The Sybil's Oracle Book 2

Chapter 7

By Pigwidgeon37

When it came to the McNairs, Severus did not have as many qualms and reservations about stepping out of their fireplace without having been explicitly invited to do so. Probably because Lester McNair had never shown the same badly disguised animosity towards him as Julius Malfoy, whose mix of contempt, hatred and envy always washed over him like a tidal wave. But then, McNair did not have as strong a sense of class consciousness as Malfoy Senior. He was, after all, a nouveau riche, more anxious to associate with those of old and powerful blood—and when it came to that, Severus could easily give the Malfoys a run for their money—than to make subtle differences between them. Thus, the Zephyr Millennium remained where it was, and Severus, clad in full Death Eater regalia, stepped into his fireplace at five minutes to midnight.

He was the first to arrive, and exchanged a muttered salute with Owen, who was awaiting the group in the manor’s ballroom, slightly shivering with cold, as the room was very chilly indeed, and possibly also with anticipation, although he would never have admitted that. Cedric’s mother was the next to arrive, then came Lyndon Avery, followed so closely by Waldo Travers that the two men landed in a struggling tangle on the hearthrug, to be topped by Evan Rosier. When everybody had finally got up, dusted and straightened their robes a clock, invisible in the darkness of the room of which only a small part was lit by the flames in the fireplace, struck midnight.

“Where the hell is Igor?” Evan Rosier asked, speaking to nobody in particular but sounding very angry.

This was it, Severus thought. This was the decisive moment, this was what Voldemort had warned him about. Nobody would even dream of showing up late when the Dark Lord himself was present, or Malfoy. Nor would they dare to keep Lestrange waiting. But he, Severus, was a mere boy to them, a whippersnapper incapable of making himself be respected—or so they thought. Very conscious that everybody was looking at him, Severus ordered himself to stay calm and keep his voice from trembling.

“Is he often late?” he asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

None of them answered, everybody was looking at the hearthrug or examining the carved pattern of the mantelpiece, except for Owen, who shot him a doubtful look and shrugged. He could keep Owen out of this, for it was his first time as well, and he could not be expected to answer the question. The others, though… It was a provocation, nothing less. Severus slowly drew his wand and looked from one to the other. Who showed the most derisive attitude? Just as he had expected. Avery. The oldest of them, or so it seemed.

“I believe I asked a question,” Severus said, now directly addressing Heather’s father. “Is Igor Karkaroff often late?”

If his voice failed him now, he was going to regret it forever. He had meant to shout, but then thought it wiser to turn down the volume, almost to a whisper. There was less danger of his voice going out of control.

“Avery,” he purred, deliberately using only the last name, exactly like Voldemort. “You seem to detect a humorous side to Karkaroff’s lateness. Tell me more about it.”

Avery’s piercing blue eyes were indeed holding a glint of humour when he looked at Severus. “I have no idea,” he answered noncommittally, shrugging as if the question did not really regard him.

Still maintaining his silky drawl, Severus inquired “How long have you been part of this group, Avery?”

Another shrug. “For about six months, I suppose.”

He strongly reminded Severus of the more stubborn first-years. What a stupid, childish attitude. It was not going to do him any good, though. “You suppose, I see. And how many times has Karkaroff been late?”

Now the man had the nerve to smirk at him. “I already told you, I have no—”

“Crucio!”

He counted to ten and ended the curse. Avery had not even screamed—maybe he should work on his Unforgivables, Severus thought.

“Has your memory returned? How many times?” The others stood and watched, but Severus could feel, almost physically, that they were inwardly distancing themselves from Avery, who had fallen to his knees.

“Never, damn you!” he choked through gritted teeth.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said ‘never’!”

“The unabridged version, if you please, Avery.”

The glint of humour had given way to a mix of fear and hate. “Never, damn you!” he repeated, raising his head in defiance.

Severus gave him the smile which at Hogwarts had been reserved for Black and his cohorts. Barely curling his lips, icy, and not extending to his eyes. “Wrong, Avery. Damn you. Crucio!”

This time, he counted to fifteen and this time, not only did the other collapse on the floor, but let out a strangled moan. “Finite Incantatem. Once again, then. How long have you been part of this group?”

“Six…months,” Avery panted.

“Six months. And during these six months, how often did Igor Karkaroff arrive late at meetings?”

“Not a single time. He has always been punctual.”

“Thank you, Avery. You may get up now.”

The older wizard scrambled to his feet and ran a trembling hand through his hair. Severus saw him look at the others for support and automatically clutched his wand a little faster—but they all averted their gaze. So the first part had been successfully accomplished. If the second went smoothly as well, he had almost won. He would have liked to draw a deep breath, to provide his heart with the oxygen it was in dire need of, but fought back the urge. It was vital not to break his composure for a single moment, and he knew that he could control himself. Heaving deep sighs was all fine and well at home, but this was business, and a serious one to boot.

The flames turned green and five pairs of eyes stared at the fireplace and at Karkaroff, who stepped down from the grate, calm and unruffled, as if he were going for a leisurely Sunday afternoon walk.

“Ah, my friends!” he exclaimed, “You are already here! And all vaiting for Igor!” And, laughing heartily, he glanced at the motionless group. Finally it seemed to sink in that nobody was sharing his hilarity, especially not Severus, who by now had become genuinely angry. “Sevverus, dear boy!” he said, showing all his yellow teeth, “Now don’t sulk. Come on—” and he was about to approach the ‘dear boy’ when he saw that the tip of Severus’s wand was pointed at him. “Vot is this? You must be choking—”

“Stay exactly where you are, Karkaroff,” Severus said without abandoning the silky-soft tone of voice. It seemed to work wonders, and was certainly better than shouting. Voldemort knew exactly what he was doing, for he never raised his voice, even when he was furious. “I am certainly not joking, and as for choking, we will see who will be the first to choke. Why are you late?”

Karkaroff, who had at first looked at him in surprise, now tried again with the horse-like grin and jovial tone. “Ve don’t stand on formalities here, giff or take fife minutes, it doesn’t matter—”

“I am asking you for the last time: Why are you late?” The tip of Severus’s wand rose a few inches. He was relieved to see that his hand did not shake.

Karkaroff’s eyes narrowed, as if to take in his opponent. “I had some important busi—”

“Which—” Severus spat out the first word “—business is more important than carrying out Lord Voldemort’s orders? Tell me, Karkaroff, but I advise you to ponder your answer well.”

It seemed that the other had finally understood that this was neither a joke nor to be taken lightly. “I vill certainly not tell you,” he said, in a vain attempt to appear superior, “I vas late, so vot, no need to make a big fuss about it…”

“Crucio!” He was definitely getting the hang of it, or maybe Karkaroff was simply a snivelling coward. At any rate, he tumbled to the floor immediately, keening and writhing. Severus counted to twenty-five.

Still gasping for air, Karkaroff croaked “This… is… an outratche! I vill… I vill tell—”

“Yes, you will. And you are even allowed to wait here for him,” Severus interrupted him. “Just to make sure you stay where you are, though… Pervinculo!”  The next instant, Karkaroff was bound and gagged, glaring up at Severus in helpless rage.

Without paying him further attention, Severus turned to the others. “Avery and I are going to Apparate first, you wait exactly five seconds and then follow. One by one, every five seconds. Understood?” The five nodded. “Very well. Masks on and hoods up, if you please.”

~~~~*~~~~

He was extremely grateful for the almost nonexistent duration of transport via Apparition for he was sure that he could never have maintained his tension and adrenaline level, had there been an interval of more than thirty seconds between the disciplinary action and the mission itself. It was hard enough to keep his calm while he was standing near the entrance to his uncle’s house, struggling with his memories and trying to convince himself that they did not matter, that they would go away as soon as the bastard had exhaled his blackened soul.

Everything was calm and silent, the treetops immobile in the warm night air, no breeze, no sound—it seemed almost unearthly. A dream landscape where everything could occur, and where peaceful slumber was soon going to turn into a nightmare. The five black figures were gathered in wordless waiting. Severus gave a brief nod and preceded them to the door. Usually, his uncle did not lock it, and indeed it yielded to a simple Alohomora, just as he had expected. Inside the house, the silence which had been vibrating with life outdoors was static and gloomy, as if sensing that it was soon going to be shattered by screams and then impregnated by death.

He proceeded to Ragnatela’s room, which was located in the ground floor behind the kitchen. The old woman, even more wrinkled than he had remembered her, was sleeping peacefully when they entered her chamber. Rising his hand towards the others, Severus motioned for them to stop at the door, and advanced towards the bed. She looked innocent in her slumber, but then sleep would wrap everybody in an aura of childhood. He drew his wand. Maybe she sensed his presence through the thick layers of sleep, for she stirred, emitting a small snore, and turned round, so that now she was lying with her back to him. He preferred it this way—not that he would not have killed her looking at her face, but it was better like that. The difference between sleep and his brother would not even be visible. They were identical twins.

It was the first time for him to cast the curse on a human being—used on rats and the like it was next to no effort—so he summoned all his energy and pronounced the six syllables. Avdada Kedavra. A flash of green light and her shoulders slumped imperceptibly. That was all. The candle had been extinguished.

He turned round to face the others, crossed the room and saw with satisfaction that the group made room for him to pass through like reed blown apart by a strong wind. They had seen him torture and kill. It took very little indeed to gain their respect, which he deserved anyway. A motion of his hand, and they followed him upstairs, wands at the ready. How often had he climbed these stairs, his heart heavy with fear and disgust? Even once would have been one time too much. But there had been such a lot of them. The staircase seemed smaller now, as did the whole house. He had grown, after all. By now, he would tower over his uncle by a few inches.

There was the bedroom door, hell’s gates for the fourteen-year-old boy he had been. Disappointing as the execution of Ragnatela had been—he could as well have flattened a mosquito against a wall and would probably have felt more—this next step promised more emotional reward. He made a sign to the others to go and check the other rooms while he was waiting by the entrance to his uncle’s bedchamber. When they had all returned and gathered round him, nodding their confirmation of the house being empty, he grabbed the handle and pushed it down. The faint shine, cast over the room by a waning moon crescent, had a quality of supreme indifference. Little did it matter to the silvery satellite whether it lit scenes of love or murder. It was there, calm and steady, like an old tree or the walls of Hogwarts. No judgment, no opinion, just pure existence, and the same light for all. For the victim, the abuser, his murderers, for—

Of course, they had not considered the possibility that his uncle might have found himself another bedmate. But there he was, a boy of barely twelve or thirteen years, with blonde curls, thick and shiny platinum locks, sleeping, breathing deeply, his thumb in his mouth. As if he were catching up on his tainted innocence while he was asleep, by doing this futile impersonation of an infant.

“What about the boy?” whispered Evan Rosier.

“We kill him, of course,” Severus replied. It was necessary. The child might remember the cloaks and masks, and the Death Eaters’ uniform was sufficiently known, in England as well as abroad, for the Italian Law Enforcement to put two and two together. Useless to renounce the Dark Mark if they gave themselves away by letting the boy live.

“Who does it?” The voice, not entirely steady, clearly belonged to Fiona Nott.

“Owen.” It was a deliberate choice, for he knew that with McNair there were no difficulties or power-struggles ahead. Owen would kill his own father without batting an eyelid if he could see the advantage of the action. In this case, the advantage consisted in not being subjected to the torturing curse. Owen was intelligent enough to recognize it. Hopefully he was also up to the killing curse.

A blinding green flash later, Severus knew that he was. “Well done,” he muttered.

He know that it was foolish, and risky—not too much, but infinitesimal as the possibility of somebody turning up unexpectedly might be, it still was a possibility—but he was unable to resist the impulse to take off his mask. The others raised their hands to emulate him, but he shook his head. “Leave them on,” he breathed, and slowly progressed to the bed from which Owen had by now withdrawn.

He had already stretched out his hand to touch his uncle’s shoulder when he realized that this would probably cost him his painstakingly kept-up, calm countenance. Physical contact was impossible. “Anybody care to wake him up?” he asked, turning towards the group.

“With pleasure,” Evan Rosier’s voice drifted over to him.

Severus was curious to see how he would do it. Those were important details, to be noticed and stored away for further use, for they betrayed a lot about a person. Evan was obviously not entirely averse to physical violence. The backhanded blow he dealt Ettore Alighieri resounded in the dark room like a whip crack. The man on the bed moaned, opened his eyes and brought his hands up to his profusely bleeding nose. A brief wave of Severus’s hand, and Rosier stepped back.

“Good evening, Uncle Ettore.”

The expression of panic and fear that contorted the other’s face was almost enough to wipe out many of his bad memories. Almost.

“Severus… what are you doing here? What… why did you hit—”

Now he had seen the others. Gasped in horror. Instinctively, his hands flew to protect his chest, leaving dark smears on his naked skin. Severus watched him in silence as his eyes flickered over the scene, taking in the shadowy forms standing round his bed one by one, then came to rest on the boy. His eyes widened more and more. A tentative hand reached out to touch the still from.

“No more playing around, Uncle Ettore. Not with him and, I daresay, with nobody else. Get up.”

Horrified, his uncle scooted back, away from him, until he nearly fell out of the bed on the other side. “I won’t… what does this mean? Who are they?”

“Friends, dear uncle. Just a couple of friends, who are accompanying me on a pleasurable little outing. Now get out of the bed, immediately.—Point your wands at him,” he addressed the others over his shoulder; they had, of course, not understood a single word of the exchange, “That should be enough to make him move.”

Five wand tips rose slowly, rays of an expiring sun. Ettore Alighieri grabbed for his pyjama shirt and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was sitting with his back to Severus, but the inflection of his voice was a tad too nonchalant not to arouse suspicion when he mumbled “Okay, okay! I’m coming.”

A nice occasion to put up a little show for the others’ sake. An additional lesson of respect could not hurt. Although, Severus had to admit, the object on which he was demonstrating the rapidity of his reflexes and presence of mind was not much of an opponent. He whirled round far too slowly and raised his wand much too clumsily. But Severus’s Expelliarimus made him crash neatly into the nightstand, causing a lot of noise—Severus remembered that a water jug and glass had always been ready at that side of the bed. Whereas in the nightstand drawer—Stop it. Immediately. He almost missed his uncle’s wand that came soaring towards him. A close catch, but a catch.

Ettore Alighieri was still lying on the floor, screened from their view by the ample bed. “Come on,” Severus called, get up, we don’t have all night!”

“I can’t move!” came the strangled reply.

“What did he say?” asked Avery.

“He claims that he can’t move. Probably broke a rib or two when he hit the nightstand.”

“Let’s hope it is only a rib,” Travers spoke up for the first time, “For if he has broken his spine in the wrong place he won’t be able to write. And what shall we do about the testament then?”

“I would suggest,” Severus said icily, “that we cross the bridge when we arrive there. Owen, come with me.”

They rounded the bed, concentrating on every move the slumped form on the floor might eventually make. He did not stir, though, but Severus could distinctly hear his rasping breath.

“Lumos!” he commanded, and now his uncle was clearly visible in the wandlight. He was shivering all over, and looking up at them, his face disfigured by fear. “Move your hands!” Severus ordered. A cramped fist was slowly unclenched. “You see, it’s so easy,” he drawled, “And now your legs.” So the man had not broken his spine—the movements were slow, as if his limbs were glued together, but he was doubtlessly able to move. “Okay, then, up you go. Mobilicorpus.”

He directed the limp body downstairs into the library, the others following in his wake. He pricked his ears, but none of them said a word. Very well, he thought, there was something to be said in favour of awed silence. When they had arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Rosier asked for directions, went to open the library door for him and lit the lamps. Ettore Alighieri looked quite awful. He had obviously fallen upon the shards of the broken jug and glass, some of which were sticking in his shoulders and upper back. And, to judge from the way he was clutching the right side of his ribcage, he really had broken some ribs. Nothing worth of bothering with. He could sit and write, which was all he had to do.

Severus deposited him on one of the armchairs, or rather dumped him on it, so that the shards were driven in a little deeper. His uncle gasped and then let out a muffled scream. He did not seem to represent any real danger considering the state he was in, but it was better to be sure. A muttered spell later, his hands and legs were bound to the chair.

“And now to business,” Severus declared and crouched down in front of him, “Have you made a testament?”

Ettore Alighieri closed his eyes and began to laugh hysterically, then suddenly stopped and caught his breath in long, spasmodic gasps. His ribs had to hurt like hell after that outburst. “Is this only about money?” he asked when he was again able to speak. “Why go to such lengths and kill an innocent child if you only want my money?”

“No,” Severus corrected him calmly, rising again to stand before him, “This is partly about money, but mostly about revenge. First things first, though. Where is your testament?”

Through the blood on his torso, a part of which was already coagulating, but some was still dripping down from his nose, Severus could see the colour rising—an unhealthy brick red that slowly spread upwards until it had reached his hairline.

“I don’t have a goddamned test—” Ettore Alighieri roared at him, but was interrupted by a new wave of pain and a coughing fit that probably did not much for his comfort.

“That should teach you not to raise your voice when speaking to me,” Severus told him with a sardonic smile. “But I think that some drops of this,” and he produced a vial of veritaserum he had brewed in the evening after Nathalie and her daughter’s departure, “should help us discover the truth.”

Pulling the stopper out of the small vessel, he bent down. “Is… is that… is that p-poison?” his uncle asked in a horrified whisper.

“No, you idiot, it’s truth serum. Now open that filthy mouth of yours.”

One, two, three drops. More than enough to last at least half an hour, which was all they needed. He waited a few seconds until the other’s gaze grew slightly unfocused. The effect had settled in.

“Once again, then. Have you made a testament?”

“No.”

“Whom would your possessions go to in case you died without a written last will?”

“To your mother.”

“Mmh. As far as you know, a testament in my favour would be legal?”

“Yes, of course.”

That was all he needed to know. “Where do you keep your parchment and quills?”

His uncle gestured with his head towards the small desk in one of the window niches, wincing at the movement. “Over there.”

“Nott?” Severus called without looking at the others. “In the desk over there is parchment, quill and ink. Put it all on the table. Avery, clean him up. We can’t have blood dripping all over the parchment.”

He heard Fiona Nott’s hurried footsteps when she hastily carried out his order, and Lester Avery’s heavy pace coming up behind him.

“Should I also heal his wounds? They are bleeding a lot.”

Severus briefly considered and then nodded. “Yes, otherwise we’d waste too much time and parchment, so don’t forget to mend his nose.” While Avery and Nott were busy, he turned to Waldo Travers. “I suppose we’ll have to cast the Imperius Curse together,” he remarked, “Or else it won’t be of much use, considering that he doesn’t understand a single word of English.”

Travers nodded zealously. “Of course, yes, certainly, that seems very reasonable.”

Finally, Ettore Alighieri, more or less shard-free, his wounds sloppily but effectively healed, was sitting at his desk. They would have to hurry, Severus thought, for the man’s breath was becoming more and more raspy, with a distinct gurgling sound to it. Probably there was blood in his lungs.

“Ready?” he asked Travers, and they positioned themselves behind his uncle, side by side. “On the count of three, then. One, two, three… Imperio!” The combined force of the two curses pushed their victim forwards against the tabletop. “Looks as if we were successful. Now, dearest uncle, write after my words: First the date, top right corner. Turin, 25 August 1973…”

~~~~*~~~~

They were back at McNair’s house shortly before two o’clock. The testament had been written and shoved between the papers in the drawer where Ettore Alighieri had told them he kept his personal documents and a few souvenirs, like letters and objects of sentimental value. He had resisted half an hour while they tortured him to death in his bedchamber. Severus had insisted they take him back there, for the presence of the dead boy and the brutally maimed body of his seducer—or lover, whatever—were likely to lead the Law Enforcement to the wrong conclusions. The library had been meticulously cleaned and reordered afterwards, so as to wipe out any trace of their presence there. The moon was already high up in the sky, indifferent as ever, when they exited the house and Apparated back.

Lord Voldemort was waiting for them, sitting cool and upright in a high-backed armchair, with Karkaroff, still bound and gagged, lying at his feet. He waited until everybody had taken off their masks and—unnecessarily but compulsively—straightened their robes, then scrutinized them, one after the other, and merely nodded.

“Severus, report.”

By now, he was running on pure adrenaline. Getting the two mutinous Death Eaters in line, concentrating on the joint Apparition, doing the Killing Curse for the first time, then casting Imperius, Cruciatus and some minor torturing curses again, surveying that all their traces be annihilated, Apparition again… he was totally and utterly exhausted. A successful mission was nothing, though, without an adequate report, he told himself, and thus mustered up all the strength he still possessed.

“Yes, my Lord, and with pride because we have accomplished everything according to your wishes. I have to say, though, that the start was not entirely satisfying, for Karkaroff arrived almost five minutes late and refused to give any explanation for this lack of punctuality. His attitude towards myself was sufficiently rebellious for me to leave him here for I did not trust he would follow my commands, which might have proven detrimental.”

Voldemort bent his head in agreement. “A very wise decision. I will deal with him later. Continue.”

Severus deliberately omitted Avery’s not-quite-impeccable conduct, praised Owen for having killed the boy without any hesitation, and the others for having fulfilled their duties without a single hitch.

“I think the Italian Law Enforcement will inevitably be side-tracked by the evidence. The boy is dead, but it is impossible to determine who killed him, and my late uncle is in a state that might very well suggest an act of vengeance by an enraged parent or relative. It would be a scenario very much in the Italian spirit, if I may say so.”

Silence ensued, during which Voldemort subjected them to another thorough examination. Finally, he said “You have carried out your task satisfactorily, all of you. I am pleased. You may leave and will be summoned in the usual way the next time your services will be needed. Severus, be at Malfoy Manor the day after tomorrow at one a.m.”

They all bowed, put on their masks and left the room. Briefly wondering what was going to happen to Karkaroff, Severus followed Owen to a salon—the ballroom being occupied—and saw the others off. Avery gave him a brief nod and something he probably thought to be a smile before he stepped into the green flames.

“Good night, Owen,” he said, shaking his hand, “You did very well.”

Owen tilted his head. “You know,” he said, “Don’t get me wrong, but I would never have thought you could pull it off like that. You never were the authoritative type. But there seems to be a side to you you chose not to show at school. I’m glad I always treated you halfway decently, to say the truth.”

“So am I,” Severus replied, leaving it to Owen to figure out whether he was glad for himself in hindsight or for Owen’s sake.

~~~~*~~~~

First, still standing in his living room, he took off his Death Eater robes, shrunk them and put them into his pocket, then padded into the kitchen. He was so thirsty that he felt his tongue glued to his palate and had to gulp down three glasses of icy cold water to feel better. Drinking alcohol in a situation like this was no good, and he knew it—normally he was not even very fond of high-proof beverages—but he felt that he could kill for a glass of whisky now. Considering that it had been the killing to instil the craving for whisky, this was maybe not the best way of describing how much he longed for it, he thought with a smirk. Well, one glass was not going to harm him. The important thing was not to let it get out of control. He refilled his water glass, poured himself a medium-sized portion of Ogden’s Old and went out on the terrace.

The night was not as clear as it had been in Italy, but the weather had improved since this morning, so that the occasional star was peering through the holes between clouds. He sat down and propped up his feet on the chair opposite his, put the water on the tiled floor beside him, let out a deep, liberating breath and took the first sip of whisky. His throat, tickled by the cool night air, burned gratefully, as did his stomach. He had not been aware of just how clenched it had been, but now it gradually relaxed in the liquor-induced warmth. Another sip, and the heat quickly spread through his whole body, warming, relaxing, making him feel snug and comfortable.

So, what was the big deal? Why did people make such a fuss about killing? Who had started this You-Have-Taken-A-Life-So-Your-Life-Will-Never-Be-The-Same-Again nonsense? Shakespeare? Homer? Why should Clytemnaestra go raving mad with regret because she had killed a husband who would have gladly sacrificed their beautiful, innocent daughter just because the soldiers were tired of waiting for their departure? Why would Lady Macbeth be assaulted by lunacy for having finished the life of a useless old man who stood in the way of her husband’s career? Why would people waste away with guilt because they had, at a certain point in their lives, taken an entirely justified decision? It was bigotry, petty morals that forced those feelings of remorse and contrition upon them.

On the other hand, he did not understand those who idolized murder. It was a necessity sometimes, like taking a potion when you were ill or throwing away old clothes when you needed new ones. Nothing to be glorified, and nothing to be abhorred. Animals did it all the time, and to them it was completely natural. Kill to survive. To kill his uncle ensured his emotional and economic survival. Ragnatela’s and the boy’s deaths had been necessary to ensure his and the others’ indemnity.

When he had finished his whisky he felt that he had washed the stress out of his system. It was time to go to sleep. Maybe he was not even going to have his usual nightmares.