A bone-chilling breeze sweeps through the dim-lit street. A figure swiftly swims across the elongated shadows of houses at the edge of the road. The mockingbird’s song rings and fades into the dark along with quick beats of clanking boots. Gray grass piercing through the stone bricks on the floor like lances, slicing mercilessly at the leather as Severus steps through them. He makes a sudden halt, a clink as he stables himself with the metal cane, cloak billowing behind him like flapping wings. 11 and 13 Grimmauld places stood over him, layers of ash brown bricks stuck with years of grime, white window frames with moss at the corners, not spared a glance by the fog-devoured moon.

“The Order of The Pheonix’s headquarters is located at 12 Grimmauld place.”

A new building slowly creeps into view, its walls darker than the others, as if it got fished out of a pot of writing ink, fallen leaves roll as the front steps force forward, lining up with next door’s. A ring infiltrates Severus’s ears, burying the mocking bird’s song, as the entrance to the meeting continues to pan out, he clamps down his urge to lean on the steel rails, refusing to show vulnerability even when alone, he banished his cane with a swish of his hand and straightens his posture, hanging the usual impassiveness on his face.

Chin up, no slouching, show nothing, fear no one.

When the doorknob finally decides to show up, he walks up to twist the bronze, only to harshly take in a breath of lung-piercing cold air as a booming “Croak” announces its presence above him. Without a second thought, Severus whips his wand out from his sleeve, a stupefy ready to be out of his lips. Despite his spinning sight, the spy’s mind stays alert, adding to his constant paranoia. He squints as he begs his eyes to focus on the floating outline above him, wand still pointing above, ignoring the strain on his shoulder.

There, on the white-lined roof, stands a bird, a raven. Black beak preening each feather on its broad wings with meticulous care, like how the dark lord would brush the cremated remains of his subjects off his gown. The sharp figure cuts through the fog, unbothered by the sweeps of wind, its small chest puffed up, eyes glistening without the moonlight’s grace. The raven stationed for a moment, seemingly peering down at the desolate street without moving its head.

Until it meets Severus’s eyes.

The raven’s unrelenting gaze, observing him, judging him, its beak is like a dagger, points at him accusingly, as if one wrong move shall have it land on his heart. Severus feels like his pupils are being locked in place, his body petrified by a basilisk.

He resists the urge to summon his cane back.

“An animagus?” Severus ponders, the creature is still holding his gaze, standing like a monarch high on a pedestal, he’s quite certain that none of the death eaters takes the animal form of a raven, perhaps a new informant for the order? Albus would probably have told him, if not the others. Perhaps he’s just thinking too much? Severus snorts at the irony, he could already hear Alastor Moody’s “CONSTANT VIGILANCE” from the meeting, who could have thought he, the spy, would chastise himself for being paranoid. He slowly loosens the wand at his fingers, then lowers it completely.

The raven faces towards the midnight sky, flaps its wings with a loud crack, gloating. It straightens its fan-like tail and lets out one last mocking croak before disappearing into the dense fog above. Severus’s eyes follow its large wings until it’s too blurry to decipher. “Free.” he thought bitterly, and sheaths the wand back in. With a deep breath, he soldiers his way into the building.

“...does it usually take?” Kingsley speaks in a baritone voice as Severus makes his way down to the dining room. The ministry has been fumbling over the breakout of several followers, namely the Lestranges, Dolohov, and Mulciber II, while trying to have the dementors and the daily posts in control, it is obvious that the minister is in denial that the Dark Lord has returned despite Potter’s testament, out of fear, or cowardice. Kingsley, suffice to say, is a lot more competent compared to the rest of the government, earning Albus, and somehow Severus’s trust as they both have similar roles in the order.

“Consider the circumstances, a full day at least.” Severus recognizes the Deputy Headmistress’s tremor as she speaks, the very same when he was about to apparate and grovel in front of his master. Everyone was called and informed about the disappearance of “the boy who lived”, amidst the chaos of Black hurling profanities at him and Molly Weasley crying “poor dear!” over Arthur’s shoulder, his mark burnt in triumph, the overwhelming sensation almost made him fall off the chair. As he donned on his hood, she held onto his sleeve, eyes pleading for the boy’s saftey, strands of hair slipping from her normally tidy bun.

He squeezed her hand in reply.

“I don’t care how long he takes!” The chair fell onto the kitchen floor with a bang. “That slimy git better get my godson back!” Severus can hear a tiny “Padfoot calm down” in the background, typical Lupin that is. “OR I’LL-”

“Barking like a dog as you are, Black. Or you will?” Severus drawls with as much disdain he could fill it in, though it came out pained instead. All eyes are on him as he steps into the room, careful not to tumble over his still throbbing legs from just walking down the stairs while ignoring Sirius Black’s glare. He makes his way to the chair next to the empty one at the end of the long table — Albus Dumbledore has yet to arrive.

“Where’s my godson, snivellus.” Sirius looks seconds away from frothing at the mouth, arm trying to fling off Lupin’s hands. His dark eye bags hang from lack of sleep or lingering effects from “the kiss”.

“Only been kissing your lord’s arse for the whole day? Have you even bothered to try looking for him? I’ve always said you can’t be trusted, look what he has done to Harry!”

“Sirius stop it!” Remus admonishes, the rest of the order simply looks away, the antics between the dog animagus and the spy isn’t news to them, Kingsley stares at the roaring fireplace, waiting for the flames to flash green. Mad-eye knocking his cane at the wooden floor in a steady rhythm, his magical eye scanning frantically across the room, often landing back to Severus. Arthur stands up and walks towards his wife near the sink, she’s been preparing the newcomer’s tea for too long, along with the soft sniffing since he walked into the kitchen.

“Mr. Black calm yourself down and stop acting like a Hooligan.” Minerva uses her “apologize and 20 points from Gryffindor” tone. Severus didn’t notice he seated himself next to his colleague, looking like her professional self, not a trace from the prior agitation, not a single wrinkle on her emerald robes.

“NO!” Sirius abruptly stands up, whips his wand out, and points it between the spy’s eyes, “I don’t care if Dumbledore thinks you’re one of us, you weren’t, you aren’t and you’ll never be.” He slams his fist down, sending waves down the long table. As he continues to rant, A high-pitched ring echoes in Severus’s ears, the faces, and chairs slowly muddle into a mess.

“It was a mistake.”

Empty your mind

The living room went dark as she shut the front door.

Occlude

A bony arm reaches out.

“...Oi, OI! Don’t ignore me, you bastard!” Sirius pulls a fist full of the cloak, pulling Severus’s face closer.

“Sirius Orion Black! Release him at once!” A shrill breaks through the chaos, Mcgonagall clutches the man’s wrist, while putting a hand onto the spy’s shoulder, holding him down, gripping just a little tighter. “Severus, your eyes are getting hazy, maybe you should head back.”

“I’ll head back when I finish my report to the Headmaster and this mutt in front of me decides to shut up.” He pinches the bridge of his nose to ease his throbbing head, trying to focus on the comforting heat at the rim of the teacup Molly gently pushed into his trembling hand. “If you use your dog senses, Black, you should be competent enough to smell the irony in your contradictory words.” Severus takes a sip of the tea, ignoring the rune inscribed wand that is millimeters from touching his forehead.

Willow bark, lavender, and a slightly bitter aftertaste.

Ashwagandha.

“Excuse my tardiness everyone, I was having a rather long conversation with Corlineus, Mr. Young sends you his regards, Minerva.” The leader of the light flashed into the kitchen, eyes twinkling behind the half-moon glasses as he walked to his throne, brushing the dust off his gray-blue robes, embroidered with silver Celtic knots at the sleeves, an unending stream of intertwined patterns. “Severus?”

Every sound died down immediately as Dumbledore starts the operation, Sirius lets Severus’s collar go and slunks back down to his chair under Mcgonagall’s disapproving glare, his fingers still wrapping the wand tightly, tip slightly hovering above the table.

“Potter is being locked in the basement of the quarters, Bellatrix and Rabastan are appointed to guard the cell. The dark lord plans to display his victory at the same cemetery where the goblet portkey-ed the champions during the tournament.”

Gasps and murmurs refilled the kitchen once more, and tears of a mother reflood the eyes of Molly Weasley.

The Headmaster nods, hand smoothing his long silver beard, fingers slowly moving towards the end. The twinkling in his eyes is not smothered, as he looks at the reflective surface of his cup of tea.

“Riddle Manor? Any wards?”

Severus nods, “The Dark Lord warded the place himself along with a few others, just before I went to him yesterday. I deduce only the ones with the mark and himself can access in, the warding’s perimeter is unknown.” he recalls as he flew close to the proximity of the place, a prickling sense went across his whole body head to toe, like seeping through a metallic mesh. Only when he is faced with the Dark Lord’s serpentine face, do the needles on his mark vanish.

“What about portkeys?” Mad-eye stomps his cane down onto the wooden floorboard, the electric blue magic eye eerily still, staring straight at Severus’s onyx pupils, the very same that caught and filled half of Azkaban’s cells with the lord’s followers.

“When I saw Potter in the dungeon, there’s an alert charm on him, since The dark lord warded the place personally, triggering the alert would most likely trigger a lockdown. No—”

“Sodding traitor”

Emerald green, just like her.

“Sir are you alright?”

He takes out the silver wand.

“No one… can know…”

“...s…everus…Severus!” Dumbledore shakes the younger man’s shoulder gently, “Are you well, my boy?”

Severus blinks his eyes open, and notices they are hidden behind his cold, sweating palm. The transfiguration professor is squeezing his arm, looking up and down the shivering man, checking if there are any shimmering stains on his black attire under the kitchen lights.

Damn Cruciatus.

“My apologies Albus, I’m fine.” He demands himself to push the pain to the very corner of his mind. “As I’ve said, if the alert is triggered, anyone would be locked within the grounds, unfortunately, portkey’s might not be of use in this situation.”

There is a pregnant silence after the spy’s announcement.

“Anyone, you say? Severus?” Dumbledore says softly, with a serene smile, fingers tapping the table.

“If you have a plan, old man,” Severus bites out, trying to cover his concern over the boy, of all people with feigned annoyance, “do give me a straight answer.” He stares back at those damned twinkling blue eyes.

The people instantly turn their heads towards their commander, waiting for a new direction towards a new hope with bated breath.

“Fawkes?” Dumbledore called.

Suddenly, a bright light bursts right behind the man, the fiery wings of a phoenix rise like a halo, the bright crown to the leader of the light, adorned with feathers of red, gold, and eternal loyalty. It lets out a delightful shrill before gracefully landing onto Dumbledore’s shoulder, nudging its head against the bearded chin reverently.

“Do me a favor, old friend.” Dumbledore lifts his familiar onto the table as he ruffles its soft feathers. The Pheonix regally walks towards Severus, its tail of flames elegantly dragging across the wood like the cape of a king. “Other than healing properties, they have a couple more abilities, Fawkes’s singing is ever so comforting, it certainly helps after a day’s work in the office.”

“Don’t tell me you’re planning to have your bird sing to the Dark Lord until he’s touched enough to let Potter walk his way out.”

Dumbledore chuckled at that, the glistening orbs of the phoenix look at Severus calmly, as if trying to ease his frustration.

“Fawkes has the strength to carry humans, I’m sure you’d recall during Harry’s second year with Mr. and Ms. Weasley plus Professor Lockhart’s landing in the chamber? Thanks to my old friend, he is able to bring the four back to us safely.” Dumbledore brings the teacup up to his lips. “Other than that, phoenixes stay and go as they please, such a free spirit is undetained by wards, if they wish to return to their companions, as a matter of fact, my friend here does a quick job sending messages to our dear minister, the wards in his office are rather complicated.”

The order members around the table let out an audible sigh of relief, Sirius drags his palm down his face, shoulder slouching as he takes a deep breath, his wand no longer pointing towards the man sitting opposite to him.

“Allow me, Severus, and excuse me, Fawkes.” Minerva rises from her seat, holding her wand.

With a flick, a small spark of light shoots out of her wand and lands on Fawkes’s head. In an instant, the bird twists and shrinks, like a leaf circling into the eye of a whirlpool. Its uncomfortable cries slowly fade into nothing, as it transfigured into a small silver plate with a thin metal chain sitting comfortably on Severus’s palm. On the plate is a phoenix, etched with minor details on the silvery surface, its body bright red, and glowing as if the center of the necklace is molten hot, yet it does not burn the flesh of the palm. It reminds Severus of the illustrations on the healing segments in ancient runes books — the symbol of rebirth and pure light.

“Ever the transfiguration professor, Minerva, with artistic touches too,” says Dumbledore, gazing fondly at the accessory. “I’m certain this shall help you two out of Tom’s captivity. I shall count on you, Severus.”

Everyone turns to look at the man clad in black, whose eyes are still on the necklace, pupils with tunnels that stretches on for miles unblinking, his expression unreadable, silently waiting for his answer to order.

“...Albus.”

“Yes?”

“If I leave with Potter, the Dark lord will know.” And my cover will be blown.

“He shall.”

Severus pulls his lips into a thin line.

“As much as I hope to keep you in Tom’s service for the order.” The headmaster brought his hands together. “We need Harry back.”

Severus can feel everyone eyes pressuring him, Black’s is certainly impaling his skull.

“And should I fail?”

“IF YOU DON’T BRING HARRY BACK I’LL MAKE SURE TO KILL YOU WITH MY OWN HANDS MOTHERFUCKER-”

“You will not fail, Severus.”

“Because failure is not an option, my boy.”
“Failure is not an option, my trusted servant.”

The silver in his hand may have gone a little cold

Failure shall receive a fate worse than death.

Failure shall doom us all.

Failure, would mean breaking her vow.

“Sev! Over here!”

“I have faith in you Severus, bring Harry back with you.”

The silver plate in his palm seems so small it’s going to slip, So Severus grips it tightly.

“Yes sir.”