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The Severed Souls by Magical Maeve

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Chapter Twenty

Portraits.






The October evening sat uneasily over Godric’s Hollow. Watery dusk had given way to a lacklustre darkness, and Albert Gryps peered out from behind his curtain, sensing the unease. He’d felt the growing malcontent that was spreading throughout the country and watched as it had begun to touch the village. Mrs Dobbs had accused young Mrs Cage’s son Robert of throwing bricks at her cat, and Mrs Cage had replied with a stream of invective that was most unlike the usually mild-mannered mother of two. The ducks that normally whiled away their days skimming the surface of the pond had all died, a mysterious poison having found its way into the water. Only today, he mused, the barmaid at the pub had been caught by a flying glass. There had always been altercations there before, but never anything as serious as this. The police from Littleholt had been called and arrests made, in Godric’s Hollow, of all places.

He stepped back from the curtains and wondered if the time had come to tell that young man, Lily’s boy, the truth. But he had hid it for so long, protecting something precious that must endure, and yet would not endure. Did he want his secret to die with him? Albert removed the whistling tea pot from the heat of the hob and poured a hot splash of water into his mug, wetting the waiting tea bag. A spider busied itself in the corner, spinning a web, and Albert didn’t have the heart to get rid of it. The weather was cold and it was unusual to see one of the creatures out and about so late. Still, better a spider than a Death Eater, he thought, making his way through to the comfortable sitting room.

Memories filled the house; a small child’s laughter, a wife’s merry chatter, the sound of family and joy. All gone now, of course. He lowered his sprightly body onto his favourite, moss-green armchair and thought again of Harry Potter and the problems that could only get worse. Should he do more? Should he insist Harry come for Christmas, away from the Wizarding world?

A slight tremor shook the house, not enough to shake pictures from walls or dislodge china from the cabinet, but enough to make Albert set aside his tea and walk back to the window with a feeling of inevitability. As he reached out, pushing the sash window upwards, something that required more and more effort as each year made the wood move a little more in the wrong direction, he stuck his head out into the night and saw the cause of the reverberation. A car had hit the end house of the row ” Johnny Byrne’s Vauxhall, by the looks of it. Screams quickly followed, piercing the nigh, and a woman ran across from the pub, followed by a clutch of young men. Albert knew there was nothing he could do to help the situation so lowered his window slowly, pulling back into the safety of his own home. Someone would eventually tell him what happened; brakes would be blamed, or a few too many pints. They wouldn’t think the cause of all this bad feeling and mishap could be something they had no concept of.

He opened the shiny, mahogany doors that concealed his record player and slipped a bright black disc out of a sleeve, dropping it onto the turntable and moving the arm across to touch the groove. As the strains of Doris Day singing “Sentimental Journey” drifted across the room, he closed his eyes and allowed his wife’s face to form in his mind. Albert drifted off to sleep and missed the arrival of the fire brigade. He didn’t hear the quiet knock on his door, completely missing the man who let himself into the house and sat down on his sofa. That was a discovery to be made when he woke.



Severus was reluctant to explain to his wife that he had failed, and so developed a story that would allow him to escape detection. Well, it was more of a lie by omission than a story. He simply wouldn’t tell her, he decided. When she asked, he would mumble and mutter and growl, dissuading any further probing. He didn’t think for a moment that it could fail.

“What did you say?” she asked, standing with her feet planted squarely on the rug in the drawing room, fixing him with a fierce glare as she put down the stitching she had been working on.

“Never mind,” he snapped, repelling her gaze with a face as straight as a poker. “You don’t need to worry about it.” He’d only been in the house half an hour and already she smelt a rat. He sighed inwardly at her perception.

He strode across to the small table that held a few decanters and immediately poured some Firewhisky into a glass.

“But I do worry, Severus,” she said, moving her head only slightly to follow his progress from the drinks table to the window. “What exactly happened?”

“I said don’t worry about it. Have I ever failed before?”

“Well…” But she wasn’t allowed to explore the possibilities of his failure, because at that moment Narcissa decided to put in an appearance. She had been clearing up the mess in the kitchen, finding some peace in the mundane tasks of putting dishes away without the use of her wand. Cleaning down the marbled surface of the worktops had given her particular pleasure, and she had glowed back at the gleaming surface. Even splitting her nail on the cupboard door hadn’t fazed her; she had merely fixed it with a simple spell.

She glanced at Severus, who stood, glass in hand and a frozen expression on his face, by the window still. Quickly deciding that her best chance was to appeal to Maeve’s gentler nature, she immediately turned her attention back to the witch.

“All done,” she announced. “Perhaps a nightcap?”

“No, thank you, Narcissa,” Maeve said, still with most of her attention on her husband. “Could you give us a little time alone, please, while I work out why my husband is being evasive?”

There was a definite smile on Narcissa’s pleased lips as she uttered a sweet, “Of course.” Closing the door gently behind her, she couldn’t help feeling a little satisfied at their apparent altercation.

“What is that woman doing here?” Severus asked, his tongue loosened by the opportunity to talk about something other than his own inability to replace the stone. “I thought I told you to admit no one.”

“Indeed you did,” she said, intensifying her glare. “However, someone appears to have allowed her to get through the charms on this place. Someone who helped set them.” She was rather pleased to see just the faintest hint of discomfort on his sullen face.

“That was a long time ago,” he snapped. “She would have done no harm.”

Maeve’s right eyebrow shot to the ceiling. “Really? Despite the fact that her husband was Lucius Malfoy?”

“She would never have told Lucius about her ability to gain access to this place, and she couldn’t have divulged the location or allowed anyone else entry. I couldn’t have known that she would make use of this now, could I?”

“I nearly blasted her into oblivion.” Maeve was spoiling for a fight and she didn’t know why. The memory of the Boggart was fading fast and she was already feeling slightly miffed at being cooped up in this place. And then she thought back to the name in the books in the attic. “Just how Sirius must have felt,” she whispered to herself.

“What?” Severus whipped the question at her. “Did you just mention Black?”

“I was in the attic today and I found some of his old things. Sad really, he never did have a life.” She looked at his ready retort and prevented him uttering it. “No, he didn’t, Severus, so don’t start on about how you hated him. He was what he was, and nothing can change that. You have come off far better than he did. Let it lie.”

“You shouldn’t go into the attic alone,” he muttered into his glass, glad that they had now completely got away from the subject of the Horcrux.

“So, the Horcrux. You did replace it? Only I didn’t quite catch what you were saying about it.” She had followed him to the window now and he caught her scent: freesia mingled with something, he tried to put his finger on the other perfume to separate his mind from the thorny problem at hand.

Had this been Voldemort standing before him, he would have been quite able to shut down his mind and come up with a convincing lie, one that would stall his questioner until such time as Severus could actually fulfil the task. But this wasn’t Voldemort, it was his wife, with those penetrating eyes of hers that seemed to get right under his skin and tease him with their warmth. How, he thought, had he hoped to pull the proverbial wool over her eyes.

“Severus?” His name was loaded with expectation and he let a sigh slip from his lips.

“Things were a little less straightforward than I had expected them to be,” he admitted, waiting for a look of disappointment to cross her face. “The sword did not seem to want the jewel back.”

“Oh, what happened?” There was no disappointment in evidence; he couldn’t read her expression at all.

“Filch tried to replace it and encountered a force that prevented him from re-attaching the ruby. He also informed me that Professor Dumbledore’s portrait has woken. He was told that only the heir of Gryffindor could put the thing back.” He threw back more of the fierce liquid in his glass, anticipating her incredulity.

“Well,” she began, “that’s something of a turn up. We always assumed there was no living heir. Who removed the jewel?”

He frowned. “I did, why?”

Maeve laughed, before catching the severity of his frown, and she immediately stopped. “Why would it let someone who wasn’t the heir take it, yet only allow the heir to put it back? Is there something in your family line we don’t know about?” She half-smiled as he glowered at her and then quickly changed tack. “But that’s not really important, is it? I would have thought the fact that Dumbledore is awake would be more important. He’s the only one that can prove your innocence. Do you think he will?”

“I doubt it,” he said, a picture of gloom. “He’s a painting, a shadow of what he was. There is a limit to what paintings can do and to what extent they will be believed. I hardly think the Ministry will take his word over the evidence they already have. In their eyes, there are no extenuating circumstances.”

“You will be proved innocent,” she said, moving closer and placing her hands on his shoulders.

“Your faith is touching, but I fear it could be misplaced. We may have to accept that our lives will be spent under the cloak of suspicion. Living like Lupin, on the outskirts of society, may be the only option left for us. Do you think you can live your life like that? Am I really worth that sacrifice?”

The bitterness on his face made her throat constrict. The love she held for this complex man often had the ability to leave her feeling winded, and it did so now.

“How can you think I could ever be satisfied with a life not spent by your side? Silly man that you are!” She took the glass from his hand and set it down on the window ledge, reaching up to kiss him as confirmation of her words.

“Well then, perhaps we should go to bed and contemplate the problem of the Horcrux tomorrow. Hunting for the heir of Gryffindor will have to wait until morning.”

“I don’t understand why we need to put the Horcrux back on the sword though. You could engineer some other way for Harry to find it. Or is there a more important reason for finding the heir of Gryffindor?”

“I think it best of Potter find the sword intact. And yes, I think that we do need to find the heir of Gryffindor. I’m not sure why yet” “ he stepped away from the window, snapping the curtains together “ “but anything will help at this stage.”

They left the drawing room and made their way up the stairs. Narcissa had already gone to bed, a gentle music drifting from beneath her door. Maeve was still a little unsettled be her presence, but their earlier dinner had brought about something of a truce. Still, she couldn’t help wondering how long it would last. As they passed her door “ the music louder now that they had drawn level with the room “ Severus noticed a piece of paper pinned to the door with an incantation written on it in miniscule, finely-detailed script. He looked closer, his nose almost touching the parchment as he attempted to read it.

“A ‘do not disturb’ sign?” Maeve grinned.

“She really is a foolish witch,” he whispered, stepping away from the door. “It’s a charm to prevent evil. She’s fallen for the charlatans that make these useless things. I suspect she handed over a good many Sickles for this.”

“I read an advertisement for them in the Prophet,” Maeve said, taking her turn to have a closer look. “That doesn’t even make sense. It’s complete nonsense. The language isn’t even one language, there’s a bit of Latin, a smidge of Sumerian... That’s Irish, for heaven’s sake.”

“Such superstition is folly,” he grimaced. “I would not expect to find you dabbing in silliness.”

“No, but people get frightened and grasp at whatever they can. I’m just fortunate to have you to hold on to when things get particularly bad. Come on “ if it makes her feel better, who are we to mock?”




Roderick hoped that the old man would wake up soon. He needed to get back to Hogwarts before classes began and was only too aware of the hands on the tiny carriage clock moving ever nearer to eight. This was a risk, of that there was no doubt, but the information that he had picked up from Jenny Fitzwilliam the previous night made the old man a very interesting prospect indeed. Roderick still hadn’t decided where he sat with regards the discontent Jenny had related to him as they talked in the Hog’s Head, but he wanted to make sure he was in possession of all the facts before settling on a plan.

Jenny had mentioned that the old man had donated an item to her gallery, a small icon of a man from the early part of the millennium. So much interest had been shown in this extremely early portrait that many authorities on early wizarding history had been to see it, and the most respected of them all, Mordecai Munniment, had pronounced that, in his highly-qualified opinion, this was an icon of Godric Gryffindor himself. Jenny had asked the man who was now slumbering in his chair where the image had come from, but Albert had been vague. He had said it had always been around the house, and had been his father’s, but beyond that he could not say. When Jenny had suggested it had perhaps been in the family for years he had vehemently denied this, saying that it would have been sold long ago, given some of the rogues it must have belonged to had it really been at the mercy of his family for a few generations.

But Roderick, always open to possibilities, wasn’t convinced, and he was here to interview the old fellow himself. Granted, he probably should have knocked first, but he liked the element of surprise; it gave him an unfair advantage.

When Albert did open his aged eyes he didn’t seem remotely surprised by Roderick’s presence, which rather spoiled Roderick’s plans to disarm him early on.

“Mornin’, lad,” Albert said gruffly, his voice still hoarse from sleep. “You’ll be wantin’ a cup of tea?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Roderick said, watching the old man closely. “Why don’t I make it?”

“’Elp yourself. I like mine strong with plenty of sugar.”

Roderick moved to the small cottage kitchen and soon found the necessary equipment to make the desired beverage. Albert had followed him through, biding his time and allowing Roderick to explain himself.

“I wanted to drop by and ask you something,” he said, tipping the kettle’s spout over two cups.

“Aye.”

“About something you donated to a gallery recently.”

“Aye.”

“You know what they are saying about it, don’t you?”

“I’ve an idea.”

“And do you agree with them?”

“I don’t agree or disagree, because I ‘ave no idea who it is.”

There was a glint in the old man’s eye that suggested to Roderick that he wasn’t hearing the whole truth, but he was reluctant to force the issue. There was much at stake here, more than just discovering the history of a painting.

“Have you see Harry Potter recently?”

Albert wasn’t remotely surprised by the change of subject and just shook his head. “Should I ‘ave?”

“No, just wondered.” Roderick looked around the kitchen, unsurprised by its simplicity. A black Aga almost filled one end of the room, a slow fire still smouldering at its heart, while a table filled the centre of the space. Shelves lined one wall, and it was to these that Roderick was drawn. A few ornaments dominated, but in one corner sat a small photograph, framed simply with an ebony surround.

“And this is?” Roderick asked, taking the photograph down and noting the small dust-free rectangle it left on the shelf. “Relation?”

“That’s my son, taken about a year before ‘e died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How did he die?”

The question was like a blunt instrument, thumping down on Albert’s heart. “’E were killed. Never caught the feller that did it. I reckon there were a cover-up, but what can you do?” He put his cup down, looking to Roderick for further questions.

“Was he killed by a Muggle or a magical person?” Roderick’s Auror training sometimes came in useful, especially when he wanted to extract information from someone. Every instinct he has was to dig further, especially as the young man looking up at him bore more than a passing resemblance to someone he knew.

“That I couldn’t tell you.” Albert moved stiffly across to Roderick and took the picture from him, placing it carefully back on the shelf. “But some of your lot investigated it, and so did our police. There’d be records, if you knew where to look. Why the interest?”

“Oh, just the picture. Wanted some background information on it, you know, for research.”

“What would a teacher be wanting information on a painting for?” Albert asked, giving Roderick a shrewd look.

“Never know when it might come in useful,” Roderick explained cheerfully. “I suppose I should be going, classes to teach, students to chastise.” He smiled and handed Albert his mug. “Thanks for the chat.”

“Tell ‘Arry he’s always welcome, if you see him, that is.”

“Will do!” Roderick said cheerfully. “You don’t mind if I Disapparate from here, do you? Wouldn’t want to frighten the natives.”

“Go ahead.”

And with a crack, Roderick was gone.



Maeve was absolutely determined she would not turn into a clingy, mouse of a wife so when Severus announced his intention to pop out after breakfast she bit the her lip and stemmed the complaint that was about to leave her mouth. Instead she asked, in the gentlest voice she could muster, where he was going.

“The Dark Lord,” he informed her in hushed tone, “wishes to ask me something.”

“How do you know that he…” Maeve was about to complete her question, but her gaze fell to his left forearm and she closed her mouth hurriedly. “Sorry, I forget about that… that thing.”

Severus ignored her mistake and continued. “Our discussion about the heir and the Horcrux will have to wait. I expect to be gone all morning and possibly most of the afternoon. There is something I also need to do in Diagon Alley.”

“You can’t go to Diagon Alley!” Maeve was outraged at the suggestion. “You set foot down there and you will be spotted immediately.”

“I shouldn’t worry your pretty head about it,” he grimaced. “I have my means of concealment. Really, don’t worry.”

“Don’t patronise me!” she snapped, her composure ruffled by the use of such a condescending expression. “I do worry, that’s part of what being a wife is. So don’t devalue that by using terms that you used on students.”

He mumbled something approaching an apology, having the good grace to look slightly ashamed of the comment.

They finished their breakfast, Narcissa mercifully absent, and said yet another goodbye. Maeve felt her life had suddenly become one long string of goodbyes and partings, and she lost no time in saying so to her husband. “It can’t be helped,” he said gruffly. “You need to adapt to it for the time being. I have enough things to worry about, without fresh concerns over whether you are occupied or not.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but again held back a retort in the interests of not burdening him with her own petty anxieties. “It’s a good thing I love you,” she said, summoning up a smile for him. She kissed him and stepped back. “Take care, especially in public, no matter what disguise you adopt.”

“I will take all the precautions I possibly can,” he said, his hand coming into contact with the small piece of parchment that had arrived via owl that very morning, and which was now residing in the pocket of his robes. He had no idea what Jenny Fitzwilliam wanted, but he wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. “And stay out of that attic. The Blacks had all sorts of nastiness tucked away; I would not want you to come into contact with any of it.”

“I won’t go into the attic,” she said, smiling at him as he Disapparated from the drawing room. “But you didn’t say anything about the other rooms in the house,” she added once he was out of earshot. If she was to be stuck here again, she would be definitely doing some more exploring.

“Gone, has he?” Narcissa said, her head poking around the door.

“Yes, Narcissa, he’s gone. What are you planning today?”

“I’m going to do a little bit more shopping. I bought some lovely gloves yesterday and I knew I should have bought a pair in all the different colours they had. There was divine shade of eau de nil that… are you listening to me?”

“No,” Maeve said honestly. “I switched off after you mentioned gloves. Have a good day.”

“Such a lack of breeding,” Narcissa muttered, as she made to close the door. “Do you want anything?”

“No thanks… Oh, actually, yes. Could you get me some powdered Coltsfoot and a bunch of Feverfew? And a pinch of Lycium.”

Narcissa’s head came back into view. “I’ll need to write that down. What are you planning on doing with it?”

“Potion,” Maeve said enigmatically. “And add some Passiflora Alata to that list. Do you want some money for them?”

“I think my finances can stretch to a few herbs,” Narcissa said with a smirk.


With Narcissa out of the way, Maeve decided to have another walk through the rooms she had visited the previous day. There had been something, something she couldn’t quite bring into focus, that she thought she had missed yesterday. She wanted another chance at finding it.

Retracing her steps perfectly, she poked into wardrobes and opened and closed stiff, close fitting drawers. There was little left of the Blacks, and Severus needn’t have worried unduly. Apart from the occasional stole and a handbag made from dragon skin, there was little to draw her attention from the creaking floorboards and musty curtains. A crack in one room had made her jump with alarm, but it turned out to be the doorknob falling off after she had twisted it a little too hard. It occurred to her that this house could be attractive, if the walls were stripped and painted in bright colours. She would have removed the heavier pieces and brought a lot of pale wood and delicate fabrics in.

She finally arrived in the room that held the huge mirror. It was the emptiest room in the house with not a stick of furniture distracting from bareness. Something had disturbed her here yesterday and she wanted to find out what it was. Maeve stepped into the room fully and took stock; it had to be the mirror. She moved to the window and pushed up the sash, allowing a breath of air into the stuffy confines of the old bedroom. With a slam that almost made her leap from her shoes, the door closed, a victim of the circulating air. So it must be the mirror, she rationalised, leaving the window and crossing to examine it once more. Her first thought was that it might be some sort of foe glass, but on a rather grand scale, although she couldn’t think why they would have had one in a bedroom. And then she noticed that it seemed to be hanging proud of the wall a little too much. Slipping her fingers beneath the frame and the wall, she found there was a good inch or two of air between both surfaces.

Stepping back, she extended her arms to reach the sides of the frame and with a bit of effort managed to flick it up and away from its fittings. She staggered back a little, under the weight of the heavy glass, but steadied herself, letting it slide to the floor, trapping her toe as she did so. With a mumbled curse, Maeve extricated her foot and then looked up.

The eyes that looked back at her were familiar, and yet the last ones she would have expected to find here, despite the house being what it was.

“Sirius.” The word shuddered into the air.

The portrait seemed to gather itself, as Sirius shook his head against the light. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, “where did you spring from? Don’t I know you?”

“Yes, and no. What on earth are you doing hidden by a mirror?”

“Well, let me guess… Mother, d’you think?” He had a sardonic smile on his face and Maeve was busily trying to work out when the image had been painted. If he recognised her, then he must have been at least fifteen, but the portrait was that of an older man, a man at least twenty. And my goodness, she thought, he’s a handsome devil. Grey eyes that were perfectly set in a clear, engaging face, a generous mouth with just the hint of an arrogant twist to it, and a mop of dark hair that fell attractively across his forehead. He had been good-looking at school, but here he displayed a much more mature appeal that had probably proved irresistible in the flesh.

“When was this painted?” she asked, moving a hand towards the oil, its colour undiminished from its time in the dark shadow of the mirror.

“Hey, hey!” he grinned. “Don’t touch the merchandise!” He was being playful, and the wink that accompanied his laugh made her heart sink. He didn’t know. How could he know? He was forever a young man. This painting wouldn’t know what had happened to him since it had been painted, wouldn’t recognise Harry, would hate her husband with the ferocity of youth. “So, mother finally sold up? Are you the new owner of my beloved ancestral home?”

“Your mother died, Sirius, several years ago. The house belongs to… Well, the house changed hands.”

“So where am I?” he grinned. “Or did she leave it to one of my dreadful cousins?”

“I’m sorry, you…” Maeve found she couldn’t say it. She wanted to keep the young, vital Sirius as he was for a little while longer, wanted to enjoy that slight shaft of innocence before he joined them in their world of sadness.

“I what? I moved to somewhere hot and exotic and am now tanned and happy in foreign climes? What about James and Lily? Did they have kids? I feel,” he ran a hand through his hair, “like I have been out of things for a long time.”

“I…” Maeve was failing and she looked away from the painting, away from the youthful exuberance it contained.

“Hang on! I do know you. It’s that Irish girl from Hogwarts, isn’t it? Maeve? You spent all your time with Snivellus, although what you saw in the greasy little creep I will never know. Still, he soon forgot about you when you left. Wonder what happened to him?”

“He’s my husband,” Maeve said, her sorrow for Sirius evaporating with his words. “And you died,” she added brutally.

“Oh.”

Maeve watched the news sink in, his grey eyes flattening to the colour of a sombre sea. Part of her was ashamed for delivering the news in such a vindictive manner, and part of her suddenly felt her husband’s loathing for the callowness of this young man.

“I need to leave.” She turned towards the door and reached for the knob, tugging at it with some force. It wouldn’t budge, and frustration made her whip her wand out.

Alohamora!” she snapped. The spell didn’t have any effect whatsoever on the door, which remained firmly closed. After a few more snapped spells, she turned back to Sirius, who was looking forlornly at his feet. “What’s the matter with it?”

“What?” He looked up, staring blankly at the door before shaking the dust from his face. “Oh, that. It always got stuck. Regulus magically locked me in one day “ this was my room “ and wouldn’t tell anyone what the spell was. We unlocked the door, but if it closes awkwardly it shakes the old magic loose and it locks.”

“So how do I get out?”

“You need someone to use the spell on it from the other side. Regulus was never good at making things watertight.”

Maeve’s attention wavered between the glum portrait and the mulish door, not knowing which one to get angry with first. The spell had been cast by a very young man; surely she would be able to lift it. Twenty minutes later, she had to accept that the door really was stuck fast. Tiny beads of sweat dotted her forehead, a sure sign that she was now feeling uncomfortable with her situation. She glanced back at Sirius, and found he was watching her through narrowed eyes.

“So how come you got married then?” he asked.

“What?” Maeve looked at him with bewilderment. The pigments that made up his face really were very pure, and she couldn’t help admiring the painting, although her admiration for its subject was no longer quite so apparent. “Because I loved him, of course. Why else would you marry someone?”

“Because it’s expected of you,” he suggested. Under normal circumstances, Maeve might have asked who he was talking about, but she was more concerned about getting out of her empty prison than probing the recesses of Sirius Black’s mind.

He fell silent for a little while, content to watch her fume at the piece of wood that prevented her scooting off and leaving him. “I knew, I suppose,” he said, breaking the stillness of her bad temper. “When you moved that mirror and I could see this room. A painting doesn’t feel like this unless the real person has died, and I can see you clearly too. So you didn’t need to be quite so peevish when you told me.”

“You insulted my husband,” she pointed out, finally admitting defeat and placing her wand carefully back in the pocket of her dress. “What else did you expect me to do? You’re fast with an insult, but a little slow with showing some tact.”

“I’m getting the distinct impression we haven’t hit it off very well.”

“We haven’t hit it off at all,” she replied. “Are you sure there is no way out? What about the window?”

Sirius allowed his gaze to move wistfully to the window, looking at the pale sky with longing. “Can’t you just Apparate?” he asked.

“Oh for goodness’ sake!” she exclaimed. “Why do I always forget I can do this?”

“Do what?” Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow that must once have been cocksure, but was now a little chastened.

“This,” she said, and within seconds she had evaporated from the room, leaving Sirius alone with the memories of what was once his bedroom and his life.

“Interesting woman, if a little grumpy,” he said to the room. The room, however, seemed disinclined to offer him any response. Sirius looked down and could just make out the frame of the mirror. He was almost beginning to wish she had left it covering his face; at least that way he would be immune to the fact that he was now just a fragment of a life.



“Have you seen this?” Hermione’s voice was almost lost behind the rustling of her Daily Prophet.

“What’s that?” Harry set aside the piece of parchment he was reading “ it was only Potions homework “ and tried to catch a glimpse of her over the top of the paper. “Found Snape, have they?”

She was grimacing as she flipped the paper over and handed it to him. “Top left, someone I think you said you know.”

Harry looked up and saw an old image that he didn’t recognise. Closer inspection revealed a caption that suggested this was a picture of Godric Gryffindor himself. He read through the article quickly, Hermione watching with smug satisfaction as Harry’s face puckered further into a concentrated frown. He finally set the newspaper down and looked up at his friend. “Think it means anything?” he asked.

“Who knows,” Hermione said, “but it seems a little odd. Why would an old man living in Godric’s Hollow have an image of Godric Gryffindor? Smells distinctly fishy to me. Are you sure he’s who he says he is?”

“No, not really,” Harry admitted with a smile. “But he was very convincing, and I have no reason to not believe him. You don’t think that’s a family heirloom? I mean, if it was that would mean he was…”

“Exactly,” Hermione said with a satisfied smile. “How amazing would that be, to find the heir of Godric Gryffindor.”

“Godric Gryffindor has no heir.”

They both turned at the interruption to find Roderick standing there looking a little flustered, his hair blown awry by the cold, morning breeze.

“But we don’t know that, sir.” Hermione was more than happy to enter into a debate with her new favourite professor. “For all we know, Godric Gryffindor did have an heir, just not one that bore his name. Maybe Mr Gryps doesn’t know himself.” She caught a whiff of the chill scent of fresh air on his clothes and looked puzzled for a moment.

“Something wrong, Miss Granger?” he asked. “Only you look a little bemused by something.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, putting his crisp smell and buoyant hair down to an early morning stroll. “Have you been for a walk this early?”

“What makes you think that, young lady?” he said. “I’ve just come down from my rooms. And I repeat, Gryffindor had no heir. You would be better off concentrating on your studies and not go chasing wild geese that don’t even exist.”

“Like Voldemort,” Harry chipped in darkly.

Roderick looked at Harry and sighed. “I rather think, Mr Potter, that he will come chasing you once he realises that certain things are no longer intact.”

Harry blinked for a moment, lashes sweeping down over irritated eyes. The clamour in the Hall seemed to dim as he formulated an answer. “And you would know all about things being intact,” he said finally. “You would know exactly what was going on? Who do you work for, Professor Rampton? And don’t tell me it’s the school.”

“I have no idea what you are suggesting,” Roderick said, with his familiar, charming smile, “but I think you should be very careful about what enemies you make. Voldemort is not the only thing to fear in this world, although he’s certainly the nastiest.” And with that he stalked away from their table, all thoughts of Godric Gryffindor gone.

“Well,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair and feeling its welcome firmness against his spine. “I wonder just what he meant by that. That man is not to be trusted at all.”

“Oh my!” Hermione was rustling the paper again. “That’s not the only thing of interest today. Look at that, Harry.” She once again twisted the paper so that he could see what she was pointing at.

“The riddle of R. Black,” Harry read, his eyes darting across the page. “Today in a small town on the outskirts of Leeds a riddle began to form. Who is the dark-haired young man found wandering, late at night, carrying a bag with the initials R. Black stencilled on to it? He was brought in by a Hit Wizard after the Department for the Improper Use of Muggle Artefacts got wind of something odd happening with a Muggle device known as a parking meter. It appeared the young man in question was attempting to Transfigure it into a broomstick, much to the amusement of some passing Muggles. Fortunately for the alleged Mr. Black, they didn’t see anything sinister in his behaviour and did not call the police. It was only the quick thinking of a local Squib, Miss Caroline Floppet, which meant the Ministry were alerted in time to prevent the man doing anything more conspicuous. He has been unable to tell anyone his full name, or anything about himself, and the Ministry are now trying to track down anyone that can help solve this minor mystery. So do you recognise this man” “ Harry looked at the picture below the article, which was of a fed-up man who appeared to be about fifty, and decided he didn’t “ “and if so can you help? Please owl the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at your earliest opportunity.”

He stopped reading and looked at Hermione, whose face was a beam of light. “How amazing would that be if it really was Regulus Black? It would solve all our problems.”

“Hermione, Regulus is buried in the cemetery here. You were the one that went to great pains to find that out.”

“Find what out?” Ron asked, sitting down beside Harry and grabbing the paper from him.

“Aren’t you eating, Ron?” Hermione asked, watching as he buried his head in the newspaper. “Only breakfast is almost over and it will be too late to get anything then.”

“Not hungry,” he replied quickly. “What did you find out?”

Hermione looked too worried about Ron’s sudden lack of appetite to answer him, so Harry quickly filled him in on what they had just been discussing, pointing him in the direction of the article. “Yeah, that could be anyone. There must be tons of R. Blacks.”

“But there aren’t,” Hermione said, recovering from her shock at seeing Ron at the table with no food in front of him. “Remember when I tried to find an R.A.B. after Harry discovered that note. I found two. So I’d say it was fairly rare, wouldn’t you? Maybe there isn’t a body in that grave in the cemetery at all. Maybe that was just to make us think that R.A.B. was dead.”

“So what do you want us to do, go dig it up to prove there isn’t?” he said with a snort, raising his head from the newspaper to laugh at her. When he saw the grave faces of Hermione and Harry looking back at him, the laughter drained away rapidly. “You’re not serious?” He waited for confirmation that they were not, indeed, serious. When none came he spoke again. “You have both got to be bloody joking. There is no way I am going digging around in some cemetery looking for a body. Have you gone completely barmy? Only a nutter would do something like that.”

“It’s not a bad idea, you know,” Harry muttered. “If this is Regulus Black, he might be able to help us. So if we can prove that the body in the cemetery isn’t really a body…”

“And what if it is really a body?” hissed Ron. “What are you going to do then? Say ‘oh, sorry, mate, didn’t mean to disturb you. Go back to sleep’ and shove it back? Hermione, you can’t be agreeing with him!”

“It might be the only way,” she said slowly. “And I’m sure there’s a charm somewhere for getting coffins out of the ground without really disturbing them.”

“Oh yeah, there will be,” Ron said, thrusting the paper at her and standing up. “In a book about the Darkest Arts you can find. Mental is what you are, totally mental. There is no way I am going near that cemetery, so you can count me out.” He looked to Hermione, expecting a little show of support, but she looked to Harry and muttered something about the library.

“And to think I went without bloody breakfast!” Ron snapped, storming out of the Hall, leaving Hermione to ask Harry what on earth he meant by that.



It was gone eight when a drowsing Maeve heard the sounds of Severus’ feet in the hall outside the drawing room. She stayed were she was, peering out from beneath lowered lashes to observe him. He entered cautiously, taking in her sleeping form before unbuttoning his outer robes and shrugging them off, to be dropped unceremoniously onto a chair. Crossing to the small drinks cabinet, he passed from her line of vision, but she could hear his movements, smell the faint odour of Firewhisky as it was decanted into a glass. He moved back towards her, the smell of whisky stronger now, and she felt a cold hand touch her forehead gently. For such a harsh man he had the gentlest touch when he tried. She felt slightly guilty, watching him like this, but continued to breathe steadily as he lowered himself into a chair. His attention was drawn to the fire, and he bent towards it, the red flames casting deep shadows on his face.

Maeve stayed like that for a few minutes, watching, waiting. It was only when he raised a hand to his face to brush away a hair “ no, not a hair, a tear “ did she realise the extent of the pressure he was under. Severus never, ever cried. Crying was a sign of weakness that he would not forgive her for seeing and so she moved her legs gently, to give him the opportunity to collect himself. As expected, he turned away quickly and coughed away the brief manifestation of his emotion, turning back to her with a tired smile on his face, but a welcome in his eyes.

“Did I wake you?” he asked. “If I did, I am sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” she said, sitting up with a gentle stretch of her arms. “I shouldn’t have allowed myself to fall asleep here in the first place. Did you have a successful meeting?”

“It was interesting.” He sipped from his glass, returning to his fire-gazing.

“Are you going to elaborate, or do I need to prise it out of you?”

“Prise what out of me?”

“The fact that you have lipstick on your cheek. I didn’t know that Voldemort had taken to cosmetics to help his appearance.”

His hand moved quickly to his face and wiped at the place that Jenny Fitzwilliam’s mouth had made contact with just fifteen minutes earlier. Stupid affectation, kissing strangers goodbye.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said, immediately removing the pressure that she hadn’t intended to put on him. “But I’m rather surprised that it didn’t disappear with the effects of the Polyjuice that I’m sure you used.” Maeve knelt at his feet, looking up and feeling the warmth of the fire on her back. Strangely, Severus didn’t feel the interruption to his heat supply. Sometimes it felt like the heat she emitted was a match for any fire.

“Do you remember a young woman that turned up at our wedding? Jenny Fitzwilliam?”

“Your cousin? Yes, I remember her.”

“She wanted to see me. It would appear that my cousin is a Death Eater.”

“No!” Maeve managed to keep the surprise to a minimum, but she was still struggling to picture that aristocratic young woman serving Voldemort.

“Yes,” Severus replied, his voice only slightly sardonic. “But not only is she a Death Eater, she’s a rebellious one. She wanted to see me over a small matter of trying to overthrow the Dark Lord.”

“And what did you say?”

“Oh, I…” He brought his hands to his head, the now-empty glass cradled there still.

“Let me take that,” Maeve said, removing the glass from his hands and then removing his hands from his face. “What did you say?”

“I said I would think about it.”

“Oh, Severus, no,” she groaned. “Please tell me that on top of all our other problems, you have not agreed to try and help overthrow Voldemort from within.”

“We are safe here for now. Voldemort cannot get to me, and yet he trusts me still. My meeting with him this morning proved that. If I were to attempt this, it would mean that when he is finally overthrown the remaining Death Eaters could be controlled. Think, Maeve. Voldemort is deposed and his Death Eaters once again scatter. How soon will it be before someone else comes along to take his place? How soon before the Purebloods hear another call to arms and gather once again? How much better it will be to have them controlled, pushed in the right direction. Not all of them will be controllable, of course. There will be some for whom only death or victory will matter. But think what could be achieved with those who will listen to a message that is not as strident and uncompromising as the Dark Lord’s.”

Maeve was speechless, and really did think he had taken leave of his senses. He had once told her he wanted the same things as his father, deep down: power and status. Was he being taken in again with promises of glory? Was this woman leading him astray after he had spent so long on the right path?

“I think all that could be achieved is you create a breeding ground for malcontent and bigotry. They hate everything that normal, decent people stand for. How can you even think of taking this on? If you agree to this, I will not stand by and allow you to do it. I love you Severus, but I will not be a part of anything that involves a pack of murderers. Think about that when you next allow that woman to smear your face with lipstick.”

“You’re over-reacting, Maeve,” he said, looking up at her. “This is something that
could help.”

“Help who, yourself?” she asked. “For all you know this woman could be working for Voldemort rather than against him. This could be a trap to test your commitment. You need to tell her no, Severus. Please tell her no.”

“I think that would be the wrong option, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you.”

“Uncomfortable!” Her eyes were spitting fire now. “It doesn’t just make me feel uncomfortable. It makes every inch of my being scream because I think you are making a huge mistake, and you so seldom make mistakes.”

“Oh, I think I make my fair share of them,” he said, raising himself out of the chair to face her. “My head tells me this is something I have to do, something that I need to do. The Dark Lord has ruled my life, one way or another, for too long.”

“And what does your heart tell you?”

“I do not listen to my heart, it can lead to all sorts of complications.”

“So I’m a complication now, am I?”

“That’s not what I meant, Maeve, and you know it.”

“I’ve heard enough,” she snapped. “I cannot support you in this.”

She dropped the glass on the table as she stalked from the room, and as she left she really didn’t care if another tear fell from his face. Her anger obliterated everything.

“You misunderstand,” he said, once she had closed the door. “You misunderstand, Maeve. This is not about me; this is about a compromise for the wizarding world.” With a sigh of resignation, he pulled his robes from the chair and prepared for a night spent in front of the fire.




A/N. An Aga is a large British cooking range, usually found in cottages and farms.