerprints where countless small quantities had been pinched away. The Healer snapped the lid shut, angry and dismayed.

“Have you been dosing with this? An arrogant attempt, Potions master, however skilled you may be. Did you believe yourself stronger than this concoction, or were you simply indifferent to your own wellbeing? This vile brew may have kept you alive, but you may soon wish it had not, considering the toll it will demand. From the look of you, I expect that has already begun. Why would a brilliant man be so foolhardy… ?”

Gareth understood the bitter humor of the labeling. Any Healer trained in ancient poisons, hexes and curses, knew this substance -- the Mithridatum -- composed of hundreds of complex elements, its origins going back millennia. Preparing even the smallest quantity required years, and was a feat attempted by only the most skilled Potions Masters and alchemists. Once prized as the Universal Antidote, it would hasten recovery and provide immunity from the most virulent of poisons and venoms, but at a terrible cost. Most Healers shunned it.

Created and refined by an ancient king who sacrificed the lives of thousands of slaves to perfect the mixture, there was a curse upon the brew. Its dark inception, combined with ingredients that included powdered vipers flesh and strongly addictive opiates, condemned the user to a vicious and unforgiving dependency, were the substance used more than once. Even those with the strongest disciplines were unable to withstand the devastating effects of sustained dosage.

The Healer studied the harsh features of his unconscious patient, realizing he would have two formidable enemies to battle -- the power of the venom, and the addiction of the attempted preventative.

“May the Goddess have mercy on you, Neirin. The scar of Darkness on your arm, and this in your pocket? Yet, people of obvious great goodness grieve for you, asking that I protect and heal you? I hope I do not come to regret my Vow… ”

Whatever the sins of his patient, Gareth was a Healer, sworn to do no harm, to shelter and sustain life. Moving deliberately around the room, he began assembling his own tinctures, potions, and medicines, allowing his thoughts to drift back in memory to another man, with fathomless eyes, who had knocked at his door long ago, seeking shelter in the night. Desiring no conversation, he had sought only a place to exist upon the earth until the morning. Leaving at first light, the man had flung a bitter challenge over his shoulder.

“Pray for me… if you can. There is no one else… Heaven would not have me, and Hell will not take me.” He had said nothing more, and was not seen again.

Now standing at the bedside of still another man in torment, Gareth clasped one of the beautiful scarred hands in his own, recalling the echo of the ragged whisper that had struggled from the depths of suffering to reach him.

”There is no one… ”

The Healer bowed his head, mourning for all broken souls, before whispering aloud “There is someone.”

Chapter Three: Requiem of Revelation

Seven days… the time allotted by Creation to fill the Void with stars, to set the Earth spinning, to kindle the spark of Life. Seven days… a breath, an eternity… all dependent upon the perspective of those living within… or through… that span of time.

For Minerva, the past seven days had been both -- a dizzying flash, a ponderous morass. Upon her return from Gwaun, she had immediately dispatched one of her personal owls to the Healer, bearing the cryptic message, “Send word”. She knew this faithful owl, long trusted to deliver communiqués between members of the Order, would wait patiently for Gareth’s reply. She remembered the familiar Muggle adage, “No news is good news", and tried to find solace in that old saying, for no message came. Hagrid had approached her several times each day, eyes full of his unspoken question, and she had shaken her head. “No, there is no message.” It saddened her to see the changes in her friend’s face, the deep furrows and lines etched around his eyes, across his brow -- tracks of sorrow and painful memory she had never seen there before. He seemed far less inclined to pause for a chat, to ramble on about some inconsequential event in his daily life. She knew he carried his newly acquired burden of secrecy with an altered heart.

The first several days after the Battle had been devastating and exhausting. So many wounded and traumatized to be cared for and arrangements made for the memorials of far too many beloved. The chambers, halls, and grounds of Hogwarts Castle echoed with the sounds of weeping, words of comfort and remembrance, the mournful music of requiem. Each grieving family had received Minerva’s strength as she held them weeping in her arms. She was the rock against which those who had suffered the loss of their most dear could hurl their anger, their denial, and their wrenching grief. As acceptance began, she became a foundation upon which they struggled to build their first hopes for renewal, for a life no longer pillaged by terror and deceit.

In the dead of night, at the end of the first day, the decimated corpse of Tom Riddle was removed from the anteroom of Hogwarts by a delegation of veteran Aurors, accompanied by Minerva and the senior members of the Wizengard. Officials from the Ministry were oddly absent, shunning any association with even Riddle’s body. Once outside the school grounds, they had Apparated to a clearing deep within the remote reaches of the Forbidden Forest, met there by Hagrid and a bristling Swedish Short-Snout, moon glow reflecting from its cerulean scales. Gathered around the Dark Lord’s remains, none offered any eulogy nor uttered any word, save one command spoken to the dragon in solemn unison.

“Flamma.”

The dragon’s fire exploded in a brilliant arc of light and heat, the most intense of all Magical flame, consuming in an instant the body of He Who Must Not Be Named, leaving only a handful of ash on the Forest floor. One Auror, the most trusted senior member of his Order, stepped forward to encase the ash in a heavily warded urn of iron. Concealing the urn within his cloak, he turned to face the others, his right hand extended to receive the touch of the wands of Minerva, his fellow Aurors, and the Wizengard, each weaving a Circle of Commitment and Protection around him. Hagrid stood apart, his great hand on the dragon’s neck, his wand hidden by necessity. He could not participate openly, but his attention was no less keen when the senior Auror spoke.

“It is my Pledge, my Trust, my Vow, to carry this Vessel to the farthest regions of the Earth, to consign it to the Flames of the Core so that it should never again be opened, and its contents never again unleashed upon the Worlds.”

All present nodded in silent acknowledgement, even the dragon standing quiet. Henceforth, this Auror’s sacred obligation would be his Pledge. The remains of Tom Riddle’s body must mirror his shattered soul -- never again to be resurrected, never again to personify death and havoc, never again to be whole.

At eventide of the second day, Minerva and Harry climbed the long winding staircase to the top of the Astronomy Tower, recalling the day when the Wizarding World had shifted, changing forever. They sat together through the long fragrant night, the elder witch talking with Harry, allowing him to mourn, to connect with the realization he was no longer the lamb of sacrifice, to understand he could now begin the life of a young man with dreams and aspirations. She shared her memories of his parents, and her reminiscences of Albus Dumbledore, the fallen members of the Order, the lost children of the Army. Only one person she refused to speak of -- Severus Snape. She withdrew from Harry’s questions, saying the subject was too painful. He respected her wishes, but she knew her reticence troubled him. There seemed a desperate need in the young wizard to learn more about the man to whom he owed so much. She dared not look in his eyes, to speak to him of Severus… or she would surely break and reveal her profound secret.

By sunset of the fourth day, Hogwarts was closed, waiting for major repairs to begin. The last of the students had gone home to the harbor of family and friends. Minerva had remained at the gates as the students departed, acknowledging all, embracing many, urging them to rest and grow strong during the summer holidays, encouraging them to keep up with their studies, but also to spend time glorying in the richness of simply being alive! Some seventh years had inquired reluctantly about NEWTs and had been reassured there would be the opportunity, later in the summer, before the new term began, to return and complete the process of examinations and graduation.

The dead lamented and honored, the wounded tended to, her students safe, Minerva had spent the following two days walking every inch of castle and grounds with Filch -- assessing damages, overseeing careful storage of artifacts, books and equipment, and insuring wards were in place and any remaining staff and faculty settled. Only two places in the castle had not yet echoed her firm step or received her personal attention -- the sanctums of the two Wizards whose memory was a wound she bore silently.

As dawn touched the horizon on the morning of the seventh day, no longer able to avoid the inevitable, she climbed alone to the Headmaster’s Office, her face strained with weariness. She had been unable still to steel her resolve to enter Severus’ personal quarters, but perhaps, in the sanctuary of the Headmaster’s Office, she might gather strength, readying herself for that final task. She noted that “Dumbledore” remained in place as the password to gain access, and the comprehension of who had placed that ward was a knife in her heart.

Standing on the threshold, she noted all portrait frames, save one, were empty, the occupants gone elsewhere in the castle to gossip, seek news, and recover from the tumult of recent events.

Her heart clenched as she realized Albus Dumbledore’s possessions, his papers and books, his trinkets and treasures, all remained precisely as he had left them. For nearly a year, all house-elves had been harshly denied permission to enter the room for any reason, upon threatened pain of torture, exile, or death. Minerva’s throat closed around her grief, for she understood now whose order had forbidden the house-elves from performing their tasks and whose hands had meticulously cared for every item, his actions no doubt cunningly concealed within some dark contrivance. If questioned by his fellow Death Eaters, he had surely sneered and asked why anyone would assume he would not keep trophies of his greatest kill, tokens of the immense victory he offered their Lord.

In the past year, she had been summoned only once to the Headmaster’s Office, to be tersely given new rules and regulations with which she, all staff and students must comply. There had been no greeting, no discussion, no dialogue -- only orders, delivered with cold authority and a curt dismissal. The room had been shrouded behind an impenetrable veil of shadow, lit only by scattered, flickering candles. She had not lingered for pointless argument, nor had she chosen to look into the face of the man seated, like a wraith, behind the great oaken desk. Had she done so, had she observed without prejudice, she would perhaps have seen -- the room had been skillfully staged to elicit uneasiness, obedience, and fear, but behind that ominous facade, its most beloved occupant was still enshrined, silently honored and mourned by the man who had killed him.

The only evidence of Severus was an aged, leather bound volume of Muggle philosophy -- “The Ethical Writings of Cicero” -- and a single glass, bearing the smoky residue of firewhisky, set on the wide window seat. Minerva envisioned him, sitting in the twilight stillness, reading and drinking -- alone with his demons. To all appearances, he had laid the book aside carefully, perhaps only moments before descending the staircase, moving into the shadowed corridors -- to look for Harry, to look for her -- to prepare for his final confrontation with the Dark Lord. No marker held his place in the book, as though he had not expected to return. The loneliness of these meager, stoic fragments was another wound to Minerva.

She hesitated before approaching the Pensieve, standing like a Grail, bearing the memories of two great Wizards. It seemed so small, to hold so much. She wondered whether the memories of the man hidden so far away in Gwuan slumbered peacefully within it, or were they swirling in chaos, as was he.

Harry had shared the Potions master’s memories with her, offering each as a gift of remembrance, trying to gain some understanding of the man he had so long despised.

Crossing to the portrait of her dearest friend, she positioned a wingback chair facing him, waiting patiently for acknowledgment. Presently, the dozing portrait woke and, turning his beautiful crystal blue eyes in her direction, smiled and beckoned, his hand no longer blighted by curses and pain.

“Dearest Minerva, are you well? I’ve heard you have officially been named Headmistress?” The elder witch nodded in confirmation. “It’s taken you so long to come to your Office. You should be seated in your Chair, Headmistress,” Albus Dumbledore gently chided.

She shook her head in denial. “I’m not quite ready to take up residence here, or sit in that Chair just yet, Albus.”

“I do understand, Minerva,” he replied. “You know, he would never sit there either, unless it was absolutely necessary to assert his authority over the staff -- particularly the Carrows -- or demonstrate to the Ministry his absolute control over the school. Otherwise he’d pace incessantly and stubbornly refuse to sit in what he vehemently insisted was my Chair.”

Minerva remained silent, for there was no question who they were discussing.

“Where have you hidden him?” Dumbledore posed his question without preamble.

Because deception between them was inconceivable, she whispered, without hesitation, “Within a name, in a place far from here, safe with a Muggle Healer who has deep understanding of our ways. Only Hagrid and I know he is alive, and where. I created a plausible lie. Since his body was missing, I openly speculated that werewolves had carried it off for their own grisly purposes, frenzied for revenge. The quantity of blood on the floor of the Shack made the lie most believable, and most have accepted my fabrication as truth. There is a certain irony in that, wouldn’t you say?”

Dumbledore nodded, saying nothing, waiting for Minerva to continue.

“There was no memorial service. It was painfully easy to persuade almost everyone he would not have wanted one. I arranged for a discreet plaque to be placed near the Restricted Section of the Library, since he was known to have a passion for books. It states his name, the years he served here, and that he was lost in the Final Battle of Hogwarts -- nothing more. No portrait has appeared of course, but since he is believed to have deserted the school, that was readily explained away. Harry will be my greatest problem there. He will certainly try to insist on a portrait. I must find a way to prevent that.

“Most people seem relieved to simply wash their hands of him. The Ministry is trying to sort itself, frantic to avoid recriminations. No one there is truly concerned with the ugly death of a Death Eater turned spy. Even Harry confronting Voldemort with the truth hasn’t convinced the majority of people.” Minerva’s mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust. “Quite a few Ministry officials are claiming years as your spy do not negate his prior crimes, and that judgments against him should be meted out posthumously. How unforgiving people still can be, even now… particularly when condemning him diverts attention from them.

“Any Death Eaters who manage to evade the Aurors will certainly attempt to regroup, and should they ever suspect, they will not rest until they have found him. Of course, Rita Skeeter can scarcely contain herself; she is so eager to market one of her heinous fictions… my lie will certainly add grist to her mill. Albus, your spy was feared and mistrusted far too many years, and I’m sorry to say, often justifiably… forgiveness and perspective where he is concerned will not come readily… if ever.”

Dumbledore nodded his understanding as she continued. “After the Battle, when we felt safe to leave briefly, Hagrid and I hurried to recover his body before anything dreadful could happen to it. We believed it was our duty to carry our colleague home for a respectful burial. We did not expect to find him… alive.” Her hands clenched into fists, her face a mask of dismay.

Dumbledore sat musing for a time before responding. “I know you’re very angry, Minerva, and that you feel betrayed, but you must accept what was necessary. He and I were one another’s Secret Keepers for so very long, with no Fidelius Charm required between us.”

The witch stood abruptly, confronting the portrait, her eyes lit with a furious flame. “No! This was not necessary! One of you should have trusted me enough to reveal the truth!”

Her eyes welled with unshed, angry tears. She rarely allowed herself to cry in front of anyone, even this most trusted friend and confidant. Frustrated and anguished, she repeated the terrible confession she had made to the Healer.

“Albus, I cursed him as a coward and a murderer. I was ready… eager… to destroy him! This entire dreadful year, I have battled him in every conceivable way, instigating rebellion, undermining his authority. I despised him! How could you allow it, Albus? Surely, if he refused to trust me, at least you might have done so… ”

Dumbledore turned away to gaze from the window painted into his portrait before shifting in his chair to face her, his voice gentle and reminiscent, a tiny smile flickering in his eyes.

“You know he missed your company most of all, Minerva. He often spoke of you -- said he had rather enjoyed your duels over the merits of the students and their Houses. Make no mistake -- he was well aware of your surreptitious activities. He would complain bitterly about you and berate me that spying on Tom Riddle should have been your task -- that you would have relished the endeavor. He seemed quite certain of the demise you intended for him as well, should the opportunity present itself. He swore you were more a wand at his throat than Riddle himself. But he held profound respect for you and would have welcomed you as an ally, had the cost not been so great.”

The witch looked away, hearing in her mind the soft, chilling vibration of the well remembered voice of the Potions master, slicing through all resistance, a gleaming scalpel of logic and intellect, wielded with unerring accuracy. She recalled the rare times she had seen him smile, or heard him laugh -- the smile, a wasp’s sting -- the laugh, a punishing lash. Neither smile nor laugher ever touched those shadowed obsidian eyes. Yet, in the years they had been colleagues, she too had reveled in their verbal duels, their endless sparring. The knife in her heart twisted again, for she had missed his company as well.

Dumbledore remained silent, allowing her time with her thoughts, before he spoke again.

“The night I told him what Harry’s fate must be, he was furious. I was deliberately cruel, casually inquiring how many men and women he had watched die. In that moment, I believe he truly hated me. His eyes were as tortured as if I had cast the Cruciatus upon him, but he answered so quietly. ‘Lately, only those whom I could not save.’ He counted me among that number, it seems.

“He summoned his Patronus that night… such a beautiful Patronus… who would have imagined... Nevertheless, I needed the terrible wound of my solitary question to sharpen the focus he must have to cast the Killing Curse I required of him. That was my clear and calculated intention, you see… to pierce his heart irreparably, to enable him to fulfill the Vows he made. I am left to wonder who used him more cruelly all these years… Tom Riddle, or me.”

“Tom Riddle!” the witch fairly spat. “How can you even bear to speak his name?”

The great wizard’s eyes grew stormy, his face seared by anger.

“Because he is only Tom Riddle now. I trust that none will ever speak his name as Lord again. He was lord of nothing.”

Albus moved forward in his chair as though to be near her, as though he missed the comforting touch of a friend’s hand. Sighing deeply, he continued.

“Consider, Minerva, my Secret Keeper’s life after he fulfilled his Vow. Despised, feared -- without advocate, colleague, or true friend. He dared confide in no one, unless he wished to condemn them, and himself, to the horrors of Riddle. He procured a second frame for my use and hung it himself in his quarters, where even the Carrows dared not venture. That was the only place he felt somewhat assured we could speak openly. Here, in the Headmaster’s Office, he held himself in absolute control, knowing he was constantly under scrutiny by Riddle and the Ministry, but in his personal quarters, he often sank into rage and depression, and I feared for his sanity.

“If in the night he’d not been summoned by Riddle, he prowled the grounds, unseen by the rest of you on your assigned patrols. He rarely slept, other than for an hour just before dawn, and he ate almost nothing, relying on his firewhisky and potions to sustain himself.”

There was grief, and a trace of anger, in Dumbledore’s voice as he proceeded. “Did none of you notice how pale and thin he’d become, even for him? When he sent students to detention in the Forest with Hagrid, did none of you consider that odd, so unlike his usual behavior?”

The witch bowed her head, dismayed and ashamed. “No, Albus, we considered his appearance nothing out of the ordinary, and we were too filled with hatred of him to be concerned with odd behavior. We believed he had some twisted malignant intent, perhaps to focus the Carrows’ vicious attentions on Hagrid, just for sport. And I would remind you, Albus, neither of you intended us to see clearly, did you?” The grief and anger of Dumbledore’s tone was evident in her voice now as well.

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again, as if willing himself to continue with such awful revelations.

“Several months after he’d returned as Headmaster, I came to the portrait in his quarters to receive his report. He was well into his firewhisky when I arrived, and I was shocked how badly his hands were shaking, though he tried to conceal that from me. Apparently, Riddle had been especially adept in casting the Cruciatus that night, for some perceived failure or slight. When he had given his report, I sought to steady him, saying his perceptions were always keen as a dagger’s edge. He studied me in silence, and I knew he was struggling not to collapse from pain, to maintain composure. His response has haunted me. I don't believe I have ever heard such bitterness or emptiness in any man's voice...

‘How fitting -- to be compared with the weapon of thieves, assassins, and spies. Yet, I would ask you, Headmaster, when an enemy holds you in his grasp, which blade comes to your hand most readily, to serve most faithfully?’

“He turned his back to me then, refusing to accept comfort of any kind, other than his own. Without intent, I had grievously wounded my Secret Keeper yet again.

“Wishing him to sleep for even an hour, I would often send Fawkes to sing to him. He tried to forbid it, but what could he do to prevent me?” Dumbledore shook his head, sadly recalling this small kindness he had attempted. “He would snarl at me to leave him in peace and take my ‘bothersome bird’ out of his sight, but when he had no will to fight, Fawkes and I would remain, guarding his sleep.”

Minerva nodded, wishing she could take her friend’s hand, knowing these revelations were torturous for him to share.

“Leave him in peace… I longed to do so… peace was my greatest wish for him. On rare occasions, he might sit reading, or even play a game of Wizard’s Chess with me, seemingly calm without the firewhisky or potions. But then, his Mark would burn, and he would storm out into the night to take his place yet again beside Riddle. I grieved for him, and for you also, Minerva. Knowing you had cursed him, that your wands were raised against one another, my heart broke for both of you. But there could be no stopping what had been set in motion… ”

Dumbledore stood then, leaning on his portrait chair, his face stricken with grief and guilt.

“This entire desolate year, he was preparing himself for the final confrontation, in service to me. Seeing him grow ever thinner and paler, I knew he was attempting something terrible. I slipped repeatedly into the frame in his quarters, perpetuating a cruel irony, spying on my spy. I was horrified at my discoveries. He had begun to direct his wand against himself… curses, hexes… Merlin forgive us both, even the Cruciatus… to ever increasing degrees… dosing with ancient and dangerous potions, though he knew they would instill vicious dependencies… all to reinforce his defenses against whatever Riddle would level at him should his duplicity be discovered.

“I fought with him terribly, forbidding him to continue. I threatened to reveal everything to you, to the Order. He laughed at my threats, bitter as gall.

‘Why should any of you presume to forbid me anything, even these measures? This is my path… I chose it… I will finish it.’

“It was true -- he had chosen, long ago. But it was I who continued to ready that path for him. Harry, though separated from all of you, had your love to sustain him, and the company of two most trusted friends. My Secret Keeper had only me, and he knew I would do nothing to hinder whatever preparations he chose to make. Insuring Harry would succeed was all that truly mattered.” Overwhelmed by emotion, unable to continue, the ancient wizard bowed his head, weeping soundlessly.

Minerva sat rigid and silent, waiting for this tide of grief to subside. What words could comfort her friend when she herself bore the same weight of sorrow and guilt? Choices made, words spoken, terrible wounds left unhealed. She waited for his tragic account to resume, and it soon did, spoken in a choked and anguished voice.

“After you confronted him, and he fled, I fought to stay connected with him, though he remained firmly Occluded. When Nagini struck, those barriers shattered. I felt him fall, and I shared the memories he gave Harry. When he was left behind, alone on the floor, I heard through him -- Riddle’s foul voice returning, speaking his name, calling him. In shock and pain, he answered, as he was trained always to do. He answered to his name, and Riddle’s hiss came stinging yet again out of the darkness.

‘Ecce in Tenebrae, Severus Tobias Snape, Quidam Derelictus. Behold in Darkness, Severus Tobias Snape, the One Forsaken.’

Dumbledore shuddered at the memory, and Minerva turned pale as death, not wishing to hear, but knowing she must.

“All these years, though he was invaluable, Tom Riddle despised him, fearing his intelligence and cunning. Believing his Servant might surpass him, even in Death, Riddle cast the Curse of Abandonment, an Unforgivable Curse long forgotten, forsaking the one cursed into unending darkness, never to pass through the Veil, nor to have even the pitiful companionship of roaming this World in ghostly form.”

Dumbledore sank back into his seat, shielding his face from Minerva.

“I could not prevent it. When he answered to his name, Riddle’s curse fastened onto him as swiftly as Nagini had done. I felt him struggle to reach me, to find me, his thoughts tearing through my heart."

‘Albus,… I am afraid.'

Twisting her hands together in agitation, Minerva rose to pace the room, just as her predecessor had done.

“I never heard him address you except as Headmaster or Dumbledore… never 'Albus'. We all knew his capacity to instill fear… he took some bitter enjoyment in doing so… but I never believed him afraid, except perhaps when he first came to us years ago.”

Dumbledore shook his head, remembering. “He never considered it proper to address me as Albus, even privately -- always so rigid about such matters. But, Minerva, fear was his constant companion. The duality of his deepest nature, his perceptions of his own unworthiness, his guilt and shame, his boundless rage, his memories, all tormented him. His struggle against himself, his fear of sinking forever into the abyss of the Dark Arts, was never ending.

“Some months ago, I stopped to visit the Fat Lady and she seemed greatly troubled. When I questioned her, she said ‘that awful Headmaster’ had been standing night after night, near the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, keeping to the shadows, and she was quite convinced she had seen him trembling…

“Naturally, I convinced the dear lady she was mistaken, that such a thing was not possible… but I had discovered his Boggart… a simple doorway, the portrait hole where he stood alone and ashamed when Lily left him, without even turning to look back. Such a small thing. How deeply he buried that awful secret all these years, concealing it even from me.”

The witch scarcely dared speak, tears openly streaming down her cheeks.

“I am so sorry… for all of us. But, Albus, I believe he is alive… I have had no message otherwise. All those dreadful measures he took have had some effect… How can this awful curse manifest itself, if he still lives and Riddle is dead? Harry threw that in Riddle’s face at the end… that he no longer had power, that his curses were weak and would no longer have their desired outcome!”

Dumbledore shook his head, his face still marred with the pain of all he had revealed.

“The Curse of Abandonment manifested because it was cast with Riddle still in the fullness of his power -- before Harry stood ready to make his sacrifice, armed with the memories he was given and all I had taught him. The Curse was strong and was accepted by my Secret Keeper because he believed himself forsaken. I dared divert no one from the Battle. The tiny thread of even one person’s absence might have been spun by fate into a fabric of defeat, and beyond the Veil, I needed to stand ready to meet Harry. I was forced to do what my Secret Keeper had always demanded of me… leave him… but not in peace.”

Minerva’s voice trembled in response. “The Healer says he suffers, that he is close to madness, wandering in a place Between… struggling to maintain control. Albus, he must not be left believing himself forsaken... This is horrible… I cannot bear it.”

She had returned to stand before the portrait, fixing Dumbledore with her gaze. The ancient wizard bowed his head, pondering. “We must assume the measures he took to prepare himself had some effect. But there are dire consequences to his actions, and they are devastating when coupled with Riddle’s curse.”

Minerva haltingly asked the question she would have given anything not to voice.

“Albus, if he survives… will he be mad?”

The prospect of her colleague’s brilliant mind torn to shreds was unbearable. She would wish him the peace of the Veil, if recalling him to the living would result in madness.

Dumbledore raised his eyes to hers. “I believe his disciplines will prevent him from falling into madness. Your Healer must help him overcome the ravages of the venom, and his dependency on the many potions he has been using. You and Hagrid must become his Secret Keepers now, and in due course, I believe there will be one other.

“His Secret Keepers must help him recover his past, for without it, he is empty. Riddle’s curse holds him obtunded -- lessened -- his mind clouded. His true name has been taken from him, and you must not attempt to use it to call him back. Riddle fastened the Curse to his name, creating an unbreakable Circle of Abandonment. Whenever his true name is spoken aloud, however unwittingly, he sinks deeper into the Curse. Yet, if that true name is never spoken, by any who either loved or hated him, he will fade and be forever lost. The Curse was intended to bind him in Death, between the Worlds. If he lives, I am unsure what the outcome may be.

“For the time being, speak to him, spend time with him, place familiar objects into his hands. This may begin to call him back. Gradually, his memories may surface in dreams and flashes of recognition, but many of these will be terrifying and shattering. Once discovered, the third Secret Keeper must agree to remain always near him, to help him understand. His magic will begin to surface, but will seem foreign, as though someone was whispering to him in a language not his own. You must determine together, as his Secret Keepers, when he may again have access to his wand. Tell no one, not even Harry. He would offer to be the third Keeper, but our dear boy must have the chance to live without another heavy burden placed upon his shoulders. He may have a role to play someday, but this is not the time.”

Sitting in rapt attention, Minerva noted everything she was told before answering.

“Hagrid and I will go to him as soon as possible. The summer holidays will permit us to slip away more frequently without being observed as closely. Certainly, no one would question our need for rest and retreat. We will keep close watch to determine the Third Keeper.”

She seemed almost joyous at the opportunity to perform some meaningful penance for her failure to see what should have been so apparent. Looking up at Dumbledore, she faltered at the terrible sadness still swimming in his eyes, and her heart froze. “Albus,… what have you not told me?”

Rising again to look out his portrait window, Dumbledore remained silent, his head bowed. At last, he turned back to face her.

“Minerva, I told you there would be consequences to the terrible preparations he attempted, coupled with the Abandonment Curse’s manifestation of unending darkness… ”

At his hesitation, a terrible truth began shaping in her mind, and she pulled her robes close around her, shrinking into her chair, covering her face, like a child hiding from unseen monsters.

“Albus? Oh, Albus, please no… no, this must not be… could even Riddle be so cruel?”

His face etched in sorrow, Dumbledore confirmed the final bitter manifestation of Riddle’s curse. “Cruelty was Tom Riddle’s greatest delight… ” The ancient wizard sank into his seat, dreading this final revelation.

“Minerva, you and Hagrid must be prepared, and ready to share with the third. If he lives, my Secret Keeper… our poor wanderer… will be blind.”