Philomena

***Remus' Dilemma***

Meanwhile, Remus Lupin was faced by the most peculiar dilemma of how to ask his daughter why she was about six years younger than she ought to be. Strictly speaking, he had no idea how she had developed after she had been born. Maybe she had only grown once a month in accordance with her birth, but that would have left her several years younger than she was now.

He had been so shocked and amazed that she was actually alive, that it hadn't occurred to him how old she was. It was only when he'd received a letter from Harry, and thought that for sixteen, the boy was remarkably mature, that he suddenly realized that his daughter ought to be older than Harry was. She had, after all, been born two years before he had been. She should be eighteen.

Remus stared at the girl across the table. Several things about her bothered him in the extreme. To begin with, she never smiled. That could be put down to homesickness, except for the odd fact that she did not appear to be upset. She exuded an air of icy, calm; she hardly every betrayed an emotion besides interest.

Far too calm, far to calculating to be twelve. In fact, he was sure she knew a great deal more than she was letting on, acting the innocent child with enviable ease. He remembered with a jolt that his Wards had not given him an age reading for her.

Another thing that worried him was the fact that her right arm was scarred. There were three, all parallel straight lines, made with surgical precision. There was no way they could have been the result of an accident. He had seen them only once, when she had rolled up her sleeves to whip some batter, and he had been too shocked to ask her about them.

They could not have been self-inflicted, considering the angle, unless she were left handed. However, there was no conceivable reason for anybody else to inflict such wounds.

Remus did what he usually did when faced with a baffling problem; he went to the library. He looked for anything on delayed aging, on suppressed emotions, and even blood magic, but to his frustration, he found absolutely nothing.

He ran a hand through his hair and watched as he from across the room as she read. Another thing that bothered him; she knew far too much about Magic for somebody who had supposedly been taught none. She was reading a book on Animal Transfiguration and seemed to understand it quite well.

Remus sighed again.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, looking up.

"No," he said, "I was just... confused, a bit."

"About what?"

He thought a bit about how to get an answer without arousing her suspicions. "I can't remember your birth date," he said at last. "Whether it was in May, or June."

"June 20th, 1984," she rattled off. "Wednesday, Half Moon, at about midnight."

Remus blinked. She had been born the 12th of June, 1978, on a full moon. Something was seriously wrong. Ralf had done something, something terrible. Perhaps he hadn't given up his 'hobby,' as he'd said.

He was saved from having to explain his question, by the warning ring of his Wards. He got to his feet. "Someone came in," he said. "I wonder who... at this hour..."

"It's only eleven," she said, in that unruffled way of hers. "Many people stay up much later."

"Not many people know where to find me," said Remus. "Who could possibly -?"

Just then the smoke of the wards formed before him:

Recognized: The Enigma. Armed: Wand. Emotion: Elated.

Remus blinked. Elated? Snape? He dispelled the smoke and ran to the door. Snape nearly knocked Remus over as he ran into the room. His hair was a mess, practically plastered to his head. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked like he could use several hours of sleep.

"I have it," he said triumphantly, shaking a bottle at Remus. "It's finished."

"Full moon isn't for another week," reminded Remus confusedly, staring in shock at the man before him. "Are you quite all right?"

"I am more than all right, Lupin," returned Snape. "Everything is perfect. I've finished the greatest Potion of my career. It's a masterpiece."

"Wonderful," said Remus dryly, "why don't you add it to your resumé so that Dumbledore can reject your bid for the Defense Against Dark Art's position for even stupider reasons than usual?"

"Dumbledore wouldn't be interested," scoffed Snape. "It's the Potion for Philomena. For the visions."

Hearing her name, Philomena drifted into the room, and looked curiously at Snape. "It's a bit late for a lesson," she said.

"A lesson?" asked Snape, in confusion, "what lesson?"

"You said you would teach me," she clarified. "Potions."

"Ah, yes," said Snape, "that. Later. Perhaps... next week. Yes, next week, I will have time. I've brought you this."

Snape gave her the vial, filled with a shimmering scarlet liquid the consistency of water.

"Cassandra's draught," he explained. "It will prevent the Visions."

Remus took the vial in his hand and stared suspiciously at Snape. "I've looked it up," he said. "Half the ingredients are illegal."

"Legality is relative," said Philomena. "Uncle Ralf said so."

Snape ignored Philomena and concentrated on Remus. "I have modified the Potion considerably. It contains nearly none of the original ingredients. It will both prevent the Visions from assailing her unprepared and allow her to access them if she wishes without a seizure."

"I won't have her drink anything with your blood in it, Snape," said Remus. "Blood Magic is about as Dark as Magic goes."

"There isn't any of my blood in the Potion," said Snape. "I told you I'd modified it."

"No blood?" asked Remus, staring askance at the bottle. "You swear?"

"I swear," said Snape tiredly. "My word as a Wizard. There is none of my blood in that bottle."

Remus sighed. "I'm sorry for snapping," he said at last. "I've a lot on my mind. I shouldn't have doubted you like that."

"Perfectly all right," said Snape. "Here, Ms. Lupin, drink this down. It may taste a bit off, but it'll do you a world of good."

The girl took the potion and drank it down without a world of protest. She staggered, slightly.

"You will feel tiredness for a several hours as the potion takes effect," explained Snape belatedly. "Though since its nearly bedtime anyhow, I don't think it makes a difference."

"Good night, Snape," she said. "Sleep well, Remus."

"Good night," said Remus.

"If you feel any tightness in the chest, you are to say so immediately," said Snape.

Philomena nodded, and disappeared up the stairs.

"How often will she need a dose?" asked Remus worriedly.

"Never," said Snape. "It's quite permanent."

"Impossible," said Remus, "or Seers would be a good deal more respected than they are. A permanent solution is impossible, according to Nicholas Flammel."

"Nicholas Flammel," said Snape, "was an Alchemist, not a Potion Master. And the Potion is unknown because I developed it this afternoon."

"You tested it, I hope?" asked Remus in alarm.

"Of course," said Snape. "I am, contrary to popular belief, neither sadistic, nor careless. I tested it with every possible test, including the Personalis."

"You could make a fortune on it," said Remus quietly, "even if demand were half as low as it is."

"Unfortunately, not possible," said Snape silkily, "since the ingredients make it highly illegal."

"What?" exploded Remus, "but you just said that - "

"That it had hardly any of the original ingredients," Snape finished, "and that it did not contain my blood. Both statements were completely true."

"What's in it?" demanded Remus. "What have you given her?"

"Relax, Lupin," said Snape, "they're only as illegal as they are because some of them can be very addictive when used improperly, narcotic when spelled in certain ways, or poisonous in too large doses."

"How dare you," snarled Remus. "How..."

"How dare I cure her?" asked Snape. "I don't know. I supposed, at the time, I was doing her some good. Its not traceable, has no side effects except the initial tiredness and is permanent, unless you were to do a Purgatis Sanguini."

"You said there wasn't any blood," said Remus angrily. "You gave your word."

"Not mine, Lupin," said Snape, getting annoyed in turn, "Kalgra. I wouldn't have given it to her if it weren't safe. I was prepared to make Cassandra's draught, using your blood if necessary, when I happened to find an alternate solution."

"A Purgatis Sanguini," breathed Remus, "would..."

"Be extremely dangerous," finished Snape, "and could possibly kill her. So I suggest you let it be unless she has an adverse reaction which is extremely unlikely."

"There's something you aren't telling me," said Remus, "what is it?"

"Speaking of which," said Snape, "there's plenty you aren't telling me. For instance, when Philomena was really born. Who she really is. Surely you didn't think I am entirely ignorant? If she were born when you say she was she would be eighteen. Eighteen, Lupin, not twelve. What was so important about hiding the fact that her birth was six years later? Was it just to garner sympathy with your story about being twelve and traumatized?"

"I don't know, Snape," sighed Remus, sinking into a chair. "I really don't know. She was born when I said she was. And she shouldn't be twelve. I... I'm not sure what to think. Maybe Ralf had some spell put on her, to delay her aging, but I can't think of why. Perhaps my daughter really is dead and Ralf just wants me to hide this girl for some other reason. I don't know what to think, Severus, truly I don't."

"You have a strange and interesting family life, Lupin," sighed Snape, seating himself as well. "Who would have thought it?"

"Do you know of any spell which would do that?" asked Remus. "And... and I noticed some scars on her arm. I... what do you know about Blood Magic? I haven't been able to find a book..."

"That would be because the books you were looking at were entirely legal," answered Snap. "And yes, I know a good deal about Blood Magic. If she has scars I can see why. The blood of someone a Seer can be drunk by someone without the gift, which triggers a seizure, a Vision, and finally, death, unless bound by very difficult and Dark Spells."

"But," asked Remus in confusion, "if it's deadly, why use it? Why not just ask a Seer or a Diviner?"

"Normally," said Snape, "one doesn't take such things oneself."

Remus blanched. "Oh dear Merlin," he said, "the poor girl."

"She wouldn't know," said Snape dismissively. "I'd be more worried about her age anomaly. I could do a simple test to see whether she really is related to you. I'd just need an item she's touched recently, a hair of yours, and some Fluxweed."

"I would give anything right now to be sure," said Remus, handing Snape the book Philomena had been reading and a strand of his hair. "I don't really know what to do anymore."

Remus disappeared down to his lab, and returned in a moment with the desired powder. Snape laid the hair over the book, and sprinkled both with Fluxweed. "Revelatio Maternitas," said Snape, tapping the book with his wand.

The Fluxweed flared up in blue flames that flew into the air and formed the words: Remus John Lupin.

"No doubt about it, then," said Snape. "Either she was born six years later than your story, or she's been in some state of suspended animation, perhaps did extensive time travel, or even a Deaging Draught."

"Snape, I..."

"What, Lupin?" snapped Snape. "Thank you? Sorry? This time I'll explain? I am now going to murder you for saving my daughter?"

"You said," said Remus slowly, "that a Seer's blood could be useful. Since it's fatal, I'm assuming it isn't legal."

"Damn right it isn't," said Snape. "Worth thousands of Galleons on the Black Market, though. You can get anything in Knockturn Alley if you have the cash."

"That's it," said Remus, his eyes widening in realization. "Ralf! He made his money trading illegal goods. He had a shop on Knockturn Alley. 'Blood and Bones,' it was called. He said it was his 'hobby.' He told me he'd given it up, but... if he found out she had visions... and he was a little hard up... If he wasn't my Alpha I'd kill him."

"Blood and Bones?" asked Snape musingly. "Yes, it's still in business. Passed it yesterday, actually. They deal mostly for Necromancers and Blood Mages, sometimes even Vampires. I've never gone there."

"Never?" asked Remus.

"Of course not," said Snape. "Their prices were ridiculous."

Remus raised his eyebrows in shock, but said nothing. Trust Snape to talk about a completely illegal shop and say merely that their prices were too steep for him.

"That explains a lot, though," said Snape, "about what happened to Philomena. He must have kept her in suspended animation for several years."

"Why?" asked Remus, perplexed. "I don't understand."

"A Cassandra, or Seer," explained Snape, "typically has her first Vision at eleven, or twelve. Seers are very common at this age, but most lose the Gift in a few years. Naturally, Ralf would want her to keep her powers, because the blood loses all potency if the Gift terminates. Most lose the Gift because their mind retreats to insanity to block the Visions."

"Merlin," said Remus, "The poor girl. I should have..."

"You should have what?" asked Snape. "You didn't know what was going on. You couldn't have stopped it. Stop being a Gryffindor, and accept the fact that it happened and it's over. She won't remember a thing, anyway. People in suspended animation live, but their minds are not active, so they cannot remember, and their bodies do not age or change in any way. I suspect they would bleed her at regular intervals, and give her a typical first aid spell for blood loss. Since she'd be comatose, they'd have her fed Magically. She probably simply remembers going, or being put to sleep, and waking up extremely tired. She thinks she is still twelve, and that some date about six years ago is a few weeks ago."

"She told me she was born in 1984," protested Remus. "She knows what the year is."

"Naturally," said Snape. "They'd have modified her memory to prevent detection. I don't know how Ralf expected it to escape your notice. I think it's best you don't tell her, as yet. She will have to know, later, when she is old enough, but... right now, she's going through enough confusion without adding guilt to the mix."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," said Remus. "I... thank you. For everything."

"No trouble, Lupin," smirked Snape, fingering the clasp at his throat. "I will receive ample payment."

***Seers, Professors, and Death Eaters***

The next morning, Philomena stumbled down the stairs at noon. Remus looked up from his tea and smiled at her. "Morning, sleepy head," he called.

She scowled at him and yawned loudly. "That stuff tasted foul," she groused.

"Don't blame me, blame Snape," said Remus. "Blaming Snape is fun."

She blinked and looked blearily about the room.

"I see... blue," she said finally. "There are blue flames. All over."

Remus stared at her. "Sit down," he soothed. "You're seeing things. I don't think you're quite awake yet. I'll Floo Snape and ask him about it."

She sat down next to him. "There are flames," she repeated. "They're coming from you."

Remus brushed off his sleeves. "Nothing there."

He was worried. Snape had said side effects weren't likely, but then again Philomena wasn't a normal child.

"Yes, there is," she said, going to him and grabbing at the air about an inch from his sleeve. "You see? I caught it!"

Remus started as her hand brushed his arm. He heard a snap and saw a very real spark leap to her finger. She froze for a moment, eyes wide in shock, and then crouched to the floor her hands covering her head. Instantly, he knelt beside her and tried to help her up. To his horror, she was shaking uncontrollably.

"Philomena," he asked anxiously, "what's wrong?"

She shuddered violently once more and grabbed his arm to pull herself back up.

"I... I..." she stuttered, "saw... saw... you... darkness."

"A vision?" he asked, while helping her to the sofa. "The flames must be the Energy Pulses, then. Snape said you'd be able to reach out to them. What did you See?"

She wrapped her arms around herself. "It was... dark. In a very torn down house. And you were... bleeding on the floor. Ralf was there. He was angry... shouting..."

Remus swallowed and sat down beside her. "What was he shouting?"

"'Turn her back,'" she said. "Over and over again. 'Turn her back.'"

Remus wrinkled his brow and tried to imagine the scene in his head. The building was most probably the Shrieking Shack although he couldn't think of a reason for him to go back to it. As for Ralf, Remus didn't really want to think about him.

She drew a shaky breath. "It's all right," she said. "It probably won't happen. They don't always. Besides... Uncle Ralf isn't coming back. He said so."

He sighed. "Philomena," he said, "I... I don't think I told you, but ... I never meant to leave you with him. I ... I thought you were dead, all this time..."

She didn't say anything but shivered, hugging herself.

"I swear to you, Philomena. I will do everything I can to make your future as better than your past has been."

Her reaction astonished Remus. She started to cry. He shifted uncomfortably, not knowing quite what to do. After all, she hadn't ever come out of her prim and proper persona before now. She fell back against the sofa cushions shivering with mostly silent sobs.

Suddenly, the Wolf showed a side of herself she hadn't before, a fierce protective urge. Remus was suddenly filled with a rage against everything that had hurt his child. He gathered her into his arms and stroked her hair. She clutched reflexively at his shoulder, and sobbed into his chest.

He rocked slightly as the Wolf reared up inside him, telling him he had to make her stop crying. He had to comfort her somehow. His senses were overwhelmed with the smell of her distress, and the frantic urge to quell it.

"It's all right, my heart," he whispered into her hair, slipping easily into the speech patterns of the Clan, although he'd never spoken on such a level with other werewolves besides Ralf. "Love, love, I'll always tread the trails with ye."

He wasn't sure if she understood what he was trying to tell her; that he'd always be with her, and would always protect her, but somehow he knew it didn't matter what he said at that point, as long he eased her distress.

Her sobs stopped, but she continued to clutch his shoulder. Caught in a bubble of protective instinct, Remus continued to rock back and forth, stroking her hair. Gradually, she fell asleep. He didn't dare move for fear of waking her, and so he held continued to hold her.

XXX

Snape waited impatiently in the empty classroom Dumbledore had given him for the Occlumency lessons. Howard Pyle waved cheekily at him from the frame over the fireplace. Snape raised an eyebrow at him.

"It's all right, professor," assured the portrait. "He doesn't suspect a thing. I assume today's meeting will simply be a continuation of yesterday's... lesson? Some shouting, fainting, cursing, absolutely no mention of Legilimency?"

Snape nodded, curtly. "Of course. What else? After all, I'm a predictable, trustworthy, honorable Slytherin."

"Right, then," said Pyle cheerily. "In that case, I won't bother watching. I'll go back to the kitchens as that portrait's got my drawing supplies in it."

"Have fun," Snape called after him as the figure disappeared from the frame.

Snape looked over the room once more. It had been cleared out except for a large bookshelf because broken furniture had so frequently been a result of their lessons. The bookshelf remained only because it was bolted to the wall and the Bloody Baron liked to sulk on the top shelf.

Snape had spent a good deal of the early morning hours before breakfast visiting several book collectors who happened to owe him favors. He had returned with a satisfactory collection of illegal texts he was sure suited his purpose.

Potter knocked, as he always did, and slipped in without waiting for a reply. He was out of breath and fell back against the door as soon as he'd shut it.

"Sorry," he panted. "I ran all the way from the Great Hall."

Snape sneered at him. "Of course, the great Quidditch star can catch the Snitch easily as bat an eye, but can't make it from the Great Hall to here in under ten minutes."

Potter shut his eyes and muttered something under his breath. He opened them again to stare Snape in the eye.

"Professor Snape," he said, having counted to ten as Hermione had suggested, "please. We only have about twenty minutes before the next class. I can count on being as late as I want with Hagrid, but I'm sure your students would take all too well to being left in your classroom without you for any period of time."

Snape nodded curtly, biting back a scalding reply about Harry bloody Potter going off scot-free, no matter which rules he broke.

"Neither of us has time," he said, "for an actual lesson, but I have some books here. I would like you to read them before our next official Occlumency session, which is next week."

Severus handed Potter the books one by one. "Avada Kedavra- Charm or Curse? An Analysis," by Gaspard Shingleton, "Wilbert Slinkhard's Ultimate Guide to Not Dying," "How to Live without a Wand," by Blenheim Stalk, "How Dark is Dark?" by Quentin Trimble, and "The Other Side of Arithmancy," by Adalbert Waffling.

"Yes sir," was all Harry said, as he put each book carefully into his bag.

"It goes without saying," continued Snape, "that under no circumstances is anybody to know you have these, nor are you to speak of what you learn. For your own good, Potter, I suggest you finish your own book on Legilimency and bring that with you next week. I can dispose of it more securely than you can."

Harry nodded, once. "Anything else, sir?"

"I'd thank you not to doodle in the margins," Snape added, "or mark the books in any way. Some books of the type are... sensitive to mistreatment, and can be very vindictive. I'd hate to have to explain your untimely demise to Albus, Poppy, and the Dark Lord."

"Yes sir," said Harry, nodding. "I'll see you next week, then."

He turned and disappeared through the door. Snape frowned and took his favorite secret passage out of the room to his classroom. "One more week," he thought. "One more week and I can get my hands on that book..."

XXX

In Voldemort's underground city, two Wizards were working in a darkened room. Rabastan Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov weren't particularly happy with the job they had been given but they knew it was not a good idea to argue with Lord Voldemort.

"All I said," muttered Rabastan, "was that the Potter problem was a 'bloody mess.'"

"And you got us this job," snapped Dolohov. "Mind you, either the Dark Lord kills us because this project doesn't work, or Snape will kill us because he finds out we're the ones that messed with his blood."

"I'm sorry for getting you mixed up in it," apologized Rabastan. "We'll probably both be dead within a month or two. Let's just hope it works, or the Dark Lord decides to take us off of this job for something else."

"My own fault for standing next to an idiot," sighed Dolohov. "Just be glad we weren't sent out with the others to the Dragons. Mark my words, that lot won't live long, they won't."

"We aren't getting anywhere," Rabastan grumbled. "I'm sure Snape knows a lot more about Blood Magic than either of us. Bloody nuisance that he just happened to be chosen as the Donor. Snape looked so angry, I hought he'd kill someone. There's no way he'll help us. Especially if he thought we were the ones working on the project."

"He's so tetchy," sighed Dolohov, "and I'm sure he blamed us for him being chosen. I have the odd feeling he knows, some how. He's got that way of ... staring into your eyes, and just knowing. But what can I do if Voldemort thought he'd be the only one close enough to Hogwarts to use it, but pale enough for the blood loss not to be noticeable. Besides, our Lord ordered us to conceal the project from him. He's got some idea that the Curse will malfunction if the Donor knows its purpose."

"Damn it," cursed Rabastan. "It's congealing again. Isn't there a permanent Anticoagulant Spell?"

"If there is," said Dolohov, "then it's snug in a book smack dab in the middle of Snape's library. Trust me, he'd be happy as a lark if we ended up killed over this. You know how prudish he is about being an ingredient. I can't figure out whether he thinks his blood is too Pure for that kind of thing, or whether he's just squeamish about adding his Essence to things."

Rabastan flipped despondently through a battered book. "I knew we'd never get anywhere with something written by Emeric Switch," he griped.

"It's simple, really," drawled Dolohov. "We bind the Essence of his blood to anything at all and add the spells for Intent. We use some of Potter's blood to key it to him. We have it placed somewhere where that brat will find it. He touches it, the spell activates, and voom! he's dead as a stoat."

"A few small problems with that," sighed Rabastan. "Number one, we can't figure out how to separate the Essence. Number two, we haven't got any way of getting Potter's blood and Snape is under orders to stay out of Potter's way so that Dumbledore doesn't suspect anything. Number three, nobody has the foggiest idea how to bind an Intent to the damn thing. It hasn't been done with any success since 1432, and that case wasn't documented. Number four is easy. We'd give it to Snape to plant in the kid's dormitory or something."

"Let's do number four and skip the rest," said Dolohov.

"Do stop joking, Antonin," snapped Rabastan. "Our little pink bodies are on the line, here. The Dark Lord is not a person to joke with, especially when it has anything to do with Harry Potter."

"I've half a mind to poison Potter's toothpaste," muttered Dolohov. "That is, I would if I weren't afraid of Snape suing me for infringing on his copyrighted assassination method."

"Ha," sneered Rabastan, "that was his only ever killing mission, and it failed."

"Not his fault, really," commented Dolohov, halfheartedly recasting the Anticoagulant Spell, "considering that his target chose that day to run off to Bulgaria, conveniently forgetting his hair brush, his toothpaste, and three boxes of chocolate frog cards."

"Never seen Snape so miffed," sighed Rabastan. "Thought he'd blow the house to bits when he didn't find a body to bring back. And the chocolate frog cards just took the cake. He was hoping against hope that old Mr. Krum had actually left the records there."

"Damn shame, really," said Dolohov lightly, "considering it was the chap's first assassination. Dashed embarrassing, too. Hasn't been sent on one since, come to think of it. Just spying for Dumbledore. Must be beastly boring for the poor man. Having to deal with bratty children all day, never once getting an opportunity to vent anger on Muggles..."

"From what I hear," said Rabastan, "he vents his anger on students."

"With good reason," answered Dolohov. "Children nowadays just aren't as smart, talented, or studious as we were at that age. It's Mudblood influence, of course. Makes them lazy as Flobberworms."

"It's the brain frequencies," agreed Rabastan, "from the Mudbloods they're exposed to in school. It corrodes their intellectual capacity. Shame, really, look what's happened to such promising lads as young Malfoy for instance. While his mind is shattered by the frequencies, a Mudblood scampers ahead to place top in the class. Never seen Lucius more peeved, honestly."

"Ah ha!" cried Dolohov happily, "I've found something! A Binding Spell. For Charms, actually, but I'm sure we could modify it a bit, to bind the Essence. Now all we need is a way to extract the Essence..."

"Let alone figuring out the rest of it," finished Rabastan. "I hope to goodness that boy falls off his broomstick tomorrow so that we can die naturally."

"Oh, don't be so moody," chided Dolohov. "The Dark Lord wouldn't kill a man with blood as Pure as yours over a thing like this. At most a Crucio, or two..."

Rabastan groaned and ran his hands through his hair. "Do you remember the way it was in the very beginning?" he asked quietly. "He never hurt us. Only them. Remember? He said we were perfect, he did. Said he couldn't rise to power without us. And then bloody James Potter came along and ruined everything."

"Yes," said Dolohov dreamily. "It was so perfect. We were nearly there. Nearly had Britain under our thumbs. Idiot Gryffindor, organizing his Army of Light. If it weren't for those idiotic rumors that he'd created a Counter Curse for Avada Kedavra..."

"If only," agreed Rabastan. "Then our Lord wouldn't have killed him trying to find it. He wouldn't have insisted on making it a personal battle. And he wouldn't have tried to kill that blasted boy."

"He never was the same when he came back," said Dolohov. "Bitter, I suppose, that none of us came to look for him. Don't know why he can't see it our way. After all, we came to the house and all there was was a crater. Nothing left of him but his wand... Why shouldn't we have thought he was dead?"

"It started before that, I think," said Rabastan. "It started after Regulus tried to betray us all. Regulus was the first of us he ever killed... after that, I think he didn't want any chance at all of it happening again."

"Right," agreed Dolohov. "That is when it happened. I forget sometimes. Regulus... I never liked Regulus. He was such a silly lad. He was all for it in theory, but when they told him to go torture information from his brother... Stupid, really. He didn't even like his brother. Refused to hurt him, out of 'loyalty to his family.' I suppose he can't have been right in the head to think of Sirius Black as family after he'd been disinherited."

"Do you think Sirius knew?" mused Rabastan, discarding his book for an even nastier one. "I can't remember when he started really fighting us. Before or after Regulus was A.K.ed?"

"Doesn't matter really, does it?" asked Dolohov. "Seeing that he was arrested for going after Peter. Bloody Ministry fools... Can't tell their heroes from their villains, you know. Lucky for us, and all, but I can't help feeling sorry for the poor fool. I wonder how he escaped."

"I lost interest after we got the Dementors on our side," shrugged Rabastan. "No point in learning to escape the hard way when all you have to do is ask nicely, and pull up your sleeve."

"How do you think he did it?" asked Dolohov. "I keep thinking that Werewolf friend of Potter's finally worked out what actually happened and went to break him out. But then how would a Werewolf infiltrate Azkaban without ending up as Dementor feed? Pity the man died, really. I'd have liked to personally ... ask him for the information."

Rabastan shrugged and searched the index for 'Essence.'

"I've heard," he said, changing the subject, "from Avery, that there's some sort of illegal charms club started up in the Ministry. Wonder if we can get anybody from there. I'm sure some idiotic Light group runs it, and we might be able to infiltrate them that way; get back into the Dark Lord's grace. Not that we'll ever have the opposition we had last time. Not with all of the fools relying on Harry Potter to save them if anything goes wrong."

Dolohov shrugged. "Not our cup of tea," he said, "seeing as neither of us can spy worth a brass Knutt. If the Dark Lord has any interest in the matter at all, he'd send Snape, of course."

"Damn the man," said Rabastan. "How has he kept from dying all these years? You'd think somebody in that nest of Muggle-loving idiots would have figured him out be now. He wears his heart on his sleeve; no subtly at all. You can see from a mile away where his loyalties lie. Practically has a sign on his back, saying 'Proud Supporter of the Eventual Demise of Albus Dumbledore.'"

"Either Dumbledore really is an idiot," replied Dolohov, "or Snape has a few tricks up his sleeve none of us knows about. He's a tricky, slimy fellow, Snape is. Could trick a Leprechaun out of his real pot of gold. Seen him do it myself, during a mission in Ireland. Any man as can beat the little people in guile, is a man to be reckoned with. I never have been able to figure him out. Was in my year at school, too. He followed people around, he did; never said anything to anybody beyond 'pass the butter.' I wouldn't trust him further than I could throw him, personally."

"Oh, don't be an idiot," chided Rabastan. "It's all an act. He's very bad at acting, shows through every time. When he stands there with that 'I know far more than you do' expression, he's bluffing. He hasn't got any more information than the rest of us. I just wish somebody would show him up, one of these days."

"Why don't you do it?" challenged Dolohov.

"Frankly," said Rabastan, "because he's probably still mad at me, and he's always been far better than I am at dueling. I swear the man's nose can smell Spells. He always knows when he's attacked from behind. Dodges every time."

"Maybe it's some protective Rune or something," speculated Dolohov, "though I've never seen him wear anything unusual..."

"He was wearing a throat clasp last meeting," said Rabastan, "come to think of it. It was simply pulsing with magic."

"He's never worn it before though," protested Dolohov, "and he's always known a spell was coming his way."

"Wish I was in his good books," sighed Rabastan. "I'd give anything to know how he does it."

"Nobody is in Snape's good books," said Dolohov. "Like I said, he's a slippery, stealthy man. He doesn't trust anybody at all, certainly not enough to give them a secret like that. Probably runs in the family. Took forever for the elder Snape to die. Many people hated him enough to kill him. Not that they didn't try either. But, curse him, he died at the ripe old age of one hundred and fifty-eight. Fell down the stairs, of all the bloody things."

"Let's quit for tonight, Antonin," sighed Rabastan, slamming his book shut. "I'm too tired to think."

"I'll try and get on Malfoy's good side," said Dolohov, closing his own book. "He seems to be closer to Snape than anybody else. If I can get him to have a personal interest in the project perhaps..."

"I'd take any help just about now," said Rabastan, putting away the books, and locking the blood back in its cupboard, "even from a House Elf."

"Good night, then," said Dolohov. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Do check your family library. Haven't you an uncle who was a Necromancer?"

"Yes, good night," yawned Rabastan. "If you see Snape, try and trip him for me. Bloody unhelpful git."

***Philomena Remembers***

Philomena woke up from a dreamless sleep, gradually becoming aware of reality. Without moving, changing her breathing, or opening her eyes, she tried remember what had happened. It seemed ages since she'd fallen asleep.

She remembered coming down the stairs and seeing blue flames, touching one and how the Vision had taken hold of her. How she had fallen to the floor. Embarrassed, she remembered bursting into tears and being held by the man who had taken her in. After that, she couldn't remember anything concrete. Odd. Perhaps she'd stumbled upstairs to sleep.

She became conscious of a curious noise. Kathump, kathump, kathump. She was so tired, however, that she tried to shut it out, along with the memories and everything else. She just wanted sleep.

The noise kept on, however. Kathump, kathump, kathumps.

Philomena squirmed slightly. She tried to get back into that protective bubble of sleep where nothing had mattered, where nothing but contentment and safety existed.

Philomena burrowed her face further into her oddly firm pillow, trying to shut out the noise. It grew louder. Kathump! Kathump! Kathump! She shivered, suddenly realizing that she wasn't under the covers. She pulled her legs up, until they were covered by her nightgown. Kathump!

She twisted a bit, trying to get back to sleep, trying not to wake up, trying not to lose the zone of comfort and security she was enveloped in. Something in the back of her mind was bothering her, though, and the odd rhythmic thumping went on: Kathump! Kathump!

She curled up, trying to get warm. It was cold. Suddenly the bed beneath her moved, slightly. Startled her eyes flew open. It was dark. She raised her head, trying to see in the darkness. The pounding noise stopped.

She realized, to her horror, that she had fallen asleep in Remus' lap, and that the pounding noise had been his heartbeat. She scrambled off the couch as fast as she could while trying not to wake him up. He had most probably not wanted to wake her, but had obviously fallen asleep in the process. Sprawled out on the couch, he was breathing shallowly, his jaw hanging slightly open, and his hair a mess.

Realizing he'd wasted his day for her, she tried to make him more comfortable on the couch. She took a cushion from one of the chairs, and slowly eased it beneath his head. She caught sight of the kitchen clock. It was five thirty. She took another look at the peacefully sleeping man. He had stayed with her for five hours. How much of that time had he been awake?

She shivered, and realized that he was probably as cold as she was. A chilly draft was blowing through the house. She shuffled to his bedroom, and pulled the blanket from his bed. Philomena took a moment to look about the room. She hadn't seen it before, except a glimpse through the half open door.

Bookshelves lined the walls and there was a stack of books on his nightstand. A desk covered with scattered parchment stood in one corner, a chair in front of it. A pair of pajamas hung over the back of the chair, and there were a few socks lying on the floor.

Philomena wandered over to the nightstand and took a look at the first book on it. "Protective Wards, Practical Application, and Theory," by Wilbert Slinkhard. She flipped it open. The first page was stamped over in red: "Property of the Ministry of Magic Library. DO NOT REMOVE." Below it was another, smaller stamp in blue: "Elliot Smethwyck Reference Library."

Curious, she flipped further. There were notes scribbled in the margins, underlined sentences, and sketches of various items. They were all in the same handwriting. Although the writer had obviously taken pains to be neat and not to harm the book, it was quite clearly not a book destined to be returned to the Elliot Smethwyck Reference Library.

She shut the book, annoyed at herself for snooping and went back to Remus. He was, thankfully, still asleep. Obviously he had sat with her the whole time, as he hadn't even removed his boots. She pulled them from his feet carefully, and then covered him with the blanket. Remus protested slightly, not quite waking up, before relapsing back into sleep.

Satisfied that she had made him comfortable, she cast an eye about the kitchen. She rolled up her sleeves, and went to work clearing the dishes from earlier. She washed them quickly, and put them away. Her place setting was still clean, seeing as she hadn't actually got around to eating.

Suddenly, she was incredibly hungry. She looked about for something to eat. There were half a dozen eggs and various other ingredients but nothing already cooked. She didn't trust herself to use a stove she wasn't used to, so she kept looking for something she could eat as it was.

Finally, she spied an enormous box under the sink labeled "Honeydukes Finest: Almond Milk Chocolate." Perfect. She tore it open, to find about forty extremely long bars of chocolate, wrapped in gold foil. She opened one and took a large bite. Delicious!

Delighted, she poured herself a glass of milk and sat down. She stole another look at Remus; he had curled himself up in the blanket, sleeping like a baby. Lighting a candle, deciding that if she hadn't woken him up by now, light probably wouldn't wake him either.

She began to munch her chocolate contentedly, rethinking the events of the previous few weeks.

It had been usual enough, Uncle Ralf bringing in that nasty man to cast the spells on her. The spells that kept her body strictly twelve years old and six days, while allowing her mind to age normally. She was, she knew, exactly eighteen years, four months, and twenty-six days old.

Philomena kept a very accurate count of the days in her head to keep herself sane. She had kept it up for several years now. After all, since she never changed at all, it helped to know that she had still lived every second of her life.

When Ralf had called her down, a few weeks ago, and it hadn't been time for either lessons with her various tutors, or the day for giving blood, she had been quite nervous. She had hidden her elation when he had told her she would finally be allowed to leave the house for good.

"Remus is a Werewolf, you see, love," he had said, "and he didn't want to risk hurting you when you were small. Now he has a potion that keeps him safe during the Moon. He has asked to take you in, seeing as I am leaving for ... business."

Philomena had known quite well he was lying or at least bending the truth. He was leaving to save himself, she knew. The Dark One was rising; she had heard it from her tutors. They had all told her stories of the savior, the boy who had done so well. Of the Eaters of Death who attacked strategically, undermining the Ministry from within. Of the Ministry, which refused to believe in the spider in whose web they were caught.

Remus certainly didn't look as though he had 'asked' to take her in. He looked more like someone who was trying very hard to get used to an idea. He had, in fact, admitted as much inadvertently; he said he had thought she was dead. One didn't offer to take in dead people. One was told that they were alive after all, and then ordered to.

Obviously, 'Uncle Ralf,' had done what he always did, manipulate. He had always been a schemer and she knew exactly why. He came from a long line of Wizards but had ended up without Magic. A Squib. He pretended, of course, to be a Muggle, but he succeeded quite well in both worlds, supplying and running a vast network of dealers in the Black Markets.

Philomena knew a great deal Ralf thought she had no idea about. For instance, the fact that Ralf was a Werewolf. After a lucky accident with his Pensieve, she had quickly realized that if she wanted the truth she needed to access that veritable mine of information as often as possible. She had lived through many of his memories when he was 'out on business.'

His 'business,' was simple. There were plenty of Muggles open minded enough to want Wizard products, particularly those who had some knowledge of Magic through friends or relations. Legally, being Muggles, they were only allowed to purchase certain items that would go unnoticed in the Muggle world.

Wizards had little use for most Muggle products, but ingredients, books, and weapons of Dark Magic were in high demand. Some were even perfectly legal in the Muggle world. And so the illegal trade flourished.

Sometime in his twenties he had been bitten, right before his marriage to a beautiful and talented Witch. Werewolves were not allowed to marry, or have children. He had lost her forever and, what was worse, the possibility of children.

Ralf's family was an ancient one, and pure. All the more reason for the family's disappointment in him when he'd turned out to be a Squib. That was why he hid in the Muggle world under his nickname, instead of remaining to be ridiculed. The family line could be traced through many centuries, back to a very powerful Seer.

Seer's blood had been passed down from generation to generation, but only to the daughters, for the Seer's art was exclusive to female Mages. There had never been a male Seer in all of Magical history. Of the daughters, only about five percent became true Seers, and strangely enough, daughters were rare. There hadn't been a female child in the family for nearly a hundred years, and she had sadly not kept the art past her twelfth year.

Ralf, however, had a plan. He had found several spells to ensure the gender of a child before birth. For years he had worked to develop a potion to keep the physical body from growing old. The potion had a rather nasty side effect of causing serious memory lapses from time to time, but he didn't particularly care. The reason was clear. As long as his daughters were young, they could never lose the gift. As long as they had the gift, they could See for him. And the more they Saw, the greater Ralf's power.

Ralf's great plan flew to the winds however, after his bite. The Werewolf who had bitten him was caught and put down, but that was cold comfort to Ralf who had just lost a great deal of his freedom. Then, it had happened. Once, in a fit of depression, he had forgotten the date, forgotten to lock himself in as prescribed in the Werewolf Code of Conduct. He had got loose and run through the countryside.

He came upon a small boy, perhaps no more than eight. Instincts had taken over. With a wild need to kill, to grab, to mark, he had pounced.

He hadn't remembered much of it the next day but had noticed a curious feeling, as though there was always something in the corner of his eye. Gradually he learned that this new sense connected himself to the Cub he'd created. After much thought, he'd decided to visit his handiwork.

But just finding him had taken nearly an entire year. It hadn't been easy to find accurate texts on the how to use the sense that bound a Wolf to his Cub... or to his Mate.

Then, he had met Moony and realized the lucky accident, the gift Fate had given him. Finally, he would have a chance to have a Seer in his power after all. He knew the child would most probably be a Werewolf, but that wouldn't matter. A Seer remained a Seer, Wolf or not.

Remus was twelve years old by the time Ralf had finally decided to take the risk. Remus was naturally quite opposed to the idea. But Moony was a Wolf, with the instincts and mind of a Wolf. Moony was another matter entirely. Convincing Remus proved impossible. Convincing Moony was deliciously easy.

Ralf had justified his actions by strictly separating Moony and Remus in his mind. Moony had wanted it. Remus hadn't. Remus wasn't Moony, so what did it matter? Moony had wanted to keep the child, but Remus hadn't wanted it in the first place. Ralf had taken the child during that time where the other wasn't quite Moony and wasn't quite Remus.

Philomena had been disgusted with what she had seen. She had done her best to resist the Visions that came to her, to prevent herself from helping a man who could perpetrate such a wrong. It had been futile.

Her Visions had proven to be shaky; infrequent, and not always accurate. Ralf soon gave up trying to use them for his climb to power. Her blood however, proved extremely useful and lucrative. Blood Magic was powerful and strictly controlled by the Ministry, or at least that's what the Ministry thought. Soon, it had become usual, for her to 'give' about a pint of blood regularly.

She had tried to escape several times but had no place to go and no one to turn to. She had always been brought back quickly and punished. Then, he had called her down one day and told her she was leaving and that her 'father' was taking her in.

Anything, she had thought, would be better than where she was, and she went along with his plans without protest. Unfortunately, Ralf still refused to remove the spell binding her aging, either because he hoped to have further use for her later, or because a Counter Spell or Antidote hadn't been discovered yet. And so, Philomena found herself doing just what she had been doing for several years - pretending to be a girl much younger than she actually was.

A great spark of hope arose in her when Remus admitted that he wasn't sure when she had been born. She had wondered before then if he could possibly have known about Ralf's plans, or received some profit from them. After all, Ralf had placed only the painful, confusing, or irritating memories in the Pensieve. She didn't know everything, only various isolated events from which she construed a coherent story.

Perhaps, she thought as she watched him sleep, there was hope. If she told him the truth he might help her. From what she'd seen, he appeared to be a great master at Defense, though he had admitted to being hopeless at Potions.

She would have to get into the good graces of Mr. Snape as well, she decided. With both of them, she hoped she could finally stop the constant act, the constant pain of having a body considerably different from what her mind told her she was. Perhaps... she could finally live a life worth living.