Augustus Rookwood was studying the photographs in the Daily Prophet with care. Two issues less than a week apart, two photographs of identical ceremonies in entirely different households. What could the pompous aristocratic Malfoys possibly have in common with the old, solid, but almost peasant-stock magical family of the Longbottoms? As it turned out, something—or rather, someone.
From the outside: just a young man in a modest black robe who appeared to have ended up in such company entirely by accident. And wearing the expression of someone who had come to a funeral rather than a celebration. The godfather. By accident. Indeed. Trying to blend in? Against the backdrop of the Malfoys' extravagantly dressed guests—and equally against the respectable finery of the Longbottoms—he didn't stand out at all. Rookwood smiled thinly. An amusing young man. A very promising one.
Severus Snape had become extraordinarily popular of late. Though he ran from his popularity at considerable speed—Rookwood had already observed that, watching him flee from admirers in Diagon Alley. A bat on the hunt! No matter, though; the newly-minted hero wouldn't be able to outrun correspondence. Especially a letter on official Department of Mysteries stationery. Such communications were not ignored.
He could not have anticipated that Snape's first thought on receiving it would be precisely that—to ignore it. Better still, to burn it. But Hagrid's education had taken hold; Severus no longer acted on first impulses, and since he did have a brain, the first thought rarely remained the only one for long. He gathered what information he could on Rookwood before their meeting—and found only fragments. He didn't know the most important thing. Though, in fairness, no one did. Except Rookwood himself.
A triple agent, loyal primarily to knowledge, then to himself, and somewhat to the Department of Mysteries—Augustus Rookwood had entered the Death Eaters with long-term plans. Though it was his department head who had sent him on that dark assignment, after a long and productive conversation with the Great Light Wizard. And so Augustus had worked out, fairly quickly, why Dumbledore needed Tom Riddle—alias Lord Voldemort, and eventually Voldemort the Mispronounced. Albus couldn't rest until he had obtained all three Deathly Hallows.
Well, he wasn't the only one with that particular obsession—three people from the Department had been equally burning to get their hands on those remarkable artefacts, and Rookwood was among them. Though Unspeakables weren't only interested in the Hallows—they were drawn to the entire legacy of Slytherin, the Gaunts, and the Peverells. A fine bouquet, very dark indeed, and therefore enormously interesting. And Rookwood had one additional burning desire: Parseltongue, or more precisely, those who possessed it. He had long since established that all of Slytherin's passwords were exclusively hissing.
So when the department head suggested he "assist a distinguished individual," Rookwood went willingly and practically cheerfully. Dumbledore seemed pleased—apparently believing he had the stronger Legilimens. He was wrong. Rookwood's Occlumency was considerably more formidable. So which of them was using the other as a blind instrument was, in fact, a genuinely open question. Though presumably this was what had caused such confusion that Rookwood had nearly ended up imprisoned alongside all his fellow "skull-and-serpent" colleagues—thank goodness the department head had caught himself in time. And the fact that Dumbledore had shown no concern whatsoever for the problem facing a man who appeared to be working directly for him—for Rookwood, that wasn't a warning bell. It was a full alarm. He was obliged to maintain the acquaintance, much to his regret, which meant keeping up a good face and playing the "eccentric scholar" superbly. It wasn't as though he hadn't done it before.
He wanted to develop a warm working relationship with the young genius Potions master for several other reasons, one of which was those very potions. The second—the peculiarly interesting position the young man had now taken, becoming godfather to children from what had originally been two hostile factions. Either Snape was a fool who had agreed to spend the rest of his life between hammer and anvil, or Rookwood was missing something about the nature of those factions. And one of the leaders appeared to be missing it too—which was perfectly appropriate for that bearded duplicitous figure.
Politics didn't interest Rookwood—it was simply that the leaders of both groups were the most direct route to what he was looking for. Yes, the Deathly Hallows, and Parseltongue. And he had absolutely no intention of sharing any of it with anyone. Except those two colleagues of his—decent people, thoroughly self-interested, but they'd never sell out their own for any price. Snape could, in principle, make a very suitable fourth. They'd been short a good Potions master for a long time.
* * *
Reading the invitation to have a conversation with a specialist from the Department of Mysteries, Severus Snape felt that this might prove to be the straw that finally broke the camel's back—though he was as resilient as camels came, if endurance were any measure. For the first time, he seriously contemplated emigration. Or at least a round-the-world journey, by preference the most leisurely possible method. On foot, ideally. But—to abandon his home and his beloved laboratory? And then there was Potter.
Initially he'd been irritated that some small child kept taking him for a woman; then, having heard the child say mama about everyone, he understood the boy simply couldn't talk properly yet—but he still didn't think to name the faintly prickling, vaguely uncomfortable feeling somewhere in his depths as jealousy. Perhaps he was wrong not to. But what did you expect from a man barely past twenty?
And then they'd stopped seeing each other too often—the child was in the care of Lady Black's house-elves, which Severus was genuinely grateful for. But at least once a day his feet carried him to Grimmauld of their own accord—he couldn't feel settled unless he'd seen Harry and personally confirmed that everything was all right. It must be the oath, he thought, for what felt like the hundredth time, peeling small determined fingers off himself and handing the boy to his godfather. I never would have thought that having Black—the Sirius one—would turn out to be so useful. He's a considerably better nursemaid than I am. Only Black had quickly become "Siri" and "Uncle," while only Snape remained mama. And Hagrid, oddly enough.
In recent days Severus had found himself irritable and bad-tempered—though exclusively at himself. What had possessed him to agree to the Longbottoms' and Malfoys' proposals? Now Dumbledore's watchers were occasionally loitering near Grimmauld, and it was nothing short of luck that the Headmaster didn't yet know where the Prince house was. Though here he had to give himself credit for foresight, and for having finally developed the correct attitude toward oaths and vows—preferring to take them from others rather than give them himself.
But the idea of travel was beginning to seem more and more appealing. Particularly after a pair of unmarried cousins of Lucius's arrived at Malfoy Manor—charming fair-haired young ladies. He was used to taking Polyjuice when he needed to be anywhere in public, but he couldn't keep showing up at his godson's in a different face every time.
He had studied his reflection carefully, then concocted a reliable but easily-removable adhesive for his hair and learned to apply a light illusion to his face—exaggerating certain features just enough that no sensible girl would be tempted to approach. The Malfoys were appalled, but the one-year-old godson—like Potter and little Longbottom—was entirely indifferent. The adults worked out the reason fairly quickly, naturally. Unfortunately, there remained the not-sensible girls. And their mothers. And then he'd realised it was contagious. And now, to top it all, the Department of Mysteries.
He swept almost all of his mail off the table and into the fireplace. After all, why in the name of Merlin was he obliged to answer any of them? He had three experimental potions on the go in the laboratory, a couple more in development, a half-finished article for the Potioneer's Gazette. And there was the Mark to remove, and he needed to find a way to deactivate the Horcruxes without damaging the most precious of the relics—especially one small, green-eyed one. Balls, debutantes, garden parties— had everyone lost their minds?
* * *
Snape's appearances at the cottage had become routine—he came every two or three days without fail—so Andrei wasn't surprised to see him. What did come as a surprise was the request for political asylum. And then, when Severus announced he was prepared to brew and take Polyjuice with a hair from Fang, Andrei nearly lost the power of speech. Severus continued his train of thought and eventually concluded:
"Though Aragog would probably be safer—no one but you would go near him anyway."
"Are you aware," Andrei finally managed, "that this is essentially coercive Animagus transformation?"
"I was joking," Severus said, looking at the floor.
"Some joke. What's happened this time?"
And Snape, twitching his cheek, unloaded on Hagrid a summary of his daily correspondence.
"Invitations to meetings?"
"I burned the romantic ones on the spot. Here—look at this one, from Rookwood."
Andrei read the letter carefully. No—one did not want to quarrel with the Department of Mysteries. But a characteristically mischievous idea was forming. Severus was still very young and thoroughly inexperienced, whereas he, with his eighty-odd years behind him, might very well be able to hold his own against various bureaucrats, scholars, and the like.
"You know, the Polyjuice idea is actually sound," he said, nodding at Severus. "Let me have a hair."
"I gave you one hair already," Snape objected, unexpectedly. "And ended up with an Order, with everything that follows. The Order itself, fine—it sits in its box—but the everything-that-follows is still—"
"Gushing?" Andrei smiled.
"In a torrent," Snape admitted, with venomous gloom. "Can't walk down the street without girls asking for autographs. And the mothers are worse. I only go out under Polyjuice now."
"But that's genuinely bad for your health."
"Believe me, everything else is considerably worse."
"You've tried enough times to be sure?"
"Two godsons is already more than enough—"
"I go to the Longbottoms more often than you do, to be fair."
"Also under Polyjuice? How's the health? And how have we not run into each other?"
"No, we've sorted things out with them—Neville's parents, I mean. They took an oath, of course, and generally— He's a good boy. Actually, listen, could we somehow put them together?"
"Put who together?"
"The boys. Would probably be simpler for everyone."
"Perhaps at the Malfoys'— though the Longbottoms are the 'enemy camp.' Something to think about. Neutral ground would be needed."
"You've got all those invitations—perhaps we use one? You could get yourself set up with a hostess, and we'll supply ready-made children."
Snape nearly spilled his tea in lieu of a reply.
"I'd sooner get another house-elf."
"So you're telling me you're entirely untouched, then? Never been kissed?"
Severus went red—but, entirely uncharacteristically, said nothing. He simply burned Andrei with a look that said leave it or I'll poison you. Well. Certain potions did affect half-giants. Especially ones brewed by this particular Potions master.
That wants fixing, Andrei thought, in a businesslike way—having long since come to regard Snape as something like a favourite nephew. But how? Take him to a— no, somehow that doesn't seem right. Think.
"Here's what we'll do about the Polyjuice. You'll take a stroll through my forest for me, get some fresh air, maybe collect something useful, and I'll go meet Rookwood. After all, you're not quite ready to match wits with him yet. Are you?"
"And what will the Unspeakables decide I am after that?"
"I give you my word that they won't learn anything from me that they shouldn't. And as for you—they'll simply respect you. Speaking of which, would you be against working with them?"
"Depends on a great deal—"
"Let me find out the details. I'll go gather useful information on your behalf. And I give you my word: no Order this time. When is your meeting? Lunch, is it? Come in the morning then—you're an early riser, aren't you?"
From Severus's expression he read the answer was no, but for the chance to wander certain clearings, the man would happily go without sleep entirely. Andrei smiled, said out loud that no such extremity was necessary—he was welcome any time. Just remember that Hogwarts was right next door, and the Headmaster with it.
Snape twitched his cheek again and left—presumably to finish the advanced Polyjuice. He had, fortunately, had the foresight to start the base preparations for several long-brewing potions well in advance.
* * *
Andrei's mischievous mood developed into far-reaching plans. One of which was a conversation with Ninochka on the subject of one young and thoroughly unkissed gentleman. The dryad was surprised and intrigued—she was past her third century and the thought simply hadn't occurred to her. But it was genuinely interesting, wasn't it, how it worked for those who couldn't propagate by cuttings! The dryad proved an appreciative audience. Not only an audience, as it happened.
The next morning Andrei drank his Polyjuice, solemnly swore—like a young Boy Scout—that there would be no Order this time, and set off first to Snape's laboratory to read through the latest notes, so he'd know what was what. After which he could meet with Rookwood—that is, with the DoM.
Severus also drank his portion, practised moving about for a bit—new height took some getting used to without listing like a man who'd had too much—then set off along Hagrid's favourite path to have a conversation with Aragog. He'd been meaning to get to the Acromantula venom for some time.
And was not met by Aragog.
Ninochka, after the Polyjuice Andrei had offered her and a love potion she had selected herself—well, almost all the ingredients were botanical, and there she was on expert ground—looked rather, rather interesting.
The woody structure was still there, but that only gave her a particular charm—the dryad herself was delighted by her new reflection. A tree, yes, of course—but such a romantic one.
A slender yet shapely girl with skin the colour of pale amber with an intriguing grain, in a thin dress the colour of her own complexion, stepped delicately across the snow on graceful bare feet, making her way toward Aragog's den. How could one not come to her defence?
The result was entirely unexpected.
The ethereal, otherworldly girl opened her mouth and bellowed straight into the cave of the most dangerous monster in the forest:
"Hey, chunk of lazy chitin in your prime! Stop sleeping and get out here, you've got visitors!"
And Severus sat down directly into a snowdrift. Fortunately a rather comfortable stump was underneath—the very one the original Hagrid used to favour—and he landed squarely in the middle.
"Who are you?" he managed, having completely forgotten to take another sip of Polyjuice—the walk to the ravine had been a long one.
"A dryad," Ninochka said, poking the snow with a bare toe.
"Aren't you—cold?" He was already unbuttoning his robe, intending to drape it over the wonderful girl—because really, how—barefoot and practically underdressed. And he felt himself go involuntarily red.
"Not in the slightest," Ninochka giggled, sitting down closer to him. "I'm made of wood."
"That can't be right," Severus said, nearly breathless.
"You can check if you like." She extended one exquisitely carved—foot toward him.
Snape reddened further. But he checked.
And immediately felt cool palms against his face, smelling of— forest, summer, and what seemed very much like actual magic.
"Oh, you're warm!" Ninochka said with delight, settling herself on his knees with comfortable efficiency. "Much nicer than a snowdrift. And softer than the stump!" The dryad shifted slightly. "I like this."
"But—don't you—sleep in winter?" Snape's voice nearly cracked.
"That's everyone else. I'm the Senior."
Severus had read books. And having a neatly solid lap full of a beautiful girl of an indeterminate number of centuries was— unusual. He needed to think of something else immediately—and at that moment Aragog finally emerged.
In his hopes of obtaining the rarest of ingredients, Snape stood up as if Ninochka had never existed. Though the Acromantula was impressive enough on his own to make one want not just to stand but to leave promptly—Snape admitted this only to himself, privately, and buried the admission immediately. The venom, though.
The dryad, incidentally, showed no sign of taking offence—which was a distinct improvement over every female Snape had previously encountered. She smiled at him and went to tickle the spider's pedipalps.
Aragog yelped and clicked venomously that he had no intention whatsoever of losing his virtue in such a perverse manner, to which the dryad replied that if he ever changed his mind, he was welcome to ask—her hands were sufficiently nimble and would manage perfectly well—and then ran off somewhere. Snape and Aragog both went red, and the chitin proved no obstacle to the latter's blush. The two young men left behind, as it turned out, had plenty to talk about. And proper introductions to make, since they'd heard of each other many times but had never actually met.
It should be noted that Ninochka was an excellent magical practitioner—a particular and special forest magic, granted, but she had one other exceptional gift, without which she could never have become Senior Dryad: the ability to enchant water.
Snape, who had gone hoarse arguing with Aragog (who was still lamenting his solitary fate), did drink from the little spring—and did not turn into a goat. But—
The dryad, who had finally introduced herself as Ninochka, could enchant not only water but could bring spring to a forest clearing for about fifteen minutes at a stretch. They both enjoyed that very much.
And even more than that, they both found they could speak plainly about absolutely everything. They discussed, in particular, whether anyone in a black robe might take root somewhere in the forest by next summer, and whether ordinary human children of Severus's would have black hair curling into green shoots—and what their future mother would make of it all. Ninochka didn't understand jealousy, though she knew the word. Children ought to come to everyone.
They both laughed until they were ridiculous.
Severus hadn't felt this light ever. One thing still nagged at him.
"Is this your real form?" he asked. "Forgive me if—"
The dryad laughed and showed him several of her appearances—from the very first "Pinocchio-class automaton" all twigs and knees, to what she was now. And then said, seriously:
"We're not permitted to show our true face. But this version— I'll admit, it's somewhat close. Except right now I look older."
"Older?" Severus was horrified.
Congratulations, you're a paedophile with a girl of several centuries, said the inner voice, and collapsed in confusion. But a scholar's mind could not stop working.
"And how did this happen?"
He heard about the Polyjuice. Ordinary Polyjuice, bought somewhere in Knockturn Alley—imagine! With a hair from some Gryffindor girl. Well, yes—Gryffindors everywhere—although—
"Wait—so potions work on you?" Something lit up in the black eyes.
"Of course—not all of them, mostly our own."
"Your own? So— did you give me a love potion? Amortentia?"
"I gave you water!" Ninochka stamped her foot, but sat back down on his knee and smiled slyly. "Only, working with water requires a certain skill. Which I have."
"Will you show me? And— what if we tried your water on incompatible species?"
"How do you think Hagrid started breeding his snot-tails?"
"His what?"
"Those— offspring of a fire crab and a manticore. Your Hagrid—the current one—thank the Life Force, destroyed them. They smelled terrible, struck lightning, breathed fire from both ends. Tell me, what was wrong with him that he needed something like that?"
"Wait—the water was sufficient for that?"
"And the manticore wasn't even fertile, if you can believe it!"
"You don't say."
"Right. But she produced offspring perfectly well. Though she did run away afterward. I understand her—I'd have run too. Shall we go to the spring?" offered this incomparable and finest woman in the world. And never mind that she was made of wood.
"Wait— so for you, for us— it might be possible?"
Ninochka waved her arms and burst out laughing.
"Oh, honestly. Of course not. It's winter."
"So?" Severus tensed.
"Wrong season! Oh—I meant to ask you something. What's that nasty thing growing into your arm? It needs to come out."