The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 16

By Pigwidgeon37

Severus was of course curious to see what the Daily Prophet had to say about the attack on Prewett. On the other hand, not only did he have a certain idiosyncrasy towards newspapers—to read them was a complete waste of precious time, he thought—but to waltz into Flourish & Blotts to buy a paper on Sunday 14 November of all days would be a very imprudent thing to do. Times being as they were, people became more and more suspicious of everything unusual, and he was not going to jeopardize his security out of mere curiosity. Experience had taught him, though, that when there was sensational news people had the habit of calling or showing up at your place, eager to be the first to ask whether you had read the papers. Usually, this system worked to perfection.

His birthday celebration had lasted till after one o’clock. Foreseeing something of the kind, he had already told McLachlan that he was probably going to show up later than usual. The old wizard had a pronounced preference for working on Sundays—Severus had not yet found out why. But he had, of course, understood that an eighteenth birthday had to be celebrated in due form.

So Severus had slept late, at least for his standards, and was just sitting in the kitchen, enjoying a rather large breakfast which he hoped was going to take care of a more than medium-sized hangover. He was not against drinking alcohol; in fact, he quite enjoyed drinking. But the quantities of liquor that had gone down his throat last night had definitely been a little too much for him. After the third cup of coffee, though, he felt much better. Peggy had managed to unearth yet another, entirely new kind of ham that tasted slightly of juniper and rosemary and went very well indeed with the toasted wholemeal bread she had prepared. While shoving the last bite into his mouth, Severus thought that he had to talk to her, both to thank her for taking such good care of him and to ask her about the name of this particular brand of ham, when all of a sudden she popped into sight.

“Master Severus, there is Mr. Malfoy asking for you. By Floo,” she added, seeing that Severus was making for the entrance instead of the living room.

He did a U-turn and crossed the kitchen in the opposite direction. Lucius’s head was grinning at him from the fireplace.

“Morning, Sev,” he said, “How is your head?”

Severus shot him a plaintive look. “Better than before breakfast, but there’s still way to go until I’ll feel like a human being again. What about you?”

“So-so,” Lucius replied. “Have you read the Prophet already?”

“I never read the newspaper, as you know perfectly well. It’s boring and a loss of time. Besides, there’s you to tell me what I need to know.”

Lucius rolled his eyes. “You never change, do you? I’d suggest you have a look, though, it is… well, I guess you could say it’s amusing.”

“Okay, I will risk a glance, if you absolutely insist. But not now—I prefer to arrive at McLachlan’s unprepared, so as to display at least a minimum of unfeigned surprise. He’ll be quite shocked, poor old man. After all, Prewett was his friend and ex-student.”

With raised eyebrows and a mocking smile playing round his lips, Lucius said, “Getting soft, are you?”

“I’m not getting soft,” Severus replied heatedly, “I merely said ‘poor old man’, for Merlin’s sake! You’re definitely overdoing the I’m-An-Unfeeling-Monster act, Malfoy. I saw you with your wife and mother yesterday night, and you didn’t exactly give an impression of total aloofness. So kindly stop being childish.”

Malfoy snorted. “I daresay there’s a difference between how I behave towards my wife and—”

“Oh, bugger off, Malfoy,” Severus snapped and broke the connection.

As he intended to have a second round of breakfast—sweet this time—he picked a book from one of the shelves before returning to the kitchen. Earlier on, Peggy had desperately tried to persuade him to take his meals in the living room’s dining area, as became the Master of The House. Severus had flat-out insinuated that this was less about himself than about being able to boast her table-decorating skills. That had been the day when he had discovered that House Elves were capable of blushing. It had amused him to no end, and he had explained to her that he preferred sitting at the kitchen table simply because it was less formal; he felt much more at ease for reading while he ate. To make amends, he had invited Clarissa over for dinner a few times and allowed Peggy to do her worst in terms of candles, flowers and whatever else came to her mind.

The book he had taken along to keep him company during the dessert-part of his breakfast was one of the most profound and thorough works about Truth Serums he had been able to find. Although he had to admit that his search had been effectuated based solely on his own knowledge, for he had not wanted to ask either McLachlan or Lestrange for advice. With good reason: he had set himself a task, a challenge worthy of himself. He wanted to find an antidote to Veritaserum, regardless of the time and effort it was going to cost him. Sometimes, he allowed himself to daydream of the moment when he would kneel down before Voldemort, holding up the vial containing the antidote and presenting it to his Master. He was not sure whether by creating that unexpected and unasked-for surprise for the man he had betrayed his own guilt would be finally atoned for. He most certainly hoped so.

It was a difficult task, and certainly not one others had not tried to tackle before him. Without success, needless to say. Severus was not sufficiently conceited to believe that the reason for their failure had merely been lack of talent. But he had always been one of those who looked at a well-known and seemingly unsolvable problem from an entirely new angle. That was his forte, and he knew it. In the past—although it was not a very distant past, as the modern form of Veritaserum was a relatively new development—research on antidotes had always been done by trying to find the counteragents to the various ingredients. The big flaw of this method was that most ingredients, and not only those of Veritaserum, were counteracted by more than one substance. Thus, the first, almost insurmountable, obstacle was to find the right anti-ingredients in the right combination and dosage. A futile attempt, in Severus’s opinion. The next problem that inevitably arose if one did research this way, was the mode of preparation. If the recipe for a potion prescribed that you had to stir it three times counter-clockwise after letting it simmer for five minutes, to reverse its effect it was not sufficient to stir the appropriate mixture of components three times clockwise after five minutes of simmering. If things really were as simple as that, potions-making would not be a subtle art, but little better than cooking.

Considering that to prepare a powerful Veritaserum was an art mastered only by a select few—including himself—and required a sheer endless list of ingredients, he had immediately abolished the traditional way of developing an antidote. In this case, the far more promising approach was to try and understand what exactly the concoction did to those dosed with it, and then try to develop another substance that reversed or prevented this effect. It was difficult but feasible. At least it still seemed so now, after less than a week of intense reading up on the subject.

~~~~*~~~~

To say that McLachlan was probably going to be under shock had been an understatement. When Severus Apparated into the Encyclopaedia Room, he was surprised to find the old wizard sitting there, his pince-nez dangling from his limp hand, his head buried in the other hand. From the loudspeakers of the enchanted stereo, the melancholy theme of the second movement of Beethoven’s Eroica was dripping into the room. Sulla morte di un eroe… On the Death of a Hero… Severus’s heart skipped a beat. Was he really going soft? Lucius was right, he should not be moved by the grief of a useless old man who was not even his friend or relative. But the tears creeping down over those parchment-like, wrinkled cheeks… It was not easy to withstand the impact of the scene.

“Sir, are you all right?” he asked, in a low voice, so as not to scare the other.

“Do I look as if I were all right?” The voice had lost all its squeakiness; it was hoarse and thick.

“Not really, that’s why I asked. What happened? Did you receive bad news? To judge by the music…”

McLachlan slowly raised his head. His eyes were red and swollen. Somehow, Severus felt a deep respect for this man who had no qualms about letting him see his grief and tears. It was… kind of courageous. More so than snapping at him or turning away would have been. That withered face, ravaged by sorrow, seemed to yank at something buried deep within him. It hurt. He felt like crying, too. And he most definitely did not like that feeling. It was his salvation, though, for he had to steel himself against it. To fight it off meant to fight off the budding compassion he felt for McLachlan. He was again on familiar territory. Come to think of it, the old man was just ridiculous. So much, in fact, that it was difficult not to sneer at him.

“Yes,” the ancient Potions Master replied, “I have indeed received bad news. Bad indeed.” His pince-nez dropped on the floor, and Severus bent down quickly to pick it up and give it back to him. “Thank you, my dear boy.”

Watching him toy mindlessly with the glasses, Severus decided that he had to try and ask once more. “What happened, Sir? If you want to tell me, that is.”

McLachlan stared at him incredulously. “You haven’t… No, of course, I forgot. You don’t read the papers. Prewett was murdered.”

Severus tilted his head as if thinking hard. “Prewett? You mean Jonathan Prewett?”

The old man nodded. His hair seemed whiter and spikier than ever. “Jonathan Prewett. Yes. A great Potions Master and a great friend. He is dead, and so are his wife and daughter. All dead…” New tears welled up in his eyes.

It was an appropriate reaction to discreetly hand him a handkerchief, wasn’t it? It certainly seemed so, for McLachlan gratefully took it. “You never met him, did you?” he said. Severus shook his head. “What a pity, what a pity. I had planned to introduce you, one of these days. You would have liked him, I’m sure. He was such a fine man, such a fine man…” His voice trailed off, and he stared at the wall with unseeing eyes. The adagio had ended. “I’m afraid I won’t be up to teaching today,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t call you to cancel the lesson—”

“Don’t worry, Sir, that’s no problem, really. We can continue on Tuesday, if that’s fine with you. If you don’t feel like it, just let me know.” McLachlan only nodded, lost again in his thoughts. “Well, I suppose I’ll just leave you then,” Severus continued, a little lamely.

The old wizard did not respond. Tears were running down his cheeks, dripping on his robe and trickling further down—they did not penetrate into the fabric, for it was charmed to be water resistant. Seeing as how the communication had obviously been ended, Severus took a step back and Disapparated. He had to get a copy of the Daily Prophet, to find out what had provoked Lucius’s hilarity.

~~~~*~~~~

Even the Dark Lord smiled. “Now see the way fate favours Lord Voldemort,” he said to his four Lieutenants, who had come to report the results of their action of the other night. “I would have allowed you to kill Greenbaum, for once without leaving the mark for them to see. You all know that the idea did not appeal to me, but I saw the cunning and the logic behind it. But things I do not want to happen have a way of not happening. A heart attack brought about by the shock certainly is the most innocent-looking path to non-existence the man could have chosen. As for the rest, I am satisfied. Very satisfied. Only five survivors, so that your son merely seems to have been luckier than most.”

Malfoy nodded. In fact, the four of them had agreed earlier that fate was indeed favouring them, because Lucius’s ‘luck’ had not aroused any suspicions. None of the other survivors had uttered a single accusation against him. He had also, Severus had to admit, acted very prudently and covered his traces so well that it was virtually impossible to connect him with the culprits.

“Thank you, my Lord,” they said as one. Then Lestrange continued, “My Lord, I am not sure whether I should actually apply for Prewett’s position. It might seem a tad strange, considering that we are in the middle of the school year. If possible, I would like to leave Hogwarts without giving the impression that I was only waiting for an occasion. Although Dumbledore might not regret losing me, I would prefer to have an invitation by a third party.”

Without commenting on Lestrange’s words, Voldemort uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, while letting his fingers glide over the copy of the Daily Prophet lying beside him on the settee. The four men waited patiently until he finally spoke. “I will leave this decision to you, St. John. If you deem the probability of somebody else being called sufficiently small, do as you suggested. I can certainly see the validity of your argument, but only if you can be sure, or as good as sure, that in the end the range of possible successors for Prewett will be so narrow as to suggest you as the ideal candidate. The decision is yours, as is the responsibility for its consequences.”

The suggestion Lestrange had just made was the result of a thorough discussion between him, Malfoy, Severus and Crouch. They had come together already in the afternoon, in order to prepare their nightly visit in Albania—they all agreed that having successfully carried out a difficult mission might be satisfying, but that Voldemort certainly would not be content with patting their shoulders. They had to present their report in the appropriate form and give a detailed overview of the next operation. Even Barty had been in high spirits when they had raised their glasses to their success.

“I am sure, My Lord,” Lestrange replied. “We have given the matter much consideration and come to the conclusion that first, the UMU will try and get McLachlan. He will turn them down, as he always has. Just in case he changes his mind, there is Severus with the Imperius Potion. Knowing the old man very well, I am practically sure that he will not only refuse, but also suggest another candidate he deems worthy of being Prewett’s successor. The fact that he has always taught on a private basis, accepting only a handful of apprentices, plays into our hands. He might suggest van der Beulen—you know, the Dutch—but he would not teach at a university if they offered him his own weight in gold. The same goes for Chang; besides I heard that he intends to return to China anyway. Then there’s Victor Auden, but every child knows that since his wife’s death he has been successfully transforming his brain into a whisky-soaked sponge. And that’s it. All the others are deeply involved in research projects at their own universities or academies all over the globe and will certainly not abandon them lightly. Not for the salary Urqhart offers, anyway.”

“Very well,” Voldemort said, “if that is how you judge the situation, act as you see fit. As I said, the responsibility is yours.” Lestrange bowed his head. “Now to the far more complex question of Greenbaum’s position. You, Julius, will of course apply for it.”

This was exactly what Malfoy had been dreading, and evidently he had been right. “My Lord,” he said, choosing his words as carefully as possible, “If that is your wish, I will of course do as you command. May I though draw your attention to the fact—”

“Are you again jeopardizing my decisions, Julius?” Voldemort interrupted him, his voice a mere menacing hiss.

Severus saw Malfoy’s knuckles turn white, as he grabbed the armrest of his chair. “No, My Lord, certainly not. I merely—”

“Then why am I under the impression that you are questioning my authority? Again?”

 “My Lord, I—”

“Julius, you should know better by now than to test the limits of my patience. I will hear no more. Do as you are told.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

With a sharp crack, a piece of the armrest came off. Voldemort merely smiled.

~~~~*~~~~

Despite the venomous comments that by now regularly appeared on the Daily Prophet’s first page, the authorities were still trying to avoid an escalation of the gradually rising fear amongst the wizarding society. Nathalie Pierson could refuse to have the ministerial bulletins printed on the front page of her newspaper, but she had to comply with the Ministry’s wishes to a certain degree if she wanted to prevent them from taking more drastic measures. So the texts were banished to page five, but appeared nonetheless.

The bulletins were ridiculous—Severus was not the only one who openly voiced this opinion. They mainly contained exaggerated accounts of the Law Enforcement’s successes, guidelines for the citizens and the general assertion that things were not as bad as some dubious subjects would like to make them seem. As to the Law Enforcement and Aurors, they had simply lowered their standards, so that not being killed counted as a success. The guidelines had provoked more than one fit of laughter among the Death Eaters—“Brush up your Shielding Spells” had become something of a running joke between Severus and Clarissa. And the general situation… well, Severus thought, looking out of the laboratory window, it all came down to your standards.

True, people could still walk the streets in relative security. So far, residential areas had not been subjected to major attacks. And those who still held the power did their best to persuade those they had to protect that this was more than they could reasonably expect. They cited examples the sheer absurdity of which should have hit the readers’ eyes like a fist; but obviously the average British wizard preferred being soothed to being given a realistic picture of the situation. They were sheep, and the Ministry still succeeded in convincing them that the vipers slithering over their pastures were blindworms.

To get back to ‘business as usual’ was an essential part of this strategy—if it was a strategy, which Severus strongly doubted. Unless you could call an ostrich’s instinct to stick his head into the sand a strategy. However, the university had gladly joined the Head-In-The-Sand movement. To have part of the Potions lectures cancelled was a painful reminder of the 13 November massacre, and thus had to be remedied as soon as possible. Which meant that they had dispatched a letter to McLachlan the very day of Prewett’s funeral, offering him his former pupil’s position. Not that he would have accepted it anyway, but if they had ever stood a chance, this rather tactless demarche had ruined it completely.

“Look at this!” McLachlan had exclaimed when Severus had Apparated to his house on the day after the funeral.

Unrolling the parchment the old wizard had thrust into his hand, Severus perused the letter. “They certainly don’t lose time,” he commented and gave it back.

McLachlan nodded grimly. “I might even have considered their offer, might have considered it. But with this—” he brandished the letter “—they have forfeited the possibility of hiring me. Call me sentimental, but I can’t work with people who don’t even have the decency of waiting until their colleague’s dead body is cold. Vultures, nothing but vultures.”

Severus silently thanked the university governors for their insensitivity. “I certainly understand your feelings, Sir,” he said, “But who else could fill the position? Will you at least recommend somebody?”

McLachlan harrumphed. “They don’t deserve it, certainly don’t deserve it. Although there isn’t much to suggest, not much. I would have thought of Lestrange, but that would mean to deprive Dumbledore of an excellent teacher, excellent, yes.”

Time for an exercise in Slytherin diplomacy. “Very true, Sir. And to make Dumbledore your enemy certainly isn’t a wise thing to do.”

The old wizard’s head came up in a sharp movement, so that the pince-nez was propelled against a bookshelf, ricocheted off a battered copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs And Fungi and landed, miraculously unbroken, on the wooden floor. “So that’s what you think, is it?” McLachlan asked, squinting at Severus out of narrowed eyes. Severus went to retrieve the glasses and shoved them into his hand.

“Well,” he said hesitatingly, “I suppose it is, yes. Who would want to provoke Dumbledore?”

“I provoked Albus Dumbledore more than once in my time, more than once. And believe me, my dear boy, he wasn’t always the winner, certainly not always. And what could he do to me, eh? Tell me what he could possibly do to me!”

“I… well…” Severus stammered, raising his hands in a gesture of absolute clueless-ness. He did not have to fake that reaction—he really could think of nothing.

“You see? I bet it would make him angry, oh yes, quite angry, if I recommended Lestrange,” McLachlan said, chuckling.

“You aren’t enemies, are you?” Severus asked, now truly curious.

  “Enemies? No, my dear boy, we aren’t enemies. Sparring partners would be more like it, much more like it.”

 Severus nodded. Was it wise to push a little further? He decided that he might give it a try. “Don’t you think it would be more than just a… well, a prank, to bereave him of his Potions teacher just like that, in the middle of the school year? You would put him into great difficulties—”

  “Ah, but that’s the fun of it!” McLachlan exclaimed, stabbing Severus in the chest with his index finger. “That’s what it’s all about! It makes me think of the old days, when we used to challenge each other in the most impossible ways…” He fingered his pince-nez with a dreamy expression in his eyes. “The more I think about it, the more it seems like the perfect thing to do, just the perfect thing,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to write to the university right now, right away. So if you would excuse me for a moment…”

~~~~*~~~~

Lestrange was appointed as Prewett’s successor towards the middle of December, so as to take up his duties at the university after the Christmas break. So far, their plans had proceeded in a very satisfactory way. Malfoy’s application for the position of rector, though, was not so successful.

Whether the Board of Governors believed the ever-increasing rumours about his allegiance to Lord Voldemort was unclear. The argument they used in their polite-but-direct letter of refusal was that Malfoy’s scientific reputation lay within the field of magical creatures; considering that Greenbaum had been a magizoologist, which had proved rather detrimental to the other faculties he had more or less openly despised, the new rector should not bear an affiliation to the same discipline. The governors sincerely regretted…

“This is not your fault, Julius,” Lestrange said after having perused the letter.

“No need to tell me,” Malfoy countered, “But since when has Lord Voldemort been interested in whose fault it was? He wants results, and I cannot give him results. That’s what counts, and nothing else.”

The letter had been passed on to Barty, who frowned and shook his head. Severus waited for his turn to cast a look on the parchment and had to admit to himself that he was a little puzzled. More than a little, actually. His instinctive reaction to Malfoy’s angry words would have been to bristle with indignation; he was unable to tolerate any even remotely negative opinion about their Master. On second thought, though, he had to acknowledge that, if Voldemort punished Malfoy for this failure, he would be doing the man an injustice. It was possible to subject one or two persons to the Imperius Curse, or drug them with the potion, but when it came to a Board of Governors consisting of fifteen people, there was nothing you could do. Barty handed him the letter, and he quickly scanned it.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I don’t think there’s a possibility of making them change their minds, is there?”

The others silently shook their heads. “No,” Malfoy said, “I wish there was. But I suppose I’ll just have to go through with it. At least we have succeeded in getting Beckinsale into the staff of St. Mungo’s. Perhaps that will calm him a bit.”

Lestrange merely snorted. “If you ask me, you’ll be lucky if the after-effects have worn off by Christmas.”

“Always the optimist, St. John,” Malfoy replied, “Thank you for your words of encouragement. Speaking of Christmas—Severus, would you like to spend some days at Malfoy Manor? St. John will be rather busy during the holidays, so unless you prefer your splendid isolation…”

This offer, much as Severus appreciated it, confronted him with a big dilemma: he would have gladly accepted it, were it not for Clarissa. She had seemed rather dejected these last days, and, contrary to his usual habit of just leaving her be until she decided to tell him what was ailing her, this time he had simply asked. Surprisingly, she had appeared to be more than glad about his interest and told him that she dreaded the holidays. Her mother was going to be on duty at St. Mugo’s, Evan had been invited to stay with a friend, which meant that she would be alone with her father. For the last few months, he had not attempted anything; but she was mortally afraid that he might, and probably would, return to his old habits once he could be sure of being undisturbed. Severus had flat-out refused to come over to the Rosiers’, but offered her hospitality—or rather asylum—whenever she needed it. He was not quite sure whether she would like the idea of accompanying him to Malfoy Manor, though.

His thoughts had evidently shown on his face, for Malfoy added, “You can bring company, of course, if that is what makes you hesitate.”

Severus felt unaccountably annoyed at the offer, but knew better than to let it show. “Thank you,” he said, “I really appreciate that, Julius. May I send Elias tomorrow with a message?”

“Provided I’ll be able to read it tomorrow,” Malfoy said gloomily.

~~~~*~~~~

He had not considered the possibility of Severus not being able to write it in the first place. Clarissa, whom he had invited over for breakfast on the next day, in order to discuss the matter of their holiday whereabouts, found him lying on his bed, fully clothed, and shivering violently.

Her voice, shrill with terror, almost made his tympanum explode. “Severus, what’s the matter with you? Are you ill? Shall I call a mediwizard?”

He managed to raise his hand to stop her talking, and to shake his head. With his thumb, he indicated the jug of water sitting on his nightstand. After a few cautious sips, he felt well enough to croak, “No mediwizard! Potion… labelled Anti-Cruciatus… laboratory…”

Clarissa’s hands flew to her mouth. “Did he… okay, okay, I’ll ask later. Back in a second!”

Severus closed his eyes again. This was the second time Voldemort had hit him with the torturing curse, and not only did he feel he had not deserved it in the least, it had also lasted a little longer than the first time, and thus the after-effects were even worse. Clarissa’s hurried footsteps sounded like the trampling of a herd of enraged hippogriffs to his oversensitized ears. The effect of the potion however, the recipe of which he had slightly altered so as to make it more powerful, was almost instantaneous. He had managed to take a first dose after arriving home, and the second one vastly improved his condition.

Clarissa, who had fortunately understood that she had to avoid making any unnecessary noise, bent her head towards his ear and whispered, “ Are you feeling better?”

“Less awful would be more like it. Could I have some more water?”

A quarter of an hour later, he was able to get up and walk down the stairs, leaning heavily on Clarissa. Peggy almost went into hysterics when she saw him—Severus mentally blessed Clarissa for shushing the elf immediately. He doubted whether he would have survived her squeaky voice.

He was led into the living room where Clarissa gently lowered him into an armchair and heaved his legs up to rest on another one. When Peggy brought in the breakfast tray, he realized, much to his surprise, that he actually felt hungry.

“Just tea and toast,” Clarissa said sternly. “For now,” she added with a smile, seeing his indignant look.

“Listen, Clarissa, I’m not a cripple and—”

“Do you think throwing up would feel good in your condition?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. Severus merely harrumphed. “Glad to see you’re able to hear reason. So tell me,” she said when Peggy had left them alone, “What happened? Why did he put Cruciatus on you?”

Severus explained between careful sips of tea and small bites of toast. “You see,” he said, “in a way I understand his reaction. He doesn’t want explanations, he wants results. Has been wanting them for quite some time now. We’re paying the debts of the past, so to speak. Not that I enjoy it, but I accept it.”

Clarissa gave him a quizzical look. “That’s very unlike you, Severus. Usually, you’re not one to accept—”

“Come on, try to think before you talk!” Severus interrupted her. “Do you honestly think I have a choice? Besides, he is right. We must not fail. Never.”

“I see,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “Just to change the subject, then: what did you want to talk about when you told me to come here for breakfast?”

Severus told her about Malfoy’s inviation.

“Mmmh,” she said, wagging her head, “I don’t know… It might even be a good idea, who knows? Christmas with the happy couple…”

“That’s one strange thing,” Severus said, “I think they’re truly happy. Which is a bit of a miracle, knowing Lucius.”

Clarissa poured him another cup of tea. “Do you think he loves her?”

“Lucius? Are you joking? The moment Lucius loves somebody is the moment I’ll ask Sirius Black to marry me. No, no.” He shook his head and cringed. “Ouch, that still hurts.—No, I think they’ve just found some kind of modus vivendi. He treats her respectfully, and she plays the dutiful wife. It’s an arranged marriage, after all, so probably they’ve got more than they expected in the beginning.”

“But do you think that people can be truly happy in such a marriage?”

Severus rolled his eyes and sighed. “Girls! For you the thought of being happy immediately triggers sappy, romantic fantasies. It all depends on how you define happiness, of course. Look at the two of us, for example.”

Clarissa gave him a startled look. “Now who’s joking?”

“I’m not joking, I’m reasoning, stupid female. So shut up and listen.”

“You’ll pay for this immediately after your full recovery,” Clarissa snapped, shooting him a vicious glare. “Thank the gods for being as good as a cripple!”

“Since when does an opponent’s weakness discourage a Slytherin from striking?” Severus asked, raising his eyebrows. He lowered them immediately, though, for those tiny muscles in his forehead hurt more than he would have thought possible. “What I wanted to say was: imagine we got married. Don’t you think we’d be quite happy together? Not in a commonly imagined kind of way maybe, but happy all the same?”

He had no idea why he had said it. And he certainly had not expected her reaction. “You would do that?” she whispered, her eyes instantly filling with tears. “You would really do that? You would free me of that horrible man?”

“You’d be exchanging the frying pan for the fire, you know that, don’t you? I’m horrible in my very own fashion. So what, are you proposing to me?”

Her hands were shaking when she buttered another piece of toast. She had eaten a lot already, so Severus supposed she was doing it merely to hide her embarrassment.

“I… I don’t know what to say, Severus. Really, I… You are aware that it might take some time until I’d be prepared to… to do more than kissing?”

Was he actually having this conversation or was it a weird fantasy, brought about by the curse he had endured? On the other hand, it was not that absurd. Clarissa already spent a lot of time at his house; he had given her leave to come here even while he was absent. From a certain point of view, it would be the ideal solution: he would be married and thus far less of a black sheep in a street where he was the only bachelor among married couples, mostly with children. For her, it would mean a life without the constant dread of her father. Moreover, she had the intention of playing Quidditch professionally; if she succeeded—and  her performance at tryouts was likely to be better if she was not under constant stress—she would spend more time at training camps than at home.

He took her hand. “Come to think of it, it’s not a bad idea. And don’t worry about the… er, physical aspect. If our Master continues going at this rate with Cruciatus, you won’t have anything to fear or expect from me, anyway.”

“Do you think he’ll allow it?” Clarissa asked, squeezing his hand. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to—did it hurt?”

“To answer your questions in reverse order: yes, it hurt like hell, and why should he not allow it?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope he will, though. When will you ask?”

“I suppose I should ask your father first, don’t you think so?”

“Ask that bastard? I don’t need his consent, as I’m of age. You are of age. I don’t want him at my wedding, either. Only Evan and Aunt Nathalie. And Gwendolyn, of course.”

Severus felt a pang of guilt. “Concerning your aunt, I suppose I should tell you—”

He had expected her to be offended, but she merely gave him a mischievous smile. “Severus, she told me that she fancied you right away. I can’t say I didn’t hate her for it, but it’s a thing of the past now. Did you really think I wouldn’t have noticed?”

“I… well, yes, to say the truth.” He was feeling very stupid and very embarrassed. “And… we didn’t part in the most polite of ways. Just so you are forewarned. She might refuse the invitation.”

~~~~*~~~~

In the end, Clarissa decided that she was going to accompany Severus to Malfoy Manor. They were expected to arrive there in the late afternoon of 24 December, complete with cat and raven. A Christmas without Esmeralda was unthinkable, even though Peggy would certainly have taken good care of her.

Christmas Eve dawned grey and chilly, albeit without any trace of snow. Severus awoke rather late and, although he could hardly believe it, he felt happy. Or maybe only content; it was difficult to define. It was a good feeling, anyway, one he had not experienced for a very long time. He was actually looking forward to packing. After a breakfast that made him wonder whether Peggy had possibly gone mad—“But you isn’t here for Christmas, Master Severus, so I prepares you an early Christmas breakfast!”—he strolled into the living room, to select a few books he meant to take along. The Malfoy library certainly had lost nothing of its magnificence, but he thought it better to do his research on Veritaserum using his own books. Never give a Malfoy any ideas, even if you are their guest.

He was just putting the third volume he had selected on the table when Clarissa practically fell out of his fireplace. He did not like the look on her face in the least. “Clarissa, what’s the—”

She was hardly able to speak. “I… I… did it!” she finally blurted out.

“Did what? Pull yourself together, for Merlin’s sake!”

“I finally killed that swine!”