The dark figure paused, then a pale, elegant hand rose from the voluminous black sleeves and pulled aside the heavy dark hood, revealing long auburn braids and kindly eyes the colour of stormy seas.

“Myrridin!” Harry exclaimed.

“Aye, lad” the wizard murmured, smiling like a beneficent god, “Ye have passed the test, ye are both free.”

“Free?” Harry spluttered, staring at Myrridin with wide green eyes and knotted brows.

“I am the White Laird of the Mountains, boy; shadows, woven from memories, dance at my fingertips and act out my merry little plays.” Myrridin explained, running his fingers down the long braid of his beard.

“This, then, is not real?” Professor Snape asked, his elegantly arched eyebrows tensed into a line, like a drawn bow. 

“Smoke and shadows” Myrridin confirmed “Young Harry visited me twice and, on the second time, I chose tae give him a chance. He said he wanted tae give ye back tae yeself, for ye own good and, it seems, his heart was honest.”

“So, this was all… what? Some sort of dream?” Harry asked, half appalled, half awestruck.

“Aye. When ye wake, twill still be 5th December.”

“How much of this dream is true?!” demanded the Potions Master furiously “Has Ronald Weasley been abducted?”

“Aye lad but do not fash. The lad is hidden in yon trunk of the one who calls himself Moody, Barty Crouch as was. He tempted Ron into the Trophy room with a forged letter, knocked him out and locked him intae the lowest layer of his trunk.” Myrridin fixed a flinty eye on Harry “Hogwarts has wards, ye see, that detect concealed people; ye cannot kidnap our bairns, nor can ye bring hidden foes over our borders. Riddle knew this, thus his toady kept their prisoner nice and snug inside the castle.”

“Is he, I mean Ron, still alive?!” Harry asked nervously.

“Aye,” Myrridin nodded “merely sleeping. Tom Riddle, from what I can tell from the imposter's thoughts, is shacked up in the old family Manor. Oh, and a nasty wee buggy is buzzing around Hogwarts, an animagus scribe with a taste for the midden.”

"Taste for the midden..." Severus echoed, his mouth twisting, then furious comprehension dawned in his dark eyes. "You mean a muck-raker? Rita Skeeter is an animagus?!"

"That's how she's been getting stories on me!" Harry exclaimed angrily. "She's been..."

"Breaking the law, lad." Myrridin relied, folding his arms. "No more muckraking for her once this gets out, I'll warrant."

“How do you know all this?” muttered Severus, woozily putting a hand over his eye, in an attempt to focus his swimming vision.

“I am Hogwarts, lad,” the ghostly wizard said softly, as Harry’s mind started to fog with exhaustion. “Now sleep, bairns. Sleep.”

oOoOo

On January 30th, Myrridin’s birthday, Harry, Hagrid and Severus planted a young Rowan sapling. Digging the soil, filling it with nutrient rich compost and tamping down were completed with good humour and conversation, except on the part of the disillusioned Severus, who quietly stood sentinel, listening to the men he had made father and son.

When the Rowan was planted, however, a silence fell as each person was consumed with their thoughts.

Hagrid’s joy was the innocent happiness of a husbandman: he had his son, his dog, a snug home, money enough to keep body and soul together, plus a little extra, and a job he loved, all of which were now safe. Following Snape’s tip off, Dumbledore had called in a small, trusted task force of Aurors; Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew had been captured and, on Fudge’s order, received the Dementors Kiss. Although Hagrid, himself an short-term inmate of Azkaban, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for Pettigrew and Crouch, who had also been ‘kissed’, his family’s security was by far the most important and, as this was now safeguarded, he allowed himself to feel content. Indeed, it was hard not to, when he considered how well his budding relationship with the beautiful Olympe was progressing.

Harry’s happiness was more complex, comprised of many different strands.  Awaking on 5th December, Professor Snape had, after being joyously welcomed by Dumbledore, immediately informed the Headmaster as to the facts of Ron’s kidnap and Riddle’s whereabouts. After dispatching the Aurors, Dumbledore had unravelled the wards around ‘Moody’s’ office and, after stunning the imposter; Ron and, to everyone’s surprise, the real Alastor Moody were discovered, blissfully asnooze, in the depths of the trunk.

Sirius, of course, had been freed and, naturally, spun into a whirlwind of activity, giving interviews, campaigning for an overhaul of the Justice System and practically demolishing and rebuilding his house where, he shyly hoped to Hagrid, Harry might stay occasionally.

Another source of pleasure, not to mention relief, was his reforged friendship with Ron: after being woken up and informed of his close shave, Ron had, wisely, decided to let bygones be bygones (not least because Molly was standing beside his bed, arms folded and with a certain glint in her brown eyes.) Harry accepted the stilted apologies gracefully (it was hard to stay angry with someone with whom you’ve already made amends, even if it was only in your dreams) and, with Hermione scolding and smoothing ruffled feelings by turns, the hatchet was buried and swiftly forgotten. 

The Yule ball was yet another blissful memory, even more wonderful than the dream. Harry had, originally, intended to ask Cho Chang immediately when or, rather, if the Yule Ball was announced. However, as the days past, Harry’s mind had niggled away, like a tongue at a loose tooth, about the contrast between the beautiful yet insubstantial ‘dream’ Cho and the vivid, rounded character of ‘dream’ Ginny. Thus, when it came to writing his invite, Harry found himself scrunching the half-written letter into a ball, tossing it into the fire and asking Ginny. After all, he had sort of made a date of it. 

Severus, on the other hand, felt a strong, secure sense of contentment. Yes, he was still a spy, yes, he still had a role to play but his charge, a green eyed boy he had come to regard as a nephew, was safe for the time being and Severus felt certain that, with continued tutoring, Harry would blossom into a warlock worthy of the title ‘Saviour’. (Even if, in fact, Harry continued to be the one who was saved, against his will, by his demented old teacher; Severus knew, much to his resigned embarrassment, that, as long as there was blood in his body and wits in his brain, he’d be protecting Lily’s son- not as duty but through force of habit!)

As Harry, Hagrid and Severus stood beside their bonny, yellow berried tree, gazing up at the beautiful line of arched, stained glass windows, a tall, fair figure glimmered, just for a second; a flash of fire and ice in the golden sunset.

The White Laird of the Mountains; forever watching the borders, forever feeling the magical currents, forever listening to the murmurs of the souls in his care. The Final Sanctuary, for as long as Hogwarts castle stands.