The Ashes and the Flame

The Ashes and the Flame

Part II: Wings of Desire

In May, to everyone's surprise, Professor Snape manages to recruit Theodore Nott; Merlin only knows how. He's an extraordinarily valuable addition. His pureblood credentials are impeccable. He's unobtrusive and rather drab-looking: though he's lanky, he slouches around so he never stands out. And he's very, very clever - far cleverer than anyone else from Slytherin in our year (not that he had much competition on that front), and clever enough to be an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries, with access to a vast archive of experimental spells and research.

Professor Snape and I latch onto him the way drowning wizards seize on gillyweed. For me he provides an outlet for intelligent conversation when Snape's acerbic tongue becomes too much; for Professor Snape, I think he's both an intellectual and a social refuge, a practical Slytherin who can be trusted not to harbor foolish heroic impulses. Under the pretext of resistance business, either Snape or I visit Theo's ancestral home, Falconsrest, once a week. Sometimes we both go, though never at the same time. I respect Theo, I even like him, but I can't quite bring myself to trust him that completely.

Trust or no, it's Theo who finds us our future one sticky summer day. (I wasn't present, of course, but I've heard the story so many times I can envision it perfectly.) It's the end of July, and though most of the Ministry staff has gone on holiday, he's still there, sweating in the bowels of the Ministry and trying to do the work of four people. A complex equation involving 11-dimensional transforms and curled space-times simply isn't working out, so he's gone to the records section to revisit some old journals.

As he pulls volume 26,493 of Ars Arithmantica from the shelf, a slender, leather-bound notebook pops out and falls to the floor. Its black covers fly open, disgorging several brittle sheets of aging parchment. Curious, he picks them up. They're covered in a fading, flowing script that he doesn't immediately recognize as German. When the foreign words finally register, however, his eyes widen. Stealthily, he looks around; no one else has ventured into the stacks, so he quickly shuffles the papers in with his own and makes a hurried exit.

"Die Homunculus Umwandlung," he announces triumphantly later that evening. I'm sitting in his study; he lets the sheets fall gently to the table before me. I leaf through them, squinting at the faint, incomprehensible words in confusion. I suppose he's surprised by my lack of response, because he prompts, "Paracelsus's Homunculus Transfiguration, Hermione."

"Oh!" Reflexively, my hands twitch toward the papers again, but it's no use. I reluctantly confess my ignorance of the German language. It's a subtle reminder that no matter how clever I am, I'm still a Mudblood. I only know English, and a smattering of state-school French. A proper pureblood would've been fluent in German, French and perhaps one or two additional languages.

"Oh." He frowns. Absently he rakes his hand through his hair. "I could try a Translation charm, but they're notoriously unreliable, and for something like this..." He trails off, muttering to himself for a few moments, and finally shrugs. "I guess I'll have to do it by hand."

He seats himself at his desk and begins to transcribe. I watch him from an armchair, admiring the way his long fingers manipulate the quill, the regularity of his writing, his utter focus on the pages before him. His whole manner exudes competence, and I realize it's dreadfully appealing. Enough foolishness, I tell myself, dragging my attention back to the shining wet words he's forming. As I consider their implications, my heart starts beating a bit faster.

"A golem," I say, my voice shaking a little. "A creature that's virtually impervious to magical and physical attacks. A creature that's powerful enough to defeat the Dark Lord. If we can recreate it, the Prophecy can still be fulfilled."

"Perhaps," Theo says, leaning back in his chair. The light from his desk gilds his skin and sharpens his bland features into interesting planes. I've never noticed how long his eyelashes are. "Paracelsus was notoriously secretive, so I have no idea if this is complete. He could've just been theorizing, or taking notes on early attempts."

"But we know he eventually succeeded!" I exclaim. "Between the two of us, we can figure it out again. After all, you're brilliant..."

I cut myself off, blushing, but he only smiles and gently disagrees, "We know he claimed he succeeded. No one else ever saw the homunculus. He said it ran away."

I must have looked dejected, because he puts his hand out to cover mine. His fingers are warm; I don't think I flinch, despite the unfamiliar fluttering in my stomach. "Look, I don't want to get your hopes up. We still have a lot of work to do."

He withdraws his hand and gets up without looking at me. I turn my head so he won't see the disappointment in my eyes. He's right. There's still a lot of work to do, and we can't let ourselves be distracted.

We discuss the papers for several more hours before I Apparate back to Angelina's cottage, optimistic for the first time since Harry's death. Our hostess is actually home, for once, but she's shooting murderous glares at the sofa where Professor Snape lounges, unconcernedly reading one of his Potions journals, Bezoar. My good mood evaporates, and my bag thunks heavily to the floor.

"What happened this time?" I ask wearily. Professor Snape affects not to hear me.

"That git," Angelina growls, her teeth nearly grinding together, "has the gall to complain about my cooking, when he's staying here on my goodwill and generosity!"

The latest edition of Bezoar slams shut.

"I merely said your pedestrian preparations failed to impress me," he says, scowling. "As I recall, you were an indifferent Potions student at best, and I have found that the two skills are intimately related. Certainly Miss Granger's case bears me out."

Did he just call me a good cook? Oh dear. Fortunately, Angelina quickly interrupts the rather distressing visions of domesticity dancing in my head.

"That's it!" she shrieks. "Cook your own supper then, you miserable old codger! Better yet, go torment someone else! Seven years of you at Hogwarts was quite enough for me!"

"Hush." I try to soothe them, but they continue trading insults until I scream. "Quiet! I've got news for you, but you're driving me insane!"

Angelina looks abashed, and plops herself into her favorite squashy armchair. Even Professor Snape's pale cheeks flush a little. When I'm sure they're paying attention, I quickly relate Theo's discovery of Paracelsus's papers.

"It's a fascinating combination of Potions work and Transfiguration. Of course, it's all still theoretical. We haven't tested anything, but it looks very promising..."

I trail off as Angelina pretends to fall asleep. Professor Snape glowers at her, disgusted. "Some of us appreciate the possibilities," he says coolly. "The potion, I suspect, is quite delicate. It uses Mandrake Root, naturally?"

"Yes," I agree. "We'll be making several modifications to it. After all, we can't create just any protective golem. It needs to have the essence of Harry Potter, too. We've thought about adding Jobberknoll feathers to bring back his memories, or boomslang skin as part of a modified Polyjuice Potion, for starters."

He looks impressed and offers to review the original, as well as our proposed changes, to ensure there aren't any "adverse consequences." I'm thrilled by his interest. It's the equivalent of cheers and cartwheels from anyone else.

Angelina, though, merely looks frustrated. After Professor Snape goes back to reading, she follows me into the kitchen. While I whisk up a quick supper for myself, she sits down at the dining table, her shoulders hunched. "Hermione, I joined your movement in memory of Fred and Harry, but I don't know what I can do right now. I can't contribute to the academic discourse. I can't brew potions. I was decent enough in Transfiguration, I guess, but my real skill was flying. So unless we attack You-Know-Who directly, I'm useless."

Oh no, she wants out, I think, prodding the cabbage and sausage in the skillet with a spoon while I consider my words. "Angelina, you're a born leader. You've got charisma and courage and the brains for strategy that the rest of us simply don't have. So what if right now we're working on modifying an obscure spell? Book learning won't get us very far at all. I need you. Eloise and Neville need you. Even Professor Snape needs you. Ignore him when he's cranky. He's not nearly as bad-tempered as he makes himself out to be."

"That's easy for you to say," she grumbles. She looks mollified, though. "He's downright nice to you. It's frightening."

"Don't forget all the years where I was practically his slave," I say quietly. "He was never cruel, but he was rarely kind, either. After I saved his life, I think he feels he's got a lot to make up for."

She looks abashed, then gives me a quick hug. "I'm sorry. I always forget about that. But it doesn't make him any easier to live with."

"He certainly can be difficult," I agree, joining her at the table.

Angelina spends the rest of the evening regaling me with stories from the Three Broomsticks. It turns out she's served several celebrities, including the singer Celestina Warbeck and the Quidditch players Aiden Lynch and Gwenog Jones (who were there at the same time and nearly got into a brawl). Headmistress Griselda Goyle is a regular, but unfortunately for her, her capacity for Ogden's Old isn't nearly as great as she thinks it is. I'm amused to learn that she's spent several uncomfortable nights snoring away beneath one of the heavy trestle tables.

Then Angelina adds thoughtfully, "You know, Theodore Nott used to stop by all the time too. He never met anyone, never talked to anyone, just sat in a corner, drank his butterbeer, and left. But he's not been by in a while. Not since he joined us."

I nearly choke on my food. "Maybe he was hoping to talk to Professor Snape."

"Maybe," she says, watching me closely. "He was certainly keeping an eye out for someone. No matter where he sat, he always kept the door in view."

Out loud I say nothing more, but secretly, I can't help wondering who he was hoping to see.