The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 6

By Pigwidgeon37

Severus arrived at Malfoy Manor shortly before Owen. Lucius’s father was sitting in the grand living room together with his son, but left them as soon as McNair had joined them. The few words Severus exchanged with him left nothing to be desired as far as chilliness was concerned. Lucius did not seem to mind, though, and when the three young men were alone, conversation drifted into another direction anyway.

During the last three or four years at Hogwarts, Severus had felt himself to have finally become a part of the group. More accepted than tolerated, esteemed rather than regarded as some strange but potentially dangerous creature. Before, he had been an underdog, then a dog. And now, he was an overdog, so to speak. Now they feared him, he cold sense it. He had not yet made up his mind as to whether he liked it. Probably yes, he thought. Not that he had any wish of letting them feel his superiority, at least not for now. But there was no point in denying that he was one of Voldemort’s Trusted Four, nor was there any way past the truth that it was difficult for the others to behave naturally in his presence. They were watching their words, instead of talking freely as they had always done. Neither Owen nor Lucius had ever treated him really badly—yes, there had been the occasional bullying, and some teasing and taunting, but nothing serious. Severus did not even remember it clearly anymore. It seemed as if they did, though, and it made him rather uncomfortable. It was one thing to know that he was superior to them as a wizard, in terms of power and skills. Maybe even intelligence, although he was not so sure about that. But it was certainly a totally different kettle of fish to see them cowed by his rank, deserved as it undoubtedly was. He would have to get used to it, and better sooner than later. Perhaps it was possible to get a kick out of it, after all.

“I didn’t have a clue about that potion thing,” Owen was saying when Severus’s mind returned to their cautiously amicable talk. “When did you develop it?”

“During our fifth year. Well, it started already in our fourth, but that was mainly research and hitting dead ends. And, to say the truth, I would never have arrived that far without Lestrange’s support. So it has been used?”

“So it seems,” Lucius said, taking a swig of brandy—the other two were drinking orange juice, as it was not advisable to participate in meetings with a less than completely sober mind. “It’s certainly easier to administer the potion than to cast the curse. Well, maybe not easier, but less obtrusive.”

The conversation then turned inevitably to the other night and subsequently to Barty Crouch. Both Lucius and Owen were equally astonished at learning about the blood relationship between him and Lord Voldemort, and about the details of the failed attack.

“Lord Voldemort wants to mess around with Muggle politics?” Lucius exclaimed, “But that’s preposterous! Why would he do such a thing?”

“Don’t look at me as if I could give you all the answers,” Severus said impatiently, “This is as new for me as it is for you. But I suppose that a climate of insecurity is better created on all levels, including the Muggles. The impact is far greater if the wizarding world becomes aware that nobody is safe, on neither side of the border. Have you been out lately?”

Lucius shook his head. “What did you think? I’m not independent with a mother living in Italy—” that was the story he had told the others “—and nobody else to care for. I have a wedding in little more than two months, and thus an infinity of details to think about. Not that I really do,” he added with a smirk, “But I’m putting up a really good show.”

They all laughed and Owen chimed in, “I’ve been practically monopolized by my father since the very moment I came home. He wants me to take an active part in the family business, so it’s up to you to imagine… What were you meaning to say, Severus?”

“I meant the general insecurity. It might be a slow process, but it’s working. People behave differently. They speak differently. Not all of them, of course. But they look over their shoulders, as if to make sure there’s nobody behind them. They talk in hushed voices, for they never know who might overhear them. That’s it, I think,” he added after a short pause, “There is an atmosphere of ‘you never know’ in the air.”

The other two nodded. “But still,” Lucius said after a while, “up to now, there have only been those small actions, with the exceptions of the McKinnons and the Potters, of course. Do you think it will work this way, in the long run I mean?”

Severus wagged his head. “I suppose it will. I mean, look at history—”

“Oh, no!” Owen interrupted him, “Not history, please! I’m so glad I’ll never again have to listen to Binns, and there you come with history…”

“I wasn’t speaking of wizarding history,” Severus retorted, “It’s not a very striking example for what I wanted to say. I was thinking of Muggle history.”

He had, of course, not gone to bed, on the contrary, he had even forgotten about his potions equipment, fascinated as he had been by the books he had bought today. For obvious reasons, it had been the revolutions that had attracted his attention most and made him wonder whether those stupid Muggles ever bothered to leaf through their own history books.

Lucius gazed at him as if he were seeing him for the first time. “Muggle hist—Severus, you’ve always read too much for your own good, but who would sink so low as to—”

The sentence remained unfinished, partly because Lucius had realized, if a little too late, just what he had been saying, and partly due to Severus’s piercing stare. “I think,” he said pointedly, “that if Lord Voldemort does not consider consulting Muggle newspapers beneath his dignity, none of us has a reason to do so.”

Had he really felt uncomfortable during the first minutes? Well, he probably had, but then he had not yet experienced the delicious satisfaction of seeing both Lucius and Owen—who had certainly thought along the same lines, only without voicing his criticism—thoroughly daunted. He would certainly have preferred that effect to owe more to himself than to Voldemort’s authority and their fear of being denounced, but for a beginning, it was not so bad.

“As I was saying,” he continued, straightening his shoulders and scooting closer to the back of his chair, “there was a lot of revolutions throughout history. Many of them failed, most of them, in fact. And why? Because they were not supported by the people. The question is, how do you get people to embrace the goals of a revolution?” He looked at the other two.

“I honestly have no idea,” Owen muttered gruffly.

Lucius’s interest seemed to have been sparked, though. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, chewing on his lower lip, “I suppose you have to promise them that things will get better. They have to gain something in the process. I mean—” and he refilled his tumbler of brandy “—look at the Goblin revolutions: Why did they rebel? Because they didn’t want to be dominated by humans anymore. They wanted freedom and better living conditions.”

“Exactly. An insurrection has to have the aim of improving things. But,” Severus said, stabbing his index finger in Malfoy’s direction, “if you examine the average British wizard’s living conditions, what prospects of a better life can you possibly offer them? They are sheep, Lucius, well-nourished sheep roaming fat green pastures, with plenty of water and shelter and whatever it is sheep need for their petty concept of well-being to be fully realized. They are guarded by shepherds, and they love it. If you go there and tell them that they could fly if only they wanted, that it’s only the shepherds who prevent them from doing so, for which said shepherds have their very own reasons, the sheep will just look at you uncomprehendingly and tell you to sod off and mind your own bloody business. They aren’t interested in flying because they don’t see the point of it, and so you can’t represent it to them like a desirable goal. Unless…”

“Indeed,” Lucius said, “Unless there are snakes in the grass, biting them when they least expect it. At first, they’ll dismiss it as accidents, sad but inevitable. Until there are so many snakes that whoever offers them the possibility of flying will be regarded as their saviour. Yes, that seems very convincing. If you look at it from that point of view…”

“It’s the only possible point of view,” Severus agreed, “And still, you have to be very cautious about the shepherds. You might, of course, try and remove them right away. But then the sheep will regret them. Whereas if you just leave them be for the moment, to prove their complete inability to protect their charges from the assaults of the snakes, the time will come for the sheep to claim they’re incompetent and unable to fulfil their duty towards those whom they are paid to save from harm. Which means, to transfer the simile to our situation, that first we have to create the appropriate climate of fear and insecurity, to make people recognize that neither the Ministry nor the Law Enforcement, nor the Aurors and certainly not their tame magic will be of any use for their protection. Leave it to them to ask for the minister’s resignation and to hate all those Aurors who get enormous salaries without apparent reason. Then they will recognize what we can do for them.”

The three young men jumped at the sound of clapping, turned round and saw Voldemort leaning in the doorframe, smiling and applauding. Behind him stood Julius Malfoy, wearing a very strained smile indeed.

“Well spoken, Severus,” Lord Voldemort said, “I could not have said it better. Come on now, you too, Mr. McNair, the others are already waiting for us.”

Severus checked his watch—it was two minutes past two. “I’m sorry, my Lord,” he said contritely, “We—I completely forgot the time…”

“Do not let it happen again. And now follow me.”

This time, they did not meet in the dungeons. Probably because the group was so small, Severus thought; there were five persons waiting for them in one of the seldom used sitting rooms towards the back of the Manor. Their black robes formed a stark contrast to the creamy white and pistachio green of the furniture and decoration. Rococo certainly was not an appropriate setting for Death Eater meetings—they seemed oddly out of place amidst the playful frivolity of floral patterns and delicately curved fragility of tables and chairs.

The five people, hoods down and without masks, rose when Lord Voldemort entered the room with Owen and Severus in his wake, and greeted him with a muttered “My Lord,” bowing their heads. Owen was directed to one of the chairs by a nonchalant wave of Voldemort’s hand, whereas he invited Severus to sit down beside him on the only settee. There was complete silence.

“Before we get to the reason for this night’s meeting,” the Master said, just when the quiet had become unbearable, “I will introduce to you the members of group four. This—” he indicated the weak-chinned man with the goatee perched on the edge of his chair, ready to jump up any second “—is Igor Karkaroff, Dark Arts teacher at Durmstrang Academy.”

The man, for whom Severus had felt a deep antipathy already the first time he had seen him, gave him a viscous smile that showed long, yellow teeth like those of a horse.

“Next to Igor,” Voldemort continued, gesturing at the plump man with the walrus moustache and the nervously twitching left eye, “there is Waldo Travers, outstandingly skilled at casting the Imperius Curse.”

Travers bowed, muttering “You are too kind, my Lord.”

The short fat woman, who had reminded Severus of a cake with too much cream and pink icing turned out to be Fiona Nott, Cedric’s mother. The only one he had known beforehand, without being introduced—apart from Owen and Evan Rosier, of course—was Lyndon Avery, Heather’s father, who gave him a very sour smile.

“I have called you to gather here tonight,” Lord Voldemort said, “to prepare a mission of vengeance. A few years ago, Severus has suffered at the hands of one of his relatives. And whoever dares to harm one of my faithful servants has to pay. This man will pay his nefarious actions by a slow and painful death. It should be fun,” he added, on a lighter tone and with a little smile at the assembly. “Before he dies, though, he has to make a testament in Severus’s favour. Travers, you will see to that.”

The walrus nodded and stammered “O-Of course, my Lord.”

“The operation will proceed as follows: You are to meet at McNair’s house—” Owen inclined his head “—at midnight sharp tomorrow, then Apparate to the location Severus will indicate to you. Avery, you will take Severus, for he does not yet have his Apparating license.” Severus heaved a silent sigh of relief—he would have hated to touch that slimy Karkaroff person. “How many people are living in your uncle’s house?”

“If the situation is still the same it was three years ago,” Severus answered, “there is only his old housekeeper. I know where she’s sleeping, though, so she won’t be much trouble.”

“Good. She is to be killed immediately on arrival. By you.”

Feeling a twinge of anticipation, Severus nodded.

“Then to the uncle. Do not let him, under any circumstance, summon his testament—provided there is one—by Accio. You have to see where he keeps it, make him write a new one and put it exactly at the place of the old one. Then you do with him as you please, and finally kill him. No Dark Mark this time.”

Six heads shot up, six pairs of eyes looked at Voldemort in wonderment. Lyndon Avery cleared his throat.

“My Lord, may I be so bold as to ask you why—”

Voldemort’s mouth became a thin white line of angry impatience. “I would have thought more highly of your intelligence, Avery. We do, of course, not want the Italian law enforcement to suspect his death to have been caused by foreigners, and certainly not by foreigners of British provenience. Not even they can be sufficiently obtuse not to link it with Severus, which is exactly what we want to avoid. Otherwise the testament would be of no use. I hope I made myself clear?”

Avery inclined his head. “Yes, my Lord, of course. I apologize.”

“I expect you to be back at the McNairs’ at two a.m. at the latest. I will be waiting there for you to report immediately. You are dismissed. Severus, you stay.”

The six Death Eaters rose, put on their masks and pulled up their hoods, six muttered “Good night, my Lord,” six bows, and they exited the room silently, their robes rustling over the thick carpet.

 “My Lord,” Severus said, “I—I really don’t know how to thank you… This is what I have been wishing for so many years… to kill that bastard. But I surely don’t deserve—”

 “Shush, Severus. You deserve it, and more than that. Now listen to me. You are very young, the youngest of my most trusted and loyal Death Eaters. Nobody will ever dare to say so into my face, but many of the others are jealous of your position. They will not have the courage to question my decision, but they will try to undermine your authority whenever they can.”

 Severus swallowed. “My Lord, you know that there is nothing I desire as much as serving you as best I can, but I don’t want the group to be divided by such petty rivalries. If I am of more use resigning the position you—”

 “No!” Voldemort hissed. “No! Certainly not. Don’t you understand, Severus? Don’t you see that the only way of uniting this group more and more is to make them bend to my will? Whatever I decree is to be their law, unquestioned and accepted without as much as batting an eyelid? Therein lies our strength. They must learn to bear the yoke with joy, not just to accept it and shrug it off whenever they fancy. You must assert your authority over them, Severus. At whatever cost—punishments, deaths, no matter what. They have to understand that what counts in this brotherhood is neither money nor age nor social status. The hierarchy of my followers is determined by skills and bonds of blood alone. You and St. John represent the former, Malfoy and Crouch the latter. Maybe, just maybe, Owen McNair will make a fifth, but he will have to prove himself worthy.”

 Without realizing what he was doing, Severus took the Master’s hand, pressed and ardent kiss on its back and then rested his forehead on the cool, dry skin. When Voldemort spoke again, he felt his other hand briefly touch his head—a fleeting but firm promise of future well-being.

 “It is not too much, Severus. In your heart of hearts, you know your own worth. Dig it out, and carry it proudly. And behave accordingly. Chastise those hesitating to recognize it, and reward those who are wise enough to see it. My presence here tonight was enough to make them see the right path. If they choose to do otherwise, worse for them. From the next time on, you will be on your own. Part of my power is yours, child. Use it well. And now go, for it is late.”

 Severus knew himself well enough to be sure that he was everything but sentimental. He was not given to dramatic outbursts, or grand gestures, or tearful scenes. Walking back through the deserted Manor towards the now-empty salon where the last cinders of the fire that had been burning on the grate cast a dim, red half light on the hearthrug and the legs of the armchairs, he wondered at the emotions that were still boiling within him. Lord Voldemort had that rare gift of being able to open all the floodgates, of melting down whatever obstacle there was. Before him, Severus felt his soul as bare as a newborn child, and with as little reason to be ashamed of its nakedness as an innocent infant. He did not feel embarrassed about having kissed his Master’s hand. It was unusual, true, but it was the purest expression of what he felt for Voldemort. He would never be able to let go that much with anybody else. Never. Of that he was sure without any doubt. He owed a lot to Lestrange but the thought of kissing his hand would never have crossed his mind. It was impossible, as impossible as it was for the sun to rise in the west.

 The bottle of brandy was still sitting on the small side table, surrounded by tumblers. Severus hesitated a moment, then sat down in the chair formerly occupied by Lucius, snatched a glass and poured himself a small quantity of the liquor. He could have done the same at home, but the smouldering embers were too alluring. It was one of the sights Severus loved most. The heap of what had once been wood and was now reduced to charcoal, burning hot but without a flame. The red glow seemed to move, to creep over the cinders, alive and slithering, dancing and breathing. He could watch it for hours, until the surface turned a deadly grey, allowing mere glimpses of the heat that continued to live underneath, which a splint and a soft breath would be enough to rekindle. Severus remained there, absorbed by the soft glow, bright but not hurting the eye, thinking of nothing, just feeling that he was alive and had found his place.

 When the ruby-red shine had retired to the core of the now-small, ashen heap, he rose slowly and reluctantly tossed some Floo powder into the fireplace to go home.

 ~~~~*~~~~

 Severus had gone to sleep far earlier than the previous night, and thus awoke feeling rested and refreshed. The weather had changed overnight—when he looked out of his bedroom window, he saw leaden clouds and trees bullied hither and thither by strong gusts of wind. The temperature had lowered considerably, he noticed when opening the window. It was the ideal day to… commit a murder? His first and certainly not his last. No, that was definitely not what he had wanted to think. But the idea had ferreted its way into his brain, sunk its teeth deeply into his mind, and now refused to let go. As was the habit of ferrets, the grip of its fangs grew stronger the more you tried to shake it off. With a sigh, Severus grabbed his dressing gown and descended the stairs to the kitchen, surrendering to the conclusion that he would have to think it through before making any attempts at planning his day.

 Peggy seemed to sense that he needed some peace, for she served breakfast without a single word, just looking at him, and then disappeared, probably to fulfil her daily tasks. Elias and Esmeralda were sharing a large bowl of what looked like cooked meat, boiled egg and some indefinable vegetables, perching harmoniously on the opposite side of the table.

 Today he was going to commit his first murder. What would it be like? The words were easy enough to pronounce, six syllables, rolling smoothly over his tongue—Avada Kedavra, as simple as that. Clean, detached and even hygienic, two words and life was gone. Wiped out. Leaving some pounds of flesh and bone that would cool down until their temperature was equal to that of the surroundings. It might be more straining, but essentially it was the same as snuffing out a candle. The piece of wax was still there, but it did not give light anymore. But then, the light of a candle was something useful, which could certainly not be said about Signora Ragnatela. Or his uncle, come to think of it. As long as the candle peacefully served its purpose of shedding light where there was dark, nobody would even think of extinguishing it. As soon as its harmless-looking flame set the house on fire, though, there was no doubt that the conflagration had to be stopped. Using whatever means necessary.

 How was it going to feel, though? There had to be a difference between killing somebody the magical way and the way Muggles did it. With knives, or even strangling. A difference like—To his surprise, he heard himself chuckle. A difference like riding a car or going by Underground. Would it feel different to kiss Nathalie after having killed for the first time? Maybe the awareness of being able to do the same to her, at least theoretically, would make him feel less like an inexperienced boy. There were definitely too many maybes for a morning of activity, like he had planned it to be. Not planned, no. To be honest, the idea had popped up on his way downstairs, and at closer examination it seemed to be even better: he was going to call McLachlan this morning. Ten days had gone by since he had finished school, and even if he did not want to appear overly eager, it was not his intention either to give the impression of being indifferent. Ten days were a more than suitable interval. Add to that what was on his schedule tonight, and contacting his soon-to-be master today looked like a very wise decision. Nobody could tell him how he was going to feel after the everything-but-social call at his uncle’s. Right now, he felt in total control of himself—well, excluding the bit about Nathalie, which was new and not entirely reliable in terms of coming to grips with his own self. Whatever lay beyond midnight, though, was too unreliable. Not that he really expected himself to break down and spend the next few weeks curled up in a corner, rocking back and forth, with saliva trickling down his chin. But still… Better safe than sorry. The wisdom of commonplace old sayings…

 He was more than slightly excited when he approached the fireplace shortly after breakfast. It was the good kind of excitement, the one that provided the body with sufficient quantities of adrenaline to make it alert, and the mind toned, but he felt his heart beat very fast all the same.

 As much Floo powder as would remain between the fingertips of his thumb and index finger, a deep breath to steady his voice, “Simon McLachlan!” called into the now-green flames. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Maybe he was not at home. Then, a head appeared on the grate.

 “Yes?” barked a voice that was not really made for barking, for it was too high-pitched, almost like Flitwick’s.

 “Are you Simon McLachlan?” Severus asked, suddenly not sure whether the Floo network had not played a prank on him.

 “No, I’m Winnie-the-Pooh. Of course I’m McLachlan, silly boy! Who are you and what do you want?”

 This was not going too well, Severus thought. “I am Severus Snape, and I wanted to talk to you about my apprenticeship. If you can spare some of your time right now, that is.”

“Ah,” said the head, a little friendlier now, “So it’s you. What was it you wanted to discuss?”

Somehow, ‘everything’, true as it was, did not seem the right thing to say. But the head seemed to become impatient, and so Severus replied “Well, the, er, details like when do we begin, what do I have to take along, what should I read for preparation—everything, more or less.”

“Be here on 1 August, at ten a.m. sharp, bring your work robes. No preparatory reading.”

And he broke the connection. Severus stood, flabbergasted and open-mouthed, still looking at the now-empty fireplace and wondering whether this had been some kind of strange dream—one of those which are not really frightening but so absurd that you wonder how on earth your brain could have produced such bizarre crap. He sat down, cross-legged, on the hearthrug, shook his head and burst out laughing. Feeling that his right elbow was touched, he looked down and saw Esmeralda staring at him questioningly; she certainly was not used to her master sitting on the floor, giving in to unbridled hilarity.

“Ah, my sweet,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes and scooping her up, “It will be a little difficult to explain this to you. Yes, that goes for you, too,” he addressed Elias, who had by now turned into something like an incongruously shaped, but nonetheless faithfully attached shadow of the cat. “Just imagine you were out hunting for the biggest and most savoury mouse you’ve ever seen. You catch it, take the first bite, and it turns out to be of rubber. That would be it more or less, I suppose.”

He knew that it was futile to expect people to look a certain way only because they were famous. All the same, he had anticipated a confrontation with some variation of the Dumbledore paradigm—venerable, grandfatherly, pompous even. Well, he thought, that had been nothing short of an illusion. Although it was impossible to determine how tall a person was if you had seen nothing but their head, he would have bet that McLachlan was rather short. Never mind the height, though, the rest was amazing enough. The potions genius had short white hair, standing up in spikes like a hedgehog’s, and of uneven length. The ears were slightly pointed, which gave him a distinctly mischievous, goblin-like expression. Skin like parchment, bushy white eyebrows… Severus closed his eyes to conjure up the image more clearly. Yes, bushy white eyebrows, a hooked nose on the bridge of which an old-fashioned pince-nez was constantly struggling against gravity, small, beetle-black eyes—maybe the only facial feature that suggested there might be more to the man. That squeaky voice… Severus sighed. He was not going to form a final opinion now, but it seemed that difficult times were lying ahead. 1 August, ten o’clock sharp. He would simply concentrate on that, and pretend he did not know anything else. And of course he would read some books, as he did not believe for a single second that McLachlan expected him to take that ‘no preparatory reading’ seriously. On the other hand, it meant that he was free to choose for himself, which was not such a bad thing after all.

Severus was just putting Esmeralda back on the floor, to stand up and get his robes—he could just as well go and buy some books now, for his shelves were still deplorably empty—when green flames shot up in the fireplace, and the head of Gwendolyn, Nathalie’s little daughter, appeared on the grate, grinning madly.

“Hi, Gwendolyn!” he said, remembering his promise about some potions tutoring. As if a child would ever forget a promise you made in a weak moment—and he had been very weakened by her mother’s intoxicating presence.

“Hi, Severus,” she whispered back, in so low a voice that Severus had trouble understanding her.

“What’s the matter? Did you catch cold?”

“What? Oh, you mean the whispering. No, I’m talking like this because mum said not to disturb you, but I don’t disturb you, do I?”

“Not really, no. I suppose it’s about potions-brewing, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” she whispered, her grin broadening so much that he wondered when her facial muscles would begin to seize up. “Do you think you could come round today?”

Now this was a big, big problem. He had absolutely no wish for another encounter, superficially civil as it might be, with Charles Rosier. Nor did he really feel like meeting Clarissa’s mother. Of course, both parents worked, but Mr. Rosier did not keep regular office hours—nobody would have expected one of Cleansweep’s reigning triad to do so—and Roberta Rosier was a Soul Healer at St. Mungo’s, with a rather irregular schedule. Hence, chances were that he might stumble over them when he entered their house, invited neither by them nor their daughter, but by their little niece. Considering that Mrs. Rosier and her sister were not on the best of terms, things might become even more awkward.

“You know what, Gwendolyn,” he said therefore, smiling at the half-expectant, half already-disappointed look on the girl’s face, “I have a better idea. I bought myself a brand-new potions equipment yesterday—it’s not even unpacked yet. I bet you’d like to have a look at it, and we could try it out together.” Gwendolyn’s eyes lit up. Good. “So, I suggest you come here in the early afternoon, maybe your mother and Clarissa would like to accompany you—” yes, this was definitely a good idea, one of the best he had had these days “—so they can keep us company while we work, and then we’ll all have tea together. How does that sound to you?”

Gwendolyn’s head bounced up and down on the grate—it was a rather disturbing sight. “Yes,” she whispered, “yes, that would be great! Thank you, Se—oh, no, here comes mum!”

Her head was replaced by Nathalie’s. “Severus, I’m sorry, I told her not to disturb you, but that girl is like a bag full of fleas…”

“Never mind,” he said, trying to look calmer than he felt, “We… uh, already made arrangements for the afternoon. Would three o’clock suit you?”

She gave him a nonplussed look. “I see,” she replied, showing her dimples, which was far more disturbing in its very own way than Gwendolyn’s bouncing head, “Conspiring with my daughter, eh? But three is fine, whatever you two are planning. Bye then.”

To sit on the carpet, staring at the empty fireplace with his mouth wide open seemed to become a bad habit lately. But as he was already there, he could just as well call Lestrange for a moment. Scrambling to his feet, he snatched the tin of Floo powder and called “Monrepos!” to the green flames. A House-Elf’s head appeared.

“Good morning, Sir, I is Minnie, how can I help you?”

House Elves had definitely better manners than potions geniuses, that much was sure. “Yes, please,” he said, “Could I speak to St. John Lestrange for a moment?”

“I goes to fetch him, Sir, just a moment!”

Severus waited patiently until Lestrange’s head came into view, looking slightly worried. “Severus! Is everything okay?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied, astonished at the question, “Why should—Oh, I see! No, no, everything went fine last night. No need to worry. I just wanted to tell you that I called McLachlan…”

 Lestrange’s face broke into a wide grin. “Indeed. How did it go?”

 “Well, it was kind of strange. And, er… brief and maybe a little confusing. Anyway, he told me he didn’t want me to do any preparatory reading. Which I’m not going to take at face value—”

 “Does he still play that old trick!” Lestrange exclaimed. “You’d better not follow that advice, however.”

 “Just as I thought. Do you think you might send me a reading list? I’ve got three weeks, which should be sufficient to cover the basics.”

Lestrange nodded. “Of course, with pleasure. I’ll send it over today with Abraxas. I trust you’re fine?”

“Yes, I am. Do you think I might pay you a visit tomorrow?”

“I think it would be better if I came to your place. We would have more privacy there. Have a nice day, Severus.”

Which was exactly Severus’s intention.

~~~*~~~~

Of course, life was not going to continue like this, but it was very enjoyable as it was now. He had gone to the apothecary’s in Diagon Alley to purchase a lot of potions ingredients, mostly basics, and then some specialties he wanted to experiment with. As he had more than enough time and Muggle currency left, he had then paid another visit to Foyles. Disorganized and chaotic as it was, the bookstore made him seriously wonder whether Paradise did look any different. Checking his watch from time to time, to be sure he would not lose himself completely among this accumulation of riches, he meandered between the shelves, drinking in hundreds and thousands of titles, and gathering useful information in the process. He had not known, for example, that the Muggles had such a thing as literary awards. Nobel Prize, Pulitzer Prize, Booker Prize… there seemed to be an infinity of them, and he chose Saul Bellows’s Humboldt’s Gift, winner of this year’s Pulitzer Prize, because the name of the award intrigued him as much as the book’s title. There would be other and more important things to read during the next weeks, but it was always better to keep something in reserve…just in case.

At one o’clock, he had to admonish himself sharply that it was time to return home. It was still cool outside, not unpleasantly, though, and a light drizzle had begun to fall, of the kind that seemed to penetrate everywhere, regardless of whether you had an umbrella or not. Out here in the busy Muggle street, it did not do much for people’s tempers, he thought; they all looked more stressed, grumpy and short-of-precious-time than before. And it had the distinct disadvantage of making the pavement, shop windows, and everybody’s skin look some shades dirtier. Instead of giving this moloch of a city a healthy wash, the tiny droplets gathered all the filth and dust floating in the air, only to distribute it all over whatever surface they landed on. How fortunate that in Nature Alley they had air cleaning spells. Pushing open the door of the Leaky Cauldron, he mentally anticipated the fragrance of his garden—wet earth, flowery scents and fresh grass—under the tepid summer rain.

~~~~*~~~~

The ladies were punctual. Gwendolyn was the first to tumble out of his fireplace, after her came Nathalie. A somewhat awkward handshake later—he would have preferred by far to kiss her, but her daughter’s presence made that impossible—he asked, “Where is Clarissa?”

“Gone to visit a friend,” Nathalie replied, brushing soot off her protesting daughter’s jumper, “Her name is Erica… no, Heather.”

Probably discussing the Death Eater meeting, Severus thought. A sadists’ heart-to heart. What a touching idea. “So,” he said, trying not to sound too elated, for after all, Clarissa was his friend, “It’s just the two of you, then?”

“It certainly seems so,” was the mischievously dimpled reply. “Now let us see your workroom-cum-equipment, please. Although I think I’ll get a nervous rash if anybody pronounces the words ‘potions equipment’ again within the next twenty-four hours. And yes,” she addressed her daughter with a would-be stern look, “that was meant for you, young lady.”

Gwendolyn’s attention was distracted from the wonders in store for her by the appearance of cat and raven, sauntering and fluttering in from wherever they had been—probably in the kitchen, Severus thought, communicating with the House Elf in a way known only to them—to welcome the guests. Nathalie was immediately dismissed as known and thus devoid of further interest, but her daughter’s delighted squeals seemed to more than make up for that.

Amidst frantic purrs and yelps and croaks, Nathalie tried to get through to the girl. “We’ll wait for you upstairs, then, come whenever you’re finished here.”

Gwendolyn only gave her a brief nod, and then returned to her previous occupation, sitting cross-legged on the floor with Esmeralda in her lap and Elias perched on her left knee, stroking the animals and speaking to them. Severus opened the door to let Nathalie pass by him, and then preceded her upstairs to the small room where everything still stood unpacked. The handle of the now-closed door still between his fingers, he turned and, with his outstretched right arm, caught the woman that was so obstinately haunting his dreams and thoughts. For a fleeting moment, he was afraid she might resist, push him back or, worse, slap him across the face—after all, he might have misunderstood her—but was instantly reassured.

“Hallo,” he muttered into her ear, holding her with both arms, but not yet too closely, “You know that I just discovered another aspect of the infinite usefulness of pets?”

She giggled throatily and sneaked her arms round his neck. “Pets and old schoolmates, incredibly useful creatures,” she said, locking her eyes with his. “And, seemingly annoying but in this case highly useful as well, Gwendolyn’s habit of moving around like a medium-sized elephant. So we’ll hear her climbing the stairs.”

“Conveniently uncarpeted stairs,” he muttered, moving his hands along her sides. Still without bra…

That moment of anticipation, just before her lips touched his, the air between them already considerably warmer because of their body heat; the first contact of those silky-soft lips on his, brushing over his still-closed mouth while her hands were wandering over his back; his attempts to keep his own hands away from her breasts he was so eager to touch; the feeling of her lips curving into a smile against his when she grabbed his right hand and gently put it over one small, firm breast; his breath hitching in his throat when he felt her nipple go taut at the caress; her contented sigh when the sensation made him lose all restraint, so that he pulled her fiercely against himself; and kissing, kissing, kissing…

She had been right—Gwendolyn made a hell of a lot of noise on the wooden stairs, leaving them enough time to straighten creased fabric and smooth out tangled hair, even for a last peck on the lips. Then the door burst open, the spell was over, and Severus started giving the first Potions lesson of his life.