Before his meeting with Rookwood, Andrei realised he would need to prepare Snape for a new role. His ideal picture looked something like this: a young, energetic genius—freelance consultant at St Mungo's and staff consultant for the Department of Mysteries, a Potions master of international renown, with an understanding wife and a household of at least three children, a couple of boys and a girl. The main thing was that Snape shouldn't figure out the plan—or rather, not all of it. The last part, specifically. The first part would probably go over brilliantly. Though the second part could certainly wait another decade or so.
But could the young wizard handle all of this? The Department of Mysteries was not exactly a walk in the park—"a state within a state"—Andrei had already done his research on what the division actually was.
Hmm. Rookwood wasn't saved in the end, was he, he reflected. In canon. Although he did go rather far off the rails—took part in raids, by all accounts. Still, I think it was the Mark—I simply don't believe that children from old families could collectively and cheerfully lose their minds to the point of tormenting Muggles, people they'd previously ignored entirely. Why would they suddenly want to? Because someone told them to? And seasoned Unspeakables, not to mention other adult wizards—there's even less to say. So the Mark is the top priority now.
He also thought that with Harry, it would be wise to be more careful—who knew what the Horcrux might have left behind, whether it had managed to do any lasting damage. What if destroying the remaining Horcruxes somehow affected the child? Nothing but questions, and someone needed to be loaded with them. Not Snape—that was certain. He was already overextended, and it wasn't his area anyway. Which meant he needed to sound out Rookwood for loyalty and, if possible, recruit him. And while he was at it, arranged an official position for Snape—something that wouldn't put too much pressure on him. Otherwise Dumbledore might make his own offer, and it would be good to have a solid excuse ready. Oh, perfect: let the Ministry pay for the potions and the Horcrux research—after all, it was in the state's interest too.
The conversation itself began with completely undisguised recruitment—initiated by Rookwood, whom Andrei enthusiastically supported—and resulted in something resembling a letter of intent. Andrei liked the approach, and put forward several questions of his own, after which Rookwood fixed him with a heavy stare and asked, with weary directness:
"Possessed, or under Polyjuice?"
Both, and without bread, Andrei very nearly answered on a reflex of sudden tension—but managed to hold back. He looked suspiciously at his own glass, then at Rookwood. Then at the handkerchief barely peeking from his breast pocket—and raised an expressive eyebrow in the style Snape had taught him.
***
During his conversation with Snape, Augustus Rookwood felt his brain being extracted from his skull. He had planned to probe the Potions master's views and offer him a position in his department—his group, specifically—and the man had responded readily; then they had both become absorbed in the details and in probing each other, and within half an hour it was completely unclear who was recruiting whom.
A twenty-year-old couldn't do this. Rookwood touched the artefact concealed as a handkerchief and understood: Polyjuice. And possibly something else? He glanced around discreetly and found his wand before making his accusation.
What he received in return was… a relieved exhale, a smile, and a suggestion to take a walk somewhere without witnesses—for when the Polyjuice wore off. With an oath against causing harm. To him. Rookwood. This. Little. Upstart. Though who was actually hiding behind that face? He had no choice but to respond in kind—purely as a matter of courtesy. Augustus had always been an easily captivated character, which had taken him to the edge more than once, but he always managed to wriggle out. And he was far from a weak wizard.
And so he found himself in a strange room with a ceiling high as a castle's, behind an enormous solid table—behind which stood what appeared to be a bed covered in various pelts. Quite interesting ones, actually. A dog barked behind the wall, then went silent the moment "Snape" hushed it.
"Where are we?"
"My home," replied "Snape," and began making tea. "Have a look around in the meantime."
A minute later, a fragrant herbal infusion with a mild calming effect was steaming in front of Augustus. The Potions master, like some old forest witch, was pinching off sprigs and leaves from dried bundles hanging from the ceiling—well-known herbs, all visible—so the drink was perfectly safe, and indeed perfectly timed, because Snape before him was gradually stretching upward and broadening outward.
"Ha… grid," Rookwood stated the fact, not quite believing himself.
"Hagrid, Hagrid," the half-giant said, and delivered the final blow by giving him a careful pat on the shoulder. "Come on, drink your tea."
What a turn, Augustus said inwardly. And this is the dim, half-educated half-giant? What happened to him?
"Fell on my head. Hard," Hagrid answered the unasked question—and Rookwood felt a chill run down his spine. He was also a Legilimens?
"It's all over your face—you should see yourself. Think you're the first? Here, look."
He held out a small mirror, and Augustus had the pleasure of observing his own dumbfounded expression. He hadn't felt anything quite like this in some time. The half-giant even needled him:
"Call yourself the Department of Mysteries. Every emotion on display, like a schoolboy. Good thing no one else is watching, isn't it."
"Wait," Rookwood began collecting himself. "So Snape is your cover? Who saved the Longbottoms? Who is godfather to their son? And Malfoy's? Which of you is actually the Potions master?"
"Are you certain you need all of that? And you can put your wand down—charms don't work on me, didn't you read any books? Only certain potions. Snape's ones."
"I think I understand—the two of you arranged all of this. Very clever. Only… aren't you worried about the boy? They'll pull him apart."
"They won't—he moves fast. And why do you think I came to negotiate on his behalf?"
"Will he actually confirm everything you've promised in his name?"
"We discussed it all in advance." Hagrid smoothed out the parchment they'd filled with their letter of intent.
"Will you take an oath from me?"
"Is that necessary? We essentially have the same goal. Reach the Dark Lord, work out what's driving his instability, locate and neutralise the Horcruxes. And then either restore his soul, or send it on to rebirth—but in a way that doesn't waste anything useful. Go ahead and read it, then sign."
"Snape definitely agrees to join the staff?"
"You're a fortress for him. The Department doesn't give up its own, does it?"
Rookwood's expression darkened.
"Lately… I can speak for myself—I wouldn't give him up—but we seem to have a problem with our head. Either someone's putting pressure on him, or something else is going on."
"Replace the head."
"His support group is too powerful."
"And you have plenty of things in the Department that could trigger an unfortunate accident. One wrong turn and—gone, yes?"
"How charmingly you imagine our work," Rookwood said drily. "No. We're not a department full of people who haven't been properly frightened."
"All properly frightened?"
"Very much so."
"Even the ones who've been doing paperwork for decades?"
"Especially those. Our people… are extremely reluctant to step away from real work, and if they're forced to, then— Career advancement is unpopular with us. And tends to happen, as a rule, after a serious loss. The ladder itself isn't tall."
"I see." Andrei grew serious. "And you're all, every one of you, with the 'Ravenclaw diagnosis'?"
"More or less. Though far from all Ravenclaws."
"Understood. Well—Severus will fit in well enough. Only—whose alliance does your head have that you'd rather he didn't?"
"Dumbledore's." Rookwood frowned. "I trust neither him nor the old man anymore."
"Reasons?"
"I was almost escorted to Azkaban. I believe thanks to our beacon of light. The head caught it at the last moment."
"But he did catch it. You know, let's have Severus work with you freelance instead. Better to have him at St Mungo's."
"Probably right. No one would dare open their mouth against St Mungo's."
They parted mutually satisfied—despite the fact that instead of Rookwood recruiting himself a Potions master, the gamekeeper had recruited Rookwood himself, and saddled him with certain questions, admittedly very interesting ones. He'd have to find whoever on their staff specialised in Clingy Kneazles—or read up on it himself. Curious business taking shape.
***
When Rookwood—now "Augustus, even just Avgust"—had gone, Andrei was briefly tempted to visit Ninochka and find out whether Severus had managed to have at least a little fun, but he felt instinctively that the moment wasn't right for paying attention to personal matters. He'd heard something important, but what?
Andrei turned the recent conversation over and over in his mind until a familiar surname clicked into place—Rookwood had mentioned Lovegood in passing a couple of times as someone they collaborated with, and Andrei remembered Luna. No—that sort of thing shouldn't happen to children.
In an instant he was through the fireplace to Ottery St Catchpole. In the books, Luna wasn't quite an infant when her mother died—he should be in time, but who knew whether everything in this world was quite the same—there had already been considerable divergences.
Carefully extricating himself from the fireplace without demolishing it, he dusted himself off and found Molly in the kitchen. He asked about the Lovegoods and exhaled with relief: in time. The unforgettable Pandora was alive; Arthur had seen her just yesterday evening in the village bakery—though something exploded periodically in the workshop or whatever it was they had in the annex to their tower. More precisely, almost every morning, as if on a schedule. So Molly didn't go near them and didn't let anyone else. And why was dear Rubeus suddenly interested in that eccentric family?
He had to share his supposedly-dreamed vision again: a fragile, delicate girl, pale as a moonbeam, watching her mother die before her eyes. Molly, it turned out, didn't even know the Lovegoods had had a daughter. And since she had just become the mother of an equally tiny girl herself, she was horrified. Hagrid added something: he made a sad and helpless face and said he'd come to her for advice because he didn't know how to approach the situation. He barely knew the Lovegoods, but he hadn't slept for three nights because he couldn't stop thinking about the child. He'd supplied the "dream" with further details, naturally. In vivid colour.
Molly—well acquainted with the half-giant's prophetic dreams and still remembering his immortal "it'll be a girl"—seized Ginny, shoved her at Andrei along with a bottle of what appeared to be milk or thin porridge, and rushed off to the Lovegoods. It remained to be hoped that a force of nature like Molly would get through to the Lovegoods—ideally both of them.
He fed and changed Ginny with reasonable competence and wrapped her in a warm blanket, then set off to walk to meet her mother. Molly returned soon—he hadn't got far, the house was still just visible behind him. She looked pleased; she picked up her daughter and headed back. It seemed the girls might grow up together, and hopefully the mothers would at least be on friendly terms.
***
When Andrei returned to his cottage, he relaxed into a satisfied smile at the sight before him: Snape and Ninochka were sitting at the table, quietly drinking tea, heads bent over a sheet of paper on which they were drawing some kind of diagram, taking turns.
"Look—this structure of yours resembles the connection between dryad trees—the Senior and all the rest. Ours is organised like this," the dryad—looking quite attractive in human form—drew several lines. "This is the flow of life force. And this is magic. They're not equivalent. How yours works, I don't know. But I think you can probably work that out yourself."
"Do you think if he's been drawing all the sustenance to himself, severing all the connections would affect him… drastically?"
"Depends on his condition, naturally. You said he's currently disembodied… I don't know how that can be." Ninochka shrugged. "A dryad's soul departs forever. Together with her tree."
Andrei joined the discussion as though he'd never been away—earning a peculiar look from Severus, but choosing to focus on something else, more pressing. As did his guests. What had or hadn't happened in their personal lives seemed far less important in light of this new discovery about the connections that might be—and most likely were—embedded in the Mark, and their analogy with the connections in a dryad grove.
It was only after an hour of diagrams and calculations only Snape could fully follow that Andrei noticed Ninochka wasn't drinking Polyjuice.
"I liked the new form," she caught his glance. "And I've anchored it myself perfectly well."
"And so now you'll have several different appearances?"
"I've always had several—one more just got added," she said, with a note of pride. "Though not all of them can be shown to humans. You won't see my true face until my time comes."
"I have no curiosity on the subject," Snape said flatly, and moved immediately back to business: "What I'm getting is that removing the central node is still the optimal approach."
"If we continue the analogy—the whole grove would die."
"Look at the differences here—"
"But if you remove the whole grove, the Senior dies too, yes?"
"And do you actually need this—what's-his-name—to die?"
"Not exactly. Which is to say, not at all. That's right, isn't it?" Snape looked up at Hagrid.
"What if there were two of them?" Andrei cut in. "Say we pull this self-important young man out of his diary—"
"But could he serve as the centre of the Mark?" Ninochka frowned. "He had nothing to do with it at that point, did he?" She turned to Severus. "How old was he then—sixteen, you said?"
"Is it just the Parseltongue we need, or something else?" Snape asked Hagrid. "Doesn't Slytherin's legacy suggest some interesting possibilities?"
"Some legacies are only useful to actual heirs. They'd do nothing for anyone else."
"When did you become so wise?"
"Had a conversation with Rookwood."
"Ah, right. And what's to report?"
"Better if you get yourself installed at St Mungo's. They've already been interested, haven't they?"
He shook his head.
"They will be."
Severus frowned and studied Hagrid with care.
"Something's not right in the Department of Mysteries—Rookwood warned me. And yes, we spoke without masks."
"Better news," Snape's mouth twitched slightly. "At least those ones will leave me alone. Though…" He paused. "I used to dream about getting into the Department of Mysteries when I was at school."
"And never dreamed of St Mungo's, I imagine."
"I'll probably be going," the dryad sighed. "And don't think that anything written about us in your books is anywhere close to the truth."
"Who are we to stop you?" Severus said, in an unusually gentle tone. "I just want to say—"
His mouth was covered by an enormous palm that obscured nearly his entire face, but he moved the hand aside.
"I only meant to say that I'll consult exclusively the primary source for information."
"And what does that have to do with an oath?" Andrei said, exasperated. "There you go again."
Severus raised both hands in acknowledgement of the error, and the dryad laughed.
"You may consult. As often as you like."
She vanished as though she'd never been there, and Snape stood up.
"Rubeus—I'm going to my laboratory. I want to try doing what we prepared with Regulus, but using that water from her spring. Nina enchanted it."
"Need a hand?"
"No. I'll call Regulus myself." Snape produced a Two-Way Mirror from his pocket. "I was going to buy one for us too, but for now— Maybe you could?"
"I'll buy one and drop it off at yours."
"Excellent. And… thank you, Rubeus."
A faint flush appeared along the young man's cheekbones—from which Andrei drew the correct conclusion, but had absolutely no intention of prying. He had his own things to think about.
It turned out: if the Mark were removed from all of the Dark Lord's followers, he most likely wouldn't be able to embody again—or if he could, would be very, very weak. Ninochka had essentially proved this beyond reasonable doubt. But how to reach those currently in Azkaban? That was the question.
And then there were the Horcruxes. Was young Riddle also a sociopath, more concealed than Snape, just better at hiding it? Or was there still something that could be done with him? Ah well. But the Mark had to be removed—that much was certain.
***
That evening Snape staggered in—dishevelled, barely on his feet, as though drunk—and showed Andrei a completely clean left forearm.
"It worked?" Andrei exhaled. "How? The new potion just—"
And only then noticed the dryad standing quietly by the door.
"It was her." Severus turned to Ninochka, swept her up in his arms, and spun her around the room. "She drew it out—like pulling roots from the ground!"
"It was painful," the dryad added. "I… it's hard," she shuddered. "And very unpleasant."
"Think of the joy afterward, though—observe the demonstration," Andrei offered—but his expression immediately turned anxious. "Are you in actual pain? Physical?"
"The thing is absolutely revolting," she grimaced. "And it burns. But it's not lethal, of course."
"What if you wore gloves?"
"We tried—then it all slips and won't come out," Severus answered.
"Dragon hide blocks my magic," the dryad specified. "Probably that."
"We need to find something else. If only we had basilisk hide—"
"Which means we can't get around resurrecting Young Tom."
"Which is what we'd planned anyway."
"Then we'll plan faster."