“I thought you didn’t have visions anymore, Harry,” Saturnine asked, surprise colouring her words. “I was told Professor Snape solved that particular issue with Occlumency?”

Harry was tempted to snort, but he reined it in. He knew the other witch didn’t like it when he was disrespectful of Hogwarts staff, even if it was Snape. “It didn’t take,” was all he said.

“Harry?” His name had been both a question and a warning. Saturnine had an uncanny ability to do that, he’d noticed. To place several meanings into single words, even single syllables sometimes.

“It was Professor Snape, alright,” he replied, exasperated. There was a limit to his politeness, and he couldn’t see a way to explain properly while toadying to that git. “What did Dumbledore expect? It went poorly, of course, and he kicked me out of his rooms—said he never wanted to see me in his office ever again. His words, not mine!”

Biting his tongue to stop there, Harry regretted bringing up the topic. But it had been so easy to talk to Saturnine. He’d told her everything without even meaning to. She was a calm, reassuring presence and an attentive listener. Hermione would have been in tears by that point, Ron would have found a reason to leave a long time ago, Mrs Weasley would have hugged the daylight out of him within minutes, and Remus would have fed him so many tablets of chocolate that he’d be feeling queasy.

Saturnine was different, though. She let him talk and work out his feelings on his own, only prodding him forward when he stalled. She rarely interrupted him, always waiting until he was done with a particular line of thinking to ask her questions.

“So you lied,” she said. “You claimed the visions had stopped. But did you keep having them?”

“Not so much.” It was the truth; he hadn’t had one since the night at the Ministry. “Last night was the first one since…”

Saturnine nodded, understanding what he hadn’t been able to put into words—another thing she was good at.

“And you think this was a real vision—something the Dark Lord didn’t intend. Unlike…”

Unlike the night he tricked me into going to the Ministry, Harry finished for her. Unlike the night my stupidity led Sirius to that damn room.

“I think so,” he managed through the lump that had flared in his throat. “I don’t think he’ll be using that trick twice. Besides, that vision was pretty useless.”

“Nothing is ever useless in a war, Harry,” Saturnine explained. “Information is key. And sometimes, the smallest of details can make all the difference.

“The opportunity to secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself,” she recited. “Do you know who said that?”

Harry shook his head.

“Sun Tzu. Ever heard the name?” Another shake of the boy’s head. “He was a Muggle Chinese general in 500 BC and one of the best military strategists that ever lived. Military strategy was like his own personal philosophy; The Art of War, he called it. His work has been praised and employed in East Asian warfare since its composition and continues to influence Muggle modern warfare today.”

“How do you know this?” Harry asked. He didn’t think Chinese Muggle military strategies were the kind of stuff they taught at the Auror Academy.

“Wizards cannot hold a candle to Muggles when it comes to war-making. The day they realise we exist and decide we’re a threat to their safety is the day we should all be afraid—Purebloods and Muggleborns alike. Our internal power struggles are nothing compared to what they have going on.

“Wizards think like wizards, Harry, and they rarely ever get creative anymore—Purebloods especially. Personally, I like to think outside the box now and again. And in a fight against a wizard, Muggle strategies can allow you to blindside your opponent. They’ve saved my life more than once.”

“Do you think they could help us against Voldemort?” Harry asked.

“For all his talks of blood supremacy, Tom Riddle remains a Half-Blood raised as a Muggle. He has surprised us before, and I fear he could do so yet again.”

“Are you Muggleborn?” Harry asked her after he felt the silence had stretched out long enough. He’d been wondering about that since the day she mentioned being raised as a Muggle.

“Half-Blood,” she corrected him. “My father was a Muggle, and my mother, a witch, but we lived like Muggles for my father didn’t like magic.”

“Oh,” Harry said, never having heard of a family who’d chosen to live as Muggles when they didn’t have to.

“Tell me your vision again, Harry, if you can. Every last word that the Dark Lord said, please.”

Bracing himself by hugging his bent knees, Harry did.

“A wand?” she interrupted when he got to the part where Voldemort mentioned looking for a wand.

“I need to find the wand, Nagini,” Harry repeated the words ad verbum.

“Are you sure he said the wand and not a wand?”

Harry nodded, that horrid vision seared itself into his brain down to the last lexical twist. He wouldn’t forget a single sentence anytime soon. “What do you think it means?”

“That he’s looking for a particular wand, Harry. Not just a replacement, but one he’s already decided upon. The wand.”

“And that’s helpful to know?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, it could be.”

“Information is key,” Harry said, recalling her earlier explanation.

She nodded. “Yes, please continue.”

And Harry did. Saturnine stopped him again when he neared the end of Voldemort and Nagini’s discussion, and, word-for-word, the boy quoted the dark wizard once more: “You know the gift I have bestowed on you. I need you to keep it safe.”

“The snake is important then,” Saturnine mused aloud, and Harry could sense that thoughts were racing behind her eyes. At long last, she reached inside her hoodie pocket and pulled out a small glass phial. It was filled to the brim with a bright purple liquid. “Dreamless Sleep Potion,” she indicated as she held it out to Harry. “I want you to take it now and go to bed. You need to rest.”

Harry didn’t feel like going to sleep just then. “I could sleep tonight,” he started to protest, but Saturnine held out a hand, motioning for him to quiet down.

“You spent half the night freezing your arse off outside. If you don’t come down with something, it’ll be a small wonder. Your body doesn’t need to battle exhaustion on top of everything else.” She used one thin finger to point at the phial he now held in his hand. “Potion, then bed. And none of that is up for debate.”

Knowing defeat when he saw it, Harry uncurled himself from the sofa before padding his way to the bedroom, taking with him the blanket that had to have come from Saturnine’s own bedroom. He was out like a light moments after downing the bitter purple liquid.

***

Saturnine waited until she was sure Harry was asleep to throw Floo Powder into the fire. Albus Dumbledore answered at once, and she asked him to come over for a meeting. The man stepped out of the fire instants later, his periwinkle robe pristine and creaseless as if not a single flicker of ash had dared come close to him.

“I trust you and Harry are settling well in Cove Cottage,” he said as he toured the living room, peering out of each window in turn. “My, my, but the sights haven’t changed since I came here last. I can’t remember how long ago that was, mind you.”

“Harry had a vision last night,” Saturnine said, dispensing with the niceties and going straight to the crux of the matter.

That had the older man turn on his heel. “Did he now?”

“Yes, the Dark Lord, Nagini, a table-full of Death Eaters, and an innocent woman sacrificed on the altar of Riddle’s madness.”

Dumbledore nodded but showed no surprise at her words, and Saturnine realised the headmaster had already received a detailed report of that meeting. So, his spy was also in attendance it would seem, she thought. Well, unless their turncoat was also a Parselmouth, Harry had been privy to some information that the spy hadn’t.

“There was more to it,” she said. “Harry caught a conversation, in Parseltongue, between the Dark Lord and his snake.”

And there it was, a twinkle of interest blinked to life in the old wizard’s eyes, and he moved to sit down on the sofa. Saturnine remained where she was, with her back to the fireplace and her arms crossed over her black hoodie. She was still pissed off at the old codger, and she would make sure he knew it. But her rancour didn’t change the fact that she was duty-bound to report what she’d learned, and so she did. Once her recap of Harry’s vision was over, she pointed out the two elements that had caught her attention.

Dumbledore listened to her attentively. Elbows resting on his knees, hands steepled together, he remained motionless as she continued. And he remained silent for a long time afterwards.

“There were once three brothers travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight…” he recited at last. “Are you familiar with that story?”

Saturnine nodded; her brother had read her that fairy tale when they were little. The small, worn-out paperback had been their mother’s, and she surmised that their father must have overlooked it and thought it nothing more than a typical Muggle children’s book.

“I fear Tom Riddle is looking for the Elder Wand,” the old wizard explained gravely. Saturnine would have laughed at the words had his tone not been so sombre. He’d meant it, which meant—

“It’s a true story?” Saturnine couldn’t keep the shock from her face and voice, even as her brain raced to recall the rest of the tale. Three artefacts won from Death itself: a wand, a cloak, and a stone. “The Deathly Hallows are real?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I know where the wand and the cloak are, but I’ve yet to find the stone,” he replied, and at that, Saturnine had to sit down.

She aimed for the armchair closest to the kitchen as the words sunk in. A cloak to render you invisible, a stone that could bring people back from the dead, and the most powerful wand in history—it was said that any wizard who possessed all three would become the Master of Death.

“They work?” she asked, unsure if she wanted to hear the answer. “Like it says in the book?”

“As far as I can tell, yes,” Dumbledore replied.

“Hide the wand, then,” she instructed. “Better yet, destroy it.” Both of Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose in surprise at her suggestion. “Tom Riddle is looking for it. We cannot risk him finding it. Can you imagine what he’d do with that kind of power?”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” the headmaster said.

Saturnine snorted. “Which means you’ll do nothing.” She sat up again, feeling the anger bubble up in her once more. “You’re going to ignore my advice like you’ve ignored everything else I’ve said to you these past two weeks.” She hated that she was now pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, but she needed to calm her nerves.

“And how are things going with young Harry?” Dumbledore asked, and the change of topic was jarring.

“Fine,” Saturnine replied automatically, her mind still stuck on the Deathly Hallows and the destruction they could unleash were they to end up in the wrong hands.

“Not the debacle you predicted then,” the silver-haired wizard continued. “And, as evidenced by his willingness to share his nightmares and visions with you, you’ve successfully gained his trust. Encouraging results for a mere two weeks spent with the boy.”

Saturnine halted her pacing to round on him. “Do not dare tell me I told you so old man,” she warned him. “Or I will hex you six ways from Sunday—I swear I will.”

Dumbledore chuckled at her threat but had the good grace to remain silent.

“What of the snake?” she asked, returning to the matter at hand. “How does that align with Beedle the Bard’s fairy tale?”

“I cannot see how it does.” Dumbledore shook his head. “It may be unrelated. But I, too, sense it could be important.” He rose from his seat, joints cracking, and stepped closer to Saturnine. “You’ve always had good instincts, my dear. An unconventional way of seeing things, yes, but an incredible understanding of the mechanics behind others’ actions and connections. You and your brother both.”

“Leave him out of this,” she cautioned in a cutting tone.

It was advice that Dumbledore chose to ignore, as he did everything else. “And how long has it been since the two of you last spoke?”

Her words were sharp-edged enough to cut through ice as she said, “Not long enough.” The fact that the headmaster had used her familial guilt to secure her services was one thing, but she drew the line at unsolicited advice.

“Ah, yes,” the headmaster said, tone amiable, benevolent smile at the ready. “Family can be difficult at times, but quarrels always find a way to sort themselves out in the end.”

For a moment, Saturnine wondered if Dumbledore was old enough that she could manage to toss some Floo Powder into the fire and then push him through the flames before he had the time to pull out his wand. She was half-tempted to try it, all thoughts of self-preservation be damned.

“I must return to Hogwarts now,” he said, saving her from what could have been a poorly veiled suicide attempt. “Thank you for bringing this matter to me, Saturnine. Stay here and continue to take good care of Harry. And if he has any more visions, let me know at once.”

“Of course,” she replied, with a curt nod. She didn’t reply when the headmaster wished her a good day, and she turned her back on him as he stepped through the fire. Damn, but he could be infuriating at times.

Her feet took her to Harry’s bedroom before her mind had the time to form the thought. She let herself in without a sound. The boy was fast asleep. He’d curled up on his right side with one hand tucked beneath his pillow to provide additional height. She never could sleep like that; the incline hurt her neck to no end the next day. A stray thought that came from nowhere reminded her that her brother used to like sleeping that way, too, and the rush of emotions that accompanied the memories forced her to sit down.

She perched herself on the edge of the bed by Harry’s legs, mindful not to touch him. Who knew how many sleepless nights he’d been able to slip past her with his Silencing Charm? The boy needed his sleep, and she planned on letting him rest as long as his battered body needed him to.

Harry had kept her blanket, she noticed, as she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. She’d grabbed it from her bed without an afterthought when she had seen him sitting outside. And Harry now wore it draped around his shoulders like a shawl, on top of his own light-blue blanket which came up to his torso.

“There were once three brothers travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight…” she started, in a voice that was all but a whisper. Continuing, she said, “…the eldest brother asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence. The second brother asked for the power to recall the deceased from the grave. The third and youngest brother asked for something to enable him to go forth without Death being able to follow…”

Parents did that with children, didn't they? Told them bedtime tales to lull them to sleep. But stories were meant to be just that—words of the imagination. They were not supposed to herald impossibly dark days to come. And children were supposed to remain innocent, not turned into unwitting soldiers in a war not of their choosing.

A wand, a cloak and a stone—and a snake that was one more ace up the Dark Lord’s sleeve.

As she recalled one more quote from the works of Sun Tzu, Saturnine couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps Tom Riddle had taken a page from the same book she had.