Of Flowers and Lillies

(A/N: Sorry for the delay, lots of stuff happened but I already explained it in my discord and website so I'll just give you the short version if you have yet to join us there: Had to go in a hellhole near the Sahara desert to fix up a huge house so we can sell it for a nice buck, obviously, no wifi here unless I pull a pro gamer move and more or less steal it for some time.)

Magnus was in need of some flowery times, away from crazed drunkard playing god as she spoke of concepts as dangerous as fate and prophecy.

But as annoyed as he was, there was simply no way he'd neglect the form and appeal of his invitation. The Beauxbatons champion was a busy woman, though he had it on good authority that she would much rather spend her days sleeping on a comfy bed while permanently depleting his sweets reserves.

However, she got herself in that joke of a tournament and is thus obliged by her pride and work ethic to prepare for it to the best of her abilities.

'It just means I have to be more persuasive than her ego.' He thought, not quite minding the challenge.

Fleur was rather easy to predict…at least when she wasn't trying to turn him into some corny abomination too happy to use snark, sarcasm or horrifying death threats. All he had to do was play on her curiosity, gentle heart and hatred of the British weather and she would do anything he wanted.

'I feel a disturbance in the magic, as if thousands of men smirked at the same time.'

Not minding that strangely specific hunch for long, Magnus wished for his wand to leave its holster. It was more than happy to come back to its rightful place, radiating power once grasped.

He might be a transmigrator, which makes him a specific breed of human with multiple strange traits such as casual sociopathy, higher-than-average lust and a very troublesome kind of luck. But he was quickly tired of the notion of purely wandless casting, using pure intent to do anything greater than parlor tricks was as wasteful as it was difficult.

'It's like trying to cut trees with your bare hands, when you have a perfectly usable ax right beside you,' He thought, wincing as remembered past attempts at complex wandless casting. 'Sure, you can break a few twigs, but good luck getting past an oak tree.'

That particular kind of lumberjacks was very likely to end up in a hospital room, at least they'd entertain the walking dead nurses who just went through their third graveyard shifts in a row.

Magnus hardly needed anything more than a flick of his wrist, his wand amplifying his intent and magic well enough to weave a simple spell.

He reached into the depth of everything, better known as nothing by most wizards, plucking what he wanted as if he was choosing from a catalog. His spell conjured a large piece of paper, folding it mid-air while slivers of flames wrote a message within it.

The result, a small bird of paper flapping its wing in front of him.

'Looks like a swallow to me.' He thought, sending it off to find his silver-haired companion from wherever she was. It was a simple tracking spell, not needing anything more than some magic to find just about anyone in the area.

Provided that said person wasn't an enemy. The same spell intended for different people would demand different levels of power, even if their function was the exact same, magic was picky like that.

The paper swallow was a better flier than his Welch Green, whose name he had yet to decide; the animated beast was currently sleeping in his room back in the Ravenclaw's tower.

But do you know who else is an even better flier?

'My Mom.' Magnus drew in his magic, making it easier to sense any wizard close by. 'I mean, she must've been, with how high she was all the time.'

(A/N: It's Canon; Magnus has watched Regular Show, and likely wanted to magic choke both Mordecai and Rigby Darth Vader Style until they faint. Before paying lunch to Benson, Skips and obviously Pops…he was too good for that world.)

Certain of his anonymity, Magnus put his wand back in its holster, much to its disappointment before calling forth the magicks of old. His skin shifted and peeled, his form twisting in a blatant disrespect to all the laws of physics the mundane loved so much.

Out of this world was the form of Magnus Black, in his place stood a gray eagle of the most terrifying size. His wingspan was larger than a grown man, yet still too short from some 1.55 meters California girls.

He was alert, making his mighty crest raise high and proud. If one was to see him, they would experience the primal terror only an apex predator deserved. A hooked beak capable of spilling the guts of its prey, the strongest talons of all avian creatures with enough power to crush the bones of its victims.

In a heartbeat, he flapped those powerful wings and took off in broad daylight. He flew around the castle with effortless ease, avoiding towers and walls of the castle with grace.

There was precious little he enjoyed more than a flight; the feeling of the wind against his face, the overwhelming physical strength coursing through his body, the ancient instinct guiding him with knowledge no man should've possessed.

The sheer freedom he experienced made his achievement worthwhile.

It had taken him a year to convince his aunt Minerva that he was ready, he had to threaten her with going to Sirius for guidance before she relented and agreed, with many conditions, to teach him the transformation.

It was much harder business than just spending an unreasonable amount of time hiding a mandrake in his mouth. (The sticking charm is very useful for that part, there is no way wizards could keep it for so long when most people struggle with mewing.) Brewing a potion he honestly forgot about. (It was part of the ritual.) And then spending weeks meditating and praying with all his heart that his soul animal wasn't a blobfish.

There was the very real risk of being stuck in wild form, partially or completely. Mrs. Hooch was one such accident, her eyes permanently in the form of a puny hawk while she was confined to flying with brooms like those plebeians.

'Was it worth it?'

Magnus did a suicidal fly up the walls of the Astronomy Tower, the exact thing both of his aunts warned him times and times again not to do. Sirius and Nymphadora were more understanding, knowing that having the ability to do something so utterly cool came with the great responsibility of doing said cool thing. Ted didn't care either way, he just wanted him to be careful.

'Absolutely!'

From his ridiculously attuned senses, he perceived a certain maddening flower with fiery tendencies getting ever closer to the top of the tower. Unwilling to explain just why he was a giant eagle, he sped up once more to blitz through the opening.

Just as Fleur reached for the door, Magnus changed back into his more boring but equally dangerous form without so much as a single drop of sweat on his face.

And it had nothing to do with the dozen of hygiene charms he cast on himself in the couple seconds it took his sweet overgrown bird lady to open the tricky door, that would be weird.

He greeted her with an easy smile, which only grew wider when a basket filled with the most delicious snacks known to elven kind appeared in front of him, with no further explanation but a note.

It was empty, save for a single 'D' written with mesmerizing elegance.

Before he could think further about it, the note burned and Fleur was there.

'No need to overthink it, let's just enjoy life for once.'

…

"Headmaster." Snape nodded, his tone was as bland and bitter as always, but those who knew him could hear the distress in his voice.

Subconsciously, his hand kept reaching for his arm. His shameful arm. The one that cost him his sweet Lily, that one that damned him and turned him into this lowly, wretched thing that only breathed to atone.

'Atonement through pain, through torture. Is this what you would have wanted, Lily?' Green eyes flashed through his mind, and his heart went softer, wild black hair appeared and the pain returned with vengeance. 'No, I guess failing you is all I'm good for.'

Even then his face stayed stoic, even then he showed nothing.

He showed nothing when the maelstrom of magic stuffed within a strange-looking old man looked up from his desk, putting aside the long letters among piles of other similar paperwork.

He showed nothing when he saw it among his trinkets, tools enchanted with the blood of his sweet Lily, to keep track of her boys at all times.

He showed nothing when the freshly reborn phoenix screeched at him, anger and spite in its fiery eyes. It left in a burst of fire unwilling to suffer his presence any longer.

"Show me." Dumbledore commended.

There was nothing of the kind old man, only a wizard of tremendous power who saw too much for a single lifetime. Dragged in the mud by life, struggling to follow his ideals of peace and redemption.

It almost made him smile, a man of peace was planning a war in the name of the Light, and a worthless traitor was helping him all the while.

Almost.

With a sigh, he unclothed his left arm, showing his inner forearm to the Supreme Mugwump while the latter cast his spell on it.

'The mark is getting clearer every day, he is gaining power.' The thought alone filled him with dread, dread and rage…and pain.

The first he could accept, the second he could subdue, but pain…the pain never left.

Dumbledore laid back on his seat, stony-faced in a way he hadn't seen in years. For once, Severus wished to see that annoying twinkle in that overgrown peace-loving goat's face.

"It is starting," Snape said. "The Dark Lord will wage war again."

He didn't need an answer, just the relief of voicing his doubts, freeing them.

"I'm afraid you're right, Severus." The most powerful man alive sighed like the weary old man he truly was, allowing a sad smile on his face. "Voldemort once more walks among us."

He sat on the revolting chair the headmaster left for guests, letting the only man he truly trusted reach out beneath him for a bottle of FireWhiskey and drinking glasses.

Snape hated alcohol, it reminded him too much of his father, but this time he allowed it.

They needed it…he needed it.

The two talked of war and pain and sacrifice, of logistics and obscure spells, of spying and dangers. Their talk lasted long into the night, when he finally returned to the dungeon to get some rest.

Or at least pretend to, he was short on sleeping draughts…again.

'Perhaps I should cast a stunner on myself?' It would be a good way to practice his control, putting himself to sleep for a set amount of time sounded like a decent challenge to the spell maker, potion master and expert in all things dark.

Few knew this side of him, fewer still could see even further.

It was hard to understand, and people were lazy, simple creatures. They only cared for themselves, for their own lives, their own plights. They claim otherwise, for the sake of their own conscience, but truly they didn't want to know.

'What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?'