To Make Much of Time

Disclaimer in chapter 1, acknowledgements at end.

Meanwhile, a portrait away, Hermione and William, the elder Slytherin, were waiting for the others to join them.

"The man in that first portrait is a bit batty, isn't he?" whispered William.

"Balfour Blane was a genius at charms," replied Hermione quietly, "but don't mention your house to him. His wife left him for a Slytherin, and he went a bit mad after that."

"Probably a Gryffindor," said Sarah, the elder Ravenclaw, stepping into the frame next to them.

The younger three came tumbling through the frame, landing roughly on the floor.

"Jumping portraits can be disorienting," Hermione said, pulling them to their feet. "If it helps, imagine the frame as the barrier at platform nine and three-quarters. You have to jump through it, but try to keep your balance, because you don't always know exactly what's waiting for you on the other side."

The younger Ravenclaw, Darla, raised her hand. "Balfour Blane said there was a worm here."

Hermione smiled. "In a manner of speaking. But you needn't worry. Look!"

They gazed around the cave, eyes adjusting to the dim red light that suffused their surroundings. Charlie, the Hufflepuff, was the first to comprehend what lay before them and choked in shock. In front of them lay a vast treasure trove: gemstones, precious metals, gold coins, ropes of pearls, silver suits of armor, gold-washed weapons, bolts of silks, and urns filled with fragrant resins. The girls gasped; not because of the riches, but because of the gigantic red and gold dragon sprawled across the cavern, asleep to all appearances.

Sophie, the youngest, squeaked in surprise when the dragon spoke.

"Well, thief! I smell you and I feel your air. I hear your breath. Who are you and where do you come from, may I ask?" Tendrils of smoke issued forth from the terrible maw as the monster spoke.

Hermione stepped forward. "You may ask, indeed. I come from a home of teeth as white as bone and stronger than steel. I am neither adult nor child, maid nor damsel, both rebel and patriot."

"It is probably so," said the dragon, "but that is hardly your proper name."

"I am the wrongly accused, unjustly imprisoned, and dead to the world, I rise anew."

"Such pretty titles," began the dragon in a sneer, but paused. He cocked his head to the side, puzzling over this clue. "Oh darn it," he said. "I know this one! The reference is Shakespeare, isn't it?"

Hermione was silent, but a grin began spreading over her face.

"Oh you tricksome girl!" cried the dragon with a laugh. "Hermione, it's you again, isn't it?"

"Guilty," she said, stepping out from the shadows. "I hope you're ready for a good scratch."

"Bless you," said the dragon, rolling on to his back. "It's been bothering me all day."

"I can well imagine," said Hermione, clambering over his gold-crusted belly and up above his left forepaw. There was a bare patch of skin just above the hollow of his left breast. Hermione began to rub at the spot with both hands.

"Oh yes," said the dragon, squirming. "Just a bit higher. Now a bit to the right. That's got it! Now a bit harder! Oh!" With a deafening moan of pleasure, he shuddered into his pile of treasure. "I have no idea how I managed until you came along," he sighed.

"Smaug, I'd like you to meet Charlie, Sarah, Darla, William, and Sophie. Would you mind terribly if I outfitted them from your treasury? We promise to return it."

"Ah," said Smaug, still a bit fuzzy from having been scratched so thoroughly. "What's it good for other than making a pointy bed?" He turned over and went to sleep. By his snores, Hermione knew his slumber to be genuine.

Sarah put her hands on her hips. "What is wrong with him?" she hissed. "Isn't he supposed to be protecting his hoard and devouring maidens or dwarves or something?"

Hermione raised her eyebrow at the younger girl. "Do you want to be devoured?"

"Well, no."

"Then don't complain." She looked fondly at the dragon, whose back leg twitched as he began to dream. "Poor Smaug. It's always the way when mediocre artists take on subjects beyond their skills. They render the subject beautifully in oils, but when it comes time to add the essence of the story, you end up with a Cyclops that exchanges mutton recipes with Odysseus and a Smaug who likes having his soft spot scratched."

Charlie hesitated, then picked up a sword that lay near Smaug's snout. "You mean he really won't mind if we borrow stuff?"

"As long as we return it," said Hermione. "Now, everyone, I want you to find a shield and take it with you. I'll find you weapons. Now, William and Sarah, try these." She handed them a pair of fine bone-handled rapiers. "You're tall enough to be able to use them to good effect. Darla, you ought to take this," she said, handing the young girl a shining scimitar, "and Charlie, you and Sophie take these." She handed them a couple of short swords.

"Oh, Hermione, it's so pretty," commented Sophie, watching the light play off the leaves engraved in her fuller. "I still think yours is the prettiest, though." She gazed wistfully at the red velvet lining Hermione's basket hilt.

"Why is yours bigger than ours?" complained William, gesturing awkwardly with his sword.

Hermione whipped the point of her weapon around the outside of William's blade and knocked it out of his hand with a decisive rap.

"Because, unlike you, I know how to use one of these things. Lesson number one- don't point a sword at anyone you're not trying to threaten or kill." Somewhat discomfited by the looks of awe the children were giving her, she flushed and handed William his weapon. "You might want to find some basic armor. Really, I don't expect we will have to fight anything, but anything silly enough to try might think twice before attacking if we look like we can defend ourselves."

While the others selected bucklers and helms, Hermione pulled on a breastplate, a fine silver helm, some mail gloves, and a pair of greaves.

"Why don't you have a shield?" asked Sophie.

"I'd rather have both hands free," said Hermione, strapping a dirk to her side.

William quirked an eyebrow at her. "Remind me never to challenge you to a duel."

Hermione laughed. "Done. Now, we'd better go before the others at camp start worrying about us. This next jump is tricky because we'll be going upwards instead of to the left or right, but the shoddy perspective in this painting affords us the best jumping-up point that anyone could ask for. Now, who can tell me what we'll encounter?"

Charlie raised his hand and lowered it quickly when he realized it was holding his sword. "According to Hogwarts: An Art History, we'll be heading into a painting of Tilly Toke, who saved a bunch of Muggles from being eaten by a rogue Welsh Green."

"Exactly right," said Hermione, leading the children toward the back of the cave. "So whatever you do, don't mention Smaug. She's still a mite twitchy about dragons. Other than that, there are two other paintings where you need to stay on your toes. If we're lucky, Don Quixote will be off making life difficult for someone else. If he's there, I find that the best way past him is to ask him about his ladylove and then sneak off when he breaks into song. The other painting to watch out for is a group of monks. They may look fat and jolly, but they're very territorial, especially if you get too close to their ale."

Sophie had been consulting Hogwarts: An Art History. "Did they really drown babies?"

Hermione shook her head. "St. Feuillien once accidentally dropped a baby into the baptismal font. The baby was fine, but the rumors spread nonetheless. After that, he left the priesthood and founded the Feuillien Order, devoted to prayer, poverty and service through making ale. The artist tried to make them mysterious, but they're really just creepy."

The children followed her deeper into Smaug's portrait until they were at the topmost edge.

"One! Two! Three!"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Over in Balfour Blane's portrait, Snape had the dubious honor of meeting someone whose house prejudices were even stronger than his. Unfortunately for him, Balfour Blane had been in Gryffindor. Blaine commented on Snape's teaching robe, and the moment the word Slytherin had escaped Snape's lips, Blane began casting curses and yelling incoherently. After successfully blocking several not-so-innocent hexes, Snape managed to land a Silencing Charm, which slowed Blane down enough for him to make a break for the portrait frame, presumably in the direction Granger and the children had gone, since Blane's workbench blocked the other side of the portrait. He stepped through the edge of the frame before Blane could hit him with anything nonverbal or experimental.

Snape slid into the shadows of the next portrait with his wand drawn. A giant dragon of an indeterminate breed lay on its back in the center of the painting. He had known of dragons to feign sleep to lure in prey, but he'd never heard of one whose breath whistled in between snores. Thus, he concluded that the dragon was likely asleep in earnest.

Snape began creeping along the front edge of the painting in an attempt to cross without waking the dragon. He studiously ignored the gold and silver, focusing on the far end of the frame. When he was about halfway across the painting, something caught his eye. It was an old and battered sword whose leather-wrapped hilt appeared distinctly worse for wear. It was perhaps the only thing in the entire cave that wasn't polished to a high gleam. If Granger saw the need to carry a sword in addition to her wand, then perhaps he ought to as well.

He pulled the sword from the pile of treasure and attempted to transfigure a scabbard for it from a handkerchief, but the square of linen stubbornly remained a handkerchief. Frowning, he attempted to cast a nonverbal Lumos, and was shocked to find that even the simple spell failed much in the same way.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" he whispered, waving his wand desperately at a large metal cup. Nothing happened.

He felt a cold weight settle in the pit of his stomach. Magic didn't work here. He set his mind to the task of figuring out why. He quickly concluded that magic worked in Blane's portrait because the subject was casting magic in the portrait. However, he was unable to think of any other portraits for which the same could be said.

Of course, Granger never would have chosen such a public or insane portal to the portrait world without a very good reason. Still, a number of uncharitable names for her sprang to his mind, unbidden. How on earth did the girl think she would be able to protect the children, or even herself, without magic?

A loud groan shocked him back to his senses. The dragon was stirring. Severus gripped the sword under his arm and sprinted toward the far end of the painting. Of course, the sound of someone running across a pile of gold is not a quiet one, and the dragon instantly awoke with a roar.

The last thing Severus saw before leaping through the edge of the portrait was a ball of flame shooting toward him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Now, when I invited you to join me, I warned you that every story had been told before. In fact, you probably recognize the dragon in the painting as being from a much more famous story, but I'd bet my bouzouki that you've never thought of him as a giant pussycat. The greatest storytellers can tell you tales you heard at your mother's knee, yet make you understand it in a way you never thought of before. I'll consider my job done if my poor story doesn't put you to sleep. And speaking of which, I'd better get back to it.

I hope you won't mind if I neglect Hermione and her charges for a moment. Hermione knows where she's going, and I need Snape to encounter a very important portrait. That, and it's fun to make things difficult for Snape.

Lightly singed for his trouble, Snape landed with a grunt on the stone floor of a small chapel. He leaped to his feet, clutching the hilt of his sword and scanning his surroundings for any sign of life.

It was bitterly cold, midwinter by the angle of the light that streamed through the green glass of the windows, and Snape gratefully warmed himself next to a brazier in the center of the chapel.

From somewhere behind him came the sound of a blade being sharpened against a grindstone. Snape spun around and cast a silent Lumos at the source of the sound. The spell failed, and he swallowed. He haltingly pointed the sword at the dark corner of the chapel.

"Show yourself," he barked.

A giant man, at least twice the size of Hagrid and dressed sumptuously in green and gold armor stepped into the light "God thee mot loke!" he exclaimed with delight. "Iwysse thou art welcom, wylle, to my place, and thou hatz tymed thy trauayl as true mon schulde."

Though he was only able to understand one in every four words, Snape felt that he was being greeted civilly. Still, the giant held a very large axe in his hand, and Snape kept his sword raised.

"Look," he said slowly, enunciating clearly and attempting to communicate through gesture. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. I just want to cross this painting."

Though Snape couldn't see the man's face, he was certain he was frowning. "Busk no more debate then I the bede thenne when thou wypped of my hede at a wap one." He pointed to his axe, drew his finger across his neck, and then pointed at Snape.

A sudden sense of déjà vu came over Snape, but he couldn't quite put his finger on where he'd seen the knight before. "I believe you're mistaking me for someone else," he said, attempting again to indicate his words through gesture.

The knight gave up speaking altogether. He pointed at Snape's sword, drew a large circle in the air with his fingers, then pantomimed putting something on his head.

Snape stared at him bewildered.

The green knight tried again. He stuck three fingers in the air, began prancing with a womanish gait, no small feat for a man of his size, waved flirtatiously at Snape and made kissing noises from behind his helm.

"I beg your pardon!"

The knight growled in frustration, and knocked Snape's sword easily to the ground. The knight lay his weapon down and seized Snape's shoulders firmly with one hand. With the other, he yanked open Snape's outer robe. Buttons skittered across the chapel floor, and Snape struggled, but to no avail.

When the great hand reached for his shirt, he closed his eyes, realizing that he had no choice but to accept whatever sordid fate the knight had planned for him. The knight was simply too strong and ripped Snape's shirt open as easily as if it had been onionskin. He felt the cold air hit his bare chest, and gooseflesh rippled across his exposed skin.

He looked up into the impassive and impenetrable helm of his adversary and braced himself. The knight stared at Snape's bare torso and cocked his head to the side in confusion.

Suddenly, a loud voice came from outside. "'Now, sir swete, of steuen mon may the trowe!"

The voice pulled the green knight up short. He glanced from Snape to the outside door through which the voice had come and back again.

The green knight threw back his head and roared with laughter. He attempted to straighten Snape's garments, and returned the sword, as if to apologize. He ushered Snape to edge of the portrait, then opened the chapel door.

"'Gawayn?" he asked.

Upon receiving some answer to the affirmative, the knight began to speak easily to him in incomprehensible verse.

Humiliated but accountably relieved, Snape made his way to the edge of the portrait and stepped tentatively into the next painting.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Meanwhile, in the next corridor above, the atmosphere in the Merry Men's camp was festive. Venison roasted on spits, ale flowed freely, and Ron, Harry, and several girls were using crusty white bread to demonstrate Quidditch to the denizens of the painting.

"Why is that one worth so many more points?" asked one man in scarlet, who was wrapping the hilt of his sword with a strap of leather.

"Because," said Ron, clumsily juggling the three loaves meant to represent the Quaffle and Bludgers, "it's small, fast, and very hard to catch."

"But why isn't anyone else allowed to catch it?" asked another man, devilishly handsome, who was adroitly tuning a stringed instrument.

"It's completely obvious," explained Melinda, who was nearing the bottom of her ale. "If anyone could catch it, nobody would try to score with the Quaffle."

The friar sitting nearest the fire belched loudly. "Then they should get rid of the quaffle altogether. Let the lads just go after the Snitch. I should think all that extraneous scoring gets tiresome. " His drooping eyelids flew open. "Oh, I say," he sputtered in amusement, "I shall have to confess that one to myself, ha ha!"

Their conversation was interrupted by a deafening yell from the trees.

A cheer went up from the company, and Robin of Loxley stepped into the firelight with a massive hart thrown over his shoulder. This he dropped by the fire and then accepted a wooden mug brimming with beer.

"Evenin', y'all!" he called out. "I surely hope y'all are good and ready for some hearty vic'tuals!"

"Aye!" came the response from his friends.

"What did he say?" whispered Melinda to Ron.

"I think he's offering us some more venison," he whispered back.

"Why can't he speak proper English like everyone else in the painting?" she grumbled.

"You really should read your copy of Hogwarts: An Art History," commented Ginny. "Then you'd know that the American artist thought it would be nice to make Robin from a town called Loxley across the pond. Apparently, they speak oddly there."

"And you should really swallow your food before talking," said Harry, ruffling Ginny's hair. "As bad as Ron you are."

Ginny chucked a piece of bread at him, which he caught deftly.

"When is Hermione due back with the new recruits?" asked the handsome musician. "I've added a new verse to her song."

"Now Alan a Dale," chided Robin, "I might start getting' jealous."

"Never fear, Robin," assured Little John, who was shaping a new quarterstaff near the fire. "I don't think Hermione's song will rival the hundreds of songs written about you anytime soon."

"Especially not if she hears you've added more verses," said Ginny. "She was pretty clear that she didn't want to hear anyone singing it."

"Then it's a good thing she's not around to hear it," said Alan with a cheeky grin.

"Well, sir," said Robin, joining his friends by the fire, "I reckon y'all are right. I must've gone soft from having Alan here all to myself for so long. Go ahead on, Alan. Get them pipes o' yourn working."

At Alan's opening strums, conversations around the camp stopped, and everyone crowded around the fire. There were about thirty foresters, all in varying shades of green and brown, and twelve Hogwarts students, many still in their school uniforms.

Alan a Dale looked at his audience and smiled. Several of the girls sighed.

"I am going to sing a song!" he proclaimed, emphasizing his statement with an emphatic strum.

"Yes!" responded his audience in unison.

"It is a lie!"

"Yes!"

"But not all of it is false!"

"Yes!"

Alan strolled around the circle, singing as he played.

"Oh the Falcon, she's a clever bird

She graceth our fair skies,

She saveth all the little chicks

Whom the fowler doth prize.

The fowler doth fear her

Bright beak and sharp claws,

And dareth not touch them

On her watch, because:"

The entire camp joined in for the chorus:

"O Falcon fine, above us flying,

Alleviate our ceaseless sighing,

Set thy sword and scabbard down.

Between thy wings and claws concealing,

Beats thy heart, its strength revealing

Merit worthy of renown."

The friar raised his flagon, signaling that he wished to take the next verse:

"Oh the Falcon, she is passing fair,

With the wit of twenty men.

I so love a bird that's saucy,

That surpasseth my own ken.

But, alas, this Falcon maiden

Ever flies from my grasp,

But perhaps she'll leave a chick for me

In my bosom close to clasp."

The camp roared its approval, and they raised their mugs of ale and sang the chorus.

"O Falcon fine, above us flying,

Alleviate our ceaseless sighing,

Set thy sword and scabbard down.

Between thy wings and claws concealing,

Beats thy heart, its strength revealing

Merit worthy of renown!"

The friar's heart-revealing pantomime sent the boys off into gales of laughter. Harry surprised the Hogwarts contingent by standing and adding a verse of his own.

"Oh the Falcon, she's a friend of mine

And has been from the start.

I've long admired her loyalty,

Her strategies, and smarts.

But I'll ne'er forget the single time

She loved a handsome 'prince,'

Which is why, I dare to prophesy,

She's avoided them all since."

Ron's and Ginny's hilarity was lost in the enthusiastic chorus.

"O Falcon fine, above us flying,

Alleviate our ceaseless sighing,

Set thy sword and scabbard down.

Between thy wings and claws concealing,

Beats thy heart, its strength-"

The jolly singing cut off abruptly as the Falcon herself stepped into the circle, followed reluctantly by the five new students.

Her mouth was turned down in disapproval, but her eyes sparkled. She gestured for Alan to play, and, to the company's surprise, began to remove her boots and sing.

"Oh the Falcon finds it tiresome

To hear of herself sung.

She has threatened any doing so

With pulling out their tongues.

But she may forget this violence

When she hears your voices sweet

So relax, my comely nightingales.

Will someone rub my feet?"

There was silence for a moment, as the foresters and students looked at one another, unsure of how serious she was. Finally, the friar stepped forward and wiggled his fingers at her suggestively.

Hermione looked at him incredulously, then burst into merry peals of laughter. Alan brought the others in for the final chorus.

"O Falcon fine, above us flying,

Alleviate our ceaseless sighing,

Set thy sword and scabbard down.

Between thy wings and claws concealing,

Beats thy heart, its strength revealing

Merit worthy of renown!"

A few of the woodsmen sang a descant line above the chorus, and their final chord rang through the forest, filling all who heard it with pleasure. The group around the fire applauded Alan, and the friar handed him a tall mug of mead. Alan took a deep pull from the mug and launched into a lovely ballad about ploughboys and milkmaids.

Hermione introduced the five newcomers to Robin, who received them with charming, if difficult to understand, hospitality.

"You're welcome to stay by the fire for some music, ale, and venison," said Hermione to the students, "Though I must remind you that you all have classes tomorrow, and you'll be very sorry if we have to carry you."

"Are we going to come here every night?" asked Sarah.

"You may have to," said Hermione, sadly. "If you don't, your appointment will simply be rescheduled."

The younger girl nodded resolutely. Hermione's heart went out to the children, left to the tender mercies of the Ministry Defloristers. Sophie, the youngest, surprised her by wrapping her arms around Hermione in a fierce hug. "It's very strange here," she confided, "and I was a bit frightened at first. But as long as you're nearby, I'm not afraid. You're like Professor Snape. You'll keep us safe."

Hermione felt her throat constrict. "I'll do my best," she said.

When the girls left to go to sleep, Hermione found herself wandering along the front edge of the portrait, gazing out into the corridor where the Sherwood painting hung. She pondered Sophie's words; she'd never thought about what it must be like for the Slytherin students to be under Snape's not inconsiderable protection. She'd only ever pitied them for having to live up to Snape's impossible standards, but the more she thought about it, the more Sophie's statement made sense.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

While the Hogwarts students enjoyed the Merry Men's endless supply of hearty food and drink, the object of Hermione's contemplation was cursing her with every step as he plodded through hip-high snowdrifts in the dim light of a single gaslight, which was perched on top of a wrought iron lamp post.

Snape was now utterly convinced of her idiocy in taking children into the portrait world, where he himself had nearly been roasted, beheaded, drowned, frozen, and talked to death by a ballerina-obsessed clown puppet.

He finally reached the far end of the portrait and was surprised to find that a warm breeze flowed through the pines here, and that the pine needles were as soft as fur as he pushed forward into the next painting.

He nearly fainted with relief to see that it was a portrait whose subject and location he knew. Dilys Derwent, renowned healer, looked up from her seat with mild surprise. Her portrait hung on the wall of the Headmistress's office, which Snape could see was empty. The other former Headmasters and Headmistresses were asleep in their frames.

"Oh," she said with a nod of recognition. "You're Severus Snape, aren't you?"

"Yes," he said simply. "And you're Dilys Derwent. You used to be Headmistress. Albus Dumbledore used to ask your advice."

"Dear Albus, he told us all about your adventures," she said with a smile, which faded with her next words. "What brings you to my portrait? Have you died?"

"No, I'm not dead," he said. "I followed a rule-breaker into the portraits, but I can't seem to find her or where she's hiding."

"She?" asked Dilys, interested. "Are you looking for the Falcon?"

"The Falcon?"

"Oh yes!" said Dilys, a girlish gleam coming into her eye. "Songs about her are all over!" She whistled a catchy snatch of tune. "I haven't seen her, obviously, since I can only leave my portrait for the one in St. Mungo's, but sometimes Headmaster Fortescue, whose other portrait hangs in the Library, brings us word."

"You wouldn't happen to know where she is, would you?"

Dilys shrugged. "Most of the new songs are popularized, so I'm told, in the upstairs corridors, below the landing to the Astronomy Tower. Between Quixote, those stumbling monks, and the Sherwood foresters, it's a regular Music Alley. If I were you, I'd ask the portraits up there."

He was grateful for the concrete suggestion, but too exhausted to be enthusiastic.

Dilys noticed him weaving from side to side where he stood. "I'm sorry, dear boy, you're hurt and tired. Please, lie down and rest. I may not be able to heal in this portrait, but I can at least dress your wounds and let you pass the night uninterrupted. We'll talk more in the morning."

Snape lay down in the bed behind her stool. Dilys bandaged his leg where he'd accidentally stabbed himself with the tip of his sword and tutted over the shoulder that the green knight had wrenched. When she was satisfied that his wounds were stable, she blew out the candle on the table beside his bed.

She sat vigilantly at his side throughout the night, humming softly to herself.