Ancient Prophesy

Chapter Six

The power has passed down the ages, each time between woman and man
Each century unto the other, ’ere times and the ages began.

Though her stomach felt as if the tea and toast had decided to stay in Dumbledore’s office, Raven’s legs stayed with her. She landed on her feet facing the large hearth she had careened into the day before. Swearing in frustration, she clinched her fists tightly and spun around, dreading the sight that awaited her. If she hadn’t felt so angry at being brought to the dungeon again she might have laughed at the sight that greeted her. The students goggling in open alarm this time were very young, not even in their teens yet. Three were pointing their wands forward in abject terror, and one silly youth had taken to clutching at the robes of a very livid Severus Snape. Shaking the child off with a mixture of loathing and revulsion, Snape strode forward and stopped inches from Raven’s face.

Raven found her voice first. Shouting through clinched teeth, she met his furious gaze with one of her own and spoke. "Why do you keep bringing me here like this!" Her mother’s wand was still clenched in her fist, and without a second thought to what she was doing, she waved it under Snape’s nose. With snake-like reflex he gripped her wrist tightly and pulled her arm down to her side.

"Quit waving that thing around, you foolish girl, before you kill yourself!"

Pulling away from his grasp, Raven raised her mother’s wand again and spat back, "Oh, and what, deprive you of that pleasure? I’d never dream of it!"

If there were words to describe the look on Severus Snape’s face Raven didn’t know them. Never had she seen such livid anger well up into one person’s face before. He went from pale to purple in seconds, his dark eyes glazing over in his effort to control his speech. In a voice barely audible, he spoke venom to her. "Do not tempt me with such a pleasure, girl; I may just take you up on it."

Black eyes met blue, neither willing to look away first. Slowly, Snape reached out, caught Raven’s right hand—which was still clutching the wand—and rolled it palm down. Breaking the visual link, his gaze turned to the ring winking at him from out of his past. "I did not bring you here. The ring did. Do us both a favor and put it on your left hand next time, if you find my company so undesirable." This said, he dropped her hand like a foul rag and turned his back to her.

The rage within Snape was immediately directed onto his class, and Raven watched with disbelief as students tripped over each other in an effort to carry out the orders issuing form their potion master’s snarling jaws.

Folding her arms over her chest, Raven cocked her head to the side and smiled a wicked little grin. This man was unbelievable! Who did he think he was?

"You know something," Raven spoke out with such sarcasm that Snape stopped dead in his tracks, "I don’t find your company desirable." With that said, Raven removed her mother’s ring from the right hand and shoved it with great flourish onto her left hand. And again, she disappeared.

The glen in which she found herself, which was overgrown with thorny vines and blackberry brambles, reminded Raven of the late summer trips to the northern coast she and her mother would often take. Flowers long grown wild from neglect dotted the landscape, lending an enchanted aura to the glen: a fairy’s ring of flowers in a secret garden.

Had it only been twenty-four hours since Raven had left the coastal park to return home, key in hand, wondering what the future held for her? And now she stood among fall flowers nestled in a forest of deciduous trees, warmed by the last vestige of fall’s early afternoon sun. The trees were primarily oak and beech, with hornbeam and maple also prominent; the leaves were already changing into a tapestry of reds and yellows accented by the deep evergreen of spruce. A cloak of conifers, which not only included spruce but also yew, fir, and pine, left a blanket across the cool ground upon which she stood. The heat that brushed the Forbidden Forest with the ephemeral touch of the short hot summer was already fading, giving way to the grasping clutch of cold. Raven shivered through her thin robe, and looked down forlornly at her woolen red socks soaking up the morning moisture not yet burned off by the sun, which was now visible through the break in the canopy above.

Raven pursed her lips and, speaking to no one in particular, let loose with a string of vulgar insults directed at Severus Snape’s intelligence, ancestry and looks.

* * * * *

As Severus watched Raven—the fury with which she brandished a wand, the fierceness with which she stood up to him, the flourish with which she removed her ring—any doubts as to who her mother was vanished as quickly as she did. But it was the intensity with which she looked at him that answered the only question that mattered.

Childhood memories, painful and few, came surging to the surface; memories of his mother as she stood in the way of the abuse intended for him. The sneer Raven fixed on him mirrored the contempt he had seen so often cross his mother’s face before a backhand would knock her senseless to the floor. Gracefully she would rise to her feet again, only to be beaten down repeatedly. Severus recognized the same resilience in Raven’s stature, a spirit that was finally crushed out of his mother in the winter of his tenth year.

An eccentric Muggle relative had taken him in for a short period of time, and then arranged for boarding in Manchester before his schooling began at Hogwarts. He was responsible for himself after that. Responsible. Seeing Raven again like this in his classroom, standing there behaving so much like Ezmarelda, looking so much like him, brought to light just how responsible he was. Just how much responsibility could one man bear before breaking?

Looking around him, Severus realized most of his students were staring at him as if he had just sprouted horns. Taking advantage of the moment he spoke. "I expect each of you to understand the properties of a Salvere Potion, as well as the proper methods for brewing it for tomorrow’s class." Narrowing his glare at them, he paused for effect and added in a tone an octave lower, "Fail to mix it properly and you will find its side effects will cause you considerable pain." He would never allow first years to sample their potions, but he certainly allowed them to think he would.

"I will take 50 points from any student who leaves this classroom before class is over." This said he turned, summoned his cloak, and strode from his classroom leaving a silent class hard at work.

As he ascended from the dungeons of Hogwarts, he knew Raven could be found in the last place in the world he wanted to go. He would rather sing Karaoke at a birthday party for Harry Potter than return to their glen. Emerging into the light of the late morning sun, Severus closed his eyes against the glare. Even now years later, he knew he could find its location with his eyes closed if he had to. Walking behind the Quidditch pitch, he headed North and entered the Forbidden Forest.

The day after the Ravenglass massacre he had gone to their glen—partly to punish himself, partly to lose himself. Neither had worked. In fact, he may have found himself that night. As he sat among the Oleander, Foxglove and Nightshade, he looked death in the eye and blinked. It would have been so easy; all the ingredients were there. At that moment, he considered himself a coward for not having the courage to end his life. Later Dumbledore showed him that continuing with life showed the truest courage of all.

With nowhere to go and no one to turn to, considering himself a coward all the while, he returned to Voldemort’s side; and before the next full moon learned of their new target—Godric’s Hollow.

Pausing to get his bearings, Severus wrapped his cloak tighter around him and wondered for the first time about Raven. The sun, though bright, failed to chase away the chill in the air, and if he had observed correctly, she was now only wearing red socks. Did the silly girl not own shoes? Surely Ezmarelda would see to it that their daughter had shoes—

And there it was. A contemplation as simple as footwear, and Severus Snape’s world changed forever. How could he have a daughter?

* * * * *

The moment Mad-Eye Moody told them they would make great Aurors, Ron wanted the job. After all he’d seen and done, a job with his father at the Ministry would bore him worse than a Divination class with Professor Trelawney. Great Aurors were the stuff of legend!

Thinking back now, the problem with the suggestion was that it had really come from Barty Crouch, Jr. Crouch had imprisoned Alastor Moody for more than ten months, impersonated him, and then placed himself in a position to assist Lord Voldemort in his return to power.

That fact right there should have warned Ron off. But no—as soon as the real Mad Eye learned of his intentions, there was no turning back. Arthur Weasley’s son wanted to be an Auror and an Auror he would be, trained by none other than Moody himself. After all, Moody’s opinion of the Ministry had changed considerably. Now it held "incompetent boot lickers who didn’t know a damn thing about stopping Dark Magic." What better excuse to come out of retirement? All those years of dad "helping" Moody out of trouble made Moody zealous to "help" Ron now. Help him right into an early grave most likely!

Ron remembered Moody clapping him on the back and welcoming him to the Ministry training meeting. "This boy knows how to fight the Dark Powers, you’d all do good to watch and learn from this one." He’d felt great pride at those words, feeling for once he was making a difference in the fight against Voldemort. Right now, all he felt was cold, damp and tired. But worst of all, he was hungry. Bloody hell, he missed stuffing his face with three square meals, and numerous snacks filched from the kitchen of Hogwarts.

Of course, he had no need to sneak food once Dobby caught him and Hermione Granger snogging under the Gryffindor bleachers his six year, after a particularly rough game of Quidditch against Slytherin House. Hermione had taken great pains in "fixing" his pains.

Only a Quaffle could break a nose so thoroughly, and Hermione wasted no time in reminding him of this, all the while kissing each injury as she uttered healing spells one at a time. Oy, what a way to suffer. Madam Pomfrey never fixed broken bones like that! Ron shuttered pleasantly at the thought of Hermione, and then cringed when Madam Pomfrey’s face interrupted his daydreams.

Like himself, the House Elves would do anything for Hermione Granger. They worshiped her after she persuaded the Ministry of Magic to allow them the use of their wands again. Ron was sure it had more to do with the defense of Hogwarts than the now admitted Elfish Rights, but he would never tell her that. He would never dream of hurting Hermione, not then and certainly not now.

What he would do for food and a snog with Hermione! He shivered again, unpleasantly this time, and pulled his cloak tighter around his face.

"Blast Moody, where the hell are you?" he mumbled to no one in particular, but the two gentlemen with him raised their eyes in his direction. Silently they communicated their agreement and went back to watching the manor in the distance through Ministry issued omnioculars. These were much better than his Quidditch World Cup pair: night vision, replay capability for a period of twenty-four hours, and ten times the magnification. They were a mile from Malfoy Manor and well hidden by concealment charms and defense wards, but they could view everyone and everything coming and going day and night.

Ron had jumped at the chance to "watch" the activities of the Malfoys. The wizards working with Dumbledore knew at the end of Ron’s fourth year of school about Lucius Malfoy’s involvement with Lord Voldemort. But Malfoy was powerful and Cornelius Fudge was a fool. The last attack on Harry finally convinced those in power that the Malfoy family’s loyalties lay with Lord Voldemort.

The only reason Ron agreed to leave Harry’s side was to prove once and for all that Lucius and Draco Malfoy were the key supporters of Lord Voldemort within the Ministry. He’d give Fudge proof by shoving it right up his stuffy—

Language, Ron, he heard Hermione’s voice whisper in his memory.

I’ll make Fudge see reason or die trying, he answered her back.

They were having a conversation in whispered tones next to Harry’s bedside. He had been in and out of consciousness for the past eleven days, and Ron had never once left Harry’s side for more than a few hours at a time. Ron learned then of Lucius Malfoy’s involvement in Harry’s torture. Fudge couldn’t dismiss it this time as the delusional ranting of a troubled fourteen-year-old. Hermione and Ginny took turns with Harry from time to time, but it had been Ron and Sirius, Harry’s Godfather, who spent both day and night sitting with him, talking to him, reminding him how much he was needed, refusing to let him slip away into a personal hell Ron could only imagine.

Sirius Black knew that hell. It was all Dumbledore could do to keep him from searching out Lucius Malfoy then and there and killing him on the spot. One reminder that Sirius couldn’t help Harry if he was locked away in Azkaban, and Sirius turned back into Padfoot, his Animagus form, curling up protectively on Harry’s feet. Twelve years in Azkaban for a murder he had not committed made him painfully aware of the hell that awaited any prisoner.

Moody set out watching Malfoy Manor the moment Dumbledore informed him of Lucius’ involvement in Harry’s abduction. Moody had tried to get Ron to come with him, but he’d refused to leave Harry until he was out of danger.

"You’re doin’ ’im no good here lad," Moody had said. "You can help ’im best by shown Fudge what we all know to be true. The Malfoys are a pair of good for nothin’ maggots feeding off the death that Voldemort hands them." Once Harry was well enough, Ron had set out to find Moody and offer whatever help he could in bringing Lucius and Draco Malfoy down.

He sighed and leaned back, sliding down the majestic oak they were camped under. He had been here almost a week, and the group had seen little activity of importance. Now, his empty grumbling stomach was eating what little patience he had left.

"For God’s sake Weasley, conjure something up before they hear you all the way down at the house." The voice brought Ron out of his thoughts and made him painfully aware of just how hungry he was.

 "Right, I’ll just conjure a steak and kidney pie for the lot of us and set off every magical ward put up to keep us blokes out." Pulling his cloak tighter around him against the early morning cold, Ron kicked out one long leg and swept the young man’s feet out from under him. Landing with a dull thud on his back, he rolled over and struggled to free his arms, now pinned beneath in the tangle of his robe and cloak.

"Damn it, Weasley, what ya’ do that for?"

"Because you’re not thinking on your feet, so I thought I’d let you try it on your back." Ron’s freckled face broke into a smug smile, and he offered his hand to Jacques Rocheleau, helping him sit up.

"Sorry Jacques, but you should have seen that one coming. Death Eaters don’t fight fair. They’ll do anything to put you off balance and gain the upper hand."

"The lad’s right." The voice spoke from behind them and both men spun on the ground, drawing their wands, to find Mad-Eye Moody standing behind the giant oak, packages in hand.

Ron smirked once more at Jacques upon hearing Moody’s words.

"Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Ronald; if I’d a been a Death Eater you’d both be under my control—or worse, dead. Walked right up to ya’ didn’t I? Levine!" Moody’s voice barked.

Quickly the third man with the omnioculars turned his attention from the manor to the voice now chastising him.

"And what were you doing while these two behaved like teenagers?"

"We are teenagers," grumbled Ron, getting slowly to his feet.

Moody just continued to glare at all three young men.

"What do you mean, what was I doing? It’s my turn to watch the—"

Moody interrupted Levine. "Your job is to watch EVERYTHING, including your childish partners here." The eye for which Moody got his name rolled to the side and fixed its gaze on Ron and Jacques. The other remained cold as steel as it focused on John Levine, the oldest of the three Aurors under Moody’s tutelage.

"I used to think that constant vigilance was the answer, lads; but even that is not enough now. One man alone cannot do what we’re doing. You’re here to watch one another as well as watch Malfoy Manor. Don’t forget." That said, he dropped his load in a pile under the tree.

"Eat some food. I’ll take the next watch."

Moody turned to Ron and spoke, lowering his voice for only Ron to hear. "Maybe we wouldn’t even need to be here right now if I’d had someone watchin’ my back when Voldemort made his bid for power." Moody’s eyes joined together again and a look of shame flashed briefly across his face. It was a look Ron hated to see. Moody, even after three years time, blamed himself in part for Voldemort’s successful return to mortality.

Very few people knew the truth of what happened that night. Ron knew it well. Moody need not blame himself; but Ron knew he did, just as Ron too felt pangs of guilt every time the name Peter Pettigrew came up. Ron and his family had unknowingly sheltered the Animagus Pettigrew. It had been his and Harry’s fourth year at Hogwarts and Pettigrew, along with Crouch, assisted Lord Voldemort in capturing Harry during the Triwizard tournament. Using the captive Harry in a spell steeped in Dark Magic, Voldemort regained his human form and wizard’s powers.

"Here, Ron," Moody stooped and picked up a satchel from which he removed a thick roll of parchment. "Harry left this for you with Professor Dumbledore. Seems they had a bit a’ excitement yesterday."

Ron’s stomach turned over—not from hunger, but worry.

"Harry’s still okay, isn’t he?"

"Not to worry; wasn’t Harry causing the problems this time." Moody quietly answered. He shook his head in puzzlement and continued.

"They don’t know how she did it, but a young woman managed to pop into Snape’s dungeon right in the middle of a potions class. To hear Dumbledore tell it, Snape became quite upset over the whole event. Tried to stop her on the spot, but she managed to escape to the Ravenclaw common room before the staff caught up with her. She took quite a beating from Snape in the process, though."

Moody shook his head again and leaned in closer to Ron.  "If you ask me, Snape knows more than he is letting on. Why Dumbledore lets that man—" Moody stopped mid- sentence and handed Ron the parchment roll, muttering aspersions about Snape and Death Eaters, but Ron had stopped listening as he opened the letter from Harry.

Ron,Hey man, warm enough? No Hermione to snuggle with? You shouldn’t be there you know. She misses you and it’s driving her nuts not being able to owl you everyday. If she had known Mad Eye would be popping in for supplies, you could be sure of a letter at least four feet long. You might be getting one from me. I’m trying to kill the time until morning.

Ron knew this meant Harry was not sleeping again. Dreams often came painfully to Harry. Literally. He was connected with Voldemort in a way that would drive most men insane. Voldemort’s hate manifested itself as a tormenting pain in Harry’s scar: a scar that Voldemort inflicted upon Harry in his effort to destroy the Potter family. The stronger Voldemort grew, the more painful Harry’s nightmares became.

Yes, I’m not sleeping, but it’s not my fault this time. I’m playing nursemaid to a guest in the next bed over. I’m sure Moody already filled you in on the details. She just appeared into the middle of a potions class. Yes, Ron, I know what Hermione would be telling us: You can’t Apparate into Hogwarts. But she did, and Dumbledore doesn’t know how or why she’s here. I suspect he knows who she is, though. Snape blasted her through the wall of his classroom according to Madam Pomfrey, but you know how she likes to overstate an injury. She is pretty banged up though, and Madam Pomfrey for some reason was unable to heal her. She’s still out cold from the blow to her forehead. Hope it doesn’t scar!She’s really a rather striking-looking woman. But there’s something familiar about her that I can’t quite place. And man does she have a pair of legs on her! She just flung one out from under the covers and Madam Pomfrey didn’t get a dressing gown on her. I think I should go cover her up before I see more than is proper.

Ron couldn’t help but laugh. "Always the gentleman, Harry. When is it going to be your turn to enjoy a good pair of legs?"

Ron paused with his reading, smiling at the thought of Harry not knowing what to do with a nice set of legs wrapped around him. The only thing Harry had embraced in the last eight years had been his Quidditch broom.

Hermione’s voice again filtered into Ron’s conscious thoughts: You know he has trouble letting anyone in. My God, Ron, look what’s been taken from him! If we had let him, he would have driven us away by our fifth year. He knows we’re in danger because of who he is. The thought of anything happening to us, it’s killing him! So help me, if anything does happen to you while you’re after Malfoy—I’ll—I’ll—

Unable to continue, her hands fluttering in front of her from frustration, Ron had reached out and held her tight, kissing her tenderly on top of the head.

I’ll be careful, I promise. Harry will kill me if I’m not, Ron had answered.

I’ll kill you for him. I’m better at curses anyway. She had smiled weakly at him.

Drawing her up to him, he kissed her long and hard, and then disappeared into thin air, away to find Moody.

He had no intention of getting himself killed. Hermione and Harry were counting on him and he had no intention of letting them down.

Looking back at the letter, he continued:

Seeing her more closely, I again can’t help but feeling like I know her. Like there’s a connection I’m missing—and no it’s not the gash on her head or the fact that Snape seems to loathe her, though he claims no knowledge of who she is.Ginny was up to see me for a few minutes. I’m sure it was an excuse. Of course the seventh year Gryffindors put her up to it. The rumors are flying faster than my Firebolt; everything from a spy working for Voldemort to Snape’s angry lover. That thought makes me want to hurl. Can you imagine? Snape and a girl barely in her twenties: It’s hilarious! I can see Charlie and I are going to have a lot of fun with this one. He stopped by tonight before bed. I’m sure Mum put him up to it. Poor Ginny, she’s got Charlie teaching her Care of Magical Creatures and will have me in Defense; that’s if Dumbledore ever makes Madam P let me go! I think he liked these last few weeks, being back in the classroom and all. Of course he’s having all the fun teaching while for the last week I’ve been doing all the work grading papers and such. Teaching is harder than most students realize.It’s funny. When I took the job I only did it because I knew Dumbledore didn’t want me leaving the protection of Hogwarts. Like I couldn’t take care of myself. And when Charlie took Hagrid’s job—well, I don’t want to get into that. But as the Headmaster trained me this summer I found myself looking forward to teaching. Giving back a little of what Hogwarts gave me. Hopefully I’ll be out of Madam P’s clutches by Monday and start teaching my first classes. That gives me the weekend to get everything in order. I have some doubts about the seventh years, half of them know me as just Harry—shall I make Ginny call me Professor Potter? She’d kill me. Told me there was no way in hell she was answering to me and Charlie like that and she’d owl Mum if either of us did one thing to embarrass her. Anyway, I’m going to try and get into London this weekend and meet Lupin. He has some supplies I can use, and I want to hit Knockturn Alley for a Pogrebin. I’m starting the first years off with hexes and Stupefying Charms, then we’ll see if they can stop one of those nasty little buggers with them. Dumbledore’s handled the unforgivables already. See if you can meet up with me in London,

Harry

Folding the letter and slipping it into his robe, Ron looked up to see Levine and Rocheleau eating the supplies as fast as they unpacked them.

"Hey, Moody, you forgot the Sugar Quills I asked for," Levine remarked with his head almost buried at the bottom of a haversack.

Putting down the omnioculars through which he had been watching the budding activity at the Malfoy’s, Moody turned and gave a lopsided grin that only added to the gnarled look of the man.

"They’re in my pocket, safe where they should be; and you can’t have any until after you three clean up this camp. Looks like a bunch of Billywigs went tearin’ through here." Returning to his omnioculars he didn’t fail to hear the curses muttered under the breaths of the three men.

"And if I find you do have Billywigs," he continued without looking back, "I’ll personally fix it so that you float right into the Ministry of Magic and explain to the Department of Potion Imports how you got them."

John Levine blanched and Ron bit his lip in an effort not to laugh. Before any more could be said, Moody cursed loudly and called to the men again.

"Grab a pair of these and come look. There is definitely something moving down there now, and I think it’s a Muggle truck. Three in fact; the type they use to move cattle or sheep up in the highlands."

The panorama below them, quite beautiful with its fall foliage glowing richly in the early autumn sun, reminded Ron of how much he missed the beginning of the school season at Hogwarts. The morning frost was just burning off the rolling fields that sloped gently down from the forest hills in which they were hidden. It was a perfect morning to practice Quidditch, brisk and bright with a mild morning breeze. What a practice field that would be, Ron scowled. Too bad Malfoy’s house lay in the middle of it.

The fields stopped just short of the property, butting up to manicured lawns, stone fences and sculpted bushes. Several outer buildings lay behind the main structure, and it was to these buildings that the trucks had backed in.

"Would you look at that truck rock," Levine spoke quickly, adjusting the sight distance on his omnioculars for a closer look.

Ron focused his in quickly and noted with concern that the ten wizards emerging from the manor all carried their wands ready. Of more concern to Ron was their manner of dress.

"Charlie," he mumbled, turning to stare at Moody. "They look like Charlie when he’s with his dragons."

* * * * *

Having used up the last of her resources in an angry outburst, Raven turned full circle where she stood and realized she had no idea where she was. Whether the spinning in her head came from the concussion or the two rapid disappearing tricks she’d just performed she didn’t know. What she did know was that Snape was an ass, and she needed to sit down before she fell down.

Looking around again, Raven took in her immediate surroundings. Though overgrown and neglected, the glen in which she stood had at one time been a structured garden. Bedded flowers had long overgrown their borders, and the pathways were choked with weeds. At the farthest end still stood the ruins of what once must have been a small shelter.

Picking her way slowly through the tangle of flowers and weeds, she approached the sloping three-sided building and peered cautiously in. A worktable had long ago collapsed and a three-legged stool lay broken under it, but a second stool sat farther back inside and appeared still intact. A circular stone pit, now half-filled with leaves and debris, at one time must have held fire; and shelves along the walls still held the remains of jars whose contents were long forgotten.

The shade of the shelter, untouched as yet by the morning sun, chilled her and she looked down with disgust at her sodden socks. Glancing again at the fire pit, she wondered about finding matches on any of the shelves still on the back wall. Cautiously, she began exploring the contents of the brown jars, most of which had broken with time and exposure to temperature extremes.

All around her a rich humus odor permeated the air, and the green smell of damp vegetation reminded her of early morning walks with her mother along the trails of the many parks they frequented. She had learned long ago not to classify smells as bad or good; she used her nose as she did her eyes and ears, with knowledgeable discrimination to help investigate and analyze the properties of the botanicals around which she had grown up.

Several shelves had fallen from disrepair, leaving a jumble of life below springing forth out of the death of their containers. Though unfamiliar with some of the local vegetation, she noted a spiny bush that she knew was a variety of wormwood. With its bitter taste and strong camphor smell, it made a wonderful poultice for arthritis.

Growing through the bush, using it for support, a Meadow Cranesbill, or wild geranium, with its five-petaled reddish-pink flowers struggled for sunlight. Its dried and powered leaves helped to stop bleeding and heal wounds; made into a tea it healed mouth sores and rashes. It tasted bitter and sharp, but was gentle enough for children and old people. Picking up an unbroken jar she removed the lid and shook out the long, curved tuber of a Snakeroot, used as a tea for preventing miscarriages.

Additional jars held whole seeds of various plants and flowers, while several looked like they had been powdered with a mortar and pestle before storage. From their lack of smell, Raven knew age had long since robbed them of any medicinal properties. There was no doubt in Raven’s mind that Severus Snape knew of this garden. It was a pharmacological dream.

"He damn well sent me here, he damn well can come and get me," she muttered to herself.

Pulling the stool closer to the fire pit and out into the light of the day, Raven sat and drew her feet up to remove the wet socks. Tossing them on the rocks of the fire pit, the pewter ring on her left finger caught her attention as the gem winked up at her in the morning sun. The ring—Snape told her the ring had brought her to the dungeon. His words echoed harshly in her ears: "I did not bring you here. The ring did. Do us both a favor and put it on your left hand next time if you find my company so undesirable."

"Well, you asked for it!" Raven shook her head in disgust. "I listened to him. I can’t believe I listened to him. Now I’m sitting in the middle of God knows where with wet feet, talking to myself."

Would he come and get her? He didn’t strike her as the type to put himself out for anyone unless there was something in it for him. But who else knew she was here? It was obvious to her now that he knew of this place, and he knew of her mother’s ring. How?

Raven contemplated the ring further. She remembered pulling it from her mother’s trunk, and a feeling coursing through her, almost like a current or warmth of energy emanating from it. Putting it on her right ring finger, her world spun out of control and she found herself facing Severus Snape for the first time. When Professor Dumbledore returned it to her in his office she had once again placed the ring on her right hand and ended up for the second time in Snape’s unwelcome company. The ring on the left hand had brought her here. Did she dare place the ring back on her right hand? I’d rather sit here and freeze, she decided, than return to Snape’s classroom.

The sun was starting to warm her now, but she knew a fire would be better.

I suppose it was ridiculous to assume there would be matches here. Considering the place looks like it hasn’t seen a human in years, why would there be? And if it is anywhere near Hogwarts, why would they need matches any way?

"Now you’re thinking clearly, Raven."

The sound of her voice startled a bird on a nearby branch, and she smiled up and watched as it scolded her and fluttered higher into the ancient tree.

"How many witches does it take to light a fire, little bird?" she inquired. "Give up? None, it takes a wand!"

She looked closely for the first time at the wand she had removed from her mother’s trunk. She really had been unaware she was still carrying it, and surprisingly she had instinctively tucked it into her robe while looking through the jars. Turning it slowly in her hand, she realized it was beautiful in its simple way. Polished black oak gleamed in the sun, and the yellowed ivory handle lent it an ancient quality that spoke of ages gone by. Long and slender, it had a definite feminine quality to it.

"Okay, mum, how do you work this thing?"

Concentrate and will the box to open, Dumbledore had instructed her back in his office. But she also needed to use the word Alohomora. Harry had used several Latin terms to help her on with the socks. Snape—well, Snape was full of all sorts of nasty terms she was sure he enjoyed knowing.

Contemplating her next words carefully, Raven placed her head in her hands and closed her eyes. Lord, she was tired; and this thinking was making her head hurt more and more.

"Well, I know my share of Latin, too."

Several words pertaining to fire popped into her head, and she mulled over each one carefully.

"Inferno. No, to close to infernos. My luck—I’d send myself to hell." Snorting out loud at the thought, she tried again changing the root term for fire.

"I want to ‘burn’ not ‘be burnt’…so to incinerate would be incendio, or ‘reduce to ash.’"

Holding the wand before her, Raven smiled a lopsided grin and looked up at the bird which was still watching her suspiciously from its perch.

"Well little birdie, wish me luck. Incendio."

Nothing.

Raven sighed deeply and looked down at the wand again. Dumbledore told her to think about the word and then will the box to open. Well—if it took a strong will, surely she could do that. A bit more willful than her mother had liked, Raven more than once faced her mother’s wrath because of it.

Swooping down form the branches above, the raucous bird alighted a few feet from Raven and squawked at her mockingly.

"Not as easy as it looks, little bird; I’d like to see you try it."

Once more Raven concentrated on the fire pit before her. Fire. Think fire. Pointing the wand at the pit she focused her mind and spoke the spell again.

"Incendio."

A wave of blue energy issued forth from the tip of the wand and struck the pit, bringing forth an explosive blaze and a smile of satisfaction to Raven’s face.

Flapping its wings and bobbing its head knowingly, the bird too seemed pleased with Raven’s success.

Standing up from the stool she took an exaggerated bow and flourished her wand with great showmanship.

"Thank you very much. For my next trick I’ll need an assistant from the audience."

"If you promise not to saw me in half, I might be of some assistance to you."

Raven’s head snapped up at the sarcastic words and her eyes narrowed in a piercing scowl. Without bothering to respond, she turned her back to Severus Snape, resumed her perch on the stool, and wiggled her damp feet at the now roaring fire.

"Not bad for a first spell," he spoke to her.

"Who said it was my first spell?" she snapped back without looking away from the fire.

"There are easier ways to start a fire. The spell you just used could have taken down this entire structure."

"It’s my second, I did one in Professor Dumbledore’s office."

"I see."

Walking over to the broken stool, Snape bent and picked up its splintered frame. He paused a moment, staring at it reflectively, and then with a look of resolve flung it into the flames. Sparks scattered and lofted upward, disappearing into the golden-red canopy of fall foliage.

Gazing into the fire, neither spoke for several minutes, each refusing to be the first to attempt civility.

Raven broke the silence first. Without turning from the fire she spoke.

"Nice garden you’ve got here. Who’s your landscaper?"

"Your mother."

At these words, Raven turned her focus to the man now standing next to her. Looking up at him, his pallid skin stood out in sharp contrast to the intelligence of his violet- black eyes. His shoulder-length hair brought to mind a quote from Shakespeare her mother used often in reference to Raven’s very own color: "Cyprus black as e’er was crow." Clinched, his lean, angular jaw bespoke a man on the edge. He met her gaze without hesitation and continued.

"This place was quite remarkable twenty years ago. She had a way with cultivating life; brought out the best in things."

Raven continued to hold his gaze and interrupted. "Doesn’t sound like we’re talking about flowers anymore."

Looking away, he walked over and retrieved a portion of the rotting table, hauling it over and onto the fire.

The silence continued.

"So," Raven ventured. "Would I be correct in the assumption that you’re the only one who knows I’m here?"

"That would be a correct assessment."

"Hmm—that’s encouraging." Raven muttered under her breath

"You’re in more danger from the Forest itself than you are from me," he answered her, a half smile of sarcasm playing across his face.

"That’s not how I’m assessing it," she retorted

Severus bent and picked up the table leg that had fallen to the side. Poking the fire, he sent a plume of sparks and ash lofting skyward. Turning his gaze up, he followed their path. The noon sun now shown down fully on them, and Raven noted with interest that Snape seemed to be struggling with something unspoken.

"How is Ezmarelda?"

"She’s dead. Three weeks now. From my conversation this morning with Professor Dumbledore, it appears she was murdered." Raven paused and looked into the fire seeing the events of the last month spiraling up with the smoke and flames. "Of course I didn’t know it at the time. It appears I didn’t know a lot. But I’m learning. And what I’d like to know right now, is what you know about my mother and this ring. Surely you’re not old enough to have taught her here?"

This time a derisive smile spread across his face and he shook his head no.

"We were—schoolmates. Friends. The ring was your mother’s, but we used it to travel quickly between here and the castle."

He was guarding something, and Raven knew it. Though his face remained stone, his eyes told all. She met his gaze without looking away and returned his cynical smile.

"Then shall I also assume that this ring will not return me to New York?" Raven inquired, certain what the answer would be.

"New York." Snape spoke the words knowingly, as though it was a fact he had forgotten, and Raven noted with interest his harsh futures softened just slightly—almost wistful in appearance. But seconds later the look faded, and he frowned down at her.

"No, it only allows travel between here and the potions lab."

"Yeah, well, I kinda figured that much out already," she scoffed. "Besides, Professor Dumbledore doesn’t feel it’s safe for me to return right now. So—I’m stuck here, like it or not."

"Professor Dumbledore is right. There are elements involved now that you do not understand. You may—"

Raven interrupted before he could speak further. "You mean Voldemort?" Seeing the look on his face she continued. "Like I said, I’m learning."

"Yes, I see. But obviously you still need to learn not to be so casual in the use of his name." His words came sharp with an edge that cut the air. "There is much you do not understand, girl; and the quicker you learn to respect the forces at work here the safer you will be!"

"My name is Raven, not girl, and if it’s my respect you’re looking for, then you need to understand that I was taught respect is something earned." The glare he gave her would have been enough to stop any of his students in mid-sentence, but Raven continued, knowing she was getting the best of him.

"As for the forces at work, I’m painfully aware of Voldemort’s success in the murder of my mother." Her throat felt tight and tears threatened to overflow, but she continued with an edge to her voice that matched his. "But what you may or may not know, Mr. Snape, is the fact that Voldemort is unaware of my existence, a fact that I intend use to my advantage. He thought he succeeded in killing her 18 years ago. The only thing he succeeded in doing was driving her further into hiding, taking me with her. She gave up her life here to protect me because of some stupid prophecy, and I intend to see to it that she did not do it all in vain, sir!"

A look of understanding flashed across Snape’s face, and for a moment Raven thought she saw an aspect of fear as well.

He turned and walked into the shelter, shaking his head at the implications of everything she said hit him. When the attack on Ravenglass occurred he hadn’t understood the reason behind it. Ezmarelda was a pureblood witch, descended directly from the Ravenclaw family line. Then he had learned of the prophecy, the journal of Helga Hufflepuff in Voldemort’s possession, and understood why Voldemort ordered the attack. If Ezmarelda was to have a child, a child that grew into a White Witch, then Voldemort’s power—his very life—could be over.

He turned and looked at the golden-red canopy above them, but his sight was elsewhere and his voice, rich and resonant, spoke with power: "In a dim vale, and shadowy flood, and cloudy-looking wood, whose form we can’t discover for the tears that drip all over! Huge moon there wax and wane, every moment of the night forever brilliant in its light. And he shall put out the starlight, he whose name they dare not say, with the breath of his pale face. But when Ravenclaw and Gryffindor join as one, the works of Slytherin shall soon be undone. Sword in hand, he who is marked with Strength shall walk with the lion and the White Witch, Empress o’er the strange woods, o’er the great sea, over spirits on the Raven’s wing. Over every drowsy thing, and bury them up quiet in a labyrinth of light; and then, how deep, oh, deep, is the passion of their sleep!"

He stopped and focused down at her. "It wasn’t James and Ezmarelda at all; it’s you and Harry. You’re the White Witch of the prophecy."

"So it seems. What you just spoke, it’s part of the journal isn’t it?"

He nodded and she continued before he could speak. "I only translated a page or two; mostly Professor Dumbledore had me focus on the Tarot and Birth Chart. The date of my birth was recorded wrong. I think Helga Hufflepuff did this on purpose, for reasons we’ll never know. Regardless, she had everything else accurate in the Tarot. The Birth Chart is incomplete, though, and unless Helga left some clues as to who my father is, it will stay that way."

Her words hit hard and echoed through him. She doesn’t know, he thought. Is it only obvious to me? The moment she appeared before me, the moment she faced me—but no one need know now. The truth would only endanger her further, he reasoned. Endanger me as well.

More lies, Severus? the voice in his head shouted. How many more lies can you handle?

She was watching him, waiting for some response to her unspoken question. A response he was unable to give. Unwilling to give. Her head turned to the fire again, and she pulled her legs up under her, hugging them with long graceful arms. His mother’s arms. Often those very arms had surrounded him as a child; guided him in the right direction. Protected him from a father whose arms showed him nothing but pain. Who would guide Raven now, and how much pain would he be the cause of?

Looking at her, he realized she already bore the marks of his hand, caused by his pursuit of her through the castle. The bruise around her hairline and eye stood out vividly against her fair complexion, and she was perched on the stool like a wounded bird unable to fly away. She looked as if any moment she would pass out.

"Come." He held out his hand to her and waited for her to take it. "I don’t feel like listening to Madam Pomfrey complain about her patient suffering from exposure on my account."

"My socks aren’t dry yet." The distrust in her voice spoke volumes, and Severus found himself wishing once again for the direction of his mother.

"We’re not walking back. Now give me your hand." He reached out to her once again and she took his offered hand in hers hesitantly, allowing herself to be helped down from the stool.

With a gentleness long forgotten, he removed Ezmarelda’s ring from Raven’s left hand and drew her next to him. Slipping his arm around her waist, he felt her stiffen and pull away from him, but he held tight and found her right hand.

Raven struggled with her emotions. She hated being this close to him again. He just smelt too familiar, too much like Cedarwood and Sage Advice. Too much like home. Her vision began to spin as the day’s events finally overwhelmed her. Before she could draw away from him again, she felt the ring being slipped onto her right ring finger and a now- familiar tug drew her through space. Unconscious, she never felt herself land in the classroom of Severus Snape.