The Trail of the Black Star

Other than a few minutes' cardiac arrest when a burst of nearby gunfire shattered his reverie, the rest of the morning was positively peaceful. Hermione had returned, flushed with pleasure, carrying a bottle of cloudy, colourless liquid.

"It's the chief's special recipe," she informed him. "They were saving the bottle for whomever brought in Puquio. I had no idea. I'd only ever heard of this stuff, let alone had a bottle to myself. Although, I suppose you're entitled to at least half since you were the clever enough to get him attacked by a dragon on my patrol."

"You didn't just happen upon us during your morning stroll, then?"

"In exchange for carte blanche to study whatever and wherever we please, we take turns dealing with the dragons in the area and any trouble they cause with the Muggle tourists. None of us mind terribly, especially with an expert like Tino to show us the ropes. Part-time dragon chasing was what led to my discovery of the quipu cache in the cliff face, after all. Still, it's much nicer since I re-created the Stayaway Solution. Before, we had to patrol in pairs, which meant we had to do twice the number of shifts. Of course, we're also to keep an eye out for the rangers' and CHUMPs' most wanted poachers and smugglers, though I'm the first of our camp to ever collect on it." She raised the bottle with a smile.

"And what, pray, exactly is the chief's special recipe?"

"150-proof homemade rum. They say he adds essence of uchu to distract the drinker from the taste."

"I can just imagine how his men respond to such an incentive."

"Well, I'm sure you heard the celebratory gunfire..." She trailed off while gazing up into the canopy. "It's nearly noon. If we keep up a good pace, we should reach camp before sunset."

The memory of the morning's sickness was still fresh in Severus' mind. "Isn't there a shorter way?"

"That is the short way. I suppose I could apparate, but that would kind of leave you in the lurch. Besides, it'll give us a chance to discuss our respective findings vis a vis the pain potion. Fortunately, there's a trail between here and camp, so we won't have to hack our way there. You're not afraid of heights, are you?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Good." She pursed her lips in concentration and surveyed the trees around them. She tapped her wand on a gargantuan tree whose top Severus could not see. Nothing happened. "I always remember that it's a lupuna tree, but I can never remember which one." The third tree that she tried gave a shudder, and a rectangular section of bark creaked open to reveal carved steps that spiralled up into the darkness. He glanced at their weathered surfaces doubtfully, but followed Hermione without comment.

He had to suppress a gasp when they stepped out of the darkness into the forest canopy. Someone, presumably many years ago, had constructed a way through the treetops by magically binding the thickest branches of neighbouring trees together, so that they formed a sinuous path through the treetops. Epiphytes and vines served as both decoration and safety restraints, though Severus felt that he could have found his way safely with his eyes closed. It was a heady feeling, being so far above the ground and so close to the sky. The subtle shifting of the branches with the breeze added to his fancy that he was standing on a single living, breathing creature that stretched from one end of the forest to the other. If this was the work of the Inca, he was going to have to re-think his assessment of them.

She had already started walking down the path, but waited for him to catch up with him. They continued in silence for a few minutes. She seemed so lost in thought that he was startled by her sudden speech.

"It's really beautiful, isn't it? I never tire of being up here. At one time, the forest had hundreds of paths like this, but most of them were lost or destroyed over the years. The Inca preferred to build paved roads rather than travel by treetop. The path we're standing on predates the Inca by a couple hundred years. When the Inca started their gambit to conquer the world, all other civilisations were so completely assimilated into the Incan culture that we don't even know what most of them were called. But if these ways in the trees are any indication, they were great civilisations in their own right."

She noticed his raised eyebrow and blushed. "Sorry, there I go again. This is why I would have been a horrid teacher. I find teaching myself far more interesting than teaching anybody else. I probably wouldn't even notice if one of my students transfigured a desk into a dragon if I was caught up in a lecture."

He shrugged. "It does seem that your talents and passions do not lie in the teaching profession. Being cut from the same cloth, I can hardly fault you for wanting to be more actively involved in your chosen field."

"As much as I hate to point it out to you, sir, you are a teacher."

"Yes," he remarked with distaste. "You have Albus Dumbledore to thank for that."

"Albus Dumbledore. That's a name I haven't thought of for a long time."

"I would have thought that the Martyr of Gryffindor would have had a greater effect on you, of all people." He had to suppress a smirk, relishing his knowledge that Albus was not only still alive but had been behind his trip to Peru.

"A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy," she quoted, then hardened. "He was my Headmaster for seven years and my friend for at least two of those, but I couldn't bear to hear him mentioned by the time I left England. Even now, when anyone asks me where I went to school, I say Beauxbatons, just so I won't have to admit to having known him."

His tone was a mite more defensive than he liked. "I would have thought-"

"You misunderstand me, I never felt anything for the man but love and respect, but all anyone ever talks about is who he defeated and how he died. They never focus on the rest of his one hundred and fifty years. And beyond that, everyone seemed to think that, if you'll pardon the colourful metaphor, his shit didn't stink."

His snort encouraged her.

"At Cornwall, I got so tired of the veiled and not-so-veiled elegies. It was quite en vogue during my tenure to dedicate one's thesis to the memory of Albus Dumbledore. Not only do they gloss over the less orthodox facets of his personality, but they insult his memory with mindless hero-worship. The greatest gift the Headmaster gave his students was the ability to think for themselves, and that gift is cheapened by rampant sentimentality and the illusion that he was somehow invulnerable to the heartache and thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. It's horribly dishonest to overlook the obvious fact that Albus Dumbledore was a human being and made mistakes."

He was quite touched by her words, but his curiosity was piqued. "Name one."

"Well, to start," she said with a straight face, "he unleashed you on thousands of unsuspecting students."

An unfamiliar sensation rippled through his abdomen- a sudden tightening of muscles and uncontrollable vocalised exhalation of breath that sounded, to his ears, suspiciously like a laugh.

He cleared his throat. "Well, Miss Granger, it seems as if you and I, for once, are in complete agreement. Though let us try not to make a habit of it. I'm not sure if I could withstand the shock."

It was her turn to smile. "Don't worry, Professor. I doubt it will be a very common occurrence once we start work on the potion."

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Palanqa Research Camp

26 June, 4:30 PM

The sun was low in the sky and the air had taken on an edge of evening chill before they reached camp, which was somewhat of a generous appellation, in Severus' opinion. Hermione explained that the ramshackle building was used for weekly progress meetings, the shack housed a shower, sink and toilet -largely for appearances' sake- and that each of the dozen or so researchers had his or her own climate-controlled tent. The only remotely interesting part of the camp was the fire pit, which camouflaged an underground storage space for contraband. She laughed at his expression, and explained that the CHUMPs - Coca Harvest Undercover Magical Police - were infamous for looting research camps for chocolate, cigarettes, alcohol, or anything else that struck their fancy. It wasn't until they'd taken Tino's prized guitar that they understood the necessity of having a secret stash.

Severus wanted to know why it was so quiet.

Hermione glanced quickly at the sky. "Well, we missed the lunch crowd, so I imagine everyone's either working on their projects or resting up for dragon duty. We've got quite a nice variety of disciplines right now; there's me, grubbing around for quipu, Tino, who's been here nearly ten years studying the social and mating habits of the local dragons, Anna, who does something for the Israeli government that she's not allowed to discuss, a magilepidopterist named Yingwei, Barnaby and Hadi who are doing a fascinating arithmantical analysis of the labyrinth beneath the Condor Temple in Machu Picchu, and a research team from America. I think they're studying Incan water magic, since they spend a lot of time over at Tambomachay, but they've only been here about a month, and they haven't been terribly friendly. It hasn't helped that the others pretend not to speak English."

She yawned deeply. "If you'll excuse me, Professor, I think I need a few hours of sleep. My dragon watch started at midnight, so I hadn't planned on doing much besides sleep today. Besides, we can't find the orchid until after dark, anyway."

"Why is that?"

She led him over to her tent and zipped the plastic outer sheet behind them. "You'll understand when you see it. I'd let you see a dried sample, but I used the last of it in my most recent series of tests. You're more than welcome to go through my notes."

She tapped her wand on the wall, and the air in the entrance hall was quickly expelled from an unseen vent. The replacement air was dry and pleasantly warm. Following her lead, he kicked off his boots and wandered past a tiny kitchenette and a table piled high with seemingly haphazard stacks of parchment. After consolidating a few piles of parchment to make room for the bottle of homemade rum, she tossed her utility belt over the back of another chair.

He managed not to stare at the contortionist act of Granger removing the dragon-skin vest without removing her shirt.

The rest of the room had an absurdly high book-to-furniture ratio, but at least contained a comfortable reading chair and a large bed with a faded blue duvet. The walls were completely covered with the quipu. The brightly dyed ropes were hung from wooden rods attached to the ceiling, though some strands were knotted tightly to other lengths of rope.

Upon closer inspection, he began to understand how Granger had spent over four years working on translations. Each rope contained about a hundred knots, and the knots were separated into groups, and appeared to be some kind of numerical code. To confuse matters further, some ropes had been knotted together. Some were spun from animal hair, others appeared to be of vegetable origin. He couldn't even begin to imagine what the multitude of colours signified. Yet each rope was carefully labelled and corresponded to a shelf of volumes with similarly coloured spines.

He was distracted from his inspection by Hermione tugging off her leggings and slipping into bed. "Help yourself to anything in the cupboards or icebox," she said with a yawn. "The loo is off on the right, my lab is on the left, and my pain potions notes are on the table." She released her hair from its bindings again so that it tumbled over the pillow. "You can use Margaret to have your things sent here," she gestured towards the large owl that eyed the proceedings disinterestedly from her perch in the corner. Hermione rolled on to her stomach; a move that effectively conveyed that she was no longer open to discussion.

Severus made a habit of choosing to fight the battles he could win, and he was perfectly aware that his curiosity was no match for her need for sleep, especially when he wanted to do nothing more than lie down next to her and surrender to the exhaustion that had made its insistent presence known upon first viewing the bed. The high-altitude trek was taking its toll, in spite of Vidalia's coca-laced energising tea.

However, he was not about to give action to that particular impulse, so he jotted a quick note to Vidalia and sent the owl off to Cusco. That having been accomplished, he hastily began shuffling through the parchments on the table. They were arranged in a way that he first attributed to haphazardness, but after going through the contents of his first stack, he began to understand the reason for their peculiar array. The thickest pile was comprised of ingredient proportions and processes from failed experiments. From their profusion and variety, he surmised that Hermione's quipu translation was not much more precise than his poem.

A cursory flip through the pile had him snorting, despite his best efforts to remain objective. Had she learned nothing in her seven years of potions at Hogwarts? Even if she intended to use corn as the base for her potion -for reasons that were not immediately evident- she should have used an acidic substance, such as Vipertooth venom or even vinegar, to activate the other ingredients before applying heat. At present, the ingredients would have resulted in a very bitter corn soup. But a series of jaw-cracking yawns soon interrupted his critique of Miss Granger's slipshod methods.

Struggling against his growing exhaustion, he grabbed a stack of notes and sat down heavily in the chair. It was not long before his head grew heavy. His eyelids felt as if they were full of sand. He didn't realize he had slumped over until the sound of Hermione's notes fluttering to the floor woke him. Apparently it had awoken her, too.

"Oh for heaven's sake," came her exasperated voice. Her face was half-buried in the pillow. "If you want to rest, there's more than enough room for two."

He was too tired to give voice to his feeble protestations. He removed his outer robe, tossed himself on to the bed and burrowed ruthlessly beneath the covers. As he drifted into oblivion, he felt a hand clumsily pat his back.

"Sweet dreams, Professor."

He would have ordered her to stop calling him "professor" if it hadn't involved moving.

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