Fire.

It was all he could see—angry red and yellow flames devouring everything in sight. The carpets, the walls, even the ceiling succumbed to their insatiable tongues. Severus could feel its scorching heat as it consumed the very air in the room, drawing closer still.

So high was the temperature that his face pearled with sweat. His hair curled in protest before dissolving altogether, while the skin of his arms and legs blistered under the heatwave.

The blazing monster bit into him in an attempt to swallow him whole, aiming to leave behind little more than ashes. A scream was ripped out of his smothering lungs, and—

A hand shook him awake, and his eyes flew open. The flames were gone, and Severus felt himself shiver from the cold of their absence.

“Shhh. It’s okay; you’re safe,” Saturnine reassured him.

Her face was inches away from his, and he could feel the warmth of her breath ghosting on his cheek with every hushing exhale.

Her eyes, the same azure-blue they had always been, were intent on him—twin pools of pulsing liquid so vibrant and alive that he was forced to believe that they were real. That she was real.

“It’s okay—shhh.”

Despite himself, Severus reached out. Trembling hands blindly surged forward to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. Saturnine met his searching fingers with hers, and cold met warmth again. But it wasn’t enough—it wasn’t nearly enough. He needed more. His battered body, all the way down to his throbbing core, needed more. More warmth, more safety, more certainties. And he held on. He used whatever strength he had left in him to haul her forward.

She went willingly, whispering in his ear, “It was just a nightmare. It’s over now; you’re safe.”

Severus doubted the veracity of her words. Was anything over? Was he safe? He couldn’t believe it, but at least she was there. And at that moment, that simple truth was enough. The rest, for once, could wait. He didn’t need to know the answers to everything as much as he needed to feel her presence by his side.

As he grabbed a handful of his sister’s hoodie, holding on for dear life, Severus Snape decided that, for once, he could be selfish. And he indulged in the warmth before drifting back to sleep.

The next time he woke up, Saturnine was still there. And he resigned himself to the idea that she was indeed here, strange as that might be. Fifteen years without so much as an owl, and she’d just waltzed back into his life as if no time had passed. Worse, for months, she’d duped him—playing the part of shy, nervous Professor Nine so perfectly that he never once suspected her true identity. His own sister, for Merlin’s sake—how could he have missed that? How could he have let himself be so focused on everything else that he’d missed the enormity of what was right in front of him?

He felt like punching something or someone. But as he tried balling his right fist, he quickly abandoned the idea. The simple act of lifting his aching fingers off the bed set his arm on fire. He sighed in discontent. There was little that Severus disliked more than feeling impotent, for it required him to depend on someone else. Forced to lay there in that strange bedroom without even knowing where he was, he felt betrayed by his own body. And he wondered if death would have been a better solution—a kinder one.

Looking around, Severus took in the foreign room he found himself in. It was sparsely decorated, with two beds on either side. A wardrobe sat next to his and a small desk next to his sister’s, right under a window that showed him a bright blue sky. On the wall past the foot of his bed was a door that was slightly ajar and seemed to lead to a bathroom. There was another door on the wall opposite that he guessed led to the rest of the house.

His sister was lying on her side atop her bed, one arm used to prop her head while the other held a book. She wore a simple pair of denim blue jeans and an oversized navy-blue hoodie. Her hair had been braided into a long plait that she’d tossed over one shoulder, and her feet were bare. The pose was eerily familiar.

When he sighed heavily again, she glanced his way.

“Your magic’s depleted, Severus. You ran yourself dry,” she said as if that explained everything. “You’re pretty banged up, too.”

He felt like pointing out that he knew that already—the Mediwitch had explained his peculiar situation. Saturnine was dead wrong if she thought extreme exhaustion and memory loss were one and the same, but he held his tongue. Without knowing more about the situation, where he was, and who else was there, he had better tread cautiously.

Saturnine got up a moment later. She disappeared into what he assumed was the bathroom for an instant and came back out with a glass of water in her hand. He tried reaching out for it but couldn’t lift his arm more than a few inches. His sister sat on the side of his bed, helped him to lift his head high enough so that he could drink, and pressed the glass to his lips. A good thing he’d held his tongue earlier, then, or he’d still be parched.

“Where are we?” he asked once he’d gotten several sips down.

“Cove Cottage, Western Cornwall,” she said, placing the glass on a nearby bedside table. “Dumbledore owns it. It’s pretty removed and protected by a Fidelius Charm.”

That reminded him of something she’d said at the hospital. “Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter?” he asked.

Her eyes drifted towards the bedroom door, and it was answer enough. “They’re here, too—currently sleeping in the other bedroom,” she explained. “It’s just the four of us here.”

He had to hold back another disparaging comment. The last thing he needed was Dumbledore’s wonder boy at his bedside while he recuperated. His godson he could tolerate, but he drew the line at James Potter’s progeny.

“How are you feeling?” Saturnine asked.

“Like I’ve been trampled over by a Hippogriff—several times,” he replied, feeling that sounded only slightly better than the truth, which was that he felt as weak as a kitten—and just about as useless.

Reaching for something in her pocket, Saturnine produced a tiny white pill. “There’s unfortunately very little that I can give you,” she said, holding it out to him. “No magic means that we’ll have to resort to Muggle medicine.”

He eyed the small white lozenge warily. There had to be something else, something more he could take. But he knew there wasn’t. It was his craft, after all, and he’d learned long ago that magic was the one essential component you couldn’t dispense with for a potion to be effective. A potion always reacted to the magical core of the person imbibing it, using it as the final catalyst to make the enchantment work. No magical core meant no magical medicine—no potions. Physician, heal thyself might work in the Muggle world, but the same couldn’t always be said to a potioneer. And wasn’t that another one of Fate’s cruel jokes at his expense?

Resigning himself to a slow recovery, Severus opened his mouth to accept the pill, and Saturnine pressed the glass to his lips again. Cornwall was supposed to have some nice cliffs, he remembered. Maybe he could find one nearby to jump off of and put an end to his misery.

***

“What are you doing here?” her brother asked after waking up from another nap, and Saturnine froze where she lay sideways on her bed, hand locked mid-way in the act of turning a page. She had known the question would come. It had always been expected—and yet, she felt unprepared. What could she say? What answer could encapsulate the last fifteen years and their current situation?

“Short answer?” she asked. “Dumbledore.”

Severus huffed at that. “And the long answer?”

She left her book by her pillow as she stood to make her way to him. Sitting by his side, she took a good look at her brother’s face to gauge his state. Severus seemed more together than he had been the last times he’d woken up. Weakness and pain were still very much present and easy to read off the tired lines of his face, but there was a certain clarity to his dark eyes.

“He came to get me—asked me to help keep an eye on Harry,” she explained. “The old codger phrased it in a way that made it hard for me to say no.”

The beginning of a smirk appeared on her brother’s tired face. “I know the feeling. Where did he find you?”

Ah. So that was what Severus wanted to know, she understood. Her brother was curious to find out how long she’d been back in Britain. Knowing he wouldn’t like the answer, she decided on telling him the truth anyway. There was little point in lying to him—he could always find the information for himself, if he went looking for it. “I came back in 1989 and worked for the Aurors. I stayed until last April. Shortly after, the old man tracked me down.”

She saw the flash of hurt in her brother’s eyes as the news sunk in. Half the time he’d thought she’d been abroad, she had been but a couple of miles away.

“You or Leen Nine?” he asked eventually.

Again, Saturnine understood the question for what it was. Severus wondered how he could have missed hearing about it through the grapevine. The answer was that the circumstances had made it so. Her stint at working for the Ministry had been peculiar to the extreme. But for all its downsides, it had afforded her the benefit of anonymity.

“Me,” she answered, “but I was a well-kept secret. I rarely ever went to the Ministry and only worked some very specific missions. Few people knew about me.”

That was a crude summary of what it had really been like, but it would have to do, she decided. This was not a discussion that her brother was up to having at the moment. She expected him to push the subject. But to her dismay, he went in another direction.

“What was the plan, then?” he asked with a dark sneer. “Was Professor Nine supposed to finish the school year and then just disappear? You’d have gone back to being an Auror?”

The implied ‘without saying goodbye’ remained unsaid, but it was clearly audible in his tone. It was a fair question, but Sweet Circe, did it hurt. The truth was, Saturnine didn’t know the answer. At first, it had been the plan. She had been sent to Hogwarts to protect Harry, to play her part, and pretend like Severus was just another teacher and that they didn’t know each other. She’d avoided him as much as she could. But her first look at him had been too much already. And the past nine months had left her heart aching something fierce.

“I couldn’t have,” she admitted, and it was the truth. “I don’t know how, but—I would have told you.” She couldn’t bear to look at her brother’s face as she said it—not because she was lying but because she dreaded what she would read in his eyes. What if he hadn’t wanted to know?

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it came out this way,” she added after it became clear he wouldn’t say anything. “I never meant to tell you like this.” She looked at him then, but Severus was as collected as he’d ever been.

“What’s the plan now?” he asked.

“School’s over. The students have been sent home early—except for the fifth and seventh years, who stayed behind to take their exams. Aurors will be there to ensure their safety.” She paused to steel herself before delivering the one bit of news that was sure not to go down well. “Both boys need to be kept safe, and you need a place to recuperate. So, Dumbledore figured Cove Cottage was ideal for the four of us to spend the summer.”

Severus choked on his surprise, and she had to reach for the glass of water. “Three months,” he coughed after taking a sip. “He wants me to spend three months babysitting Potter?”

“And Draco,” she added. “But I’ll make you a deal. I’ll handle Harry if you handle your godson.”

He narrowed his obsidian eyes before arching one eyebrow. The first, Saturnine knew, was a good indication of how little he thought of the idea, but the second let her know he was considering it anyway. “You’ll be staying, then?”

Returning the glass to the nightstand, she offered, “I have promised the headmaster that I’ll be staying here until the end of the holidays, yes. Someone needs to look after the boys—and you.”

“I don’t need help,” he scoffed as if the mere suggestion that he did had offended him.

Saturnine had to smile at the petulant tone, for it was oddly familiar. “I’ll be sure to remind you of that when all that water you’ve been drinking for the past hour is done making its way to your bladder.”

“I won’t be needing your help for that!”

“Sure you won’t.” She smiled as she hooked a thumb towards the door that stood on the wall facing him, some ten feet away. “Bathroom’s just through that door—feel free to walk over there whenever you feel like it.”

Leaving him be, she returned to her bed and flopped down to continue reading the book she had taken from the cottage’s library. It was a Muggle fiction, the story of a private detective in the south of France.

Saturnine lost herself in the pages for all of ten minutes when her brother started fidgeting with the blankets. Though he kept trying to be discreet about it, she could feel the nervousness ebb off him in waves. She pretended not to notice until he started huffing and moaning.

“Everything okay?” she asked, flipping over a page.

“Fine,” he muttered darkly.

She kept reading for another three pages until an exasperated huff made her stop again. She could have let her brother sweat it a little while longer, but there was a lot of patching up to do between them, and it had to start somewhere. Leaving her book behind, she got up and moved to his side.

“Ready to admit you might need a hand after all?” she asked, crouching down by his side.

Severus stubbornly stared at the ceiling as if she wasn’t there. Saturnine counted to twenty in her head, and then she pushed the blankets away. Without giving him a chance to accept or refuse her help, she reached a hand behind his shoulder to help him stand.

She helped her brother to his feet, and he swayed, only managing to stay upright by leaning heavily against her side. The way to the bathroom was slow going, but they made it inside eventually. She left him sitting on the closed toilet seat before leaving the room to go wait by the door.

Severus didn’t utter a single word on either part of the journey to and fro. Saturnine said nothing either and worked as quickly and efficiently as possible to make this humiliating experience as easy on him as she could.

Once her brother was safely back in bed, she went to retrieve a wet flannel to wipe away the sheen of sweat that pearled on his brow due to the exertion caused by the short trip to the facilities. Severus endured that last bout of humiliation as stoically as the rest.

Saturnine couldn’t help but bend down to place a small kiss on his feverish brow when she was finished. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know this is hard for you. But I’m here if you need anything, okay?”

There was no answer from him—not that she’d expected one. She pulled the blankets over her brother’s thin frame again before returning to her own bed.

***

Albus Dumbledore had been right again, and Severus was forced to admit that Saturnine was a good choice of nurse for him—not that he would ever admit to it aloud. But in the privacy of his convoluted thoughts, he saw the truth for what it was. He would never have let anyone else manhandle him the way he let his sister do it. His wounded body trusted her implicitly, as it always had. Furthermore, Saturnine seemed to have learned a thing or two; somewhere along the line, she’d acquired some proper medical training. It showed in the way she removed the large bandage that covered his sore middle and then cleaned the wound using various unguents and cream—of the Muggle variety once more. The wound left by Dolohov’s last attack was large and an angry crimson. It was croissant-shaped, started an inch left of his navel, and stopped about three inches below his armpit. It had been stitched closed the Muggle way, too, and that would leave quite the scar. Once she was done, Saturnine dressed the wound again before applying fresh bandages to secure it in place.

“You seem to know what you’re doing. How?” he asked, unable to restrain his curiosity.

“I rented a flat from a Mediwitch in Switzerland for a while. She had a small private practice in the countryside and could sometimes do with a second pair of hands—she taught me the basics.”

“You’ve become good at many things,” he said.

“As have you,” she replied, her tone conversational. She covered him with the blanket again. “How’s the pain? Do you need a pill?”

He nodded. Loathe as he was at taking the white tablets, the pain had flared when she’d applied the last cream, and he needed something to take the edge off—even if it took the edge off other things as well. Merciful Merlin, what he wouldn’t give for one of his trusted potions—or three.

“I hate how these make me feel,” he admitted after swallowing it down and returning the glass of water to Saturnine’s waiting hand. “Like my brain’s filled with cotton.”

“We could try switching to another brand, but I doubt it would be any different.”

He felt like shrugging his indifference but couldn’t muster the energy. In the end, he settled for a long, suffering sigh.

“We need to talk about something,” Saturnine said a moment later, seating herself more comfortably by his side now that she was done tending to his wounds. “If you feel up for it.”

Wondering which can of Flobberworm she was about to open, he nodded for her to go ahead.

“The Dark Mark,” she started, and he tensed at the words. “I know the Dark Lord can’t use it to get to you while your magic’s awash. But I’m worried about Draco. Actually, I can’t begin to fathom why he hasn’t tried to summon him already.”

Severus felt a small sense of victory at that. The Dark Lord could try all he wanted; he wouldn’t be getting through. He’d seen to that. Draco was protected—for now. “He won’t be able to. Until Monday.”

“Why?” Saturnine’s eyebrows shot up. “What did you do?”

“Gave him a potion to render it useless for a week,” he replied.

“What? When?” she asked. Then a thought seemed to strike her. “Wait—it was when we were in the basement, wasn’t it? It was one of the potions you gave him?” He nodded. “And—you took one yourself just before we entered, didn’t you?” Another nod. “So, Draco needs to take another dose on Monday. Have you got any left at Hogwarts?”

Severus shook his head. “It doesn’t keep. It has to be made fresh once a week.”

He could see her do the math and make the connections. “A good thing you had some on you, then. How long have you been brewing it just in case something like that should happen?”

The answer was easy enough. “Since the day I chose to become a spy.”

“Oh, Severus!” she said softly, and he hadn’t heard his name laced with that much anguish in years. Her fingers wrapped around his an instant later.

While his mind despised the condescension, his body welcomed the warmth.

“Give me the recipe, and I’ll brew a new batch each week,” she promised, and he rose an eyebrow at that. “What? I’ll have you know that I’m quite good at Potions. I got an O on my Potions’ N.E.W.T., remember?”

He did, and he knew she could probably do it, but he profoundly disliked having to rely on someone else for something so vital to his survival. “Some ingredients will be hard to get by.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to do with Draco. He couldn’t reconcile the teen he now shared a room with from the insufferable prat he’d been spying on for months. The arrogant, aristocratic haughtiness the blond had carried himself with for years was but a distant memory. It had been torn clean off—ripped away like layers of skin until the raw flesh beneath was exposed in all its grotesque grandeur. And it wasn’t a pretty sight to behold; Draco looked—broken, defeated. And Harry had never thought he would see him that way, with all his buoyant, exasperating Malfoyness stripped away.

Harry could think of nothing to do to help; he wasn’t even sure that his help was at all wanted. He’d tried to give the Slytherin a wide berth at first, not wanting to impose. Only intruding to bring Draco food and to retrieve the mostly untouched plates when enough time had passed that it was clear the blond wouldn’t eat any more. He’d turned a blind eye and deaf ear to the nightmares that shook him through the night and refrained from asking questions come morning. But four days had passed, and Harry was nearing the end of his rope. He had never been good at standing by while others suffered—even if that particular someone was a vicious Slytherin he had no affinity for—and he just didn’t have it in him to stand by and do nothing any longer. Friend or foe, he would do something.

Only, they weren’t enemies anymore, but they sure as hell weren’t friends. They weren’t anything—so, where did that leave him? Stuck sharing a room with someone he didn’t know, much less understand. And, if Saturnine was to be trusted, he was looking at a whole summer for the two of them to get acquainted. Whatever relationship they were going to build had to start somewhere, right?

As he finished getting ready for bed, Harry felt sure there would be nightmares again tonight—there were nightmares every night. And the lack of sleep wasn’t helping Draco’s frayed nerves getting better. Neither did the lack of food. While he could do little for the latter, maybe he could try something for the former. It was as good a place as any to pull out the proverbial olive branch.

Only Harry didn’t know what to say. “Sorry you sold your soul to the wrong guy” seemed oddly lacking. “Sorry you’ve probably been marked for death for doing the right thing” sounded worse. Was there even a right thing to say?

“Sorry you got dragged into this, but if only you knew how happy I was that I wasn’t alone in that cell” was what he wanted to say, but he doubted it would have been well received.

Actions speak louder than words, he’d heard said once. Bearing that in mind, he spelled the lights off. And instead of moving to his bed to lie down for the night, he aimed for the one that had been placed alongside the opposite wall where his desk used to be.

Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, he said in a soft voice, “You need to sleep, Draco.” Then laying down atop the covers next to Draco’s frail body, he added, “We both need to sleep.”

He’d half-expected to be kicked out of the bed, or at least shoved over the side, but Draco said nothing. Did nothing. The level of apathy the blond displayed tore at Harry’s heart like a well-aimed curse. It was also the proof, if he needed it, that he’d done the right thing.

Willing his heavy limbs to relax so that his still sore muscles could get the rest they so rightfully deserved, Harry waited for the Slytherin’s breathing to even out. It didn’t take long, and the Gryffindor fell asleep shortly afterwards.

Neither boy woke up until the first rays of morning light were on them the next day. Harry wordlessly got out of bed then and into the small en-suite shower room. Draco watched him go with a small frown marring his pale brow. He didn’t really look better, but Harry fancied there was a bit more life in his quicksilver eyes.

***

Later that day, Draco forced himself out of bed when Harry told him that Professor Dumbledore was coming to visit. He was not particularly eager to have a cup of tea with the man he’d been tasked to murder. But if there was to be news about his situation or his parents, he wanted to hear it straight from the seasoned wizard.

He hadn’t left their shared bedroom since that woman, who wasn’t really a French witch who had studied at Beauxbatons, had taken them here. He’d played the post-Cruciatus hurt for all it was worth to buy himself more time and avoid having to confront the situation just yet. He’d barely seen the witch, whose real name he now knew was Saturnine Snape, and relied on Harry to get his food and a modicum of information.

During the daylight hours, Harry had filled in some of the gaps in his memory about the rescue and explained that he’d concluded that Leen Nine was indeed Severus’ younger sister, but that it seemed the two siblings had been estranged for years. That had cut where Draco had thought he couldn’t be hurt anymore, given how much he’d been flailed alive already. His godfather had a sister, and he’d never once in sixteen years heard about it. That was how little Severus thought of him.

The Gryffindor had been more St. Bernard than lion those past couple of days—always on hand and eager to help—and Draco admitted that the old him would have gladly taken advantage of the situation. As it was, it had taken him days to get over the fact that Harry so readily wanted to help—in truth, he hadn’t yet got over the shock of it. And there was no way he was willing to contemplate what had happened last night—not even in the privacy of his own thoughts. So far as the young Slytherin was concerned, they had both slept in their own beds—end of story.

Dragging himself out of the bedroom, Draco discovered that Cove Cottage was smaller than he’d realised. But that explained the living arrangement and shared bedroom. He’d already gathered from the sight outside the bedroom’s bay window that it was in the middle of nowhere, but he hadn’t imagined that it was this—well, humble was the polite word for it, wasn’t it?

Moving to the living room, he was forced to share the sofa with Harry and Saturnine as Dumbledore took the only armchair. Seeing that the second bedroom’s door remained inexplicably closed, Draco realised his godfather wouldn’t be joining them. That had been expected, Saturnine having explained to them two days prior that Severus was too weak to get out of bed. Still, Draco had held onto a sliver of hope that he’d make an appearance for the headmaster’s visit.

Draco hadn’t seen Professor Dumbledore up close in a long time, and now that he sat mere feet away from him, he could see that the seasoned wizard looked sickly. His face was gaunt, and the heavy creases on his skin gave the impression that he hadn’t slept in weeks. One of his hands was hidden from sight beneath a velvet glove, and the limb seemed dead to the world.

“My dear boys,” Dumbledore said, his eyes somehow still finding the strength to twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles. “It pleases me to see you both up and about.”

“Good to see you too, sir,” Harry said from where he sat in the middle of their odd trio. Draco had taken the seat furthest from the headmaster, while Saturnine sat perched on the edge of the sofa on the kitchen’s side. She seemed ready to bolt away at a moment’s notice, her eyes darting towards the closed bedroom door every minute or so.

“And you, too, my dear,” Dumbledore added, addressing the witch. “How’s your brother doing?”

Draco peered up at that, interested in the answer. “He’s getting a little bit stronger each day, but it will be a long recovery.” Then, with a smile that felt forced, she added, “And he’s proving to be an awful patient.”

Dumbledore smiled, and Harry chuckled, but both reactions seemed equally empty to him. That made him wonder what audience they were putting on a show for.

“Have you got any news, sir?” she asked.

“Many,” he replied, then his eyes flittered over the two teens. Draco understood the gesture for what it was. The headmaster had many things to say, and most of them would be said after they’d been dismissed.

“We’re all ears,” Saturnine said with an encouraging wave of her hand. There’d been a certain steeliness to her voice that made her comment easy to understand—she wouldn’t have the two students sent away.

Dumbledore seemed to hesitate for a second, but then he launched into a monologue. “The bodies of two Death Eaters were found in the wreckage: a young Albanian wizard named Yanton Lavasky and Bellatrix Lestrange. The first fell victim to one of Severus’ attacks, while Mrs Lestrange died due to the fire that burned half of the house down. The Aurors believe some candles were thrown over during the fight, and the carpets caught up in flames. With the house being as old as it was and badly maintained, it didn’t take long for the flames to eat up most of the west wing.

“Four more wizards were apprehended: Avery, Dolohov and the Lestrange brothers. They’re being interrogated by the Aurors as we speak. Last I heard, Avery doesn’t know much, and the Lestranges are keeping quiet, but Dolohov is being very loquacious.”

“Any word on Voldemort?” Harry asked, and Draco tensed in anticipation of pain at the name, but his Dark Mark remained quiet. He looked down at his forearm with a frown.

“He was long gone when the Aurors got there, and we’ve lost track of him again,” Dumbledore explained. “Unless either of you heard or saw something that could help us?”

Harry shook his head, and he did the same. Aside from the Dark Lord’s displeasure, they hadn’t seen or heard much of anything.

“What’s the plan?” Saturnine asked, and once more, the headmaster’s gaze flickered his way. Draco tensed again, sure that this time he would be dismissed.

“We will proceed as agreed,” Dumbledore said eventually. “The four of you will stay here until September when you can all relocate to Hogwarts. It will not be safe for either of you elsewhere.”

Saturnine nodded in agreement, and Draco fleetingly wondered why they would welcome him back to Hogwarts when he’d nearly brought about its destruction. Surely Azkaban would be more appropriate.

“What of the Horcruxes?” she asked then, and this time, even Harry tensed beside him. Draco had never heard the word before, but surely it was an important subject. He forced all of his attention to the conversation at hand.

The headmaster’s gaze darkened as his eyes glared at the young witch in warning. Saturnine pretended not to notice and carried on as if nothing had happened. “I plan on asking Severus about the locket. He may have heard something. Then I’ll look for what’s left in the other Houses.” She paused. “Unless you have another idea?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” the old wizard admitted through clenched teeth. “But I agree with your idea to bring Severus in on this. Time is running out, and we need all the help we can get. The Dark Lord won’t let this go unpunished. It will take him a little time to recoup, and then I fear his vengeance will be felt deeply.”

“Has the Order learned anything?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, without Severus, we’ve lost our best source of information. Now we can do little more than turn stones at random to see what lies beneath.”

“Put some pressure on Dolohov and the Lestranges,” she advised. “Pitch them against each other—let them know the other’s talking, and whoever gives us the most will get the preferential treatment.”

“I’m not sure—”

“If you’re going with the old technique of trying to show them the errors of their ways, you’re wasting your breath on the likes of Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange,” she cut in. “They have no good side you can appeal to. But as Slytherins, they have a keen sense of self-preservation. Tell them what horror lies ahead, and then tell them it will either be for them or Dolohov. Use them against each other. Use their nature against them.”

Dumbledore nodded as he heeded her advice. “I see now why Scrimgeour took an interest in you,” he said. “You really do have a different way of seeing things.”

The sneer on the dark-haired witch’s lips made it look like she’d just swallowed something foul.

“Do you have any more out-of-the-box tactics we could try?” Dumbledore asked with an amused chuckle.

“None for now, I’m afraid,” she replied. “There might be more once I’ve had a long chat with Severus, but he’s not ready for that yet.”

“Very well, then,” the headmaster said, standing up, joints cracking. “I’ll best be going. Saturnine, do let me know if you require anything, and give your brother my best.”

She gave him a parting nod but remained silent.

“Boys,” he said, nodding their way.

“Good day, sir,” Harry said, and Draco mumbled something that sounded vaguely similar.

The old headmaster was gone through the Floo an instant later, leaving the three of them where they were. Saturnine had gotten up to see him away. Harry was standing, too, and he seemed intent on going to their bedroom.

“Draco, would you mind staying for a little while?” Saturnine asked. With one pointed look, she made Harry leave the room without a fuss. A kettle of tea floated in from the kitchen an instant later, followed by two cups.

Draco was surprised to see she’d had the tea ready, and she didn’t offer any to the headmaster.

The dark-haired witch poured their drinks the instant the tea-set landed on the coffee table. She handed him his cup before taking a sip of hers and moved to sit back down at the opposite end of the sofa. She folded one of her long legs beneath her as she turned to face him.

“You must be wondering why I insisted for you to stay,” she said without preamble.

Draco could have pretended that he didn’t know what she was talking about, but he found that he didn’t have the energy to play games. He nodded over the teacup that was on its way to his lips.

“You made a though choice in the Room of Requirement that night—one that could easily have cost you your life. I’m doing this to honour that decision.”

Draco wasn’t sure what to say to that. So, he remained quiet. What did she care, anyway?

“I know this must be difficult for you. And I’m probably the last person you want to discuss this with,” she continued, “but I wanted you to know that you’re not here by accident or because we didn’t know what to do with you. You’ve earned your place.”

“My place should be in Azkaban,” he said before biting at his lower lip to stop himself from saying more. He hadn’t meant to admit this aloud, but his mouth had bypassed his brain.

“Really?” she asked mirthfully. “And for what crime?”

“Do you want a list?” he demanded, and she smiled at him—actually smiled. It unnerved him, and he added, “Should I make it chronological or alphabetical, Professor?”

“Give me your worst,” she instructed, taking one last sip of tea before placing the cup back on the table to give him her full attention. She crossed her arms over her chest as one of her eyebrows rose challengingly.

“I tried to kill the headmaster,” he said, thinking that ought to shut her up. “Twice.”

It had little impact. “And you failed. Twice,” she replied. “Appallingly so, I might add. Were you even trying?”

That incensed him. How dared she? “Of course I was—what did you think? That it was a prank?”

“One might have wondered.” She shrugged. “Give me another one, then.”

“I fixed the Vanishing Cabinet and let the Death Eaters in,” Draco said, his voice rising.

“No, Harry did,” she corrected in an even voice. “You couldn’t even get that one done right. Give me another one.”

“I—I’ve been awful to Harry for years. I insulted all his friends. Called Granger a Mudblood. I—I—I messed with his potions, reported him and his little Defence club to Umbridge last year, I—I…”

“What—you stole a cookie, too?” she asked laughingly. “Boy, you’ll have to do a lot better if you want me to drop you off at Hotel Azkaban. Give. Me. Another. One.”

“I’m a Death Eater!” he screamed in despair, his right hand reaching for his left arm and forcing his emerald shirt sleeve up so harshly the cufflinks went flying. Before the little diamonds had the time to land on the floor, Saturnine had uncrossed her arms and squeezed his into a tight grasp, twisting his wrist to expose the dark ink on the pale underside.

“So is my brother,” she said in a soft voice that was in complete contrast with her rash actions. “Should I book him a suite, too?”

Draco was barely aware of tears pooling in his eyes, but he couldn’t care less. Saturnine kept holding onto his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh painfully as she held him in place. Her azure eyes bore into his, and he couldn’t look away from the sheer intensity of her gaze.

“Tell me, was it even your decision?” she continued in her deceptively soft voice. “Did your parents have the courtesy to ask you if you wanted the mark? Or did they simply make the appointment and inform you of the date?”

“Christmas gift,” Draco answered through the lump that had formed in his throat. “It was my Christmas gift.”

Saturnine smiled at him then, a soft chagrined smile so honest that it broke the veil of coldness he’d been hiding behind for days. A wave of feelings submerged him, and he shook under the strain. The raven-haired witch used the grip she had on his arm to yank him forward and straight into her arms. Draco went willingly, unable to fight her any more than he was to fight the onslaught of feelings.

“You did nothing wrong, Draco,” she whispered above his head. “You did the best you could to survive, that’s all. And when you were finally given a choice, when you could at long last make a decision on your own, you chose to do something good. You saved a life.” She placed a small kiss on the crown of his head, and he couldn’t remember someone ever doing that to him. “You saved Harry’s life—and I thank you for it.”

“What’s going to happen to me now?” he asked through his tears, and his voice shook under the strain.

“I don’t know,” she whispered above his head before placing another kiss atop his hair. “But we’ll figure something out, I promise you. Severus and I will see to it that you’re taken care of. Okay?

“You’ve got to get better now, Draco. The war is not over, and there’ll be more battles. You’re going to need all your strength. And that starts with eating and sleeping more, okay?” She forced him away a little to catch his gaze. “No more of that attitude you’ve had going on for the past couple of days. I won’t stand for that.

“And I want you to work on your summer essays. You will bring each of them to me when they’re finished. And they better be good, or you will have to start over—I’m here to help if you have any questions, though. Also, you’re to keep your half of the bedroom clean, and you will help with the chores. Harry already does the breakfasts; so, you can do the suppers.”

“I’ve never cooked a single thing in my life,” Draco was forced to admit. The rest he could manage, but aside from piling things up into sandwiches, he was hopeless in a kitchen.

“As I said, I’m here to help.”

Severus hated being so despondent. His mind was here, but his body had taken a leave of absence. Weak as a kitten, he wouldn’t be able to sustain a single attack. Worse than that, he couldn’t Occlude while he was magically depleted. Nor could he hide from his sister’s probing gaze.

Saturnine.

At least she hadn’t tried to dig too deep. She could have if she’d wanted to, he knew. But she’d kept her distance and remained oddly respectful. He was thankful for that small mercy. Thankful for many other things, too. She had been nothing but patient and gentle. And he couldn’t remember when someone had last been kind to him. When was the last time that someone had cared? Probably the last time he’d seen her—well, a little before that, when they’d still been friends, befo—No! He wouldn’t go there. Some things were better left untouched, and he wasn’t about to go poke at that dragon’s nest.

He didn’t know why Saturnine was so intent on helping him or how long she would stay, but he’d take it. He wouldn’t let himself get attached, though; he’d keep some distance of his own. That way, he wouldn’t be surprised when she invariably left again. There, she was just some round-the-clock Mediwitch—that happened to be related to him. Nothing more.

Who was he kidding?

Looking at the door past the foot of his bed, he steeled himself. Ten feet, not even that with his large stride. Well, it might be more if he took smaller steps, but still—he could make it.

Pushing the covers aside, he held onto his injured side and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Slowly, he sat upright. The motion, simple as it was, set his entire midsection aflame. Severus clenched his teeth, stifling a moan. He could do it. The world swam around him at the change of stance. He closed his eyes and willed the dizziness to go away. Taking some deep breaths, clenching his fists, he was determined to succeed. He pushed on his legs until he was vertical.

He’d done it. Merciful Merlin, he’d done it.

Getting up was the hard part. Now, he could do the rest. It was just a case of putting one foot in front of the other. He’d been doing that his all life, and he could do it again. Right foot first, and then the left—rinse and repeat. He could do this.

Severus took a step, swayed, and took another. Beads of sweat pearled on his brow. He could feel his strength waning with each movement—his long-sleeved jumper sticking to his back as more sweat ran down his aching muscles. But he kept going. He took another step, and then another. He only had eyes for the target in his sight: the blasted door that seemed to have moved further away. Merlin, he couldn’t have looked at anything else even if he’d wanted to—the world had blurred around the edges.

He took another step and another. His eyes settled on the door handle, his right hand itching to reach for it. Harsh breaths heaved in and out of his chest, setting his poor lungs aflame. His legs shook as his muscles protested further action. But he refused to stop. He could do this.

He was Severus Snape, youngest Potions Master in Britain, Master Occlumen. He was the Order of the Phoenix’s spy and the only wizard who had ever managed to deceive the Dark Lord. And this was but a door—he’d vanquished worse. It was only four steps left. He could do it.

It felt like his feet were made of lead, but he forced the right one to lift again, and he inched it forward. Before he had time to set it down again, his left knee buckled. With nothing to hold onto to stop the descent, Severus watched himself fall as his body betrayed him. His legs had liquefied and would do nothing to keep him upright. He let out a scream of pain and rage as the floor rushed up to meet him.

Then, a strong pair of hands was on him, and his fall was arrested before impact. A familiar, comfortable smell engulfed him as he found himself pressed into a warm chest. His hands reached out in reflex, grabbing fistfuls of Saturnine’s cotton hoodie as he held onto the only thing that stood between him and the cold, unforgiving floor.

Pain flared in his side and he let out a moan, ashamed of the admission of weakness. He’d failed, for his body had failed him. Severus Snape was nothing anymore. Magic-less, he was no more a potioneer than a spy. Rendered useless to the extreme, he couldn’t even make it to the bathroom on his own when he wanted to relieve himself.

He couldn’t hold back the tears of pain and frustration that leaked from his eyes as he fought to get his breathing back under control. He was shaking like a leaf in his sister’s arms.

“It’s all right; I’ve got you,” Saturnine said in that same tone she used to employ when they were kids, and he wasn’t feeling well. A tone that was all kindness and comfort. A tone that didn’t seek to belittle but to lift him up, one that indicated she wanted to help. And that was what she did in her actions and her words—sneaking an arm under his shoulder and taking all his weight as she assured him that it would be okay. She helped him the rest of the way, waited right outside the bathroom’s door until he was done, then helped him make it back to the bed. If she noticed the treacherous tears that had made it down his cheeks, she didn’t let on.

“I know this must be hard for you, Sev,” she said as she helped him lie down again. “A form of torture, even.” Kneeling by the bed, she pushed his crumpled black jumper up to inspect the damage. “But you can’t keep doing that.”

Her hands were at his side, fingers busy unwrapping the bandage and removing the gauze to reveal the ugly cut below. It was still ghastly red and oozing blood. She checked every stitch, frowning in concentration. Once she’d ascertained that he was still in one piece, she reached for the healing Muggle cream and applied a fresh layer. “You could have torn your stitches open. You would have if I hadn’t walked in when I did,” she said. There was no reproach to her tone; she was merely stating a fact. “That would have set you back days—and you know it.”

She applied a fresh bandage, secured it, and pulled his jumper back down over his still heaving chest. She pulled the blanket up before coming to sit by his side, perched on the edge of the mattress next to his torso in what seemed to have become her spot whenever she dropped by. “I understand that you want to get better. I understand the need to push yourself, to challenge yourself. I won’t stop you from doing that, but you need to be smart about it.” She sought his gaze and held it. “If I hadn’t walked in the room when I did, you’d have hurt yourself. So—no more heroics. Not unless I’m here. You understand?” she asked, her eyes boring down into his. “For your own sake, brother—not unless I’m here.”

Severus was awed by the strong determination he found in her azure gaze. She had meant every word; she was on his side. At long last, he wasn’t alone. Someone wanted to help him. After everything, she wanted to help. His hand sought hers on impulse. Weak, cold, clammy fingers sneaked around strong warm ones, and he held on, needing the touch, needing the strength. And Saturnine let him, closing her fingers around his without a word.

He nodded his agreement, his promise to do as she’d asked. He would let her help.

“Dumbledore was here earlier,” his sister told him after a moment, and he peered up at her.

“Two Death Eaters are confirmed dead—a young wizard named Yanton Lavasky and Bellatrix Lestrange,” she continued. “Avery, Dolohov, and the Lestranges are in custody at the Ministry. The Aurors are trying to squeeze everything they can out of them, but it’s not easy.”

His fingers went limp in her hand, and they slipped from her grasp. He’d never met Lavasky, but his death was on him—his Sectumsempra had killed him. “Avery doesn’t know much, but Dolohov will sing,” he said to mask his uneasiness. “Don’t expect anything out of Rabastan and Rodolphus. They’re devoted to the cause.”

Saturnine nodded. “Yeah, I figured as much.” She looked down at her empty hand, closing it into a fist. “The Dark Lord was already gone by the time they got here. They have no idea which new rock he crawled under. Things have been quiet since—” She looked away. “Too quiet.”

“You fear something coming up?” he guessed. “Something big?”

She snorted. “He likes to grandstand, doesn’t he?”

Severus nodded. Of course he did. “He won’t let that kind of insult stand. There will be some form of retaliation, and it will be significant—in equal measure to his displeasure.”

“I asked Dumbledore to tell the Aurors to increase security, but that’s too much ground to cover.” She shook her head. “Do you have any idea what he’ll go for?”

“No.” Severus knew there weren’t enough Aurors in Britain to cover all possible targets. Without a clue, it was a lost cause. “It could be anything.”

Regardless of the target, he knew there would be victims—innocent bystanders, most likely. And he couldn’t help but feel responsible. If he still had the Dark Lord’s trust, he might have been able to do something. He couldn’t have reasoned with him—there was no controlling a loose Basilisk—but he might have been able to warn the others in time.

As it was, he felt powerless, and the feeling unsettled him. “Voldemort’s crazy—consumed with madness.” Severus felt the words tumble from his mouth, but he couldn’t stop them. Those were thoughts he’d long-held but never been at liberty to speak aloud before. He shook a little under the weight of their truth. “All that power, all that darkness—there’s barely anything human left inside of him. He needs to be stopped, Saturnine. He can’t win—he can’t.”

She gave him a heartfelt nod. “I know, brother. I know.” She paused, then seemed to conclude that she had more to tell him. “Dumbledore has me working on something—a way to weaken the Dark Lord so that we’ll have a chance to kill him when the time comes.”

Severus had a feeling he knew where this was going. “The Horcruxes…”

Saturnine heaved in a surprised breath. “Dumbledore told you about those?”

He nodded. “The headmaster asked me to research the Hallows. I’m the one who found the connection to the Pervell family and located the ring.”

“Good for you!” she muttered with a dark sneer that wouldn’t have been out of place on his own face. Then she seemed to catch herself and muttered, “Sorry.” She heaved a sigh, all malice gone. “A part of me wishes you hadn’t. It’s pure hubris to want to hold onto those artefacts. We know the Dark Lord’s looking for them. He had the ring, and now he seeks the Elder Wand. How long do you think until he figures out that Harry has the cloak?” She didn’t wait for him to offer an answer. “What happens then, Severus? What happens when he gets his hand on the most powerful wand that was ever created?”

“Dumbledore has it,” Severus replied.

“I know that,” she huffed out an exasperated breath. “Wherever he’s hidden it, I fear that won’t be hard enough to find once Voldemort figures out it’s in Britain.”

Severus chuckled at her.

“What?”

“When I said that he has it, I was being quite literal,” he explained, catching her gaze so the full meaning of his words would sink in.

The Knut dropped quickly. “His wand? His bloody wand is the Elder Wand?” Severus nodded. “Sweet Circe—does the old codger’s foolishness knows no bound?”

Severus shrugged. “I think his idea was to ‘hide it in plain sight’ or something.”

“He should have destroyed it the day he found it—same as the cloak and the ring.”

There was a certain familiarity to her indignation that amused him; he’d had an identical discussion with Albus Dumbledore on the subject only months before. “The headmaster told me he was trying to locate the Horcruxes, but he never mentioned having someone helping him along.”

Saturnine snorted. “I’ve done little else but pore over old books and newspaper clippings for the past year.” She brought a hand up to rub the back of her neck as if it was still sore from the long hours of research. “Horcruxes—can you imagine something so vile, so wrong? It turns my stomach just to think of magic getting so perverted.”

Severus could see what she meant; it didn’t get much darker than that. “Fitting for someone like him, I suppose.”

“We need to find the missing ones, however many there are.”

“Four,” he said. “It’s my belief that the Dark Lord’s made six.”

Surprise showed on her face again. “Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“What do you know?” Saturnine’s blue eyes narrowed at him like a raven on a hunt. “Has the Dark Lord confided in you on the subject? Do you know where the others are?”

Severus shook his head. “He hasn’t told anyone about this. I found out another way.” He paused, remembering the arduous, endless meetings he’d been forced to have with his predecessor. “Dumbledore had me questioning our old Potions professor.”

“Slughorn? That old bumbling fool—he’s still alive, then?”

“Yes, and he hasn’t improved,” he sighed. “He still looks down at me; would you believe it?”

Saturnine gave him a sympathetic smile. “You’re a much better potioneer than he ever was—honest.” Then her smiled turned a tad more amused. “But then, so am I. So, that’s not saying much.” Severus felt the corners of his lips lift at the barb. “What’s the old leech got to do with this, anyway?”

“Tom Riddle was his student once,” Severus explained. “Slughorn was his Head of House when he started looking into the Horcruxes, and he needed answers to his questions.”

“And he went to Slughorn about it,” she said as understanding dawned. “And the old fool kept that to himself? Even knowing who Riddle had become, he said nothing?”

“It wasn’t easy to get him to confide in me. He denied knowing anything at first.” Severus paused, reminiscing his numerous failed attempts. “It took time to find the right—leverage. But I guess that sometimes a word is all it takes.”

She snorted. “Oh, don’t tell me the magic word was please.”

Severus felt himself pale at the memory. It had taken much more than please. It had taken him tearing a piece of his heart out.

Suddenly, Saturnine’s fingers were on his again, and she caught his eyes briefly in hers. “Lily,” she murmured in understanding. “Slughorn always did like Lily.” He nodded, incapable of speaking over the lump in his throat.

“Six,” he said, once he found his voice again. “He told Slughorn he’d make six, and we’ve only found two.”

“Three,” Saturnine corrected. “The snake, Nagini, is another one. We know that from one of Harry’s visions. And I have a theory for number four—and a long list of possibilities for the other ones.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“Oh, you know the saying. Once a Ravenclaw…”

“Nose stuck to a book like an idiot,” he replied with a mocking smile of his own. It was petty, but he hadn’t been able to help himself.

His sister poked him in the arm in return, and he felt himself smile—a proper smile, the likes of which he hadn’t let out in years. How incongruous that he would remember how to smile in the middle of a discussion about Horcruxes. But then, he was discussing it with Saturnine, and she’d always managed to bring the best out of him.

“By the way,” she said, easily drifting back into seriousness, “as the Head of Slytherin House, how familiar are you with Salazar Slytherin’s story?”

“More than Pomona and Filius, I would say. What are you looking for?”

“Salazar’s old locket. A tacky thing made of heavy gold with a serpentine ‘S’ in glittering green stone that inlay on the front.”

That sounded familiar, but—tacky? Severus was certain his sister would never have dared label Rowena Ravenclaw’s Lost Diadem in such a disrespectful manner. “I think I have seen that locket on some old paintings. Salazar wore it often. I would assume it became a family heirloom after his death. What have you been able to find so far?”

“After descending from Slytherin, it came into the possession of the Gaunt family, and Marvolo Gaunt.”

“Small world.”

She nodded. “After Marvolo and his son Morfin were sent to Azkaban, the locket was stolen by Marvolo’s daughter, Merope, who ended by selling it to Caractacus Burke—of Borgin and Burkes.

“The locket was bought from the shop by Hepzibah Smith, a wealthy witch with an affinity for rare and valuable items. Sometime in 1961, Smith showed it to a young Tom Riddle, an employee of Borgin and Burkes at the time. She was found dead not long after.”

Severus took all that in stride, glad to see his brain was still quick as a broomstick, even if his body wasn’t. “Which leads you to assume her death was the catalyst to create another Horcrux.”

“Yes. We know Riddle was obsessed with all things Slytherin, and that death does sound pretty ominous. I haven’t been able to get much further than that. He hid the locket, but I have no idea where.” She paused. “Can you think of anything else of Salazar Slytherin that may have survived the ages? I found an ornate dagger, but it’s innocuous. Have you heard of anything other than that?”

“No, but I’ll look into it. For all their popularity, very little of the founders remains in evidence these days—save for Hogwarts, of course.”

Saturnine got up then and went to her bed to retrieve a large folder. Sitting back down on the edge of his mattress, she opened it on her lap, revealing sheet upon sheet of parchment covered in her neat handwriting. Where his was small and spidery, hers was larger and more flowery, her letters more rounded. She’d always had beautiful penmanship, which was odd considering he had taught her how to write.

A few pages had someone else’s scribbled words on them, but he couldn’t identify the author of the slanted lines. He refrained from commenting on it, but made a note of the fact that someone had helped her along.

“It’s all I have,” she said. “Look over it; see if I’ve missed something. Write down any idea you get. I’m looking into the locket right now, but I’m also compiling a list of heirlooms that belonged to the founders.”

Severus raised a curious eyebrow.

“Think about it; it’s always been about Hogwarts. The Dark Lord hates the place as much as he loves it. That’s where he was born—Voldemort. Tom Riddle entered it at age eleven, but something else came out seven years later—Hogwarts was his chrysalis. An insignificant worm slithered inside, and a dark-winged creature flew out.”

Severus felt she had a point. “The Dark Lord’s always wanted to prove that he was the best, better than Salazar himself. And the old snake always thought he was above the other three…

“It took the four greatest wizards of their time to create Hogwarts. A beacon of light for our entire society. Think how powerful Voldemort would feel if he could bring it to its knees on his own.”

Severus shuddered to think about that. “We need to find all the heirlooms that are left.”

“I started making a list, and we can spend the summer adding to it. Once term starts again, we’ll be able to ransack the castle to our heart’s content.”

That gave him pause. “You’re going back?”

She looked at him as if he’d grown a pair of bunny ears. “Of course, I am.”

Severus felt an insidious fear grow inside him. She couldn’t be thinking of going back. It was impossible. The Defence Against the Dark Arts position was cursed; everybody knew that. No one had lasted more than a year since Riddle had been denied the position. And Saturnine had already had hers.

“You can’t,” he said, surprised to discover his voice sounded weaker than he’d intended. “You mustn’t try. The curse won’t let you.”

Looking up, he saw in his sister’s eyes that she had considered it and decided to try anyway. Typical Snape narrowmindedness, he thought bitterly. He wasn’t the only one who liked to push himself. “The curse will try to stop you, Saturnine, and it will succeed.”

She huffed out a breath, seeming to concede to defeat for an instant. Then her eyes were on his again, determination burning bright in her azure gaze. “I’ll think of something.” Her eyes shifted to the papers in her lap again. “Now, help me with those.”

And he would. He’d do anything to bring the Dark Lord down, to finish what he’d started all those years ago. Reaching for the first sheet of parchment, he flipped it over and started reading. Everything else disappeared from his awareness as he took in his sister’s methodical research. It was organised in the extreme in typical Ravenclaw fashion. Every lead was carefully explained and followed through.

He might not be able to get to the bathroom on his own, but he could do this. He could help with this portion of the fight—and for now, it would have to be enough.

Draco hadn’t lied. He had never cooked, not once in his life. He’d never cleaned his room, either; he’d just dropped things here and there, such as dirty socks and underpants. And they’d be gone the next day, cleaned and folded away in his dresser. It just happened, like many things in his life. Like food also happened to be ready on time and on his plate. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew it didn’t happen magically. He knew of the house-elves, knew it was their doing. It was their hard work that made Pureblood wizards’ lives easier. He’d never really thought about it, though—only lived it. It had always been so until it wasn’t.

He’d known it wasn’t the same for—others. That some families weren’t as affluent as his and couldn’t afford the help. But he’d never really dwelled on that—never thought that it would be him one day. That if he’d left his socks on the floor when he went to bed, they would be in the same spot in the morning. And that he would have to take them up and place them in whatever that recipient for dirty clothes was called.

And he certainly had never thought that he would be peeling potatoes one day in the hopes of making a purée. He’d always liked mashed potatoes—that rich, creamy taste and the easiness of having nothing to chew. But he’d never known how they came to be.

“Cut them in halves when you’re done, and put them in the boiling water,” Saturnine instructed by his side.

She had shown him how to use the tool to peel them, and now, she was busy preparing the ingredients for the sauce that would accompany the meat. And Draco was responsible for the mashed potatoes; that had been his designated job.

Cutting all the potatoes with the same precision he used to dice his Potions ingredients, he realised he didn’t mind the task. There were worse things he could be doing right now—far worse things than cooking potatoes.

He placed the neat halves into the boiling water and turned to Saturnine to check that he’d done so correctly. She nodded, then placed the lid over the pan. Not fully on, he realised; she’d left a gap. A moment later, he understood why; the vapour was coming out that way—forced to exit in that controlled spot. He committed the detail to memory.

“How do you like your mashed potatoes?” she asked. “Buttered, spiced?”

“Butter,” he said, definitely butter. “And—” Well, they added something to it, didn’t they? Salt, sure—and what else? Something they never had at home but that they had at school. Something that made it a little different, that added character. What was that taste?

“Like the one they make at Hogwarts,” he said. “I like that taste—something spicy. What is it?”

Saturnine smiled as she moved to the cabinet in which the spices and herbs were stored. She reached for a tiny jar and held it out to him. He took it, unscrewed the lid, took a whiff, and—yes! That was it. That light-brown powder, very potent to the nose.

“What is this?” he asked, taking another whiff.

“Nutmeg,” she explained. “It’s often used in the kitchen. But you can’t use too much.” She held out her hand, and he handed the small jar back. “It’s a very interesting seed—prepared incorrectly, it can be lethal.”

“What?” Draco asked, suddenly not wanting it anywhere near his food.

“Nutmeg intoxication causes sweating, shortness of breath, and a dry throat. It often puts you in an altered state of mind. Generating hallucinations, confusion, and an impending sense of doom,” she continued as if she were in class giving a lecture instead of in a kitchen cutting onions. “Fresh nutmeg contains a substance called myristicin—a narcotic with very unpleasant toxic side effects if taken in large quantities.”

Draco felt himself pale at that. “And they use that stuff at Hogwarts? In our food?”

Saturnine chuckled. “It’s perfectly harmless in small dosages and quite good in creamy and cheesy sauces and dishes. It’s also a blast in eggnog. Besides—” she shook the jar for emphasis, “—this can hardly be called fresh.”

She washed her hands and knife clean and then reached for a small saucepan in which she poured out the chopped onions.

“Nutmeg isn’t the only thing that could kill you if prepared inadequately. The same can be said of some types of fish and mushrooms. You should always know your ingredients in a kitchen and only cook things you are sure of.”

The potatoes steadily cooked in the pan, and Saturnine returned to preparing her sauce.

Draco really couldn’t understand the witch. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she did something that had him rethink everything. She really was a Snape and working off her own agenda. Why she cared to teach him how to cook, he didn’t know. And it reminded him of their discussion the evening prior; she had surprised him there, too. She had gone out of her way to make him feel included, like he belonged—and he really couldn’t see why. He couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last. Surely something would happen. Somehow Saturnine would realise that she’d left a dangerous creature in her midst, and she would cast him away. Or his godfather would come out of his self-imposed prison and…

…and that would be the end of Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy—did that name mean anything anymore? Was he still a Malfoy after what he’d done? Did he even want to be?

As he watched the potatoes dance in the boiling water, he thought of his parents. Were they back at the Manor, or had they followed the Dark Lord wherever it was that he went? Had they known of the events that happened in the Fens? Had they sanctioned it? Allowed the endless torture session?

What would Lucius say if he could see him now—doing the job of an elf? Worse than that, doing it willingly and enjoying the relaxing simplicity of the action. His parents would hex him into next week; flail him alive. They’d rub him raw like some fucking potato and dip him into molten lava to boil until they could beat him into submission. They’d force him into a mould until he assumed a new shape that aligned with their agendas.

No more, he thought as he speared his knife into one of the potatoes to check if it was cooked, no more. And he speared another one and another.

He may not know who he was yet, but Draco knew that he was free to find out.

“I think they’re cooked now,” Saturnine said, and her delicate fingers closed around his hand, forcing him to let go of the knife. She killed the flames beneath the pan. “I think they’re cooked, Draco.”

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he could feel his fingers trembling under her strong grasp. “What’s next?” he asked in a raspy voice.

“Carefully remove the water,” she said. “And then we can mash those and add some seasoning.”

And he did as she said, choosing to follow the instructions, salivating as he watched. Step after step, the ingredients changed to resemble more and more a delicious purée that he was eager to try.

It started out as simple potatoes, and it transformed in front of his eyes into something different, something more. Shed of its external layer, the simple vegetables had morphed into something else. Complemented by external seasoning, they’d been allowed to reach their true potential.

Could something similar happen to him? he wondered. Was there a chance that he, too, could become something else? What kind of ingredient was he, was he something safe and easy to cook, like potatoes—or was he more dangerous, like nutmeg?

***

Dumbledore had made good on his promise. He’d arranged for Saturnine to have access to all of Hogwarts and granted her the freedom to take from their stocks whatever she needed.

At the break of dawn, she’d let herself into the Potions classrooms. She went for the place where spare cauldrons and rods were stored first, taking out one of each. Then she turned to the storeroom to grab the ingredients she needed.

It felt strange being here alone. She hadn’t entered the Potions’ stores since she’d left Hogwarts, had only come down in the dungeons once in the year she had taught here. She’d done her best to stay away from the Potions Master’s domain—determined to see as little of him as she could. For this indubitably was Severus’ domain. She could see it in the decorations, in the way things were stored. The neat precision, the order in which items were shelved—it was nothing like how old Slughorn had kept the place. But the portly fool hadn’t been that good a teacher, either. He’d always been more interested in what he could squeeze out of his students than what they squeezed into their cauldrons. With Slughorn at the helm, there had been frequent shortages of ingredients that he’d forgotten to restock upon and a debatable quality of material he didn’t even question. Saturnine was sure none of those things ever happened to Severus, not to a meticulous potioneer such as he was.

She made sure to leave the stores just how she had found them. She placed all the jars and boxes and other containers exactly where they had been, labels facing outwards at the perfect angle. Before leaving, she moved to Severus’ desk. She opened the top drawer to find a spare sheet of parchment, reached for one of his quills, and dipped it in black ink. Next, she sat in his chair and wrote down the list of everything she had taken. Once done, she double-checked everything and wrote the date at the bottom of the list before signing her name.

Then, she cleaned the quill and returned it where she had found it. She sat up, pushed the chair back, and left the piece of paper squarely on the desk before seeing herself out.

The inhabitants of Cove Cottage were still fast asleep when she returned with an armload of potion material. She deposited the lot on the kitchen table while she readied a place to start brewing. She wasn’t going to do it in the kitchen, she’d decided. One did not prepare potions where one cooked one’s food. It just wasn’t done—unless one wanted to die.

She wouldn’t be doing it in her bedroom, either; Severus needed his rest. The boys’ cramped bedroom was equally out of the question, as it had been fitted with a second bed. That left only the living room, but they needed the space, too. It was where the boys did their homework now that Harry’s desk had been transfigured into Draco’s bed. And she enjoyed reading a few pages, curled up on the sofa, to unwind at the end of the day. There was no other room.

Moving to the living room, she stood facing the wall opposite the kitchen and squared her shoulders. She lifted her wand. The fireplace was a warm glow on her left as she started getting ready. At a flick of her wrist, the large bookcase lifted and came to rest in front of the entrance door and obscured half of the large window on her right. The wall facing her now rendered barren, she recalled the old spell she hadn’t had a cause to use in years.

She defined the space first, envisioned it in her head—she made the projection three-dimensional. She thought of the ceiling’s height and the distance between the walls, and a light flickered at the tip of her wand. Enunciating the words clearly, she pushed her magic forward until the wall rippled, undulating like the surface of a lake under the breeze. An opening created itself within the concrete and pushed outwards, stretching, growing—into a pocket of Wizardspace. A new room grew itself under her will.

She stepped forward, and the walls began moving backwards even as the sides pushed outwards until she was standing inside a square room of thirty-by-thirty feet. She let her arm drop and huffed out a breath. She hadn’t remembered that it was this draining, but she’d done it—their own Potions’ lab.

She returned to the bookcase and cleared the first two rows. She stacked the books into neat piles next to the fireplace. Then she split the bookcase into three separate sections. One book-filled section she floated to the left of the Potions’ lab entrance, and the other to its right. They were the perfect size and fit nicely. She brought the last remaining empty section back inside with her, where she proceeded to tear it apart, screw by screw and nail by nail.

As she worked, she could feel the material’s nature changing under her magic. The planks of old wood became single parts again, and the metallic components became the spare parts they had once been. They were no longer a single whole item but several dozen pieces. And then, Saturnine transfigured them into something else. Lots of somethings.

She made a table out of three planks of wood and some of the screws. She used two more boards to make shelves that she fixed onto nails she had transfigured into brackets. She Accioed two candles from the living room and fastened them to the last two nails she’d transformed into candle holders affixed to the left and right wall. Lastly, she used the remaining oak boards to create a door that she closed behind her when she returned to the living room.

Turning on her heel, she surveyed her work with a critical eye. She felt somewhat proud of herself; it was a nice addition to the house. The dual bookcases and matching door in the middle looked like they had always been there, as if they’d been part of the initial design.

She moved the cauldron and ingredients into the Potions room, then retrieved the last two items she needed to start brewing: her lab assistants.

***

Harry was surprised Saturnine had decided he should join them. Draco, he could understand. The Slytherin was good at Potions—but he wasn’t. He’d never been more than average, and he knew it. So, he stood a little behind the blond, peering into the cauldron with mild interest, knowing that he would not be required to do much—not with the other two present.

The Potions lab was an interesting, new feature that Harry would have loved seeing come to life. He’d heard about Wizardspace, but he’d never seen the spell performed before. The result was flawless; it looked like the room had always been there, as if it were part of the architect’s design. His adoptive mother really was a talented witch.

The thought gave him pause; he hadn’t considered Saturnine that way in a while—never allowed himself to regard her as such while she taught at Hogwarts in fear of inadvertently revealing her deception. But the fact remained that she had signed the adoption papers last Christmas. Sure, circumstances had prevented them from filing the paperwork with the Ministry; so, it wasn’t official yet. But he knew Saturnine had meant it, and so did he.

Only the world had gone to hell—again. Harry had been made to suffer—again. And some of the truth about Saturnine’s past had come out—and what a truth it was. The two hadn’t really had time to talk about it yet, though. It wasn’t that the witch had shied away from him, but she’d been so busy taking care of her brother—and Harry of Draco, if he were honest—that they hadn’t found a moment to be alone together to talk yet.

Harry sighed as he peered over Draco’s shoulder and into the empty cauldron. Who was he kidding? They hadn’t had anything else but time, stuck as they were in a cabin in the middle of nowhere day in and day out. But they hadn’t talked. Harry hadn’t sought to make it happen, and Saturnine hadn’t either. They’d just—been. Moving about each other while keeping a modicum of distance, drifting, watching, stalling. Where’s that famed Gryffindor courage gone to? he asked himself.

Saturnine lined up the ingredients on the table while Draco started reading the receipt.

“Read aloud,” she instructed, and Draco did, going back to the top and starting from there. He read everything in a clear, precise voice that lacked its habitual haughtiness and contempt.

It doesn’t sound like a particularly complicated potion, Harry thought. Most of the ingredients he’d already used before. Maybe he could have brewed this after all—but then again, maybe not. His potions never did turn out that good. Not like Hermione’s, for example—or Draco’s, if he were honest. The Slytherin git had always been good at Potions—but not as good as Hermione.

Saturnine got the fire going under the cauldron, preparing the base, while Draco started chopping and dicing ingredients. Harry was content to observe from where he stood. Watching the dark-haired witch at work wasn’t quite like watching her brother work. Oh, she was good—there was no doubt about it, but she lacked the Potions Master’s finesse. Her motions were assured and precise. She understood the steps and knew what she was doing. But it wasn’t quite the same as watching Severus Snape work. There was something more about his movements—a quiet efficiency perfected over the years. His movements were more economical, each using only the minimum level of action required to achieve the designated purpose. Professor Snape never lifted his hand more than he had to, never stirred in a wider circle than was needed, never gripped the rod too strongly.

Saturnine’s gestures were a little more generous, ampler—more flourished. Not as contained, strained, and precise. It stemmed from a difference in character, Harry guessed. A difference in nature—something that ran deep. There were many similarities between the siblings, but they also had their differences, and he’d just identified one. Saturnine was more generous and nurturing—more motherly. Turning his gaze on Draco, he scrutinised his movements next. They weren’t as assured as Saturnine’s, but they were certainly better than his would have been. Draco knew what he was doing. He moved quickly with careful haste as he sliced and diced and added ingredients to the cauldron. He looked as if he were hurried to be done with the task, like he had something better to do. It’s a lot like how he flies on his broomstick, Harry thought, as if he can’t wait to get to the finish line. He figured the blond could put in a bit more effort, though. They were doing this for his benefit, and for Professor Snape’s, to save them from further agony at the hands of Voldemort. The least he could do was not to treat this like a race to be won.

The fact that his Potions professor had managed to create a potion to stymie Voldemort and render the Dark Mark inefficient was quite a feat. And Harry was forced to admit that greatness seemed to run in the family. Snape had invented a potion, something that hadn’t been there before. He’d found the proper succession of ingredients, in the correct dosages, to reach his intended result. And wasn’t that a marvellous feat? All potions had to have been invented, he knew. Someone woke up one day with the intent to brew a Cure for Boils, while another wizard thought it would do the world some good to have a potion that caused people to lose their eyebrows. But he had no idea how someone went about creating a potion from scratch—that hadn’t been covered in classes yet.

Watching Saturnine and Draco work, he let his thoughts wander. Was creating a potion anything like making a meal? Did wizards simply add ingredients they thought would work well together and then experiment until they found the right balance between sweet and sour, sugary and salty? Harry had experimented a lot in the kitchen over the years and found that everything could make a difference. Too many blueberries in the dough would make it runny and hard to cook—not enough, and the pancakes would taste bland. There was some working margin in the middle, of course, but extremes had to be avoided. Was it the same with potions? Was there some leeway in the middle, too?

The substitution of ingredients—which he had studied thoroughly last summer to complete his essay—led him to think so. He felt that potion-making wasn’t so much about the ingredients themselves but their role in the potion. Like the sugary, fruity filling inside a muffin—it didn’t matter if it was blueberries or strawberries or even raspberries, so long as it was there. But switching one for the other did require some adjustments to be made to the base. Strawberries were sweeter than the other two. So, the dough didn’t require as much sugar. Blueberries were a tad juicier; so, it was best to use a touch more flour. Potion-making was just the same, wasn’t it? When he had replaced the mistletoe with the rose petals for Snape’s essay, he hadn’t needed to use as much because the petals were more potent. Was that how a potioneer looked at—

“Harry, get over here and stir, why don’t you?” Saturnine cut into his thoughts. He heeded her instructions and moved to stand between the two, taking the rod from her. She raised a finger and started drawing slow concentric circles, “Counter-clockwise,” she indicated. “Not too fast, but constant.”

Harry nodded and followed the rhythm set by her finger. On his left, Draco continued chopping and dicing. And he started adding ingredients to the mix as Harry stirred. And then it was Saturnine’s turn to step back while the boys worked in tandem. Harry stirred, and Draco added. The blue potion turned a vivid shade of purple after the Flobberworms were thrown in. Some bluegrass later, it morphed into a vibrant red, and still, Harry stirred.

His wrist didn’t feel the strain, for he performed perfectly economical circles with an adequate grip on the rod. Harry couldn’t say how he knew it, but he was sure that his gestures were of the utmost precision. They weren’t too ample and generous, nor too restrained and sharp. He applied the perfect pressure to create the requisite circles, achieving perfection with minimal exertion.

Saturnine couldn’t have said why it happened when it did. It was time, she supposed. She was reading, engrossed in a murder investigation. And she felt the detective was getting closer to unravelling the mystery; he only needed one more clue to get there. But then Harry barged in, all controlled haste and nervousness—and instantly, she knew.

She closed the book and placed it on the coffee table before folding one leg beneath her to make room for the boy. Harry stood frozen by the armchair. The assurance with which he had walked into the living room had suddenly evaporated—as if it had grown wings and fluttered away.

“Everything all right?” she asked, keeping her tone measured and welcoming.

Harry’s hands twisted together as he struggled to reply. He was nervous; whatever plan he’d made must have slipped his mind. Saturnine motioned for him to sit by her side, and he did. But his posture remained tense.

“Harry?” she prompted him again, offering him a chance to start, to lead the discussion. “Was there something you wanted to ask me about?”

He nodded once, twice, wet his lips, and then asked, “Can we talk?”

“Of course,” she nodded. “We can always talk, Harry.”

“Really? Don’t always feel like it,” he muttered, and the bitterness in his voice was painful to hear.

“If you have something to say to me,” she offered, “just say it.”

“I…” He faltered. He knew what he wanted to say. But it seemed like he couldn’t decide if he ought to.

“Just say it, Harry. Speak your mind, lad.”

Harry seemed to come to a decision. He took a breath, then another. Then his words poured out in a painful torrent of conflicting emotions. “I miss you, Saturnine. I’m sorry; I know it’s selfish of me, and you have many things to consider. I know you worry about your brother and this shitty situation. Then there’s me and Draco and the war. And there was that potion to make, and we’ll have to make more. The Dark Lord’s out there. And the Order lost its spy, and now we don’t know what Voldemort is up to. But we all know it’ll be nasty. I know there’s all that and more. And I’m sorry, but—” He had tears in his eyes now, and his words came out in short puffs. “I miss you. I miss my friend. I miss the woman who signed those adoption papers.”

And Sweet Circe, did hearing that hurt. Saturnine was sliding closer to him an instant later, gathering the shaking boy in her arms in the next breath. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she whispered above his head. He shuddered against her. “Merlin, but I’m sorry.”

She had known this was coming, but she hadn’t done anything about it. She’d been too busy—too wrapped up in her own guilt, in her own twisted memories. The ghosts of the past had somehow seeped into the present—old memories of her taking care of Severus entwining with fresh ones. It had stirred up so many things that it was hard to tell where the past ended and the present began. And as soon as she had that figured out, the present became past again. And it felt like the world was unravelling beneath her feet once more. And she was tired—so bloody tired.

But that was no excuse, and she told her boy so. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry I cannot be who you need me to be right now.” And then she gave him the truth, as she always had. “It’s so difficult, all of that. I—I’m not doing so well.” She blew out an exasperated breath, desperately searching for the right words, with no idea what to lead with. “There’s so much I want to tell you. But I don’t even know where to begin,” she admitted. “I’m not even sure that I understand everything myself. Seeing Severus again brought back so much—so many bad memories. I thought I’d buried them deep enough. But they reared their ugly heads again. And now I’m hurting all over again.” She paused and caught the boy’s gaze, willing him to read the truth of her words in her eyes. She owed him that much, at least. “And I’m not the only one,” she continued. “Severus is hurting right alongside me, and I can’t have that. I must help him, Harry. I have to. It’s always been me helping him, you see. He has no one else. He needs me, and I must be there for him. I have to.”

She held her valiant Gryffindor slightly closer and placed a closed-mouthed kiss on his brow. “I know you need me, too, lad. I’m here. I love you, and I’m here, Harry. But please give me a little bit of time if you can. Just a little bit of time to work things out with my brother, okay?”

She felt him nod reassuringly against her shoulder. His voice was equally comforting as he replied, “Sure, Saturnine. Take all the time you need, of course. I just—I just needed to know you were still here—that you still cared.”

“Of course I do, Harry. Of course.” She kissed the top of his head as another stab of pain shot through her heart at his words. The last thing she wanted was for Harry to feel abandoned all over again. Merlin knew he’d had enough of that when he lost his parents. “I always will; you know that. Even if I’m not here all the time, it doesn’t mean that I’m not thinking about you. Or that I’ve stopped loving you.”

He nodded again. “I guess I just needed to hear that. I’m sorry that I was selfish.”

“Don’t be sorry about it. Never be sorry about how you feel.” She kissed him again. “I missed you, too, lad.”

She felt him snuggle a little closer, and she was glad to let him.

“How are you?” she asked a short while later because she needed to know. “How are you, really?”

“I’m okay. Things could be worse, right? You found me.” He sniffed. “You and Professor Snape—”

“Oh, call him by his first name, will you?” she cut in. “It’ll be easier for everyone.”

“Not sure he’d like that,” Harry huffed.

“Well, not sure he has a choice,” she countered. “Call him Severus. You have my permission.”

“I’m glad you and—Severus found us when you did. Voldemort would have killed us otherwise. He really wanted to, you know. He really wanted to.”

“I know, Harry; I’m sorry.” She held him a little closer. “I can’t imagine what that must have felt like to see all that hatred directed at you. It’s not your fault, you know. You did nothing wrong.”

“Yeah—I just exist,” he said.

Wasn’t that the ugliest of truths? she thought bitterly. Harry’s only crime, the reason he’d been made to hurt time and again, was simply that he existed. She held him a little tighter at that. “You have a right to,” she told him, with every measure of strength and assurance she could add to her voice. “You’ve every right to be here, Harry. You have a right to have a life, to be happy. That’s what we’re fighting for—to give you the future you deserve. You and all the other children in that school—a future free of Voldemort’s reign of terror.”

He nodded against her shoulder. “Thanks. Thanks for that.”

They remained quiet for a little while, simply enjoying the moment and each other’s presence.

“How’s your brother doing?” Harry asked a moment later. “Is he getting better?”

“Yeah, little by little. He’s still extremely frail. He really burned himself up. But his strength is returning.” She forced a smile to her lips. “Not quite as fast as he’d like it to.”

Harry snorted. “Can’t imagine him being very patient about it.”

“That’s the understatement of the century,” she chuckled.

“Will he be okay, though?” the brown-haired boy asked. And it sounded like he really wanted to know.

“Yes, I believe so. But it will take time.”

“You should make him come out of the bedroom,” Harry suggested. “It can’t be good for him to stay locked up like that all the time. Maybe take him outside for some fresh air, too. I’m sure he’d enjoy the sights.”

“I’m sure he would,” she agreed, all the while knowing Severus would rather cut his wand-hand than face two of his students in the state he was in.

“He doesn’t want us to see him that way, does he?” Harry, ever the perceptive one, asked. “That’s stupid.”

“Yeah—well, that’s Severus for you,” she said. In truth, she was amazed that he’d let her help at all.

“Has he always been like this?” he asked, and Saturnine’s first instinct was to snap at him for his rudeness. But then Harry’s tone registered, and she realised it hadn’t been a jab at Severus’ poor manners but genuine curiosity. Sweet Circe, where did that urge to protect my brother’s good reputation come from? she wondered.

“No. He’s got a good heart beneath that cold exterior,” she replied truthfully. “It’s just hard getting through the massive walls he’s built up over the years to protect himself.”

“He risked his life to save us,” Harry said, nodding to himself as he did. “He didn’t have to. And it wasn’t the first time he went out of his way to help me—I know that much.” He sighed. “But he really knows how to make it difficult for us to want to show him our gratitude.”

“Hmm—you may want to hold off adding him to your Christmas list.” She chuckled. “But I know what you mean. He wasn’t always like that—well, not quite as bad. He used to be thoughtful and considerate—at least where I was concerned. But life has been hard on him. And I’m not even talking about You-Know-Who.”

Harry remained quiet for a little while. Then he asked cautiously, “Was it bad for you, too?”

It was still too early for them to be having that discussion, Saturnine knew. Truth be told, she wondered if she ever would be ready for it. But she chose to give the boy the beginning of an answer, anyway. “Yes, but not as bad,” she answered, “because Severus was there.” She shivered as she remembered the sacrifices her brother had made for her sake—the beatings he’d taken willingly so that she would be spared. “I owe him an awful lot.”

Harry sighed. “Get him out, then, Saturnine. He won’t get better by hiding beneath his blanket,” he said. “Besides, I need to thank him for what he did. And so does Draco.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

There was a lengthy pause. Then Harry asked, “So, did you guys—talk?”

“Yeah.” She snorted. “We talked about his physical health, about Horcruxes, about Voldemort—we’re trying to come up with a plan. We discuss many things—sometimes late into the night until one of us falls asleep.” And it was the truth. But she knew it wasn’t what Harry had meant. “But we haven’t talked about anything important yet.”

“You should,” he advised.

“I know,” she replied. She hated how petulant she sounded just then. When had Harry become the adult in this discussion?

“It’s not gonna go away, you know. It’s not gonna get easier. Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do,” he said, and it was such a Gryffindor way of seeing things that it made Saturnine smile. “It’s just how it is.”

“I know, but I’m not quite sure he’s ready for it yet.”

Harry scoffed. “Him or you?”

An excellent question, she thought.

***

On the twentieth day of their summer at Cove Cottage, two wizards and a witch awoke to the smell of freshly baked bread wafting deliciously through the air. Harry had decided the day before that he felt like having a slice of buttered bread with jam for breakfast. Having scared up a recipe from one of the cookbooks Saturnine got him the summer before, he’d prepared the dough the evening before so that it could rise all night.

It didn’t turn out half bad. It had a nice crunchy crust and soft holes inside. And Harry was glad he’d picked this day for the special treat. Everyone came to the kitchen that morning—by coincidence or because they’d been lured in by the smell, he didn’t know. And all four of them ate together.

Saturnine had heeded Harry’s advice and somehow convinced her brother to join them. The Potions Master had needed her help to make it to the kitchen and remained weak. But he’d made the trip from the bedroom, and Harry was glad he had something special on offer for the occasion.

It was strange to see his much-dreaded Potions professor in such an informal setting. Moreover, his choice of clothing—simple cotton sweatpants and a long-sleeved jumper—really stood out. It was so far removed from what he habitually wore that Harry had difficulty keeping himself from glancing at him repeatedly to make sure his eyes hadn’t deceived him. The rest of his appearance was almost the same as usual—lank, greasy, dark hair, and pallid complexion. But he looked worn-out, and he’d lost a bit of weight.

Saturnine cut him a slice of bread, but he buttered it himself. His fingers shook slightly from the effort, but he managed and added a large dollop of strawberry jam on top before taking a tentative bite.

“Bread’s really good, Harry,” Saturnine said as she took a bite of her own. She’d gone for the blueberry jam.

“You really made it from scratch?” Draco asked over a mouthful of bread, butter, and raspberry jam.

Harry smiled at the sight of a Malfoy talking with food in his mouth. He nodded, though, feeling his cheeks flush slightly at the praise. It hadn’t been that difficult. He’d just followed the recipe. Besides, bread was easy to make. It had only four ingredients: flour, yeast, salt, and water.

The only one who offered no comment was Professor Snape—not that Harry expected one. But the man ate the bread he’d made. So, that was a compliment in itself, he figured.

Harry was surprised to find that this new addition to their morning routine didn’t upset the balance in the slightest. The wooden, square table had been designed to accommodate four guests. And the same number of chairs were available. The cupboards housed more than enough plates and cutlery for everyone. And his loaf of bread was large enough to satiate them.

The presence of Severus Snape at their table didn’t disturb the peace. If anything, it added to the balance of energies, Harry found. With him present, Saturnine didn’t need to worry about what was happening in their bedroom. Her eyes were focused on Harry and Draco in turn as they discussed their respective homework and never once darted towards the corridor, as they had for the past weeks. Her brother was sitting on her left, proof that he was all right.

And she wasn’t the only one who was more relaxed now that the potioneer was present. Draco was, too, Harry noticed. He’d seen the changes, small but evident, nonetheless—an absence of tension in his shoulders, fewer worry lines on his brow, and a slight upward curl of his lips that hadn’t left since Severus Snape had entered the kitchen. Draco clearly enjoyed the opportunity to have breakfast with his godfather and even dared address him with one or two questions regarding his homework—a feat that Harry had yet to muster the courage to attempt.

When all four teacups were nearly empty, Harry offered refills to everyone. When he got to the cup of the man facing him, he received a muttered, “Thanks,” for his effort. Harry beamed at the display of gratitude—inwardly. On the outside, he gave his professor a polite nod and contained smile before he moved to fill his own cup.

As he placed the kettle back in the centre of the table, Harry was surprised to realise that he, too, felt marginally better now that Severus Snape had joined them at the breakfast table. Despite his poor state of health, he knew that this was a man he could count on in a pinch—someone who’d stand by his side in a fight. Sure, Snape would never cuddle or shelter him from the horrors of the world, as others would. But with his exacting attitude, he would forever force Harry to be the best version of himself he could.

Yes, there was a certain comfort to be found in the taciturn wizard’s steady presence at their table—fancy that.

The careful balance of their quartet was upset by the arrival of a fifth guest on the day of the summer solstice. Remus Lupin shook himself free of soot as he stepped out of the Floo late in the evening.

Harry was delighted to see his old Defence Against the Dark Arts professor again. Former Hogwarts Marauder Remus Lupin was Harry’s last link to his deceased father and godfather, and it had been too long since he’d last seen him. He was up on his feet and into the man’s outstretched arms before he knew it. “Remus,” he said. “So good to see you.”

The sandy-haired wizard must have felt equally happy to see him for he grabbed a fistful of Harry’s shirt to hug him close. “As am I, Harry. As am I.” Then he held him at arms-length to peer into his beaming face. “How are you, my boy?”

Harry could do little else but smile as he looked into Remus’ kind, warm eyes. “I’m okay,” he replied. “It’s really good to see you.”

And he wasn’t the only one happy to see their visitor. Saturnine joined them an instant later. And her hand briefly brushed Harry’s shoulder before sneaking around the werewolf’s back as she dragged him into a hug of her own, kissing his cheek as she did. “Hi, Remus. Long time, no see, old friend.”

Remus kissed her back, then briefly closed his arms around her shoulders as if her quick hug hadn’t been enough, and he needed a bit more of her. “Good to see you, too, ’Nine. How have you been?”

Behind them, on the sofa, Draco barely lifted his head from the Transfiguration book he was reading. Their taciturn Potions professor wasn’t in the room, which Harry realised was probably for the best, given the two Hogwarts alumni’s nebulous past.

Unlike the previous summer, Remus hadn’t come by even once for afternoon tea and board games. Harry was no fool, and he knew this had everything to do with Professor Snape’s presence at Cove Cottage. During the year Remus had taught at Hogwarts, Snape had made no secret of his intense dislike for his new colleague. And later on, Harry had learned that his own father, James Potter, and his best friend at the time, Sirius Black, had been particularly cruel to the Potions professor when the three of them were Hogwarts students. While it was true that, in comparison, teenage Remus Lupin hadn’t done much to hurt Snape, he hadn’t done anything to help him out either.

Sparing a thought for Saturnine, Harry wondered how she would feel if the two wizards ever were to engage in a duel. And who she would side with? Come to think of it, he wondered what the Potions Master thought of his sister’s choice of best friend and how he’d taken the news when he found out—if he had.

“What are you doing here?” Saturnine asked eagerly, her tone betraying her need to ascertain if this was a social visit or if there was more to it.

Remus’ smile faltered at her words, and Harry understood that to mean this was no social call. When the man’s warm brown eyes momentarily flicked over Draco, Harry felt something go cold inside him.

Saturnine must have noticed, too. “What’s going on?” she asked, searching Remus’ gaze.

“It’s probably best that we sit down,” the werewolf said, pointing to the space behind them. “All of us.”

Saturnine understood his words for what they were, and she was out of the room an instant later. It had to be dire, Harry realised, if Remus Lupin had requested the presence of Severus Snape of his own free will.

His former Defence teacher was all smiles again as he sat in the armchair, and Harry perched himself on the edge of the coffee table, facing him.

“How is your summer going, Harry?” Remus asked. “Are you working on your homework?”

Harry nodded because yes, he was. He had already completed his Herbology assignment, and he would start on Transfiguration next. Like last year, he would keep his dreaded Potions essay for last. And who knew? Maybe this time it would be graded come September—unlike last year’s, which apparently still remained ‘under review’ some ten months later.

“Good, good,” Remus said, and Harry was surprised to see that his old friend only had eyes for him. It was as if Draco wasn’t even in the room. Harry felt that it was a little rude, which was uncharacteristic of his former teacher. The spring in Harry’s belly coiled a bit tighter.

“How’s everyone else?” he asked, fishing for some distraction from his anguish.

“Oh, they’re well. I was with Tonks yesterday—she says ‘Wotcher!’ by the way,” he said with a loud chuckle, and Harry could tell Remus’ cheer was forced. “Saw the Weasleys last weekend, and Hermione—she’s staying there for the summer, apparently.”

Harry knew that. He’d gotten a letter from her the day before last telling him all about it. After two weeks spent vacationing in the south of France with her parents, Hermione had moved to the Burrow for the remainder of the summer holidays. It sounded like she was spending her time assisting Mrs Weasley and revising for next year’s N.E.W.T.s, while Ron pestered her about Quidditch and other nonsense.

Harry was happy his two best friends were having such a good time and that their relationship was progressing nicely. After all they’d been put through, all they’d done and sacrificed for him, they deserved all the happiness they could get and a chance to enjoy life a little. It was time Ron and Hermione got the freedom to act their age without the weight of responsibilities better suited to adults’ shoulders. It also looked like things were getting serious between the two—even if Hermione still shared a bedroom with Ginny whenever she stayed at the Burrow.

“Moody’s still his old self,” Remus continued. “Constant Vigilance!” he mimicked the older wizard’s familiar mantra, eliciting another smile from Harry.

Their banter was put to rest with the return of Saturnine. She had an arm wrapped around her brother’s waist and one of his draped around her shoulders. But it appeared the man was walking on his own steam, and Saturnine was only there as a preemptive safety measure. The potioneer still looked deathly pale and abnormally tired. But he was getting better—little by little, day by day.

Professor Snape was dressed in a simple pair of black cotton trousers and an equally dark long-sleeved jumper reminiscent of his Hogwarts attire. It was what he’d worn every time he’d come out of the bedroom, and Harry had been tempted to make a joke out of it once or twice. But survival instincts had kicked in at the last second each time, and he’d held his tongue.

Remus tensed beside Harry, and his Potions professor’s reaction was similar as the siblings neared the sofa. But at least no insults flew while the two men briefly regarded each other like a pair of Hippogriffs sizing each other up.

Saturnine helped her brother sit in the middle of the sofa before sitting down herself on his left in the spot closest to Remus’ armchair. Draco remained where he’d been all along, in the spot furthest away from the werewolf. Harry was forced to stay on the coffee table as he waited for the chips to fall. There was no room left for him. This wasn’t a cottage designed for five—it was decidedly a cottage for four.

“Evening, Severus,” Remus said with the slightest upward curl of his lips.

“Lupin,” Snape drawled out the name, and Saturnine discreetly nudged his elbow in protest. A silent plea to play nice.

“I’m sorry to say this, but I come with some bad news,” Remus started. And that got everyone’s attention. Even Draco closed his book.

“Has something happened?” Saturnine asked, leaning forward a little.

“Several aweful things,” Remus answered, and his face was joyless. It was cold and drawn, and the look felt utterly wrong on him—as did the agonising pain radiating from his brown eyes. Whatever had happened, it had been bad. And then he started to speak.

“There was an attack in central London early this morning,” Remus said. “The Dark Mark appeared over the city. And moments later, a small group of Death Eaters stormed through Charing Cross Road and the Leaky Cauldron. There were at least six of them—all masked and cloaked, of course. They broke into Diagon Alley and ransacked Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. They killed the owner, Florean Fortescue, before assaulting Ollivander’s. From the reports I heard, they stole stacks of wands and roughened up poor Ollivander. But he’s expected to make a full recovery.”

Saturnine gasped. “Sweet Circe.”

“It gets worse,” Remus continued. “While that was occurring, another team of Death Eaters destroyed a suspension bridge over the Thames. They flew around it in a spiral motion to create a twisting and buckling movement on the walkway before they fired blasts onto the bridge. The cables snapped, and the bridge twisted so intensely that it pulled free of its piers and ultimately split in half before crashing violently into the river below.” He shook his head regretfully. “All the Muggles crossing the bridge at the time were killed.”

Remus’ words left the habitants of Cove Cottage livid, all four a matching set of pale faces and drawn features. The silence that fell over the room was heavy with finality as each contemplated the sheer horror of what they had been told. The death toll was unimaginable. The consequences were unfathomable. The reason for it was easily traced back to the three wizards and witch present in the room. Their quartet was the sole reason this attack had happened. It had been perpetrated in direct retaliation to their actions. They all knew it.

Harry felt his breakfast, lunch, and supper wanting to reappear. People had died because Saturnine and Severus Snape had chosen to come and save Draco and him—innocent people.

A wave of intense feelings surged within Harry, and he felt bile rise in his throat. It took an effort of will to keep it down. Hating being made to sit on the coffee table alone, he shot to his feet. He felt removed from the rest of the group, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He moved to perch himself on the arm of the sofa instead, close by Saturnine’s side.

The dark-haired witch briefly glanced up at him, snatched his right hand, and held it tightly in her left. Harry felt better right away and noticed he wasn’t the only one who had felt the need to feel connected to the group. Further down the sofa, his Potion’s professor had also sought one of his sister’s hands, and she had given it to him discreetly.

“There’s more to it, isn’t there?” Professor Snape asked. Though his words had been soft-spoken, his deep voice had cut through the silence like a sharp blade.

Harry gulped as he read the answer in Remus’ face before the man’s lips had time to form the words. There was more—and somehow, it was worse than everything they’d heard so far. When his sorrowful brown eyes flickered to Draco again, Harry felt fear grip his insides.

The young Gryffindor had the urge to beg Remus not to say anything—to simply shut up. He felt like throwing Floo Powder in the grate and pushing the werewolf through the green flames so they could all remain ignorant.

He wanted to return to their quiet morning breakfasts at the kitchen table. He wanted the evening chats with Saturnine by the fire. He wanted to ask Draco how his homework was coming along, and he wanted to get to know his Potions professor better. He wanted the balanced comfort they had found with each other to be permitted to grow.

Cove Cottage’s fifth guest would shatter that, Harry knew. He just knew it. So, he willed the sandy-haired wizard not to ruin everything. But Remus started to speak, and the world came crashing down around them.

As he looked at the mangy werewolf sitting primly on the armchair, Severus knew—he just knew—there was more to come. This attack could not have been, horrible as it was, the Dark Lord’s masterstroke. Yes, it was wild and spiteful, grand, and typical of him. But it was also irrelevant, removed. He’d attacked Muggles, for Merlin’s sake. It was a bold statement, sure. But the Ministry would see the situation was swiftly put right. They had teams of operatives trained for that; they had the proper procedures in place. Some clever misdirection and a select few Obliviation Charms would ensure the status quo remained between their two societies. The Dark Lord had to have known that—had to have known his attack wouldn’t be much of a blow to their collective. Which forced Severus to conclude that this couldn’t have been all; there had to be more. Something more insidious, more subversive—something that unequivocally signified Lord Voldemort’s upper position in the conflict between darkness and light.

“Where else did he strike?” he asked. Then the answer came to him in a flash. “The Ministry,” he said, responding to his own question.

Lupin nodded.

Severus felt his sister tense by his side, her fingers clasping his a little more strongly. “Oh no,” she said in one breath. “He attacked the Ministry?”

Lupin nodded again. “In the early hours of the morning. Death Eaters stormed the place. The Dark Lord himself was there. It was a bloodbath.” He paused, swallowing audibly. “They never stood a chance.”

“The stronghold of the opposition,” Severus said. “It was always a likely target.”

Lupin nodded. “We just never thought he would be crazy enough to try it. But he blew it up from the inside.”

“The Minister?” Saturnine asked, and Lupin shook his head, confirming that Rufus Scrimgeour was dead.

“They’re not done counting the wounded—and identifying the dead,” he said. “The Death Eaters are gone now. But last I heard, the Morsmordre was still floating in the sky above the debris.”

Severus couldn’t help but picture it. And he felt his stomach churn over what little he’d had to eat that day. While the attack on the bridge had been inconsequential in the grand scheme of things—a show of grandeur meant to galvanise his troops—this was anything but. The loss of the Ministry was a terrible blow to their side that would seriously hamper the war effort. The chain of command was broken, and the resistance would be uncoordinated from now on. Unorganised and thus, weakened. And that had been the Dark Lord’s true purpose: to weaken them at the core.

It also meant that the next assault would be harder to repel. And Severus feared he knew just where that one would occur. If the Ministry had been the head of the opposition, the next strike would go after its heart. The next attack would hit Hogwarts.

He shuddered to think of the consequences of such an event. If the castle were to sustain an attack while school was in session, the death toll amongst the students would be catastrophic. He felt himself go faint under the sheer weight of the thought. Incapable of Occluding, he felt cold droplets of sweat run down his back as he fought hard not to imagine what the outcome would be like. Severus knew better than anyone what the Dark Lord and his cohort were capable of. And his mind flashed at him images of the Great Hall floor covered in crimson blood and first-year students’ body parts.

His distress must have been palpable for Saturnine let go of his hand to wrap her arm around his shoulders instead. The extended point of contact, large and warm against his back, was the undeniable assurance of her presence by his side and a direct echo of their past. And Severus could have lost himself in it. He might have—if Potter didn’t choose that moment to open his annoying gob.

“There’s more to it—isn’t there?” the Gryffindor prat asked from where he was perched on the arm of the sofa.

Lupin, who’d been looking at his scruffy shoes, briefly glanced up with tired, pain-filled eyes. His brow wrinkled as he considered how to best answer that question.

“What is it, Remus?” Potter demanded. “What else happened?”

The werewolf’s gaze jumped to the opposite end of the sofa, and Severus felt his throat go dry. Draco didn’t miss the look now directed at him, and he tensed. Whatever it was concerned him. And Severus held his breath as he waited for the last blow to come.

Lupin’s voice was but a whisper when he said, “I’m sorry, Draco, but your mother, she—she had an appointment at the Ministry this morning and…”

The sandy-haired wizard didn’t need to finish the sentence; everyone knew where it was going. It was made clear by the screaming uneasiness in his gaze. “I’m deeply sorry,” he apologised.

Severus tried to inhale but discovered that he couldn’t. It took him several tries to realise that he was doing it backwards. He needed to empty his lungs first before trying to inflate them again. He struggled to do that as the enormity of what Lupin had just told them sunk in. Narcissa Malfoy was dead. Draco’s mother was dead.

Would there be no end to the pain this summer? Had the boy not been through enough already?

Draco said nothing as he glanced down at his clasped hands in his lap. Severus saw that he did nothing, either. His godson was a frozen statue by his side. Sitting with his back straight and head held high, he was a credit to his good upbringing and Narcissa’s exacting, proper-posture teaching.

The Potions Master knew the woman would be frowning at his countenance if she could see him—shoulders slumped forward, and upper torso turned towards his godson. He wondered what to do. Severus knew he had to do—something. But for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom what. Was he supposed to reach out to Draco—to hug him? Was he supposed to say something? What could he say? What kind of stupid, meaningless nonsense could one spout out to a child who’d just lost his mother?

Reflecting on his own past, he remembered that nothing had made it easier when he had lost his own mother. Complicated as their relationship had been, it had hurt when she’d passed. And he’d found nothing to assuage the pain. It had remained with him until time eroded its sharp edges. It may have been different if Saturnine had been there. But she’d been long gone by then.

Severus felt his right hand rise until it was inches away from the boy’s shoulder. What if he were to touch him—what would happen then? Would Draco feel better? Or would the carved porcelain statue of his godson shatter beneath his touch and explode into a million pieces that he would never be able to glue back together? Fearing the worst, Severus let his hand fall back down.

Inching forward, he searched the boy’s face for his gaze. He was looking for something to hold onto—a lifeline to grab. He came up empty-handed. There was nothing to be read in Draco’s face—and nothing to be found in his cold, mercury eyes. Occlumency, Severus realised. His godson had put up his barrier and was hiding everything behind it. Without his ability to practice Legilimency, Severus was shut out entirely. Now, unable to see past the walls, he felt useless—impotent, like the magic-less husk of a wizard he had become.

Draco sat up slowly. He gave Lupin a slight bow of his head as if thanking him for the update, and then, turning his pointed chin in their direction, he apologised for having to take his leave. His voice betrayed nothing of what he felt, and Severus watched in dismay as he walked out of the living room and into the bedroom with slow, measured steps. It was as if the boy moved from one class to the next—as if this was a typical day, and he hadn’t just been told that his mother had passed.

When he heard the bedroom door close, Severus felt something shatter deep inside him. He clenched his eyes shut against the pain and could feel himself beginning to shake. He was powerless to stop it, and he felt himself go faint as he desperately sought to get air into his lungs.

He heard Saturnine say something, and then Lupin took his leave. He ought to have said his goodbyes or something, he realised. He might dislike the mangy werewolf due to their tumultuous past, but the man had gone out of his way to let them know what had happened. The least he could do was acknowledge that. But he couldn’t even get air past the growing lump in his throat.

The werewolf was gone a moment later. And that left only the three of them. They sat precariously on Dumbledore’s old sofa like a bad joke. Severus saw Potter lean a little towards his sister, and Saturnine raised a hand to rub the Gryffindor’s cheek before placing a quick kiss on his brow. His muddled brain barely understood what it saw. Since when are these two that close? he wondered.

“Go see Draco,” she instructed. The words should have been meant for him. But Severus was dismayed to realise they’d been intended for the boy. Everyone knew the two teenagers hated each other. So, what was she doing?

“Go see Draco,” she repeated. “Make sure he’s okay.”

Potter nodded, and then he was out of the room in a flash—leaving only Saturnine and himself on the worn-out sofa.

His sister let go of his shoulder, sliding forward until she was crouched in front of the sofa, between his legs. Both of her hands grabbed his knees as she looked up at him, searching to find his gaze. He felt like he should hide from it. He wanted to keep that last part of himself safely out of reach. But without the help of Occlumency, he couldn’t. It was too many emotions assaulting him all at once. He was falling apart at the seams; he could feel it. Something had shattered inside, and he couldn’t hold himself together anymore. He could barely remember how to breathe.

And suddenly, Saturnine was there—half-kneeling on the sofa, half-sitting. And her arms were around him as he shook and crumbled. And she held him in a vain attempt to keep his broken pieces in their proper places. And he cried. For the first time in years, he cried.

Powerless to stop it, powerless to do anything but to submit to the will of his emotions, Severus wept. He wept for everything he had lost, for everything he had done. For the boy who had just lost his mother, the one who’d lost his sixteen years ago, and the two siblings who had been orphaned along the way.

Saturnine sobbed with him, her tears mingling with his where cheek met cheek. Their skin was in constant contact as her lips whispered sweet nothings in his ear. And Severus cried until he had no more tears to shed—until even that was as hollow as the rest of him. Bereft of everything, all he had left was the ugly truth of who he was and the bitter knowledge of what he’d done.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered through the lump in his throat.

Those were words Severus Snape seldom said—and even more rarely meant. But he did now. “I’m sorry, Saturnine,” he repeated, willing her to hear him, to believe him. “I didn’t mean to—I never wanted any of that. I’m sorry—so sorry.”

His tears might have run dry, but hers hadn’t. And he could still feel them run the length of their joined cheeks, for Saturnine didn’t pull back. She didn’t leave him, and she didn’t let go—even faced with his shameful admission. She held onto him a bit more tightly, forcing more hushing sounds into his ear.

“Shhh, I know,” she comforted him, her voice as broken as his had been. “I know—I’m sorry, too,” she whispered. Her voice was lighter than the breeze but so—so much more precious. “I’m sorry, too, brother-mine. I’m sorry, too.

“It will be okay,” she continued. “Somehow, someway, we’ll fix this. We’ll figure something out—like we always have. You and me.” She held him a little stronger, rubbing his shoulders and back as she did—forcing warmth back into his failing body, willing it to endure, to mend itself. “You and me, Sev. Like it’s always been. You and me against the world, remember?”

He couldn’t hold back an audible sob at her words—the distant promise he’d never forgotten—and Severus discovered that he had a few more tears to cry.

“Shhh, I’m here now,” she soothed. “It’ll be okay.” And then her cheek was gone. But her lips were at his temple. And when they touched his skin, they kick-started his dying heart. That first close-mouthed kiss was followed by a second, and it was another jolt of lightning shooting straight for his core. And another, and another.

As he heaved in breath after breath of oxygen-rich filled air, Severus was forced to believe. He believed her words, her promises. For with nothing else to hold onto, Severus chose to hold onto her. And in the naked nothingness of the nightmarish world where he stood, he could see nothing but Saturnine. She was a figure of light, shining like a beacon in the darkness and holding out a hand for him to take. As he grasped it, he promised himself that this time, he wouldn’t let go. No matter what happened, he would never let go. Never again.

As both siblings fiercely held onto each other, Severus felt the broken pieces inside him beginning to mend themselves. They were returning to their proper shape, forming once again a structure strong enough to carry him forward. As life returned to his body, he felt something else rekindle inside—deep within, in his very core, the spark that had the power to relight the fire of his magic.

Severus Snape wasn’t done for yet; he still had some fight left in him. With his sister by his side, together as they had once been—as they should always have been—they could weather whatever horror life still had in store for them. They could face anything—so long as they stood together.

“You and me against the world, ’Nine,” he echoed the long-held promise. “Always.”

When Harry entered the bedroom, Draco was already in bed. The blond had lain down facing the wall, his back towards the empty space. Draco pretended to be asleep, but Harry wasn’t fooled. He knew there was no way the grieving Slytherin could have fallen asleep so quickly—not after learning something like that.

Harry moved closer even though he had no plan—no idea what to do. What could he say? He hadn’t felt the pain of losing his parents; he’d been too young. He’d simply lived with their absence all his life. But he keenly remembered losing Sirius. The sharp pain that came with every breath. He could still feel it—even now. Its bite wasn’t as deep anymore, but it was still there. And he knew it would never let go.

Nothing had comforted him last summer. Nothing and no one—until Saturnine had entered his life. Her simple presence—and the fact that she seemed, even slightly, to care about what happened to him—had been like a balm to his gaping wound. Perhaps I could do the same with Draco, he thought as he approached the blond’s bed.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” he apologised softly as he sat on the edge of the mattress.

Harry felt like extending a hand. But he wasn’t sure if such intimate comfort would be welcome. They might not be enemies anymore. But they weren’t friends yet—not like he was with Ron or Hermione, or even Luna and Neville.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, for lack of something better to say. “If you need anything, I’m here. I know it’s not much, but I’m here.”

There was no response from the limp blond’s body. Harry heard him sniff beneath the cover—a sign that he was alive, at least. Resigning himself to wait it out, he passed a weary hand over his face, then pushed backwards until the tip of his fingers found his neck. He started massaging the taut muscles he found there, seating himself more comfortably. It would be a long night. But he would stay by Draco’s side—just in case. He could give him that much: what he hadn’t had last summer at the Dursleys. Someone by his side, a reassuring presence—the assurance that he wasn’t alone.

The Slytherin’s breath evened out a short while later as he drifted asleep. Harry remained motionless and considered staying there the entire night. Draco didn’t have nightmares anymore. But there would surely be one tonight. Harry didn’t want him to wake up alone and confused, only to have his memories tumble back down, hitting him like a Swedish Short-Snout on the loose.

His silent vigil was disturbed by the arrival of Saturnine and her brother. The man looked even worse than he had before and as unthreatening as Harry had ever seen him. His Potions professor was but a shadow of his former self: tired, worn-down, on the brink of exhaustion. His haunted, dark eyes desperately sought his godchild’s sleeping form as he approached. The walk from the door to the bed clearly fatigued him. And he clutched at his sister’s supporting arm with trembling fingers to ensure that he stayed upright, his legs having relinquished the fight for the day.

Harry stood up to leave him his spot, and the sour man took it without a word of thanks. Severus Snape only had eyes for Draco; it was as if nothing else in the world mattered other than the boy curled up on the bed ahead of him. The pain in his unusually unguarded face was vibrant—something Harry would never have thought he would witness one day.

Saturnine moved closer to where Harry had repositioned himself by the end of the bed. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and drew him in to lean against her side. Harry went willingly, drawing comfort from her warm presence. She leaned down slightly to place a kiss atop his head, and he snuggled closer, all the while keeping an eye on Draco.

Snape reached out a hand to place it against his godson’s shoulder, just above the spot where the blanket stopped. The man looked minutes away from crying himself—so alive, so full of emotions. Harry hadn’t known he could experience so much, let alone manifest it on the outside for the whole world to see. Or perhaps, he thought, Snape is simply too absorbed in his grief to realise that he isn’t alone in the room.

Harry couldn’t help himself from reaching out to him then. He couldn’t stop his hand from seeking out his professor’s shoulder and gently landing atop it. Snape barely reacted. There was a minute tensing of his muscles beneath Harry’s palm. But it soon vanished under his soothing touch. The young Gryffindor stepped forward without completely releasing Saturnine.

Harry’s right hand was still wrapped around Saturnine’s waist, and Snape’s remained on Draco’s shoulder. At that moment, they were all connected—linked in a chain of strength and support that redistributed the pain along its length to ensure that none of its links would shatter under the pressure.

Just in case his actions didn’t make the message clear enough, Harry said, “I’ll do the best I can to help him. But Draco’s gonna need you, too, sir. He will need you, now more than ever.”

Severus Snape may not have noticed the hand on his shoulder, but he certainly heard the voice in his ears. Twin, dark pools of obsidian narrowed at Harry as a puzzled frown marred the man’s brow. The expression on his face was undecipherable. His lips looked as if they were gearing up for a sneer. But his eyes still pulsed with acute pain. It was hard to reconcile the two emotions.

“He will need you, more than ever,” Harry repeated, holding the man’s gaze and piercing him with a stare of his own—willing him to listen to his words.

Saturnine backed him up. “Harry’s right, Severus. Draco wasn’t doing well before, but this,” she paused to let the words sink in, “this will shatter him. He will need all our help to make it through.”

Harry nodded, feeling a bit of relief when he saw the words sink into his professor’s eyes. And then the man’s attention returned to his godson. His hand hadn’t left Draco’s shoulder, and Harry hadn’t lifted his. The chain remained, and they stayed that way a short while longer, joined in the pain.

It was Saturnine that finally broke the status quo. Both of her hands came up to Harry’s shoulder, and she steered him away, back to his own bed. “Get some sleep now, lad. It’s late,” she instructed. “We all need to rest.”

Harry nodded half-heartedly; he wanted to stay by Draco’s side a short while longer. But he realised that he had no idea what time it was. A glance out the bay window revealed that it was pitch-black outside. Lupin had arrived a little before nine. So, it was time to go to bed, he realised. Feeling tired for the first time that day, he obeyed and let Saturnine guide him to sit on his bed.

He watched as she expertly pulled back the blanket before crouching down by his bed as she waited for him to get in. Harry kicked off his shoes and removed his socks, but he couldn’t muster the energy to do anything else. His sweatpants and t-shirt would have to do for tonight, and he rolled into bed. Saturnine pulled the cover over him, effectively tucking him in. It was something no one had ever done for him. And despite the circumstances, it brought a smile to his face. This was probably something she had never done before. And as their gazes met, he could see she had just come to the same realisation he had. Warmth spread through his belly, and Harry felt a little better suddenly.

“Draco’s going to need you too,” Saturnine told him in hushed tones. “He will need a friend.”

Harry nodded. He could be that; he wanted to. He really wanted to.

Brushing a lock of hair from his face, Saturnine added, “Go to sleep now. But don’t hesitate to come and wake us up if you need to—okay?”

Harry nodded, a silent promise that he would.

“We’ll get through this,” she promised. “Together.” And then she bent down and placed a soft kiss on the side of his temple, and Harry’s eyes fluttered closed.

Saturnine’s warmth receded as she stood back up. He heard her step away to return to her brother’s side. “You, too,” he heard her say. “You need to rest.”

Her brother must not have liked the suggestion, for she felt the need to add, “Draco’s asleep now, Severus. He’s quite safe, but he’ll need us tomorrow when he wakes up. You won’t be much help to him if you’re too tired to stay awake.”

His brother muttered something in return, but Harry was too far away to make it out.

“Come on.” Saturnine’s words were followed by a brush of cloth. And then she said, “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

And Harry heard the professor’s joints crack as he stood, his knees objecting to the change of position—an audible manifestation of his heart. But Saturnine had won the fight, and they slowly walked out of the room.

At a word from the dark-haired witch, the lights went out, and the door closed. Shrouded in darkness, Harry fought the pull of sleep a short while longer. His attention was attuned to the boy on the other side of the room. He listened to his slow breathing, wondering how many more horrors life had in store for them—all the while hoping that their collective quartet would be strong enough to weather them.

***

Breakfast the next morning was a dire affair. It was as dry and stale as Harry’s old bread. And neither of the residents sat at the kitchen table to enjoy it.

In the early hours of the morning, Harry silently let himself out of the bedroom room to creep into the kitchen. He cut four slices of bread, buttering and covering them in raspberry jam—Draco’s favourite. Then he placed their plates on a tray along with two cups of tea, and he levitated the whole set to their shared bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He ate in silence on his bed, gaze lost through the large bay window as he considered the situation. Draco woke sometime later. Without a word, he moved to the small en-suite shower room and stayed there for about half an hour. When he came back out, he wordlessly nibbled at one of the slices of bread that Harry had left on his bedside table. Then he was back inside his bed, his back to the room, asleep once more.

A short while later, Harry distantly heard Saturnine getting up. She made it to the kitchen after a pause outside their bedroom door. He could tell from her gait that she was alone, and she didn’t stay in the kitchen much longer than he had. Just long enough to cobble something up for herself and her brother to eat. And then she was back in the adults’ shared bedroom. Harry figured she was probably going through a morning routine that resembled his. It would be a day spent doing little else than nursing their respective Slytherins.

***

Draco shook himself out of his self-imposed lethargy later that afternoon. Chancing a glance to his right, he saw that Harry was still there. The Gryffindor was seated cross-legged on his bed. He had a quill in his hand and an inkwell precariously balanced on the mattress by his knee. He was working on his homework, it seemed.

Harry hadn’t left him; he’d chosen to work in his bedroom rather than the living room and Draco wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Without the strength to ponder the question further, he pushed it from his mind as he got up. Without a word, he moved to the bathroom again. He wanted another shower even though he’d already had one this morning. He just felt like cleaning something away—he didn’t know what. But whatever it was, he wanted it gone. So, he stood under the scalding spray for as long as he could stand it.

Harry was still there when Draco came out of the en-suite sometime later with his pale skin disturbingly red under his flimsy cotton shirt, and their gazes briefly met. There was concern in his emerald-green eyes—concern for him—and Draco was surprised to see it there. Since when did Harry care what happened to him? Since when did anyone?

That wasn’t fair, he knew. Severus cared, did he not? He had that night when he’d taken care of him after he’d been Crucioed. And he’d come to get him when the Dark Lord kidnapped him. Only Severus hadn’t done or said a thing last night. He had just looked at him like he was disappointed about something. Draco had been Occluding as best he could. But maybe some of his pain had crossed through, and that was what had disappointed his godfather so. Had he thought him weak?

The brown-haired Gryffindor looked like he was about to say something, and Draco fervently wished him to shut up. He didn’t want to hear his platitudes and empty condolences. What good would that do? His mother was still dead. His father was still on the wrong side of the war. He still had no one.

Raising a preemptive palm, Draco muttered, “Don’t bother,” before sitting on his bed.

The uneaten, leftover breakfast plate was gone, he noticed. Harry was back to playing house-elf again and cleaning up after him. The Boy Who Lived, Gryffindor’s hero, Dumbledore’s golden boy had brought him food and taken the dirty dishes away. For some unfathomable reason, Draco felt the corner of his eyes prickle at the thought.

He couldn’t sleep again. Even though he wanted to, even though it was simpler than any other task. He felt energised. His brain needed to engage in something. Deciding to take a page from Harry’s book, he reached for his own Transfiguration manual and flipped it open as he sat down on his bed, mirroring the Gryffindor’s position. It wasn’t perfect, but it beat the alternative: thinking about what had happened. It was easy to lose himself in discourses about weight and mass distribution, to engage his brain in calculations linked to ratio growth and stretching densities of elements.

Harry was busy working on the same essay for Professor McGonagall. Draco had noticed the same manual in his hand. So, when he came upon a passage in the text that he didn’t understand, he asked for the other’s input.

“Listen to this,” he said. “Magic rearranges all of the molecules of a given object, drawing in from the surrounding environment and releasing particles into the atmosphere when necessary, thus forming the thing we desire.” Shaking his head, he ploughed on, haughtiness in full swing. “Bearing that in mind, it is vital to account for weight distribution and mass displacement when casting a spell. As per the laws of quantum physics, the caster must therefore always consider the M-variable of the Principle of Transfiguration.”

Harry gave him a nod of understanding. Encouraged by this, Draco asked, “What does that even mean?”

The Gryffindor’s voice was quiet and measured as he explained the notion in simpler terms that made sense immediately. “When in a china shop, don’t turn a spoon into a Hippogriff,” he explained, a soft smile blooming at the corners of his lips, “unless your Reparo Charms are really good.”

“Why didn’t they write it like that?” he muttered as his gaze returned to the lines of printed text.

“Don’t know—maybe it’s some kind of game to them,” Harry replied, even though Draco’s question had been rhetorical. “Perhaps they write it the simple way, then get bonus points for everything they manage to over-complicate.”

Given some of the manuals they had, the idea didn’t sound that farfetched. Draco couldn’t help but add, “Lockhart must have missed the memo. I think the most complicated word in that batch of drivel of his was ‘stupendously’.”

Harry chuckled loudly at that, and Draco found comfort in their discussion. They spent the rest of the afternoon working on their respective essays, exchanging ideas and answering each other’s questions.

Narcissa Malfoy’s funeral was held four days later in the gardens outside Malfoy Manor’s imposing facades at ten o’clock on the 23rd of June 1997.

As she looked outside the windows at the Cornish cliffs and raging ocean behind, Saturnine fleetingly thought the weather was all wrong. It was a beautiful summer day with a shining sun and a slight breeze—a perfect day for a picnic at the beach. Not the kind of weather one would ever want for a funeral—not that any of them would attend, of course.

Draco had asked to go. He’d come to what was now labelled ‘the adults’ bedroom’ to request to speak to Severus about it. Her brother—who had not left the room again since that night—only agreed to see him long enough to tell him no.

If it had been her and Harry, Saturnine knew there would have been shouting, their emotions taking over—heated words spoken out in anger. But Severus and Draco were Slytherins to their core—snakes with cold blood running in their veins. So, they approached it like a business transaction, arguing their respective stance on the case as they would their bank accounts’ interest rates.

But the result still stood: none of them would go. It was too dangerous. Everyone would expect Narcissa Malfoy’s only son to attend, and it would be the perfect opportunity to have the boy kidnapped again. With the amount of Death Eaters present, attending the ceremony would be akin to committing suicide. There’d be no white-flagged truce for the day—even though it was Draco’s mother they were burying.

Draco hadn’t taken the refusal well. Though he’d done his best to hide his true feelings on the matter, it had shown in his blazing gaze, nonetheless. The hurt—the disappointment.

And Severus, idiot that he was, had let the boy return to his room without a word of encouragement. Saturnine had chastised her brother for it at length afterwards. She had berated him for his poor choice of words and attitude. She hadn’t meant to add to his worry. But she had to make him understand that Draco needed his godfather now—not his Head of House. Was there really nothing of the compassionate kid he’d once been left inside Severus Snape? Couldn’t he find some warmth inside him to share with the boy?

With no other alternative, Saturnine was forced to use her special brand of Ravenclaw ingenuity to solve the situation. She’d had to think outside the box again—so much so that she reached a new personal level of out-of-this-world craziness.

A quick trip to Hogwarts after everyone had gone to sleep assured her the help of Dobby the house-elf. A quick mention of Harry’s name was enough for the large-eared kitchen helper to readily accept her plan, though he understood precious little of it. An Apparition to the heart of London and a bout of morning shopping secured her the necessary equipment to pull it off. She told Severus her plan the next morning. And he approved of it, agreeing to help her with the final preparations.

Shortly before the funeral was set to start, Saturnine knocked on the boys’ bedroom door. Predictably, it was Harry who got up to let her in. He looked anguished and tense, and Saturnine could easily guess why. She nodded in Draco’s direction, and Harry wordlessly opened the door wider.

Saturnine moved to stand by the Slytherin’s bed and found the blond busy reading a book—or pretending to, at least. She sat down next to him and, unsure how much familiarity would be accepted from her, refrained from touching him.

“I know you want to go to the funeral,” she said without preamble.

Draco tensed next to her as if part of him wondered if maybe he would finally be allowed to go. She was sorry to have to quench that hope.

“I agree with my brother’s decision—it’s too dangerous,” she explained. “Even if we were to both go with you, we couldn’t be sure to protect you. And neither of us wants to see you hurt any more than you already have been.” She paused, then made her offer. “I have arranged for you to view the ceremony another way—if you’re interested.”

Two curious pools of liquid mercury settled on her.

“If I tell you digital camera, transmitter, and monitor—have you any idea what I’m talking about?” she asked. Draco shook his head. She wasn’t surprised the blond wasn’t familiar with such contraptions.

“Muggle devices,” she informed him. “Mostly used for entertainment purposes.” At Draco’s evident puzzlement, she added, “I set something up in the living room. Have you heard of a thing called a television?”

“Moving pictures?” Draco asked, frowning. His tone of voice let her know he’d heard of it but that he was far from an expert.

“Something like that.” She nodded. “I had someone install a device at the Manor. Think of it as a magical eye that will observe the ceremony. Then I set up a television in the living room. It will allow us to see everything that eye sees.

“I know it’s not the same as if we were there in person. But it was the best I could do under the circumstances—if you want to see the ceremony, that is. No one’s forcing you.”

Draco’s breath had shortened, and he had paled. But still, he nodded his agreement, and she reached for his shoulder then, landing a comfortable hand atop it. “We’ll all stay with you,” she assured him. “So, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Draco nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, but no word came out of his closed lips.

Saturnine sat up and motioned for Harry to follow suit. After a pointed nod from her, the Gryffindor left the room, leaving her alone with Draco.

“We’ll wait for you in the living room,” she informed him. “Take your time, and come join us whenever you feel ready.”

Draco nodded again, face pale, features drawn. He looked inches away from falling apart, but Slytherin determination kept him from surrendering in her presence. So, Saturnine gave him one last encouraging smile before leaving the room.

***

Severus had never been more thankful that Saturnine had been raised a Muggle and later sorted into Ravenclaw than he did at that moment. Her idea to install a camera at Malfoy Manor was sheer brilliance, and he wished he could have thought of it himself. But it was so far removed from their world that he had never even once considered it.

Some spells would have acted equivalently, if not better. But given the levels of security sure to be surrounding the proceedings, using magic would have been akin to committing suicide. Any unaccounted-for spell would have been traced back to its origin and investigated. But a single camera feed flying up to the stratosphere to reach a satellite before beaming back down to earth and into their little Cornish cottage was as untraceable as it got. Lucius Malfoy probably didn’t even know that kind of technology existed. And none of the other Death Eaters—the Dark Lord included—would ever think to stoop so low; it was perfect. He told his sister so as he sat down on the sofa.

Harry came out of the kitchen a few minutes later. He perched himself on the arm of the sofa as he had four nights prior when Lupin had come with his bad news. Saturnine fidgeted a short while longer with the television set that she had installed on the coffee table, working the dials to alter the contrast and luminosity levels. She did her best to clear the image, but it wasn’t easy with that many wizards on both ends of the signal. The image remained a little grainy, but it was a wonder she had made it work at all. Magic and Muggle technology mixed like water and oil, and the fact she had found something sturdy enough to withstand an assembly full of powerful wizards was a small marvel.

Draco padded into the room a short while later with his head bowed. He was dressed entirely in black, wearing a pair of his school trousers and what Severus suspected was a transfigured Slytherin uniform dress shirt. He had a choice of seating arrangement and could have sat on either side of Severus. He chose the spot on his godfather’s right, as he had before. His eyes were glued to the television, not even absorbing the Muggle equipment with its mess of wires and cables. With rapt attention, he observed the image displayed on the screen.

At a push of a button, the sound came on. And an eerie silence fell upon Cove Cottage as everyone listened to the ceremony occurring on-screen. It was the most pompous funeral Severus had ever seen, but he’d expected no less from his old school friend. Lucius Malfoy had always been arrogant about everything. And Severus never once expected him to treat his wife’s death any differently.

The elder Malfoy was front and centre on stage, dressed equally in black in what appeared to be an embroidered silken shirt. His long platinum-blond hair provided a sharp contrast to his shirt’s dark colour, and the snake head of his cane was polished so brilliantly that Severus had a feeling house-elves must have been required to scrub it all night.

The camera offered a fixed point of view that showed little of the guests seated on folding, wooden, garden chairs on both sides of a flower-paved central alley that led to a small, raised dais lined with black velvet. The whole setup was in the eastern gardens of Malfoy Manor. And Severus figured the camera had been secured against one of the lower branches of the large oak trees that lined the gardens on that side.

A platinum-plated coffin stood on one side of the dais. It was covered in fine engravings. Swirls and loops surrounded the centrepiece that was the Malfoy crest. A collection of small diamonds lined the edges of the well-known symbol.

Severus had little doubt that the coffin alone must have cost a fortune. But a fortune was something Lucius Malfoy could easily afford to spend on his dead wife. He would have done it without blinking. He would have signed off on the paperwork without an afterthought, as he had probably signed for everything else: the flowers, the musicians, and the delicious banquet assuredly waiting for the guests inside one of the Manor’s most grandiose rooms. Narcissa’s funeral was a display of richness, a decadently gauche social event. Cold, removed, and uncaring, it was worthy of the deceased’s best receptions.

As he examined the screen more closely, Severus felt like he was watching a television show—a production. There was nothing personal in the scene. Nothing that betrayed Lucius’ true feelings or any kind of love for his dead wife. He appeared like a hired comedian, shedding fake crocodile tears in tune with the musician’s mournful beat, an affected look thrown on for the benefit of the assembled crowd and journalists.

A Ministry official said a few empty words, and Severus recognised the man as a high-ranking employee sympathetic to Voldemort’s cause. Of course, he’d been spared the Dark Lord’s wrath—as all their other allies probably had been. But not Narcissa. An appointment at the Ministry? Were they really expected to believe that? The Dark Lord had intended her to die as punishment for Draco’s actions, Severus knew. And Lucius went with it. The elder Malfoy had to have known; the Dark Lord would have seen to it. A test, if ever there was one, of his commitment to his master’s cause. And Lucius had sanctioned the death of his own wife. Merciful Merlin, he’d probably been present that day. Hidden under a cloak and a mask as he fought alongside his brothers-in-arms, throwing curses left and right while his wife was murdered in the next room.

Severus swallowed down the bile in his throat as he wondered if his godson had come to the same conclusion on his own. Did Draco realise his father was to blame for this? Looking to his right, he saw that the boy only had eyes for the television. He was barely breathing. His hands were clasped hard on his lap, his shoulders hunched forward as if he could barely keep himself from jumping forward and running for the television in the hopes that he would somehow cross over and be there himself. Apart from that, there was no expression on his face. The Occlumency barrier was firmly up again.

On the other side of the sofa, Harry and Saturnine were equally silent as the ceremony went on. Severus paid them no mind. His only concern was for the event on the screen and the boy by his side. Harry had told him to be there for Draco. And Saturnine had urged him to do the same. But neither of them had told him how to do that—and he still didn’t know. He wished that he could have claimed the camera and television trick as his own. At least it would have shown that he cared. But no—that had been Saturnine’s idea. His sister had done that for Draco, a child she barely knew. And it was Harry Potter who spent all his days caring for his godson. Draco’s Gryffindor nemesis was the silent, comfortable presence at his side, while Severus remained locked in his room like a frightened man—like the coward he was. Wholly inadequate, once more. Like how he had felt most of his life where Draco was concerned. Wrong-footed, always. Fearful—inept.

The first time he had been introduced to his godson, he hadn’t known what to do with himself, either. When Narcissa had approached him with a bundle of jiggling legs and arms and a swath of white linen, clearly intending for him to hold his godchild, he had frozen in fear, not knowing how to proceed.

“Take him from me, would you?” she’d asked. “I need to rest.”

Severus had been so shell-shocked that he hadn’t known what to say—or do.

Narcissa had placed the baby in his arms eventually, instructing him on how to place his hands so that he would cradle the boy’s head adequately. Severus could still remember the warmth that had spread within him as he first held his godchild—a tiny baby with a round face, quicksilver eyes, and a tuft of almost-translucent blond hair. An innocent child that looked upon him with wonder, regarding him with no malice or hate.

Severus had promised himself that day that he would always be there for Draco should he need him. That baby was partly his responsibility—a child he would allow himself to love. And for years, he had. He’d never missed a birthday and had tried to come around Christmastime whenever he could. His gifts might have been modest—an assortment of enchanted carved wooden figurines. But with dedication, he had assembled them himself. Scouring the Forbidden Forest for the right core material, he then spent hours in the dungeons of Hogwarts hunched over the branch, shaving thin, curly strips from the surface to get to the beauty inside. Sitting at his desk with the figurine clutched in one hand and his wand in the other, he added detail upon detail to make it as precise as he could. His were meagre gifts compared to everything else, he knew. But it was the best he could come up with—something personal imbued with a bit of his magic. It was a small part of himself that he gifted the boy each year in the hopes that it would bring a smile to his godson’s face when he played with it.

He’d kept that habit up until Lucius decided that Draco was too old for toys. He’d told Severus so in no uncertain terms—clarified that it was not what was expected from him anymore. Lucius had never had any doubt that his son was destined to become a Slytherin—and that Severus would defacto become his Head of House. And it was time he started acting like it. It was then that Severus had understood why he’d been chosen to become Draco’s godfather. The decision had been made in preparation for that moment: the day that Draco came to Hogwarts. Away from home, the Malfoy heir would no longer be under Lucius’ watchful gaze. He would be under Severus’.

Even then, the Dark Lord had known where he would ultimately send his Potions Master, and Lucius had been made aware long before Severus was. And thus, eleven years before the day, Lucius had established a contingency to ensure that his son’s best interests would be seen to. He’d made sure the man in charge of him then would have a personal interest in Draco’s fate. A sure way to ensure that his son would be favoured and protected on all accounts. His stratagem had worked to perfection. With Lucius on the Hogwarts Board of Governors and Severus acting as his Head of House, Draco had made it through the years with the greatest of ease. The brat could have done anything, and he would have gotten away with it.

But Lucius’ cold-hearted, tactical manoeuvring didn’t change the fact that Severus had a heart. And he’d made a promise to that baby he’d held against his chest one summer afternoon in June 1980. A promise that superseded Lucius’ scheming—and even Dumbledore’s. He’d promised to always care, and he did. So, when the Dark Lord kidnapped Draco, Severus put the boy’s safety first. He sacrificed his cover and his place in the war. And he risked his own life. He stopped at nothing to make sure his godson would see another day. Were he given a Time-Turner to relieve the events of that day, he knew he would make the same choices. Always.

The ceremony was ending on-screen. At a swirl of Lucius’ wand, Narcissa’s casket vanished from sight. It was magically transported to its final resting place in the family’s mausoleum. The violins started another mournful tune as the guests began to rise. Lucius, ever the gracious host, helpfully pointed them towards the Manor for the second act of the day’s celebration.

Saturnine rose and flicked off the television, rendering the screen dark once more. There was a certain finality to the action. The colour, a glistening black, was fitting; it was an absence of content. Next to him, Draco sniffed audibly, and Severus’ attention was on his godchild at once. The Occlumency barriers were starting to crumble, he could see. The boy’s knuckles were white under the strain as he clasped his hands tighter and tighter. His breathing had increased, and there was a little red in his cheeks. It felt as if he were minutes from an explosion, and Severus worried again if he would shatter into a million pieces.

This time, he did what he couldn’t last time—he extended a hand and placed it on Draco’s shoulder, rubbing a little warmth into the taut muscles underneath.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” he apologised, surprising himself with his tone. He had meant for the words to come out stronger. But they had been weak and raspy, and he realised he was parched.

Draco shook a little under his hand and turned his head towards him. Black eyes sought silver orbs, and the barriers came tumbling down as their gazes met. Pain. There was so much pain on Draco’s face now. On his godson’s face, it was so wrong. The child he had promised to protect should never have to endure such pain.

“I’m sorry,” Severus repeated as if his words could make a difference—as if they alone held the power to stop the torrent of pain that pulsed out of Draco. He turned in his seat, feeling his second arm reach out. Intent on doing what, he wasn’t sure. Draw the boy in for a hug, perhaps?

Wherever the action was supposed to lead, Severus would never know. Draco launched himself from the sofa as if he had been burned and ran away—out of the living room and into the bedroom. The door slammed behind his back, the sound loud in the silence. To Severus, it felt like a punch in the stomach. He’d failed once more. Inadequate. So inadequate.

Lucius had chosen him for all the wrong reasons, and it showed. A political move rather than an informed decision—and the boy had been made to suffer the consequences.

Severus was dimly aware of Saturnine talking to Harry behind his back. He heard the second boy retreat to the bedroom an instant later. And then his sister’s hands were on him, snaking around his middle from behind. She pressed herself against his back, a warm, comforting presence. He leaned into her a little as he felt his eyes well up with tears. She softly dropped her head to his shoulder, and he half-expected reproachful comments to pour from her mouth. She had had many of those for him the past couple of days—rightfully so. Clearly, even Saturnine would have been a better choice of a godparent for Draco than he’d been.

His sister said nothing. She just held him, offering him support in silence. And the tears became harder to fight off.

As Harry put the finishing touches on his Transfiguration essay, he glanced up to look at Draco’s parchment. Sitting as they were—cross-legged next to each other on the Slytherin’s bed—Harry could easily read the blond’s elegant handwriting. Even Draco’s script was better-looking than his. Draco had nearly finished his twenty-inch-long parchment. By the looks of it, there were about two or three lines left of blank space at the end of the sheet.

Harry placed his quill back in its holder and blew on his parchment as he waited for Draco to catch up. He felt like suggesting they go out for a walk or something. It was a sunny day, after all, and Harry wanted to see the cliffs. He hadn’t been out much since they got here, and he wanted to travel the trails and check the hidden coves he’d discovered last year to see if they were still there. He thought he could show Draco around. Perhaps that would change his mind and help lift his spirits.

The aftermath of Mrs Malfoy’s funeral had been a nightmare—not that Harry had expected it to be any different. When he’d entered the bedroom, he’d found Draco in quite a state. The blond was acting out the part of the slimy Slytherin prat once more, calling him Potter and Scar-Face and clearly angling for a fight. Harry had hurriedly cast a Silencing Charm on the room as Draco continued to spout the vilest things about Saturnine and Severus and the cottage they now lived in. He’d taunted Harry about his forced seclusion, away from everything else. And he’d made many disparaging comments about what the Mudblood and weasel had to be up to now that they were rid of him.

That comment, acerbic as it was, had come close to reaching Harry’s limits, and it had taken him a real effort of will to keep his temper in check. He’d felt like lunging at the snake and plummeting him to the ground until he’d reduced him to a pulp. But that’s what Draco wants, a little voice in the back of his head muttered. Draco wanted the fight and the punishment. He wanted the physical pain to mask how awful he felt inside.

Harry understood the feeling all too well, having felt similarly only a year before. But he’d had no outlet for his rage and anger then. He had let it consume him, eat him up inside until there wasn’t much left of him. He didn’t wish that upon Draco; he wouldn’t wish that upon his worst enemy. So, he’d done the opposite of what Draco wanted. Turning a deaf ear to the blond’s insults, he stepped forward with open palms instead of closed fists. He caught the boy in a fierce hug, drawing him close and pinning him there even as he felt Draco stiffen against him. He didn’t listen to the barbs and insults that the snake kept throwing at him, and he held on a little more strongly when Draco tried pushing him back. The more he resisted his offer of comfort, the stronger the Gryffindor held him. And the stronger Harry held him, the more Draco lashed out. It continued that way until the rage peaked, then started to abide. As it vanished, the rage left some room within for something else: something raw and precious. Naked, honest pain. And the tears came alongside it.

Harry held Draco as he cried. He never let go—not even when the blond’s knees buckled beneath him. Easily supporting them for a little while, Harry moved them to the nearest bed. There, he held the crying Slytherin close as he allowed himself to express his grief with raw honesty.

And for a little while, they became kindred spirits. They were no longer enemies—no longer a Slytherin and a Gryffindor but two innocent souls sharing the pain.

Harry had no idea how long the tears lasted, but he stayed where he was until they dried out. When he felt Draco’s breathing calming down, he loosened his grip a little without letting go entirely. He wouldn’t, he decided. He wouldn’t be the first to move away. He’d let Draco decide when he was ready to be let go of.

And Draco did eventually, pulling back slowly, almost regretfully, until they were both sitting inches aside. The blond brushed away the last of his tears with his sleeve, murmuring a small, “Thanks,” as he did.

“Don’t mention it,” Harry said in an equally soft voice.

***

Draco hadn’t realised he missed being outside until he stood by the tall, rugged, Cornish cliffs. Warm rays of sun warmed his skin while a fresh breeze tried to force his hair into his eyes. Below them, wave after wave crashed upon the granite rocks, creating a soothing melody in the background.

The young Slytherin couldn’t remember the last time he’d been outside. Surely it hadn’t been months. But it had. His last weeks at Hogwarts, he’d done very little other than trying to fix the Vanishing Cabinet. And then he’d stayed cooped up inside the cottage. Being outside again felt liberating, especially after the last couple of days.

“How did you get inside the bloody room?” he asked Harry, suddenly remembering the question that had pestered him at that moment.

“What?” the Gryffindor asked from where he sat on a large boulder.

“The Room of Requirement,” he clarified. “I thought it was impossible to get in someone else’s space.”

“I wasn’t looking for you,” Harry replied. “I mean I was, but then I wasn’t.”

Draco frowned at the convoluted comment that explained nothing.

“I tried getting in for weeks,” Harry explained further. “I tried guessing at what you had asked for, but nothing worked.”

The admission surprised him. Sure, he’d known the Gryffindor was on his back all day long, but he’d never felt him following him at night. “You knew I was inside?”

“Yeah, I always knew where you were,” Harry admitted.

“Spying on me now, Potter?” he asked, smiling to let him know the switch to his last name was done in jest and not in spite.

Harry chuckled. “I knew you were up to something.” Then he sobered up and continued with a bit of a rueful smile. “You can’t tell anyone this, but I kinda have this map that I inherited from my dad.” He paused, and Draco turned to face him fully, wondering where this conversation was headed. “It shows everyone at Hogwarts—where they are, all the time.”

“Everyone?” he asked incredulously.

Harry nodded. “Everyone.”

“All the time?”

Another nod. “All the time.”

“No way!” But if it was true, it surely explained a lot, except… “Why’d you keep following me around, then? If you knew where I was?”

“I wanted you to know that I was onto you,” Harry admitted, and Draco scoffed at the words. “That’s why I made it obvious I was after you all day long. But I also knew you went to the Room of Requirement most nights. I just followed you about in a different way then.”

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “And I thought that cloak of yours was bad. Talk about an unfair advantage.” Then another thought occurred to him. “Professor Nine caught me in the hallways one night; it was your doing, I suppose?”

Harry seemed surprised to hear that. “She didn’t tell me about it, but I told her early on what you were up to.” He sighed. “She asked me to stop spying on you, but I’m too stubborn for my own good sometimes—or so I’ve been told.”

“How d’you get in, then?” he asked. “How did you figure out what to wish for?”

“I—uh—I sort of didn’t,” Harry explained sheepishly. “I—uh—I guess you could say that I was stalking you. But—uh—there was a noise, and I feared getting caught after curfew again. I had nowhere to go. So, I just wished for a place to hide.”

“A place to hide?” Draco echoed, thinking it over. “Yeah, I guess that was close enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Vanishing Cabinet was in something called the Room of Lost Things. It’s kind of Hogwarts’ Lost and Found. If you want to hide something, that’s where you go. I guess it also works if you want to hide someone.”

“Just dumb luck, then,” Harry said. “Sorry for fixing the cabinet, by the way. I had no idea what it was.”

“Yeah, well—” Draco shrugged. “Sorry for inadvertently getting you kidnapped.”

“Sorry for your mom,” Harry added, and it was the first time they’d come close to the subject since his mental breakdown the day of the funeral. Boy, was he glad that it had happened in the privacy of their bedroom and not in front of his godfather. He could never have lived down the shame.

Returning to the discussion at hand, Draco shrugged again before saying, “It’s all right. We weren’t that close.”

“She was your mom, though,” Harry countered.

It was the truth. Cold and distant as Narcissa had been, she was his mother. And it hurt to know that she was gone.

“What happens now?” he asked, willing the conversation to move to another topic. “Do we just go back to Hogwarts for our seventh year? Sounds a bit futile, doesn’t it?”

“Guess we don’t have a choice, do we?” Harry sighed. “Saturnine’s pretty adamant that I study—that’s probably the Ravenclaw in her and all that. And she’s determined that I get at least a few Os on my N.E.W.T.s. And I doubt Professor Snape will let you sit on your hands all year round, either.”

“What does it matter what he thinks?” Draco asked petulantly.

“He’s your godfather, isn’t he?”

What does that have to do with anything? he wondered. “So? He’s not my father.”

“Lucius Malfoy isn’t there, but Professor Snape is,” Harry replied as if that explained anything. “And you better put in an effort when it comes to your Potions essay.”

Fuck! He’d forgotten about that. The blasted things always gave him a headache. Classes were one thing, but Severus tended to set the bar overtly high with his summer essays. “The Parchment from Hell?”

Harry sniggered. “You call it that, too?”

Draco nodded. “Everyone calls it that. Slytherins are no exception. So—how did you score last year?”

Harry huffed out a breath. “I didn’t.”

Draco vaguely remembered something happening when the Potions Master handed them their graded essays back. But his memory was vague on the details. “What? He refused to grade it again?”

“Not quite—he said he needed more time to read it,” Harry shrugged. “I guess he still hasn’t finished it yet.”

That sounded silly. “You wrote that much?”

“No, I just made it good, for once. And I don’t think the man is capable of giving me a good grade.”

Draco was tempted to laugh at that—it did sound like something Severus would do. His godfather had always had it in for Harry, ever since their very first lesson. Draco had never thought about it much, content that someone was finally taking the famed Boy Who Lived down a peg or two. But now, he found the unfair treatment quite callous and unbecoming of his godfather. The man may be a cantankerous curmudgeon, but he was never vindictive with no reason—except where Harry was concerned.

“Why does he dislike you so much?” he asked, his curiosity genuine.

There was a long silence, punctuated by the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below, before Harry gathered up enough courage to explain, “My dad and him—they were at school at the same time. Professor Lupin and Sirius Black, too.” Another lengthy pause, followed by a sigh. “From what I understand, there was a lot of Slytherin versus Gryffindor rivalry going on then, too. And my dad and his friends were pretty mean to Professor Snape. Really mean, actually. Sirius took it so far once that it nearly got Snape killed.” Harry swallowed hard, clearly not at ease with this dark foray into his father’s past. “Anyway, I don’t think the professor’s quite forgiven them for all these years of misery.”

“And he’s taking it out on you, then?”

Harry nodded. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Shite,” he said. “Sorry.”

It was another part of his godfather’s life that he had never heard about; it piled up with the rest. “I had no idea he had a sister,” Draco mused as he looked at the stretching ocean on the horizon. “He never once told me.”

“I’d known Saturnine for about a year, and she didn’t say a thing, either,” Harry offered.

“What do you know?” Draco asked, wondering if the other boy had some of the missing pieces of the jigsaw that was his godfather. He knew Severus came from somewhere in northern England and that he’d been a potioneer for as long as Draco could remember. But that was about the extent of personal details he had on the wizard. It wasn’t that he’d never cared to enquire, but Severus was adept at changing the subject when there was something he didn’t want to discuss. “What else do you know about them?”

“Not much,” Harry said. “They come from somewhere in the Midlands. They’re Half-bloods—their dad was a Muggle, and he didn’t really like magic.”

Draco was flabbergasted to hear that, and he moved to sit down by Harry’s side. He’d always assumed Severus was a Pureblood. The way he held himself and behaved in society, combined with his natural talent at Potions and the scope of his magical power—damn. Goes to show how little blood purity matters, after all, he thought.

“They didn’t have much money when they were young,” Harry continued. “Saturnine didn’t really say it, but I think their dad may have had a drinking problem or something. Anyway, I think he was violent with them, and they had a pretty rough childhood.”

All of that was news to Draco. He’d never imagined Severus suffering anything like that. The man was so well-put-together, so collected. He’d never seen a chink in his armour. And then he realised the armour that was his trademark frock coat did more than protect him from outside assaults. It hid all the scars within, too.

“I think they were rather close when they were young,” Harry added. “But then something happened, and they split ways. Saturnine lived abroad for a few years. She left right after finishing Hogwarts. And I don’t think they saw each other much for the past fifteen years or so—not until Dumbledore came to enlist her help.”

Draco shook his head. “I had no idea about any of that.”

“Yeah, well—they’re very private. At least they’ve got that in common.”

That made the corner of Draco’s mouth curl up. “They cross their arms over their chests the same way when they’re pissed off at you or something—did you notice?”

Harry chuckled at that. “Yeah, and when she raises an eyebrow, the gesture’s like a sentence in itself.”

Draco joined in on the chuckle. “Severus does that, too—all the time. It’s so annoying.”

“Say, do you want to go flying?” Harry asked, with a trace of eagerness in his voice, as he got to his feet.

“Flying? We can?”

“Yeah, only we can’t go too high or too far,” Harry said, then proceeded to explain the limitations of the boundaries even as they made it back to their shared bedroom. Harry pulled out his trusted Firebolt, and they returned outside.

Draco had never flown on one, and he was eager to try. He expected the Gryffindor to go flying first, but the instant they were back outside, Harry thrust the broom in his hands.

“You want to go first?” he asked. “Only remember not to go too high, okay?”

Draco nodded, feeling the tingling anticipation he always felt when he was about to take off. He couldn’t wait to be in the air—to fly high, to fly fast. He mounted the broom and flew upwards. He tried a few turns and loops to get a feel of Harry’s broom, and then he was off.

The Firebolt was a magnificent piece; reliable, strong, and responsive. It wasn’t as fast and powerful as his Nimbus 2001, but it was a bit more manoeuvrable and responsive. He pushed it hard, going round the cottage in quick circles, feeling the strength of the wind hitting him in the face as his magic thrummed in his veins. He forced out more and more power to propel himself faster and faster, slicing the air like a well-aimed curse.

He pushed himself to his limits and maintained the velocity for a minute or two before slowly flying back down. He felt better than he had in weeks, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Harry had rounded the house and was now waiting for him in front of the cottage, his back leaning against one of the support beams.

Draco dismounted the broom before handing it back to him. “It’s a nice piece.”

“I wish we had another so that we could race,” he said, smiling.

Draco scoffed. “I’d run you into the dirt.”

“You wish!” Harry said as he reached for his broom. And then he was off, looping and swirling and doing figures. He didn’t try to go for speed but went for agility instead. He was turning his bout of flying into a showcase of his talents in the air. And then he did a quick twisted turn on himself that looked impossible.

“Do that again?” Draco asked, running forward to get a better look, certain his eyes had deceived him.

Harry repeated the motion, flying forward at a steep angle and then twisting in on himself as he swirled and turned and collapsed back onto where he’d been. His moves were impossibly graceful and looked aerodynamically impossible.

“How did you do that?” he asked.

Harry flew back down and started to explain the motion, breaking it into parts and using his hands to demonstrate. Then he handed the broom back to Draco as he offered him a chance to try for himself.

Draco did, mounting the Firebolt and taking a bit of height before trying. Halfway through the first swirl, his hands slipped from the handle, and he fell to his bum.

Harry was at his side an instant later, worry in his gaze. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing at his lower back. “You made it sound simpler than it was.”

“Took me a while to get the hang of it, too,” he admitted, extending a hand.

Draco took it, and Harry hoisted him up.

“You were off to a good start. But you need to slow down a little,” he said, pushing the Firebolt back into his fingers. “When you start turning, you can’t go too fast. Otherwise, the broom can’t keep up.”

Draco tried again, and he got to the second turn before he fell again. But this time, he managed to land on his feet. Harry explained again what he’d done wrong, and Draco was back in the air for a third try.

He tried repeatedly until he’d mastered the complicated sequence. By then, they were both tired and covered in sweat. They were also in agreement that this was the best afternoon they’d had all summer and that they should really get around to doing that again.

Walking around the cottage to return to their bedroom so that they wouldn’t be dragging dirt and blades of grass all over the living room floor, Harry challenged Draco to a quick game of Snaps to decide who would get dibs on the shower.

Draco readily accepted; he was good at cards. He had an exemplary poker face, and he would trample the Gryffindor lion into the ground. Harry would be eating dust while he languidly took a warm shower.

They played one game and then another, deciding to make it the best out of three. And Draco realised that he didn’t mind that he was dirty and covered in sweat as if he’d just run a marathon through the Forbidden Forest. There were grass stains on his trousers and shirt and caked mud underneath his fingernails, but he paid it no mind and readily kept on playing.

For the first time in a long time, he was having fun. He was playing a game with a friend, and he wasn’t about to stop.

***

Severus was engrossed in an old Potions treaties that he’d found on one of the shelves when his sister’s voice cut into his concentration.

“Come check this out,” she said with an eagerness that surprised him.

Placing a finger between the pages to keep his place, he lifted his eyes to seek her out. He found her standing behind him with her arms crossed over her chest and peering outside of the window.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Come and have a look,” she said, waving a somewhat urgent beckoning hand. There was a smile on her face. So, whatever it was couldn’t be bad.

He was tempted to resist, partly because the Potions treaty was interesting and partly because he still had a hard time standing on his own. He could manage walking a few steps, but the getting up and sitting down parts were difficult.

“What is it?” he asked again.

“Harry and Draco are outside playing. Come have a look, will you?”

Potter and his godson playing together? Well, that was something he wanted to see. He placed a bookmark inside the pages, and using the back of the sofa, pushed himself to his legs before slowly rounding the corner and making his way to his sister’s side.

He didn’t miss the fact that her azure gaze stayed on him the whole time. She held out an arm for him to take when he was close enough. He readily accepted it, and she took some of his weight as he peered outside the window to discover that both boys were indeed outside—with a broomstick, of course.

“Is it safe for them to go flying?” he asked.

“I extended the charms a little. Harry knows the limits; don’t worry.”

Severus wasn’t worried about that. His concern was that there was only one broomstick and two very competitive Quidditch Seekers on the field. But they didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to go flying. Potter was busy explaining something to his godson, his hands wildly moving about as he tried to mime something. And Draco was listening to his words with rapt attention, his gaze fastened on the Gryffindor’s hands as he studied his motions.

Severus found the scene most peculiar and would never have believed it possible mere months ago. But unless someone had cast a powerful illusion or Imperiused the boys, he was forced to admit that the two were really starting to get along.

Potter handed his broom to Draco, and his godson readily took it before lifting off. He flew a short distance away, then attempted what looked like an inordinately complicated manoeuvre that caused him to fall to the ground.

Severus felt himself instinctively lurch forward to help him. But Saturnine held him in place.

Potter was by Draco’s side in a flash, extending a hand to help him back to his feet. His godson looked all right—if the lopsided smirk on his lips was any indication. Severus relaxed a little—until Draco got back on the broom to try the complicated move again. And he fell again.

Severus was half-tempted to return to the sofa rather than force himself to keep watching from a distance as he waited for a broken arm, or worse—a broken neck. Who was he kidding? He wouldn’t return to the sofa, even if his legs started to turn to jelly. Severus would stay there until his godson’s common sense returned and he decided to keep his feet firmly on the ground.

Needing something to stop his brain from repeatedly picturing Draco falling to his death, he asked, “You care a lot about Potter; don’t you?”

“Don’t call him that,” his sister said. “He’s got a first name, and you know it.” Severus scoffed. “Harry isn’t his father. He’s not James.”

Saturnine’s hand reached for his arm, rubbing up and down a little as she added, “I know what James and Sirius did to you. I know they were awful, and I understand your resentment. But Harry has nothing to do with it. He isn’t his father.”

And wasn’t that the truth. Only the boy was the spitting image of Potter Sr, a constant reminder of a past he so dearly wished to forget.

“He resembles him so much,” Severus admitted. “It’s hard to see past it.”

“He’s a lot like Lily, too, you know,” she said. “Not just the eyes.”

Severus felt his throat constrict at hearing her name.

“He’s got her heart—all that love and kindness she had for everything and everyone,” Saturnine said. “And a bit of her sly humour, too, when he gets going.”

It was hard to hear all that, to be reminded so vividly of Lily Evans. No one ever talked to him about her anymore. Lily was the only person, aside from his sister, he had ever deeply cared about—his first and only love.

“I miss her,” he admitted almost inaudibly.

“I miss her, too,” his sister said. “She was a good friend to the both of us.”

Without the protection of Occlumency, he felt his eyes moisten. Saturnine’s hand on his arm was a comforting anchoring point, and he leaned against her a little.

“Harry isn’t James or Lily any more than Draco is Lucius or Narcissa,” she said. “They are their own selves, and you know it.”

Severus nodded, conceding the point. He had known that all along, but he’d refused to see it. It had been easier to give in to the anger and the resentment. He’d lost Lily to James, and the man had died before he’d had a chance to get him back for it, forever depriving him of his revenge. It had been so easy to seek it upon his young ersatz. Another innocent child made to suffer an adult’s misguided rage. And oh, did that thought hurt­—the parallel was easy to make, and he knew just who his actions made him resemble. He’d behaved no better than the orphaned, vindictive Tom Riddle had.

He felt his stomach churn violently and leaned a little more against his sister. Her comforting warmth spread through his entire right side, and he let his head rest on her shoulder, needing an additional point of contact as he fought the surge of emotions that threatened to drown him.

“You love him, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she breathed out. “I never intended for things to turn out this way. But Harry’s got an uncanny ability to blindside me—again and again. You expect him to come at you one way, and he sneaks in another and—it just happened. He’s a wonderful boy, Severus. Truly. So kind. A gentle soul. I wish you could see him the way I do.”

Severus nodded, feeling like he could have told her the same thing about Draco. He, too, had a gentle soul. It was still there, a little damaged and tarnished but still there. Maybe it could be made to shine again. But was it even their job? Either of their jobs?

“You’re not his mother any more than I am Draco’s father,” he said.

“I’m well aware,” she said. “Except that we are.”

Severus looked up to her at that, needing to see her gaze to understand the true meaning of her words.

“We’re all these boys have left, Severus,” she explained, peering down at him. “They have no one except us. They’re alone in a very dangerous world—a world they don’t fully understand yet. And you know what happens to children forced to grow up on their own, without any clue of what’s right and what’s wrong…”

He looked down again as he fought to hold back the tears. Of course he knew. He knew all too well what mistakes a misguided teenager could make.

“I do not wish that for either of them,” she continued. “I won’t let it happen. If you cannot find it in you to love Draco, I will.”

Severus felt something constrict in his chest at her words. Love. He hadn’t felt the feeling in so long. He couldn’t remember what it looked like. Did he have it in him to love a child?

Saturnine was still looking at him, clearly awaiting an answer.

He told her the truth. “I don’t know that I can.”

June ended, and July took its place. Saturnine was relieved to see her brother’s health improve a little more each day. Severus was still tired and all but magically depleted. But he could finally move around on his own. And his appetite was back to what passed, for him, as normal levels.

Returning from a short trip to the shops to get them their weekly groceries rations one afternoon, she was surprised to find him seated on his bed with a quill in one hand and his wand in the other. She paused in the bedroom doorway to watch, leaning herself against the doorjamb and crossing her arms over her chest.

Severus placed the quill on the palm of his left hand before pointing at it with his wand. Then, with the concentration level of an eleven-year-old student casting his first spell, he muttered, “Wingardium Leviosa.”

When nothing happened, Saturnine felt her heart ache with sympathy. It had to be pure agony for her brother to not even be able to cast a simple Levitation Charm. She dimly remembered when he had first taught her the charm, some twenty-five years ago—it had come so easily to him, back then.

Severus had never been anything but stubbornly determined. And he tried again—the large frown creasing his brow deepening. He tried again and again, but the quill remained immobile in his hand. It got to the point where Saturnine felt it more likely the feather would spontaneously combust under his blazing gaze than magically lift off.

Deciding that enough was enough, she walked into the room and pretended not to notice when he stiffened at her approach, crushing the quill in his hand. She moved to his side, knelt on the bed, and padded around until she was directly behind him. The dark-haired wizard gave her a puzzled look that she also decided to ignore.

Placing both of her hands on her brother’s broad shoulders, she wasn’t surprised to find him stiff-as-a-board underneath. Heaving in a deep breath, she relaxed her own shoulders and got to work. She started at the base of his neck, digging both thumbs in and slowly circling them to work out the knots. Then, pressing down with the heel of both hands, she stretched the high-strung band of muscles of his shoulders. She was by no means a professional, but she had learned a trick or two during her travels to the Far East.

It took Severus over a minute to realise that he hadn’t been introduced to a new form of torture. It was another five until he started to relax—a fraction. All in all, it took Saturnine an entire half an hour of kneading and rubbing his taut back for him to start to let go. By then, her brother’s wand and quill lay forgotten on the bedside table, and his obsidian eyes had fluttered closed.

Using a wandless, nonverbal spell, she retrieved both items and, slowly reaching around, placed them back in his hands.

“Try again,” she said softly to avoid startling him. She didn’t want to break the relaxed haze he’d fallen into. It was a long shot, but magic was instinctual—not something that should be wrought out with forceps. She kept massaging his shoulders, no longer kneading the deeper tissues but simply brushing over the surface to let him know that she was there and—quite literally—had his back.

Quill in one hand, wand in the other, Severus repeated the spell. Peering over his shoulder, Saturnine saw the little black quill shake and then lift off his palm. It hovered an inch or two above his hand with quivering, jerking motions.

Stilling her hands, Saturnine leaned forward to get a better look. Resting her chin atop her brother’s shoulder, she got an eyeful of the boyish grin that stretched across his face. It made him look ten years younger.

***

Entering the living room after a lengthy, warm shower, Draco found Harry seated on the sofa with books and parchment all over his lap. Whatever he was working on, he must have been at it for a few hours now if the ink stains on his fingers were any indication.

Draco stopped by the armchair and leaned against its back. “So—what are we working on today?”

“The Defence Against the Dark Arts essay,” Harry said. “It’s all I’ve got left. That—and Potions.”

Draco audibly groaned at that last word. He, too, was keeping the famed Parchment from Hell for last.

“I have to get those two right,” Harry continued with a sideways glance towards the corridor and the closed bedroom that lay ahead. “I really don’t want to disappoint either of them.”

“You’ll only be disappointing one Snape, though,” Draco corrected. “I doubt Saturnine will return next term.”

Harry looked up with a puzzled look. “Why wouldn’t she be back?”

“Well, the curse,” Draco answered as if it were obvious. “You have heard of it, right? No one can teach Defence for two years in a row?”

Harry shrugged. “She’ll figure something out.”

“Just like that?”

Harry nodded as if it were no bigger a deal than reciting the alphabet backwards.

“You really do think the world of her,” Draco mused. It reminded him of their kidnapping and the time he and Harry had spent locked up in that damp cellar. The whole time, the Gryffindor had been dead certain that Saturnine was coming for him. And he’d been right. “That’s cute, Potter,” he said with a smirk, and really, it was.

“Don’t!” his answer was a warning growl.

“Sorry, Harry,” he hastened to say, raising a palm in a placating gesture. “I was only kidding. Relax.”

Harry rubbed at his neck nervously before sighing. “Sorry,” he said. “Sensitive subject.”

Draco could understand that. “You two are pretty close, aren’t you?” he asked, knowing the answer already. Although they’d put up quite the performance during the school year, one would have to be blind not to see the closeness between the two. Now that the time for deception was over.

“Yes,” Harry admitted, and it felt almost like a reluctant admission. “She cares about me. She genuinely does. And that means a lot to me.”

“No kidding,” Draco said with a soft, sorrowful sigh. He could understand the appeal of having someone as warm and decent as Severus’ sister worrying about his wellbeing.

“Draco, I’m—”

“Don’t!” he cut in, desperately not wanting the other one to launch himself into another volley of awkward condolences laced with cheesy pep talk. He’d had enough of those to last him a lifetime. “Please don’t.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and his attention returned to the book and spare sheets of parchment in his lap. The quiet barely lasted two minutes before he softly asked, “Are you okay, though?”

Draco was tempted to pretend he hadn’t heard. He wasn’t sure what to reply. Two weeks had passed since his mother’s funeral, and he was feeling a little better. The pain wasn’t as sharp, but he was still a long way from okay. It wasn’t so much the disappearance of his mother that had him feeling low. Sure, it hurt, but the two had never been that close. No—what kept him awake at night was the uncertainty of his situation. His life had all but spiralled down the drain. And he didn’t know what to make of it anymore. It felt like he’d lost his place in the world, like he was a useless part left by the wayside. He had no idea how to put that into words, though.

“Draco?” Harry prompted, and he realised that he’d remained silent too long.

There was something in the way the other boy looked up at him that felt both understanding and encouraging, and Draco decided to try and voice some of his murky thoughts.

“I don’t really know,” he said, leaning a bit more on the armchair’s back, and it was as truthful as it got. “I wish I knew where this was going. I mean, we’re in the middle of a war, and I’m doing some bloody homework.”

“What else should we be doing?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know; that’s the thing,” he said a little more harshly than he’d intended. “I don’t know. I just—I—I feel bloody useless, is all.” The admission had cost him. And he felt like slapping himself for this unusual display of honesty; it was very unbecoming of him. Readying himself for whatever joke Harry would make at his expense, he was taken aback when a look of understanding crossed the Gryffindor’s face.

His surprise must have shown, for Harry hastily explained, “I’m supposed to stop You-Know-Who, and I’m here doing my homework, too.” He raised the wad of parchment in his hand for emphasis before letting it drop back to his lap. “And also, that thing’s bloody complicated. Looks like assigning excruciating summer essays is also something that runs in the family.”

Draco couldn’t help but smile at the petulant tone that last comment had been delivered in. “All right, Boy Wonder,” he said, moving around the chair. “Let’s see what’s giving you so much grief.”

And he plopped himself down next to Harry and grabbed the parchments from the Gryffindor’s hand before the other could reply.

***

Severus was busy practising his newfound magic. Sitting on his bed, shoulders hunched forward, face hidden under a curtain of black hair, he was working on what looked like the beginning of a small figurine. Wand in hand, he was shelling away curl after curl from a piece of driftwood he’d found nearby. His fingers were shaking under the strain, and his lips were pinched to a tight line. But he didn’t seem to be ready to give up yet.

Stubbornness, thy name is Snape, Saturnine thought fondly, knowing that if she were in her brother’s shoes, she would also be pushing herself just as hard.

“Do you have a moment?” she asked, sitting cross-legged on her own bed. She had a few ideas percolating in her head that she wanted his input on.

Severus looked up at that, and he raised what she knew to be an amused eyebrow. “Why don’t you let me have a look at my busy schedule.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Professor,” she said with equal mirth. “Should I have called ahead to make an appointment?”

It surprised her to hear him chuckle in response. The return of his magic had improved Severus’ mood, and she was sorry to have to bring it back down. But some difficult subjects had to be discussed.

“Dumbledore,” she continued, growing serious again. “How long do you think he’s got?”

That sobered him up effectively. Resting both wand and figurine atop the blanket, Severus slowly rose to his feet as he crossed his arms over his black long-sleeved jumper. “I’m surprised he’s lasted this long. I did everything I could, but that curse keeps eating its way through his system. I would say he’s got weeks left.”

“What’ll happen, then?” she asked. “How do we move past losing Albus Dumbledore?”

With an undecipherable face, Severus recovered several sheets of parchment from the drawer of his bedside table before moving closer to his sister and handing them to her to peruse. All were covered in line after line of his spidery handwriting with the occasional diagram. It was Potions research, she realised: a complete analysis of intent and effect with full consideration of the capacities of the ingredients.

It led to the recipe of a Stasis Potion unlike any she had ever seen, one so complex and multifaceted she had a hard time following it. It looked difficult to brew as well, needing to go through all the possible phases of matter known to mankind. Not to mention the outlandish list of ingredients, many of which even a Potions Master of Severus’ calibre would have a hard time getting his hands on. That said, if it worked as her brother intended it to—it opened a world of possibilities for the Order of the Phoenix.

“Sounds risky and wrong on many levels,” she continued, handing him the sheets of parchment back. “How certain are you that it’ll work?”

“Quite,” he replied in a tone that let her know she’d struck a nerve. Her brother might be a little battle-wary. But he was still the best damn potioneer she’d ever known—and Severus knew it. If he thought it would work, then it would.

“I’m guessing the stasis will stop the curse from progressing?” she asked, and her brother nodded. “How long can we keep Dumbledore under?”

A minute lift of his shoulders. “I need to run more calculations to narrow it down, but—months, easily.”

Saturnine nodded, considering the idea. The beginning of a plan wove itself inside her head. “Have you told Dumbledore about this?”

Severus shook his head. “I’ve only just finished. You’re the first one I told.”

“Good,” she said. “Keep it that way. If we end up doing this, no one can know about it. Best they all think he’s dead.”

“You want us to pretend like Dumbledore is truly dead? Not to tell anyone?” he asked with a frown. “Do you have any idea the kind of uproar it will cause when the Ministry finds out?”

She was well aware of that, but it was time they stopped playing nice. “If we want to win this war, we have to stop blindly following the rules. The other side doesn’t.”

Severus still had the parchment sheets in one hand. But that didn’t stop him from crossing his arms over his chest again. “Saturnine, that’s—”

“We can apologise for it later,” she cut in. “If there’s a later.”

“Have you got any more bright ideas you want to share?” he asked snarkily.

“What do you think Voldemort’s reaction will be? To the news of Dumbledore’s death, I mean,” she asked.

Her brother huffed. “A victory dance?”

“And?” she prompted him to continue.

Severus frowned at her. Then his eyes got that faraway expression that told her he was thinking it through. She waited for him to come to the correct conclusion; it didn’t take long. “He wants Hogwarts,” he said. “He’s always coveted it. With Dumbledore gone, he’ll be coming for it faster than you can say Quidditch.”

Saturnine nodded her agreement. “What will be his move then? And how do we counter it?”

Severus reflected further before continuing. “The Dark Lord more or less controls the Hogwarts Board of Governors. He’ll be able to appoint whomever he wants to replace Albus. He could even take the position himself—Merlin, help us. With the Ministry in shambles, we will have little recourse to stop him.”

Saturnine nodded. She’d come to the same conclusion. “Unless we make our own arrangements beforehand to ensure the board doesn’t have a say in what happens.”

Severus’ gaze narrowed on her. “How?”

“I don’t know yet.” She sighed. She knew what needed to happen. Only, she hadn’t figured out the ‘how’ just yet. “Hogwarts can’t fall, Severus. It’s all we’ve got left—without it, we lose the war.”

“Who would you see as headmaster, then?” he asked, coming to sit next to her, Potions research forgotten in his hand.

Her mind was moving chess pieces about and trying out various combinations without landing on one she felt was satisfactory. “No one.”

“I would have thought Minerva—”

“No,” she cut him, eyes still lost on the vague as she switched more pieces about. “We need her as Head of Gryffindor and as Transfiguration teacher.”

Severus scoffed. “Surely we need a headmaster more?”

“Do we?” Saturnine asked, turning to face him. “Short term, we can delegate the headmaster’s tasks to the current staff members. However, we cannot do the same with anyone’s classes. Besides, new professorial appointments must be approved by the board. And I’d rather not have to break bread with a Death Eater in disguise.”

She saw her brother go stiff by her side as if his thinking had come to a screeching halt at her words. “We’ve had this discussion already, Saturnine,” he said urgently. “You’re not going back.”

It was her turn to scoff. “Leen Nine can’t go back, but I can.”

Severus was not to be deterred—not that she had thought he would. His tone darkened, and he pinned her with a dark stare. “I doubt the Dark Lord’s curse will make the distinction between the two.”

Unfortunately for him, Saturnine had become immune to that stare sometime in her teens. “We’ll have to chance it. You’re going to need me there,” she said, not faltering. “Besides, if you think I’m going to let the boys out of my sight—or you, for that matter—you’re dead wrong.”

Something flickered in Severus’ obsidian eyes for an instant before he said, “Switch with me, then.”

“What?”

He gave her a momentarily contemptuous sneer as if his words were eloquent enough that he shouldn’t have to explain further. “You take Potions, and I’ll handle Defence.”

He’d made it sound like it was the greatest of personal sacrifice, and she gave him a contemptuous smile of her own as she pointed out, “You do know that everybody thinks you secretly covet the Defence Against the Dark Arts job, right?”

“I—don’t,” he drawled, and it almost sounded like two separate sentences.

She matched his tone to the last disdainful inflexion. “I—know.”

They stared at each other a moment longer before Severus looked away, the corners of his lips fighting hard not to curl upwards. “I’ve seen enough Dark Arts from up close to last me a lifetime, and…”

Saturnine was a bit more liberal with her smile as she finished his sentence. “…and you love Potions.”

He said it anyway. “I love Potions.”

“You’d trade with me, though?” she asked.

“If it can save your life, yes,” he replied, deliberately not meeting her gaze now. “Without hesitation.”

“And it’s not even Christmas yet,” she mused, feeling that a bit of levity was needed to their roller-coaster of a discussion.

Severus flickered his eyes her way at that, levelling her with a cold, piercing stare. Saturnine easily held his gaze, glad to see she hadn’t lost her touch in the years they’d been apart. The day she’d understood the finer points of sarcasm, attempting to rile the other up quickly became one of the siblings’ favourite pastimes, and they reached Grand-Master level long before either of them reached puberty. While the mental verbose gymnastic of their amicable jousting was always fun, tears and rancour weren’t. And they’d both learned quickly how far they could push each other—and when to quit.

“What if we go halfsies?” Saturnine offered more seriously.

“What?”

“If we simply switch classes, we’ll be back to square one in twelve months,” she explained further. “Do you know the exact nature of the curse? How it was worded?”

Severus shook his head. “‘No one will be allowed to return for a second year’—or something along those lines.”

“Well—we won’t be a one—we’ll be a two. If we split the workload fifty-fifty, that bloody curse won’t be able to make heads or tails out of us.”

Severus considered her words for a long moment before saying, “That’s risky. We could both be targeted instead.”

“Or not...”

“A fifty-fifty chance, I would wager.” He sighed. “I’ve worked with worse odds.”

“Good—now that that is settled, can we get back to the topic at hand? Namely stymieing the Dark Lord and protecting Hogwarts?”

She wiggled her eyebrows at him, and Severus shook his head.

“You’re annoying,” he said, trying hard to hide his amusement.

Sweet Circe, did the banter feel good. It was almost like the last fifteen years had been magically erased, and she’d gotten her big brother back. It gave her hope that somehow, they would find a way to put the past behind them and learn to be friends again. If by some cosmic fluke, they both managed to survive the war, that was.

“Learned it from the best,” she replied. Then feeling bold, she inched forward to peck him on the cheek. As she moved back, Severus brought a hand up to brush the tip of his fingers over his cheek. Or perhaps he was trying to hide the pinpricks of red that had appeared on his skin.

Heaving in a breath, Saturnine returned to more serious matters. “We’re playing for time, and our best bet is to maintain the status quo at Hogwarts. That means no change of staff and finding a loophole to avoid replacing Dumbledore for the time being.”

“Until we can find the Horcruxes,” Severus interjected.

She nodded. “That remains our top priority. We can’t attack Voldemort directly while those backup versions of himself are out there.”

“He can’t be allowed to figure out what we’re doing,” Severus warned. “If he so much as suspects that we’ve understood that these artefacts exist, they’ll be taken out of our reach for good.”

“I know, Sev. That’s why we’re the only ones working on this—containment.”

“I fear that it won’t be enough”.

She hummed in agreement. “That’s why we need to keep him busy with something else,” she offered. “A distraction.”

Severus considered her idea an instant. “We know the Dark Lord wants the Elder Wand.”

“And we both know where it is,” she mused. And then suddenly an idea hit her, just like magic—Muggle magic.

She turned to her brother with a beaming smile and reached for his forearm on impulse. “Brother-mine, I think I’ve just had what may be my craziest idea yet—and that’s saying something.”

Albus Dumbledore came to visit one afternoon, precisely a month after Narcissa Malfoy’s funeral. While the date might have been coincidental, Severus was sure that it was anything but. And he greeted the headmaster with a reserved countenance.

By his side, Saturnine was slightly more welcoming. His sister played gracious host, serving them all tea and biscuits while Severus frowned at the headmaster from his place on the sofa nearest the Potions lab’s entrance. The boys were outside, busy chasing each other around the house on their respective broomsticks.

“You’ve redecorated,” Dumbledore observed, indicating the new room that faced him.

Saturnine nodded. “Sorry, we had to. We needed a place to brew the potion for Severus and Draco’s marks. I can set it back right before we leave.”

Dumbledore shook his un-gloved hand dismissively. “No need, my dear. This old place could do with a couple more rooms.” He sighed. “I would never have thought to ask all four of you to spend the summer here. Only you and Harry were already familiar with the place, and I didn’t have anything else set up at that moment. I hope you don’t find the proximity too difficult.”

The comment had been meant for him, Severus knew. But he chose to ignore it, just as he ignored the cup of tea his sister was holding out for him.

“Not at all, Headmaster,” Saturnine replied with a ready smile as she placed the unwanted cup on the coffee table. “I rather think it’s been good for the boys.”

Dumbledore’s tired eyes still had enough energy to twinkle at her words, and Severus had a scathing comment ready to tumble from his lips should the old fool dare to comment on the fact that the two teenagers weren’t the only ones who’d been forced to share a room. Some merciful god must have been protecting him, for the amused look was all he got.

“Yes, I’ve always been rather fond of this old cottage,” he said before taking a sip of his tea. Severus couldn’t help but notice that the cup shook slightly in his frail hand. “But I hadn’t been back in years. Such a shame time flies by so fast.”

Hoping the two weren’t going to exchange pleasantries all afternoon, Severus crossed his arms over his chest as he fought not to tap his foot impatiently. They had requested a meeting with the headmaster over a week ago, and he’d taken his sweet time showing up to their oh-so-wonderfully-quaint abode. Was he planning on keeping them waiting the rest of the afternoon, too, before they talked business—Order business?

Saturnine must have perceived his irritation, for she launched into a careful explanation of their plan the minute she sat down by his side on the sofa. Dumbledore remained silent until she was finished, his good hand stroking his long beard absentmindedly while the other remained limp in its protective velvet glove.

“I recognise you both in that plan,” Dumbledore said after she’d finished. “Saturnine’s ingenuity merging with Severus’ cunning—a most formidable combination. You are both a credit to your respective Houses.”

Severus scoffed aloud at the headmaster’s words, while his sister was slightly more restrained and simply rolled her eyes. Neither of them had ever liked being narrowed down to such basic parameters as the Houses they’d been sorted into. Dumbledore must have missed their discontent, for he happily continued in the same vein. “I’ve always thought the two of you to be rather formidable in your own ways. But that’s nothing compared to what you can achieve when you combine your efforts. You should do that more often.”

Severus had had enough of the saccharine praise. “I take it to mean that you agree with our plan,” he cut in.

“Of course, my dear boy,” Dumbledore affirmed. “How long will it take you to set everything in motion?”

They hadn’t discussed that yet. Severus briefly glanced left towards his sister to gauge her opinion on the matter.

“I’ll need a few days to inspect everything and make sure I’ve covered every angle,” she informed him. “And we need to find all the ingredients for you to brew the Stasis Potion.”

Severus nodded. Some would be difficult to find—and costly. But he was sure to be able to assemble them all within a week or two. “I will require some assistance in that matter,” he admitted. Though most of his strength had returned, his magic was still a little on the fritz. And he could use a hand with a potion as complicated as this.

“I’ll gladly help you however I can,” Saturnine said with a nod.

“Shall we wait for the term to start?” Dumbledore asked.

Severus nodded, barely holding back the ‘if you can last that long’ comment on the tip of his tongue. “You should increase the dosage of the Strengthening Drought until then,” he advised before looking away. “And rest as much as you can.”

Uneasiness had surged in him at the words, and he wished he could Occlude to clear his thoughts. As it was, he settled for imagining dancing flames in the empty grate facing him.

“Rest assured that I will do everything I can to last the summer,” Dumbledore said with what sounded like forced cheerfulness. It was so out of place that Severus’ head whipped his way at the crude reality the comment brought forth.

A soft smile was waiting for him on Dumbledore’s lips, and he looked away again, feeling the corner of his eyes prickle. Closing his hand into a fist, Severus willed the surge of emotion back down as he said, “We made some headway in our research on the Horcruxes.”

“Good—very good,” Dumbledore said. “Have you found any more?”

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Saturnine shake her head. “We agree that Salazar Slytherin’s locket must be one, though we have no idea where it could be today. We don’t think the Dark Lord has had access to any other artefact that belonged to the founder of Slytherin House. Instead, he may have gone after heirlooms from the other founders.”

Severus took over from that point forward. “We agree that it is unlikely that he went after something of Godric Gryffindor—for obvious reasons. But he may have used something of Helga Hufflepuff or Rowena Ravenclaw.”

Dumbledore considered their words a moment before asking, “Am I to assume that you have a list of potential items that may have survived the centuries?”

“Ravenclaw’s diadem is the first thing that comes to mind,” Saturnine said. “The lore associated with that tiara is widely known throughout the Wizarding World. And it’s the kind of item the Dark Lord would have sought to obtain to gain power. A jewel that enhances the wisdom of its wearer is in line with the Deathly Hallows. But I have no clue whether a Ravenclaw heirloom would work on a Slytherin.”

“Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,” Dumbledore said, quoting the words said to be etched upon the diadem’s surface, proving that he, too, had heard about the magical relic. “The Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw,” he said with a tired sigh, “is so-called for a reason. No one’s seen it in hundreds of years.”

“I will ask the Grey Lady about it upon our return to the castle,” Saturnine said. “There’s a couple of volumes in the Restricted Section of the library that I would also like to examine.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Upon further investigation, it seems Hepzibah Smith not only managed to acquire Salazar Slytherin’s locket but also a golden cup that belonged to Helga Hufflepuff,” Severus said. “She went to Borgin and Burkes with both items. And if Tom Riddle stole the necklace from her, it is safe to assume he got his hands on the cup, too.”

Glancing briefly at his sister, Severus wasn’t surprised to see a frown of displeasure mar her forehead. The disappointment was directed inwardly, he knew. She blamed herself for having missed the connection that he so readily made as he perused her research document. In her defence, she’d been rather preoccupied with the locket at that time.

“I may have an idea where that one is,” he continued. “Bellatrix Lestrange once boasted that she’d been entrusted with the care of a particularly important object by the Dark Lord. She said it was a bejewelled golden goblet. But it might very well have been Hufflepuff’s cup.”

Dumbledore leaned forward in interest, peering at him over his half-moon spectacles. He eagerly asked, “And do you have any idea where it could be?”

Severus shook his head. “Bella obviously didn’t say, and we can’t ask her about it now,” he said, feeling his hackles rising as he remembered his final confrontation with the mad witch and the fire that had consumed her before his very eyes. “I’m fairly certain the Lestranges have vaults at Gringotts—it might be a good place to start.”

“Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange have been taken to Azkaban, pending their trial,” Dumbledore explained. “Though they may not know about the cup directly, they could still give us access to the family vaults.” He paused, seeming to consider that line of action. “I will see what I can do.”

“That only leaves us with the snake, then,” Saturnine said. “If the Dark Lord created six Horcruxes, as Professor Slughorn believes...”

“Getting close to Nagini won’t be easy,” Severus added. “The two are never far from each other.”

“We’ll keep that bloody snake for last then,” she said. “The two can go out together in a blaze of glory, for all I care.”

Noise coming in from the bedroom and the sound of the en-suite shower room opening and closing told both siblings that the boys had returned from their bout of flying around the cottage. Why these two could never use the front door to come and go like everyone else was beyond Severus. That James Potter’s urchin’s upbringing left something to be desired was one thing. But surely his godson ought to be better behaved. Sighing inwardly, he feared Harry was becoming a bad influence on Draco.

“Now that this is settled,” Dumbledore said, “there’s one more matter that I need to discuss with you—the four of you.”

Severus tensed at that and did not participate in the idle chitchat Dumbledore and Saturnine engaged in while they waited for Harry and Draco to make an appearance.

A short while later, both teens burst out of the corridor in a frenzy of chatter and lively motions. They were aiming for the kitchen but stopped dead in the living room’s entrance as they noticed their headmaster’s presence.

Draco was the first to recover his countenance. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said with a polite nod.

“Mister Malfoy, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore said, turning their way with a fond smile. “It is good to see that you both seem to be enjoying your summer in Cornwall.”

“Although, I fail to see why you cannot ever seem to enjoy using the front door to enter the cottage,” Severus admonished them with the reproachful tone of voice he’d spent years perfecting.

“We—uh—didn’t want to track mud and dirt in everywhere,” Harry said meekly.

Severus felt one of his eyebrows rise of its own volition at the sheer stupidity of the statement.

“I know Professor Flitwick is getting on in the years. But surely his teaching hasn’t deteriorated to the point of missing out on the Scourgifying Charm, has it?” he demanded. And both boys froze under his demanding gaze. “Or have you two forgotten that you’re wizards?”

A matching set of blushing faces lowered as both teens mumbled equally unintelligible answers; their uneasiness made Severus laugh on the inside.

“Don’t let the mean Potions professor get to you, boys,” Saturnine said. “He enjoys taunting easily impressible children for no reason.”

Severus huffed at that. Sure, it was the truth. But their charges didn’t need to know that.

“Come have a seat with us,” she instructed, motioning at the sofa.

Both boys obeyed, and Severus watched with an amused twinkle in his dark eyes as they raced for the spot furthest from him. Draco, who’d been closer, won the race. And Harry was forced to sit in the middle. But he took great care to sit as close to the blond as he could.

***

Now that he sat at eye level with the headmaster, Harry was surprised to see how frail Albus Dumbledore looked. With his sallow skin and drawn-out features, to say he was tired would be an understatement. He’d lost weight, and the wrinkles on his face had grown more pronounced. His cursed hand was safely hidden away beneath a lilac glove, but it hung limply by his side. Actually, the old wizard’s posture made him think that more than his hand was dead to the world. Harry surmised it was the same throughout the entire arm.

There was a grave air to Dumbledore’s face, too. And Harry wondered if this visit had been a semi-official Order of the Phoenix gathering rather than a social call.

“I’m sorry to say that I am here in an official capacity as headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” Dumbledore said at last, and Harry frowned in puzzlement. Glancing sideways at Saturnine who was perched on the edge of the coffee table, he saw her forehead creasing and surmised that she had no idea what this was about, either.

“It would seem that Lucius Malfoy is very keen to have his son back by his side,” Dumbledore continued. “And he’s presented us with an ultimatum of sorts.”

The Slytherins on either side of Harry tensed at the words. But it was Saturnine who asked the first question. “Does he know that we have Draco?”

“He’s been made aware that you and Severus rescued him and surmises that you have been keeping him safe ever since. He’s demanding, quite insistently, to be told where.”

“But he can’t find me, right?” Draco asked. “This place is protected?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Only a handful of Order members have access to this cottage, and none of them can reveal its location to outsiders. You need not fear your father or the Dark Lord coming here.”

Draco breathed out a relieved sigh and relaxed a fraction; Harry could understand his uneasiness. There was little doubt that Voldemort was behind the request to locate him, and that if he were to be found, there would be some severe repercussions to his actions leading to the ultimate sanction. Draco would most likely die an excruciating death, while his father would be forced to watch from the sidelines.

Chancing a glance at Saturnine, Harry saw that her features were coiled with anxious tension. He knew the look: no matter what Dumbledore was here to announce, she would do everything she could to protect Draco. And he had an idea that her brother felt equally inclined.

“You said something of an ultimatum,” the Potions Master by his side remarked.

“Yes, I’m afraid that Lucius has resorted to some rather uncouth means to try and get Draco back.” He heaved a sigh. “I was under no illusion that he would try something nasty. But I did not foresee him stooping so low—not so soon after Narcissa’s passing.”

Draco went stiff as a statue at the mention of his mother, and Harry’s heart ached for him.

“If Draco doesn’t return by the end of the week, Lucius will disown him publicly and thoroughly,” Dumbledore announced with gravitas.

The blond by his side gasped in shock. And Saturnine raised a surprised hand to cover her gaping mouth.

“Surely not!” Snape said, his low voice coming out in an almost growl.

Harry’s reaction was more demure; he wasn’t sure what ‘disown’ meant.

“He can’t?” Draco said. “Surely he can’t do that to me, can he?”

“I’m afraid that it is within Lucius’ purview as Head of the House of Malfoy,” Dumbledore said regretfully.

“But Draco is his only son and heir,” Saturnine said. “And Narcissa’s dead.”

“Lucius isn’t that old. He could remarry and have another son,” Dumbledore pointed out. “But I agree that it would be quite tasteless.”

“He’s more than enough of a bastard to do that,” Snape said, his voice scornfully dark. “Will we let him?”

“I’ve looked into it. But regretfully, there isn’t much any of us can do. Lucius has filed a valid request with what’s left of the Ministry. And it has been approved. No one can stop it going through but him, now.”

“Under what grounds?” Saturnine asked. “Does it cite a reason?”

Dumbledore looked pained as he replied, “Rebellious behaviour, mostly. Lucius stated that outside forces have corrupted his son to the point that he fears for his own life and would feel safer if he could sever any ties between the two of them.”

“That’s a load of crap,” Draco roared. “He’s the one who had me tortured and kidnapped, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Surely you can do something?” Saturnine asked Dumbledore.

“Draco is seventeen and, thus, considered an adult in the Wizarding World. So there’s very little about it Hogwarts can do—except open its doors to allow him to return for his seventh year, which is what we’ll do, of course.”

“And then what?” Draco demanded. “I’ll have nothing—not even a Knut to my name. What will I do? Where will I live?”

Harry could feel the blond growing agitated and feared a small explosion might happen soon. Reaching out for him on impulse, he placed a comforting hand on his forearm to quiet him. “We’ll figure something out, all right,” he said. “I’m sure everything’s going to be okay.”

Draco pushed his hand away forcefully before sitting up. “Don’t patronise me, Potter,” he spat out. “And don’t you dare say you understand a thing about what this means to me. I’m not like you. I don’t have hordes of friends ready to back me up.”

“Draco!” Saturnine warned, shooting to her feet. “Mind your tone.”

“Or what?” he scoffed. “You’ll cast me out, too?”

With that, the blond stormed from the room, disappearing down the corridor leading to their bedroom. Saturnine watched him go with a concerned expression before turning to face her brother. She glared at him reproachfully, which Harry understood meant ‘you could have at least said something.’

“I trust you will both look after him for what remains of the summer holidays?” Dumbledore demanded, not seeming to mind the way Draco had left.

Saturnine nodded. “Of course we will.”

“I’ll see if I can do more,” he said, getting to his feet tiredly. “But I don’t hold out too much hope. Lucius knows his way around legalities. And he’s got the right connections to make this happen.”

“Thank you for appraising us of the situation, Headmaster,” Severus said, his tone bleak.

There were no cheery goodbyes as Dumbledore took his leave. And a heavy silence descended upon their trio after he was gone.

“Can Mr Malfoy really do that?” Harry asked a while later. “Turn Draco into a penniless orphan, I mean.”

Saturnine nodded. “As horrible as it sounds—yes, he can. Draco will lose his title as heir to the House of Malfoy. And he will be considered a stranger by the lot of them. Much like Sirius Black was when he refused to follow his family’s ways.”

Harry felt a lump grow in his throat at the mention of his godfather. He remembered the ugly painting in the entrance of 12 Grimmauld Place and the insults Walburga Black kept throwing at her own son every chance she got.

“Don’t worry about it,” Saturnine continued. “We’ll see to Draco’s needs. He may have to get used to new standards. But he won’t miss out on anything.”

Harry nodded in relief, then, looking at the corridor. He wondered if the blond had had time to cool off yet. “Shouldn’t one of us go see if he’s okay?”

Saturnine shrugged her shoulders, and Harry turned to the man sitting next to him. His Potions professor had a grave look on his face. He looked torn between the urge to strangle Lucius Malfoy and the need to see to his godson’s safety. Once again, Harry was reminded of how human the taciturn man was. Underneath the frock coat and aloof exterior was someone he had never had a chance to meet before that summer.

“Would you like to go, sir?” Harry asked, thinking that it was the most appropriate course of action.

“I wouldn’t know what to say to him,” he said, gaze lost on the unlit fire.

His answer had been so soft-spoken that Harry wondered if he’d heard it right. And then the words sunk in, and he was surprised by the self-deprecating admission within them. Never once in a million years would he have thought he’d hear Professor Snape say something like that. And indeed, he wouldn’t, he realised. This hadn’t come from his emotionally closed-off teacher. It had been Severus’ words. And Harry finally understood that a distinction had to be made between the two personas.

Getting to his feet, he said, “I’ll go talk to him, then.” Saturnine gave him a thankful nod as he walked by, and he called over his shoulder in parting: “I’ll come get you if I need help, Severus.”

***

Draco wasn’t surprised Harry cast a Silencing Charm the instant he entered their bedroom.

“Are you okay?” he asked, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“Never better,” Draco replied from where he’d sat down on the edge of his bed.

“Dumbledore’s gone,” he informed him. “He said he’d look into it some more, but he doesn’t think there’s much he can do. Your father’s apparently good at legal stuff, and—”

“Call him Lucius Malfoy,” Draco cut in. “Since he’s no longer my father, apparently.”

“Draco…”

“What?” he roared back, pushing to his feet and walking nervously to the bay window. The sun had begun to set on the horizon, he noticed.

“I’m sorry,” Harry offered. Wasn’t that generous of the goody two-shoes lion. Fat load of good a sorry did for him.

“Piss off, Potter,” he said as he tried hard not to be distracted by the reflection he saw in the pane of glass of a tall figure with platinum-blond hair—the Malfoy heir.

“You have a place here,” Harry said like he meant it.

“Here with what?” Draco sneered at the Gryffindor’s distant reflection. “The joke of a family that resides in this cottage? Wake up, Potter; it’s a mirage! Severus is only staying because he’s too weak to be on his own. And Saturnine—well, who knows why she rejoined the land of the living, but she sure as hell isn’t staying long.”

“You’re wrong!” Harry barked, and Draco sensed he’d hit a nerve.

He should have left their discussion to die a peaceful death. But he couldn’t help but verbally pounce on the lion instead. At that point, any distraction felt better than facing the feelings he could feel welling up inside of him. “Am I, though? Or are you that desperate to have anyone?”

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Harry warned.

“You’re pathetic,” he said, turning on his heel to face him.

“She loves me,” Harry protested with the coldest sneer he could muster.

“Does she now?” he crooned with his own contemptuous twist of the lips. “How lovely.”

“She’ll adopt me,” the other continued. “We’ve filled in the paperwork already.”

“Lucky you,” Draco muttered, fingers itching to reach for his wand and hex the lion into oblivion.

Harry’s words had been like a stab in the gut. Learning that Boy Wonder was getting adopted the same day he learned he’d been orphaned was a great way to wrap up an already bloody fucktastic summer. Needing someone else to hurt just so that he could feel a little better about his pathetic excuse of a life, he said, “Someone’s finally desperate enough to want you.”

Harry was on him in a flash, pouncing in a vulgar Muggle fashion—fists at the ready. Draco wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way in time. And Harry landed a sharp blow to his left cheek that had him seeing stars. His hand reached for the wand in his pocket while the Gryffindor readied for another swing.

Draco barely had time to shout, “Stupefy!” before the second punch hit him. “You’re a fucking wizard, Potter,” he roared at the frozen boy. “When will you learn to behave like one and use your wand?”

Draco rose a hand up to massage his tender cheek. Damn, that punch had hurt. Not as much as the gut-wrenching ache that threatened to tear him apart in the middle—but still. Heaving in some deep breaths, he passed a weary hand through his short hair. It was all getting too much, and he could barely breathe. He needed to get some fresh air and get away. He needed to think; he needed a plan.

No one would help him; he’d have to figure something out on his own. Fuck school, and fuck them all. He wasn’t going back; what would be the point? They could keep their tedious manuals and useless classes. His father may take his vaults and his name. But he still had a wand and his magic, and he’d figure something out. He would show them. He’d show them all—and his father to boot. He was a Slytherin, and he would find a way to rise from the ashes of his burned-out life.

Looking at Harry, who still stood by his bed with his arm frozen in mid-swing, he felt his resolve crumble. This summer had been nice, and he could have gotten used to that kind of life. No! he thought. It wasn’t for him; it had never been. Best to go away now and figure things out later.

“Take care, Harry. And don’t come looking for me,” he said before turning on his heel and striding out through the bay window that he pushed open.

“Really—how hard is it to say, ‘I love you,’ Severus? Or are you truly incapable of doing the right thing for once in your life?” Saturnine asked as she shook her head for the umpteenth time. She paced back and forth across the living room with her arms crossed over her chest.

Feeling a headache settle in, Severus rose to his feet, intent on putting his sister and that dreadful discussion behind him as he retreated to their bedroom.

“Don’t you dare walk away,” she threatened him with a pointed finger. “You will talk to him even if I have to drag you to that room myself and tie you to his bed.”

“Stay out of this, ’Nine,” he warned. “You already have one child to see to, don’t you? Why don’t you worry about Harry and let me deal with Draco in the way I see fit.”

“By playing ostrich and hiding your head in the sand?” Both her eyebrows rose mockingly, and he felt his temper flare. “Fat load of good that’ll do either of you, Severus.”

He had a well-chosen insult ready to tumble from his mouth when a clearly distraught dark-haired teenager stormed out of his bedroom.

Saturnine was on him in an instant. “What is it, Harry? What happened?”

“Draco’s gone,” he gulped as he heaved in a breath. “He Stupefied me before Apparating away.”

Severus felt as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over him. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologised, briefly looking down in shame. Then he forced himself to look back up and meet his gaze. “We have to find him, Severus. He’s not well—and—” He swallowed with difficulty, “I don’t know what he’ll do. But I’m worried.” He turned to look at Saturnine pleadingly. “I’m really worried.”

“Did he say where he was going?” Saturnine asked as she took him by the arm to force him to sit down in the armchair.

Harry shook his head. “We were arguing, and he was being an arse to avoid talking to me.”

“What happened exactly?” Severus demanded. “Walk us through it.”

“I was trying to tell him that it would be okay, that he could stay with us and have a place here. But he didn’t want to hear it. He said some pretty hurtful things, and I—” he gulped and looked down.

“You what?” Severus prompted, his tone making it clear that he had better talk—and fast.

Harry glanced sideways at his sister. “I kinda told him about the papers you signed,” he admitted.

“‘Papers?’” Severus echoed, with no idea what the boy meant. Clearly, his sister knew, for she had trouble meeting his questioning gaze.

“Adoption papers,” Saturnine answered after a brief silence. Then, finally looking up at him, she added, “I’m going to adopt Harry.”

Severus felt his worry turn into rage, and he rounded on the Gryffindor with all the bite he had. “And you felt it wise to throw that in Draco’s face? Today, of all days?” he asked scathingly. And Harry recoiled in fear at the sight of him.

Severus had to walk away at that; it was all he could do to refrain from throwing a hex or two his way. Merciful Merlin, that boy could be thick at times.

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry tried to explain. “I never wanted to hurt him. But he said all those hurtful things about you and Saturnine, and it just came out. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Harry. We know that,” Saturnine said. And Severus scoffed at her tone. An adoption, really? Guess that explained the motherly attitude he’d begun to notice in his sister recently. And of all the possible candidates, it had to be James Potter’s spawn—of course. As if life hadn’t fucked him over enough already. It was a knife to the back—a deathly blow dealt by his own sister, of all people.

Feeling what little of his magic that had returned pulse through his veins, he curled his fingers into fists as he tried to evade the pain. He needed to find Draco. He needed to find his boy.

“You know him better than any of us, Severus,” Saturnine said. “What do you think he’ll do?”

He turned to face her then and saw that she was approaching the corner where he stood. He shrugged. He had no idea.

“Do you think he might be foolish enough to go after Lucius?” she asked, stepping closer. “Think, Severus.”

And he did. Forcing the emotions away, he focused on the rationale and tried to view the situation from a strategic point of view. Dumbledore mentioned the word ‘ultimatum’. And the deadline wasn’t over. That meant Draco still had his name and title for another day or two. The logical move would be to remove Lucius and destroy the paperwork before it could go through, thus ensuring Draco retained his vast inheritance.

“He might,” he said as dread all but paralysed him. His godson tended to do foolish things when driven by pure desperation. And as it stood, he might well have decided to throw himself into the wolf’s mouth.

An agonised look filtered over Saturnine’s face at his words. Both of her hands came up to rake at her hair as she blew out a heavy breath. “Surely he must realise that it’s a trap, right?” At his silence, she tried to force a reply from him. “Please, Severus—tell me he figured that part out.”

Unable to form the words, he merely shook his head.

She cursed out loud. “Malfoy Manor?” she asked. “You think he went straight there?”

“If he really wants to have it out with Lucius, that’s where he’ll go.”

“Sweet Circe, Lucius will be expecting that,” she said, aghast. “Draco won’t have a chance.”

“We have to go then!” Harry interrupted.

Severus whirled on him in surprise. He’d forgotten Harry was even in the room and hadn’t noticed him sitting up and walking towards the entrance of the Potions lab where he and Saturnine stood.

“We can’t leave Draco alone,” he continued. “We must go at once.”

“We are not going anywhere,” Severus said darkly when he noticed the wand in the boy’s hand. “You will stay here while Saturnine and I deal with this situation.”

With no surprise, his sister backed him up readily. “You can’t come with us, Harry. It will be too dangerous. This whole disowning thing was obviously a trap to lure Draco out—and possibly the rest of us. Half a dozen Death Eaters will be waiting for us at the Manor. There’s no way we’re taking you there.”

“But you can’t fight them on your own!” Harry roared back, wand twitching in his hand. “You’ll need help. Get the rest of the Order, at least.”

“There’s no time,” Severus said, his tone making it clear the decision was final. “We had best get going.”

Saturnine nodded, and an instant later, a dark cloak floated through the living room and into her waiting hand. She shrugged it on over her burgundy hoodie and light-blue jeans before tossing her long braid over it. Severus did not need extra layers. He was already dressed appropriately in a pair of black jeans and a black long-sleeved jumper. Come nightfall, they’d both be inconspicuous.

As Severus turned to face the door, he was surprised to find an angry teenager with a raised wand facing him. “Step aside, Potter,” he sneered.

“No!” he said. Then Harry raised his gaze to meet Severus’ and held it. “Either I’m coming with you, or you’re not going.”

“Let us go, Harry,” his sister insisted. And Severus felt more than saw her reach for her own wand. He had little doubt that she would throw a Stunning Curse on the boy if she had to.

“Don’t make me fight you,” Harry all but begged her. “If you think I’ll stay behind, you really don’t know me at all. Right now, I don’t care about the war or Voldemort. If we start leaving behind our own, we’re no better than him.”

His emerald-green eyes shook with intensity both foreign and familiar to Severus. Harry really had his mother’s eyes, he realised. Her courage shone through. Lily wouldn’t have backed down either, he knew. And neither would James. He would have stood, as Harry did, with the same dogged determination in his squared shoulders.

“You don’t abandon your friends or family,” Harry pleaded with them, wand still held in a threatening posture. “You two may have forgotten that, but I haven’t. I never will!”

Reaching a hand to the side, Severus found his sister’s wand-hand and forced it back down. “You will do as we say, no questions asked,” he informed the young Gryffindor. “If we tell you to run—you run and don’t look back.”

Lowering his wand, Harry nodded. “I will,” he promised, still holding Severus’ gaze.

***

Harry wasn’t sure he could ever face off against Professor Snape and live to tell the tale. But he could face Severus, and he had. Now, he stood his ground as Saturnine threw a murderous gaze his way. She was pissed, and he could understand why. But Draco needed them—all of them. This rescue mission, if it was one, was a Hail Mary. And he couldn’t stay behind. He couldn’t sit on his hands while the woman he loved like a mother risked her life to save the teen he’d begun to call his friend over the summer.

Severus led the way outside, and Harry followed suit. Saturnine brought up the rear and locked up Cove Cottage behind them.

“Malfoy Manor, then?” Severus said as he stood a few feet away from the front door.

Saturnine nodded as she reached out a hand for Harry to grasp so that she could Apparate them both.

“Wand at the ready, Harry,” she instructed. “Stay behind me. We’ll Apparate a little bit away from the entrance and assess the situation when we get there.”

“No rushing in,” Severus advised. “No matter what you see.”

Harry nodded. He had meant it when he promised he would do what they ordered. He needed to find Draco to right his wrong—if only he hadn’t been this dumb. Draco had been hurting. Of course he had been. And he’d said exactly the right things to distract Harry from the truth that was staring him in the face—fool that he was.

First Narcissa and now Lucius pulling this stunt—and Draco had no one now. He’d needed a supportive friend, and Harry had been anything but—he’d hit him in the face, for Merlin’s sake.

Severus had missed the mark, too, Harry realised, letting his godson walk out of that living room without so much as uttering a word. They had all let him down, and it was time they made amends—together.

Strengthening his grip on his wand, he reached out for Saturnine with his free hand and froze as a thought struck him. Abandonment. Draco felt abandoned. And it was a feeling Harry knew all too well. He’d carried it with him his whole life.

It was like a small, insidious beast hurting you deep inside—a tiny monster that never shut up. It was always gnawing at you. There had been brief moments when it had gone to sleep, though. The Mirror of Erised had done that. Seeing inside his reflection sitting next to his parents had brought a wave of calm like Harry had never known before. And he’d felt the same way more recently when Saturnine took him to Godric’s Hollow Cemetery so that he could finally mourn on his parents’ graves.

“Draco’s not at the Manor,” he said in a rushed breath. He turned to face the wizard at his side and asked, “Where’s Mrs Malfoy buried?”

He saw Severus work through the logic of his question and come to the same conclusion he had. “The Malfoy mausoleum,” he replied. “Near the church closest to the Manor.”

“I think he might have gone there. It’s where I would go,” Harry said, looking the man straight in the eye to convey his certainty.

They were gone in the blink of an eye as Severus reached out both hands to Apparate him and his sister at once.

They Apparated next to an imposing church. It stood tall and looming in the falling darkness as dusk settled around them. The sun was going down, bathing them and their surroundings in pales hazes of red and purple.

Harry had no idea where he was. He faintly seemed to recall that Malfoy Manor was somewhere in South Devon. And it struck him as funny that they had become neighbours, in a way. Surely Lucius had looked everywhere to find Draco. But he’d probably never considered Cornwall.

Severus took the lead, wand drawn in front of him and held between steadfast fingers. Saturnine wrapped her free hand around Harry’s shoulders to steer him as she followed suit. She would make sure not to let him out of her sight, it would seem.

Harry knew the two of them would have words when all of this was over. She’d probably been disappointed by his attitude. But he couldn’t have left Draco behind any more than he could leave Ron or Hermione—or Saturnine herself. It just wasn’t in him.

Severus led them around the church to the cemetery that lay behind. Harry shuddered at the sight; he’d visited more cemeteries in the past year alone than he had in his entire life. This one was well-kept, though. Carefully trimmed edges lined it on three sides. The fourth was an unobstructed view over the sea where the earth ended in what seemed to be a tall cliff.

Harry was surprised to see that Severus seemed to know where he was going. He’d obviously been here before. He pushed open the wrought-iron gate that led to the cemetery and followed down the path, turning left and right without pause until they reached a large structure that appeared to be made from white marble. It was a mausoleum, the Malfoy crest on its front making it clear who it belonged to. Harry was surprised not to find diamonds here. But perhaps Lucius had finally realised that there had to be a limit to their display of richness.

There was no sign of Draco—or anyone else, for that matter. Worry ate at Harry—what if he’d been wrong? What if this stop was for nothing? What if Draco was at the Manor getting tortured or worse while they stood there? He could never forgive himself if it was his mistake that ended up costing Draco his life.

And then he saw it as they drew closer: the door to the mausoleum was open a fraction. Someone had been here recently—perhaps was still inside. Severus saw it, too, and his pace quickened.

Harry lengthened his stride to keep up, rejoining him at the door.

“Cast Lumos,” Severus instructed as he stood by the entrance, his wand at the ready.

Harry did, bathing their small group in constant light while leaving the other two wands free to cast spells should the need arise. Harry had no idea what he would find inside. He’d never been in a mausoleum before.

Wand held a little higher, Severus pushed the door completely open. Harry followed him inside while Saturnine brought up the rear, her eyes darting left and right as she made sure no danger lurked behind them.

The interior of the structure was much less imposing than the outside was. The floor was made of plain, dusty concrete, as were the walls and ceiling. One or two lamps hung on the walls, but they hadn’t been lit. Harry’s wand-light was the only source of illumination, and it bathed the raised tombs on either side of them in an eerie blue haze. The rectangular granite caskets were stacked in rows of three, the higher two hovering in the air in a looming way that gave Harry the creeps.

There were four or five rows of similar stacks of three on both sides of the central aisle, and Harry couldn’t help but try to read the names and dates of the deceased as they walked further inside the mausoleum.

Saturnine’s hand was quick to manifest itself at his back to push him forward. And he shook his head to clear his thoughts and focus on the task at hand. Quickening his steps, he caught up with Severus again.

They were almost at the back of the cavernous space now. And Harry saw on Severus’ face the exact moment he caught sight of his godson as he rounded the last row of raised tombs. The look of intense relief that washed over his features said it all.

Rounding a granite casket that he realised was Narcissa’s, they found Draco nestled in a corner, sitting on the barren, dusty concrete floor. His cheeks were dry, but his eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked a right mess.

Harry had to fight back the urge to reach out for him. He wasn’t the one Draco needed now. Only Severus seemed too caught up in the wave of relief that had washed over him at the sight of his unhurt godchild to do much. He’d frozen mid-way, a splotch of black against the dimly lit background, face hidden beneath equally dark hair. A gasp broke out of his mouth suddenly, and life returned to him at once. He lunged forward and crouched down by Draco’s side. Severus’ black-clad arms tightened around him an instant later as he engulfed him in a fierce hug.

“I’m so sorry, Draco,” he muttered, his dark voice clogged by the weight of emotions.

And these weren’t words that could ever have come from Professor Snape’s mouth. But Harry wasn’t surprised to hear them tumbling from Severus’ lips. The broken tone with which they’d been said left no doubt to the veracity of their meaning.

“Severus,” Draco croaked out as he clawed at the man’s back, desperate for a little warmth, a little love.

“Hush now, Draco,” Severus said. “Everything’s all right.”

Though he couldn’t see the potioneer’s face, Harry could hear the tears in the man’s voice. His heart went out to him—to them both.

“Forgive me,” Severus apologised as he held onto the boy a little stronger. “I should have come to you sooner. But you know me. I’m not good at this.”

There was frailty to his voice now. It was utterly naked and bereft of any artifice—open, with raw vulnerability. His usual assertiveness was gone. Severus wasn’t sure he was the right person for this. He wasn’t sure that this was even what Draco wanted. If the way Draco held him and sobbed in his arms was any indication, Severus was most certainly what the boy needed—desperately so.

“I’m sorry, too,” Draco mumbled from somewhere against the man’s jumper. “I didn’t mean to leave like that. But I thought you didn’t want me. I didn’t want to be weak. I tried to be strong; I thought I could face him. But—I—I couldn’t. And I came here instead. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be such a disappointment.”

“No, you could never disappoint me, Draco,” Severus said gently. “I wasn’t always at liberty to show it, but I always cared about you. I swear—I always did. And I’m sorry that I gave you the wrong impression. Please give me a chance to do better. Come back with us, please.”

Draco never replied, but the loud sobs that wracked his body were answer enough. And Harry knew what he felt: the relief of finally being wanted, of finally finding someone who loved him. He turned to Saturnine and caught her gaze. He saw that she was thinking along the same lines. Harry gave her a small smile, and she returned it alongside a nod. There was no need for words. Her eyes said it all.

Saturnine broke the silence a short while later. “We should go back,” she said. “It isn’t safe for us to stay out past nightfall.”

Harry saw Severus nod, and he was back to his feet a moment later with a bundle of sniffing Slytherin protectively held against him.

This time, it was Saturnine who led the way out, and Harry brought up the rear. He killed the Lumos Spell the instant they reached the door. And they slipped outside under the cover of darkness.

They were halfway out of the cemetery when Harry saw it. What it was, he wasn’t sure. But movement had caught his eye on their left. His head swivelled that way even as his lips formed the words, “Someone’s there.”

Saturnine’s answering spell was a jet of yellow light that slashed through the night, loosely aiming towards where the attack had come from. It probably missed its target, but it made her intention clear enough.

Severus’ free hand grabbed a handful of Draco’s shirt and yanked him behind a tall headstone. Harry followed suit without needing to be told that he had better comply with the unspoken command, as he’d promised. That earned him an approving nod from the man.

“Who are they?” Harry asked in a whisper as he crouched behind the tomb of a baronet who’d died in the eighteen hundreds.

“Death Eaters, probably,” Saturnine replied as she approached them. “Lucius must have had the place kept under surveillance.”

“If they have called for reinforcements, the cemetery will be crawling with hordes of them in no time,” Severus warned. “We have to get away.”

“Can’t we just Apparate back home?” Harry asked.

“Not from within the cemetery,” Severus replied. The young Gryffindor felt like asking why, but he refrained from it.

Another curse flew their way, and he felt the thick headstone at their back take the hit. It shook under the strain but resisted. The attack was followed by another and another, the frequency making it obvious there was more than one wizard throwing curses at them.

“There aren’t that many of them. Two—maybe three,” Saturnine said, daring to peek over the protective granite slab.

“I’ll cast protective spells, and you can cast attack spells,” Severus instructed. “We can get them together.”

“They’re too far away. There’s nothing I can aim for,” she countered. “I need to draw them out and away from you.”

“It’s too dangerous, ’Nine. No,” he said.

Another curse hit the headstone behind Harry’s back and he curled up a little more tightly on himself.

“I can take them, Sev,” Saturnine countered, chancing another look to gauge their attackers’ positions. “Take the boys back to the cottage. I’ll be right behind you.”

Severus shook his head, his thin black hair lashing angrily at the air. “No! No way.”

“We don’t have a choice,” she said as another curse hit the granite shields protecting their group. She had ducked back to safety just in time. “You’re not up to full strength yet; you won’t last long. The boys are our primary concern—take them home. I can fend for myself for a little while. I’ll be okay.”

Harry could see the conflict in Severus’ face—his need to protect his godson waging war with his need to protect his sister. He looked beyond tense—he was coiled more tightly than a spring. His dark eyes narrowed at his sister, and his lips clenched into a tight line. Fleetingly, Harry saw in his agonised eyes the moment the dark-haired wizard realised he couldn’t have both—that he had to choose.

“Be careful,” Severus cautioned tensely, looking his sister straight in the eyes.

Their gazes locked, and Saturnine said, “Always.” There was such a deep sense of finality to the way she said the word that Harry understood it to have a deeper meaning for the siblings. Severus bowed his head in reply, a dark curtain of hair hiding whatever emotion had just risen to his face.

An instant later, Saturnine rose to her feet in one graceful movement, her wand held out as she assumed a well-practised battle stance. A burst of light spilt from the end of her wand, then another and another. She cast spell after spell at their attackers, all the while moving from headstone to headstone and drawing the fight away from them. Lithe as a panther, she moved towards the edge of the cemetery, near the cliff. Their attackers’ curses followed her relentlessly.

Severus, Draco, and Harry stayed where they were, crouched low and hidden in the shadows. It was too soon for them to move. The Death Eaters could still double back at any time and get them from behind.

Harry couldn’t help himself from leaning forward a little so that he could keep an eye on Saturnine over Severus’ shoulder. He could see the Death Eaters clearly now, their robed figures undulating in the darkness. There were two of them, and they were at Saturnine’s back, driving her further and further away from them.

Harry wondered why she was still willing to be pushed back in that direction. If she didn’t try to alter her course soon, she’d run out of tombstones to hide behind. Then it would be an open fight—two against one. Harry felt his free hand curl into a fist at the unfairness of it all. If the two wizards coordinated their attacks, in a face-off, there’d be little Saturnine could do to defeat them.

But the dark-haired witch was more resourceful than Harry had thought. And suddenly, a jet of flames burst out from where she’d crouched behind a tall marble stall. It was long and bright, and the flames seemed to have a life of their own as they surged through the darkness. They leapt towards the Death Eaters, galloping in the darkness, seeking flesh to sink their teeth into.

Harry had no idea which spell that was, but it was impressive. Next to him, Draco let out a soft-spoken, “Wow!” of admiration.

Angry, red flames crashed upon a hastily thrown-up shield but didn’t disappear. Instead, they tried reaching around the shield, licking above and snaking to the sides. The second Death Eater was forced to bring up another shield to cover all angles, trapping the two men inside a luminous dome that was protecting them as much as it was imprisoning them.

Saturnine rose from her secure position. And something that Harry thought impossible happened: she lifted her wand and cast spell after spell at the Death Eaters, even as she kept controlling the yellow and red monster trying to burn the wizards alive. Her spells were like bolts of lightning. And they came crashing upon the shields with resounding impacts that caused the luminous bubble to flicker with each hit.

The flames, which had not diminished in intensity, even though Saturnine’s wand had been busy casting other spells, kept trying to sink their teeth in the dome. For a moment, Harry wondered if maybe this was the same type of spell used to destroy the Lovegoods’ home the summer before. But whichever spell Saturnine had used, Harry knew it couldn’t have been Dark Magic—that wasn’t her style. Besides, these flames looked too pure and magnificent to be Fiendfyre.

Saturnine sent another volley of hits the Death Eaters’ way, then another. And the flames licked at the weak spots in the shields, trying to insinuate themselves inside. Tendrils of flames made it through, and one of them latched itself onto the tallest wizard’s black cloak. The flames grew and grew as the man screamed in fear while trying to smother them, flailing his arms wildly.

The fight was all but won—and would have been—had a third figure not appeared out of the darkness—a figure that Saturnine could not see coming because it slithered its way towards her from behind.

Harry had but a split second to decide what to do: remain hidden, warn her, or attempt something. It came as no surprise that he went with option three. Rising to his feet, he held out his arm and cast a strong Bombarda towards the cloaked figure. A blue jet of light burst out of the tip of his wand and flew towards its intended target. Harry didn’t have time to see if it reached it or not because Severus grabbed a handful of his shirt to yank him back down.

“Stay down!” he intoned darkly, and Harry knew better than to argue the point. This was the same tone he’d heard for years at Hogwarts.

When Harry found his lookout spot again and returned his attention to the fight happening towards the back of the cemetery, he saw that Saturnine had now engaged the masked newcomer. Jets of coloured lightning bolts crisscrossed through the night as they threw spell after spell at each other. The flames were still licking at the two imprisoned wizards, but they’d lost some of their insidious intensity.

Both Saturnine and the tall, lean, robed figure stood next to the open horizon, the stretching sea behind them providing a stark black background to their battle. It was a one-on-one fight—a proper wizarding duel to the death.

The speed at which the attacks came was horrifying. But the sheer beauty of it—streaks of lights of blue, red, and yellow cutting through the night—was mesmerising. Even from where he stood, Harry could feel the raw power pulsing out from the area where the opponents stood. Spells met spells mid-air, coming together in small explosions of sparkling showers of light. He had never seen a proper wizards’ duel before. And at that moment, Harry felt very much a student with years of learning ahead of him still. Whatever magic he possessed, whatever spells and tricks he knew, it was nothing compared to the acute precision those two displayed. Their fight was beautiful in its cleanliness. It was all sharp motions with no flourishes, the attacks a display of single-mindedness, intent, and determination.

Saturnine held her own as the fight continued, even though she had already battled two Death Eaters, and her flames were still trying to eat their way towards the cowering fools.

When one of the newcomer’s spells reached its intended target, Saturnine let out a scream as it hit her in the shoulder. Harry felt like rushing forward, but he knew he’d only be a distraction to her at that point. Saturnine retaliated with a strong burst of red light, but the wizard facing her averted it before it could do any damage.

The fight resumed in earnest. But Saturnine was losing ground now, and Harry could see it—both literally and figuratively. She’d been forced to back away closer to the edge, and he felt she was too close to it for comfort.

The masked Death Eater kept advancing on her, throwing attack after attack, and Saturnine was forced to back away again as she parried and parried. Glancing at the flames to gauge her physical state, Harry saw that they’d lost more strength. They were no longer attacking on all sides but focusing on one fixed point. And it wouldn’t be long until the wizards inside the protective bubble could smoulder them and rejoin the fight. Then Saturnine would truly be lost.

Harry had to do something; he couldn’t stay there and watch. Briefly glancing at his side, he could see the same worry building within Severus. He looked desperate to reach out to his sister and help her out. A part of Harry was thankful that the man hadn’t had the strength to carry through with their initial plan and Apparate them all away yet. By his side, Draco looked as invested in the fight’s outcome as they all were.

In the distance, another hit got through. And Saturnine was forced to back away a little more. She was so close to the edge now that Harry could barely manage to keep watching, so afraid he was that she would tumble over.

Clearly desperate now, she called back her flames and sent them galloping towards her attacker instead. At her command, they turned on their heel, heeding her call and responding as if they were trained beasts. They leapt through the cemetery towards the cloaked man, but he saw them coming and conjured up a wind-shield with one hand and a spell with the other.

An ugly red streak burst forth from his wand, and it came barrelling towards Saturnine. Busy as she was controlling the flames, she could do very little to avert it. And it slammed into her chest and pushed her back. Only there was no more ground behind her now.

She fell backwards into the void with a scream.

A primal scream of anguish tore through the night, and Severus wondered where it had come from. The voice wasn’t Draco’s or Harry’s, and he suddenly realised that it had been his own. Severus was on his feet in an instant. Wand at the ready, he rushed forward—all his thoughts forgotten except his desperate need to ensure that his sister was all right. This primitive urge, so ingrained that he could not fight it, was his raison d’être since the day their mother returned from the hospital with a fussy blue-eyed baby girl in her arms. Fear tore through him like a living thing, pulsing outwards from within and destroying everything in its wake—all sense of reason. He could only think of one thing—Saturnine—as his mind repeatedly replayed the image of her tumbling over the edge of the cliff.

Severus was casting spells before he even knew it. At a flicker of his wrist, Draco and Harry were immobilised by the tombstone where they stood. He moved forward without sparing them a glance.

The two Death Eaters who had been fighting the flames had their backs turned to him, but he hit them anyway, stupefying them on the spot. It was the type of cowardly attack he would not usually have indulged in. But Severus wasn’t thinking straight. He wasn’t thinking at all. They tumbled to the ground in a jumble of limbs, and he distinctly heard one of them crack his skull open on a tombstone corner.

Acting on pure instinct, Severus kept running forward as another spell burst forth from his wand and aimed at the third cloaked figure—the man who’d dared go after his sister. A crimson streak of light surged from his wand and crashed against a shield that the man had raised in front of him. He followed it by a counterattack of his own. Severus barely moved out of the way in time.

“You’re too late to save her, Severus,” the man sneered. “Your precious sister is dead—just as you will be in a moment, traitor.”

It was Lucius Malfoy. Severus recognised his haughty voice as easily as if he could have seen the long blond hair of the man facing him.

He felt himself snarl in reply, his rage boiling up inside him and coalescing into a solid mass. It took shape deep within, birthing a dark monster with a life of its own and a will to match. And he hurled out another attack and another.

Lucius blocked each of them effortlessly. He was a powerful wizard, and Severus knew the two of them were evenly matched on a good day. But this wasn’t a good day. Severus was still reeling from his injuries, and his magic level had not increased to the fullest. But he would give it all away if it could rid him of Lucius Malfoy once and for all.

Reaching deep within, he feasted on the hate, pain, and rage. Gathering strength from deep within, he pushed it outwards and through his wand, and more blasts of light spurted out.

One of them hit home and sent Lucius falling back a few steps, knocking off his mask as it did. It revealed an enraged face and blood-red lips twisted into a disfiguring grimace.

“Touchy, are we, Severus?” Lucius taunted as he brushed a hand over his bloodied lips.

“You pathetic monster,” Severus spat through clenched teeth. “Your own son... How could you?”

“I’ll have another one. One you won’t be able to steal from me,” Lucius retorted as he hurled another attack Severus’ way.

The Potions Master chose to dodge rather than parry it, leaving him free to attack once more. But Lucius blocked it with a raised palm and wandless spell.

“You can’t win,” the blond snarled. “This will be a glorious night. The end of the House of Snape once and for all—first your annoying sister, and now you.” He snickered. “Bellatrix was right about you, you tainted freak—you’re no better than your filthy Muggle of a father.”

The words tore through Severus like a blade, cutting deep and leaving him bloody. He feasted on the fury that rose within to strengthen his magic. And he threw another attack at the blond, and another and another. He pummelled him with spells as he would have with his fists if they’d been Muggles. He’d have roared at him to shut up if he’d had the breath for it.

Lucius parried his attacks, one after the next. They crashed up against his shields as if Severus were punching a wall, and Lucius cackled at him. “Weak—like the little Half-Blood you are! Weak like your sister—weak like your father!”

Severus threw more and more attacks as he advanced further, no longer thinking about protecting himself. He could feel the adrenaline fading; his arms ached under the strain of the sustained offensive. His breaths came out in short gasps, but he refused to slow down, to relent in his blitz. He would feed his own soul to the shrine of his magic if he had to. He would rid the world of Lucius’ nasty, perverted influence—once and for all.

Desperation was the only thing fuelling his veins now, but still, Severus refused to stop. He couldn’t. He had to save Harry and Draco. He couldn’t be the reason both boys died tonight. Severus had promised the ghost of Lily that he would save her son, and he’d promised a silver-eyed baby boy that he would protect him from the monsters. He would fulfil both promises tonight—even if it cost him his life; it was a small price to pay. His life wasn’t worth much anyway.

With another primal scream that came from deep within, he hurled out stronger attacks and stepped forward as the beginning of a plan came to him. They were standing close to the edge now; it could be easy to throw Lucius over—to send him plummeting down to his death on the sharp rocks and the raging sea below. He’d hurl himself willingly off the edge, too, if it meant Lucius went down with him.

He could lunge at the blond and grab him by the middle—the momentum would be enough. A Muggle attack felt like a worthy ending for a Pureblood fanatic like Lucius Malfoy. Severus smiled as he enjoyed the poetic irony of his choice. Then, having made his decision, he readied himself for his last act of bravery on this earth.

Just then, the most impressive sight he had ever seen came to life before his eyes. A dragon surged upwards from the depth below. It reared its head up past the edge of the cliff, jaws gaping open, teeth ready to sink into his flesh. It was huge and seemed entirely made from rippling water. It undulated high in the night sky, its slippery skin reflecting the moonlight at every angle and making its surface shimmer.

Even Lucius was awed by its presence, and the fight between the two wizards halted momentarily as they looked up to gawk at it. The creature opened its scaly snout wide, and Severus half-expected the motion to be accompanied by a scream. But no sound, other than the gushing of water, could be heard as the dragon’s muscles undulated.

It was the most majestic and impossible creature Severus had ever seen. And then it did something that surprised him even more: its liquid gaze locked onto Lucius. Its slitted eyes narrowed at him as the dragon lunged forward. His wings spread, flapping as the creature hurled itself to the ground with one clear target in sight. With speed equal to its mass, it slammed into Lucius. And the blond wizard disappeared within the dragon’s open snout. Water cascaded downwards and onto Lucius, crushing him under the strength of a raging torrent. And Severus was forced to step backwards hurriedly to avoid getting caught in the whirling tsunami that shook the edge of the cliff he stood on. Jets of water sprayed him, and he tasted the salt on his tongue.

And then he saw it: the person who had called forth the dragon—the person who controlled the elements themselves. She came flying from the darkness, supported by neither spell nor broomstick. She controlled the winds just as skillfully as she had controlled the sea below—a witch more powerful than he had ever seen. She raised a hand, and the waters lurched towards the edge. In an elegant swirl, they took their final bow and returned to the sea below, leaving behind the drowned body of Lucius Malfoy.

The night was too dark for Severus to see the witch’s eyes. But he looked up into her face anyway. He knew what he would find there without needing to see it—a piercing azure gaze that he knew better than his own obsidian one. Saturnine’s feet touched the ground a little ahead of him—unhurt, safe. And he felt his own legs buckle underneath the sheer weight of the relief he felt. Exhausted, Severus couldn’t keep himself upright anymore. But Saturnine was there. Her strong arms enveloped him and cushioned his fall as she had weeks ago when he’d been too weak to make it to the bathroom on his own.

There was no pain, no hate, and no anger in her face now, and none of the fury he had felt so acutely only minutes ago. She was compassionate, tender, and caring, and Severus let himself be held as his body absorbed her warm, healing life force. Her concern and love for him enveloped him like a blanket, reaching deep inside to soothe the beast within and lull it back to sleep. And Severus went to sleep alongside it; his eyes closed of their own accord as he rested his head against his sister’s shoulder, the thumping of her heart echoing in his ears.

***

Without a word, Saturnine Apparated them all to Cove Cottage in turns, Levitating an unconscious Severus to their shared bedroom. Left behind in the living room, Harry and Draco wore matching puzzled expressions.

“What the hell was that?” Harry asked once he’d found his voice again. “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

Draco shook his head. “I didn’t even know that it was possible. I mean, I knew Severus was powerful—but, Merlin, that dragon...”

“She didn’t even use her wand,” Harry said in awe, remembering that both of Saturnine’s hands had been free throughout the attack.

The night had been a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, and he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He had thought Saturnine had been killed. And he’d been about to lose Severus, too. But then she had surged from the darkness alongside that mighty creature. It was a dragon unlike any he had ever seen—and he’d seen some up close. He’d watched, mesmerised, as it came down on Lucius Malfoy, crushing him beneath its liquid weight. And suddenly, the enormity of what Harry had seen finally caught up with him.

“Your father,” he hurried to say. “Oh, Draco—I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he muttered, with a shrug of his tensed shoulders. “That man doesn’t deserve your pity. He had it coming.”

Their gazes met, and he could tell the blond was putting up a brave front. Now that he could, Harry did what he’d refrained from doing in the mausoleum. He stepped forward and caught Draco in a tight hug.

“He might have been a bastard, but he was still your father,” he murmured. “I’m sorry for your loss, Draco.”

He felt the blond shudder against him as he heaved in a wet breath, and Harry held him a little tighter. “You’re not alone,” he continued. “You’ll never be. We’re here for you, the three of us. We’ll be your family now—if you let us.”

He felt Draco nod even as the tears came, and Harry finally had a name for what they were. They weren’t enemies, and they weren’t friends. They were family.

Elementals, first mentioned in the Bronze Age scriptures, are wizards and witches who can manipulate an element beyond use in simple spells and charms. They gained notoriety in the Middle Ages when dark wizards, such as Albian Morath and Caspian Vellar—known Elementals—were instrumental in the Fifty Years Wizarding Wars. Their cruelty and savagery went down in history and are often what first comes to mind at the mention of Elemental Magic. The stigma linked to Elemental Magic has endured through the ages.

In modern-day wizarding society, Elemental practitioners are heavily ostracised and either pre-emptively imprisoned or closely surveilled. While an accurate census of their number cannot be acquired, it is believed that about one to two per cent of wizarding children are born with the specific genetic mutation that allows them to become Elementals. Thankfully, few and far between are even aware of this difference, and most will never develop any particular skills.

Elemental Magic can be split into four categories based on the four classical elements: water, earth, fire, and air. While it is believed that certain wizards and witches can manipulate several elements at will, precious few are proficient in all four categories. Most Elementals tend to have a natural inclination towards one or two of them. Unlike Traditional Magic, which often requires a wand, Elemental Magic can easily be done wandlessly and nonverbally.

It is believed that Air Magic and Water Magic are the easiest to learn and the most used due to the ready accessibility of the elements themselves. Fire Magic is harder to control and near-impossible to create. And Earth Magic is only available to a select few Elementals who can achieve a connection with the earth itself.

Air Magic focuses on speed and evasion, forgoing a strong offence for a better defence. Always easily accessible, it is also the most dynamic of all the Elemental arts.

Elementals using Water Magic depend on the amount of water around them. But highly skilled practitioners can draw water from anywhere—including the humidity in the air and the water in all living things, such as plants, animals, and humans. As the element of change, water can fluidly and quickly alternate from defence to offence.

Fire Magic is the most aggressive of the four elements and allows for simple attacks. It is primarily used offensively, though Elementals who seize existing flames can also extinguish them. It is intriguing to note that most Elementals can only manipulate existing flames and require the use of their wand—or another external source—to create the initial spark allowing them to unleash their powers. No record of an Elemental capable of creating flames from nothing has ever existed.

Earth Magic’s strength lies equally in offence and defence, with an emphasis on fortitude and strength. However, it requires a special bond with the earth achievable only through intense meditation. Too few wizards and witches can reach a connection strong enough to use Earth Magic in battle. Wizards and witches with a Cartesian mind particularly struggle with this aspect of the element, which is why it is the most rarely used of the four.

Nicolas Flamel, an essay on Elemental Magic
The Leaky Inkpress – Bristol, 1934

***

As she paced in the bedroom, Saturnine wondered at her situation. Had she just lost everything? Could this be the day she finally lost her brother for good?

She had come so close to having him back. Her beloved brother, the courageous child who had stood between her and her father’s wrath, suffering through beating after beating to protect her. The intelligent boy who had taught her everything she knew—be it the alphabet or her first spells. The introverted teen who’d remained a shoulder to lean on despite the difficulties he’d had belonging anywhere.

Until she had lost him over angry words that should never have been spoken and drastic actions that should never have been taken. She’d allowed him to push her away and accepted the punishment that followed: the miserable days spent in the north of France as she tried to determine who she was and who she wanted to be. Harder still were the subsequent years spent traipsing the planet as she learned to become the witch she was meant to be.

Saturnine had spent months in the remotest of locations—hidden from sight—as she was taught to control the elements themselves. Elemental Magic was so pure that it should have been embraced by those who could wield it. But instead, it was feared by wizarding society at large. Banished centuries ago, the likes of her had been hunted into near extinction and forbidden to ever use their talents again—as if they were something nefarious and tainted. The few wizards who were born Elementals often negated that part of themselves, refusing to even acknowledge that it existed within them. And they lived their entire lives without ever embracing their true natures. Like her, the few who sought to hone their skills lived in hiding. Veiled, avoiding crowds, they feared detection and subsequent arrest.

It had been hard for her to find literature on the subject—harder even to find teachers willing to help her understand that part of herself. She’d been forced to travel the world seeking guidance and spending years mastering her talents when, with the proper training, mere months would have been enough.

Since then, she had rarely let that particular brand of magic out, hiding it protectively deep within. Tonight, using her Elemental powers had been her intent all along. It was why she had drawn the fight towards the cliff, where ample amounts of air and water were at her disposal. She hadn’t meant for Severus to be there, though. She had hoped he would have left with the boys as he was supposed to. But he’d taken over the fight himself. And she had nearly hit him with her attack—wild as it had been.

Saturnine had gotten a good look at Severus’ face when he saw her and realised that she was the one behind the attack. She saw the instant understanding dawned on him when he realised what she was—that same incomprehension and fear her kind had been subjected to for years. Sighing heavily, she pulled her gaze away from the window and settled it on the bed to her left—and the weary wizard that lay beneath the blankets.

Severus was still out cold. He had burned up too much energy at once—again. And she wasn’t sure what state he would be in when he awoke. But he would get back up eventually, she knew—just as he had before. He would be all right. They all would—she would see to it. And then she would leave if her brother so desired.

But even if this cost Saturnine her brother, she wouldn’t let it cost her Harry. She’d go to the Ministry the very next day to file the damn paperwork if she had to. She wouldn’t let anything separate her from that lad—her child.

A small moan broke the silence, and she stepped closer to her sibling when she saw he was stirring awake. Crouching by his head to get eye level with him, she waited for his eyes to flutter open. Severus emerged from the restorative sleep he’d been in for hours. And Saturnine could tell that he could not immediately recollect the events that had transpired in the cemetery. His obsidian eyes took her in, and he gave her a sleepy smile. She refrained from responding, knowing that it wouldn’t be welcome in a minute or two.

Severus frowned at her lack of reaction. And she could see his brain engaging behind his eyes. It was analysing what it saw, desperate to make the right connections. And then it did, and the smile on her brother’s face faltered as his memory returned to him. He heaved in a nervous breath and held it in as adrenaline kicked in.

“The boys?” he asked, and Saturnine was somewhat relieved his first words weren’t a variant of ‘you are a monster’.

“They’re fine,” she told him. “They’re sleeping in the next room. Both of them.”

Severus nodded, and some of the anguish lifted—some, but not all of it. He pushed himself up on his elbows and struggled to sit up. Saturnine refrained from helping him.

“You killed Lucius,” he said at last, and she nodded. Then Severus’ mind, his beautiful mind, took one step further. “You killed Bellatrix.”

Saturnine nodded again, wordlessly admitting that she had been the one controlling the flames. That night, she had done something she had promised herself she would never do. But then her love for her brother was such that it overcame everything else—it always had.

She had hoped Severus would never realise though, forever thinking it was accidental. But he was starting to make the right connections now. And it wouldn’t be long until he lined up all the clues in the correct order.

“Elemental Magic,” he murmured at last between clenched lips. “Has to be.”

She nodded again, even as she swallowed thickly around the lump in her throat.

“How long?” he asked, as if it were something she’d picked up along the way.

“I was born with it. It was always inside of me,” she replied truthfully. “For a long time, I didn’t know what it was. But I always felt it—a dissonance. I only understood after I left school.”

Saturnine wasn’t sure how to encapsulate all those conflicting years into a handful of sentences, but she tried anyway. “The first times it manifested, I chalked it up to bursts of accidental magic. It took me a while to realise that it wasn’t. Took me even longer to learn how to control it.”

She couldn’t look Severus in the eye as she said it. She chose a spot on the blanket instead and found a loose thread to focus on. She felt like reaching for it and pulling it away. But she refrained; she’d have nothing to stare at then.

Saturnine couldn’t look at Severus—couldn’t bear to glance at his face. She refused to know what was going on there—if it was disgust or hate. She refused to let either be her last memory of her brother. She felt tears well up in her eyes and fought hard to hold them back. But water always found a way; she knew that well enough. A lone drop fell from her lashes to come trailing down her cheek.

She felt Severus move next to her, sitting up more fully, and she feared he was gearing up to tell her to leave and never return. She couldn’t look away from the tiny thread in the blanket. It was so small, so fragile—like the link between them. A small thread, growing smaller by the minute, to the point where it would only take a pinch of the potioneer’s nimble fingers to pluck it away for good.

Said fingers moved, long and pale, and they reached out for her. They grabbed her by the shoulders and hoisted her up. Saturnine had no strength left in her to fight them, and she let herself be pulled up until she was half-sitting, half-kneeling on the bed. Those deft fingers drew her into Severus’ open arms, and she went willingly, frozen by the incomprehension that surged inside her.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Severus murmured brokenly from a little way above her head. “Merciful Merlin, but I thought I’d lost you.”

There were tears in his voice, but they didn’t sound like tears of fear or rage; they sounded like pain. And Saturnine had never been able to ignore her brother’s pain. So, she pulled back just enough to look at his face. What she found there wasn’t anything like what she’d imagined; it wasn’t the animosity of uncomprehending strangers but a brother’s love.

“You don’t hate me?” she asked, seeking reassurance.

“I could never do that,” he replied gently as if this had been the stupidest question he’d ever heard.

Something broke inside Saturnine then. And the tears came pouring out of her. “I’m sorry, Severus,” she murmured through her sobs. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m sorry.”

Their gazes met, and she found a comforting understanding in his obsidian eyes and unwavering love. She prayed her own eyes reflected the same emotions.

“Thanks for saving me—again,” he murmured, his voice raw in its sheer honesty.

Saturnine lunged herself at her brother and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck as if she never intended to let go of him ever again, relishing the sweet realisation that she hadn’t lost anything tonight. She had regained her family.

Harry wasn’t sure what to expect for his birthday this year. But it sure as hell wouldn’t be a gathering at the Burrow—not now that he lived with Draco and Severus. As he prepared their breakfast, he fancied they could all go away for the day. Maybe they could pack some food and have a picnic somewhere. Or perhaps there wouldn’t be anything this year, he thought as he measured flour to prepare pancakes.

No—if Saturnine had a say in it, something would be planned for the day. A surprise would be sprung upon him at the last second. He would just have to wait to find out what.

The dough was resting when Saturnine entered the kitchen. It was a bit early for her, but Harry wasn’t surprised that she’d wanted to corner him alone.

“Good morning, birthday boy,” she said.

She came straight at him, and he barely had time to wipe his hands on his apron when she engulfed him in a tight hug and kissed him on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Harry.”

She pulled back a little but kept holding him by the shoulders. “Seventeen,” she marvelled. “You’re all grown up now.”

Harry smiled. He didn’t feel any different, but he knew what seventeen meant in their world. He was an adult now, and the Magical Trace placed on all wizarding children had been lifted from him. Now, he was free to practice magic anywhere and anytime he wanted.

He shrugged. “I don’t feel the difference.”

Saturnine smiled a knowing smile. “Well, age is but a number,” she informed him.

He chuckled at that. “Sounds like something an old person would say.”

She playfully punched him in the shoulder a little. “Just you wait until you get a bit older. We’ll see how you feel about that.”

With everything that had happened recently, opportunities for the two of them to spend time alone had been few. Severus’ health had taken a beating at the cemetery. While it hadn’t been as bad as two months ago, and his magic was still there, Saturnine spent a lot of time nursing him back to health.

It felt wonderful to have her to himself for a little while, and Harry indulged in it a little. Merlin, he berated himself. He sounded like a needy child. He was an adult now, wasn’t he? He didn’t need a mother anymore; he was all grown up. When the implication of that statement sunk in, he felt as if he’d just been doused in cold water.

The anguish that had taken hold of him must have shown on his face, for Saturnine grabbed him a little more strongly. “Harry, what is it?” she asked as she tried to catch his gaze.

“Nothing,” he muttered around the lump in his throat. “It’s all good.”

“No, lad—what is it?” One of her hands left his shoulder to come up and brush his cheek. “You just thought of something. Tell me what?”

“I—I...” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “I’m an adult now, aren’t I? I—I guess I don’t need a—legal guardian anymore; do I?” he asked, unable to use the word ‘mother’ in that sentence. He knew, deep down, that he would always feel the need to have one, no matter how old he was.

“You think that I won’t give the adoption papers to the Ministry now,” she said. “Oh, Harry—your age changes nothing about how I feel about you. I loved you when you were sixteen, and I still love you now that you’re seventeen.”

Harry felt a massive wave of relief wash over him and the beginning of tears pooling in his eyes. He couldn’t speak and could only nod.

“I still want you, Harry,” Saturnine assured him. She placed a palm on his chest, covering the silver necklace with the S-shaped pendant that still hung there. Harry had tried to return it earlier in the summer. But Saturnine had refused, saying it was his now that it had saved his life. “I will always be there for you—even when you are grey and old.”

***

Draco had had no idea that today was Harry’s birthday. But he figured something was up the moment he entered the kitchen. It was Severus that gave it away; his godfather was all dressed up. He wore a white undershirt underneath his habitual black frock coat. The only thing missing was his long teaching robes, and he would be ready to return to Hogwarts. Before this summer, Draco had never seen him wearing anything other than this professorial suit of armour, and Draco wondered at its return.

“Are we going out?” he asked as he took his place at the kitchen table.

Harry had made pancakes again, he noticed—chocolate chip. The Gryffindor’s favourite kind.

“As a matter of fact, we are,” Saturnine replied as she sat down opposite him.

Draco had the intense feeling that something was going on that he wasn’t aware of. Severus was all dressed up, Harry had an unshakeable smile etched at the corner of his mouth, and Saturnine clearly knew their plans for the day. Only, no one had bothered telling him about them.

He feigned nonchalance. “Looks like it will be warm today,” he said. “I hope wherever we are going, they know how to use cooling spells—or they have air conditioning.”

Severus snorted by his side. He’d tried to hide it, but everyone heard it anyway. And Draco wasn’t sure how to interpret the fact that he’d wanted to be discreet about it. A glance at Saturnine answered his question. She was staring at her brother with a raised eyebrow and looked minutes away from scolding the man. Draco got the feeling that his godfather had been told to be on his best behaviour wherever they were going. And that piqued his curiosity. He figured his best way to find out would be to ask Harry. The goody-two-shoes Gryffindor would be easier to crack than the Snape siblings.

“So, what do you reckon?” he asked.

Harry shrugged over his cup of tea. “No idea,” he replied after he’d swallowed a mouthful. “Don’t know where we’re going. It’s a surprise.”

Draco huffed. A surprise—what were they, ten?

“Today’s Harry’s birthday,” Saturnine informed him as she slid a large pancake onto her plate. “We’ve organised a little something.”

Draco felt the bite of pancake he was in the middle of swallowing catch in his throat. No one had even bothered wishing him a Happy Birthday when he’d turned seventeen, let alone organising something—not that it mattered. He’d had no idea today was Harry’s, though. And he hadn’t gotten him anything. Not that he could have afforded it, even if he’d wanted to, broke as he was.

He coughed a little before reaching for his tea and swallowing a mouthful. “Happy birthday, then,” he said, hoping that it came out as if he meant it.

Harry’s smile hadn’t left his lips. “Thanks.”

“We’ll be leaving as soon as breakfast is over,” Saturnine indicated.

“All of us?” Draco asked, glancing around.

“Obviously,” Severus drawled out over the rim of his teacup. He seemed equally overjoyed to have been roped into attending his least favourite student’s ‘Happy Seventeenth’ surprise shindig.

“Do you know where we are going?” Draco asked him.

A second typical Snape-ish, “Obviously,” tumbled from his godfather’s pinched lips.

“Don’t bother asking them,” Harry said. “They won’t spill the beans. We’ll just have to wait.”

Saturnine chuckled at his side. And Draco went on pretending not to care as the breakfast dragged on.

They were ready to go an hour later. Harry had cleaned up as best he could, donning one of his nicest shirts and doing his utmost to tame his untameable nest of brown hair. Saturnine wore her usual combination of denim jeans and hoodie—a strawberry-coloured one today—and her hair was braided into its typical plait, which she’d tossed over one shoulder. A ray of sunshine caught on one of her earrings, and Draco realised they were back on. It was the same shiny pair she had worn during her time at Hogwarts, and he was surprised to see them. Aside from the bracelet she always wore, she hadn’t worn any jewellery for the entire summer.

“Ready?” she asked.

Draco nodded. Next to him, Harry was practically bouncing from foot to foot. Saturnine reached for the eager birthday boy’s hand, and Severus held out his arm for him to grab.

Harry and Saturnine were gone in a flash.

“Behave,” Severus instructed as his long, lean fingers wrapped around Draco’s forearm. Then they Apparated away.

Draco wasn’t sure what he expected, but it definitely wasn’t that. They landed in a vast expanse of mostly trimmed grass at the front of a crooked house that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. Well—he supposed it was a house; it looked like its floors had been haphazardly piled upon each other, with little regard for taste and aesthetics.

Saturnine and Harry seemed familiar with the grounds, and they led the way, walking along the length of the odd building to round its corner instead of entering by the front door. Harry was beaming as if it was Christmas and his birthday all at once. Draco followed with a bemused expression.

Their location soon became evident once he caught sight of the sheer number of ginger-haired heads amassed around a long, rectangular picnic table at the back of the house. It seemed like the entire Weasley Clan was there. And Draco did his best to hide his displeasure, slipping on a mask of polite indifference.

A short, plump woman with long, wavy red hair that could only be Mrs Weasley rushed forward to greet them. “Look, everyone—they’re here!” she huffed out between two breaths.

Draco felt himself stiffen as all heads turned their way.

Mrs Weasley made a beeline for Harry, and she engulfed him in what seemed to be a painfully tight hug before releasing him and kissing both of his cheeks loudly. “Happy birthday, Harry,” she said. “Happy, happy birthday.”

“Thanks, Mrs Weasley,” Harry said while a deep crimson blush spread to his cheeks.

And then the woman did something that surprised the pants out of Draco: she turned to him with an equally bright smile. He was about to politely extend his hand to greet her, but she took two quick steps towards him and engulfed him in a tight bear hug. He was too surprised to do anything to stop her. And before he knew it, she was kissing his cheeks and saying, “And happy birthday to you, too, Draco—even though I hear we’re a couple of weeks late.”

He was too shocked to say anything, and he coughed awkwardly.

Then everyone else was coming up to them, wishing Harry a happy birthday before turning to him to offer similar good wishes. Ron and Hermione were first. And while the weasel’s wishes lacked enthusiasm, the girl’s sounded heartfelt. The rest of the Weasley Clan followed suit, introducing themselves as they greeted him. Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood brought up the rear. The latter kissed him on the cheek before telling him that the Nargles were smiling down on him today—whatever that meant.

A couple of adults were present, too, and Draco recognised all of them to be members of Dumbledore’s not-so-secret Order of the Phoenix. Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, former Auror Alastor Moody, and Ministry employee Kingsley Shacklebolt. Even his Transfiguration teacher Minerva McGonagall was there. And they all had a kind word for him.

Soon enough, groups started to form in the Weasley garden, and Draco breathed a little easier. It had been hard being the centre of attention—and completely unexpected. He wasn’t sure how to feel about all that. He certainly never expected to feel included in this day. This was Harry’s birthday party—or it should have been. But somehow, everyone had been told that he’d turned seventeen recently, and there were two piles of gifts at the end of the picnic table.

Draco never once in a million years thought these people would want to wish him a happy—anything. He’d been awful to Ron and Hermione for years and said the worst things possible about the Weasley family. Yet here they were, trying hard to make him feel included and sharing jokes with him and stories about their respective summers.

Draco had never been more thankful for his strict upbringing and endless lectures about etiquette and proper behaviour in society. It was all he could do to keep from crumbling underneath the feelings of discomfort and embarrassment.

He was in the middle of the weirdest conversation he’d ever had in his life with Luna Lovegood when his godfather materialised at his side.

“Ms Lovegood,” Severus politely greeted her.

She turned one of her hazy smiles his way. “Professor Snape.”

“Do you mind if I steal Draco for a minute?” he demanded. She readily accepted, drifting away as if her attention had been caught by something only her eyes could see.

Draco appreciated the save and followed Severus inside the house through a backdoor that led them to the kitchen and further inside until they reached a cramped living room.

The silence was a nice reprieve from the raucous crowd outside, and Draco let out a deep breath.

“Are you quite all right?” Severus asked, looking down at him with evident concern.

Draco shook his head. “Actually, I’m not quite sure how to feel,” he admitted. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s easy,” his godfather explained. “We appear to have missed your birthday, and we thought we’d make it up to you.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” he demanded.

“Saturnine and myself,” Severus replied.

“You arranged this?”

He nodded. “Well, that was mostly Saturnine.”

That explained a few things, and Draco felt safe enough to ask the question that had been eating at him the entire morning. “Do they really want me here?”

One of Severus’ hands came up to his shoulder, holding it in a tight grip. “I believe my sister explained the recent changes to them,” Severus said, carefully weighing his words. “They are mostly Gryffindors, as you noticed. They do not hold onto rancour the way we Slytherins do. And they are far more trusting. In their world, actions speak louder than words. You have saved Harry—at a great personal cost. That means something to them.” He paused before adding, “To answer your question, yes, I believe their intentions to be honest. However, if you wish to go home, you only need to let me know.”

Draco was glad to learn he had a choice. But now that he knew this wasn’t a farce, he breathed a bit easier. “It’s all right. I think I’ll stay a little while longer,” he explained. “It’s Harry’s birthday, after all, and I want to be there for that.”

Draco thought the conversation was over, but Severus leaned in slightly and caught his eye. “It’s your birthday, too,” he said. And his voice lost its assurance as he added, “I am deeply sorry to have missed yours. With everything that happened and the state I was in, it slipped my mind.”

He meant it. Draco could see it in his eyes, and he felt his heart brimming with something comforting and warm. “It’s quite all right,” he said. “It’s not that big a deal.”

And indeed, his birthdays had never been meaningful. Each extravaganza was only a perfunctory performance put on by the House of Malfoy—a tacky display allowing them to show how wealthy and affluent they were. They had never been fun gatherings around a picnic table where everyone was free to speak their mind and tell jokes. And they had most definitely never had any of the Weasley twins’ products exploding between drinks.

Severus’ free hand came up to brush at his cheek, the gesture inordinately forward and gentle. Draco leaned into his touch.

“It is something,” he said. “You’re seventeen now.”

Heaving in a deep breath, Severus recited in his velvety baritone the traditional wizarding wishes that a father was supposed to tell his son on his seventeenth birthday before leaning in and kissing Draco on the forehead first, then once on each cheek.

Draco felt his eyes welling up as the meaning behind the gesture registered. And his voice wobbled as he recited his answering stanza—the words a son was supposed to tell his father as he turned seventeen.

***

Severus was glad when the guests parted into two neat groups in the afternoon: the kids on one side and the adults on the other. A few mismatched chairs had been assembled in a quiet corner underneath large oak trees, and the adults reconvened there with glasses of liquor while the children stayed near the picnic table where the chatter was kept to an annoyingly high level.

Despite the distance, he kept an eye on the boys and saw that Draco was in the middle of a discussion with the oldest Weasley, Charlie. He wasn’t surprised to see that he’d sought the company of the elder ones rather than the others. Charlie and Bill were strangers to him. There was no bad blood between them, and it was undoubtedly easier for Draco to engage with them than the others.

At the opposite end of the table, Harry was chatting animatedly with Ron and Hermione and the youngest Ms Weasley. His hands flew about left and right. And Severus surmised that they had to be talking about Quidditch.

The adults had separated into smaller groups, too. Arthur Weasley, Shacklebolt, and Moody sat together, talking shop. Minerva and Saturnine were conspicuously absent, probably having absconded to some dark corner to discuss Hogwarts business and the upcoming school year. Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks seemed happy to be longingly gazing into each other’s eyes—and wasn’t that quaint?

“Everything all right, dear?” Molly Weasley asked as she arrived with a large slice of chocolate cake on a plate in one hand and a glass of digestive in the other.

“Quite,” he replied appreciatively. “Thank you, Molly, for organising this.”

Balancing the plate and drink in one hand for a moment, she dragged a chair closer and sat down next to him. “How are you, dear?” she asked, patting him on the knee.

Severus felt himself blush a little. Though the witch was only a few years older than he was, she had always treated him as if he were one of her children. While the attitude had annoyed him at first, he had grown rather fond of it over the years.

He gave her an honest answer. “I’m all right, Molly, thanks. It’s been an intense summer, but it turned out okay in the end.”

“That’s good to hear, dear,” she said, patting his knee one last time before retreating her hand. Then she pushed the plate with the slice of cake in his hand. “There, I noticed you didn’t get any earlier.”

It wasn’t long until Minerva and Saturnine returned, and the two easily engaged in animated discussions with Molly and Lupin, respectively. Severus was content to stay out of it, listening in as his gaze alternated between looking at them and observing the two seventeen-year-old wizards enjoying themselves at the picnic table.

Severus always delighted in sitting out on discussions and watching guests interact instead; it was ever so informative. Much could be learned by looking at how people moved and interacted with their peers. The distance at which they stood, the way their body was angled, the position of their hands—these small signals were nuggets of information to a man such as him. Severus was so used to collecting them everywhere he went that it was second nature to him now.

As he briefly scanned their group, he noticed something that confirmed one of his earlier assumptions—Remus Lupin and his sister were much closer than they should be. They chatted in hushed tones at the opposite end of their gathering, animatedly discussing something. Saturnine’s stance was open and unguarded, a clear sign that she trusted the person facing her. She was smiling, her happiness genuine. Lupin seemed equally at ease in her presence as if they were long-time friends. Then Saturnine said something that had the werewolf blushing, of all things. Twin blotches of crimson bloomed on the man’s cheeks as he looked down before quickly glancing to his left, where Tonks was playfully wrestling with Moody.

There was a story there, Severus realised—a story that he didn’t know. His curiosity was piqued. He vowed to discover all he could about the relationship between his sister and his Hogwarts nemesis. And given the amount of liquor going around—and the presence of both Molly Weasley and Minerva McGonagall—he was sure to wrangle something out of the two gossipy women before nightfall.

Harry was surprised to find another gift awaiting him at the cottage. The wrapping was plain yet elegant—matte black paper beneath silver thread. It looked like a book, and indeed, it was.

“Advanced Potions,” Harry read aloud, surprised. He already had it; it was one of the Potions’ books he’d had to buy for his sixth year. Why would anyone give him a new one when he hadn’t lost his? Looking down at the volume in his hand more carefully, he realised this one wasn’t new at all. The cover was worn-out, the spine heavily creased—a clear sign that the book had been opened many, many times.

Flipping the cover open, Harry saw the markings inside and smiled. ‘This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince,’ proclaimed spidery black handwriting. Harry didn’t know Severus Snape had a sense of humour. But he clearly must have been able to laugh at some point in his youth, for this indubitably was his book—and a heavily annotated one at that. Page after page was covered in comments written in his familiar jerky handwriting.

Harry opened a page at random to peer more closely at the notes, only to realise there was more to it. Severus’ younger self had corrected the manual: he’d crossed out entire sections, replaced some of the instructions with alternate methods, and adjusted some dosages to improve the results. Harry was amazed that he’d done all that at age sixteen.

The last surprise was at the end of the book, tucked between the end page and the back cover. It was his sixth-year summer essay. The one Professor Snape had refused to give him back because he needed more time to read it. It had so few annotations in the margins that Harry wondered if the Potions Master had perhaps run out of red ink. But the O in the corner was unmistakable.

The enormity of the gesture sunk in. Harry’s much-dreaded Potions professor had given him his personally annotated textbook—something that would be of invaluable help to Harry in his class. This, coming from the man who’d spent years belittling his potions and going as far as refusing to grade them because they looked so far removed from what they ought to be, was moving to the extreme. It was even more so because it was a glimpse inside the Potions Master’s very own head—or that of his sixteen-year-old self, at least. It was more than a gift, Harry realised; it was an apology. And he felt his eyes watering.

The sound of more wrapping paper torn apart caused him to look up from where he’d sat down on the edge of his bed. Glancing at the other side of the room, he realised Draco had also received a gift. An audible gasp escaped the blond when the last of the paper was removed. He let himself sink onto the mattress an instant later. It looked like his legs had given way under him, too.

Curious, Harry stood and crossed the room. “I got one of his old textbooks,” he said, thinking that his curiosity wouldn’t be perceived as such if he offered some information of his own in return. “It’s full of annotations and comments in Severus’ handwriting.”

The tactic worked, and Draco opened the hands he’d safely wrapped around his gift to reveal a small, carved wooden statue. It was a Thestral, its wings so finely carved that they looked a little transparent under the veneer coating. The blond reached for his wand and tapped the creature’s head twice, and it came to life. It flapped its wings once, twice, turned on itself, then sat on his back haunches to peer up at Draco. The creature’s mouth had stretched open wide in what Harry could only describe as a goofy smile. It was such an unusual pose and look on the tall, intimidating winged horse that Harry couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Didn’t know you liked Thestrals this much,” he said eventually.

“I don’t.” Draco tapped the little figurine’s head again, and it stood back up and flapped its wings twice more before returning to its previous condition. “It’s just one I didn’t have yet.”

“What do you mean? Is it part of a collection or something?” Harry wondered if it was another version of a wizarding collectable, such as the Chocolate Frog Cards. If it was, he realised he wouldn’t mind looking into it. The Thestral was beautifully carved, and that goofy smile gave it some character which was a rare treat for a toy to have. He wondered if they all did that and fancied he wouldn’t mind having a smiling Hungarian Horntail for himself.

“Sort of—” Draco sighed, and it sounded a little sad. “Severus used to get me one every year for my birthday when I was a child. He makes them himself.”

“Really?” So, it was a collection then—just not one you could buy anywhere.

Draco nodded but added nothing to the conversation. Harry realised there was more to it. He looked slightly sad, which struck him as the wrong thing to be feeling during one’s birthday party. “Sorry, Draco, but—” he hesitated, then decided to plough on. “Why does it make you so sad? Is it because it’s a Thestral? Because of what it means when you see one?”

His question seemed to catch Draco off-guard, and he closed his hand over the small figurine as if hiding it would remove the emotions from his face, too. “It’s not,” he replied testily. Harry half-expected the words to be followed by a ‘Piss off, Potter.’ They weren’t, and Harry took it as one more sign that their relationship had vastly improved these past weeks. After another long sigh, Draco added, “I haven’t gotten one in six years.” He paused, bit his lower lip for a moment, then continued. “I wasn’t expecting to have one this year, either. It took me by surprise.”

Doing the maths, Harry realised the gifts had stopped coming the year Draco started at Hogwarts. He wondered why Severus had felt the need to drop the tradition because his godson had become his pupil. It seemed silly to him, only—he paused, considering the gift still cradled protectively in Draco’s grasp—the tradition had returned. Could it mean that the pause hadn’t been Severus’ decision at all?

“Why did he stop making them for you?” he asked tentatively. By this point, he fully expected a rebuke. And he would have taken it without a fight if it came. They were moving into personal territory, and he’d understand it if Draco didn’t want to indulge his curiosity anymore.

“Father decided that I was too old to play with toys, and he told me to get rid of them.” His grasp on the tiny carved figurine tightened. “He must have told something similar to Severus, for I never got another.”

Harry felt himself on the cusp of saying something nasty about Lucius Malfoy. With difficulty, he held back his venom. He had learned that nothing good ever came from speaking ill of the dead. “Sorry. I’m sure they must have been really nice, too,” he said, wondering if it would be appropriate for him to ask if there had been a dragon and what it had looked like. Not wanting to add to Draco’s pain, he asked instead, “Maybe he can make you some more if you ask him?”

“I kept them all,” Draco replied, and there was no denying the momentary look of defiance in his eyes. “I put them in a box, and I hid it at the back of the bottom drawer of my dresser.” The defiant smile at the corner of his lips was short-lived and gave way to sadness as he added, “I don’t suppose I’ll be getting those back now.”

Draco was still a pariah where the House of Malfoy was concerned. Although the deadline hadn’t been up when Lucius died, he’d had contingencies in place. The paperwork went through, and Draco was officially disowned. The word was that many uncles, cousins, and other distant relatives of Lucius and Narcissa were warring amongst themselves to determine who could inherit what. It seemed everyone wanted a piece of the pie and the keys to the vault. They had all lawyered up, and it would probably be years before they reached an agreement. Until then, Lucius and Narcissa’s assets had been seized by the Ministry for safekeeping—including Malfoy Manor.

Harry had no words of comfort to offer to that. Raising his hand, he placed it on Draco’s shoulder. The blond tensed under his palm; it took him a minute to relax and allow the comfort to sink in. Harry might not have the words to fix the shitty situation they were in. But he had a plan. And he might just know the right person to execute it.

Having made up his mind, he stood back up. “I’m going to go thank Severus for the book. Are you coming with me?”

Draco looked up at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What? Why?”

“Er—” He hesitated. “It’s the—uh—polite thing to do?” And it was, wasn’t it? Draco’s ogling eyes made him doubt himself.

“Since when?” he asked, flabbergasted.

“If someone gives you a gift, you say thank you,” Harry explained. “That’s how it goes.”

His education may not have been the best, but Aunt Petunia had always insisted his cousin Dudley send out thank you cards for all the gifts he got. Harry had taken on the habit himself—once he’d started getting gifts, that was. Should he send a note rather than thank Severus in person? That seemed a little counterproductive, seeing as they lived under the same roof and everything.

Draco scoffed at his words. “That might be what you Gryffindors lot do, but Severus is a Slytherin,” he said, as if that explained anything.

“So what? Slytherins don’t deserve gratitude?” What kind of bollocks was that?

“Use your head for a minute, Harry,” Draco said, and the condescension in his tone made him cross his arms in annoyance. “Severus snuck into our rooms to leave us our gifts instead of taking them to the party like everyone else. Do you really think he wants the outpour of good sentiment in return? Just maybe give him a discreet nod of acknowledgement the next time you see him if you would prefer to make a grand gesture.”

That was just plain stupid, Harry decided. Something was seriously wrong with Slytherin House if the snakes couldn’t so much as take a thank you to their faces. “That’s a load of crap,” he said before turning on his heel. “Feel free to give him all the nods you want. But I’m gonna go say thank you like a normal human being.”

He wasn’t surprised that Draco didn’t follow him outside. Upon reaching the living room, Harry had concluded that he would keep his thank you short and sweet to spare the Slytherin Head of House’s potentially deficient feelings. Saturnine was the only one there, though. She sat on the sofa with her legs up and a book in her hand.

“Do you know where your brother is?” Harry asked as she looked up at him.

“Having a shower, I think,” she replied. “Why?”

“He got me this.” He held out the gift to her, and she placed a bookmark in her book before taking it in her hand. Her brow wrinkled when she flipped it open.

She had no trouble recognising the handwriting. “Oh my! That’s Severus’ old textbook. I had no idea he’d kept it.”

“He must think that I could use the help.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Looks like he’s made notes on everything and anything.”

“Yeah, Sev could never stop doing that.” She frowned in displeasure. “He couldn’t be bothered to take separate notes like everyone else. No—Severus Snape had to write it all down in the books themselves.”

Harry chuckled. “You sound just like Hermione. I thought she would have a coronary when I underlined something important in one of mine once.” Maybe Ravenclaws had the same awed respect for the written word Hermione had. “Still—it’s a nice gift, and I was going to say thank you.”

Saturnine hmmed as she handed him back the Potions volume.

“Do you think it’s a good idea?” he asked, wondering what Ravenclaw House’s stance on gratitude was. “I want to, but Draco says it’s not a very Slytherin thing to do to thank people who give you gifts.”

She chuckled loudly at that before sitting up fully and swinging her legs to the side until she was seated before him. She motioned for him to sit down on the coffee table facing her. Harry did.

“What do you think about it, lad?”

“Well, I want to thank him. But he’s as Slytherin as they get—and he’s Severus Snape, too.” He paused, thinking it over once more. “I really do appreciate the gift, and I’d like him to know that. He—didn’t have to get me anything, and it was really thoughtful.” He paused before ploughing on. “Draco’s gift was equally nice—better, even. And the git’s won’t even say thank you,” he huffed. “He might give Severus a nod or some such nonsense tomorrow.” He shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“For a long time, I wondered if Slytherins were emotionally deficient or something,” Saturnine admitted. “But then I realised that wasn’t that at all. The snakes are opportunists to the extreme. They’ll use everything and anything to reach their goals, and that includes using other people’s emotions against them. Students in Slytherin House learn quickly to keep their feelings close to their chests and keep the effusions of sentiments to a minimum. It’s sad—but it’s a matter of self-preservation for them.”

Harry could see the truth in her words. It did make some sense—in a sad, twisted, pathetic kind of way. He wouldn’t wish that kind of life on anyone. “So, I’d best not say anything, then?”

“Do whatever you feel like you must do, Harry.” She reached forward and grabbed one of his hands in hers. “And if you feel like thanking him, Severus Snape will just have to suffer through it.”

Releasing his hand, she looked down at her shoes and added in a soft voice, “There’s a beating heart underneath all those black layers, you know. It’s a bit rusty, but it’s there.”

Harry wondered at her tone. It had seemed to have been turned inward, and he thought the reminder might have been meant for herself. Looking down at the book in his hand, he said, “I never doubted that.”

And it was the truth. He had always known, on some level, that his much-dreaded Potions professor was indeed a human being. It was just that he made it effortless for people to dislike him. Harry realised that maybe it was a little too soon for grand gestures. A thank-you note might be a good idea after all. Small steps, he thought. Best not to give him an incentive to hex my head off.

His decision must have shown on his face. “A note, then?” Saturnine asked, and he nodded. “Best not to make it too long or too—effusive. But be honest about your feelings. You have a right to feel the way you do, Harry. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Thanks,” he said, meeting her gaze to let her know he meant it. “And thanks for today, too.”

She bowed her head slightly and smiled back, proof that the Snape heirs could indeed survive a show of gratitude.

“Can I ask you a favour?” Harry demanded.

“Sure—besides, it’s your birthday,” she replied. “There’s never been a better time for it.”

“I’ll understand if you can’t help. But you seem quite resourceful; so, I thought maybe you could.” She frowned at him, wondering where he would go with this. “I mean, you got the stuff for the Dark Mark Potion. And last year, you got your hands on my Christmas presents. And you got the extra books to help with my essays.”

“Yes, I know what ‘resourceful’ means, Harry.” One of her eyebrows rose in mild indignation. And Harry couldn’t help but smile at how reminiscent of her brother the gesture was. That, coupled with her comment, was such a Snape-ish thing to do that Harry wondered how he had not realised earlier that the two were related. “What do you need me to do?” she asked.

“I don’t need anything,” he replied. “It’s for Draco.” Inching forward, he lowered his tone as he explained the carved figurine the blond received today and the ones he had stashed away at Malfoy Manor. “I know Dobby works at Hogwarts now, but he used to belong to the Malfoys. Maybe he can still get into the Manor, or he can ask one of the elves there.”

“You want me to ask the little house-elf to get that box of figurines Severus made for Draco back?” she asked, trying to see if she had understood everything. Harry nodded eagerly. “And Draco can’t ask me this himself because…”

Harry felt his cheeks redden. “He—doesn’t really know that I’m asking you this. I—sort of—haven’t told him.”

Her eyes narrow on him. “Meaning?”

“Okay, he has no idea. And he’d probably Stupefy me, then Obliviate me if he knew I was doing this.” He sighed. “But you didn’t see his face. These figurines clearly mean a lot to him. And I know he’d love to have them back; I just know it. But Draco’s too Slytherin to do anything about it.”

Saturnine smiled in understanding. “Good thing he has a Gryffindor friend such as yourself to help him out then. Fine, I’ll see what I can do. And yes, Dobby can still enter the Manor. Who did you think set up that camera so that we could all watch the funeral?”

“Thanks, ’Nine. You’re the best.” Harry stood up, clutching the Potions book close to his chest. “Best go and think of what to write on that note, then.”

***

It wasn’t hard to convince the big-eared elf to help out, and Dobby was gone in a wink. He returned less than five minutes later, clutching an elegant wooden box in his tiny, gnarled hands. “There you are, Madame Professor Snape,” he said in his squeaky voice. “The wooden box from the bottom drawer, as you requested.”

Crouching down to get eye level with the elf, she looked him in the eye as she said, “Thank you, Dobby. Your help is much appreciated.” He puffed out his chest a little and smiled as he handed over the box. It was a little heavier than she’d thought. “If ever I can do something for you, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“There’s no need. Dobby is happy to help Harry Potter’s friends,” he said, and his pride seemed to swell.

Saturnine left Hogwarts without much more ceremony—out the front door and down the meandering path without encountering anyone. She’d timed it so that her visit would be early in the day for a reason. She Apparated back to Cove Cottage as soon as she could. Harry was busy preparing breakfast in the kitchen, but the two Slytherins didn’t seem up yet.

“Mission accomplished,” she announced, entering the kitchen and placing the box on the small table.

Harry was busy preparing what looked like blueberry pancake batter, and she opened the box for him. Without ceasing to stir the mix, Harry inched backwards to peer inside and confirmed that it was indeed what he’d asked her for.

There were about a dozen little wooden figurines in the box, ranging from the mundane to the magical. They were all beautiful, a testament to Severus’ talent. He hadn’t lost his touch, Saturnine discovered. If anything, he’d gotten better. But he’d always been a perfectionist at heart.

“How long do you think it takes to make one?” Harry asked as he washed his hands.

“If you include the time it takes to go out in the woods to find the right material—about two whole days of uninterrupted work,” she replied. That was the time it used to take him when they were younger. He might have gotten quicker at it. But the level of detail had increased, which might have lengthened the process.

Harry reached for a pan. He placed a little bit of butter on it before taking it to the flame. “I had no idea Severus could do that. Did you?”

“Yes,” she replied, sitting down and absentmindedly plucking out a carved cat to inspect it. “He handmade our necklaces, you know. And I’ve gotten quite a few carved items, too, back in the day.”

“Really?” he asked. “So, that’s his thing, then?”

“‘Thing’?” she echoed.

“Yeah, his go-to gift. Like how Hermione always gives people books.”

“Severus got you a book, did he not?” she asked. “Besides, I don’t think he offers enough gifts to anyone to discern a pattern.”

Harry had to concede the point.

“No; it’s simply that the homemade variety was all we could afford when we were kids. Our father wasn’t paid much, and most of his wages were drunk down in the pub. Severus and I never had any pocket money. So, we made our gifts ourselves. I can’t say how many times I’ve had to make do with giving him a drawing or a poem for Christmas. He would often get me daisy chains and such for my birthday and a funny-looking rock he’d found by the river for Christmas or something similar. It was only once he learned to use magic that Sev started carving figurines.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologised. “I didn’t know.”

“That we were dirt-poor?” she asked. “Yeah—we don’t make a habit of broadcasting that bit of information.”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect; I…” He let his sentence hang.

“Sorry—didn’t mean to snap,” she said, raising her palm to placate him. “It’s still a sore subject, it would seem.”

“At least you had each other,” Harry said. “And I’m sure Severus loved everything you got him as much as you loved what he got you.”

Feeling her eyes mist at Harry’s words, Saturnine stood up to move closer to him. Bending down, she placed a kiss on his temple as she ran a hand along his back. “Don’t you ever change, Harry. You wonderful, wonderful lad.” He leaned into her embrace, and she kissed him on the top of his messy lump of hair.

“You should give these to Draco yourself—maybe tell him what you just told me,” Harry offered. “I don’t think he’ll ever understand the real value of these figurines otherwise.”

“I think he already knows, don’t you?” she said. “Of all the gifts the Malfoy heir must have received over the years, the one thing he treasured enough to want to keep safe were these. Not the diamond cufflinks, the tailored suits, or any of the other extravagant gifts his parents showered him with—no, what he chose to keep was this box of small, wooden figurines. I think it’s safe to say that he already knows that money isn’t everything.”

Harry nodded against her chest. “He might know what it means to himself, but he doesn’t know what it means to Severus. And if you don’t tell him, he never will.”

Thinking it over, Saturnine realised that Harry was right. She waited until breakfast was over, and Severus had returned to the quiet of their bedroom to get some work done to give Harry a discreet signal that caused him to announce that he really needed to shower. His departure was as subtle as a Cornish Pixie in a China shop, but it allowed her to speak to Draco alone.

“What are you working on?” she asked from where she was leaning against the doorjamb between the kitchen and the living room.

“Potions,” he replied, barely looking up.

“Ah,” she said. “The famed Parchment from Hell, is it? Don’t hesitate to come to me if you need help with it,” she added, remaining where she was.

Draco finished the sentence he was writing before replacing his quill in its holder. “Did you want something?” he asked, turning slightly to face her.

She forced a kind smile on her face. “I have something for you,” she said, revealing the item she had kept hidden behind her back until now. “Harry thought you might want to have this back.”

Draco’s eyes went comically wide for an instant. He looked more like a kid than the young adult he’d just become.

Saturnine moved to sit down on the coffee table and held the box out for him. Draco’s fingers shook a little as he eagerly opened the lid. She saw him ram his eyes over each figurine in turn, inventorying them to make sure they were all accounted for.

“Thank you, Saturnine,” he replied after a while. And she surmised that he’d waited until he was sure to have his voice back under control enough to speak.

“I understand my brother made these for you,” she said, and Draco nodded. “Has he ever told you why he learned to make them?”

At the shake of his head, she went on to explain everything. Because Harry had been right—unless she stepped in, Draco would never truly understand the fullness of his godfather’s gesture. Severus was all that boy had anymore, and it was time they started doing more than mending bridges between them.

She was also the one who suggested Draco place the figurines on the bookshelves so that everyone could see them. This wasn’t the kind of home where they had to be hidden at the bottom of a drawer.

And if her brother later had a minor heart attack at the sight of them, she’d be here to reassure him that it was a perfectly normal reaction—even for a Slytherin.

Their summer together was ending, and Severus wasn’t sure what the future would bring. His and Saturnine’s plan was ready and would be put into action upon their return to Hogwarts. And they had found a way to split their classes so that neither of them taught more Defence Against the Dark Arts than the other. An even fifty-fifty would hopefully confuse the curse to the point of rendering it ineffective—an ingenious idea that even Dumbledore believed might work.

That had been the easy part. The rest was more difficult for Severus to envision. It was funny that this was how his life had turned out. Little did he know that he would become more invested in his relationship with a seventeen-year-old teenager than his attempt to destroy the Dark Lord.

Severus wasn’t foolish enough not to realise the once-in-a-lifetime chance he’d been given with Draco—a gift so precious that he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He felt undeserving. He was a man of little means, and he could never hope to give Draco even a tenth of what the Malfoy vaults would have bought him. Moreover, he hadn’t the faintest how to care for someone; he barely even managed to do that for himself.

Draco might be an adult now, at least in their world. But in Severus’ eyes, he remained a child—a broken, hurting one that desperately needed someone who could offer him his unwavering support and continued acceptance. And the Fates had a twisted sense of humour if they thought he was the best candidate for that.

Saturnine broke his concentration when she appeared in his field of vision, crouching by the sofa so she could be at eye level with him. He hadn’t felt her coming in, so lost he was in his thoughts.

“Everything all right?” she asked with a touch of concern. “Looks like you were miles away.”

“Just thinking,” he replied, and a strange impulse made him look up and meet her gaze in earnest.

His magic was all but back to normal, and he could Occlude at will again. Yet Severus found himself refraining from doing so often. He hadn’t been at liberty to be himself for so long that he’d all but forgotten who he was. This newfound ability to experience his thoughts and emotions for himself was as disconcerting as it was uplifting. Somewhere amongst the many spy games he played, he forgot that it was his right to feel—to exist as something more than a pawn on someone else’s chessboard. Even when it hurt, the pain was his—it had been earned like everything else.

Saturnine moved to sit down on the sofa next to him, her shoulders turning his way so that she could keep holding his gaze. “What is it?” she asked, clearly concerned now. “Do you have doubts about our plan?”

He shook his head. “Not about the plan.”

“Something else, then,” she said, and he could see she was thinking it through. “Draco?”

He nodded, looking away. He could not put anything more into words. He’d always done everything on his own, never relying on anyone but himself; it was a novelty to even share his doubts. But he needed help. Or rather, Draco did. His hand reached for hers of its own volition, and his sister readily curled her warm fingers around his.

“I’m not what he needs,” he admitted, his voice barely louder than an exhale of breath.

“You are exactly what that boy needs,” she countered.

He snorted, but it came out more like a sob than he’d intended. “I have no idea what to do, ’Nine. I did everything wrong all summer long, and that all but killed Draco. He’d be dead now if it weren’t for you.”

“Call us quits, then,” she suggested. “I’d have lost Harry without your help.”

He shrugged. She’d gotten that one right. She was no better equipped to raise Wizarding Britain’s champion than he was raising the cast-off Malfoy heir. “How did this come to be? Us—of all people?”

The Snape bloodline was as tainted as it gets, and he’d never even entertained the notion of one day having a progeny of his own, for that very reason. Yet here they were, each having agreed to foster a child.

“Sorry—did you see any other contestants?” Saturnine asked. “Trust me, if someone else had come forward saying, ‘I want to raise Harry Potter,’ I wouldn’t have opposed.”

Her words were bitter, but that didn’t make them any less accurate. They were orphaned, Draco and Harry—used and abused by adults who played games unsuited to children but kept dragging them in anyway. Who else did they have?

“I never wanted children,” he admitted. “Did you?”

There was a long pause before Saturnine replied, “It was never on the cards for me.”

Glancing at her, Severus raised a questioning eyebrow at the nebulosity of that statement. She looked away, but not so quickly that he didn’t see the melancholic look that fluttered over her face.

Sensing that this was important, he asked delicately, “What do you mean, Saturnine?”

“I can’t,” she replied vaguely. “I can never have children.”

Sterility? He’d had no idea; he couldn’t remember her ever catching an illness that would have resulted in this. Whatever the cause was, it must have happened in the past fifteen years. It wasn’t his place to ask about it, though. If she didn’t want to explain, he would drop the subject.

They remained silent for a long time, each lost in thought. Only the connection of their joined hands remained, their entwined fingers refusing to let go.

“Elementals can’t have children—ever,” she said at last. “I guess whatever allows us to access that particular brand of magic rewrites our makeup on a cellular level or something. There isn’t a lot of literature on the subject.”

He held her hand a little tighter. “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, then turned to face him again. “What’s your excuse?”

Severus couldn’t sustain her soul-searching gaze and looked away as he muttered, “You know very well what it is.”

“Our father,” she said in understanding, and it was like a small stab in the gut. Tobias Snape was a subject they never discussed, and he’d hoped she would stay away from it. He clamped his lips shut and would have crossed his arms over his chest if his left hand wasn’t otherwise occupied.

“I remember what I said that day, but I didn’t mean it,” Saturnine offered after a long pause. “It was an ugly argument, and I wanted to shut you up—” her voice broke, and she had to swallow first to be able to continue. “I said what I knew would hurt you the most.” She gasped and sniffed. “But I didn’t mean it. I never, not once, thought that of you.”

Severus felt like running away; anywhere would be better than here. He couldn’t do this; he just couldn’t. But he was rooted to the spot. His limbs were frozen, as if Saturnine’s confession had held the power to Stupefy him. He couldn’t move any more than he could release her hand.

“You weren’t wrong,” he admitted through the growing lump in his throat. “Look how I turned out.”

He saw her shaking her head in his peripheral vision. “You lost your way for a little while, that’s true, but you’re not like him. You never were. Dad hurt us for no reason—just because he could. You—you only wanted to belong somewhere, and you chose the wrong crowd. That’s not the same at all.”

Severus tried blinking to clear his vision, but he couldn’t see much of anything; too many tears were in the way. He could barely continue breathing.

“You have no idea how much I regret what I said that day,” Saturnine continued, and if her voice was any indication, she had to be crying now, too. “I should have stayed and fought you on this until you could see straight. Instead, I gave up, and I ran away like a bloody coward.” She sniffed again, and he felt his heart go out to her despite his pain. “And I really hate myself for it, Severus. Truly.”

His own voice was a garbled mess as he said, “Don’t. I was in a bad place, and I wanted you gone. I said some awful stuff, too.”

“That’s no excuse,” she replied, releasing his hand so that she could grab both of his shoulders to draw him in. Her face was stained with tears, and it tore at his heart worse than the Cruciatus Curse. “I abandoned you. You needed me, and I abandoned you. Who does that?”

He had no idea who had reached out for whom. But they were suddenly hugging each other with a strength that could move mountains.

“I’m sorry, Sev,” she murmured into his ear. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he said, crying for his mistakes and hers—for the last fifteen years of misery and the ones before that hadn’t been much better.

They remained like that for a long time, locked in each other’s arms, too lost in their respective pain to say anything. It took Severus a long time to muster the courage to ask her to stay.

“Stay. Please stay with me,” he begged. He was downright pleading with her, but he couldn’t care less. His life had become too painful, and he couldn’t cope alone anymore. “I need help, ’Nine. Please.”

“I would love nothing more, Sev,” she said between two tearful breaths. “If you’ll have me.”

“Promise?” he asked, clinging to her with all the strength he had left.

She nodded against his shoulder. “You and me,” she said, their childhood motto soothing him like a gentle balm. “You and me against the world. Always.”

The afternoon sky started to turn red and purple outside Cove Cottage, but still, they didn’t let go. Their tears had dried, and the bottomless ache in their chests had begun to subside, but they weren’t quite ready to let go yet. This cathartic release had been a long time coming. It had taken them over fifteen years to find each other again; they figured they could indulge a short while longer.

“What will we do?” Severus asked at last, once he’d finally regained control of his voice.

“We’re resourceful, aren’t we? We’ll think of something.” She paused, seeming to consider it for a grand total of five seconds. Then she offered, “I’ll help you with Draco if you help me with Harry. How does that sound?”

He snorted. “Like the craziest idea you’ve ever had—and you’ve had a few.”

She chuckled before pecking him on the cheek, and he felt himself blush.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said. “You raised me, after all. And I didn’t turn out so bad.”

“I did the best I could,” he admitted. And he had. Even though he’d had no idea what he was doing half the time. But between their monster of a father and absent-minded mother, he’d been forced to step up at an early age.

“Just do the same again, and it’ll be more than enough,” she instructed gently, patting his arm comfortingly. “Just love him, Sev. Let yourself love him, and it’ll be all right.”

She seemed to have so much faith in his abilities that it was disconcerting. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You’ve got the biggest heart I know.”        

He huffed in disbelief. “Have you met me?”

“Yes, actually, I have,” she answered with a smile. “I have known you my entire life. I should know.”

***

Their seventh and final year was upon them, and Harry felt weird having to pack up his trunk. This summer at Cove Cottage had been memorable, to say the least. Some days had been the absolute worst, while others had been amongst the best.

September 1st remained about two weeks away, but Saturnine and Severus were expected at Hogwarts already to prepare their respective classes. Thus, it had been decided that Draco and himself would go along, and Severus promised to find something to keep them busy until the arrival of the Hogwarts Express. There’d been something of the Professor Snape of old in the dark glint of his eyes as he’d said it, and Harry dearly hoped that the bat of the dungeon didn’t mean that he’d have them scrubbing his cauldrons and mopping his classroom floor.

Looking at the other side of the bedroom, where Draco was meticulously levitating shirt after shirt into his fancy trunk, Harry realised he would miss that pompous git most of all. He’d often wondered what it would have been like to have a brother, and he guessed his question had finally been answered—not that either of them would ever admit to that aloud.

Harry tossed his last pair of jeans onto the pile before giving his wardrobe one final once-over to make sure it was empty.

“Really, Potter?” Draco asked, glancing disapprovingly at the jumbled mess of clothes he’d thrown in his trunk. “Were you raised by Trolls or something?”

“That’s just how the common folks do it, your highness,” he replied without missing a beat. “We weren’t all raised with a silver spoon in our mouth.”

“Platinum,” Draco said, feigning a look of the utmost haughtiness. “It was platinum—diamond-encrusted, too.”

“But of course, your royal lordship,” Harry said, attempting an elaborated bow that looked utterly ridiculous. “Please do forgive me.”

Breaking character, Draco flopped onto Harry’s bed with a careless, “Sodding lion.”

Satisfied that he’d gotten everything, Harry closed the lid of his trunk. So what if he had to sit on it to get the job done. “Snake,” he said when he heard Draco snicker behind his back.

“Jerk,” the Slytherin retorted.

Harry didn’t need to think twice to form a reply; they’d been doing this once or twice a week for a solid month now. “Schmuck.”

“Tosser.”

“Wanker.”

“Boys!”

The third voice that had just joined their duet made them both freeze in surprise. The louder than expected interruption had come from none other than Severus—or rather, a seething Professor Snape. Their teacher didn’t seem pleased by their antics. He towered in the entrance of their bedroom with his arms crossed over his black frock coat while his piercing obsidian eyes held them in place as effectively as a Stunning Spell.

The dark-haired wizard cocked one of his eyebrows; the action was so sharp and definite that it was a sentence in its own. “Explain the meaning of this,” it ordered.

Draco remained utterly silent and motionless, and Harry got the feeling the blond would have sunk beneath the mattress if he could have. Coward, he thought inwardly, promising himself to add that word to their next verbal joust. Then, drawing upon his Gryffindor courage, he explained, “We didn’t mean it; we were just fooling around.” Then he added for good measure, “Sir.”

Severus’ eyebrow stayed where it was, and Harry dearly wished he hadn’t packed his Invisibility Cloak at the bottom of his trunk, for it sure as hell would have come in handy just now.

The silence stretched, and still, the dark eyes remained locked on them like a well-aimed curse. Harry felt cold droplets of sweat run down his back, and he couldn’t help but stammer, “It—it was nothing—honest. Just us having fun.” He chuckled dryly at that as if it could help reinforce his point. “A bit childish, I know. But it’s—uh—the kind of stuff people our age do,” he said. Then he hastened to add another, “Sir,” just in case.

Severus remained motionless, and Harry felt himself growing desperate. Turning to Draco, he gave him an imploring look that all but screamed, “He’s your godfather. Why don’t you say something to get us out of this mess?”

“What’s going on?” a fourth voice asked from the corridor, just before a bemused Saturnine squeezed herself past Severus to join them in the bedroom.

She looked at Harry and Draco and then back at her brother before shaking her head fondly. “What is this, Severus? Brushing the dust off your frightening alter ego to see if you’ve still got it?”

The intimidating eyebrow vanished in the blink of an eye, and the corners of the wizard’s mouth lifted to form what Harry could only label as a boyish grin. It was so much at odds with the face that had been scaring the pants out of him only seconds ago that he got whiplash.

“Did you have to frighten the boys to do it?” Saturnine asked him with a raised eyebrow of her own. “If you were so desperate to work out the kinks, you could have practised on me, you know.”

Severus shrugged meekly as he leaned against the doorjamb. “It never works on you.”

The scene was so surreal that Harry felt the oddest case of the giggles trying to burst free of his chest. He tried holding it in, but the battle was lost before it began. And it must have been contagious because Draco joined in an instant later. It wasn’t long until both Saturnine and Severus caught the bug. Soon the four of them looked like they’d been hit by simultaneous Tickling Spells.

It took them a while to regain their breaths. By then, Harry had collapsed on the bed next to Draco, while Saturnine had sprawled on his. Severus remained in the entrance. But he was discreetly brushing at his eyes to remove the tears of joy that had pooled there.

“All done packing?” Saturnine asked at last.

Both students nodded in tandem, and Draco felt the need to add, “Some better than others.”

If they’d been alone, Harry would have stuck his tongue out at him. As it was, he refrained and asked instead, “When will we get our books and stuff?”

“Sometime next week, if that’s okay with you,” Saturnine said. “Sev and I have a few things to get done at Hogwarts that can’t wait. But we’ll find some time for a quick trip to Diagon Alley before school starts.”

“I don’t want to wait until the weekend; it will be too crowded then. We’ll go on Friday, at the latest,” Severus added.

Harry felt Draco tense by his side. And he glanced his way to see that all humour had left his face. The adults must have perceived the change, too, for all eyes were now turned on him.

“I—uh—I don’t really have any money to pay for anything,” he conceded, looking down at his folded hands in his lap. It was evident the admission had cost him.

“That’s all right,” Severus replied, entering the room. “I’ll cover it.”

“I’d offer to pay you back, but…” his voice trailed off, and Harry felt that the blond looked the picture of misery.

Severus stopped by their bed and crouched before Draco, placing a hand on his knee. “You don’t need to, Draco. You’re under my care now. It’s my job to see to your needs. And I’m proud to do so.”

“It’s a thing parents do,” Harry told the blond with a soft smile. “Apparently, they’re very keen to buy you your school stuff. Probably because they know how much of a headache it will give you throughout the year.”

Looking over Severus’ shoulder, Harry caught Saturnine’s appreciative gaze and relieved smile, and he realised they’d come a long way—all of them. Inching forward on the bed, he reached for Severus’ free hand and curled his fingers around his, even as he extended the other for Saturnine to grab.

She got to her feet an instant later, coming to sit next to Harry, and effortlessly slipped her hand in his. She placed the other on her brother’s shoulder.

Family wasn’t always made from blood, and Harry was glad to see their quartet had solidified into something more, even if he wasn’t sure where they stood with each other. Did the recent developments make him Draco’s cousin and Severus Snape’s—nephew? Merlin, that was a lot of Slytherin snakes in his family tree all of a sudden.

~ End Of Part Three ~