Severus Snape was caring for his forest.

Laying a long-fingered hand upon the bark of a redwood, he used his magic to establish the soundness of the root system. He would assess each of the three trees most likely to surrender in the coming storm. This second one, he felt, would be fine. Nodding in satisfaction, he patted the old giant affectionately and moved on.

Threading his way carefully through the underbrush, he returned to the main trail. It would need repair, certainly, once the storm came through. Such things no longer bothered him. The area by the footbridge had always been prone to washing out. He'd repaired it before…although not for years.

Today, hopefully, the drought would end. Not that one storm could erase four years of scarcity. Reservoirs across the state were below their historical low points. But behind this storm was another, and a third forming. Current offshore conditions pointed towards a healthy snow season in the Sierras. And that was a key. A winter full of snow would yield a spring replete with snowmelt. So, with luck, this past summer with its endless sunshine and threat of fire would demark the apex of the pendulum swing.

He breathed in deeply, earthy scents of laurel and redwood mixing with the tang of ozone. The storm would be a dramatic one; there was temper in the air. He increased his speed, walking the carpet of fallen needles with long strides, yet he was not hurried. He knew this forest better than the planes of his own body. He had time yet to make the third tree and return home before the rains began. And if he miscalculated, and the rains beat him home? Well, he'd always loved to be in his forest in the rain.

As he walked, he noted that rising humidity had brought the smaller denizens of the forest out in numbers. The salamanders, the obstreperous banana slugs, even a few brave frogs were already active, eagerly anticipating the coming deluge. The drought had been a long one, and though this one shower could not hope to slake the earth's thirst, still, everything that lived was tense, greedy with anticipation.

He reached the third ailing giant and once again pressed palm to bark. Trees often felt inanimate, their life force too diffuse to register. But these redwoods were different. Like the Womping Willow at Hogwarts, each felt almost sentient to his probe. He could feel this one's centuries of life, could feel its great patience, could feel its own awareness of the approaching storm, and its own resignation that this storm would be its last.

Severus Snape sighed. This tree would not survive the storm.

They were all beautiful, his Sequoia Semprevirens. But this giant was the oldest in his forest. It had grown from this slope, at its outrageous angle for the better part of two hundred years. But now its roots were no longer strong enough to hold its one hundred fifty feet of height anchored into the soil. And its will, its own peculiar magic, had run dry with the drought. It was ready.

He could, of course, reinforce those roots with a spell; buy the giant another season or two. But he would not do the being that disservice. The tree's time had come. He'd seen himself the consequences when humans meddled with a normal lifespan. Some things in this world were fungible, but life, and death, were not. He'd not be a party to evading the inevitable. Not ever again. Not even for this magnificent creature.

But as this tree towered on the slope behind his home, he could not afford to leave the inevitable to nature. His home was fully warded of course. But wards functioned largely upon intent. Were a wizard to attempt to breach his defenses by smashing a redwood down upon him, he and his tool would explode instantly in a shower of kindling. But if Mother Nature, with her profound indifference, did the same thing, well, perhaps the wards would hold, and perhaps not. And so, he pressed a hand to the bark, and spoke, his voice soft and deep. "You were mighty and you were beautiful. And it is your time now. I will give you a painless death. Goodbye, friend" He patted the bark one last time. Felt a pulse of something like acquiescence. Then, though it saddened him, he drew his wand and severed the tree from the earth. He stepped aside, and let it fall.

A thunder of a sound. And then quiet.

When the tree had been safely felled, he pressed a hand again to its bark, and felt…nothing. The being that had grown, breathed and expired on his mountain, was no longer. He looked at its corpse, and considered, briefly, cutting it for his woodpile. Though it would be several days work, the redwood would burn hot and long, and warm him throughout the winter. He did not think the old tree would begrudge him that.

But this was his forest. The tree had for centuries taken nutrients from this soil. To this soil those nutrients must return. And so he shifted leaf litter and rocks, used magic to settle the hulk properly, ensuring that the wooden shell was well wedged into its new position. There it would stay… until it was gone. He would enjoy watching the fungi and the lichens join the insects in returning this great hulk to the forest floor. It would take a decade or so, but eventually, this giant would dissolve into the forest that birthed it. As it should be.

At peace with his decision, Severus Snape continued upwards, following the trail to its conclusion, his meadow. Whatever force had cleared the trees from this horseshoe-shaped patch of land, it had done so long before the land had come to his keeping. The scars of the clearing no longer showed. And now, it was to his mind, the heart of his forest. It was here, out from under the near-dark of the canopy, that native grasses grew. It was here that the deer brought their fawns in the spring to feed, here that the wildflowers exploded in their riot of short-lived color. And it was here that the drought had been felt most keenly.

What in most years was a carpet of native grasses was now a pan of cracked earth interspersed with dry brown stems. And yet, though it suffered, it was not dead. He could press a palm to the earth and feel it…waiting. And in that waiting, it was still, to his eyes, beautiful.

From his vantage point at the meadow's highest hill, he could see all the hillsides to the south. He could gaze at the dark smudge of forest, his forest, and the forest that surrounded his. Across a shallow valley he could see the pastureland of the organic farm. There were no grazing animals today, undoubtedly, they had already been rounded up for shelter. But many days there would be small puffs of sheep wandering their own gentle hills like clouds in a still sky. Save for the power lines that crossed that vantage point, he could see no man-made structures. It reassured him, and made him feel as if his life might actually proceed without the intervention and drama of humanity. That was a pipe dream, he knew, for those who lived in his small community still insisted on imposing human contact upon him on an infrequent, but regular basis. But that was endurable. Mostly, his life was simple, made of trees and hills and forest and dog.

A distant rumble brought his attention back to the task at hand. He mustn't tarry. Check the pond. Then return home.

Beyond the bend in the meadow lay a small, picturesque pond. He had built it there, in a hollow where water naturally accumulated during wet years. He did not, as a rule, like to meddle in the processes of nature; meddling always had unforeseen consequences.

But by June, the deer who grazed the meadow and above had begun to move lower, searching relentlessly for better food. Does, their fawns only just losing the spots of their babyhood, had begun severely testing the construction of his garden fencing. Salamanders had begun to crawl into his hot tub, searching for a place to lay their eggs, only to be found, boiled, the next morning. At first, he'd accepted it. Nature was, after all, a harsh mistress.

But then one of his dark periods descended.

Oh, yes, he still had them, though the war in which they were rooted was almost twenty-five years over. Posttraumatic stress, he'd self-diagnosed. And not without reason. If anyone's life could have been described as a traumatic stress, it would have been his, from the agonies of his abusive childhood, to his willful actions as a death eater, to his unwilling actions during his years of dual servitude. The culmination of his near death at the hands of a giant viper had put the icing on the traumatic cake, so to speak. That he wasn't a quivering mass of patheticness was the mystery, not the fact that he still endured the emotional backlash of his experiences from time to time.

At any rate, in June, when the backlash rose again, with those dark memories crashing about in his brain like a stinging lash, the need to DO something had also risen like a fountain of purpose.

And so he'd come to the meadow's former damp spot with his shovel, and he'd dug, and he'd dug and he'd dug. He used no magic, preferring to let the discomfort and sweat and effort of physical toil beneath the relentless sun leach away the worst of his internal madness. He fashioned the hole deep enough to succor fish, lest the insect population run rampant. Then he fashioned shallow edges so that the frogs and salamanders could easily climb free once their spawning was done. And finally, following the existing wildlife trail, he smoothed an approach for the deer to reach the water to drink.

Three days it took. Muscles quivering, scars screaming, he'd surveyed the work, and felt satisfaction. And when he'd probed heart and head, he'd found that somewhere in the past three days, the worst of the darkness had passed. But the job at hand was not done. This earth may have once held water…but it wouldn't do so now.

So, though he loathed shopping, he climbed into his battered pickup, and drove twenty miles to the town of Ben Lomond, to Al's Garden Supply Store.

He returned with a pond liner, several bags of mosquito fish, and a flat of native pond vegetation, and settled down to the business of turning a hole into a pond.

He had used magic to fill his pond… from his own emergency cistern. Then he'd carefully scattered the topsoil he'd salvaged from the site into the pond, in case there were vernal pond denizens still slumbering in the top inches of soil. He planted the vegetation, carefully, one plant at a time. All the while watching the bags of little fish bobbing about on the water's surface. Then when the work was done, he'd released them, pleased when they dispersed to every corner of their new home.

Now this storm would come, and it would test the pond's structure. He believed it would hold. The liner was buried deep, and the soil around it seemed to have settled in to its task of holding fast. And if it failed? Well, if it failed, it would have served its purpose, wouldn't it? Getting the fauna through the drought's harshest days. If it failed, he would still have the satisfaction of knowing it had been of service to some of the world's more delicate creatures.

He crossed the meadow. From habit, he moved silently even here. A muffliato on his feet kept even the dry stems of the grasses from betraying his presence. After so many years of subterfuge, he found that he was still incapable of rendering himself easily heard. And that is why, he later thought, she did not hear him coming.

She blended in beautifully with the sere grasses around her. Which explained why he did not see her until he was a scant dozen feet away from the pond's edge.

Holding his breath, Severus Snape froze.

She was magnificent. Though the drought was evident in the dull cast to her coat, and the leanness of her flank, her body still radiated vitality. She lifted her face from the water's edge, and turned to face him, feline eyes glittering with undaunted wildness. The mountain lion would fight, he knew, if he forced her to. And if she did, even his wand would not keep him unscathed.

But he did not want to fight her, did not want to chance inadvertently harming such a miraculous creature. Hopefully, if he made his submission clear, she would simply drink her fill before taking cover from the storm.

Slowly, while keeping his eyes on her, he dropped his focus, so as not to issue challenge, and slipped his wand from his sleeve. He hoped not to use it. Methodically, he backed away across his meadow. The lioness watched him until he moved out of sight.

Back on the trail, a protective charm cast to protect his back, he took a deep breath and began his trek home. He was surprised to find his body shaking from adrenaline.

A mountain lion. In his forest.

She did not live here. He would have known if she had; some scat, or paw print, or leftover meal would have revealed her before now. No. She was just another victim of the drought, passing through, pushed out of her deep forest home as her prey sought better fodder.

Having her here would complicate his life immensely. As long as she stayed, he would be sharing his territory with another alpha predator. He would need to add a layer to his wards, lest she come upon him unawares. And his chicken coop. That would need reinforcing. And the deer. No. He'd not give the deer protection. They were her natural prey, and thanks to his pond, there were too many of those for the meadow to support. He'd considered some culling himself; he'd let the lioness take what she would. But she'd not take Milo. He'd already warded Milo to keep him safe from coyotes. That should keep the lioness out as well, but he'd add a layer geared towards felines, just to be certain. The worst of it was that there would be no more wandering in his woods without wand in hand. He could live with that.

He hoped she'd stay.

SSSSS

Author's Note: Welcome to the new story, everyone. I'm trying something different this time. Rather than making the process fully collaborative, and changing the tale based upon the feedback of my readers, I have a complete draft of this one in place. This doesn't mean that I won't adjust the story as you inspire me to do so, but it does mean that it is unlikely that I will need to abandon the story midway through the process. Hopefully, this insurance policy will compensate for having slightly less input to the story's progress. I hope you enjoy it!

Warmly,

Theolyn