The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 11

By Pigwidgeon37

Sixty stones, pointing into the night sky that refused to turn black; sixty giant fingers, roughly carved from sedimentary stone and worked into angular, jagged, almost geometrical form by the wind and rain of this inhospitable stretch of land amidst the waters. A ring, both soothing and thrilling by its circular perfection that seemed so difficult to reconcile with the coarse barrenness of the surroundings but fit so perfectly into nature’s harmony. Thirty-six Death Eaters stood in a circle, concentric to that of the stones, a miniature imitation of the ancient monument, small and vulnerable-looking against the background of what had been there for thousands of years, immutable, charmed into dilapidation for the Muggles’ eyes, but grand and majestic and awe-inspiring to the wizards’. Strong gusts of wind were tugging at their hoods and cloaks, but they stood, immobile, waiting for their Master. There was a large, rectangular block of stone in the exact centre of both living and inanimate circles, made from another material than that of the megaliths, glinting in the faint light of the half-night like the masks of the Death Eaters. Around this altar-like stone, six figures were forming the smallest, inner circle; they stood waiting like the others, though not only for their Master: they were waiting for their initiation.

It was chilly so far up in the north, on the Isle of Orkney, but Severus did not feel the cold—perhaps he would not have felt it even without his Death Eater robes, cloak and mask. He was deeply moved by the grandeur of the scenery, by the magic that seemed to seep into him right from the ground he was standing on, and by the expectation of the ritual yet to come. Here, in the twilight cast by a sun that would not leave them entirely in the dark at this time of the year, it was possible to dart furtive looks here and there without giving himself away, to admire the massive stones, which were surprisingly elegant in spite of their height and bulk, and to let the eye follow the storm-driven clouds while he deeply inhaled the crisp, salty air.

They were positioned at a distance of about ten or eleven feet from each other, in a circle so large that he had difficulties making out those standing on the opposite side, black against a backdrop of various shades of greys and blues and browns, distinguishable only because of the restless billowing and fluctuating of their garments that were whipped against their bodies by the wind.

Severus tried to imagine how the six who would be bearing the Mark before dawn might be feeling. He himself had been surprised when Lestrange had taken him here instead of to the Malfoys, or McNairs, or even to Albania. And he could only remotely picture the astonishment and maybe even fright of those who were already uneasy because of the ceremony ahead of them but now had to face it in these unknown surroundings. Thinking back to the afternoon, he felt a pang of compassion for Clarissa, who had been counting on their initiation to take place in a familiar setting, where there was light and at least an illusion of comfort. He was not even able to determine which of the six black outlines might be she, for they were standing too far away, the nearest of them maybe ninety feet from himself—impossible to identify who was who.

The whistling and howling of the wind deafened the ear to any other sound, and thus Lord Voldemort’s sudden appearance right on top of the altar stone seemed even more ghostly. He drew his wand and described a large circle above his head, murmuring words that were blown away, out and up and into the night—and suddenly the noise died down, the cloaks were again draped around their bodies in orderly folds, and Lord Voldemort’s voice resounded clearly in the now total silence.

“Tonight,” he said, pointing skywards, “Mars and Jupiter are in close conjunction. The God of War and the God who reigns over all the others are forming a bond so powerful that no one can resist its all-encompassing force. It is the night I have chosen to form my own bond with six wizards by impressing my mark of power that reaches beyond death into their flesh and minds. A mark that cannot be taken away without the sacrifice of a limb and of the innate magic of a wizard’s body and soul. Are you ready to receive the mark?”

Six heads bowed, six voices spoke “Yes, My Lord.”

“So be it. Draw your wands.”

The last command was directed at the outer circle. Thirty-six wands were drawn in perfect synchronisation.

“Open your minds to me.”

Thirty-six pairs of arms opened, rose slowly to shoulder-height, wands pointing skywards, while thirty-six minds focused on the wizard standing on the altar stone. With a flick of his wand, Lord Voldemort ended the spell that had shielded them against the wind, which seemed to hit them with double force now that the protection was gone. It was impossible to hear the incantations he pronounced through the howling rage of the storm, but somehow Severus felt them within himself, though not as articulate syllables he could actually understand. He sensed them vibrating through his body, as if they were pulsating into him from the ground and from the air, filling him like an empty vessel, gradually replacing his blood with their flow of magic. The force of the wind redoubled; it became a gale, chasing clouds that were sinking lower and lower. Flashes of lightning illuminated the scene but there was no thunder. Only the elemental force of the wind, the vibrations of a primeval magic that brought together the forces of earth and sky—they reached out for each other to join in a violent kiss that shook the foundations of reality. Time existed no more, and space was reduced to the circle of stones where the bolts of lightning were now following each other in a breathless rhythm, almost without intervals anymore.

Suddenly, everything seemed to come to a standstill, as if the elements were taking one last, fortifying breath to gather all their strength. Then, the lightning concentrated into a single, blinding mass above the altar stone, and out of this agglomerate of sheer magical energy shot six tentacles of bluish-white light. The six figures standing round the stone shook with the force of its impact, but none of them screamed; they looked like six lifeless puppets impaled on blades of light that suspended them for a long moment before they withdrew and left six bundles on the ground, as motionless in their utter brokenness as they had been while standing on their own.

The wind calmed down, the clouds returned to the heights they had come from, the bond between earth and sky was broken. Slowly the Death Eaters shivered back into consciousness, lowered their arms, took deep breaths that were their own now, not the respiration of the collective being they had become during the ritual. Severus had to pry the fingers of his right hand from his wand with his left, as they refused to unclench by themselves. He knew, or rather felt, that he had not seen what had happened during his trance for his eyes had been unblinkingly fixated on Lord Voldemort. But nonetheless every detail was there; seen through the eyes of each of them, and through Voldemort’s; more sensed than seen, as if it had flown in his veins together with that formidable stream of magic. Now, however, he saw again, saw the six new Death Eaters scramble to their feet and stagger back to the places within the circle that had been assigned them before and were now theirs by right.

Had somebody asked him about the duration of the ritual he would not have been sure but estimated it had been about half an hour. The purple glow at the horizon said otherwise, though. It had to be four o’clock, which meant that they had been here for a full two hours. Somehow, the sunrise marked one more step back into reality, and he suddenly felt so drained that he could hardly stand on his feet. Severus noticed that most of the others were swaying on their feet as well and was almost relieved when Lord Voldemort dismissed them. Clinging to Lestrange, who was not much better off than he, he was transported back to his home and, with a wave that clearly indicated his tiredness, the other wizard was gone. He almost succumbed to the temptation of breaking down then and there, in the middle of his living room, and sleeping on the carpet without even taking off his Death Eater uniform but then thought better of it—such carelessness could have fatal consequences. So he shrugged off the cloak and robes, shrunk them as had already become a habit, put them into his pocket and trudged upstairs.

Even with his senses half-blurred by fatigue, some alert signal went off and immediately dispelled the fogs of tiredness that were enveloping his brain. Something was definitely amiss. Although he had no idea what it was, only a dim sensation of things not being as they should, he drew his wand and ascended the rest of the stairs noiselessly and ready to stun who- or whatever there was waiting for him. Not that he was afraid, but a sudden rush of adrenaline made his heart hammer and the sound of his blood flowing through him in large, eager waves seem almost as loud as the wind that had nearly blown him over only minutes ago. He checked his workroom first—nothing. Then he noticed that his bedroom door was not quite shut; a narrow sliver of pale morning light was streaming from inside and neatly dividing the first floor landing. He stopped for a moment to steady himself. Who the hell could be ambushing him in his bedroom when it was far more practical to wait in front of the fireplace, to hit him the very moment he was stepping out, practically defenceless? Unless it was… He felt a rush of anger make his face go hot. She could not possibly have the gall to intrude upon his private space like that, stealthily and without asking his permission? On the other hand, he thought, it would provide the perfect pretext for throwing her out of his house and his life once and for all. Only he had to be cautious as to the reason for his absence. Well, that should not present too difficult an obstacle. He was eighteen, after all, and a young man his age could not very well be supposed to stay put at home every night.

Wand still at the ready—for there was, however, still a possibility of having misguessed the intruder’s identity—he pushed open the door. She was a tempting sight, he had to admit it. Clad only in a light blue satin slip and panties, she was lying on his bed fast asleep, her right arm resting above her head on the pillow, the left stretched out so far that her hand was limply dangling over the edge of the mattress, legs slightly apart. Yes, she was quite a dish, and a delicious one at that. But in spite of all her delicious dishy-ness, she had to go, and fast. For a moment, he considered sitting down on the edge of the bed, but then decided otherwise—it was preferable by far to use the advantage of his own height in order to intimidate her. He was not going to need his wand, though, and so he shoved it back into the sleeve of his shirt before he approached the bed.

“Wake up, Nathalie,” he said, not overly loud but loud enough to give her a good fright.

She stirred and then slowly opened her eyes. “What… Severus! What are you doing here?”

“I think,” he retorted coldly, “That I should be the one who asks this question. You are in my bedroom, not the other way round, just in case you forgot.”

Now she glanced around the room, slowly taking in the surroundings, and then gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m always a bit disorientated when I wake up. Where have you been?”

“I cannot see how this might be of interest to you. Would you care to explain what you are doing in my bed at half past four in the morning? Unless memory betrays me I did not invite you to sleep over.”

Nathalie propped herself up on her elbows, looking very embarrassed. “I… I don’t know what came over me. I woke up in the middle of the night and thought it would be nice if I paid you a visit à la surprise. Only you weren’t here, so I decided to wait for you. And obviously fell asleep.”

“Indeed. And what possessed you to think I might be the kind of person that likes visits à la surprise? Let me assure you that I am not. And now please get that sweet little arse of yours out of my bed—I am tired and desire nothing more than some hours of sleep.”

She stared at him as if she were seeing him for the first time, astonishment and hurt pride showing on her face in swift succession. “Severus, what… what has come over you? I didn’t mean any harm. I’m sorry to have trespassed upon your privacy but you could at least treat me with a minimum of decency. I apologized, no need to make a big fuss about it. Wouldn’t you rather come to bed?” she said, reclining again and holding out her right hand to him.

How could he have been so enthralled by her, he asked himself while looking down at her with stony composure. She was pretty, granted, but that was all there was to her. He had already found out which buttons to push in order to drive her crazy with longing and doubted there was much more to discover. Even a thorough self-examination did not reveal any desire to repeat the experience. “I believe I made myself sufficiently clear,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “But in case you had troubles understanding me I’ll repeat: get out of my bed. Now. You have exactly five minute to dress and Disapparate, that should be more than enough.”

Now fury had definitely won the battle, to judge by the irate expression on her face. But at least she rose from his bed. Standing only inches from him, she looked into his face and spat, “I am not to be treated like a common slut, Severus Snape, and you should know better than to offend me.”

He did not retreat and smiled down at her. “Why, my dear? This question of course refers to both your statements.” He caught her wrist just before her hand made contact with his face. “And just so you know, may I draw your attention to the fact that I do not like to be threatened. What exactly would be your revenge? A headline in the Daily Prophet, saying ‘Ageing witch ditched by eighteen-year-old out of boredom’? I daresay your readers might not be overly interested.”

Severus had seen enough enraged females in his seven years at Hogwarts—after all, Lucius and Owen had not always, or rather almost never, been too gentlemanlike when dumping their conquests—to be forewarned and sidestep her knee before it hit his groin.

“You are a bastard, Severus,” she whispered, cringing at the pain his grip on her wrist obviously caused her, “A bastard and a monster. What have I done to deserve this kind of treatment?”

“Getting sentimental will not do anything to change the situation, Nathalie. Get dressed and leave the premises. And kindly leave me in peace from now on. Needless to say that this goes for your daughter as well.”

“As if I would let my child near the likes of you,” she replied tonelessly, closing the buttons of her blouse, “now that I have understood what kind of person you are. No need to fear another intrusion.” She was dressed now and ready for Disapparating. “Just one more word: I will pay you back for this—if not now, then later on. I can wait. The day will come when you will feel just as humiliated as I do now, and believe me, I won’t hesitate to strike you then.”

Severus gave a nod and lazily waved at her. “Very impressive, Nathalie. Dismissed.”

Finally he was alone. Feeling very relieved, he straightened and cooled the bed sheets, undressed, took a short shower and went to sleep.

~~~~*~~~~

There were, as Severus learned shortly before he started his apprenticeship, not only group and plenary meetings but also strategic ones, including only Lestrange, Barty Crouch, Julius Malfoy and himself. Lestrange had notified him two days in advance, and thus he had been able to regulate his sleeping rhythm accordingly. Now the four wizards were standing in the room where his first meeting with Lord Voldemort had taken place, their cloaks hanging over the back of a chair, and their robes providing sufficient protection against the heat of the summer evening. None of them spoke a word, they were waiting in silence. Severus saw a muscle in Crouch’s jaw twitch irregularly and wondered whether he had botched another task or whether it was just the result of the constant strain he had to be under, which Severus supposed to be considerable. Not only was his mother invariably weak and ill, his father was also constantly surveying him at the ministry where he had been working since his graduation, and he had to fulfil his Death Eater duties as well. Not to mention the difficulties his engagement with Mathilda was encountering. Although Severus had no idea as to what exactly Barty’s feelings towards the girl were like it had to be difficult for him regardless of whether he loved her or not. He knew what girls were capable of when it came to their hopes of marriage and domestic bliss—the tiniest hint about things not going according to their wishes would turn the most harmless of them into ferocious tigresses. No, he thought, on the whole Barty was not to be envied. His position was almost as difficult as Lestrange’s, even if his father was only an anal retentive bastard and no match for Dumbledore when it came to perspicacity.

Severus’s musings were interrupted by the entrance of Lord Voldemort who, despite a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, did not seem to be in a very lenient mood. He gestured for them to accommodate themselves at the table, sat down himself and, forearms resting on the wooden surface, long fingers entwined, gave each of them a searching look, making them hold their breath with nervousness.

“I will not hide from you that I am not satisfied with the development our common cause is taking,” he began without further ado. “Our movement has been existing for three years, and I have no more than forty-two Death Eaters. I want sixty of them, and I want them to be the finest wizards to be found on the British Isles. Furthermore, we need more followers. There are still far too many insecure, vacillating weaklings, upon whom we cannot fully rely in spite of having demonstrated many times what is bound to happen to those who desert our cause. And I want this situation to change.”

It was painfully obvious that none of the four men wanted to be the first to speak. The muscle in Crouch’s jaw was twitching worse than ever, Malfoy’s mouth had become a thin line, and Lestrange’s brows were furrowed as if in deep concentration. He was the first to break the silence, though.

“My Lord,” he said, “I fully understand, and divide, your dissatisfaction with the situation. But on the other hand, we have achieved so much… and in a relatively short period. I am not saying this out of complacency but… we should not underestimate the results we have reached so far. We have allies, powerful allies, in many important positions—”

He had chosen his words very carefully, but Voldemort interrupted him angrily. “I know exactly what we have achieved, St. John. I do not need a poet laureate, I need ideas, strategies, imagination. We cannot permit ourselves to be content with what we have accomplished. It is far too little, as I believe to have clearly pointed out. We may have some powerful allies in key positions, but there are some institutions, both public and private, which still are firmly on the Ministry’s side. Or Dumbledore’s. Until now, we have not even been able to take advantage of this division among our enemies, we have not yet driven a wedge between them in order to separate and consequently weaken them.”

Malfoy cleared his throat. “Which institutions were you alluding to, my Lord?” he asked cautiously.

“I will forbear answering this insolent question by an appropriate punishment, Julius, but I warn you. My patience is not inexhaustible. You know exactly where our weak points are. The most painful thorn in my flesh is the fact that none of the educational institutions, with the exception of Hogwarts, has been infiltrated in a satisfactory way. Even at Hogwarts, there is only St. John. At Urqhart, there is as good as nobody unless you count the assistant librarian as a great addition to our ranks. The Aurors’ Academy—nobody. The Oxford School for Mediwizards—nobody. How shall we recruit followers among the young generation unless we have trustworthy allies where we need them most?”

“My son will enrol at Urqhart this fall term,” Malfoy replied, trying to appear calm but not quite succeeding, “And he will certainly do his best—”

“Your son, Julius,” Voldemort interrupted him, leaning forward and penetrating Malfoy with his black stare, “Your son has refused to marry St. John’s niece following the appropriate ritual. Yes, I know,” he said with a dismissive wave that prevented the other wizard from defending his son, “you claim that he refused upon your insistence. Be that as it may. But tell me, Julius, how trustworthy is a young man who dares to oppose himself to my orders? And even if he proves to be more dependable than I am giving him credit for, what will he be able to do? A mere student? An eighteen-year-old boy surrounded by fellow students and a faculty who are either our sworn enemies or sufficiently afraid of losing their jobs to at least pretend loyalty to the Ministry? Speaking of which,” he continued, turning towards Barty Crouch, who instantly turned a few shades paler, “Tell me who our allies are at the Ministry? Where is the inside information we need so urgently?”

“My Lord,” Barty croaked, “please try to understand. It is very difficult for me to contact Ministry staff and probe their loyalties. My father is constantly monitoring me for obvious reasons, he controls my work, my every move… I think that Rookwood from the Department of Mysteries might be ready to provide us with important information—”

“You think that he might…” Voldemort’s voice was dripping with irony. “Two years in the Ministry, and you think that he might. If that is all you can offer me, Bartemius, you are not of great value for me.”

Barty looked as if he were going to cry any second. “There are Mulciber and Travers…”

“I know that there are Mulciber and Travers,” the Dark Lord purred, his voice lowered dangerously, “Only you were not the one who recruited them.” The four men jumped when he suddenly stood up from his chair, with the rapidity and fluid movements of a snake striking. “I have been repeating these things over and over and will say them only one more time, namely now. And exactly one week from today, at midnight on 5 August, I want to see the results of your strategic ponderings. Here, on a table, ink on parchment. If I deem them satisfactory, I want to see the results according to a time plan you will have established. I want the Daily Prophet, I want the Aurors’ Academy, I want the Wizards’ Wireless, I want Urqhart, the Mediwizard School, Azkaban, St. Mungo’s, I want every important enterprise in this country, and I also want the small ones, the shops that can sell faulty goods, and the craftswizards who can destroy instead of repairing.” He paused and gave them all a hard look. “Be sure, gentlemen, that this was the last warning. You may be difficult to replace but you are not unique. I will find substitutes for you if you fail me yet again. You are dismissed. Julius, you stay.”

Completely bedazzled with guilt and shame and the eagerness to do something, to prove himself to his master, Severus rose and followed Barty and Lestrange out of the room. After Voldemort’s harsh words, the latter was not looking much better than the former.

“We have to talk,” he said to Severus and Crouch. “And I think we need to ask for your hospitality, Severus, for we can’t meet anywhere else, it would be too dangerous. Would tomorrow—well, no, tonight at seven suit you?” Severus nodded. “Fine. I’ll send an owl to Julius then. Good night, Barty, till later.”

Crouch nodded and Disapparated, closely followed by Severus and Lestrange. When they had arrived in Severus’s living room, Lestrange put a hand on Severus’s shoulder. “I know that you find yourself in this situation without any fault of yours but nevertheless I hope that you are going to participate in devising a plan to gather more followers and save our heads. Although I’m not sure whether yours is in danger as well.”

Severus gave him a quick smile. “Of course,” he replied, “The more minds apply themselves to the task, the better our chances will be to actually succeed. No need to worry. I’m in this with you, all three of you.”

~~~~*~~~~

Crouch had arrived by Floo, Malfoy and Lestrange had Apparated to Severus’s house. Lestrange’s tension, so obvious last night, was now either masterfully dissimulated or had yielded to a good night’s sleep. Barty had come over directly from the Ministry, still in his robes and cloak sporting a single embroidered M, sign of his still very inferior position. He was his usual twitchy and nervous self—no surprises there. Malfoy was looking terrible, there was no other word for it. Usually, his well-trimmed, dark blonde beard did not contrast much with his complexion that was neither exceptionally light nor particularly dark. Today though, he was so deathly pale that his beard looked a few shades darker than normally. When he shook Severus’s hand, his fingers were clammy and slightly shaky, and he visibly cringed with pain at the not overly strong pressure. He was the last to arrive; the others were already sitting in their chairs, Barty with a pot of tea on the table before him. Severus and Lestrange were sharing a bottle of Brunello that came from Ettore Alighieri’s lavishly stocked cellars. The key of his—now Severus’s—house had arrived at Nature Alley three days ago, and Severus had made immediate use of it, going there with Clarissa’s help to take back his books and some of his uncle’s. The idea of taking the wine as well had been Clarissa’s.

“I think I need something stronger than that,” Malfoy answered Severus’s offer to join them, grinning weakly. “A glass of brandy would be more appropriate.”

Peggy brought the bottle and a warmed tumbler, and Malfoy, after having gulped down the contents of a small vial, grimaced and downed a double brandy in one go.

“May I ask what you were taking, Mr. Malfoy?” Severus inquired, his curiosity roused by the greenish-blue potion.

“Stop that Mr. Malfoy-nonsense,” the other wizard retorted, curtly but not unfriendly. “We are all on a first-name basis here, so it is Julius for you. This,” and he snatched the vial from the table, put the stopper back into place and slid the small vessel into a pocket of is robes, “is one of my special creations which, unfortunately, I have been using quite a lot these last weeks. It alleviates the after-effects of Cruciatus.”

“Unless we come up with something useful within this week,” Lestrange said, “we should brew a large batch for the four of us. What was the cause for your punishment, Julius? Did you fail—”

“I didn’t fail anything,” Malfoy interrupted him angrily, “It was just the usual problem of Lucius’s wedding, which I still refuse to be performed by another than the traditional ritual my family has been following for centuries. I will not yield to his wishes, and if he makes me spit my guts on his carpet. Lord Voldemort may not know what it means to have a family tradition to keep up, but I will be damned rather than have it otherwise.”

Severus had to reluctantly admit that he admired the man’s courage. Although it was improbable that their Master would kill him—the Malfoy money and family name were too great an asset to be wasted—he obviously had to endure the consequences, and very serious ones, of his refusal of a dark ritual for Lucius’s wedding.

“Are you sure you are well enough to start tonight?” Barty asked, “Or should we rather adjourn?”

Malfoy gave a short, mirthless laugh. “My dear Barty, this is so serious that I would rise from my deathbed to participate. I take it that you have all understood the graveness and urgency of the matter?”

“Yes,” Severus said, “Although I cannot quite see what exactly the four of us could excogitate that has not yet been thought of. I mean, it’s not as if you had not tried before, is it?”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Lestrange said. “We must go through all our resources once again, ponder every possibility, without discarding those which seemed too risky until now. I suggest that we proceed by institution, to first establish a list of priorities, and then try to think of their eventual weak points. Do you agree?”

The other three wizards nodded, each conjured parchment, quill and ink, and they began planning on a strategy to save their heads and hides.

~~~~*~~~~

Three hours, three pots of tea, a second bottle of Brunello, half a bottle of brandy, and three large platters of sandwiches later, they had established a list of priorities. It had been a difficult process because Barty, who had a fanatical glint in his eyes that was not quite to Severus’s liking, claimed that they had to try and figure out what Lord Voldemort would deem most important, whereas Lestrange and Malfoy stuck to a more practical approach, arguing that it was not possible to know whether their Master thought the Daily Prophet or Urqhart University to be more consequential and that thus they ought to follow their own ideas. Severus, who emotionally shared Barty’s point of view, had to agree that on a purely rational level the two older wizards were undoubtedly right, above all because everybody’s ideas of what Voldemort judged to be of importance would inevitably be influenced by their own thoughts and concepts, so that it was preferable to go by the latter right from the beginning. The problem was that, if Lestrange and Malfoy agreed on the method, they were by no means unanimous as far as their priorities were concerned.

At ten p.m., the four wizards dropped their quills, heaved a collective sigh, and celebrated the successful first step of their task with a glass of brandy. Severus secretly wondered how Malfoy was able to keep a clear head and express himself in perfectly articulate speech after the quantity of liquor he had already ingested. Maybe, he thought, the potion counteracted its inebriating effect partly or completely, or the man had an astonishing tolerance of alcohol or at least possessed amazing self-control. Whatever the reason for his still-perfect composure, Severus—who knew better than to let down his guards vis à vis a man who had never regarded him other than with disdain or loathing—had no reason to complain about Malfoy’s conduct towards him tonight. He was perfectly civil and not contemptuous in the least. And there was no point in denying that the man was highly intelligent, maybe more so than Lucius, whom Severus placed more on the brilliant-but-carefree side of intelligence whereas his father’s brain was as sharp and pitilessly analytical as a scalpel. It was fascinating to watch the interaction between the three men—not that Severus could have done much more than that; he limited himself to throwing in the occasional remark or comment, for which restraint both Lestrange and Malfoy seemed to be grateful.

So he watched. Mostly. And thought that this evening, and probably also the next few nights considering that they were not likely to finish their task tonight, was an exemplary lesson in the subtle art of social behaviour. Malfoy was the oldest of them, and tried to throw his age, money and experience into the discussion in order to override the other three. He would maybe even have succeeded with Barty and Severus, especially with the latter, who was barely out of school and still bore some traces of the respect of his elders that had been inculcated into his mind for seven years. Not so with Lestrange, though. Although he was almost twenty years younger than Lucius’s father, he had a sound experience when it came to braving the authority of older and far more awe-inspiring wizards than Malfoy, though he never did so openly. In terms of money and social status he could give the older man a run for his money in any case, his experience was not so much inferior to Malfoy’s, and years of fooling Dumbledore-cum-faculty and his own father had given him a self-assurance far beyond his years. It was a duel between equals, Severus thought. But he also noticed that both men were exceptionally cautious in choosing their words, and he caught more than one sideways glance directed at Barty. In a way, it was understandable, given that Barty was more of a wild card than Severus himself, above all as far as Lestrange was concerned. Their relationship was still a very close one, whereas between Crouch and Lestrange there had never been anything beyond the mere business connection a Head of House entertained with a Prefect or Head Boy. Even Malfoy knew a lot more about Severus, although it was merely second hand knowledge he had garnered from Lucius, than he knew about Barty. No wonder, therefore, that both men carefully minced their words.

To Severus it was as clear as daylight that Barty’s biggest merit was his blood relationship to Lord Voldemort. His overeager and largely useless contributions to the discussion were making that fact painfully obvious. Every second sentence began with the words “Lord Voldemort would” and Severus had the distinct impression that Malfoy and Lestrange had a hard time fighting their urge to roll their eyes and tell him to shut up. Not only did Barty look much younger than he actually was—instead of his twenty years, somebody who met him for the first time would have given him sixteen at most—he also acted younger, and quite ridiculously so. Severus dismissed him as a sycophantic puppy, but a very dangerous one. If that puppy somehow got it into his head that denouncing one of the other three might strengthen his apparently not-too-safe position, he would not hesitate to do so.

“Well then,” Malfoy said, “After this well-deserved break, I would suggest that we continue for another hour or two. We can’t afford wasting our time. Or does anybody have other plans?” They all shook their heads in the negative. “Fine. Let us talk about Urqhart, then. Lucius is going to start there in October but I have, of course, to agree with Lord Voldemort: Even with the best of intentions, he will be just one among many others and cannot risk too much. Which means that we have to choose at least one target figure, devise a way to contact him or her as conspicuously as possible and, upon his or her refusal, stage an execution so gruesome that it deters everybody else from behaving with equal foolishness.”

“But Lord Voldemort explicitly told us that he wanted new ideas!” Barty exclaimed, and Severus heard the two older men inhale sharply.

“I think,” he said, carefully pondering his words, “that Lord Voldemort is above all interested in increasing the number of his followers. The method is secondary, at least in my opinion. If the old methods work he will be perfectly satisfied. But it would certainly be a good idea to think of some innovative strategy, just in case the usual one fails.”

Malfoy coughed to hide a grin, and Lestrange’s mouth twitched slightly. “Absolutely correct, Severus,” he commented. “Julius?”

“I could not have phrased it any better. What is really important is the crucial question of our target’s identity. Whom do we chose? How many professors are there in the Urqhart faculty?”

“About twenty, I’d say,” Lestrange replied. “But my choice is made. We have to aim at Prewett. He may be my uncle, but that is of little consequence. He’s the ideal target. And you—” he gestured at Malfoy “—might consider swallowing your family pride just for once and applying for his job. You don’t have an official Potions Master degree, but everybody knows you’re quite the genius when it comes to brewing certain concoctions. They won’t refuse you, that much is certain.”

“Are you conscious of how risky that would be?” Barty spoke up, “Prewett is one of the most prestigious, well-known, and above all well-loved—”

“That. Is. The. Point,” Malfoy interrupted him, “If we kill off Selvina Lydell, that stupid Hufflepuff Muggle-lover, nobody will notice. I was thinking of Greenbaum myself but have to agree with St. John. Prewett is our man.”

“But Greenbaum is the rector,” Barty objected, “Would Lord Voldemort not prefer—”

“No, Barty.” This time it was Lestrange’s turn to interrupt. “He would not prefer Greenbaum. The guy is American, which means that not only would his death have less of an effect than the demise of the member of an old British family, but we would risk to have this country swarming with Aurors and Hit Wizards from the States. They are very touchy when it comes to protecting their citizens abroad.”

“Maybe it would be a good idea to simply eliminate Greenbaum by some kind of fake accident,” Severus said slowly. “That is, if Lord Voldemort allows us to proceed that way, just for once. Without Dark Mark or visible connection to us, I mean. It might be very useful to make such an exception.”

Lestrange nodded. “Yes, I second that. So we would have Prewett for effect and Greenbaum just for having a vacancy that might be taken by one of us.”

“I doubt whether Lord Voldemort will agree,” Malfoy said, “But I think it is a very good idea. Excellent reasoning, Severus. How do we contact Prewett, then? A mere letter will not be sufficient. Not to mention that we will have to wait until the start of term.”

“Well,” Lestrange said pensively, stabbing at his chin with the end of his quill, “a letter might be the first step. People are bound to notice its arrival. Then, I’d propose a little visit, maybe when he has guests for dinner. No killing, just stunning and a bit of torture, and the Dark Mark when we’re leaving. That should attract more than enough attention, so that he can boast his loyalty to the Ministry to whoever wants to listen to him, and then, shortly after, the big finale, wiping out the whole family. We must consider, however, that he will probably be well-protected already after receiving the letter. The man is a Ravenclaw, not a foolish Gryffindor who would offer himself on a silver plate just to demonstrate his courage.”

“Mmh,” Malfoy nodded his assent. “We will need a hand-picked crew. The four of us, I would say, Crabbe and Goyle in case physical strength is required, Evan Rosier and Thomas Mansfield, I think. That would be a group of eight, including the best duellers we have got. Eight should be sufficient.”

Barty, who was now looking less strained than sulky, because he had been left out completely, spoke up again. “Are you aware of the uproar this will cause at the Ministry?”

All three glanced at him with raised eyebrows. “Of course we are aware of it, Barty,” Lestrange replied, “I thought it was clear that to cause an uproar and general insecurity was the ultimate goal of the action.”

“That is not what I meant,” Barty retorted angrily, “What I wanted to say was that the faction of Muggle-lovers is still a majority within the Ministry. And one of the most tiresome of them is that red-haired moron Arthur Weasley. His wife is a Thackeray, and it will not have escaped your notice that Prewett’s wife is a Thackeray as well. Actually, they are sisters, if not on the best of terms. So I just wanted to draw your attention to the fact that the Ministry will probably overreact. You know how they are: do whatever you want, and you might still get away with it. Attack one of them, if indirectly, and they’ll scream for your blood.”

“Which means,” Malfoy observed, “that, provided we pull the right strings, we can turn people against them because of that display of brutality.” He stifled a huge yawn. “Gentlemen, I am as good as dead. Could we call it a night and adjourn to tomorrow? Same time, same place, if that sits well with you, Severus?”

It was past midnight by now, and everybody agreed. When they were all gone, Severus tried to dedicate his mind to reading one of the books from Lestrange’s list but soon had to admit that he was too tired. Studying would have to wait until next morning.