E Lucevan Le Stelle - The Stars Were Shining

By Pigwidgeon37

A/N: First and most important of all: THIS IS JOAN’S FAULT. Now you, and maybe also Joan, will surely ask yourselves: WHY? Let me tell you something: It would be much, much better to ask me. Because I know. Really, it’s all very simple. It started out with that short little mail exchange I had with Joan about the name of Snape’s falcon, Tosca. Unfortunately, a plot bunny felt the urge to leap into existence when I stated that Scarpia was very much like Lucius Malfoy. Wham! There it was. The dratted animal has been bothering me to no end for weeks now, rattling its cage etc. etc. … well, things bunnies do in general.

Second: The title I chose for this fic is the first line of Cavaradossi’s famous aria. It means “The stars were shining”. You’ll stumble over it again in the third chapter.

Third: You don’t need to know Puccini’s Tosca to enjoy this fic. But you won’t lose any of the doubtful pleasure of reading it if you know the opera. For those who don’t know it: Skip the next paragraph.

Now, opera fans and lovers, don’t scream in horror: I’m not going to make Severus a painter and even less a romantic, weak-chinned, puppy-eyed political idealist. He is going to play Cavaradossi’s part in the plot, but he’ll be completely in character. Scarpia /Malfoy - I don’t think I need to say anything. Hermione/Tosca is intriguing, but possible, and she will stay in character as well. All the others (Angelotti, Spoletta etc) will be characters from the books- it’s nearly too easy when you think of it. Of course I have to write a prologue, just to set up the situation, otherwise the setting wouldn’t be understandable without copious back story-telling, which doesn’t match the pace of the original plot (after all, the story begins and ends in the morning and evening of the same day).

I’ll even use large parts of the opera text- paraphrasing when necessary- so it’s double copyright infringement. Well, if you do it, do it thoroughly, as I always say.

Oh, one last thing: Even if you know the plot, there might be a little surprise in the end… So don’t think you’re smarter than the author! ;)

OK, let’s start with the:

PROLOGUE

“The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant’s aid, greater and more terrible than ever before…”

These had been the words of the prediction Sybil Trelawney had made at the end of Harry’s third year at Hogwarts. The events at the end of his fourth year, at the tragic finale of the Triwizard Tournament, had seemed to prove her right. Everybody, including Dumbledore, had believed her to be right. But then, it was still a prediction made by Sybil Trelawney…

Harry had been able to tell only what he had seen before he returned to Hogwarts, taking Cedric Diggory’s dead body with him. Having been deprived of their only valuable spy, for Snape’s cover had been blown already during Harry’s first year, the ‘old crowd’ was not able to get insider news from Voldemort’s inner circle any more, and thus Dumbledore’s resistance group from past years had been condemned to wait and see, to react instead of acting. Snape implored the Headmaster to let him go back and try, or die trying, but Dumbledore remained adamant: after Snape had revealed his disloyalty by his words to Quirrell, which Voldemort was bound to have heard for he shared the Dark Arts professor’s body, any attempt in this direction would not only have been foolish, but plain suicide. Not only was Dumbledore very fond of his Potions Master, but the school also was in dire need of every skilled teacher they could get. Snape was the best, and so he had to grudgingly give up, resigning himself to remain at Hogwarts, his prison and his shelter, continuing to teach and becoming increasingly bad-tempered.

But things were not as Dumbledore and his ‘old crowd’ imagined them to be. True, Voldemort had regained a body and thus been able to hold a wand and cast spells. That was what Harry had seen and experienced, most painfully so. What he had not witnessed were the events that took place after he had escaped by portkey.

Two Cruciatus, one Imperio and, above all, the duel had been enough to drain Voldemort of all his barely reacquired forces. When the Death Eaters returned to him, panting, exhausted and dreading the most horrible punishments for having let Potter escape, what they found was not the tall, imposing figure, burning them by the vicious look of his snake-like red eyes. It was a writhing, whimpering bundle, curled up on the ground.

And it had been Lucius Malfoy, who maybe was not as powerful a wizard as the Dark Lord, but certainly didn’t lack presence of spirit and a certain innate political instinct- it had been Malfoy to take the command, ordering everybody to go back home. He would take care of the Master. The Death Eaters, too bewildered to ask questions, and thoroughly relieved that they hadn’t been chastised and didn’t have to take any decisions of their own, had Disapparated instantly. Malfoy, disgusted though he was, had picked up Voldemort’s whimpering remainders and Apparated home as well.

Had he been a megalomaniac like He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he would have thought of himself as Fortune’s favourite son. As he was intelligent, cruel, ruthless and power-hungry, he merely thought that he had been offered a chance it would be extremely unwise to lose. And acted accordingly.

To further his very own plans, the slowly spreading rumour of Voldemort’s rebirth could only be helpful in the extreme. It was improbable enough to puzzle and, worse- or from Lucius’s point of view, better- to divide the enemy. With Hogwarts and the Ministry split into the factions of believers and sceptics, their forces were considerably weakened and all he had to take care of was a bunch of insecure and basically obedience-prone Death Eaters. Voldemort had seen to that.

Malfoy kept his former master safely locked in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, a repulsively ugly pet, deprived of his wand, practically powerless, but still very useful, particularly for summoning the Death Eaters to their regular meetings, in comparison to which former gatherings, during the first Reign of Terror, had been mere tea parties. Lucius never tortured. He killed. Instantly, striking as quickly and precisely as a rattlesnake. A mere suspicion was enough.

The period that Hogwarts students and faculty called their summer vacation was sufficient for Malfoy to make himself respected by every single of the twenty-nine remaining Death Eaters. In fact, by the end of summer, they were down to twenty-three who would not have crossed the line with as much as a toenail. They still believed, though, that it was all done in Voldemort’s name, and Lucius knew better than to tell them the truth.

During the following year, the small but effective army sowed terror and destruction all over Great Britain, carrying out surprise attacks with such rapidity and precision that none of them were ever caught. After each operation, the Dark Mark hovered over the scene of crime. It thus became impossible for the Ministry to deny Voldemort’s return any longer.

But despite all its Aurors, Unspeakables, Law Enforcement and other departments, the Ministry remained helpless and empty-handed, and Cornelius Fudge soon became the second most hated person in England’s wizarding society. Everybody blamed him for the repeated failures of his troops , and only very few people, among them Dumbledore and Snape, guessed that those setbacks were only partly the minister’s fault- much as they hated to admit it- and that there was something new and unusual about the Death Eaters that made it virtually impossible to fight them.

During Harry’s sixth year at Hogwarts, Malfoy decided that it was now high time for the bombshell he had been planning meticulously for more than a year. Nobody but he and a handful of his followers ever knew how exactly he had accomplished his masterpiece, but on 1 November 1996, the Ministry was alerted by an enormous green skull floating above Cornelius Fudge’s mansion, and upon their arrival, the Aurors found Fudge and Voldemort lying dead on the floor, and with them a weak, but perfectly alive Lucius Malfoy.

It was a matter of one week before Malfoy became the next minister- after all, he was Britain’s New Hero. And it took Britain quite a long time, too long in fact, to realize that they had made a dreadful mistake. By then, it was already too late.

Only one year after he had become minister, Malfoy had gained total control not only over his own ministry, by either convincing or replacing the old staff- in some cases, when people were too stubborn, they became victims o f ‘highly deplorable accidents’- but over all educational institutions, including the new elementary school he had created at Hogwarts. By ministerial decree, Hogwarts’s Board of Governors was dismissed and, by the same decree, it was stated that from now on there would be no Headmaster anymore, because the Minister of Magic was to “personally guarantee that Great Britain’s young wizards be trained to become worthy members of the society”. The school of witchcraft and wizardry thus became a prison for the hostages Malfoy held there to ensure their parents’ loyalty. Teachers and Heads of Houses were put under strict control, so as to make subversive activities practically impossible. It was, of course, forbidden by law to send children to magical schools other than Hogwarts.

Great Britain’s wizards had been so afraid of a repetition of Voldemort’s reign of terror that they had completely overlooked the possibility of plain and simple, but no less effective or dangerous, dictatorship.

°°°°°*°°°°°

Hermione Granger had fulfilled every expectation her teachers might ever have had for her. When she started her seventh year, she got a letter from the Ministry, inviting her to make an appointment for an “orientation talk” with His Excellency himself. Hermione was desperate, for she knew exactly what the seemingly innocuous request meant: “If you put your skills to our service, be sure you will have a splendid career. Refuse, and you might have a highly deplorable accident some time in the near future.”

With Dumbledore gone, the faculty was nowhere near as united as they had been in the past. Some new teachers had been hired, and their convictions and loyalties were more or less obvious. Thus, only Snape and McGonagall were willing to help her. Despite his earlier disloyalty to Voldemort, Snape was still there and still Head of Slytherin, for he had been able to convince Malfoy that what had seemed disloyalty to Voldemort had in reality been disdain for the Mudblood Tom Riddle and his megalomania. This had been the right button to push with Malfoy, who was far too clever to deprive himself of such a valid ally. As for Snape’s own ambitions, it would be sufficient to closely monitor him.

Both Snape and McGonagall persuaded Hermione to go and speak with Malfoy, and pretend that she was perfectly willing to enter his services after graduation. Snape suggested he might brew her a potion of his own invention that, when taken, would make her irritable and rebellious for some time, so that she would constantly have troubles with her teachers. As she was a Gryffindor, he didn’t put too much trust in her deceiving skills, so the potion would both be safer and ensure a more natural effect. Her work would have to gradually deteriorate- that and her unaccountable mood swings would be enough to sow the seed of doubt as to her usefulness.

The plan was carried out, and soon not only did Hermione have to give back her Head Girl badge, but detentions were raining down on her, most of them with Snape. His painstakingly cultivated bastard image came in useful, at last. More than McGonagall, it was he who helped her through this difficult period, when her best friends looked at her with a mix of horror and incomprehension in their eyes, her housemates shunned her and the Slytherins made her the object of cruel jokes. During those many hours they spent together, they became friends and finally lovers. Snape accomplished a masterpiece of cunning strategy by awarding her an absurdly high grade for her abysmal N.E.W.T. potion s paper. He was immediately summoned to report to the Minister, to whom he contritely confessed his “weakness”, pleading that he might “keep the Mudblood as his little toy” as long as he pleased.

Highly satisfied that Hermione Granger, who had clearly turned out useless for his own purposes, would at least be neutralized and under close surveillance, Malfoy graciously complied, suggesting that Snape marry her- “just to keep up appearances, you can divorce her whenever you tire of her.”

For the moment, they had outwitted him, but Malfoy was by no means easy to deceive. He felt that something about the whole affair was fishy, without being able to put his finger on it. But he was sure that, if one day there was some tangible proof, it would also reveal that Snape had had a hand in it, and on that particular day Severus Snape would wish he had never been born.

The wedding was celebrated with great pomp, but in the conspicuous absence of the people Hermione would have wished to be there: Harry had escaped in the evening of their graduation day, using Polyjuice Potion to sneak away undetected and Apparate directly to the USA, where he was welcomed with open arms. The Weasleys, deprived of their father, who had been too honest for his own good and fallen victim to one of the ‘highly deplorable accidents’, were now too afraid to even stick their heads out of their door, let alone attend an event where the premises would be crawling with Aurors and Law Enforcement Wizards. Remus Lupin - on the run from the Ministry’s werewolf hunters. Sirius Black - caught and taken to Azkaban, where he was force-fed a potion that stripped him of his animagus abilities. The rest of her classmates - too irritated by her changed behaviour to be interested in her anymore. Dumbledore - whereabouts unknown. Her parents- unwanted at a wizarding wedding and too puzzled by their daughter’s sudden change of character.

Both she and Snape were less than happy on their wedding day. Not that they did not want to marry or were insecure about their love being mutual- it was just that the circumstances were so sad and so totally wrong.

Once a married woman, Hermione did her best to build up a convincing façade. She did so with success, and when they celebrated their first wedding anniversary, her husband complimented her on having become some dreadful cross between Narcissa Malfoy and Lavender Brown- arrogant, detached and completely superficial- for everybody’s but his and McGonagall’s eyes. Society Lady extraordinaire, Hermione never failed to participate in important social gatherings, always dressed according to the latest fashion, and had an annoying habit of not really listening to what people told her. She had found out that this was the best way of gathering useful information.

One innate, genuine trait of her character, though, guaranteed that the Snape couple was frequently cited in the Daily Prophet’s society column, and that was her jealousy. Some highly amusing scenes- mostly to the eyes of the observers, though- had taken place in public. Had people known about their domestic rows, they would have paid hundred galleons for a ticket. Snape often wondered how a highly intelligent woman like Hermione could be so irrational, but then had to admit that jealousy had nothing to do with intelligence. But he loved her, and thus put up with this defect, as she did with his. On the whole, they were a very happy couple and satisfied with their now three-year-old marriage.

Severus and Hermione Snape occupied a beautiful and comfortable apartment in the dungeons of Hogwarts. The brilliant, dangerous Potions Master and Head of Slytherin, loyal follower of Lucius Malfoy, so rich that his ugliness did not matter, and his pretty, once-brilliant but now slightly crazy Mudblood wife. That was how everybody thought of them.

This was, however, far from the truth. Severus and Hermione Snape were the masterminds behind a small resistance group that was valiantly trying to prevent the worst from happening, and in many cases succeeded. Without their help, Azkaban and Belenfer, the new prison erected by Malfoy for sheer lack of room in the old one, would have contained a lot more convicts. Before leaving Hogwarts for his ‘unknown whereabouts’, known only to Severus and Hermione, Dumbledore had l eft them one of his most prized possessions: a map, something like an infinitely more elaborate Marauders’ Map, that showed not only every single person, but every secret room or passage in the castle. Some of them, as the old wizard had told them, were known only to himself and thus completely safe. By tapping the dots representing the persons, it was possible to listen to what they said, and touching the rooms and passages revealed whether wards or spells had been cast on them. In short, the map was the source of Dumbledore’s alleged omniscience, and it proved to be a highly useful tool for Severus and Hermione’s purposes.

They were leading a dangerous life, aware that it could come to an abrupt end, if they ever were discovered. But until now, everything had gone well. Too well, Severus sometimes thought, wondering when Fortune would grow tired of holding them in her hand.

E   LUCEVAN   LE   STELLE

ACT I, PART I

Qual altro al mondo puň star di paro all’ardente occhio tuo nero ?

(Is there a pair of eyes in this world that could compare to your black ones?)

It was six o’clock in the morning and still dark. As dark and cold as could be expected from an early December morning. At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, all the students and most of the teachers were still sleeping. Only the House Elves were scuttling noiselessly through the corridors, carrying piles of freshly laundered garments they had to deliver to their owners before they woke up. One of the elves, who answered to the name of Prissy, was heading down the stairs to the dungeons when she heard a strange sound that definitely didn’t belong here. It was the soft rustling of fabric brushing over stone. She had not made it, and neither had it come from one of the paintings, nor did it seem probable that one of the suits of armour had produced it. Prissy stopped and listened, her bat-like ears ready to capture even the tiniest of sound waves. But there was nothing. And so she continued her path downstairs. About twenty seconds afte r she had disappeared, another sound came from where there apparently was nothing but a bare stone wall. It sounded suspiciously like a sigh of relief.

°°°°°*°°°°°

After the small creature had passed the same spot again, this time without her burden of laundry and heading into the opposite direction, there was again a faint rustling sound. It proceeded downstairs, swished along a few corridors and when it had arrived at a high but narrow wooden door flanked by the statue of a benignly smiling witch, it stopped and silence reigned again. Only for a short time, though. Then there was the sound of a man’s voice, hoarse and nothing more than a whisper.

“Finally!” Ragged breathing, as if somebody had spent too much time underwater and was now desperately trying to satisfy his need for oxygen. The breathing was growing less raspy and gradually slowing down to normal, and the disembodied voice continued to mutter. “Gods, I’m so scared that I see Aurors behind every corner. How twitchy can you get? But that House Elf was a close shave.” Another sigh, and the rustling noise started again. “Now let’s see… where did she say she’d put it?”

There was a small crackling sound, like that of a piece of parchment being unfolded. “Behind the statue of Gerhild the Generous… not that there are many possibilities down here… bloody dungeons…”

A hand, seemingly not attached to a body, appeared about three feet above the floor, slid into the narrow space between the statue and the wall and, after a few seconds of unsuccessful fumbling, finally retrieved a wand. “Here it is! And this must be the lab. Now let’s hope there isn’t a special password or ward.” The wand, still firmly clasped by the solitary hand, was pointed at the door, and the voice whispered “Alohomora!”

The door swung open noiselessly and then closed almost immediately, the latch snapping back into place with a faint ‘click’. Then there was silence again, and darkness.

°°°°°*°°°°°

At half past six, the torches lining the walls of the dungeon corridor at a distance of about five yards from each other flared up one by one. The hand lighting them was by no means disembodied or ghostly, for it belonged to Argus Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker, accompanied by his mangy cat, Mrs. Norris. Argus Filch was not only mean, he was also a Squib, which meant that he was non-magical, despite being born from wizarding parents. Considering the Minister’s deep disgust with all things non-magical, it was something of a miracle that Filch had been allowed to remain at Hogwarts after Dumbledore had been sacked. The caretaker owed this miracle to his second outstanding trait of character, which was his meanness. He lived up to his name, although he didn’t have a hundred, but only two eyes he used to spy on everything and everybody. His weekly reports to the Minister were full of orthographical errors, but also of interesting details, concerning teachers and students alike.

Right now he was lighting the torches with the help of another torch, already lit, which h e was carrying in his outstretched left hand. From his right dangled a small wooden box, closed and secured with a few lengths of rough string.

“…could light them with a flick of their wands, arrogant bastards,” he babbled- whether to himself or to the cat remained unclear, “But no, old Filch has to do it, and what a good laugh it is, too. Go on, laugh at old Filch, we’ll see who’ll be the last to laugh. And of course, Snape the Snake can’t just go and fetch his own box of ingredients from the Owl Post Office, no, no, old Filch has to see to that.”

He shuffled along, lighting two more torches, and then stopped at the narrow wooden door, which half an hour ago had been so mysteriously opened and closed by a floating hand. Grunting and groaning, he deposited the wooden box on the stone floor, came up again, put his torch into an iron bracket beside the door, pulled an enormous bunch of keys out of one of his pockets and began to search for the right one. He paused, scratched his head, and muttered “Why go to the trouble of searching it, eh, Mrs. Norris? Maybe he’s already here.”

He rapped sharply at the door, but got no response from inside. “Damn the Snake,” he croaked, “Always such an early bird, but today… probably screwing his little Mudblood wife…” He cackled and continued his search for the key.

Finally, he found it and opened the door. Severus Snape’s laboratory was a spacious, surprisingly airy room with a low ceiling. Three of the four walls were lined by long worktables, and the fourth was completely covered by shelves, but for a small door leading into the adjacent storage room, in which the Potions Master kept his more valuable or dangerous ingredients.

“Professor?” Filch called tentatively. Nobody responded. “Not here. All the bet ter for me, otherwise he’d come up with some errand, I’m sure.”

On one of the worktables, he detected a basket, covered by a white linen cloth embroidered with the Hogwarts crest. Carefully, he lifted one edge of the fabric and peered inside. “Breakfast!” he muttered, his nostrils dilating at the delicious smell of ham. “ Mmmm … maybe he won’t eat it, so it’ll be ours, Mrs. Norris!” The cat looked at him with her strangely knowing orange eyes and purred. “Yes, my beauty, clever girl, oh, so clever!” Filch cooed, scratching her chin.

“Filch! Anything the matter?”

At the sound of Professor Snape’s sharp voice, Filch got up quickly, only to bend forward again in a hideous parody of a bow. “Nothing, Professor, nothing, and a good morning to you, Sir!”

Snape smoothed his lanky black hair out of his face with his right hand and gave Filch a curt nod. As it was his routine, he looked round his lab, just in case… Filch’s eyes might be sharp, but Snape’s were far sharper. “Filch, did you touch anything on this shelf?” he asked, indicating a board on which lots of bottles, vials and jars were standing in an order the rhyme and reason of which were known only to the Potions Master himself.

“No, Sir, upon my honour, no, really, I didn’t touch nothing, Sir!” Snape’s piercing glance made him cringe, but he bravely stood his ground.

“Very strange indeed,” Snape muttered, “So who might… well, let’s see.”

He drew his wand, pointed it at the shelf in question and said “Reorevelo!” For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then, hovering some inches above the ground, a glimmering field of magical energy appeared, and within, the image of a young woman was growing clearer and clearer. She was not only pretty, but beautiful. Luscious gold-blonde hair tumbled down her back in thick, shining ringlets, her eyes were of a piercing, cerulean blue and her skin seemed to be made of finest bone china, white and translucent. She raised her arm and put a small, glittering object behind one of the bottles on the shelf. Then her whole body suddenly disappeared, so that only her head remained visible. A moment later, the head disappeared, too, and the angelic vision was gone.

Still open-mouthed, Snape barely heard Filch’s grunt of appraisal. “Whoa,” the caretaker said when he was again able to speak, “That’s a beauty, eh? Don’t see such a tasty dish every day, do you?”

Snape instantly snapped back into his usual, controlled self. “Yes, very beautiful indeed, Filch,” he replied tersely, “But I would prefer this to remain a secret, at least for the moment. Finite incantatem.” The magical field dissolved instantly.

Seeing the suspicious look on the caretaker’s face, he added “No need to upset the Minister, as for the time being we don’t know anything at all. I’ll investigate and then report to him. And… I’d prefer that my wife, too, remain ignorant of this… er, problem. Would you please give the worktables a little dusting, as you’re already here?”

Filch scowled, but didn’t object. With a theatrical sigh, to which Snape didn’t pay attention in the least, he rummaged in one of his pockets and pulled out a cloth that, by the look of it, would probably make the worktables look dirtier when he had finished than they had been before he started cleaning them.

While Filch was wiping the tables, accompanying this activity by a steady flow of mumbled complaints, Snape approached the shelf for a more thorough inspection. This was mere functional furniture of rough, untreated pine, so maybe something might have remained… He nearly whistled through his teeth when he found some fine, silvery threads dangling from a splinter. Carefully, he removed them, without ceasing to monitor Filch out of the corner of his eye.

‘An invisibility cloak!’ he thought. ‘Well, that much was obvious from the image anyway. But who is the mysterious beauty? I have a feeling… I don’t know… but I think I’ve already seen her somewhere. But where? Gods, she’s really beautiful.’

With his back to Filch, so the movements of his hands couldn’t be seen, he rolled the thread up neatly and put into his pocket. ‘I’m lucky that Hermione didn’t see this,’ he thought. ‘She would never have believed that I don’t have the faintest idea of that girl’s identity. Funny, anyway, how two women can look so different and nevertheless be described by the same adjective: beautiful. Hermione, with her dark brown hair and those enthralling, intense dark eyes- and this unknown beauty, all creamy and peachy… Well, I sure as hell know that Hermione is worth a hundred anonymous beauties. I could never even think about another woman. Only she would doubt that…’

While Filch was intent on polishing the tables, his thoughts were also gravitating to the blonde woman. ‘I bet he knows who she is… probably fed up with his insipid Mudblood wife… not that I don’t understand him, that one’s really a rare treat… Better to stay silent, though, you never know with Snape the Snake.’

When the tables were clean-- at least according to Filch’s standards--the caretaker turned round. “May I leave now, sir? You know, there’s a lot to be done…”

“Of course,” Snape snapped, unpleasantly jerked out of his musings, “Do as you please.”

“Aren’t you going to eat your breakfast? Or are you on a diet?”

This was impertinent, to say the least. Snape was on the verge of being scrawny. He let the insult pass, though. “No, I’m not hungry.”

“Really?” Filch rubbed his hands. Mrs. Norris purred. Both of them were treated rather badly in the matter of food. They had to fend for themselves, more or less. “I hope you’re not ill or--“

“You may leave now, Filch.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Come on, Mrs. Norris.”

When the door had closed behind the two creatures, Snape heaved a sigh of relief. He knew that this morning’s events would reach the Minister via Filch’s weekly reports. The fact that the caretaker was spying on all of them wasn’t unknown to the Potions Master. They had discovered it accidentally when Hermione had tapped the dot marked ‘Filch’ with her wand, just for the fun of it. Luckily, he was dictating to himself while he wrote, so they had been able to warn McGonagall and the few loyal students to watch out for the caretaker.

He had to find out who the young woman was, though, or he would be in serious trouble with Malfoy. What had she been hiding on the shelf? It wasn’t there anymore, so what--

Snape froze in mid- movement. He was sure that he had heard a sound from inside the storage cabinet. Wand drawn, he went to the door and called: “Come out, I know you are in there!”

‘And Merlin help me if Hermione shows up here while I’m dealing with that girl. But that’s a risk that has to be taken…’

“Come on! Out!” he bellowed.

Slowly and hesitatingly, the door handle moved downwards, and the door opened, but not more than an inch. Through the slit, Snape could see that it was dark inside.

“Now come on, young lady, I haven’t got all day!”

With a small screech, the door swung further open, but obviously the young lady had chosen to remain shielded behind it. Snape went nearer, and peered into the darkness. There was something on the floor… sticking out from behind the door… a boot? By its size, it was easy to tell that it could not belong to the angelic creature he had seen. He stepped nearer and saw tha t the boot was old, ruined and dirty, and that its upper part was covered by a trouser leg. It was frayed and clustered with mud.

‘A refugee?’ Snape thought. But they never came here without prior notice. He and Hermione had insisted that they be informed in due time before the arrival of new “guests” as a security measure. They couldn’t afford a single mistake. So it had to be a trap. In a rush of anger and fear, Snape covered the remaining distance to the door, lit the candles inside the storage room with a flick of his wand and entered.

He had prepared himself for the worst, but certainly not for-- “Black? Black, is that you?”

Sirius Black looked worse than he had when he had escaped from Azkaban for the first time. He had been in prison for little more than three years, but without the possibility of retiring into his dog from when things became unbearable he had suffered a lot more. From where he was half-sitting, half-lying on the floor, he looked up at Snape. The ghost of a grin briefly li t his face, but then his eyelids fluttered and his head lolled backwards, to meet the wooden shelf with a soft thud.

“Black!” Snape crouched down and slapped the other wizard’s face, hard. “Black, wake up! I need to know whether you’re hurt.”

With visible effort, Black refocused his look on his former arch-enemy. “Not hurt,” he croaked, “hungry… water…” Thud. He had passed out again.

Snape got up, cursing helplessly. Where the hell could he get something to eat now without arousing suspicion… Damn Black, damn him for coming here! Probably half the Law Enforcement would show up at Hogwarts in less than no time… He felt his throat go narrow with panic. The easiest and, from a certain point of view, also the best thing would be to call the Aurors no w, and hand Black over to them. But of course, he couldn’t do it, enemy or not. Not only because of his own conscience, but the mere thought of what was going to happen if Hermione ever found out… Impossible. So, better concentrate on how to find some food .

Looking wildly round the room, Snape’s eyes fell on the small basket. He slapped his forehead. How stupid! Well, sometimes one simply didn’t see the forest for the trees.

With the basket and a jug of water-- fortunately, this was a laboratory, an d thus there was also a tap-- he returned into the storage room. For a moment, he considered closing the door, but then thought better of it and left it open. Just in case somebody came along the corridor, it was better to hear them as early as possible.

Kneeling down, he held up Black’s head with his left hand, while putting the jug to his mouth with his right. Without opening his eyes, the other wizard drank greedily. When the jug was empty, Snape went out to refill it. Back inside, he put it on the tiled floor and saw that the other’s eyes were fixed upon him. When Black opened his mouth to say something, Snape shook his head. “Listen to me, Black. No time for sentimentalities or insults now. There’s food in this basket. Just for once, try not to be y our greedy self, or else you’ll throw up all over my floor. Now, you have to stay in here for some--“

“Severus?” Hermione’s voice was coming from the laboratory’s fireplace, which fortunately was not on the opposite wall, or else she would have seen directly into the storage room.

“Who’s that?” Black whispered.

“It’s my wife.-- Yes, Hermione, I’m coming!” he called out.

“Your--“

“Shhh! Keep it down, for heaven’s sake! Yes, my wife. I’ll sort this out first and tell her later.”

Black cocked an enquiring eyebrow.

“Unlike me, you moron, she’ll be happy that you escaped, but nevertheless, it is going to be a shock. And I want to prepare her first--“

“Severus!” Impatience, laced with anger.

“Just a moment-- Stay here, and… don’t move and be quiet, do you understand me?”

Back simply nodded. Snape got up, grabbed the next jar and left the cabinet. While he locked it, Hermione stepped out of the fireplace, still in her nightgown and negligee, her hair pulled back and braided.

“Good morning, my darling,” he said, depositing the jar on one of the tables and walking over to her.

She waved an angry hand. “Why did you lock it?”

He shrugged. “Old habits, I guess. Did you sleep well?”

“Who were you talking to?”

“To you, of course. Or did you seriously think I’d call my worktable darling and ask it whether it had slept well? I’m not that far gone.”

This attempt at distracting her earned him an angry stare. “You understood me very well, Severus. I meant in there. I heard you talking. Whispering, to be exact. So who were you talking to?”

Snape raised his eyebrows. “Is this going to be some sort of Spanish Inquisition, Mrs. Snape? You know that I always talk to myself when I’m working. You even find it annoying, as you have told me not only once, but at least a thousand times.”

With a smile that betrayed nothing pleasant, she retorted “But I heard two different whispers, darling. Are you saying that you’ve switched from monologue to dialogue? Do you think I’m stupid? Who is she?”

Not that again. He rolled his eyes. “Hermione, please, try to be reasonable, do you really--“

“Yes, I really. So you’re denying it?”

“Of course I’m denying it. Come here.” He took her in his arms and tried to kiss her, but she avoided his lips.

“No, not here, somebody might run in on us.” But she remained in his arms, putting her hands on his chest and smiling up at him. “I just wanted to remind you that tonight is Narcissa’s ladies’ night and that I have to go, much as I hate it. But I won’t stay long, so maybe we could meet at the cottage afterwards? It’s Saturday, come on, Severus, we can spend the night there and go for a wonderful walk tomorrow. How does that sound?”

The cottage was a little house at the seaside near Brighton. He had bought it as a surprise for her when they got married and it had become their secret haven. They couldn’t use it as often as they would have wanted to, but sometimes they allowed themselves a weekend there, just the two of them.

“Tonight?” He sounded a little distracted.

“It’s the full moon tonight. Just imagine how romantic that will be. We can watch it rising over the sea… Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like that”, she said, letting her hands glide upwards to encircle his neck.

His thoughts were gravitating around Black. How the hell was he to… “Yes, yes, of course…”

Hermione furrowed her brows. “Would you care to repeat that?”

Where could he hide the man who was going to have the whole ministry at his heels? Maybe at Snape Manor… “Yes, of course,” he repeated, absently.

“Three years of marriage, and all you can say is ‘yes, of course’, when I propose a weekend of passion?” She pulled his head down towards her and whispered into his ear “Just think of all the wonderful things I’ll do to you! Does the word ‘honey’ ring a bell?” She rubbed herself against him, to ascertain with delight that the bell wasn’t out of order. “Actually, I was thinking we might try chocolate sauce this time.”

This was enough to refocus his attention on her. “May I have some, too?” he asked, stroking one firm breast through the thin fabric of her dressing gown. “Although I would only use it here and--“ he cupped the other breast “-here. Definitely not here.” His hand went downwards, between her legs. “This is a flavour I prefer to enjoy unblended. Mmh, you still blush, I’m delighted to see it.” He kissed her and then gave her derriere a soft pat. “Now go, I have got work to do.”

Hermione snuggled close to him. “Are you throwing me out?”

“Yes, I’m throwing you out. If we’re going to spend Sunday at the cottage, I must hurry. Poppy needs some Pepper-Up.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, stepping away from him. “I’m leaving. While Your Sternness is brewing Pepper-Up, I’m going to read that book Minerva got for me. Maybe I can find some hint about how to counteract that damned Deflector Potion.”

The Deflector Potion. One of the many secrets of Malfoy’s success. She had gathered this piece of information some months ago, during the reception following Draco Malfoy’s wedding. Lured into inattention by her convincing display of hare- brainedness, Peter Pettigrew, now head of the Magical Law Enforcement, had let this interesting detail slip to her, to his great embarrassment. But he had immediately been reassured, for she had smiled at him absently and asked whether he was still with that lovely redhead-- now what was her name… Pettigrew had heaved a silent sigh of relief and launched into an ecstatic account of his relationship.

Immediately after their return home, Hemione had shared the information with her husband. Together, they had tried to work out which ingredients the potion might possibly contain, but so far they hadn’t come up with any promising results. Both knew the Hogwarts library almost by heart, and so a thorough search through all the available books had been in vain. Not that they had expected anything else, but then one could always hope… It was nearly impossible to get other books, though, for the market was under strict control by the Improper Use of Magic Department. Neither Severus nor Hermione could walk into a bookshop and search for one of the more obscure works on Dark or Prohibited Potions- they would have received an owl from the Ministry in less than an hour. So they had to try and get it by way of their own, secret channels, but this was a long process, not only complicated, but dangerous for everybody involved.

In the meantime, Severus had been trying the practical approach, experimenting with new ingredients, or old ones in new combinations, but so far the results had been nil. None of his tries had led to a potion that neutralized both curses and poisons. The fact that they had to conduct their research in absolute secrecy didn’t exactly help and sometimes they were both so desperate, let alone tired, that they only narrowly avoided taking their frustration out on each other.

The other night, though, McGonagall had brought Hermione the book they had been longing for. Maybe it would lead them to a breakthrough.

“Yes,” Severus said, smiling at her badly disguised excitement, “I think that would be a good idea.”

He went over to one of the worktables to light some fires and prepare the cauldrons. Hermione stood lingering for a couple of moments. She just loved to observe his movements when he was working. His hands… they knew exactly what they were doing… not only when he was working, of course. She smiled to herself. He had been her first and only man and she had no intention of changing this. They had gone a long way together… She still remembered their first time, as if it had happened yesterday. Easter Sunday, and she had felt so desperate. They had holidays, and she was supposed to enjoy them in the company of her friends. But they were already way into the school year, which meant that she had scared off most of them by her strange new behaviour . Harry and Ron had gone to visit Hagrid , without even asking her whether she wanted to come with them. By that time, she and Severus had already been close enough that she could knock at his door whenever she felt she needed his company. He had comforted her, holding her in his arms… it had not been the first time that he had held her, but on that particular day, there had been sparks flying between them. She had been so embarrassed… and clumsy… well, that clumsiness definitely belonged to the past now.

She returned her attention to Severus. Had he remembered to control the room when he arrived? Sometimes he forgot. Looking at him, she noticed that he was already completely absorbed in his occupation and decided that she didn’t want to disturb him by asking. She would simply do it herself. So she drew her wand out of her sleeve where it had been hidden in a narrow pocket, secured from accidentally gliding out by an attaching spell, and muttered, “Reorevelo!”

Severus was jerked out of his concentration by his wife’s sharp voice. “Who is she?”

He turned round and froze. Hermione was standing there, wand still raised, a look of utter disbelief on her face, as she stared at the hovering image of the blonde girl. This was exactly what he had needed, he thought. Still more trouble.

“I don’t know.”

She gave a sharp, mirthless laugh. “I thought that true gentlemen always ask the women they fuck for their name!” she said, her tone dangerously close to hysterical.

“Hermione, please. Listen. Try to be rational. I know how this must look to you, but why would I commit adultery here, in my own lab, practically under your nose?”

“How would I know? I don’t usually commit adultery, so I am not familiar with that kind of subterfuge.” She laughed again, but it sounded more like a sob. “You bastard! You said you were experimenting on that potion! Whereas in reality…” Now she started to cry.

“Hermione, I don’t know who she is and I’ve never seen her. I came in this morning and saw that one of the vials on this shelf had been-“

“She is in there, isn’t she?” Hermione stood there, pointing towards the locked door of the storage cabinet, face flushed and wet with tears, her hair escaping from the braid- she was looking like an avenging goddess, he thought, or some Greek heroine. Had the situation not been so difficult for him, he would simply have admired her beauty. But he felt his heart beating in his throat. At the very moment when he had discovered Black, he had decided not to tell her. This was far too dangerous. To hide people who were in danger was one thing. But to give shelter to Black, who right now was probably Great Britain’s most wanted criminal, was different. On the other hand, if he refused to open the cabinet… he had to play it all on one card. He wouldn’t have dared to take this risk with a Slytherin, but with his very Gryffindor-ish wife, it might work.

“Fine,” he snapped. “If this is really what you think, go and open it. Have a look.” Her arm fell to her side and she glanced at him, a little insecure. “Well?” he drawled, “What are you waiting for? Go in, drag her out and scratch her face.”

“Severus, I --“

“You could also tear out her hair, strand by strand, for all I care. After all, I only fucked her and don’t even know her name.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth a few times, then whispered “I’m sorry.”

“Really? And what, if I may inquire, brought about this sudden change of mind?”

“I… I don’t know what came over me… she’s so beautiful… a lot more than I, and… and you have to admit that it is very strange!” she blurted out.

“Yes,” he said, walking to her and taking her into his arms, “it is very strange indeed, oh Jealous One, and I have to admit that I don’t like it at all.”

“Nor do I,” she muttered, looking over her shoulder at the still-hovering image, “Those eyes! Where have I seen those eyes?”

“I don’t give a damn about those eyes,” he replied, pulling her close, “Only a fool would look at another pair of eyes when he can look into yours!” Gently, he cupped her chin and tilted her head upwards. “Do you know that they change colour? When you are angry, they go nearly black. But when you look at me, with that expression of love, like now --“ he kissed her lightly on the lips “ -- then they become all bright, with golden sparks.”

“You certainly know how to make me love you,” she said, smiling. “But you should know better than to try and deceive those eyes, shouldn’t you?”

He rested his head on hers and chuckled. “Do you think it would be possible to find a more jealous witch? I would bet my best cauldron that --“

“I know! I know that I’m jealous and I try… I really try to fight it. Only it’ s difficult because I love you so much and sometimes I’m so insecure. I’m always afraid that you might fall in love with someone who suits you better…”

“Oh, Hermione,” he said with a sigh, “How many years will it take you to understand that there can be no woman that suits me better? I want you, with all your jealousy, and passion, and intelligence… nobody else.”

“Can you prove that?” she asked with a mischievous smile.

“I’m not sure. But I can try.” She gave a little shriek when he swept her up in his arms, to carry her over to one of the tables and put her down to sit on the polished wooden surface. “Now let’s see,” he murmured, pulling up her nightgown and urging her thighs apart, “would this --“ his hand crept up her inner thigh “-- do?” Her eyes grew wide when he reached his goal, and she closed her eyes.

“Yes, oh --… yes, that would certainly do!” she whispered, her voice suddenly gone husky.

“Fine, then I will keep that in mind for tonight,” he grinned, withdrawing his hand, “You’ll just have to wait. And now be gone, I really have to work.”

She gave him an indignant look. “Can’t wait to get me out, can you? But promise that you’ll stay here until tonight, working like a good boy. And no trespassers, neither blondes nor brunettes!”

“I swear. And I’ll tell you if I find out anything about this one. Out now!”

“Why such a hurry? What --“

“Hermione,” he said menacingly, “Are you starting again?”

“N-no. No, of course not. Give me a kiss?”

“What?” he asked in mock-astonishment, “Here? Where they could run in on us any second? Really, I don’t know…”

“Oh, shut up and kiss me.” He obliged. “Thank you, Potions Master. And don’t you forget about my eyes! They notice everything, remember?”

With these words, she took the tin containing the Floo powder from the mantelpiece, tossed a small quantity into the fire, stepped into the now green flames and was gone.

Severus remained for a moment where he was standing, relishing the aftertaste of their kiss. Then, he straightened his shoulders and passed a hand over his forehead. “And now to you, Sirius Black,” he murmured and went to open the storage room door.

ACT I, PART II

Č Scarpia che scoglie a volo il falco della tua gelosia

( Scarpia will set free the falcon of your jealousy)

“Congratulations, Snape,” Sirius Black said with a sneer, when the Potions Master entered the storage room. “And thank you for that disgusting display of matrimonial harmony. I’m beginning to think that Azkaban wasn’t so bad after all, as it spared me at least the embarrassment of being present at your wedding.”

Snape briefly considered kicking Black’s ribs, but then thought better of it. He was wearing soft leather shoes and the occasion would definitely have called for some footwear with iron caps. So he merely shot the other wizard a deadly stare and replied, “If you could manage to refrain from personal comments, Black. They are not doing much for my… er, motivation to help you. I will do anything in my power for you, but if I hear another insult to me or to my marriage, I might reconsider my intentions. Just so you know the rules.” Black was looking extremely sulky, but did not make any further comments. “And another thing: Hermione must not be involved in this. She is already taking enough risks and there is no need to endanger her further. Now, to the more important points: First, how and when did you escape?”

Black, who was looking a lot better after having at least partly quelled his hunger and thirst, shoved the now empty basket into a corner with his left foot and said “That’s a long story, Snape. Perhaps you might even consider sitting down. I don’t want to waste what little energy I’ve got by standing up, but neither do I wish to look up at you. It might give a stiff neck to me and strange ideas of superiority to you.” Snape glared at him and sat down. “To answer your questions: I escaped maybe two hours before you found me, at least I think so. Anyway, it was immediately after the Dementors’ last night round. During the day, they alternate with the human guards, who don’t start patrolling before nine a.m. So we should have enough time before they discover my absence. As to how, you might already have figured out that I had an accomplice.”

“A very beautiful blonde? Yes, I guessed as much. Although it remains an enigma yet to be solved just how you manage to keep up your sordid little affairs from behind the iron bars of Azkaban. Or did you make such a lasting impression? Though I somehow doubt that…”

Black’s blue eyes were blazing. “I thought we had agreed on refraining from personal insults?”

“I told you to stay clear of insulting me,” Snape replied with a sneer, “The rest of it seems wishful thinking on your side.” A growl resounded from deep in Black’s throat. “Stop growling at me, or I’ll have to put a muzzle on you. So, who’s the… er, lady?”

“The lady is my sister and you’d better not insult her, you—“

“How very clichéd! Are there any Italians to be found among your ancestors? Maybe answering to the name of ‘Nero’? A very convincing appellative not only for black dogs, but also for crazy megalomaniacs, if I may say so. You have a sister, then?”

It took Black a few seconds to swallow the sarcastic comment. “Yes,” he answered, an angry vein still throbbing at his temple, “ And you know her, too, if by the name of Candida Malfoy.”

“Draco’s… of course! I knew I had seen her. Hermione and I attended the wedding. But I had no idea—I mean, she doesn’t resemble you in the least.”

“She’s from my mother’s second marriage. My mother is blonde, and she married that wizard from Sweden with an unpronounceable name… sounds a bit like ‘siren’—“

“Sřrensen, I suppose.”

“Whatever. Candida was born when I was already in Azkaban, she’s a little younger than Harry and we scarcely know each other. There wasn’t much time for that… I’ll spare you the whole story, suffice it to say that she knows I’m innocent and moved heaven and earth to get me out of there. She even got married to that little ferret, just to gather information more easily and to have a convincing cover, can you imagine that? I don’t know how to ever repay her…”

“I’d suggest staying alive and getting your arse out of this country might be a useful first step,” Snape observed sarcastically, but not without sympathy. “So how did she get you out of Azkaban?”

Black’s face was lit by a proud smile. “She managed to find the antidote to the pot ion they made me take,” he replied, “Then she used a highly advanced spell-- did I tell you that she went to Beauxbatons?—to turn herself into a squirrel. Small enough to get in, but dextrous enough to hold the vial while doing so. She said she couldn’t let me rot in there until she managed to become an animagus.” He gave a short laugh. “Well, that’s it, more or less. We didn’t have much time to talk, believe it or not.”

“It seems that you omitted one important detail. What was she doing at Hogwarts in general and in my lab in particular?”

“Oh, that. Well, first I needed a wand. It would have been too difficult for a squirrel to carry it and besides, the transforming spell is very draining. And then, of course, I need access to my money. So the most logical thing to do seemed to leave both wand and Gringott’s key here at Hogwarts. Candida knows about your activities, so she instructed me to come here.”

“Knows about— I don’t like that, Black. If your sister found out, someone else might easily… Well, there’s no time to fuss about that now. So, any idea about where you want to go?”

“For all I care, it may be Siberia or the Grand Canyon. Somewhere out of Saint Malfoy’s reach.”

“Malfoy!” Snape hissed, his eyes full of hate. “Malfoy, that hypocrite! That satyr, who pretends to be the moral, law-abiding hero of the wizarding world!” Hands balled into fists, trembling with rage, he continued “Always showing off his perfect little family, always making donations to the orphanages he keeps filling. And you know what? Half the wizarding world still hasn’t seen through his act! They only see what they wish to see and believe the crap he compels the journalists to write! You don’t know what’s going on in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, Black, but I can assure you—“

Black’s face had darkened. “Candida told me one or two things. They try to keep everything from her and Narcissa, but then she’s a clever girl. Up till now, she managed to avoid His Excellency’s dirty hands getting under her skirts, but Merlin knows how long s he’ll be able to keep him at bay…” He buried his face in his hands.

Snape bent forward and roughly grabbed his shoulder. “Stop thinking about that, Black,” he commanded, “and listen. It is vital for you, me and this whole school to get you out of here as soon as possible. Your animagus form would immediately attract attention and I don’t own an Invisibility Cloak, so I’ll have to transfigure you into something small, a small animal… Merlin help me, I never was good at transfiguration, so I’ll have to ask Minerva to do it… however, I’ll smuggle you out of Hogwarts and Apparate to my house with you. You can stay there for a while, until I think of a safe place for you. There’s no way you can get to Gringott’s yourself, so you’ll just have to leave the key to your vault with me and I—what?” he asked anxiously, when Black gave a loud moan and clutched his throat.

“Inveniaris Spell,” he croaked, “Gods, it hurts…”

“What? But you said… To hell with it! Come on!” He scrambled to his feet.

“Snape,” Black panted, “I can’t—“

“Yes, you can! Come on, I said!” He pulled Black to his feet and dragged the stumbling wizard to the door. Poking out his head, he saw that the corridor was empty and hissed once again “Come on!” They ran a few yards, then Snape stopped, drew hi s wand and touched a scarcely visible dent in one of the marble slabs of the corridor floor. It seemed to melt away and revealed a steep, narrow staircase the bottom of which was lost in the darkness beneath. “Hold on to my shoulders, unless you want to fall,” Snape commanded and lit his wand. They started to descend the stairs and as soon as Black’s head was level with the floor, the slab reappeared and the corridor was again deserted.

Though only for a moment, because ten seconds later, Filch scurried round the corner, as fast as his bandy legs would carry him. His face was lit by an evil grin, and the eyes of his cat, scampering along behind him, glowed with a malice unusual even for her.

“Professor!” Filch shouted, “Professor, there’s good news!” He pushed open the laboratory door, ready to pour out his knowledge and enjoy the effect, but found the room empty. “Gone?” he muttered, “Strange, isn’t it, Mrs. Norris? Let’s have a look for him in the Slytherin common room, then. Maybe those brats created an other disaster and he had to go there…”

He closed the door and headed into the direction he had come from, his enthusiasm visibly dampened. He had been looking forward so much to telling Snape how, minutes ago, the news on the Wizarding Wireless had proudly announced that the last werewolf on British Territory had been hunted down last night, just in time for the full moon. There was going to be a great celebration that night, to honour the fearless werewolf slayer, Gilderoy Lockhart, and of course also the Minister himself-- for his tireless efforts to make this country a safer place. It would have been fun to see the look on Snape’s face when he mentioned Lockhart, Filch thought ruefully. Mrs. Norris, who had been trotting behind him, emitted a sudden “Meeeoow!”

“What is it, my beauty? Did you hear something? Now let’s go and give the good news to the children. Surely there’ll be some celebration here at Hogwarts, too!“ And he trotted off towards the door to the Slytherin quarters, the occupants of which he hated a little less than all the other students.

°°°°°*°°°°°

Lucius Malfoy hated and despised anything to do with Muggles. There were some carefully chosen exceptions to this cast iron principle, though, one of them being the more refined tactics of intimidation. Malfoy had soon found out that black robes and cloaks might have a daunting effect, but then robes and cloaks were, after all, traditional wizarding attire. What really made magical folk feel uncomfortable were Muggle clothes, and uniforms in particular.

When the children, the smaller of whom were dancing and jumping round Filch in anticipation of a delicious feast in the evening, noticed the tall, black figure approaching them, their cries and laughter died down immediately and they involuntarily moved closer to each other. The larger part of them were still very small—since the creation of the elementary school, Hogwarts’s youngest students were no older than six—and thus he literally towered over them, being taller even than the dreaded Potions Master. His hair was such a light shade of blonde that it seemed silver, his narrow, rather pointed face was dominated by a pair of cold, steely grey eyes that gave the impression of being able to detect everything, and the corners of his thin-lipped mouth were drawn downwards in an expression of disapproval. He was wearing a high-collared, black uniform jacket that didn’t show a single crease, not even when he moved, black trousers and knee-high, black boots, polished to almost blinding brilliance, t heir heels edged with steel. A black cloak, falling down to his ankles, completed the intimidating picture that was highlighted only by the silver clasp of his cloak.

“What is this bacchanal?” he thundered. Some of the smaller children began to cry. “This is supposed to be a school, not a Quidditch pitch!”

Filch, who was standing frozen to the spot like everybody else, cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his voice and croaked: “Your Excellency, I apologize, I just told them about the werewolves and the fea—“

“Silence!” the Minister bellowed. The sound of somebody hurriedly descending the stairs became audible, and some seconds later, a short, a fat man with mousy hair and watery blue eyes appeared behind Malfoy. “What are you waiting for?” Malfoy shouted, “Go to breakfast! Now!” The children ran up the stairs as fast as they could. Without even looking at the short man, he continued to give his orders. “Pettigrew, search the dungeons. Every single corner. He must be here. – You!” he addressed Filch, who started to shiver. “Come here. I have some questions and your answers better be useful.”

Filch gulped, but did not dare to avert his eyes from the Ministers cold, grey gaze.

“A highly dangerous prisoner has escaped from Azkaban and sought shelter at Hogwarts—“

“Merlin help us all!” Filch muttered.

“Maybe he is still here. Did you notice anything unusual?”

“N-no,” Filch stammered, but then remembered the blonde woman. “W-well, maybe yes, Your Excellency, a little while ago in the lab—“

“Where? Show me, immediately!”

As fast as he could, Filch scuttled down the corridor. The sound of Malfoy’s heels hitting the marble made him sick. It felt like nails piercing his tympanum. When they had reached the narrow wooden door, he opened it and stood aside, so that the Minister could pass through. Malfoy went into the low room, stopped in its centre and slowly looked round, taking in every smallest detail. “Whose laboratory is this?” he asked.

“Professor Snape’s, Your Excellency. And… and I went down here at about half past six to light the torches, you know, and also to give Professor Snape a parcel I had collected—“

With a few quick steps, Malfoy stood directly before him and grabbed his left arm in a grip so hard that the caretaker winced. Mrs Norris’s hunched her back and hissed. One shining black boot dealt her a well-aimed blow, and the cat flew across the room where she crashed into a shelf and then, with a soft thud, she landed on the floor where she remained immobile. Filch’s scream died in his throat, when he saw the expression on the Minister’s face.

“The short version, Filch,” he snapped, “And get that disgusting cat’s hair off my boot.”

With trembling hands, Filch took out the cloth he had used earlier to polish the tables, and removed a single grey hair from the black leather while he spoke, stammering worse than ever. “W-when the P-p-professor came here t-this morning, he… he said t-that someb-body had mo-moved something on t-that shelf—“ he came up and pointed over to the wall “—a-and he u-used some sp-pell so an… an… image appeared—“

Malfoy moved so brusquely that he nearly made the caretaker keel over. He strode towards the shelf, drew his wand and pronounced the revealing spell. When the blonde woman’s image appeared, his fist clenched so hard around his wand that Filch thought it would break. He didn’t dare to move, but was looking anxiously at the Minister for fear he might step on Mrs. Norris. But the red blotches showing on the Minister’s cheekbones and on the part of his neck left free by the collar of his uniform told him clearly that he might share his cat’s fate unless he held his tongue. He scarcely dared to breathe and silently wondered when Malfoy would explode.

It was Pettigrew who got the worst of it, though. When he hastily entered the room, Malfoy whirled round and circled the short wizard’s throat with his left hand. “You idiot!” he hissed, “You ruined it all!” Pettigrew’s eyes grew wide and he had visible difficulties breathing, but couldn’t find the courage to try and pry t he Minister’s fingers from his throat. His hands were dangling limply at his sides while his face was growing scarlet. Malfoy didn’t seem to mind that in the least and continued “Not only did you obviously use a detecting spell far too strong for Black not to become immediately aware of it, you also seem to have sadly failed in keeping a close watch on my daughter-in-law. Or else, how would you explain this?”

Finally, he released Pettigrew, who gaped for air and coughed. “I… I don’t understand how—“

He was interrupted by Filch’s voice coming out of the storage room where he had surreptitiously retired to protect himself from Malfoy’s wrath. “It’s empty!”

“What?” Malfoy sharply turned his head.

“The… the basket,” Filch answered, slouching out of the cabin et, the corpus delicti held accusingly in front of him. “It was there, on the worktable, the House Elves usually—“

Malfoy’s voice was dangerously low. “The short version, Filch.”

“Of course, Your Excellency. It contained Professor Snape’s breakfast, and now it’s empty—“

“So what,” Malfoy snapped impatiently, “He’ll have eaten his breakfast!”

“In the storage cabinet? Not likely, Your Excellency, and besides he—“ Filch cringed under Malfoy’s stare “ –he said he wasn’t going to eat, b-because he wasn’t hun gry anyway… “ The caretaker’s voice faded. Anxiously, he peered at the Minister’s face, trying to detect any sign of approval. Pettigrew still stood on the same spot, trying to unobtrusively massage his throat, on which dark purple bruises were already beg inning to show.

Malfoy started pacing, the regular sharp click of his heels measuring the time until his next outburst of fury. The other two men remained motionless, each of them hoping that the other would be the receiver of the blow to come. Filch noticed that the corner of Pettigrew’s right eye twitched every time steel hit marble.

But when Malfoy finally stopped pacing there was no outburst. “How interesting,” was all he muttered. Pettigrew craned his neck despite the pain it caused him, in order no t to lose a single syllable. “So Black was here. Helped by his little sister. But she can’t be with him now, for I saw her at breakfast, less than half an hour ago—Try the Inveniaris again!”, he said to Pettigrew, who flinched and hastily did as he was told.

“Nothing, Your Excellency,” he said after a few seconds. “He must have blocked it.”

“He cannot have blocked it, even if he is in possession of a wand now. It requires far too much energy. No, there must be somebody who does it for him. Try with Snape. ”

“W-what, Your Excellency?”

“The Inveniaris, you incompetent idiot! Try it on Snape!” Pettigrew performed the spell, with the same result. “How interesting,” the Minister repeated with a smile that made Filch think of a snake poised to strike. “That casts a very disadvantageous light indeed on our Potions Master. And, of course, finding him and Black will be a little difficult, Pettigrew. But I trust—“

There was the sound of quick footsteps in the corridor and a voice called “Severus?”

“Ah,” Malfoy breathed, “what a fortunate coincidence. Give me that basket!” Filch handed it over and Malfoy quickly transformed it into a small object, which he put into his pocket before Filch or Pettigrew could make out what it was. “Now let’s see,” he murmured, “ Iago used a handkerchief to bait a jealous man. I should be most surprised if this didn’t work for a jealous woman.”

°°°°°*°°°°°

Hermione was angry and, above all, she desperately wanted Severus to hold her in his arms. Like Filch, she had heard about the were wolves and, as if that had not been enough, she had just received a letter by owl from Malfoy’s wife informing her that, to Narcissa’s sincere regret, the ladies’ night had to be called off because of the celebration in honour of Lockhart. They would meet there, though. A Ministry owl carrying the official invitation card was already on its way.

Severus and Hermione had been able to save a couple of werewolves, but those few were by far outnumbered by the many who had fallen victim to the Ministry’s hunter s, who had mercilessly slaughtered them. Hermione felt defeated. To complete her misery, they would also have to renounce their weekend, because there was no way to sneak away from the kind of official gathering that was awaiting them tonight. She had been thumbing through the new book, too, and seemingly it didn’t contain any useful hints concerning the Deflector Potion. Only the thought of being able to spend this night and the following day in Severus’s arms, oblivious—at least for a few hours—of the horrors surrounding them, had prevented her from breaking down.

And now even that hope had been reduced to shreds.

Hermione hurried along the corridor leading from their living quarters to Severus’s lab. Rounding the last corner, she saw that the door was ajar. “Severus?” she called. No answer. Maybe he was in the storage room and couldn’t hear her. Perusing Narcissa’s letter once again while she was walking, she entered the laboratory, repeating “Severus?” When she lifted her eyes from the parchment, she looked straight into a pair of cold grey eyes.

Still trying to fight her shock, she heard Filch’s voice. “He’s not here, Mrs. Snape, and Merlin only knows where he’s gone. Just off and away, without—“

He was silenced by a stare and a gesture from the Minister, making him understand clearly that he better leave at once. And so he did, ashamed of himself because he didn’t even dare to scoop up his poor cat. As he passed Hermione, he shot a half- malicious, half-pitiful sideways glance at her.

“Gone away?” Hermione repeated the caretaker’s words incredulously, forgetting to greet Malfoy.

“Mrs. Snape!” his voice was low and just a little hoarse, “What a pleasure to meet you here.” He elegantly caught her right hand between his perfectly groomed, pale thumb and index finger, thus pulling her towards him, and bent slightly down to brush her knuckles with his lips. A whiff of cinnamon and vanilla made his nostrils flare. Straightening up again, he signalled to Pettigrew, with an imperceptible move of his head, to wait outside and then refocused his attention on Hermione, whose hand he was still holding. She looked straight into his eyes, her gaze unwavering.

“Good morning, Minister. To what do I owe the… pleasure of meeting you here?”

Fully aware of the slight pause preceding the word ‘pleasure’, he allowed his lips to curl into a smile. Not many people would have dared to look at him so openly, let alone making him understand unequivocally that to meet him was everything but a pleasure. She was a courageous woman indeed. “I came to see your husband, my dear, but found you instead. This seems to be my lucky day. I haven’t had many occasions to see you in private—yet.” He detected the merest flicker in her eyes, a contraction of the pupils, almost too fleeting to be noticed, but it had been there. His grip on her hand tightened imperceptibly. “But I trust that we will meet again tonight. Such a splendid occasion to celebrate Lockhart’s victory.” Now he saw to red spots grow slowly on her cheeks. “I am aware that you would prefer to spend a quiet weekend with Severus, but alas, when duty calls… You, Mrs. Snape, are one of those rare specimens who seem to truly enjoy married life.” A small vein at the base of her throat was beginning to pound furiously. “And you certainly come to this room only for work…”

Now she was blushing, not only because of Malfoy’s calculated tactlessness, but also for certain memories that were flooding her mind… “I beg your pardon?” she choked, trying to free her hand.

His grip was soft, but firm. “Oh,” he said lightly, “I suppose you would not even believe it if I told you, but look at this!”

Finally, he released her hand, but the relief she felt was of short duration. With a look of utter horror, she stared at the small object he had produced from the pocket, into which he had put it before. From the Minister’s outstretched index finger, a light blue garter was dangling.

“Not what would commonly be called a potion ingredient, is it?” he said with a smirk, relishing her reaction.

“A potion… no, certainly not. Where… where did you find it?” she asked, hoping against hope that it had not been—

“In there,” he replied carelessly, “In the storage cabinet, half-hidden under a shelf. It… er, caught my eye, though. I wonder who it belongs to.”

Now Hermione would have been grateful if he had still held her hand, for she felt her knees give way under her. It couldn’t be. She tried to deny it, because it simply couldn’t be. Malfoy, who saw her sway, quickly grasped her forearm to stabilize her and le d her to a chair, where she simply slumped down, her shoulders and head bowed forward, her elbows resting on her thighs, in a posture of total defeat. The Minister retreated a few steps, seemingly to not disturb her, but in reality to watch her intently. S he was not a beauty in the common sense of the word, he thought. Not striking, anyway, at least not at first sight. And a Mudblood to boot. Nonetheless, he had to admit to himself that he felt attracted by the woman. It was the aura of calm confidence, the intelligence that shone in those large brown eyes and, of course, her total lack of fear or submissiveness towards him that made him tingle with the desire to find out what he would have to do to her to make her lose that goddamned composure. It was not t he type of composure he usually encountered in other women—his own wife, for instance—because theirs was affected, but Hermione’s was genuine.

Completely unaware of Malfoy’s look traveling leisurely over her body, Hermione was trying to pull herself together, but failed miserably. She had come here to share her frustration with Severus, to have him comfort and hold her. She had believed him when he had claimed to be ignorant of the blonde girl’s identity. What an utter fool she had been! Why, why hadn’t s he simply opened that door when he dared her to do it? Because she trusted him, had trusted him, to be exact, for that trust was now shattered. When she imagined that this … slut had been in there all the time, had heard them, while she was waiting for him to rejoin her… Before Hermione’s mental eye, the image of Severus, closing the storage room door, taking the blonde into his arms, kissing her passionately and laughing, laughing with her about his foolish wife repeated itself again and again. She couldn’t hold her tears back any longer and started to cry in dry, convulsive sobs.

Forcing a mask of tactful preoccupation onto his face, to replace the sneer that had been lingering there, Malfoy returned to her and crouched down beside her chair to softly touch her shoulder. As she usually did on weekends, she was not wearing her robes, but only a thin, white silk blouse, cut like a man’s shirt, over comfortably tailored, wide black silk trousers. He could feel the heat of her skin through the delicate fabric.

“Mrs. Snape,” he said, dialing just the right quantity of warmth into his voice, “do tell me why you are so upset. Look at you—“ he tilted up her head “—your face is all wet.” He cupped her face with both hands and wiped away the tears with his thumbs .

“Nothing,” she replied hoarsely, trying to move backwards, “It’s nothing, really. I just—“

Locking his look with hers, he said, or rather whispered “I would give my life to dry those tears.”

For a moment, she sustained their eye contact and gave him a sad smile, but then became aware of who she was smiling to, and rose brusquely. Malfoy got slowly to his feet and watched her while she started to pace, more and more agitated. He noticed that she had very small, elegant feet, clad only in black ballet slippers.

She had to find them. After all, where could they have gone? She hoped that at least Severus hadn’t taken that woman to their cottage. Not there. Not to their nest, their real home, where they had spent their wedding night, where he had held her in his arms and regarded her with that look of unveiled love… If he had done that to her, she would kill him. There was only one way to find out…

“Excuse me, Minister, but I have to leave!” she said and was gone.

Pettigrew peered into the room. “Trace her!” Malfoy snapped, “And the Gods have mercy on you if you lose her. Report to me at the Ministry.” The short wizard hurried away.

“Well,” Malfoy muttered to himself, sitting down on the chair Hermione had just abandoned. It was still warm. “This was certainly a success, above all considering that it was completely improvised. She’ll come down on him like a bird of prey. As if I had set free a falcon, the falcon of her jealousy. Oh, yes, Mrs. Snape, you let me enter your thoughts and your life, and believe me, it will be difficult to get rid of me. But I will rid myself of the traitor. Who would have thought Severus Snape to be so stupid, after all? To risk his life for Sirius Black, his enemy. What idiocy! But it will procure me the double pleasure of seeing him dead and getting my hands on his little wife. Or rather, those two memorable events should somehow be combined… Oh, yes, that is definitely an idea! To fuck her while she has to watch her husband’s agony… delicious. To witness hope’s death in those eyes! To break her completely… that certainly is a most noble goal.”

He sat for a couple of moments, savouring the pleasure in anticipation, then pulled himself together. “The Mudblood nearly made me forget my duties,” he murmured, sneering. “As if I didn’t have a daughter-in-law to deal with. Candida, Candida. How could you think you might betray me and not be punished?”

Malfoy got up, straightened his uniform, rearranged the folds of his cloak and left the room.

The sound of his heels was the signal f or Filch to sneak round the corner where he had been awaiting the Minister’s departure. He rushed into the laboratory and knelt on the floor besides his cat. “Mrs. Norris!” he whispered, “Mrs. Norris, I’ll take you to Madam Pomfrey now, surely she will heal you. She did when you were petrified and she will do so now. Poor Mrs.—“ He touched the cat’s body. It was cold.

ACT II, PART I

Questo č luogo di lacrime !

This is a place of tears!

Lucius Malfoy watched as four Law Enforcement wizards carried away what had remained of his daughter-in-law. She had been a beauty, he thought, and to destroy her had been an act of vandalism. Deplorable. But inevitable. She had resisted for quite a long time. Even sneered at him, the little bitch. But in the end, they all broke down. Pain, when inflicted in carefully measured doses and with the necessary precaution, always had its effect. And humiliation, of course. To be stripped stark naked and thrown into a tub filled with ice-cold water, in the presence of seven sneering, drooling men… But considering that she was only nineteen years old, barely out of school, she had been quite tough. During the first hour, she had not even screamed. The important thing was to find people’s weak points. Everybody had his vulnerable spots. For some it was the pain—and even there, you had to probe carefully where it hurt most—and for others, the humiliation. Or witnessing the sufferings of somebody they loved.

He sneered, pouring himself a pre-dinner brandy. For Candida, it had obviously been the humiliation. Maybe, if she had not been so young, she would have resisted even to that. But at her age, it was unbearable. He had guessed right, he thought, judging from her reactions to his efforts at seducing her, her blushing and he r anger. Maybe he should have allowed himself that pleasure before it was too late… Well, never worry about spilled milk. She was dead and for tonight, he could look forward to Mrs. Snape. He took a sip of brandy. Yes, that was definitely going to be a hell of a lot more fun. The more difficult the task, the greater the satisfaction. It all came down to that.

Considering that this was, after all, an extraordinary day, he went over to his desk and took out a small white envelope of simple Muggle paper of one of the drawers. Almost lovingly, he poured out a thin line of white powder onto the back of his index left finger and sniffed it up, one half with his left, the other with his right nostril. Instantly, heat cursed through him like a jet of flame, his pupils contracted to the size of pinheads and then… yes… yes, finally the feeling of having grown a thousand additional ends to each nerve. Greedily, he licked the remainders off his finger and washed the taste down with brandy.

The image of the falcon that had stubbornly kept returning to his mind since he had thought of it for the first time this morning, was there again, more suggestive and it colours more intense. A strong, noble bird. You took off her hood, and she would look at you proudly, sternly even, but then she would fly where you, her master, wanted her to go, and hunt down the prey. Only then she would return, alight on your forearm and reluctantly accept your caress. And then, yes, then your hand would linger a little longer, slowly, slowly closing around the bird’s neck—a last astonished look from amber eyes, and… a soft crack, when her spine broke under the master’s firm grip.

Feeling that the mere thought aroused him, Malfoy smirked at himself and refilled his glass. Everything in due time. First, he had to take care of the prey. He had given order not to be disturbed until he was finished with Candida, and it had taken him long enough. Wormtail should be here at any—

Malfoy was dragged out of his thoughts by a barely audible knocking at the door. “Come in!” he drawled and Pettigrew hesitantly poked his head inside the office, then entered. One look at the short wizard’s face told Malfoy that something had gone amiss. His pale, wobbly face was shining with perspiration and trickles of sweat were running down his temples, soaking the collar of his robes. Malfoy felt disgusted. What confusion had the idiot caused now?

Lazily, the Minister rose from his chair, mechanically straightening his uniform jacket. He had needed to change after he had finished with Candida. There had been water and blood on his garments, not to mention the sweat and saliva. Well, that was inevitable if one did one’s job thoroughly. Maybe he would have to change again after the interview with Pettigrew.

“Has Mrs. Snape arrived yet?” he asked, turning his back to Pettigrew.

“I… I don’t know. Should I send a House Elf?”

“Yes, Pettigrew,” Malfoy replied calmly, “And then you should immediately return here to give me your report.”

He was thoroughly amused at the other wizard’s audible choking. There were so many forms of torture, nearly as many as there were people, and all of them needed to be explored. Now Wormtail would be glad to enjoy one more minute before coming back in, torn between the desire to prolong it as much as possible, and the fear of increasing his master’s wrath if he did so. Frailty, thy name is human nature.

Pettigrew returned. Seeing the moist patches spreading under his arms and round his collar, Malfoy was barely able to suppress a chuckle. It was almost too easy to make that pitiful creature suffer—you didn’t have to use sophisticated means. Malfoy went to the window and opened it, more to increase Wormtail’s obvious unease by the cold air that entered the room than for any other purpose. But as he leaned out, he saw that the first guests were arriving.

No broomsticks or Apparating tonight. Everybody was using horseless carriages. He peered down and saw Hermione step out of her vehicle. Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized his prey. She was wearing some dark colour tonight—dress robes, of course. Everybody had to wear them on such a formal and festive occasion. Her hair seemed to be piled up in a sophisticated style, or at least he thought so, for in the flickering light of the torches that lit the courtyard he couldn’t be absolutely sure. And the colour of her robes… it looked like dark maroon, heavily embroidered with gold. Gryffidor colours! He smirked. Not that it would make any difference, he’d strip her of maroon robes as readily as of any other. The things that really counted certainly had nothing to do with Hermione’s chromatic tastes. What counted was to hunt and devour. Ŕ propos hunting…

The Minister turned round lazily, and to his immense pleasure he saw that Wormtail barely managed to stand upright. “Now, Pettigrew, tell me: How was your hunt?”

Pettigrew stuck one finger between his collar and throat, in a vain attempt to make breathing easier. “I… I traced Mrs. Snape,” he croaked. “She went to a small cottage near Brighton first, and then to Snape Manor.”

“Very interesting,” Malfoy said, studying his fingernails. “I suppose you did a thorough search of the cottage?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. And nobody was there.”

“Mmh, and at the manor?”

“It took me some time to find her again, after she had left the cottage,” Pettigrew continued his report. “I couldn’t use as strong a spell as I had done for Black…” Malfoy gave him a calm look that made the other man cringe. “B-but in the end I found her. She was just about to leave the manor… alone. I—I let her go…”

“Yes? And?”

“Then I… uh, I entered the manor… there were wards, I had to disable them first.”

“I think you might come to the point now,” Malfoy said, his voice dangerously low.

“Well, I entered the house…”

“Really? A most refined strategy, Pettigrew. Congratulations.”

“I…I…” His voice failed him. He coughed and gaped for air. “I s-searched the ground f-floor…”

“Pet-ti-grew,” Malfoy intoned, “didn’t I say something like ‘come to the point’ ten seconds ago?”

“Y-yes, Your Excellency.” Ragged breathing. Rasping, whistling in his chest. Need for air. Feeling like a fish, lying o n the dry sand, desperately trying to get back into the water. But for Pettigrew, the water wasn’t close. It was nowhere to be seen and probably didn’t even exist. “Black wasn’t there.”

“WHAT?”

“He… he simply wasn’t there. But—“

Red was slowly blossoming from under Malfoy’s collar, spreading upwards, till it reached his hairline. “Repeat that!”

Bracing himself for the inevitable, Pettigrew closed his eyes. “Black wasn’t there. But—“

“BUT? BUT? There is no BUT, you failed, you ruined it, AGAIN!”

Pettigrew thought his skull would explode, so heavy was the backhanded blow he received. He fell. A vicious kick, and he felt his ribs crack. He had to say it, now, before that maniac killed him! Convulsively, he swallowed blood and choked on a tooth. But he had to speak. “Your Excellency! Please!” It was nearly impossible to form the words, for his lips had split and most of his front teeth were gone. “I got Snape!”

“Snape? Well, that’s at least something. What are you waiting for, man? Bring him in!”

Had Pettigrew not known that staying on the floor for one more second meant more pain and injury, he would simply have given in to the pain, relaxed and closed his eyes. As things were, he propped himself up on his elbow, carefully trying not to breathe to deeply, then managed to get to his knees and, finally, to his feet. For a moment, his view blackened and he was afraid he would faint. But the weakness passed and he limped out of the room, to get Snape.

When he returned with the Potions Master’s limp form hovering behind him, the Minister was sitting near the fireplace, tumbler in hand, swirling the brandy and smiling amiably. No trace of his previous outburst, uniform impeccable, skin as pale as always. His pupils were still extremely small, but Pettigrew was in no state to notice it.

“I hope you did confiscate his wand?”

Speaking was getting increasingly difficult, but he managed to choke out a “yes”.

“My compliments. Wake him up and go get the others.”

Wand clenched i n a tight fist which he tried in vain to stop from trembling, Pettigrew muttered “Finite Incantatem!” and hurried out as fast as he could. If Snape was going to be his usual arrogant self, it was preferable not to be around. Malfoy might become infuriated enough to hurt not only the Potions Master.

It took Snape a moment to shake off the dizziness the stunning spell had caused. Then he looked at Malfoy and said “Thank you for the privileged transportation, Lucius, but I would have come anyway. The only problem is—“ he looked himself up and down “—that, being only in shirt and trousers, I can hardly participate at so important an event. Although it really grieves me that I won’t be able to witness Lockhart being awarded the Order of Merlin.”

“Please, sit down,” Malfoy drawled.

“It hardly seems to be worth the while.”

“I said sit.” There was a slight edge to the Minister’s voice.

“You are too kind, but respect forbids me to do so.”

“Fine, then. Do as you please. You might have heard that a prisoner—“

Through the open window, the sound of a woman’s laughter danced into the room. Snape’s heart skipped a beat. “Hermione!” he muttered.

Malfoy, who had heard it too, smirked. “As I was saying: you might have heard that a prisoner has escaped from Azkaban?”

“Really? No, I didn’t hear anything of the kind. Was it in the papers?”

“No, it wasn’t. But rumour has it that you received him at Hogwarts, providing him with food and shelter—“

“Of course. I did that immediately after shooting the Muggle Prime Minister… only I was a little late, for Mr. Blair absolutely refused to be shot.”

Malfoy drew a sharp breath. “It also seems that from there, you took him to Snape Manor—“

“The manor? I’m afraid I didn’t. It is temporarily closed because of an invasion of vermin. Strange beasts,” he added, looking pointedly at Malfoy, “all pale and disgusting. Who raised those preposterous accusations, by the way?”

“One of my best men.”

“Are you speaking of the one who nearly got fried by one of my wards? If he is one of your best, you should consider retraining the staff…”

While Snape spoke, Pettigrew had re-entered the room with five bulky Law Enforcement Wizards in his wake. “He only sneered at me, Your Excellency!” he complained , pointing at Snape.

“You were lucky, to judge by what your boss seems to do to you,” Snape replied, scowling at him.

“I think,” Malfoy said, putting down his tumbler and rising from his chair, “that we should switch to a more serious tone now, as becomes this place.”

Another crystalline laugh from outside nearly made Snape lose his countenance. Gods, if only he could manage to keep her out of this! His own life was worth less than a slug’s by now, anyway.

Malfoy waved his wand at the window to close it. “No more distractions, Severus. Where is Black?”

“Black? You mean Sirius Black? In Azkaban, I sup—Oh, is he the one who—“

“Oh, come now, Severus! This comedy is ridiculous! So you didn’t feed him?”

“I think I expressed myself rather clearly in the negative.”

“Take him to Snape Manor?”

“Believe me or not, I would rather invite you to my home than take Black there, and that is saying something.”

Malfoy flushed despite himself. “For the last time, Severus, where is he?”

“You might consider getting yourself a hearing aid, Lucius. Muggles make them, it seems that they are quite amazing.”

“Very well, Severus. If you insist, I won’t object. Take him into the other room, gentlemen, it should be cleaned up by now. And remember to go easy at the beginning.”

At this very moment, the door to the Minister’s office was flung open and Hermione stormed in, flushed and still holding up her dress robes. “Sorry, Minister,” she panted, “the elf only just told me—Severus?” They had Severus. So she had been followed. But they obviously had not found Sirius. Yet. He could not hide there for long… They would return to do a more through search of the manor, after—after what? What was going to happen now? To her, to Severus?

He merely looked at her, wordlessly pleading for her to remain silent, as he had impressed on her mind when she had so unexpectedly shown up at the Manor. Then the Law Enforcement Wizards dragged him into the adjacent room, Pettigrew hobbling along behind them, his face still a mess of blood and bruises.

Malfoy sauntered over to Hermione who was still standing on the same spot, ramrod straight, her face as pale as death.

“Come, sit with me, Mrs. Snape, let us have a little chat, like friends. It is good to have you here. And please, don’t look so frightened.”

“I am not frightened in the least,” Hermione answered, forcing a smile.

She sat down on the chair to which Malfoy had led her. He stood behind her, playing with a lock of hair that had escaped from her elaborate coiffure.

“So, did you find out, by any chance, who was the owner of that garter?” he asked.

Her laugh sounded false even to herself. “You won’t believe it, Minister—“

“Please, call me Lucius .”

“Thank you. As I was saying, you won’t believe it, Lucius , but it was one of mine. I must have—“ she lowered her eyelids in well-calculated modesty “—lost it there.”

His left hand was on her shoulder now, its thumb stroking the nape of her neck. “Really? I am glad to hear it. So… you don’t have reason to believe that your husband…”

“No,” she answered quietly, “When I arrived at the manor, he was there alone, searching for a book he needed from his library.” She hated herself. Blamed herself. Had it not been for her stupid jealousy, Severus would not be in that chamber with five men twice his size and weight, and she would not have to endure Malfoy’s attentions. She felt the power and the danger radiating from this man. He frightened her. And what frightened her even more was h is barely veiled desire. Had she been more inclined towards playing games and the situation less dangerous, she might even have enjoyed toying with him a little. But this was no game. This was bitter, bitter reality, and Severus’s life was at stake. Maybe hers as well.

She jumped when Malfoy’s voice spoke directly into her ear. “Alone? Now that’s a surprise. Are you sure?”

“Of course I am sure,” she said sharply, jerking her head away from him.

“What makes you so sure? You could have overlooked something,” he said, his lips following her ear until she could not move sideways anymore, because her shoulder was blocked by his hand.

“You should know better than to doubt a jealous woman’s ability to find what she wants to find. Of course he was al one.”

“Really?” he breathed down her neck.

“Yes, really, no need to make me repeat it a hundred times.” Gods, let him stop touching her. Her nerves were already frayed. It had taken all her bravery and strength to return to Hogwarts as if nothing a t all had happened, dress up for the evening and go to the snake’s lair, dreading that everything might already be lost.

“You do seem irritated, my dear,” Lucius drawled, straightening up again and positioning himself in front of her, arms crossed. His eyes narrowed when he added “Are you by any chance afraid you might let slip something?” Before she could answer, he turned round on his heels and went to the door through which his henchmen had dragged Severus. Looking back over his shoulder, he gave her a malicious smile, then opened the door and called “Pettigrew, anything new?”

“No, Your Excellency,” came a voice from inside, “He’s still denying everything.”

“Go on then,” Malfoy snapped, “But be careful not to overdo it!”

She only had to repeat to herself, like a mantra, that Severus could resist Cruciatus to a certain extent, that he had been through this in the past, that he was strong enough, that later, she would be able to take care of the after-effects, that at some point they would stop, realizing that it was useless… And meanwhile she had to do her best and try to convince Malfoy. Putting on her sweetest insipid smile, she looked at the Minister who was standing between her and the door, arms again crossed, watching her intently. “ Lucius ,” she crooned, “you know that this is absolutely futile. You might just as well stop that comedy.”

“We will see who is playing a comedy here,” he answered dryly.

“Are you saying that Severus should invent some story, merely because you want to hear it?”

Smiling, he shook his head. “On the contrary, my dear. The truth would be more than sufficient. And—“ he carefully studied his nails “—his chances of seeing you again might be a tad more realistic, if he finally chose to disclose it.”

Hermione’s felt her throat narrow. How many times had she and Severus gone through this topic? Many, many times. But only after they had made love and were safely ensconced in each other’s arms. To even imagine what to do, how to go on in case the other died was impossible without the tangible security that the other was there, alive, touching you, holding you… but now it seemed as if this scenario might become reality. That the quick kiss they had shared before she had hurried back to Hogwarts might have been their last. That she hadn’t even been able to tell him, one last time, how much she loved him. But she had to play along now, look into Malfoy’s cold eyes and try to keep up the lie, without letting him see the fear that was squeezing her heart in its icy grip. “Seeing me again? Aren’t you exaggerating a little, Lucius?”

Flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, he replied “No, I don’t think so.”

Fear turned into panic. Stay calm, stay calm. Don’t let him see it. “Now really, Lucius , you won’t go as far as killing—“

“It might happen.”

Hermione rose from her chair in a rush of anger. “These things don’t ‘happen’, Malfoy. You make them happen, because you want them to!”

“My dear Hermione, I most certainly do not wish your husband to prolong the questioning. It is entirely his choice, not mine, that my men have to recur to more… er, drastic methods if he decides to be stubborn. And of course, the human body will only resist a certain time. You know, loss of blood, internal injuries…” He sighed. “I’m really worried about him.”

“Internal… what are you doing to him?”

Two quick steps, and he was standing so close to her that she had to lift her head to look at him. This time, his grip at her shoulders was not gentle anymore. The look in his eyes… cruelty, and desire. If only she were able to avoid the gaze that seemed to bore into her skull, paralysing her with fear. No weakness, show no weakness.

“What am I doing to him? Let me paraphrase it like this: When my men are finished with him, I doubt that he will have a single whole bone left in his body.” He laughed when he saw her eyes widen in horror. “That does worry you, doesn’t it? You thought that they would put him under Cruciatus? I am afraid that was an illusion. As, b y the way, is the pain you feel when subjected to that particular curse. It is all in your mind. If you are strong enough, you can resist it. Whereas physical pain is so… refreshingly real.” He released her shoulders and went back to the door. Opened it. “ Would you like to have a look yourself, perhaps?”

She was unable to stir. She wanted to set her right foot there, on that fissure separating one marble tile from the other, to move it forward just a few inches. She willed her leg to bend slightly, to lift her foot and put it down again, heel first, until the whole sole rested on the floor, then repeat the procedure with the other leg, all in all nothing more than three or four times each, it was easy, really… But her limbs did not obey her brain. They stubbornly refused to move. It took all the strength she could muster to keep breathing. Somewhere, in the tiny part of her mind that was still in contact with reality, she knew that she should, and wanted to, run and throw herself between Severus and the heavy iron bar that was coming down on his right shin. Take this blow, at least this one, for him. But she couldn’t move. All she could do was stand there and fight for her own sanity. She could not even lift her hands to cover her ears when she heard his s cream.

Malfoy led her back to her chair. She was in shock, that much was clear. Eyes wide open, irregular breathing, body trembling uncontrollably. Exactly what he needed. “You are aware, I hope,” he said sharply, “that it is entirely up to you to get him out of there.”

It took her a while to fully comprehend his words. Sacrifice Black. Save Severus. Maybe… maybe before he was reduced to a cripple—magical healing had its limits after all. Sirius would probably only be killed, for he had nothing to confess. Only killed… whereas Severus might resist for another hour or two… Save Severus. She had to choose between the two men’s lives. And therefore, she had to think clearly, put aside her own emotions, which were screaming at her to protect her husband ’s life. A decision, based on cool, logical reasoning: whose life was more important? She closed her eyes and willed herself to think. Sirius was an innocent victim, true, he was her friend, true, but to smuggle him out of the country would be difficult. It would put the resistance group at a considerably higher risk, it might even be the end of the group and cost the lives of a lot of people. He might try to get out of the manor and out of the country on his own, which equalled suicide. They would catch him in less than no time and he would get killed anyway. She didn’t have to choose between Severus and Sirius, she had to choose between seeing only one or both of them dead. Both of them dead, and the end of the resistance group. The end of their research, for she alone, on her own and under close observation, would not be able to continue. Save Severus. Sacrifice. Sirius. “I’ll tell you everything I know. But only if they stop immediately.”

“Of course,” Malfoy replied silkily and went to give the respective order.

Hermione went after him. “May I see him? I mean, go to him? Please!”

“I am not sure whether… Well, if you insist…” He stepped aside, beckoning her to enter.

She would never have thought herself capable of finding the strength to look at Severus, his body so brutally maimed that she didn’t dare to touch him for fear of hurting him even more, and still give him an encouraging smile, mouthing “I love you”, instead of breaking down. But somehow, she succeeded. His mind was clear enough to recognize her, and he even tried to say something. Careful not to touch him, she leaned further down from her kneeling position, to bring her ear as near as possible to his mouth. He made a visible effort to speak but failed. Another attempt, successful this time. Only two words, scarcely intelligible: “Don’t betray…”

She swallowed, now dangerously close to simply giving in to her emotions. But she nodded and whispered “I won’t.” He would hate her, hate her for having saved his life. Maybe he would never be able to forgive her. Even leave her, perhaps, unable to live with the woman who had decided, in cold blood, that his life was important when he had wanted to give it away. Denied him the supreme sacrifice, the final atonement… Did she really have the right to ignore his choices?

“Moving as this scene might be,” Malfoy drawled from behind her, “I am afraid it must end now. Come, Mrs. Snape, you might ruin your dress robes.” He dragged her to her feet and out of the chamber. Closing the door, he gave her an inquiring look. “Quid pro quo, Hermione. Your part of the bargain, please.”

She just shook her head. Malfoy’s lips became a thin, white line. “I am afraid I don’t quite understand you. I gave you what you wanted. Now pay your debt.” Again, she shook her head, not trusting her voice. “Ah,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “I see. Mrs. Snape is playing the heroine at the expense of her husband. Well, what else could I have expected from a Gryffindor Mudblood . So, it will be your husband who pays your debts.—Pettigrew!” he called, reopening the door a few inches. “Give him some healing potion and then start again.”

“You… you monster!” she burst out, “You know that you’re torturing me as well. You know it and you enjoy it! What are you, Malfoy? A human being? Do human beings worthy of that name enjoy torturing—“

He grabbed her wrists with one hand and her chin with the other. “From now on, Hermione, what happens to your husband is entirely your fault. Yours and yours alone. You better get that through your pretty head.” When he let go of her chin, two angry red patches remained on her skin. Still holding her wrists, he dragged her over to the door. “And now, my dear, you will watch the effects of your so-called bravery—Open!” he bellowed and the door swung backwards, far enough to allow Hermione to watch what was going on inside. Desperately, she tried to jerk free, but he whirled her round, so the she was standing with her back against him, her torso clamped to his by his forearm, her head firmly held in place by his hand.

Severus took the first blow in silence, but his moan when he received the second one was enough to convince Hermione. She only nodded, but Malfoy understood her perfectly. He dragged her to her chair and pushed her down on it.

“Well? I’m listening.”

“He is at the Manor,” she said flatly. “On the first floor landing, there is a portrait of Antonius Snape. The password is ‘Nightshade’.”

“You see how easy it is? Excuse me.”

Hermione was dimly aware that he strode towards the open door and barked some orders. She had sacrificed Sirius. And probably lost Severus. But it would be better to go on without him, knowing that at least he was alive, than to live with the consciousness of having pushed him, Sirius and many others over the brink of the abyss, just for the sake of a grand gesture. Go on without him… Hermione pulled up her legs and, hugging them, curled into a tight ball of despair. When she heard the sound of footsteps, she looked up. Two of the Law Enforcement wizards were dragging Severus between them, the other three, Pettigrew and Malfoy following in their wake. The two simply dumped Severus on the floor, at her feet. Sliding down from her chair, she knelt beside him and hesitantly touched his face. “Severus?” His eyelids fluttered and she had to call him three more times until he opened his eyes. “Severus, darling, it’s over! Can you understand me? It’s over now!”

He closed and reopened his eyes and the left corner of his mouth twitched. He had understood. Without even bothering to ask Malfoy for his permission, she conjured a glass of water and held it to his lips. He swallowed a few drops, with visible effort, and whispered “Did you… tell?”

“No,” she answered, feeling as if a dagger was piercing her heart, “No, my love, I didn’t tell them anything.” He would find out soon enough, but she wanted to have one last moment without seeing hate in his eyes…

“Pettigrew?” Malfoy’s voice cut into the silence like a blade.

“Yes, Your Excellency?”

“Malfoy Manor, portrait on the first floor landing. Password: Nightshade.”

In a childish reflex, she closed her eyes, to hide from Severus look of pure hate, but she still heard his last words before he was dragged out. “Damn you.”

ACT II, PART II

A donna bella non mi vendo a prezzo di moneta

A beautiful woman may buy me… but not with money

The two Law Enforcement Wizards picked Severus up from the floor and half-carried, half-dragged him out of Malfoy’s office. Pettigrew and the others lingered behind, awaiting further orders, but were dismissed by an impatient wave of the Minister’s hand.

He sat down to watch Hermione at leisure. She was still kneeling on the carpet, her right hand wandering mindlessly over a blood stain left by Snape. His eyes roamed over her neck, on which some curls that had freed themselves of the hairpins holding them were designing softly meandering patterns, down over the curve of her back, up again to her cleavage… What would she be ready to do in order to save her husband’s miserable life?

A hesitant knock at the door, to which he did not respond, too absorbed in his thoughts. It opened a little, and a House Elf poked its head inside. “Your Excellency?” it peeped.

Malfoy sharply turned his head. “What?”

“Your Excellency orders dinner to be ready at six, so I just wants to make sure—“

“Yes, but bring it here. And set the table for two.”

The elf bowed and pulled back its head, glad to have remained unscathed. Almost instantly, a table with two chairs appeared near the fireplace, a white tablecloth unfolded itself and was soon covered with plates, glasses, cutlery and several dishes the contents of which were hidden by silver lids. An already uncorked bottle of wine completed the arrangement.

Hermione had neither seen nor heard anything of what was going on. Her knees were beginning to hurt, her feet started to feel numb, but all she could think of was that look of hate and those two words “Damn you.” She had made her choice and now she had to face the consequences.

When Malfoy pulled her to her feet, she became aware that she was alone with him. “Where is Severus?”

“In one of the cells in the basement, I suppose. Awaiting his execution.”

“His—But why—“ If they were going to kill him, everything she had done would have been in vain. His death, Sirius’s death utterly senseless. A farce. A hideous absurdity.

“Use your brain, Hermione. Your husband sheltered an escaped convict. This is no small crime, I daresay.”

“But you could prevent it, if you wanted to.”

“Maybe. Even if I’d rather say that you could prevent it.” He released her hands and put an arm round her shoulders. “But I think that this might best be talked about over dinner.” He led her over to the table and pulled out a chair for her. Like a puppet, she let herself be seated. Smiling to himself, he rounded the table and sat down opposite her, poured a small amount of wine into his glass and tasted it. “Now don’t look so downcast, my dear. I am sure t hat together we will be able to devise a solution to the problem.” Hope flickered in her eyes and she nodded when he held up the bottle in a questioning gesture. He filled her glass, then his. Lifted it, slightly bowing his head. “To your health.” Both too k a sip. “Now let us see what the elves have prepared for us.” He peered under one of the silver lids. “Would you care for some roast beef? No? Do you mind if I have some?” Her face took on a sickly shade of green when he cut the first slice, the pressure of his knife forcing some drops of blood out of the half-raw meat. “And now let us talk.”

Talk. Had she not felt so nauseated and so full of despair, she would have laughed. But she had to remain in control of herself. Fight down the urge to throw up. Take another sip of wine, a piece of bread, to calm her stomach. And, most important of all, keep a clear mind. Try to convince him that he could let Severus go. Another bite of bread. It would make her feel better. Careful with the wine, Hermione. Drink a little water instead. There, that’s better. Don’t look at the roast beef, take in the aroma of the bread instead. Yes, like that. It’s still warm, freshly baked… There’s nothing like the scent of fresh bread. It’s comfort, and warmth, and home… Ridiculous as it may seem, it gives you strength. Because it reminds you that, despite all these horrors, there is still something as normal, as down-to-earth, as fresh bread. Brace yourself. Yes, another sip of wine. Strength. Poise. Calm. And now, try your best. “How much, Malfoy?”

In a way, he admired her. She was only twenty-one. A few minutes ago she had seen her husband beaten into a bloody pulp and knew that he was probably going to die. She had to be aware that her chances of saving his life were close to zero. But she had obviously decided to take her chances and try. Better, much better like this. He appreciated the challenge. To see her already broken would have been disappointing. He raised his eyebrows in mock-astonishment. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

“What’s your price?”

“Ah, my price.” He put down his cutlery and stapled his fingers, elbows resting on both sides of his plate. “You were not thinking of money, now were you?” She shook her head. “Good. Because I have enough of it, which is a vulgar thing to say, but true all the same. A beautiful woman may of course buy me, or rather my favours, but certainly not with money.” He took a piece of bread and began to toy with it, looking at her through half-closed eyes. “So, what else could you give me? Unfortunately, you already played your trump card. Otherwise, the information concerning Black’s whereabouts might have been a valuable offer. So…” He paused again. No need to hurry. This was a moment to be relished. Prolonged, if possible. He gave her a cruel smile. “Then, of course, you might contemplate the possibility of telling me who else was in on this highly deplorable and, if I may say so, sadly unprofessional game.” Another choice to make. One more life to sacrifice for her husband’s . Give her time to decide. Let her be lacerated just a bit more. Then, strike. “But alas, my son is already an inconsolable widower. Sad, isn’t it, to have one’s love destroyed at the age of twenty-one.” Two arrows in one go. Sometimes, he really was satisfied with himself. Time to get to the point, now. “So, you see, dearest Hermione, that your range of choices has somewhat narrowed. The only price I might be willing to accept would be… yourself.”

She had seen it coming. From the first time he had touched her, the fear had been there, only she had tried to banish it to some recess of her mind. But when he had blocked off her ways of escape, one by one, the spectre had made its triumphant return, invading her mind and filling her with disgust. Maybe she would even be able to go through with it, but if there still was a tiny chance of not having lost Severus, its death sentence would be pronounced at the very moment she accepted the bargain. But she would buy his life… Wait. Stay calm. Maybe he did not want her body, but her mind. Maybe he wanted her to work for him, so she could pretend to agree and then… “Myself?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. Yourself. And not your brilliant mind, Hermione, although you were quite successful in making me think that it was not so brilliant after all. Believe it or not, it is your body I want. And not—“ he smirked “—stiff as a board and with closed eyes. You will… er, participate and enjoy it. Or pretend to, at least. If your performance satisfies me, I will write the order for Severus to be released instantly, and you may leave to wait for him at Hogwarts.” He refilled their wine glasses. “Do you agree?”

“I… I don’t know…” She needed to gain time, just a little time for thinking. Was this really her only possibility? Apart from throwing herself out of the window? Nothing? Nobody she could turn to? Nervously, her hands trembling, she took a sip of wine. Think, Hermione, think! There must be something you can do… And if she went to Dumbledore? She could Apparate to his house directly from here, there were no protective wards here. They could be back in five minutes and surely Dumbledore would…

Malfoy saw her eyes darting to the window and was delighted at the gleam of hope that lit her face. Yet another prospect of salvation for him to shatter. And he was fairly sure what she had been thinking of. “If you are harbouring second thoughts about getting help from outside, Hermione—“ ah, that traitorous vein, pulsing at her throat! “—Dumbledore, for example, I would strongly advise you to reconsider that option. You might get there and back in little time, but believe me, you would rescue a dead body.”

An antique vase on the mantelpiece exploded, its shards whizzing through the room like shrapnel. One of the tiny porcelain pieces hit Malfoy’s cheek and stuck in the pale skin. A minuscule trickle of blood oozed from the cut when he pulled it out. Slowly, he rose from his chair and prowled towards her, crunching the debris of the vase under his boots to fine, white powder. For a moment, he stood before her, then grabbed her roughly by her upper arms and jerked her up, close to him, until their bodies touched. She was trembling, but did not avoid his gaze. “How you hate me!” he whispered, and she merely nodded, eyes wide open. Her pupils grew larger when his right hand glided off her arm and cupped her left breast. “Yes,” he murmured, “That is exactly how I want you.” And kissed her.

Instinctively, she struggled, tried to push him away. She wanted to scream for help, but knew that nobody would come to her rescue. His tongue was between her lips now, and she clenched her teeth shut, denying him the entrance. To no avail though, for he simply circled her jaw with his hand and pressed so hard that she had to open her mouth, just to stop the pain. I