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elesianne · 4 years ago

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A Lord of the Rings fanfic for @tolkiengenweek – Family, platonic relationships

Summary: Queen Lothíriel's cousin and lady-in-waiting Sírdhem receives sad news from Gondor, and Lothíriel realises how important they have become to each other.

Wordcount: ~2,800 words; Rating: General audiences

Some keywords: friendship, hurt/comfort, hopeful ending, Fourth Age

A/N: Sírdhem is an OC, Lothíriel's younger cousin, whom I created for the sequel to my Lothíriel/Éomer fics. That sequel is not yet in posting shape but all you need to know about Sírdhem to read this fic is in this fic.

Warnings: Discussion about the death of a character (offscreen OC). And while this fic is not about pregnancy or childbirth, there are mentions of pregnancy and childbirth, including one where a character briefly describes some negative sides of giving birth.

AO3 link

Sister of my heart

It is not an uncommon occurrence for a messenger to arrive from Gondor and ask to be brought to the queen rather than the king, and Lothíriel always receives them eagerly. So does Sírdhem, her cousin who came to Rohan with her to be one of her ladies-in-waiting.

This time it is Sírdhem who rises and takes the letters from deeply-bowing young man for standing up has become arduous for Lothíriel of late. This afternoon it is particularly difficult because her older child sits on the floor clinging to her leg and her younger one naps in her lap.

Sírdhem beckons over a serving girl to take the messenger to the kitchens for a hearty meal.

'I was told to wait for a reply, my lady', he says, hesitating in front of Lothíriel. He is a new one.

'Messengers from Gondor are always told to wait', she says. 'Go and eat. You will be sent for when you are needed. If that is not until tomorrow, Sírdhem will make sure you are found lodgings for the night.'

Sírdhem nods at the messenger. It is one of her usual duties.

With another deep bow, the young man departs with the serving girl towards the kitchens.

Sírdhem hands Lothíriel four letters sealed with bright blue wax and one with black, and sits down to read her own letter.

'I see that my family have been prolific letter-writers this month', Lothíriel says as she eyes the letters. Her ladies laugh. Over the four years Lothíriel has been in Rohan, they have had to listen to many complaints about Lothíriel's brothers not writing enough.

Lothíriel opens the letter with her sister-in-law's handwriting first. She wants to know how her niece and nephews have recovered from their spring colds.

Very well, it seems, based on how much the trouble their mother writes they have got into since then, Lothíriel reads with a smile.

She raises her head when she hears a sob.

Sírdhem has the hand not clutching her letter in front of her mouth, and tears in her eyes.

'What is it, Sírdhem?' Lothíriel drops her own letter to the floor, hands her sleeping two-year-old to Cuthfleda and tries to peel Elfwine from her leg. It is difficult with her large belly in the way. 'Darling, let go. Mama needs to speak to Sírdhem.'

'No', says Elfwine. He has not been having a good day.

Estrun hurries over and lifts Elfwine into her strong arms, promising him a spoonful of jam with his evening meal if he behaves and lets his mother go without a fuss.

Lothíriel would voice her disagreement with such a child-raising method but she needs to get to Sírdhem. Using the armrests of her chair for support, she gets herself to her feet and takes a few waddling steps that take her to her cousin.

She doesn't repeat her question. It is clear enough that something is badly wrong in Anfalas, in Sírdhem's home. Lothíriel touches her arm and says gently, 'Come. Let us leave the hall.'

Sírdhem nods, and keeps her usually proud head bowed.

There are some downsides to spending their afternoon hours in the main room of the mead-hall. A total lack of privacy is one of them.

Leaning on each other, Lothíriel and Sírdhem make their way to Lothíriel's sitting room.

There, with a numb voice and a grey face, Sírdhem says, 'Belegon is dead.'

Belegon was Sírdhem's older brother, the only one of her brothers that survived the war. 'I am sorry', says Lothíriel, swallowing tears herself at once, taking Sírdhem's hand. 'So very sorry.' There is little else she can say.

'I hoped so –' Sírdhem swallows loudly, too. 'He was just beginning to sound more like himself in his letters, after years of him being almost a stranger since he rode home from Minas Tirith. I hoped so that he would…' And she begins to cry, hard enough that her whole body shakes, loud enough that Lothíriel's heart aches for her.

'Oh, my dear.' Lothíriel holds her, sniffling through her own tears as she pets Sírdhem's hair. 'I am so sorry', she whispers. 'I am sorry you lost him, too. I am sorry you weren't there.'

Lothíriel pulls her close and holds Sírdhem as she mourns another loss.

When Sírdhem's desperate sobs fade to calmer ones, perhaps only because of exhaustion, Lothíriel makes her sit and fetches her wine from the table in the corner of the room. Gondorian women need wine for fortification in moments like this, Lothíriel believes, even if those Gondorian women have been living in Rohan for four years.

When she returns to Sírdhem she finds her with the letter still in her hands, crumpled and tear-stained.

'He died in a hunting accident', Sírdhem says after emptying the cup of wine very fast. Her brows draw to an angry frown even as tears continue falling down her face. 'For all that he had seen of death, for how little was left of our family, for how young his children are – I would have thought he'd have taken more care. He should have taken more care!'

Lothíriel listens quietly. She has seen enough loss, if not experienced much of it herself, to know that anger is often a part of it for those who are left behind.

When Sírdhem falls to silence suddenly, Lothíriel says, 'You can leave tomorrow if you wish. Éomer will give you a guard of good men and swift horses, and I will send word to Minas Tirith by messenger who will arrive before you so there will be a ship ready in Harlond to take you to the coast and to Anfalas as fast as is possible.'

'What does that matter? What does it matter if I even go home?' Sírdhem rises and paces the room. 'No matter how swift the horses and ships, I won't be there in any meaningful time. They will have buried him already in the time it took for this letter to reach me. It is summer –' her words fall to sobs as she mentions the horrible, undignified reality of death.

'You can comfort your sister-in-law', says Lothíriel for lack of anything better to say, though she knows that Sírdhem and her sister-in-law are not close at all. 'You can visit Belegon's grave.'

'Indeed, his grave.' Sírdhem turns suddenly to Lothíriel, her skirts swishing around her legs. They are of finest red wool and embroidered by Sírdhem's own masterful hand. 'I have never been so glad that I came here as I am now, Lothíriel. I doubted my decision then, since I did not even know you well before we came here, but I am glad now that I chose Rohan. There is nothing left for me in Anfalas, nothing but graves to weep and rage upon. My parents, all of my brothers. All of the family I grew up with is gone.'

'I am sorry', Lothíriel says again, helplessly.

'I suppose I should go. I suppose I want to visit those graves though I hate them, too. And to not go would seem terribly hard-hearted of me.' Sírdhem comes and sits down in the chair next to Lothíriel's.

'If I go, I won't be here for your baby's birth', she says to Lothíriel, her voice no less fierce yet. 'And your mother won't be here either. It's too late, most likely, to ask her to come.'

Lothíriel suppresses a sigh. Her mother has been unwell, her father told her in his last letter, still not quite recovered from the illness she had late in winter that made her cough violently for weeks. So Lothíriel had written her and told her that she didn't need to travel to Rohan to support Lothíriel when she gives birth. It is her third time after all, she wrote, and she would have her ladies with her who have become close friends to her, Sírdhem especially.

Lothíriel says to Sírdhem, 'I will not lie to you and say that I won't miss you when I'm scared and in pain and cursing myself that I agreed to this northern horse-lord's proposal that took me so far away from my family.

'But I will be all right. We have been here so long now, you and I, that we have people here who… well, they are not family, but they care about us and we care about them. I will have Bledwyn and Cuthfleda, who have both have several children and know how it is, and Estrun and Godliss, and Guthild too, and the wise midwife who has safely got me through two births already.'

She takes Sírdhem's hand. 'Go home to Anfalas, dear, grieve and pay your respects. Take as much time as you need, and spend a few days in Dol Amroth on your way back. Rest a little for the rest of the long journey, and get all the gossip that you can from our aunt and from my sister-in-law.'

Sírdhem's mouth tugs into a smile, though her reddened eyes stay serious. 'I will find out for you whether that rumour about Amrothos courting your father's steward's daughter is true.'

She squeezes Lothíriel's hand for a moment. 'I will go write a reply to my sister-in-law, tell her that I am coming.'

'And I to the dockmaster in Harlond.' Lothíriel begins the process of standing up, and Sírdhem hurries to help her. 'Thank you. Sírdhem dear… there will be easier times for you', Lothíriel tells her. 'You have been given more than your fair share of sorrow, but you will bear it all and it will pass, and there will be new summers.'

She stands there for a moment looking at Sírdhem, her younger cousin who came with her to Rohan at only seventeen years old, still grieving for her mother whom she had lost not so long ago. And now she grieves for a family member again; but in between, she has found her own place in the court in Meduseld, and become Lothíriel's best friend.

Lothíriel is very proud of her, of the tall, smart young woman she has become. Her heart aches and rebels for all the grief that Sírdhem has had to bear.

'I will pray for a safe journey for you', Lothíriel says, finding herself close to tears again. 'Good waves for sailing, but no storm.'

Sírdhem embraces her. 'And I will pray for a safe delivery for you.' She sighs, a trembling sound. 'I will miss you too.'

Many weeks of autumn have passed by the time Sírdhem returns. Lothíriel hurries out of the hall when she is told that she is coming, and they meet on the wide steps before Meduseld.

Sírdhem's skirts are spattered with mud and her long braid, Rohirrim-like but for its dark colour, is windswept. Despite the weather and the long journey her eyes brighten when she sees Lothíriel.

'My lady!' she calls with a wide smile, her mischievousness more unburdened than it was before her journey to say goodbye.

They embrace, and Sírdhem remembers to be gentle without Lothíriel reminding her that it has been only three weeks since she gave birth.

'You could have stayed home longer', she says. 'I would not have minded.'

'I am home now, Lothíriel', Sírdhem says. 'I visited all their graves, and did not say anything mean to my sister-in-law who was as unpleasant to me as ever, and I am home now and I do not think I will go back to Anfalas any time soon.'

Lothíriel smiles, though she does not know if it is the right thing to do. 'I am glad you are home. We all missed you. Elfwine asked every day if you were coming back soon.'

Sírdhem laughs and grimaces. 'I missed him too. And your new child – I cannot wait to see him. I heard in Minas Tirith that it is another boy. Is he well, and you?'

'He is very well – my biggest baby so far, with an appetite to match his size – and I am getting there. I'll take you to see him.'

Taking Sírdhem's hand, Lothíriel leads her into the hall and to her group of ladies who have lain aside their work since it is almost time for the midday-meal. They rise to greet Sírdhem, and Bledwyn who is holding Lothíriel and Éomer's as-yet unnamed third child brings him to meet Sírdhem.

There are embraces and smiles and questions all around, and Godliss makes a sweet fuss about Sírdhem, having food and warm drink brought to her at once and a blanket for her lap after travelling on a windy autumn day.

Cuthfleda tells her about the progress they made on the tapestry of the battle on Pelennor fields, Sírdhem's favourite project.

'And you promise that you have not ruined my tapestry while I was gone, Ríel?' Sírdhem teases.

Lothíriel laughs, no offended at this old joke, and relieved at Sírdhem's levity. 'Indeed I have not! Cuthfleda has kept a close eye on me. She knows as well as you my lack of skill compared to you two.'

The six of them, Lothíriel and her ladies, sit close to each other and talk over each other and the short time until the meal passes fast. As they eat they continue sharing news, gossip and progress on various work, and because she insists Sírdhem gets to hold the baby even though it makes eating difficult.

Lothíriel notices Éomer stride into the hall and exchanges smiles with him, but he notices how lively and focused on each other she and her ladies are. He nods and goes to spend the mealtime with his men instead of with Lothíriel as he often does.

After the meal Sírdhem goes to her room to change out of her travel-worn clothes and unpack, and Lothíriel goes with her.

As she sorts through her things and hands to Tuilindien gifts from Dol Amroth, Sírdhem says, 'The way home felt longer than the journey to Anfalas. I am happy that I went, but happier to be back. And I don't intend to go back to southern Gondor, unless it is with you.'

She smiles at Lothíriel, then, playful again despite the pale tiredness that has crept on her face. 'So you and Éomer must begin doing something about what I've been promised all this time – finding me a husband among the Rohirrim. So I can stay.'

'You don't need to marry a man of Rohan to stay in Rohan!' Lothíriel exclaim, adding, 'Do you not know how dear you are to me? You have become my dearest friend; I realised it more than ever while you ever gone. You are my cousin only in blood, but the sister of my heart. I would happily keep you by my side for the rest of my life, even if we do not find you a husband that pleases you.'

Sírdhem embraces her warmly. 'I have no sister but you either, sister of my choice', she says, concealing a sniffle in her elbow as she turns to set a few more trinkets on the table next to Lothíriel. Then she says, changing her tone, 'So is pleasing me the main criterion for the man who would marry me? I thought that he had to be a man of good birth and good station, and one that Éomer trusts and wants to bring close to him or keep close.'

'Those are all important criteria but not as important as you wanting to marry him. There does not need to be great love already, I believe both from what I have been told and from my own experience, but you must want to be his wife or there is little chance of happiness for either of you.'

'Well, then. We shall see what options you have to present for me.'

'Not quite yet', Lothíriel says. 'There is no need yet for anyone to plan for your marriage unless you want to.'

'Not quite yet', Sírdhem echoes. She sits next to Lothíriel and leans her head on her shoulder. They are almost of a height, Sírdhem a little taller now.

They sit in silence for a while, golden rays of the afternoon sun reaching into the room, limning the wooden walls with a lighter, warmer gleam.

'I will always be grateful that you came here with me.' Lothíriel touches the skirt of her dress. 'Even though it means wearing wool dresses even in the summer.'

'That is indeed a great drawback.' Sírdhem chuckles. 'But I have become adept at making and embroidering them, too, as adept as I was with silk.'

'Indeed you have learned many things here, as have I.'

'I am glad that I came', Sírdhem says. 'This is a land of new beginnings for me, and I am beginning another one now.'

'May it be a happy one', Lothíriel replies. 'I trust that it will be.'

A/N: Thank you for reading! I would love to hear what you thought of this fic :)

#only six days late...#well this is my humble offering anyway #tolkien fanfiction #lord of the rings fanfiction #lothíriel #sírdhem #my fics #elesianne's fics #sister of my heart

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silmarilz1701d-blog · 8 years ago

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Dreams of Power: Chapter Three

Elboron awoke with the morning sun streaming through his window of the ground floor room he stayed in here in Hidor. He stretched his arms wide and rolled back the sheet he was using. His bare chest was well built and well toned for his forty-nine years. For though not to the extent of Aderthon or Eldarion, Faramir’s family was rich with Numenorean blood. He still looked young. Not quite youthful, but certainly young. Walking to the window across the intricately woven rug beneath his feet, he looked out on the town. The market was already bustling with activity as Hidor’s people tried to get as much outdoor activity done as they could before the sun climbed too high. Elboron watched as a child chased after a small ball through the street, dodging a camel laden with cargo. The boy’s tousled hair was black and sweat held parts of it to his intent face. Music flowed from the bazaar to the House of the Chief, instruments of many strings that were plucked and drums to accompany them. “Elboron,” came a voice and knock at the door. “Can I come in?” “Give me a moment, Fëalas,” he said through the lightly held together door. He slipped into a loose button down shirt over his flowing pants given to him by the chief’s seamstresses. “Come on in.” Fëalas opened the door and closed it behind her. The half-elf’s rich red hair was neatly braided down her back, reaching almost to her waistline. She wore light colored Dunédain style clothing, tan and white being the predominant shades. These also had been crafted by the people of Harad for her and her men as well. “My men have finished breakfast. I have them getting our horses ready. The camel's shouldn't be needed, as the roads are well paved.” Fëalas sat down on the chair beside a desk of light wood. “We’ll be ready to go as soon as the two Ladies are ready.” “Malika is itching to go,” Elboron smiled, “if yesterday is any indication. Adira will be the tougher challenge.” “I have full confidence that she will come when needed,” Fëalas assured him. “Well, let’s go find out. The morning is young, it would be best to start soon.” Elboron opened the door after grabbing his bags and held it open for Fëalas. She nodded her thanks and walked through before him. Indeed, Fëalas’ many rangers were nowhere to be seen when they walked downstairs. None, except Sarnor. He was standing patiently by the door, sword strapped on and bow across his back. “Alright, Sarnor. Everyone's out?” Fëalas turned to him. “Bags have been sent to the horses?” “Yes ma'am. Shall I take Lord Elboron’s packs down to the horses?” Sarnor looked quizzically at the bags he held. “Please do,” Fëalas nodded to him. “We will hopefully be down to join everyone soon.” Sarnor took the packs Elboron held and carried them to where the horses were being stabled. Meanwhile, Elboron and Fëalas made their way not far to the main Great House of the Chief. Two Haradrim warriors stood guard and opened the doors for them. Inside, Malika sat twiddling her thumbs in impatience while Adira stood talking to her parents. Fëalas looked on Adira. They had spoken only a few times, and each time, Adira had covered her lower face with the beautiful red scarf she wore in the presence of strangers. Today, today was to be the first day she would take it off, to symbolize the trust she was granting them. Her brown eyes fell upon the two Gondorians as they entered. Malika leapt up immediately. She ran to grab her bags, though most were being carried by Jamila her maidservant. Lady Jadyra and Chief Saleem led their eldest daughter over to Elboron and Fëalas. “Today marks a new day in relations between our two nations,” Saleem said to them. “I present to you my daughters to be raised and hopefully courted to your prince. Take care of them.” Adira lifted her hands to pull down her veil. It was red, as red as the sand of her home during a dust storm at sunset. She was nervous, but felt herself also beginning to feel excited for the journey North. It was an incredible opportunity really. Her hands felt the loops across her ears and she removed them. Elboron and Fëalas bowed deeply to the family, but especially to Adira. Fëalas admired the woman's bravery, the ability to leave one’s home, one's country, and go to an entirely new land to hopefully marry a foreign prince. Fëalas wasn't sure she’s have been able to do it. Adira bowed back to them slightly, and without a single quiver on her voice, responded. “I am ready.” With final goodbyes, Adira and Malika hugged their parents and siblings. Amir, Hakim, and Iesha all bid them farewell. As Mahmud lifted Adira’s few remaining bags onto his shoulders, Fëalas caught sight of a pair of scimitar swords hidden in wrap. She restrained herself from smiling. She had just known that Adira was feisty. “Come, Lady Adira, Lady Malika,” Elboron bowed for them and opened the door. “It is time.” The servants Mahmud and Jamila went behind the little posse, carrying what remained of the girls’ bags that had not been taken to the horses already. The horses of Harad were beautiful creatures, usually in bay, chestnut, or black with long, lean heads and high tails. They had been bred for war and occasionally travel by the Haradrim. They walked down to the North gate of Hidor. Through the bazaar they went, where people stopped and bowed to the passing group. Adira was loved by her people, and would be sorely missed. Malika… less so. She was a troublemaker in the city. The constant music of chatter and stringed instruments continued without halting despite the group’s disruption of the norm. The world kept on spinning. When Adira reached the pale skinned warriors by the horses, she insisted her main bag be on her horse. She caught the proud look that the red headed Fëalas shot her, as if she knew. Yes I can wield a sword as well as any man. She nodded back at the half elf silently. We women should stick together. A young one of the rangers, Sarnor she though she recalled someone call him, helped her fasten her pack to her black horse. Without much effort, she pulled herself up onto the great beast. “Alright. Everyone up!” Fëalas ordered her men mount their horses. And so they began the journey North, a decision that would change everyone's lives forever.

#fanfiction #fanfic #LotR #fourth age #Harad #Gondor #Eldarion #Elboron #Elfwine #OC

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 5 years ago

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libera nos a malo Chapter 2: Fool Me Once

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 2/20

libera nos a malo Masterpost+

Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Masterpost+

<< Chapter One+

Chapter Three+ >>

Perfect Picspam by crowsb4bros on hpft+

*****

The snow was already deep enough to leave tracks in when Miranda appeared outside the wards late in the evening the Friday before Christmas. The impervious charm she’d cast on her silver shoes kept her feet dry, but did nothing to keep out the cold. She hurried over the grounds, holding her rich purple robes out of the damp. For some reason, whenever she cast the charm on fabric, it tended to make the colors bleed. Someday she would trouble herself to perfect the spell, but there were many other spells higher up on her to-learn list.

The wrought-iron gates were locked and deserted, and she shook the tangled chains as well as she could, sending a mournful clanging echoing through night. A large man with a thick beard and an ambling gait lumbered out of the shadows with a huge black dog at his heels. The canine’s teeth were clenched on one end of a bone, the other end of which was gripped in the huge wizard’s enormous fist.

“Good evenin’ to you Miss,” he said gruffly. “I take it yer here for Professor Slughorn’s party?”

“I am,” Miranda replied, producing the thick cardstock bearing her name and a border of embossed snakes that slithered and hissed in response to the night air.

The man peered at the invitation, tapping the gordian knot of chains with the end of a pink umbrella when he was satisfied with its veracity. The chains clanked apart and Miranda had barely enough time to slip through the gates before they slammed shut behind her. Her guard finally wrenched the bone out of the dog’s mouth and hurled it out into the night. The dog sprinted after it, leaving the watchman’s hands free to wrestle the chains back into place.

“I know the way, and I’d be happy to see myself in. I’m sure you have better things to do than wait out in the snow,” she offered, her feet slowly turning to ice.

“I’ll be takin’ yeh just the same,” he grunted as he twisted the final lock closed. “Can’ be too careful.”

“I understand.” Best not to mention that she still had access to one of the secret entrances. Albus had never rescinded that permission, and neither she nor Severus had seen the point of troubling him about it.

They made quick progress over the grounds, with Miranda all but running to keep pace with the wizard’s long strides. When they reached the stairs, his hound caught up with them, dropping its prize at their feet and leaping excitedly. He was a beautiful, and evidently good tempered creature, and Miranda liked him immediately.

“Down Fang!” her escort ordered.

Miranda laughed. “It’s fine. Sit, boy, and I’ll pet you.”

Her voice was confident enough that it captured the beast’s instant obedience, and she scratched the brute behind its ears until its tail was thumping happily.

“Yer alright, Miss,” Fang’s owner said gamely. “Fang means well, but I didn’ want him to be ruinin’ yer fancy dress.”

“He’s a good boy, aren’t you Fang? Do you want another go?” She scooped up the bone and Fang leapt to his feet, watching her aim into the distance and throw. He bounded off after it and she said, “Offer him my apologies will you?”

“Yes’m. You’d best be gettin’ inside before he gets back, or ye’ll be out here all night.”

She was up the stairs and through the doors before Fang returned, and a house elf wearing mismatched socks and an orange cabled sweater was waiting for her.

“Miss is here for the party, Dobby expects?” the elf asked.

“I am,” Miranda said, reaching for the invitation again, but Dobby waved it away.

“There’s no need, Miss, just follow Dobby.”

They wound their way up to the seventh floor and Miranda was more than happy to hand over her cloak when they reached Slughorn’s office. She smoothed the skirts of her robes and ran a hand over her hair, tucking a stray lock into place as she stood on the threshold.

“Call for Dobby when you wish your cloak returned,” Dobby said cheerfully. “And would Miss like a glass of mead, butterbeer, or elfwine?”

“Mead would be lovely,” she replied.

A jeweled goblet filled with dark amber liquid appeared in Dobby’s hand, and he passed it to her. “Miss made a good choice. The mead is from Headmaster’s private stores, it is.”

“Thank you.” Miranda took a bracing sip, savoring the sweet burn on her tongue. The house elf disappeared with a quiet pop, and with a final shake of her skirts, she went in to the party.

It was an out and out crush. Miranda had a hard time telling the students from the adults at first as she stepped underneath the golden canopy. The din of the conversation was pitched at a dull roar, punctuated by the clinking of glasses and raucous laughter, and accompanied by a tipsy amateur quartet in one of the back corners. Horace was happily ensconced in the center of a group of rapt listeners, and Miranda decided there was no rush to greet him. She let herself drift through the crowd, sipping her mead and running her eyes over the guests in search of one, dour face.

She felt him before she saw him. As she skirted around a house elf burdened with a heavy tray of Niçoise tidbits, the sensation of being watched troubled her to the point that she turned over her shoulder to find Severus half a room away. His inscrutable eyes were fixed on her, and his lips twitched briefly into a smile which she did not fail to return. She let the crowd rush between them, and held onto his gaze as she slipped into a quiet corner, shielded partly by the heavy damask overhang of the canopy. He did not disappoint her; appearing a few moments later and taking a position adjacent to her along the wall.

“So tardy,” he murmured, his silken tone at odds with his bored expression as he pretended to chaperone the party swirling around them. “I should give you detention.”

“I’d like to see you try,” she replied, enjoying the warmth of his gaze when he let his eyes slide sideways to meet hers. “Besides, I was late because I was finishing all those damned exercises like a good girl.”

“Were you? I shall have to see you are suitably rewarded.” He ran a long finger over the back of her hand and asked, “Am I correct in assuming that you are still planning to stay tonight?”

She felt her cheeks heat up as the warmth from his words and his touch worked their magic. “Yes, I think that’s a safe assumption.”

He let their fingers lace together for a moment, and she was weighing out the risks of pulling him firmly behind the damask overhang for a kiss, when one of Horace’s fat arms snaked out of nowhere and wrapped itself around Severus.

“Stop skulking and come and join us, Severus!” hiccuped the old potions master, the tassel on his hat helicoptering as he jerked Severus into the center of the action.

The consternation on Severus’s face was priceless, and Miranda gave him a jaunty wave before allowing the current of the party to separate them. She helped herself to some of the strawberry tarts and another glass of mead found its way into her hand to replace the empty one. Donaghan Tremlett in his ripped denim and shaggy coat gave her a friendly nod, and she was making her way towards him to pay her respects, when another guest demanded her attention.

“Miss Rose, it has been far too long.” Miranda repressed a shiver at the faintly sibilant voice and turned to its emaciated owner.

“Signore Sanguini,” she said, noting that his hands were empty and his tailoring outdated. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He gracefully snatched the hand she had not extended to him and brushed his cold lips against it. Even after years of practice, she still could not completely repress a shiver as the chill of the undead chased away all the warmth in her.

The vampire smirked at her discomfort and let his icy breath tickle her hand as he commented, “What an unexpected surprise. I did not expect ever to have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

“Yes, our last meeting was rather fraught, wasn’t it?” She slowly, but firmly, extracted her hand.

“Fraught is one term for it.” He let his eyes travel the length of her like he were appraising a side of beef. “Passionate would also suit the purpose. Enraging might describe it better still.”

She took a long sip from her glass and forced her shoulders to relax as she started to ease her pistol out of its holster. If things got ugly, silver would work better than a wand. Pity she’d left her stakes at home.

“I met your cousin last summer,” she said nonchalantly.

“I know.” His smirk was sharp enough to cut glass. “The family is not at all pleased with you, Miss Rose; I hope you are aware of that.”

She shrugged. “Your cousin should have stayed on the right side of the law.”

He let out a bark of laughter and leaned down to close the space between them. “What do you know about the right side of the law?”

The edge of her mind blurred as his eyes did their work on her, and she had to turn her head away for an instant to break the spell. Unfortunately, that instant was enough for him to slip beside her, and his lips were far too close to her neck when he whispered, “Topolina, this game would be far more amusing if we continued it in private, non sei d’accordo?”

His breath was cloying, and it made her head swim nearly as badly as his eye trick had. She gripped her pistol in the folds of her skirts and said sweetly, “I’m not joining your harem, Sanguini. And if I go anywhere with you, it’ll be for the sole pleasure of reuniting you with your dear cousin.”

“Sanguini!” blustered a marshmallow of a man who toddled forward and thrust himself between them. “I’m so sorry, Miss, I can’t seem to leave him alone for a second.”

Miranda put her pistol back in its holster and resisted the urge to laugh in the vampire’s stricken face. “Not at all. We were just renewing our acquaintance.” She looked over the little man’s head and asked incredulously, “Really, Sanguini? A babysitter? I had no idea you were so domesticated. You used to be the scourge of the Continent.”

She thought he was going to strike her and she was tensing in preparation to dodge it—knowing she would have to leap before he launched if she hoped to outmaneuver his preternatural speed—when he threw back his head and laughed melodiously.

“Si, si, I am getting old, aren’t I? Pace topolina, let us have peace between us. What are you drinking?”

“Mead, but my glass is almost empty. And I’d rather be at peace with you any day. How long are you in town?”

“I do not keep track of such details, that is what this one is for,” he replied, indicating the marshmallow man with an indifferent wave.

“Have him send me an owl and I’ll meet you for dinner.”

“I would rather hear Verdi with you and remember old times.”

“That sounds marvelous. But now you can get me another drink.”

“Your wish is my command.”

He took her empty glass and gave her a sweeping bow before disappearing into the crowd in search of an appropriate house elf. Miranda turned her attention to Sanguini’s diminutive babysitter and began distractedly exchanging the necessary information with him, but most of her attention was captured by a fracas between a spindly old man and a sulky boy with shockingly blond hair that suddenly tumbled into the party. Miranda was too far from the door to hear any of the business, but she could see the rage etched on Severus’s face as he dragged the boy out of the party by the scruff of his neck.

The vampire-sitter finished taking her direction and scurried off in search of his charge, and Miranda slid her hands into the pockets of her skirt and reflected, not for the first time, that she would have detested having Severus for a teacher.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll be back soon,” said a dreamy voice beside her.

Miranda looked down to see the sweet blond girl from the Potions class she’d sat in on the year before. “I beg your pardon?”

“Our dates. They’ll be back soon. I’m Luna Lovegood, by the way. We weren’t really introduced last time. Are you enjoying your subscription?”

“I am, thank you. Nice to meet you officially, Luna. I’m Miranda Rose.” She held out her hand and the girl shook it with a surprisingly firm grip for a young lady who seemed to have her head in the clouds. “How are the thestrals these days?”

“Very well. They had an attack of sneezles when the weather changed, but they’re all much better now.”

“I’m happy to hear that.”

The urge to ask whether or not Severus had been out to see the thestrals lately was nearly overpowering, and only Sanguini’s arrival with Miranda’s fresh glass of mead prevented her from giving into it. The vampire pecked her cheek and laughed once more at her goosebumps before melting into the crowd, and by the time Miranda’s attention was back on the moonstruck girl next to her, the topic had passed.

“Are you having a nice time?” Luna asked, bouncing on her heels in time to the music.

“I am. Horace throws a lovely party. And you?”

“Oh, yes. Harry asked me to come, as friends of course. But no one ever asks me to go anywhere, so it’s a great treat.”

“What, never?”

“Hardly ever.” Luna giggled at her joke and Miranda laughed with her.

“It’s their loss. Thank you for loaning me those books by the way. I enjoyed them very much. Sherlock Holmes was one of my favorite characters as a girl, but I hadn’t read the stories in a long time.”

“Do you like Mr Holmes?” Luna asked, suddenly grave. “He can be so ungentle sometimes.”

“That’s true. The brilliance that makes him so interesting also seems to get in the way of his noticing that other people have things like feelings. They way he lets Watson believe that he’s dead after the Reichenbach Falls incident—I can understand why Watson is furious with him later. I would have been too.”

“And I don’t think that he means to hurt Dr Watson’s feelings. That’s what makes it all so sad.”

“I agree.”

“But it’s worse because Watson understands Holmes better than Holmes understands himself,” Luna spun in a circle. “It’s like being angry with a child.”

Severus stormed back into the room and, even from this distance, Miranda could tell that he was still furious. He did not spare a glance for her as he took up his post by the wall again, arms crossed and black eyes glaring.

Luna smiled serenely as the mandolin in the corner started strumming a spirited Foggy Dew, and said, “Ginny said she would dance with me if I wanted, and this song is so springy. I think I’ll go find her now.”

“It was nice talking with you, Luna.”

“You, too. Good night.”

Luna floated away, spinning and skipping, and Miranda started weaving through the knots of people back to Severus’s side of the room. Something about his manner warned her that the trouble outside had been more than the usual student mischief. She was nearly through the throng, and she had just caught his eye, when Horace wrapped an arm around her shoulder, snatching her into his inner circle.

“There you are Miss Rose!” Horace beamed. “I was beginning to lose hope of seeing you. Allow me to present Octavius Pepper. Octavius, Miranda Rose is just the woman you’ve been looking for.”

Octavius Pepper peered through his wire-rimmed glasses and shook back his unruly white hair as he bowed to her in the formal way that wizards of a certain age were in the habit of doing. His robes were antique, but well maintained, and he had a nervous energy flowing out of him in the form of restless finger twitches. He launched into a winding explanation of what it was he wanted from her in a nasally wheeze, and she groaned inwardly, setting a plastic smile on her face as she tried to pull her awareness away from Severus, whose eyes she could still feel boring into the back of her skull.

Octavius took no notice of any of this as he meandered through his story, obviously one of those kinds of customers. It was going to be a long night.

*****

Severus fell into bed at half past two, his head pounding with a headache that blurred his vision, and his temper frayed to match. Although the students were all finally confined to their dormitories, the party in Horace’s office was still raging full tilt—if anything, the removal of the minors had increased the fury of the revelers. Severus had left Miranda ensconced in a tight group of admirers that she had shown no sign of jilting. He had taken a circuitous route to bed to ensure that the students were all in order, and give her the chance to extract herself before he decided to vent his temper on her. But, even after all his dallying—in the hallways, over a cup of tea, and removing all evidence of the wretched evening from his person—she still had not deigned to grace him with her presence, and he felt fully justified in transferring some of his fury at Draco to her.

He had no hope of actually falling asleep with his head feeling as though it were being split like an overripe melon, but he was beginning to drift in and out of lucid dreaming when he heard the door open. His wayward lover flounced into the sitting room, singing some godforsaken Muggle song and (he was certain of it) strewing her shoes and other belongings heedlessly on every available surface. She called his name once, and he turned his back to the door--which increased the pressure on his temples mightily--squeezing his eyes stubbornly closed.

The bedroom door creaked open, and the light in the sitting room extinguished almost as soon as it fell on him. He heard her pad over to his bed and felt the mattress dip as she slipped over to sit next to him. Her hand was pleasantly cool when she laid it on his cheek and brushed his hair away from his face.

“I know you’re not asleep,” she said quietly. “Do you have one of those migraines again?”

Curse her. Why did she have to be so damned nice to him when he was angry? “Yes,” he answered without opening his eyes.

“Did you take a Headache Potion?”

“No.”

The mattress dipped again as she slid off the bed and padded into the next room for supplies. She made as little noise as possible as she made ready for bed, and Severus rolled onto his back as some of the anger in his chest began to unkink. He rarely let himself dwell on how much he regretted Miranda’s removing herself from his rooms; but this matter-of-fact interest that she took in his well-being was what he missed most of all. By the time she came to bed, a cup of tea in one hand and a vial of Headache Potion in the other, his anger had softened enough that he took the vial without protest while she settled herself next to him, her back against the ebony headboard.

“Here, lay your head down and I’ll see what I can do while we wait for the potion to kick in,” she said, patting her lap.

“I’d given up waiting for you,” he said, his voice coming out all the harsher for his attempt to keep the plea for reassurance out of it.

“I figured that out.” She started running her fingers lightly over his face and his hair, tugging on his ear lobes and working some sort of strange magic that unwound his headache as surely as her presence soothed his temper. “It took a while for me to get away from Horace’s friend.”

“Ah, yes. Octavius Pepper, was it?”

“You know him?”

“I don’t. What did he want?” Merlin it was good to have a head that didn’t pound.

“He wants me to retrieve something for him. But not until March. What happened with the party-crasher? You were so angry when you came back.”

His first instinct was to refuse to answer her question, which he suspected she was asking to divert him from pressing her for more information about Mr Pepper’s likely dangerous commission; but her fingers were so delicious on his temples, and her lap was so very comfortable, and her concern was one of those priceless pearls that he coveted; and so he wet his lips and let his interrogation lie for the time being.

“The boy in question was Draco Malfoy.”

“Malfoy? Lucius’s son?” The surprise in her voice was evident.

“The same.”

“He’s one of yours, isn’t he?”

“He is, and he had no business being out of bounds tonight.”

“He certainly had no business being caught out of bounds, in any case.” Her fingers moved in small, slow circles over his cheeks and down the side of his neck, and every muscle loosened under their touch. “It must be hard on him, though, with his father in Azkaban. Even if his father is a prick like Lucius.”

“It is hard on him. Particularly since the Dark Lord has decided to express his displeasure with Lucius by punishing the rest of his family.”

“Fuck. What’s he done?”

He should stop talking now, but her fingers were on his shoulders and his restraint was nonexistent. “He gave Draco the mark over the summer.”

“Good Lord. He’s a child! His poor mother.”

Draco’s poor mother, indeed. “He’s also given him a task to perform that the boy is not expected to survive.”

“Are you helping him?”

How in the name of Merlin was he supposed to keep his secrets when she was drawing every modicum of pain and tension out of his body? Those fingers should be registered as lethal weapons. “I’m trying to help him. He is resisting.”

“He’s how old? Fifteen?”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen-year-old boys are the worst. They think they know everything. You have to help him without his realizing that’s what is happening—or make him think it was his idea in the first place.”

“That sounds like an abominable waste of time.”

“I don’t know. It works with you.” She kissed his forehead and asked, “Is your migraine better? Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”

“Yes on both counts.”

He shifted off of her lap, and she scooted over to lay her head on his shoulder. When his arms were wrapped around her and his chin was resting on the top of her head, he was astonished at how far away the Dark Lord and all the troubles of the world seemed. The fatal words were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them, and held her tighter.

He was still perched on a knife’s edge, after all. There was no use in upsetting his precarious balance with unwanted declarations. Not when what he had was close enough to what he wanted, as long as he squinted when he contemplated it.

*****

“The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, London,” Miranda thought as she boldly approached the crack between numbers Eleven and Thirteen the following evening. The once-handsome townhouse unfolded before her, looking like a worn-out matron clinging to the memories of her storied youth. For all her shabbiness, she held her self with the air of one who knows she has fallen in with bad company, but has the gumption to hope for better days. Miranda flicked her wand at the handleless front door, pleased to find that Albus had given her the correct charms to gain entry, and stepped into the gaslit hallway as the door swung shut behind her.

“What is this? Yet more Mudblood filth to sully my house?!” shrieked a woman from her curtained portrait.

“Nice to meet you too,” Miranda replied pleasantly, noting that the dowager in the painting matched the exterior of the manor in both form and temper.

“You dare address me? Of all the impertinence…”

Miranda strode past the flurry of insults through the crumbling ruin of Victorian opulence in search of the door that would lead her down to the meeting in the kitchen. Schedules being what they were, she had been forced to make this first official contact with the Order of the Phoenix without a physical guide to vouch for her. She had Albus’s word as her letter of safe conduct; but the disapproving silence of the ghostly house made her wish that she’d been able to secure Arthur or Molly Weasley as an escort.

A humble door at the end of the long entryway was all but hidden from view, like a scullery maid embarrassed to be caught upstairs lighting the fires. Miranda made sure that her hands were empty, but that her wand was ready to slide into fighting position at an instant’s notice, before rapping on the door and entering the crumbling stone stairwell. A dull, blood-red glow illuminated the bottom of the stairs, and she let her footsteps fall heavily to alert those below of her approach. She made it all the way down to the final step before a pair of wizards blocked her entrance, wands drawn and all but growling at her.

“I come in peace,” she said, holding her hands up, palms wide, to prove the point. “Albus Dumbledore sent me. He says he’s fond of lemon drops.”

“Means nothin’. The whole bloody world knows that,” spat the shorter wizard. It was hard to know what part of him looked the oddest—his mane of wiry hair that stood up in all directions, his claw-footed peg-leg, or his ice-blue mechanical eye that whirled wildly in its socket.

“Easy Mad-eye,” said the other in a slow, deep voice. He held himself with the ease of a jungle cat, and though the expression on his dark brown face was unconcerned, she knew better than to assume that he would fail to strike if provoked. “If Albus didn’t send her, how else did she get in? I’m Kingsley Shacklebolt, and this here is Alastor Moody, at your service.”

“I’m Miranda Rose, and I’m delighted to meet you both. I’ve been working for Albus for just over a year now, and he thought it was time to introduce me to the rest of the team,” she explained, modulating her voice to a calm pitch and an unhurried speed. “Do you mind if I come down into the kitchen? I was taught that it’s rude to lurk in doorways.”

“Not to mention inconvenient and dangerous,” a voice like a knife’s edge put in behind her.

She started involuntarily, chiding herself for allowing Severus to sneak up on her while she was distracted by his comrades. Alastor seemed to accept her request as reasonable, and he retreated enough to allow her and Severus to enter the neglected space. Kingsley withdrew to lean against a worn counter, and Severus swept past her, positioning himself at Alastor’s shoulder. Neither Kingsley nor Alastor put down their wands, although Kingsley let his dangle negligently between his fingers, while Alastor kept his trained threateningly on her heart.

“And who might you be?” demanded Severus in a dangerously low voice that betrayed no hint that they had spent most of the day lounging in his bed together.

“Miranda Rose,” she confidently replied, sticking out her hand to him.

He eyed it as though it were a rotted newt’s tongue and replied, “That tells me nothing. Why are you here?”

She lowered her hand and raised her eyebrows. “As I already told your friends, Albus Dumbledore sent me. According to him, there’s a Professor McGonagall who was supposed to be in charge tonight. She’ll be expecting me.”

“Have you heard anything about this, Snape?” asked Alastor, his eye still swiveling about with a sickly whine.

“No,” Severus replied coldly.

“Do you believe her?”

If Miranda did not know her lover as well as she did, she would have missed the glint of humor that sparked briefly in his eyes. “I do not like that she is here. Perhaps we should search her person.”

“It seems to me that Mr Moody has already done an excellent job of searching my person with that enchanted eye of his,” Miranda said, allowing a hint of irritation to color her tone. “I’m going to have to decline anything more intimate. There’s no need to go rifling through my unmentionables.”

“No, but there’s every need to go rifling through that cache of weapons you’ve got strapped to them,” Alastor countered.

“Weapons?” Severus’s voice was dangerous indeed.

“I’m working.” Miranda put her hands on her hips and let some of her magic vibrate out into the room.

“Miss Rose, I find it difficult to believe that Albus would neglect to inform me of a new recruit, particularly one of such…singularity. And where areyou from? That accent is appalling.”

She lifted her chin and replied proudly, “I’m from Edgewood, Kansas.”

“Where?” Kingsley asked, interest piqued.

“It’s in America.” Miranda leveled a glare at Severus that rivaled any he could produce. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but I was told that Professor McGonagall was in charge, and I’m assuming you don’t answer to that name.”

“Down, Snape,” Kingsley said, pocketing his wand at last. He pulled a chair out from the splintery table and continued, “Miss Rose, any friend of Albus’s is a friend of ours. You’ll have to excuse Professor Snape and Mr Moody—distrusting people is their job. Would you like anything to drink while we wait for the others?”

“Thank you, and no, I don’t need anything,” Miranda said, taking the seat he offered.

He settled himself into the chair at her right hand, and Alastor limped over to sit down across from her. Severus glided over to the spot at the counter that Kingsley had vacated, tapping his fingers irritably on the sagging wood and studying the lot of them disapprovingly.

“I have a good friend who transferred to New York a few years ago,” Kingsley said conversationally. “That’s not anywhere near Kansas, is it?”

“Depends on how you’re traveling,” Miranda replied. “By portkey, everywhere is close. But as the crow flies, it’s about a thousand miles.”

“Shouldn’t we be asking her more useful questions?” Severus snapped.

“Minerva will be here any minute,” Kingsley countered. “May as well be polite until then.”

“Begging your pardon, Professor Snape, but do you honestly think that if I were clever enough to circumvent the Fidelius Charm in the first place, that I would then be stupid enough to attempt a frontal attack at a meeting comprised of a coven of well-trained and well-armed witches and wizards?” Miranda asked pointedly.

“It remains to be seen how stupid you may be,” Severus replied.

“I see that the rumors of the English having good manners are greatly exaggerated,” Miranda shot back.

“Nobody ever accused Snape of having good manners,” Alastor commented jovially.

Severus opened his mouth to retort, but his wit was to be deferred to another occasion as a ragged man, a glum-faced young woman, and a brusque matron with a tartan pinned over her neat robes entered the kitchen.

“Good evening gentlemen,” the matron said crisply, a hint of a burr kissing the consonants that marched off her tongue. “And Miss Rose, I presume. Albus told me to expect you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Miranda replied, rising from her seat to shake the older woman’s hand, and shooting an I-told-you-so smirk Severus’s way. He was pointedly looking in the opposite direction.

“You’ve already met these three, I take it,” Minerva continued as she and the newcomers joined the group gathered at the table. “This is Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks.”

“It’s just Tonks,” the melancholy woman half-heartedly corrected.

“Nice to meet you both,” Miranda said, and any further pleasantries were swallowed up by Minerva’s quick launch into the evening’s business.

“I’m going to keep this brief, as I expect we all have places we’d rather be tonight. Tonks, when are the new wards around the school going to be finished?”

“We’ll have them done before the students return from the Holidays,” Tonks replied, her voice firmer.

“I suppose that will have to do. Kingsley, Alastor, any news from the Ministry?”

Kingsley and Alastor started talking at once, and a verbal scuffle ensued that Kingsley allowed Alastor to win. As the strange old man launched into a paranoid narrative full of names that Miranda neither recognized, nor cared about, she took a moment to study the motley army that Albus hoped would bring down the greatest Dark Wizard since Gellert Grindelwald’s ignominious reign of terror. Alastor himself seemed to have a tenuous grip on reality, but his reflexes were sharp. She would rather have him in her corner than in the enemy’s. Kingsley struck her as confident and capable—a man who had nothing to prove. Remus’s sickly appearance meant he was either a werewolf, or possessed of a weak constitution; she hoped for the sake of the Order that it was the former. Tonks was a mystery; she was suffering from some sort of melancholia, but when questioned she seemed certain of her business. Minerva was everything one could hope for in a leader, and Miranda found that she preferred the witch’s brisk efficiency to Albus’s cerebral machinations. Severus…well, Severus’s act was adorable, and she would be sure to tell him so at the earliest possible moment.

“It’s not much better than when Cornelius Fudge was there, in my opinion,” Kingsley offered, the familiar name drawing Miranda’s attention. “Scrimgeour might be a better fighter, but his behavior is as out of place at times as Fudge’s was—only in different ways.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you think he’s been compromised?”

“Hard to say, Minerva,” Alastor said, his magical eye still fixed on Miranda. “He’s not acting like he’s been Imperioed, and he’s got no love for Voldemort nor the rest of that lot, but he’s acting dodgy all the same. I’ll be keeping my eye on him, you can be sure of that.”

“See that you do. Severus, do you have anything for us?”

Severus ran a finger over his thin lips and let silence fall before reporting, “I suggest that the areas of London that our kind is known to frequent be patrolled more heavily over the the next few weeks. The Dark Lord expects there to be a lack of caution as those who should know better expect the Holidays to protect them from harm, and he intends to take full advantage of it.”

“That’s a lot of ground for the Aurors to cover, Snape. Can’t you be more specific than that?” Alastor grumbled.

“No.” The finality of the single syllable prevented any further questioning from Alastor, although he did make a rude gesture under the table in Severus’s direction.

“If I understand correctly, the MACUSA Aurors will be around to help,” Miranda offered cautiously.

“Yes, I’ve met with Ambassador Walker, and he’s agreed to provide us with a list of the MACUSA patrols,” Minerva replied.

“How nice of him,” Alastor said sarcastically.

“At least it’ll keep us from duplicating our efforts,” Kingsley commented.

“It’ll have to do for now,” Minerva said, ending the debate. “If none of you have anything else to report, I’ll bid you good night. Remus, Miss Rose, if you would both stay for a few minutes longer, I would appreciate it.”

Effectively dismissed, the others didn’t linger. Kingsley, Alastor, and Tonks left together, with the men both making unsuccessful attempts to draw the moody witch into conversation. Miranda saw the solemn woman cast a furtive glance in Remus’s direction, but he did not acknowledge it—that explained the source of the melancholia. Severus dropped a quiet word in Minerva’s ear and strode out of the room without further acknowledging anyone.

Once the others were gone, Minerva heaved a sigh, and the years suddenly seemed to weigh heavier on her shoulders. “Miss Rose, under ordinary circumstances, I would ease you in but, as we’re in the middle of a war, there’s no time to be gentle.”

“I understand,” Miranda replied. “Why don’t you call me Miranda then, and just tell me what you need.”

“I hope you won’t regret that offer, but I will be taking you at your word. Remus has been making inroads into the local werewolf packs, in the hopes that we might win some of them over to our side.”

“I see. I take it you speak their language.” Good, a werewolf was better than a dying man.

An expression of mirthless amusement twisted Remus’s drawn face. “That’s one way of putting it. But if you’re asking me if I’m one of them, the answer is yes.” His dull green eyes sharpened and his nostrils flared like a wolf testing the air. “I can see that you are not.”

“No, but I’ve tangled with a werewolf or two in my day.”

He frowned and turned to Minerva. “Things are delicate enough with the packs without attempting a frontal assault.”

“Nobody’s talking about any assaulting,” Minerva replied. “I thought you told Albus that you needed a non-wolf that the packs might respect.”

“I did.” His eyes slid out of focus as he studied Miranda, and she suspected he was testing her by smell as much as by sight.

“Look, I don’t expect you to trust me right off, that’d be stupid,” Miranda said. “But I can hold my own against the loups-garous, and I’ll venture to say that I respect them more than most witches on this island.”

“Respect? That’s a word that is rarely offered to my kind by yours.”

“Mr Lupin, in case you missed it, I’m not from around these parts. Back home, a loup-garou who is in control of himself is a being to be respected, not shunned.”

His eyes came into focus, and she could see the wolf lurking in their depths. She willed herself not to blink, like they were a pair of children on the playground playing a game of chicken.

At last he asked, “Miss Rose, are you an animagus?”

“Not yet, but I could learn.”

The hair on the back of Miranda’s neck stood on end as he stared at her, unblinking, for a few moments more. Then he released her from their game, and his shoulders slumped back into the unassuming posture he adopted when the wolf wasn’t riled.

“She may well do, Minerva. Can you teach her?” he asked.

“I can teach anyone who’s willing to learn, and most that aren’t.” Minerva replied.

“Wonderful,” Miranda said, mindful of the warning still tingling at the base of her neck. “When do I start?”

*****

Later that evening, Severus was picking through the novels on Miranda’s shelves, waiting for her to finish her last minute packing. Although her trip home to Kansas would last less than a week, she was fretting over the best charms with which to protect the plethora of carved toys she had made for her army of nieces and nephews during her convalescence. Severus knew better than to make suggestions to her when she was agitated, and had contented himself with tidying the dinner dishes and packing her potions for her.

Nothing on the bookshelf seemed enticing tonight, and he wandered over to the sofa, picking up the Dosteovsky volume sitting on the coffee table. He flipped it open, meandering through the pages until a letter that was marking Miranda’s place fell onto his lap. He was halfway through the missive before it struck him that he was reading something that perhaps she had not intended for his eyes.

And I hope that Severus will be able to come with you, although I understand if his work won’t allow him the time. In any case, give him our love. Everyone is so excited to see you.

Love,

Mama

He quickly scanned the rest of the sheet, and shoved it back into the book, replacing the whole damned thing on the coffee table and staring into the fireplace without seeing anything. Miranda’s trip home had been set for weeks, but she had never once bothered to mention that he had been invited to be one of the party. The fry up he’d made for dinner sat like lead in his stomach, and his thoughts spiraled into a whirlwind barbed with unpleasant realization.

Of course she would not want him to meet the son that she was hiding from him. Nor would she want to introduce him to the rest of her family as though he were going to be some sort of permanent fixture in her life. She was simply biding her time, amusing herself with him for some godforsaken reason, until she tired of this game and moved on to greener pastures.

His hands were shaking, and he got up, pacing before the fire without being aware of what he was doing. After a moment of this unproductive movement, he went to the door and took his cloak off the hook, wrapping it around his shoulders. Miranda emerged from her bedroom, and the tired smile fell from her face as she saw him making ready to depart.

“I thought you were staying,” she said worriedly. “Did the Dark Lord call?”

“No,” Severus replied, feeling like a heel and hating her for it. “I simply do not see the point of distracting you from making ready for tomorrow. I will see you when you return, I’m sure.”

She crossed the room to him, biting her lower lip in an unusual show of discomfort. The sight was oddly endearing, as was the impulsive way that she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. His arms went around her instinctively, as though he might stanch the wounds her careless claws had rendered with the feel of her lithe body.

“I’ll miss you,” she said.

“I doubt that,” he replied.

She stepped away, sliding her hands down his arms and catching hold of his hands when she found them.

“Come with me,” she blurted suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“To Edgewood. Come with me. There’s a portkey in Mr Clarke’s store, so you could come back in no time if you had to; and Mama and Papa would love to see you. So would everyone else, for that matter. Except for Susan, but she doesn’t like to meet anybody. I mean, they are loud, but they’re honest. There’s a little hunting lodge out by the river that we can stay in, so you’d have a quiet place whenever you wanted a break. And there’ll be blind man’s bluff, and Christmas carols, and a pudding too.”

He laid a finger over her lips to stop her outburst, and the way this eleventh hour invitation made his heart leap disgusted him to the core of his being. Not since he’d been a schoolboy, panting after Lily like a whipped puppy, had he felt so pathetic.

“I thank you, no. Perhaps if I had had more notice, I might have arranged something. I’m sure you understand that it is too late now.” She wilted under his words and he felt every inch the bastard that he was.

“I would have told you sooner,” she said quietly, her cheeks flushed. “I just thought you wouldn’t want to come.”

“Now we’ll never know, will we? Good night, Miranda. A pleasant journey to you.”

“Good night, Severus. Merry Christmas.”

She closed the door softly after him, not waiting to see him vanish. As he reached the edge of her wards, the urge to go back and tell her that he would accompany her after all rushed over him like a wave. He choked it down ruthlessly and disappeared.

He might be at her mercy, but there was no reason for her to be made aware of the fact.

*****

End Notes:

Horace’s first line in the party scene is quoted from page 319 of the 2005 paperback edition of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince by J. K. Rowling.

Topolina: little mouse

Non sei d’accordo: Don’t you agree?

The Dubliners have a wonderful version of Foggy Dew.

The Muggle song Miranda is singing is Que Sera Sera in the style of Sly and the Family Stone.

loups-garous: werewolves

*****

libera nos a malo Masterpost+

Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Masterpost+

<< Chapter One+

Chapter Three+ >>

#harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #severus snape #severus snape fanfic #severus snape fanfiction #pro snape #snape x oc #snape fanfic #snape fanfiction #romance #adventure #espionage #second wizarding war #ilvermorny

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wordspin-shares · 6 years ago

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Fanfiction Recommendations

I decided to make a list of fanfictions that caught my eye – well-written stories I enjoyed and would recommend.

* EleventyOne Years: Too Short a Time Book One by dreamflower02 – An account of the life of Bilbo Baggins, from his birth to the moment of his meeting the wizard Gandalf and being confronted with an unexpected adventure. Dreamflower's fanfics are a delight to read, for anyone interested in Hobbits.

* Thunder & Lightning by LadyBluejay – Lothíriel is asked to befriend Éowyn, but she didn’t expect to encounter problems in her acquaintance with Éomer. A beautifully detailed story.

* Imrahil's Daughters by Lialathuveril – Éomer and Lothíriel meet by chance in the Houses of Healing, but their brief meeting has unexpected consequences that lead to a very tangled web. A beautifully crafted 'Lothíriel meets Éomer' story.

* The King's Surgeon by SurgicalSteel – The tale documents the life and trials of a healer in Middle-earth, from her childhood in Dol Amroth to Minas Tirith to Bree and back again. SurgicalSteel uses a language and tone that is more modern than one might expect in a story set in Tolkien’s universe, but the titular Original Character is one of the most well-rounded and believable I have come across in fanfiction.

* The Life and Times of Mag the Cook by annmarwalk – The tale of how a humble scullery maid rose to become Head Cook in the Citadel of Minas Tirith, told in snapshots. The titular character is, like SurgicalSteel's OC, one of the most seamlessly fitting in Middle-earth OCs I have had the pleasure of reading about.

* Memoirs of a Princess by Mareeswan – An account of the life of Finduilas, a beautifully original and detailed story.

* The Unvarying Princess by Mareeswan – An account of the life of a seldom explored character, Ivriniel, a very moving tale.

* No Mistake by Deandra – Yet another 'How Éomer met Lothíriel' story, the prequel to a series of one-shots and short stories focusing on their family group. Called The Elfwine Chronicles, the whole series is nicely written and though-out, well-worth a read.

* A Crucial Decision by Gwedhiel – A canonical gapfiller dealing with how Círdan came to pass Narya on to Gandalf.

* Conversion by Pentangle-linnon – A man's meeting with the new King of Gondor changes his point-of-view concerning kingship.

* A Mantle of Silver Stars by nrink nrink – A short tale of how Finduilas, wife of Denethor, came by her starry mantle.

* The Steward and the King by gauchadeutsche – A short story set just before the death of Steward Ecthelion II, when he is visited by a man he thought dead.

* Love Among the Ruins by Altariel – Faramir and Éowyn converse in the Houses of Healing.

* The Prince and the Librarian by Sazziel – A young Eldarion meets the young librarian newly appointed to the library of Minas Tirith and together they begin to restore it to its former condition. Supposed to be a romance eventually, but the story hasn't been updated in a decade.

* The Prince and the Nightingale by Melusine6619 – A fanfic exploring how Legolas came to find love in the face of a childhood friend. I generally refrain from reading romance, and tend to avoid Legomances (so very few of them are actually well-written), but this can be counted, I think, among the more decent ones.

* Beruthiel - Her True Story by CatLady4 – An unconventional but very interesting biography of Queen Berúthiel, forgoing the ‘she was an evil spy queen’ approach and creating a backstory that paints her in a favourable light and supports that her ill reputation was established both by ignorance and intentionally by herself.

* I Was Not Made For This by TMI Fairy – An Elven wife and a mortal husband say their farewells at the Grey Havens. A short story, but very comprehensive in that it delves into the reasonings of why a mortal/immortal pair can't really have a happily ever after till death do them part. The author's language is humorous at times, bordering on the one used in parodies, as he himself is primarily a parody writer.

* Esgalion’s Mask by Astaldowen – A story in which Thranduil has a daughter, set in Mirkwood during the Ring War, following the search for said daughter who has gone missing. The tale has lovely prose and is nicely realistic.

* Valiant by EverleighBain – A tale which expands on canon without disrupting it, focusing on a daughter of Halbarad, beginning before the War the Ring. The story’s prose is beautiful and it’s wonderfully detailed, with canonical characters portrayed in a very Tolkien-esque manner.

* Adelie P’s tale of an Éomer/Lothíriel romance – The story comprises three parts, two of which have been completed (First Impressions and None of the Usual Inducements). Lothíriel and Éomer meet in an unusual way after Sauron is overthrown, and their acquaintance has its ups and downs from the very beginning. It is an intriguing tale in that Lothíriel is initially portrayed as a headstrong, capable but carefree and still immature young woman, who makes mistakes and faces the consequences and changes her views in life as events play out.

* The Captain’s Wife by omishiloh – A book-verse ‘Boromir has a wife’ story, with its beginning set not long before the siege of Minas Tirith and told in a mix of present-day narrative and flashbacks. The prose is beautiful and the alternative-universe events blend into canon quite smoothly, following the tale of Boromir’s wife as circumstances lead her to leave Minas Tirith and travel to Dol Amroth.

* Rose of Gondor by Star-Lined Soul (@roseofgondor, @star-linedsoul) – A primarily film-verse AU story in which Denethor has a daughter who works as a healer with the Rangers of Ithilien and is sent by Faramir to seek aid from King Théoden after Frodo and Sam leave Osgiliath. The titular OC is far from the ‘rebel princess without a cause’ character one encounters in ‘[Important character X] has an extra child’ stories, she is nicely well-rounded and there is a realistic and plausible reason behind every crucial event.

* RealityWarp’s Rávamë's Bane tale (@reality-warp) – A primarily film-verse Girl-falls-into-Middle-earth Tenth-Walker story split into three parts, and definitely the best of that kind I’ve read. It’s wonderfully realistic, focuses on interpersonal relationships, pokes fun at some of the eyebrow-raising and eye-rolling moments in The Lord of the Rings films. The main OC’s backstory is revealed to be quite complex, and the eventually budding romance with Legolas is nicely paced. Although at times the recount of the film script may tempt the reader to skip parts, those instances are very few on the whole.

#lotr fanfic recs #oc & story promo

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whiskawaybelf · 25 days ago

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Little Halloween one-shot because I had feelings about Eomer’s new family and his family family and then I wanted adorable children. Anyway. I’m a day late but hopefully enjoy! The whole thing is under the cut or check it out on Ao3

“Come along, children,” Lothíriel, Queen of Rohan, took her oldest child by the hand and felt the comforting squeeze of little fingers, “Let’s go greet the souls. It’s almost dusk.”

“You do not keep the dead waiting,” Éomer said, his voice very stern until he scooped up his daughter and she giggled in his ear. Théora was not a baby anymore but still happy to be little, “You are named for many people, Little Fish, many on my side have worn a name like yours and done it proud. They will like you very much.”

Winter was upon Rohan and it was the middle month and a dim night, the moon was exactly between full and gone, air was very still and a blanket of snow softened their steps. A town moved quietly, lit candles for those they love and left them tokens on their front steps. Dead mounts were honoured with straw so they knew they were not forgotten. Théora clung to her father, her breath in the air made swirls of fog, she breathed out again with all the ferocity of a four year old’s lungs, kept making fog shapes into the night until she exhausted her breath.

Elfwine held his mother’s hand tightly, she knelt beside him, her long hair hanging like a curtain around her, “They are happy to see you, my love. They’ll barely recognise you, you are much taller than last year. Oh! Do you hear them?” Elfwine’s eyes opened a little wider, he tried to listen very hard, turning one ear to the wind as though it might help. His mother almost took him in her arms and held him close, he was made of the same earnest stuff as his father.

“Are they talking?” Elfwine then screwed up his nose, “I can’t hear them-”

‘Listen,” Lothíriel tilted her ear to the wind like he had done, “That little clink! Did you heard it?”

Elfwine looked at his mother’s mischievous eyes, he whispered it loudly, “I think so, a little bit.”

“That’s your father’s cousin, Théodred. He’s put down his knife and that-!” Lothíriel opened her eyes wide too, “That’s his cup. He’s put it away because it’s time to see you. King Théoden is walking beside him. Do you hear their steps? They’re walking crooked,” she whispered, ”They’ve had a little too much to drink.”

“Have they?” King Éomer came with their squirming daughter who Lothíriel took into her arms and cradled, her chin on the little girl’s head. She looked into her husband’s eyes and spoke quietly.

“They’re very happy to see you. It was worth a toast or two,” the king was about to kiss his wife but their daughter was still up past her bedtime and beginning to show it. Lothíriel pushed her daughter’s curls out of her face, “Théora, tell Grandmother Théodwyn how you gathered the berries from the stream today.”

Théora was shy at first, hiding her face in her mother’s neck, slowly her father coaxed her, saying they were purple berries when they were actually red berries. Théora loved to be right and she corrected him imperiously. She did not stop her stream of barely intelligible blabber once she began it. The river bank was high about the river but not that high because Théora was brave and she didn’t get scared. The berry bush scratched her because she frightened it, so when she moved with careful hands, she did not get scratched.

Éomer sat down and his son huddled close to him, “I’m going to speak to my uncle and my cousin, you can say something to them if you’d like.”

With his big solemn eyes, so like his mother and grandfather, Elfwine nodded and put his hand in his father’s.

“Hello Uncle,” Éomer said and winked at his son, “We’ve made Edoras much bigger, it was a lot of work. You would have hated the speed at which building happens. The forman is always angry about something or asking for more time…”

It sounded quite normal, Elfwine thought, the way his father spoke to Aunt Éowyn or to his friend Elfhelm. It didn’t seem so very hard, talking to souls. He tugged on his father’s sleeve and the king was quiet for a moment before smiling.

“Uncle, Cousin, Father, Elfwine would like to speak.”

Elfwine found himself struck dumb, his famous family wouldn’t care what he did that day, “I picked my mount this week,” he said very quietly, going red with his mother’s blotchy flush, “His name is Turoc and Father says he will be 19 hands when he’s full grown.”

“He will be very tall,” Lothíriel agreed and brought their half-asleep daughter who was murmuring still about the flowers she saw that morning, “Go on, Elfwine.”

The king put his arm around the queen, though neither looked very royal. There were no ornaments on Soul’s Day. Everyone wore their lightest clothes so their dead might find them in the dark. Even the rulers of Rohan were simple and unbound tonight.

Théora murmured about her pig, finally falling asleep and being given to her father who could tolerate her weight a while longer.

“Théora has a pig,” Elfwine said, “We don’t know why she likes it, it’s fat and old and ugly but she asks to see him every day and he gets so loud when he sees her,” Elfwine looked at his parents and got quiet, they pretended not to hear him whisper, “Théora fed him her slipper the other day. Just one, but not two. She kept the second one on. Now she only has one slipper which is very silly, Mother says. Father says we should only give pigs apples and carrots. We found some in the garden yesterday but they’re not done,” he said it with the confidence of a boy repeating something he heard and now becoming the authority on it, “They are too small to come out of the ground yet, and the ground is very hard right now, so we will need to wait. Their leaves grow bigger everyday though. Like Father’s beard,” He looked back to his father to see if he heard and he was caught in his mother’s arms, she laughed very softly and told her son how well he did.

It began to snow. Soft snowflakes drifting down, touching cheeks and mouths and eyes.

“Listen,” Lothíriel closed her son’s eyes, “Do you hear them?”

“Yes,” Elfwine said, “They’re asking more questions.”

Snowflakes gathered in their children’s hair, one landed on Elfwine’s cheek and then his nose, ”They’re impatient,” Éomer said, his son touched a snowflake and gave him a solemn nod, he turned back to his family and told them about his Aunt Éowyn and her friend Merry. They came to visit a few weeks ago and Elfwine cried when the hobbit left. He told his family how Merry was his best friend, but Elfwine was Théora’s best friend. She was only little and would find another best friend soon.

Elfwine fell asleep in his mother’s arms and the two monarchs walked their children back home, careful not to wake them or they would stay awake through the rest of the night.

With their children safely in bed, Lothíriel went to their chambers and embraced her husband at the door, “Will you go back out there?”

“I won’t be long,” Éomer kissed her cheek, then pulled her a little closer and felt his wife tighten her arms.

“Go, you’ll take as long as long as you need. Let me get you another cloak,” Éomer caught Lothíriel’s hand and brought her back to him.

“You thought this was quite morbid when you first arrived, Princess. Now look at you, hearing the halls and bringing them to our children.”

She grinned and ushered him away, “Go speak to your family, Éomer. Tell them I say hello, and thank them for so kind to the little ones, it was good to send snow. They’ll remember that for a long time.”

Éomer kissed his cold and tired wife and went outside, he sat on the cold ground and lay back with his head in his hands, staring up at the clouds and the snow, “Théora reminds me of you, Théodred,” he said, and grinned, “She has a little wrinkle here,” he touched the space between his brow, “A little bit, when she frowns, like you did. But I was never so frightened of you as I am of her. When she howls, Rohan trembles. You would-” Éomer closed his eyes and took a deep breath, felt the snowflakes on his face and pictured his family watching his children play, teaching them how to ride and how to make mischief, he pushed down the heat of his loss and grinned, “Oh, the other day she went to grab a knife from the table, and the sound when she was denied. Théodred, she even argues like you. Poor Lothíriel tries to reason with a tempest. Now Elfwine… you wouldn’t think he was ours at all, if not for his laughter, he’s Imrahil’s copy, except when he laughs. Uncle, Mother, it is as though you were in the room…”

The light came over the horizon and took his ghosts away with the darkness, he bid them farewell and promised to see them again in a year.

The next morning Lothíriel told him, with no small amount of exasperation and deeply tried affection, that Théora no longer had any interest in her pig and now spoke exclusively to his mother while she went about her day. Éomer and Éowyn got their stubborness from someone. His mother had been hardheaded at times, it did not surprise him that she would stay for as long as she could.

“Go speak to our daughter,” Lothíriel said, “And tell your mother she is always welcome. To stay as long as she’d like.”

With that, the queen was gone and Éomer stayed, he would tell his mother exactly that.

#eothiriel #lothiriel #eomer eadig #eomer x lothiriel #eomer being sad and happy #and thinking his kids are the sun and the stars #elfwine and theora being adorable #halloween vibes #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lothiriel fanfiction #also just eomer and lothiriel being parents

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