The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 4

By Pigwidgeon37

Lester McNair, Owen’s father, had made a fortune by providing Great Britain’s wizarding economy with wood: in the early 1920’s, barely graduated, he had somehow got his hands on a considerable sum of money and handled it very wisely, acquiring forest land all over the world, mostly in South America, southern Asia, Russia, but also in England. Making use of his Slytherin connections, he had very soon managed to eliminate other competitors and, after some years of intense struggle—there were more than just a few Ministry officials who had made a small fortune out of McNair’s slush funds—he was the sole purveyor of the enterprises, the products of which needed wood as raw material: the Cleansweep Company, producers of brooms; Reynolds & Lovegood, Great Britain’s biggest and most important magical building company; the carpenters…—everybody had to purchase their wood from Lester McNair. The We’ve-Got-A-Pedigree-Longer-Than-Mélisande’s-Tresses families regarded him as a parvenu, and so he bought himself a manor and a wife. Thalia Witherstone was the last descendant of an old and powerful family, pretty but poor, owner of a derelict, once-grand manor, and thirty-one years younger than he. The age gap did not overly irritate Lester McNair, and there was enough money to restore the family seat to its original grandeur. Two years after they had married, Thalia gave birth to a son and thus had accomplished her duty, which meant that her husband felt free to treat her even worse than before.

His conduct towards his hapless young wife changed somewhat, though, when Lord Voldemort began to gather followers. Like all parvenus, McNair was a fervent partisan of the purity of blood and nobility of breeding, and hence among the first to join. Voldemort’s great-grandmother had been a Witherstone, and even if his feelings towards those who had left him to spend his childhood in a Muggle orphanage instead of taking him in, because they despised him for being a half-blood, were not of a very tender nature, McNair entertained certain hopes for his son and consequently was dimly grateful to his wife.

~~~~*~~~~

Glad as Severus was to have finally left Hogwarts, the lack of a library was doubtlessly a big disadvantage. He had no intention of squandering money by the acquisition of a Who’s Who—and not only would it be a waste of galleons, the twenty or so tomes of the encyclopaedia would also occupy too much space in his still-empty bookshelves—and thus had called Clarissa the morning after Lestrange’s visit at his house.

“What do you need it for?”

“I have to look up something, just in case you didn’t guess. So do you have it or don’t you?”

“I don’t think so, but hold on for a second.” Clarissa’s head vanished from the grate and returned a few moments later. “No, we don’t. But listen, why don’t you come round and ask Aunt Nathalie? She’s loads better than the Who’s Who, ‘cause she knows all the little stories you don’t find there. And you could stay for lunch.”

The thought of meeting Nathalie Pierson again outweighed any qualms he might have had. She was a fascinating woman, intelligent and quick-witted, and, above all, she seemed to be… well, not entirely indifferent towards him. Only he had to find a credible pretext for asking her about the McNairs—after all, he could not waltz in and inquire about a person with whom he had been sharing a dormitory for seven years without providing a plausible explanation. After having racked his brain for some minutes without any substantial outcome, he decided he would just improvise, gave himself a half-hearted look-over in the mirror, cursed his big nose and lanky hair, and stepped into the fireplace.

Clarissa and her aunt were in the garden, and Severus only narrowly avoided a flowerpot that came buzzing past his head.

“Sorry, Severus!” Clarissa called out to him, “We’re trying to refurbish the garden, but don’t quite agree on how to distribute the plants and flowers. Want to give a hand?”

“If that guarantees that you won’t smash my skull with whizzing flowerpots, I will,” he replied, shaking Nathalie’s hand. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a white-and-red patch of flowers. “You can’t plant Siberian Dwarf Daisies together with Anthalicum, they literally poison each other. Didn’t you pay any attention in Herbology?”

“Actually, it was my idea,” Nathalie purred, grinning wickedly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… Well, you have to separate them anyway.” Obeying to a flick of his wand, the Anthalicum came soaring towards them like a well-trained flock of birds. “Now let’s see… where could we put those…”

The ladies pocketed their wands and watched Severus deftly re-arranging the plants, completely absorbed by the activity. When he was finished, he turned round and saw that Clarissa was gone, having left him in the sole company of her aunt, whose blue eyes were resting on him with an expression of mild amusement mixed with appreciation.

“You certainly know what you’re doing,” she said, taking his arm and guiding him towards a low table surrounded by two wicker chairs and a settee. “I daresay you deserve a drink now.”

Before he could even think of occupying one of the chairs, Severus was being gently pushed down on the settee, a glass was shoved into his hand, and Nathalie had glided down into the cushions beside him. She was wearing a long full linen skirt today, a sleeveless white silk top, no shoes and, as Severus could not help noticing, no bra. She had very small breasts. To judge from the quickening of his heartbeat and the sudden dryness of his mouth, he obviously liked small breasts. Or was his reaction simply induced by the fact that these were breasts, regardless of their size and shape? He decided to leave these ponderings for later, considering that they were severely incapacitating his verbal abilities.

“Cigarette?” Nathalie asked, offering him the package.

“N-Not really, thank you,” he replied, stubbornly trying to fence off the thought that he also liked women with hairless armpits. It was nicer somehow, although he could not explain why. He only hoped that he might lure his mind off that dangerous path by promising to it that he would make a list of features he liked in women as soon as he arrived home.

“Why not?” she inquired, delicately extricating a cigarette from the package. To his surprise, she used a Muggle lighter.

“I suppose it doesn’t appeal to me. Why would I fill my lungs with smoke? It’s unhealthy, not to mention addictive.”

“Ah,” she said, blowing a smoke ring, “But then most of the things that bring fun into your life are unhealthy and addictive.”

She was clearly flirting again. That would have to be added to his list, along with dimples, and probably also slim, elegant feet. Maybe he should simply write ‘Nathalie Pierson’ and leave it at that.

“Are you referring to anything in particular?”

“Of course not,” she replied, darting him a look that said the exact opposite, “It was merely a general remark. By the way, what was it you wanted to look up in the Who’s Who? You came round to ask me, not to do the gardening, unless memory fails me.”

Served him right. He had not thought of anything to tell her, and now he was caught. Not that a trap with a bait like this was essentially a bad place to be in, but the bait was also highly intelligent and therefore not to be fed with lame, easy-to-deconstruct stories. So he settled for the truth, part of it, anyway.

“You know,” he said, doing his best to relax, which turned out to be nearly impossible because every time she shifted, a whiff of her scent wafted over to him, “It’s the strangest thing—maybe you’ll even think me exceedingly stupid.”

“I can hardly imagine that,” she interjected.

“Well, let’s see. Just to give you an idea: I used to sleep in the same room, have lessons and take my meals with four boys, three of whom I scarcely know. Or rather,” he corrected himself, “I know the side they chose to show at school very well, but do I know anything about their lives outside Hogwarts? No, I don’t. Take Owen McNair, for example. I could give you a detailed description of his character, and I also caught the odd tidbit of information from time to time, but it didn’t really interest me, to say the truth. Now we’re all out of school, and maybe we won’t even meet again very soon. On the other hand, you know how it is with us Slytherins. We tend to put the bonds we have forged during our school years to good use. Which means that we are going to meet again. And… well, it’s just strange that I should do so without even knowing anything about their family background… if you know what I mean…” He was not entirely satisfied but thought that it sounded credible enough. A little clumsy, perhaps. A trifle too boyish. Damn. If that was the impression she got…

She stubbed out her cigarette and refilled her glass. “Are you implying that you shared a dormitory with McNair’s son and don’t know anything about him except for the colour of his underpants and the pranks you used to play together?”

“More or less. Yes. I suppose you could say that, even if it’s slightly exaggerated and I’m not interested in Owen’s underpants.”

“Mmh… men are a strange species, you know?”

“Look who’s speaking,” Severus retorted gruffly, “It’s not as if women were open books.”

He was about as allergic to giggles as Lucius, but had to admit that uttered by that raucous voice, even giggling had its interesting aspects.

“Point taken. So you want to know about McNair? Quite an interesting family…”

~~~~*~~~~

Of course she had not mentioned Voldemort, but he remembered what he had read about Tom Marvolo Riddle’s ancestry well enough to be able to make the connection between Lester McNair’s improved treatment of his wife and her blood relationship to the Dark Lord. Nathalie Pierson was an ambulant repertoire of society anecdotes, that was for sure, and he fully intended to quiz her about the others as well. The perfect pretext for seeing her again without having to make up twisted excuses had arisen quite unexpectedly: when they had finally moved into the house for lunch—Severus nearing a state of total inebriation by having looked into her eyes and breathed in her scent—a small girl had whooshed down the banister of the staircase and practically landed in his arms. Nathalie had introduced her to him as her daughter Gwendolyn, without alluding to the girl’s father, so Severus supposed she either was ignorant of his identity or had no desire of disclosing it.

Gwendolyn turned out to be quite a brilliant little lady. In a way, she reminded Severus of himself. In spite of her nanny’s protests, she kept reading her way through her mother’s books, regardless of whether the contents were appropriate for her age—she was eight, as she had proudly told him—or not, just stuffing herself with knowledge. And she had a knack for potions. Unfortunately, she had tried some of them on her own, in their kitchen to boot, and blown up a cauldron. The look in her eyes when she related the accident did not betray a single trace of repentance. The stench of the liquid that had soaked the walls and floor was so insupportable and so resistant to even the strongest magical mess removers that mother and daughter had moved in with the Rosiers, to stay there until their own house would again be habitable. Gwendolyn, who had clawed her way through one of McLachlan’s most complicated works on potions and understood a surprisingly large part of it, was delighted to hear that Severus was going to be his apprentice, and almost fainted with enthusiasm when he had offered to come round and teach her some basics. Her mother’s stunning smile had nearly caused him to put sugar into his soup instead of salt.

It was high time, though, to abandon his thoughts of Nathalie Pierson’s eyes and bra-less breasts under her white silk top. Lestrange’s arrival was due any moment now, and they were going to face Lord Voldemort in a few minutes. Severus’s hands ran mechanically over his robe and cloak, smoothing out imaginary creases and relishing the touch of the material. It was… sensual. There was no other word. Cool but not cold, smooth without being soft, faintly shimmering but not shiny. He had a brief vision of Nathalie sprawled upon black sheets made of the same fabric, and pinched the bridge of his nose to chase it away as quickly as possible.

With a small ‘plop’, Lestrange Apparated directly at his side.

“Excellent,” he said, “You’re all ready. Where’s your mask?”

Severus produced it from a pocket of his cloak. “Shall I put it on?”

“Yes, I’d advise you to. Lord Voldemort knows us with or without, and it’s always better to be on the safe side. You never know who’s waiting for you upon your arrival.”

He had eyed both garments and mask numerous times since last night, but tried on neither of them before he had to. Out of some sort of respect, maybe—after all, these were not just any clothes—or perhaps it had rather been shyness. The feeling persisted, now that he held the mask in his hand. Lestrange gave him an encouraging nod, and he slowly lifted it towards his face. When it was at a distance of about two inches, he suddenly felt his skin beginning to tingle, and the mask literally leapt out of his fingers and onto his face, clinging to it like a second skin. After the first shock had passed, the sensation was actually pleasant. Lestrange had already put on his and pulled up the hood of his cloak. Severus followed suit.

“Er, St. John,” he ventured, “Just one small question before we leave: how does it come off again?” He was surprised at being able to breathe and speak as if his face were uncovered, for there were no holes, neither at his nose nor at his lips.

“You touch it with your wand and say Demasquera, that’s all. Come on, or we’ll be late!” Lestrange shoved back his left sleeve and both put their fingers on his Dark Mark.

~~~~*~~~~

In the middle of the night, dark because the sky was overcast, McNair’s manor looked almost as impressive as the Malfoys’. The black, massive form loomed like a threatening rock, its unlit windows dead eyes, staring at the Death Eaters who were arriving to stand in a circle round Lord Voldemort. Everybody seemed to have their assigned places—obviously the Dark Mark took care of that, Severus thought. Which was sensible, for otherwise so many people assembling in a relatively small space would have caused chaos and maybe even injuries. But there was everything but chaos. Only the soft swishing of cloaks and the faint creaking of boots and shoes touching gravel. And complete silence, no whispered word, no intake of breath. Just the silvery-blue glint of the faceless masks, and arrival upon ghostly arrival.

Finally, the group seemed to be complete, for Lord Voldemort, immobile in the circle’s very centre, pushed back his hood in one swift, sleek movement and said, apparently to no one in particular, “Lester, it is time to enter.” His voice was not much more than a whisper, silky and raucous, but Severus felt it vibrate through himself with the force of  a thunderclap.

One of the figures left its place, bowed its head to their master and moved towards the entrance of the building, followed by Voldemort. The circle parted to let them pass, then closed again and, in perfect choreography, opened at the opposite side, exactly at its point of intersection with the imaginary line defined by the entrance door and Voldemort’s former position. The gap widened as, one by one, the black shadows did a half-turn and fell into line behind McNair and their master, one stepping in from the left and one from the right of the fissure the two men had cut; the silent, swift procession drawing its substance from what had been a circle, reducing it to a half-circle—now the first of them had already crossed the threshold—and then further, relentlessly, until the last of them had completed the line.

From deep inside his guts, panic flared up and bit painfully into Severus’s heart—irrational, certainly, but no less paralysing. He had been separated from Lestrange by the shadowy outline that had stepped in between himself and his guardian’s comforting presence. There was nothing to be afraid of, he told himself, but the anonymous uniformity frightened him all the same. Voldemort might recognize each of them under their masks, but he, Severus, felt suddenly lost. They were obviously forbidden to speak, so how was he supposed to find Lestrange again after the meeting had come to an end? What was he supposed to do once they had reached their destination within the building?

The procession was now moving down a corridor, steps perfectly synchronised, resounding on the flagstones and reverberating from the walls, cloaks billowing, rustling softly—now there was another noise, hard thuds, they were descending a staircase. Down, deeper and deeper, endless stairs—he should have counted, one step was about a foot high, so he would have been able to establish how far they had penetrated under the surface of the earth. Down, into the bowels of the house, torchlight flickering over rough stone walls, playing with his fears, engaging his worries in a vertiginous round dance. The sound of their footsteps diminished considerably—they had reached their destination: a vaulted cellar, low-ceilinged, damp and chilly, so dark that the light of the torches, attached to the round stone pillars supporting the arches, only served to make it appear more inscrutable and gloomy.

They were walking on a ground of compressed clay now, not on stone anymore. They had arrived at the very foundations of the edifice which, if the roughly carved figures adorning the upper part of the pillars were a reliable indication, had to be very old. Severus could feel the humid cold grab at the small expanse of uncovered skin between the edge of his mask and the collar of his cloak. But obviously the fabric was not only sensual but provided effective isolation as well, for he did not sense the chilliness creep any further than the exposed spot.

The procession slowed down, almost came to a halt, and repeated the previous choreography in reverse order, thus positioning every member of the group with his back towards a chair. Only they did not form a complete ring. The seats were arranged in a half-circle, facing a single, considerably larger, and higher, chair, almost a throne, albeit without any ornaments. Sitting down, Severus recognized the hands of the wizard sitting at his right as Lestrange’s and had to suppress a sigh of relief. He knew he was behaving—well, no, not actually behaving but feeling like and wanting to behave—like a child separated from its mother for the first time. Maybe Voldemort would understand it, but Severus was fairly sure that such pusillanimity would never meet his approval.

The Dark Lord was sitting very upright, hands crouching on the armrests of his chair, waiting motionlessly until the last of his Death Eaters had settled down in his usual place. Then he rose, swift and feline, and glided over to the immobile black forms to his right. A nonchalant movement of his hand indicated the third of them; a few more steps, and number ten was singled out, stood and walked over to stand by the throne; Voldemort moved on and, with a smile flickering across his face, pointed to Severus and finally, at Lestrange.

‘The select few’—that was how Lestrange had called them the other night. Julius Malfoy, Lestrange, Barty Crouch and Severus himself. Or at least he hoped that the other two were Crouch and Malfoy, and that being one of those four cherubim with flaming swords was the reason why he was now standing up and following Lestrange towards the other side of the throne. Yes, those were doubtlessly the eyes of Lucius’s father, measuring him through the slits of the otherwise expressionless mask; cold, grey and steely. Staring back at the older man, he began to appreciate the advantages of having his face covered by this eerie second skin. It did not give away anything. Provided you were able to control your posture and did not make any involuntary movements, it was the perfect camouflage for whatever facial expression was underneath. He was glad, however, that he did not have to see Malfoy’s right now. The man was most certainly enraged that it was not his own son standing there instead of Severus.

Lord Voldemort had returned to his seat and now motioned to the four men standing by him to remove their masks—honoured beyond all the others, but facing the greatest risks. Indeed. Four wands were drawn, four voices murmured “Demasquera!”, and everybody could see their faces. If Malfoy was angry, it did not show. He was perfectly composed. The same could not be said about Barty, who was looking rather distressed. Severus fervently hoped that he was putting up a better show. In order to achieve this effect, though, it would doubtlessly be advisable not to look from one to the other. He concentrated on a particularly grim-looking lion on the capital of one of the stone pillars, focused his look on the beast’s eyes, engaging in a staring contest he knew he would lose, and tried to control his breathing. He succeeded quite well, until Lord Voldemort’s voice spun its silky tendrils through his flesh.

“It has been a month—” oh, Gods, it was honey, so hot that it almost hurt, but still honey, enveloping him, trickling down every fibre of his body, between skin and muscle “—my faithful Death Eaters, since we all met. I have seen most of you in the meantime, listening to your reports, proofs of your unwavering devotion to our cause.”

Despite the total silence, enhanced by the regular sound of a water drop hitting stone, Severus had the impression that a ripple of relief ran though the assembly.

“The spokesmen of the six groups will be allowed to give another account of their achievements a little later, for everybody to hear. Let us, though, turn our collective attention to another fact that will, no doubt, make you rejoice as much as it does me. Let us welcome, within our ranks, seven new Death Eaters, or rather, seven young people who have decided to devote their lives to our noble cause. One of them is standing at my side, without hood or mask, and you all know what this means: His rank and honour are as high as those of the other three whose outstanding merits have already been thus recognized. Severus Snape—” Voldemort rose and put an arm round Severus’s shoulder, gave him a reassuring squeeze and led him forward by a few steps “—has proven his loyalty to myself at a time when nothing would have obliged him to do so. And he is the mind behind the Imperius Potion that proves to be so exceedingly useful at times.”

Voldemort stepped aside, dragging his left hand across Severus’s back until its fingertips were lightly resting on his right shoulder.

“You are to pay him the same respect as I demand for Julius Malfoy, St. John Lestrange and Bartemius Crouch. He answers to me and me alone and has the same powers as they, as far as autonomous decisions and punishments are concerned.”

One more step, and the contact was broken, but Voldemort’s slim, white hand remained suspended at the same height, now turning slowly from a gesture of protective benediction into a movement of presentation, palm facing audience.

“Let us welcome him in due form.”

He turned Severus round to face the other three unmasked Death Eaters and, as he had done at their first meeting, brushed his lips shortly against the young wizard’s mouth and murmured “Welcome, child.”

Too overwhelmed to be horrified, Severus received the same salute from Julius Malfoy, then from Lestrange and finally from Barty Crouch. Crouch’s face seemed to be burning, and Severus wondered whether he had a fever. When this part of the ceremony was completed, Voldemort put his hands on Severus’s shoulders and turned him round again, so that he could see that all the others had again formed a line, the first of them standing at a distance of only about three yards from him. He approached Severus and, drawing his wand, took off his mask. It was a woman. Very tall, blonde and blue-eyed, unwavering look boring into Severus’s eyes. Heather’s mother, probably, he thought when her lips touched his. The mask went back into place, and the next wizard stepped up. Grey, wavy hair, blue eyes, shrewd expression—Heather’s father. Heather. Lucius. A black-haired, weak-chinned man with a goatee. Clarissa, flushed and bright-eyed. Cedric, grinning like the idiot he was. Another man, nearly bald, with very full lips. Tabitha, shark-like. A bear-like man, looking like the cliché of a Russian general. A short, fat woman that reminded him of a cake with too much cream and pink sugar icing. A man with too much brilliantine in his obviously dyed auburn hair and a golden front tooth. Evan Rosier. A man, older than most of the others, ruddy complexion, white hair cropped very short, his eyes a brown so light that it seemed orange—Owen’s father. Thomas Mansfield, ex-keeper of their house team. Two men bearing identically idiotic expressions, one of them with exceedingly bad breath, both almost as large and bulky as Hagrid. A blonde man, fumbling with rimless glasses and giving Severus a shy, lopsided smile. A very beautiful, red-headed woman Severus almost mistook for Lily Evans. A man with a moustache like a walrus’s, with a nervous tic at his left eye. Owen. Lips of every shape and hue of pink and red, eyes of every colour, so many scents that Severus’s stomach began to roil in protest, long hair, short hair, blonde, brown, red, grey…

The welcoming ceremony lasted almost an hour. When the last mask had clamped back on the last Death Eater’s face Severus had to summon all his strength and willpower in order not to faint on the spot and, with shaking knees, returned to his place at Lestrange’s side. They were standing very close, and he felt his guardian’s hand searching his own, finding it and giving it a brief squeeze. He would have liked to give Lestrange a grateful smile. As that was incompatible with the dignified expression he was expected to wear, he had to be content with squeezing back.

“And now,” Voldemort’s voice echoed again between the stone walls form which humidity was oozing, “the other six new members of our brotherhood. Rise, and be welcomed among us.”

In spite of knowing them so well, Severus was almost unable to tell them apart, if not by their height. The shortest of the six had to be Tabitha, and Cedric was as easily recognizable as an elephant amidst a flock of flamingos, but the difference between Heather’s, Lucius’s and Owen’s heights was so minimal, above all when seen from a distance of about fifteen yards and in the flickering torch-light, that he could not have determined who was who.

Hands, looking waxen and dead, crept out from the rich, black folds of sleeves, ghastly pale animals, one, two, three, twenty, thirty-seven pairs of differently shaped spiders, thin or pudgy, smooth or hairy, drawn together and ricocheting off each other, their spectral dance producing an equally ghostly sound. The applause one would have expected to hear at a Transylvanian opera house, after Othello had drained the blood out of Desdemona’s limp flesh. Severus clapped obediently together with the others. He would have wished for his schoolmates to receive a warmer welcome. But the low ceiling and solid walls almost absorbed all sound—except for Voldemort’s voice.

“The initiation of these new members will take place on 20 July. You will be present. All of you.”

Forty-two heads bowed in wordless submission.

“And now, to business. Spokesman of group number one, come forth.”

A tall figure, sitting next to Tabitha, rose and crossed the half-circle until it had reached Voldemort’s throne, where it fell first to its knees and then into complete prostration.

“You may get up and face your Master now,” Voldemort said.

The figure got back on its knees, touched the lower part of its mask, more or less where its mouth was supposed to be, to the hem of the Dark Lord’s cloak, and finally got to its feet. The masked face remained bent downward, though, towards the floor, never directly looking into the Master’s eyes.

“Speak!”

The Death Eater drew his wand, pointed it at his—or her?—throat and muttered “Dissimulovox!” And then, with a voice that seemed to come from a metallic tube, and thus strangely matched the mask, he began. “My Lord, we have successfully carried out the mission you had the kindness of entrusting to us.”

“Successfully?” Lord Voldemort’s voice had turned into a lethally sharp blade, which for the moment was just idly dallying over its victim’s skin, administering a shallow cut here and there, piercing the skin almost gently. “Indeed. I happen to read the Muggle papers as well, but you are aware of that, aren’t you?”

Severus noticed that the Death Eater’s hands were starting to tremble slightly. He only wished he could see the person’s face.

The hooded head sank lower. “My Lord, we never thought that the other side would act so ruthlessly. You know the Muggles’ strategies—they always try to talk the hijackers out of their ideas. This was the first time they actually raided—”

“You had those Palestinians under the Imperius Curse. Why did you not order them to kill their hostages? Before the alleged Israelian commando arrived? I want war, not another fairy story the Muggles can tell their grandchildren.”

“My Lord, I assure you, it was hardly a fairy story. We managed to ravage almost the whole airport, we wiped out eleven warplanes—”

When Lucius had first told him about the increase of Voldemort’s power, Severus had not really known what to make of it. He had sensed it, yes, but more in a pleasant way, when he had met with him in Albania. But now, he understood. And trembled.

Lord Voldemort had risen, causing the Death Eater to fall to his knees immediately. Severus understood him perfectly—he was tempted to do the same although the Master’s fury was not directed against him. It was the power, though, the power that was palpitating around him, almost like another being, a creature that enveloped and shielded him and, with its many tentacles, grazed the hearts of those assembled round their Lord.

“I said I wanted war. I have not got war. And therefore you have failed. All of you. The hostages and the Aurors are alive, and there is no war in the Middle East. Your mission has not been carried out successfully. Come to me, all of you.”

Like puppets drawn by the steely wires of Lord Voldemort’s will, five black figures rose and gathered round the prostrated form. Severus felt as if ripped in two between anticipation and fear. What was the Dark Lord going to do to them? Kill them? Probably he could not afford losing six followers in one go, but what then? He did not have to wait long for an answer.

“Rise!” Voldemort’s voice cut through the silence.

The kneeling Death Eater scrambled to his feet, his ragged breathing now clearly audible.

“Punish them.”

The Death Eater raised a trembling hand. “My Lord, please, listen to me! I wasn’t in command, nor were they—” he gestured at the other five “—we carried out the orders we had been given—”

“Punish them.”

His fingers shook so violently that he was barely able to point his wand at his partners-in-failure. “My Lord, I beg you, have mercy—”

“The more you postpone their punishment the longer yours will last.”

Another shivering intake of breath, then the tip of the wand, still quavering but stable, pointed at the first member of the group. “Crucio!”

The rats and mice in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, which they had used for their curse experiments years ago, had emitted short, high-pitched squeals and died after a surprisingly short time. It was amazing, though, what noises the human voice was capable of producing. Gasps, first, as in utter astonishment that such pain was even possible; then screams, trying to form words, but failing because the pain was everywhere, each nerve end exploding in white-hot agony, so that it was impossible to pronounce coherent sounds. Then the voice cracked, went over the edge that separated human from animal, was not a voice anymore, but the elemental sound of suffering, the point beyond agony where man met beast, where there was no difference between them anymore—the sanctuary of pure, almighty, blinding pain. The rush of adrenaline Severus felt racing through his body was almost painful and—pleasant. No. No pleasure there. But lust. Pure, unadulterated lust. As sweet as the other’s pain.

Turning his head infinitesimally, he sneaked a look at Lestrange. Chest heaving, cerulean eyes blazing, lower lip slightly drawn in between his teeth. Malfoy—a muscle twitching in his jaw, eyes narrowed, forehead shining with perspiration, tongue darting over his lips. So he was not the only one in upheaval. Barty—no, Barty was definitely not aroused. His eyes were closed, and his lower lip quivering slightly. Fear? Compassion? Severus did not really care.

One after the other, the members of the first group were reduced to howling heaps of twitching flesh. Then it was the spokesman’s turn. Voldemort himself cast the curse, and the Death Eater passed out after only a few seconds. And then, silence reigned again, the Master sat down on his throne, without a single look at the group of six, dragging themselves back to their places.

The other groups reported the results of their missions: A Muggle school had been blown up—according to the Muggle press, the cause had been as gas leak—a village flooded by a small river that had broken a dam, a faulty batch of wand-wood… ingenuous tactics, on the whole. A myriad of small stings, none of them lethal or even overly detrimental in itself. It was their sheer number that, sooner or later, would lead to the desired effect: scaring people, wizards and Muggles alike, out of their wits and undermining their faith in those who were supposed to protect them. At least that was what Severus thought to be the aim of all those small attacks—all of them small but for the first, which had obviously not been as successful as Lord Voldemort had desired.

Severus felt more and more tired, he was barely able to hold his eyes open anymore. As he did not dare to glance at his watch, he tried to calculate the duration of the meeting so far. They had started at two a.m., so it had to be half past four or five by now. He would have to change his sleeping rhythm, above all when his apprenticeship started. The sixth group had finished their account of having successfully brought false pound notes into circulation, and the Master nodded in approval.

“It is late,” he said, “So we will end this meeting. The others have carried out their assignments to my satisfaction. Group four will meet me tomorrow at the same hour at Malfoy Manor. As will you, Severus. Good night, my faithful followers. Bartemius, you stay.”

Severus could have sworn that he had heard something like a muffled sob from Barty—he was looking awful, not five years younger, as he usually did, but his real age; maybe even older. Careful to remain close to Lestrange, Severus put on his mask again and followed the others out of the cellar, up the stairs, along the corridor and out of the door. The tepid, fragrant night air almost made him faint and had Lestrange not caught him, he would have stumbled and fallen. He was so dizzy that he barely noticed his finger touching Lestrange’s Mark, and could only mutter a sleepy “good night!”—completely out of place, as it was already morning—to him before he Disapparated, leaving Severus to collapse on his bed and into black sleep.