No Great Magic

Possibly what I am most proud of after writing this series (besides managing to create a Machiavellian giant squid) is the number of people who have become hooked on the works of Lois Bujold through my stories. I don't know what that number is exactly, but I do hope you will let me know if you become part of it. Really, you'll get the jokes better. There are all kinds of names for people like me (I personally prefer Bujold Seductress Extraordinaire), and we live to serve. Mostly tea.

The Robert Graves poem, "To Bring the Dead to Life," can be found here .

No Great Magic, part one

To bring the dead to life
Is no great magic.
Few are wholly dead:
Blow on a dead man's embers
And a live flame will start.
(Robert Graves)

He should have known it would be a mistake to sleep in Dumbledore's bed.

Awakened long before dawn from a nightmare in which Voldemort's maniacal laughter was oddly merged with the sensations of his own near-drowning many years ago, Severus Snape pushed back the tangled blankets and sat, shaken and sweating, on the edge of the bed, his face in his hands. This was the third night in a row he had spent away from his Hogsmeade cottage, a necessity while the Committee for Interspecies Communication held meetings at Hogwarts, and each night had been torn by evil dreams, as though the Headmaster's chamber were haunted, a Pensieve of suffering and heart-ache. You are Headmaster now, he said to himself firmly. You have a right to sleep here.

It's just that no one's told the ghosts.

He laughed, feeling rather maniacal himself, and, rising, glanced back at the bed with a shudder. Finding his robes in the darkness, he dressed quickly, and, fetching his wand from the bed-side table, left the room, moving through the doorway into the more familiar setting of his shuttered and darkened office. It was a cowardly retreat, but he was far more at ease here. He had not yet put his own stamp on the room, but nothing remained of Dumbledore; there were only the large claw-footed desk and other items of furniture used by Headmasters and Headmistresses past, many of whom stared down at him from portraits on the walls -- it was a little uncanny to find that they seemed to sleep by day and spend the nights awake and watchful -- and of course the Sorting Hat and the Hogwarts relics. He remembered the day Dumbledore's rather peculiar brother Aberforth had descended on them, with a team of removal wizards, to strip away all traces of his late sibling's long and dominant presence; he had, of course, taken all the personal effects from the bedchamber as well, but it was as though the imprint of the former Headmaster's body remained in the bed, too intimate and persistent a reminder to be erased easily. In fact, had there been even one comfortable chair in the office, he would have slept there, even with all those eyes looking down at him, rather than be presumptuous enough to occupy that bed. But all the chairs in here were designed to keep one awake and attentive to authority.

Seating himself now in the high-backed chair behind the desk -- the new Headmaster's arse has imprinted itself without hesitation, he thought irreverently -- he lit the lantern hanging above with a whispered command, and picked up a quill. He might as well get some work done, if sleep was going to elude him. For a moment, he felt the call of his old asphodel-and-wormwood sleeping potion, the Draught of Living Death, which, ironically, had in its diluted form probably kept him alive, or at least sane, through all those years of bitterness and deceit. But it was far too late in the night to take it now, and preparing it would entail a lengthy trip down to the Potions classroom, no longer his territory. It was tempting to plan ahead for his final night here, but he thought it more advisable to overdo the Energising Extract by day than to drug himself into a stupor by night.

He sighed, and pulled the letter on the top of his pile of unanswered correspondence toward him. The parents of a prospective Hogwarts student were concerned that "species and lifestyle diversity is not being adequately addressed in the composition of the school's faculty." They wanted a vampire on the staff. And perhaps you would like us to hire a Dementor to teach Charms, he commented dryly to himself, but managed to resist the temptation to put the thought down on parchment. An appropriately diplomatic sentiment to replace it, however, did not spring to mind. That had been Dumbledore's department; he remembered with a smile the Headmaster's cleverly two-edged statements and speeches, all twinkly and merry and benign on the surface, with a flash of cold steel under the table for only the knowing to observe. While I, on the other hand, carry a dagger with no sheath to it, he thought, wondering in the same moment what led a man whose only literal weapon was his wand to express himself in metaphors of cutting and stabbing.

Mark Vorkosigan, his subconscious supplied, that's what. Companion during two of the oddest episodes of his life, Mark had, with apparent satisfaction at his habitual dead-on accuracy, compared Snape to the blade of a knife, slicing impassively through the flesh of friends and enemies alike, like a surgeon cutting away a gangrenous part to save the rest of the body. If only I had been able to act the surgeon, then, and not the Potions master. Potions tended to kill or cure in a more all-encompassing fashion.

Swearing at his capacity for self-distraction, he pushed the letter about vampire teachers away and selected the next one in the pile. It was from, of all people, Neville Longbottom, representing a committee of the Hogwarts Old Boys and Girls Association who wished to erect a memorial statue to Dumbledore, preferably at the very spot near the castle where Voldemort had blasted him to smithereens. He could see Longbottom's trepidation in the shakiness of the "Dear Professor Snape" at the head of the letter, but was still amazed at his temerity. Tactless, Mr Longbottom, very tactless. In fact, tactless at several levels, he thought, wondering if Potter could be behind this. He could hardly say no, although he suspected that Dumbledore would have disliked the idea greatly; but again, the phrases with which to express that reluctant "yes, you ninny, you have my approval; put it to the Board" were not exactly leaping to his quill. He flung the brain-damaged writing instrument from him with a curse, and thrust his chair back violently.

Seizing his wand, he cast the spell that unshuttered the great expanse of windows, letting in a moon-drenched view of peace and beauty. At the south window, he took several calming breaths, and gazed out. A wide expanse of the grounds was visible from this height, faintly silver in the moonlight, which gleamed in a long bright ribbon on the lake's placid surface. It had been an unusually warm and tranquil autumn, a recompense of sorts for the storms they had all weathered in the last days of the late conflict, but now the very air seemed to be holding its breath for the onset of cooler weather. He looked forward to seeing the grounds covered with snow, and then the green of the spring appearing once again: his view, his private fiefdom. All the kingdoms of the world. The Headmastership had been promised him explicitly by Voldemort: never by Dumbledore; and yet, Voldemort vanquished and Dumbledore posthumously ascendant, here he was, alone above it all, the master of all he surveyed.

The tempters of the earth took you up high, where you could see a great distance; and because they lusted after everything their eyes beheld, they expected you to do the same, to have it eat away at your heart like a worm until you could have it all. Those who resisted temptation seemed to him to fall into three categories. First, the ones whose eyes were not those of angels but of hawks, who, instead of a kingdom to possess, saw one small thing worth having in that vast expanse -- a rabbit, a mouse -- and headed for it with a single-minded instinct, ignoring the rest, like the Seeker in a Quidditch match diving for the Golden Snitch. Second, the ones who were overcome by the enormity of the inner conflict, and sat paralysed and unmoving, or simply gave up, letting themselves fall to the ground to be smashed into inglorious pulp, unless saved by dumb luck or an undeserved grace (he rather saw himself in this category). And third, the ones who didn't even see the temptation presented them, because they were looking up.

With that last thought he abruptly found himself back in the horror of his dream, held down under an unrelenting weight of water, squinting up through murkiness at a faint light above, the only hint of the sun and the world of breathable air. He felt separately aware of every square metre of imagined water pressing down on him, every cupful, every drop, many malevolent entities made one by their liquid nature and united in hatred of his solidity.

It had been nearly thirty years ago, and he had thought the day's events banished to an inaccessible corner of his mind, but now they were clear in every detail: he had taken Hagrid's boat after the groundskeeper had gone home from his plant-gathering expedition, rowed himself clumsily to the middle of the lake, performed the Weighting Charm on himself, and thrown himself over the side. He remembered the inevitability of his descent, the way the waters about him changed colour as he sank, the pressure in his ears and his lungs. Oddly, the only thing he could not now remember about his suicide attempt was why he had done it.

At the time he had not fought against the embrace of the water and its promise of oblivion, but in his dream he had struggled desperately, only to feel the water pushing back like a giant hand determined to choke his life out. Simultaneously, Voldemort's high-pitched, horrible laugh had rung in his ears, while over and over the moment of Dumbledore's death had replayed itself before his helpless eyes, while he ached with guilt and betrayal. In the last second before he woke, he had felt something seize him about the waist: he felt it again, now, and jerked spasmodically, a gasp startled out of him. I remember that. It had been a real memory, not a dream-invention, but of what, his exhausted brain was for the moment unable to tell him.

He shook himself back to reality, and stared out at the lake for a moment. Then, compelled to move, he went to look out of the west window, his eyes immediately coming to focus on one spot. Perhaps they need a statue to remember, he thought, but what happened here I am unable to forget. The patch of grass there had never grown back, and that manifestation of the loss was to him more moving than any memorial; he felt like weeping every time he passed the place.

Returning to his desk, he considered trying to express this rather fatuous thought in words on parchment, and laughed out loud at the picture of Longbottom's shocked face were he to read such an unexpected declaration. Let them have their monument; let it be gaudy and tasteless in the best Victorian tradition; let them send up fireworks from Dumbledore's stone wand on each anniversary of his murder, and at the start of term, and on the Feast of All Fools. Let them all bow when they go by, if they care to, and make traditions out of touching his nose three times by the light of a full moon, and even, when the Weasleys send their children here, let them challenge their ingenuity in the way of practical jokes: wouldn't old Dumbledore look grand with flowers sprouting out of his hat? Twenty points from Gryffindor, Mr or Miss Weasley, and a gentle smirk of complicity. He sneered at Longbottom's letter, half crumpling it in his hand and feeling more sour and lonely and closed of heart than he had in many months.

The trouble you're having, he told himself reluctantly, is you're reading the wrong damn letter.

There was a tall black cabinet on one wall of the office; he went to it now, tapped it with his wand and murmured, "Wormwood." He opened the door and, ignoring the cache of expensive potion ingredients, the Staffordshire tea set, and the piles of documents, put his hand to a small, secret drawer, traced a single Hebrew letter on its blank face with his finger, and whispered, "Rosa alba." The drawer sprang open, revealing Snape's hidden treasure, an oddly assorted group of apparently valueless items including several pieces of broken and scorched porcelain, a small empty bottle, and a white rose with the tell-tale waxy petals of the Preservation Charm. Behind these lay a roll of parchment, tied with a green ribbon. His hand drew back in a second's hesitation as he reached for it, but then he grasped it firmly and took it from the drawer. Re-locking carefully concluded, he returned to the west window and sat where the moonlight could shine on the page.

Dear Severus,

When you read this letter, I shall be dead. (A very dramatic beginning indeed. I have always wanted to write a message like this, and I suppose it is one thing to Voldemort's credit that I now have the opportunity to do so.) I cannot tell you not to mourn me, because you would not listen; nor can I urge you to take your new and, I'm afraid, bitter responsibilities more seriously than you already will. I have tremendous faith in your perseverance.

You told me once that you would swear a vow to follow me, even into death, if only your besmirched honour (your turn of phrase, not mine) would allow the oath to pass your lips. Ornate language aside, let me remind you once again that I have never required such a thing of you. You owe me nothing that is not due to the bonds of love and respect, silken ties which should rest lightly upon you. Do not let them act as fetters. You have honoured me, in your own way, by refusing to call me anything but "Headmaster," and although I admit that it has been rather refreshing to see you subjugate yourself to anyone, I will also remind you that you are, if you will pardon the pun, your own headmaster, the master of your own mind. I have never made your choices for you, so it should matter very little that I will no longer be here to do so.

Finally (and you may, someday, come to find that one of the privileges of being Headmaster is that you always get the last word), let me assure you that you have my greatest admiration for what you have accomplished and will accomplish. Each of us has his own talents, and your task is not one that I could perform, nor could many. I have observed your pain with a profound degree of sympathy, but can do nothing but hope that it will someday be relieved, and your sacrifice repaid you in full. I am afraid that as far as I can see it will get worse before it gets better. But then I did fail Divination three times.

Te morituri, etc.

Albus Dumbledore

The letter had appeared on Snape's desk the morning after Dumbledore's death, unlooked for, and he had read it first in the anxious moments before a meeting with the school's board of governors, wondering then, as he still wondered, exactly when Dumbledore had written it. It would have been very like the Headmaster to have had foreknowledge of his fate, perhaps through one of his other spies, and to have spared Snape, who had been allowed only minutes, during Voldemort's approach, to remonstrate with Dumbledore over his self-sacrifice and to offer himself as a surrogate victim. There had been no farewells.

"The last word," murmured Snape, brooding. He read the letter through once again, and then tapped it with his wand, watching as the handwriting faded out and the parchment rolled up and resecured itself with an elaborate green bow.

It had been nearly two years since Dumbledore had been killed, and although recent events -- his release from the spell of the Dark Mark at Voldemort's defeat, his astonishing happiness in marriage, his elevation to the Headmastership -- had combined to reconcile Snape to the loss somewhat, it still rankled that he had not been given the time to put into words his debt to the man he credited with saving his life, perhaps his soul. He had told himself that Dumbledore knew perfectly well -- as he seemed to know many things that were otherwise hidden -- that he had Snape's deepest gratitude, his respect, his... love, insofar as he had been capable of that, even if he had outwardly shown to the Headmaster only a grudging deference and a resentful self-pity, and had rejected firmly any attempts at solicitude, comfort or assistance. It had been far less difficult to express his willingness to die for Dumbledore than to say a simple "thank you," and not only because he was tongue-tied by the raw emotions such a declaration produced. The Headmaster had, indeed, not required any oath of loyalty of him, but as he could not have allowed himself to speak any such vow while Voldemort still lived and held Snape's corrupted word tight in his long fingers, he also could not have affirmed any of his finer feelings (such as they were) out loud as long as the mark of his perfidy was still clear on his left arm.

And now it is far too late. Slowly, he placed the roll of parchment into an inner pocket of his robes, glancing at the desk and the high-backed chair behind it, and half-wishing that he could find Dumbledore sitting there, smiling a mysterious little smile and offering him a cup of tea. With the thought, however, came a surprising feeling of wrongness, as though the phantom Headmaster had handed him a beaker of Erumpent Exploding Fluid instead of Darjeeling, and leered at him evilly. The wrong wish, something told him. Try again.

Snape frowned. The impropriety of the fantasy he could understand; wishing the dead back to life would certainly be a perverted use of magical will even if it could work. But why should any wish be... Something nagged at the back of his brain, murmuring in hushed and sibilant tones, not wanting to be made clear. Not knowing quite why, he returned to the bedchamber, shoved his feet into boots, and, his movements as hurried and random as his thoughts, left the Headmaster's quarters almost at a run, not waiting for the moving staircase to carry him downwards.

Once outside the front portal of the castle, he was able to pause for a deep breath. The temperature had dropped and the air was chilly, but going back indoors for a cloak was now unthinkable. His feet led him intuitively down the path to the lakeside, the incomprehensible voice hissing in his head all the while; he felt that he had taken these same steps before at another time, knowing that something awaited him at the end. But when he reached the shore of the lake, nothing was there but the stillness of the water and the moon mirroring itself, ghostlike, on the calm surface.

The purity and perfection of the image irritated him, and he felt an absurd longing to throw something at it, smash the reflected moon into a million drops of light, and watch if the moon in the sky vanished as well. Perhaps I should throw myself in again, he thought, and see what happens. Such experimentation seemed ill-advised, however, for a married man with responsibilities, and shreds of hard-won dignity wrapped around him like a tattered cloak. But it took far more courage, and far less dignity, to stand there and shout out wishes like some kind of down-at-heel princeling in a Muggle fairy-tale. And courage was not a virtue he possessed in large quantities, pride and stubbornness having filled its place and performed its duties, masquerading admirably at times.

At Dumbledore's memorial tribute, for one. He had felt split into at least three separate people that day: the new Deputy Headmaster, dutifully attending his superior's farewell, soberly clad in black, aloof but caring, speaking meaningless words to countless blank-faced strangers; the Death Eater disguised, letting precisely calculated glimpses of triumph and glee show on his features at proscribed moments and to the right people; and, the most deeply hidden, the mourner, screaming in dark fury and agony, longing to throw himself into the grave after his mentor, if only there had been a grave. That last, of course, would not have shown itself even had there been no need to maintain the role of Voldemort's loyal servant. But he had stood there next to Minerva, watching the tears run freely down her cheeks, and hating himself more than he ever had before, his guilt and self-laceration the only release available, wanting to pound himself into the ground with a giant, accusing fist, until he was less than the wind-blown ashes that were all that remained of Dumbledore.

In fact, he told his two-years-ago self, you were quite egregiously melodramatic, even if it was only in private: and thank goodness for that. Perhaps, in the end, a public acknowledgement of his loss had not been necessary; it would have been a sop to his vanity only. Even a private valediction, however, had eluded him, caught up as he was in planning and calculation and secrecy in the following days, and then in a mind-numbing, soul-destroying progression of weeks and months of bitter work. At times the disguise had overtaken him so completely that he felt a Death Eater again, albeit one doing Dumbledore's bidding; he had committed outright murder by proxy several times, in the betrayal of Voldemort's minions to the swift justice of the Ministry, or that of their own master, and no matter how many times he assured himself that any action was justifiable in war, it still gnawed at him. No wonder he was having nightmares.

There had been moments, of course, when he felt himself lifted out of the fetid gutter of his existence: the receipt of certain letters (he smiled in pleasant memory) and the answering of them, nods of approval from his contacts in the Department of Mysteries, and that most unusual day he had spent (still inexplicably) on Mark Vorkosigan's home planet of Barrayar. That last had been so utterly out of the normal plane of experience, however, that, its spell having worn off, he had almost ceased to believe it had happened; in fact, had it not been for the compelling nature of one particular part of the episode, and the presence of that white rose in his secret drawer, he would have dismissed it as delirium, and he had certainly not thought of it in many months. Having other things on my mind. It might be quite interesting to see Mark again, he considered, looking out at the moon's reflection on the lake, but it would hardly stop these dreams.

I only wish, he said to himself, still thinking of Dumbledore, that I had been able to say good-bye.His appeal, stated baldly, startled him somewhat; he laughed scornfully at himself, in the same moment waiting with some trepidation for an unplanned-for wish fulfilment, but nothing happened, and after a moment he shrugged and turned back in the direction of the castle.

He was halfway up the well-worn path when the ground seemed to shift slightly under his feet, and he found himself walking, not on a grassy slope with craggy rocks to one side and low-growing heather to the other, but on a track of dirt and stones, shaded by trees that were scattering their autumn-coloured leaves on the path. There was a hedge of some unfamiliar bushy plant to his left, and he could glimpse the top of the hill above and to the right; a structure built of weathered wood and covered by vines awaited his investigation. Heart pounding, he took the remaining steps at a faster pace, and reached the small pavilion in seconds. It was open on all four sides, and housed some pieces of shabby furniture. Turning, he caught a sparkle of early morning sun on water: another lake, much larger, disappearing into the distance, and flanked by scrub-covered hills and some cleared areas that appeared to be vineyards. The general effect was Mediterranean, but the air was as chill here as at home, a steady breeze coming off the water, and there was something subtly foreign about the whole atmosphere of the place.

After a moment's observation, he reversed his steps and headed back down the path, reserving speculation as to where he had found himself, although he could not help but have suspicions. A minute's walk down the winding track brought him to a small garden, surrounded by a low wall; as he got closer, he could see that it was a graveyard. Two seconds' inspection was enough to confirm his guess about his location, at least in a general sense; the name Vorkosigan was repeated again and again on the tombstones, with other unfamiliar names scattered throughout. He entered by the wrought-iron gate, and strolled about, examining the graves. One caught his eye, and he squatted down to examine it more closely. Sergeant Constantine Bothari, it read, followed by utterly irrational dates, and then Fidelis.

Ha. My brother in spirit, thought Snape, remembering Count Vorkosigan's words linking him to this loyal, troubled man. Reaching out to touch the carved letters, he saw that a strange-looking lichen was beginning to cover the stone. He found a twig nearby and began to scrape the lichen away.

"He didn't like to be cold," said a familiar-sounding voice behind him, making Snape start and jerk to his feet, "so I usually just let it grow over." The speaker opened the gate, entered the graveyard, and seated himself on the low stone wall, which was at a convenient height for him. Snape narrowed his eyes. Not Mark. This man was thinner, possibly older, certainly more accustomed to wielding authority, completely at home here; but it was the same face, the same voice, the same intent grey eyes, the same short stature. He was dressed casually, in a loose tunic and trousers. "Did you know him?" he continued, looking at Snape with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

"No," Snape answered after a moment. "No, I didn't." He returned the man's gaze for a few seconds longer, before deciding to acknowledge his recognition out loud. "You're Mark's brother," he said.

Looking somewhat taken aback by this identification, the man let out an abrupt laugh, and then replied, "I must say I'm not quite used to hearing myself referred to that way; but yes. Miles Vorkosigan," nodding his head briefly in Snape's direction. He appeared to consider Snape for a moment, noticeably assembling evidence in a familiar way, and then stated, "And I could venture a guess as to who you are: the Professor I've heard such a lot about."

It was Snape's turn to be surprised, though on reflection he realised that he must have been much discussed after his disappearance. Miles continued, "It was my father who said 'looked rather like the Sergeant' -- I can't say I see it myself, really -- but my mother told me a bit more, later on. As did Mark. Did you bring your wand with you this time?"

Snape tensed, and took a deep intake of breath, feeling a hot resentment against Mark, for having betrayed his confidence, and against his cocksure brother. He let his breath out slowly, managing to maintain an outward calm, and fixed Miles with his eyes. "Isn't that a rather foolish question to ask?" he growled.

"Better to know, I should think," replied Miles smoothly. "I take it you did." He gave Snape a cold half-smile. "Don't blame Mark; I got him drunk one night, after Gregor and Laisa were safely away on their honeymoon. I think he needed to tell somebody. Quite a story." He raised his eyebrows. "Sorry I missed the fun."

"Is Mark here?" asked Snape quickly. Wherever "here" is. Miles shook his head.

"He's back on Beta Colony, studying. Oh, in case you were wondering, you're at Vorkosigan Surleau. Our country place, in the District. I assume you must have just... dropped in suddenly, else the gate guard would have noticed. I'm only here for a few days; I try to stop by the old place now and then, and there's a little task I need to accomplish." His eyes slid towards a brown velvet bag that sat on the ground next to the wall.

"And is... Pym with you?" Snape enquired rather hesitantly.

Miles looked at him oddly. "No, he's back at Vorkosigan House. I brought Armsman Roic along."

"Ah," said Snape. "Just wondering." Not a comfort visit, then.

He was still being examined in a disconcerting way. "And my parents are back on Sergyar," Miles continued. "They were very... grateful to you, you know. They told me so. Repeatedly." There was a teeth-gritting edge to his voice, nearly covered by a practised and urbane politeness. "I enjoyed Mark's version of events particularly, though. Blood and bits of chair all over the floor. Sound effects. Popping up behind people. Very theatrical."

Snape curled his lip. "No doubt that was my entire motivation in the matter," he said, turning away. He squatted down once again, picked up the twig, and brought his attention back to murdering lichens.

To his surprise, Miles laughed. "It probably would have been a large part of mine," he said, "but I wouldn't know about yours. I've never met a wizard before."

That's what you think. Snape turned back to his small companion, who was still seated on the stone wall, leaning forward and smiling expectantly, as though awaiting a command performance. What does he want me to do? Circus tricks? "The Amazing Wizard will now raise a body from the grave and balance it on his rather large nose." One could, of course, use magic to remove the growth from Bothari's resting place, but it was much more gratifying to scrape at it, like a wandless child using fingernails to pull the scab off a wound. I am not going to give him the satisfaction of watching me Apparate away from here.

Miles seemed to realise this after a moment, because he sat back, regarding Snape with an air of amused appreciation, then leaned over to open the bag near his feet. Looking up for a second, he asked, "Did you really make Simon Illyan drink something with chopped up Vorkosigan Vomit Bug in it?"

"If that was the proper name of the exceptionally ugly insect that resided in your basement -- which I doubt --" Snape replied, testily, "then yes. Or rather, I made the concoction; your brother acted as nursemaid. With great relish, I expect."

Miles grinned, then turned back to the bag, pulling out objects: a bronze basin, a tripod, a handful of kindling. Gathering his supplies, he rose. "If you'll pardon me," he said to Snape, "I have business at that grave you're standing on." Snape bowed himself away as Miles advanced, seating himself on the wall and watching as the smaller man knelt and cleared a spot on Bothari's grave, brushing away bits of lichen, then set up the tripod and put the basin atop it. He placed the kindling in the basin -- a brazier, Snape saw now -- and then pulled a small silken square of cloth from his pocket, unfolding it and removing what looked like several locks of differently textured dark hair, and adding them to the pile. He then took a small knife from his belt and sawed away at his own short hair, adding the results, and set fire to the whole thing. It burnt swiftly and cleanly; Miles rocked back on his heels and watched in silence, unmoving. Snape felt suddenly that he was an intruder on a very private moment.

The small flames faded to wisps of fire, and then to invisible disturbances of heat in the chill morning air, before falling into ash. Miles stirred and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, grasped the hot edge of the brazier, upending it and shaking it out over the grave. He then placed it back on the tripod and wiped it clean. Standing, he made his way over to the wall and gestured to a spot several feet away from where Snape was sitting. "Do you mind?" he asked, and Snape shook his head. "Whoever said 'for God's sake let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings'," Miles continued, sitting down, "lived in a warmer place, and hadn't had all his bones replaced." His eyes drifted back to the grave. "He has a granddaughter now. She can barely spare the hair at this point, but her parents made up the difference. I hope she can visit herself, someday." He glanced over at Snape in an assessing sort of way. "Do you have children?"

"No," said Snape, a bit startled. "Not... yet." And what a daunting thought it is. "You?"

"Not yet either," replied Miles. "I'm getting married quite soon, though." His right heel was beating a tattoo on the ground, jouncing his leg up and down; he seemed to notice this suddenly, and stopped, grinning. "I'm a bit impatient."

"My sympathies," said Snape.

"And you?" Miles went on. "Married. How long?"

Brilliant deduction. Was it the gold ring -- he glanced down at his left hand -- or my general air of being gobsmacked? Nightmares can do that to you too. "Five months." The two men sat in companionable silence for a moment, meditating on the mellowing effects of female society, until Miles spoke up again, rather less chirpily than before.

"I used to dress for these occasions, you know. Full uniform, select decorations. I wore my best suit and Auditor's seal last time I burnt an offering for Grandfather" -- he nodded toward a grave in the centre -- "but somehow it didn't seem to matter anymore. Death had become... I don't know... more of an informal event. I suspect having it happen to me had something to do with that."

I even managed to kill my brother, Mark's voice echoed in Snape's mind, but he got better. He'd rather regretted never getting the story behind that one. "You were... brought back to life?"

"Sounds pretty damn miraculous even to a wizard, doesn't it? Just medical science -- and skill -- at work. It bloody hurt, if you want to know. I wouldn't recommend it, unless you've got no other choice."

At least he's not likely to pass me a cup of tea out here, thought Snape, wondering when the rules had changed. Why this one, and not Dumbledore? His curiosity was destined not to be satisfied on that point, however. "How did Bothari die?" he asked suddenly.

"Shot," replied Miles, "while trying not to escape." He let out a bark of laughter completely lacking in humour. "A case of mistaken identity, all around. It was a long time ago now." His voice was making a valiant attempt to sound dismissive, but his knuckles had whitened where his hand gripped the wall more tightly.

There was a pressure building in Snape's mind, a sensation which took him a moment to identify, and then it hit with the force of a waterfall, or that crush of malevolent liquid the lake had become in his dream. He was being manipulated. Not by the little man sitting near him -- although he had no doubt that Miles Vorkosigan was a master of the art -- but by whatever power had brought him here, to a graveyard of all obvious places, to discuss death and loss with someone who had experienced both and who had a culturally-recognised outlet, a dignified, symbolic ceremony, perfectly designed to express a lingering respect and dedication to someone long buried under the earth. Well, he was not going to co-operate.

In one smooth movement he rose to his feet, pulled his wand from inside his robes, and, aiming it at the brazier and tripod, shouted, "Reducto!" They flew into the air, followed by orange sparks and blue smoke; he did not even wait for the loud clang of the brazier hitting Bothari's gravestone in its fall before he was striding past an astonished Miles and out through the gate, pushing it open violently before him, and heading for the path up to the top of the hill.

He took the path at a run, and was slightly out of breath by the time he reached the top. It occurred to him then that he could have Apparated, but, as he had found before under circumstances where he had no choice in the matter, there was a satisfaction in physical exertion that was often missing in the equivalent magical effort. On the other hand... Leaning against one of the corners of the pavilion, he looked out across the lake. His previous experience of Barrayar had led him to associate this world with impotence and helplessness; trapped here without his wand, he had been reduced to cooking up potions with improvised ingredients, curing the former ImpSec chief's upset stomach being the sum total of his contribution (hardly balancing the trouble in which he had managed to land the Vorkosigan family by his very presence), and had only managed to extricate himself (and them) from an ignominious and fatal end with the inadvertent help of another wizard whose goals had, at the time, been entirely different. But now... He was still holding his wand; he looked at it thoughtfully, and then at the hills beyond the lake, the woods and vineyards, and the hints of habitation he could see through the trees.

I am the most powerful man in this District, he mused. Perhaps on this planet -- if what he had gathered about the competence of the remaining Barrayaran wizards was true. If I were so inclined... and if I could bring enough of them over to me... they deserve a chance at doing things their way -- our way -- for a time. A chill ran through him at the seductiveness of the fantasy: it was antithetical to everything he believed; it would destroy his life as he knew it and that of others; it was not even practical; and it was almost irresistibly compelling. You never really wanted to be Headmaster of Hogwarts; that's why that temptation was so easy to fight.Shivering convulsively, as though the ghost of a snake were slithering its cold-blooded way up his acquiescent body, caressing him with its coils, he slowly sank down to his knees. His left arm began to burn.

You belong here, something whispered to him. You nearly stayed here before; why not now? It may not even be your choice; you can't get home alone. Visions never before imagined flooded his inner eye: broomsticks zooming above the streets of Vorbarr Sultana, vaguely imagined space ships bringing wizards and witches from other planets to settle here, the shores of this lake inhabited by unicorns and hippogriffs, a sanctuary for the Golden Snidget in the unknown South Continent. Himself presiding over the opening of a school of magic, named in honour of Dumbledore. And then, before he could call it up as an antidote to these allurements, his Hogsmeade cottage, with spouse, transported itself in his mind to a prime location with a view of the lake: a holiday home for times when his duties in the capital were not pressing. The Minister of Magic for Barrayar would also require servants: let the house-elves stay on Earth; with so many Muggles about, he was certain to find candidates... Miles Vorkosigan could be first in line.

It was the Ha! of honest laughter following this last absurdity that brought him back to his senses, still shaking and cold, but clear-headed. The effort required to keep Miles under the Imperius curse would be draining for a wizard far younger and more energetic than himself; it would never do for one who felt older than his forty-three years. Leave the temptations to the Tom Riddles of the world. I'm tired of it. Let me go home and rest. He let himself slide further down, huddling at the base of the wall, the last of the trembling gradually leaving his body.

Miles's voice sounded behind him. "Combat flashback?" Snape looked up and watched as the younger man crossed into view, moving to a chair in the pavilion and seating himself, his feet going to rest on a small stool.

Snape sat up, slowly. "I suppose so," he responded after a minute.

Miles nodded. "I get those," he said. "I did gather from Mark that there was something pretty apocalyptic going on in your... sphere of things. Is it over now?"

"As much as these things ever are," Snape answered.

Miles muttered something about clouds half under his breath, then quirked an eyebrow at Snape's look of curiosity, and recited:

"Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments,
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures."

His lips curled up slightly at Snape's blank gaze, and he murmured, "What do they teach them in these schools?" Then his face went serious, and he continued, "It can take a while, you know. The adjustment. And just when you think you've put it all behind you, it ambushes you again. Or you stick your own foot in the trap. They say real soldiers always secretly hate peace-time and yearn for war again."

Snape stood, a little stiff and sore from tensed muscles and the cold ground, and moved into the pavilion, choosing a comfortable looking chair and unashamedly putting his feet up. "I'm not sure I was cut out to be a real soldier," he informed Miles.

"Hmm," said Miles. "Though I understand you did the undercover thing rather than the actual combat." He inclined his head briefly in the direction of the path. "That was quite impressive, back there, by the way."

"That was nothing," Snape breathed, fingering his wand, a last gesture toward appearing formidable in front of a perennially undaunted opponent. He glanced over at Miles to gauge the result of the implied threat, and was taken aback to see a weapon held in a small hand and aimed at his head.

"I suppose it would depend on who drew first, then," Miles said cheerfully, tucking the weapon away again. "And you don't have to think too much to stun someone. Or say anything. No abracadabra nonsense."

Snape winced at the Muggle mispronunciation. "True enough. On the other hand," he went on thoughtfully, "we don't have to invent a new weapon, or machine, every time we want to do something new. Just change the language around a bit. Parvum dominum levo!" he added, with a casual flick of his wand. The first two words were hardly necessary to the spell, but they were making him feel better, he decided, observing the delighted expression on Miles's face as he rose into the air. "Sedi sessum," he finished, letting the Barrayaran drift slowly back into his chair, and somehow resisting the temptation to drop him hard from two metres up. Forestalling Miles's exclamations of glee, he continued, "We're not supposed to cast spells on Muggles, actually, but I've made an exception in your case."

Miles bowed slightly. "I'm honoured."

I'll bet you are, thought Snape, with an involuntary quirk of his lip. How quickly he had found himself playing to an audience after all, a showman, a lord's fool. He realised, too, how much of the subtext to his illusion of planetary conquest had been a desire to do Miles Vorkosigan one in the eye. The tattered cloak of dignity seemed to be falling away from him faster than he could clutch at the shreds; he shivered again, wondering how Miles managed to keep his wrapped about him. It seemed like part of his very skin, and something that was minded no more.

"Are you cold?" Miles asked. "We could move into the sun, you know." He stood and walked out to where he had a better view of the lakeside. "There's a nice spot down there. I swim there, sometimes, when it's warmer." He waved his hand in that direction, and waited for Snape to join him, which he did with some reluctance. "It's a fair walk," Miles went on, pointing at the cleared area down by the shore, sheltered from the wind and bathed in morning sunlight, "but I could use the exercise, after Ma Kosti's cooking, and... of course, you don't even have to walk, do you, if you don't want to."

There was a lack of obvious appeal in his words that Snape found admirable. He grants me the illusion of power, while I bow to his will. He nodded. "Very well," he said, "I will await your arrival," and, without further ado, concentrated on the tiny brightness of the destination below and Disapparated.

(End of Part One)