The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 17

By Pigwidgeon37

Clarissa had killed her father, and Severus’s life had changed.

He had not fully realized it until late that night when he was sitting in the guest room assigned to him at Malfoy Manor, trying to calm down and get a grip on his frantically reeling mind. Too much had happened during the last twelve hours for him to be able to spare a single minute for clear, logical thinking. Severus was too tense even to sit down; he paced the room with something akin to fury in his demeanour and, when that proved to be inefficient, he grabbed a heavy winter cloak and went downstairs and out into the park. The cold night air that bit into his cheeks and hands accomplished what moving like a caged animal had not allowed him to do. Gradually he felt his mind consolidate itself and become again the tool he was used to relying on. What had until now been a blurry vortex of shapes and sound turned into a succession of well-defined, almost too sharp images he could examine and store in his memory.

Charles Rosier had been killed in an act of self-defence when he tried to assault his daughter, just as she had been dreading. This time, though, she had reacted to his aggression instead of enduring it and put all her hate and fear behind the Killing Curse. It had been her first time to use it on a human being, but her rage had compensated what she might lack in magical ability. The curse alone would have earned her a life sentence in Azakaban, for no matter why a person used an Unforgiveable, self-defence or not, the verdict would always be the same. She had, however, considerably aggravated the situation by leaving the Dark Mark drifting up into the sky. Worst of all, she had dropped her wand at the very moment the Floo system sucked her out of the living room fireplace.

The Dark Mark meant the arrival of a battalion of Aurors at the scene of crime within a few seconds from its appearance and, as there were no culprits to be arrested, the Aurors were likely to Apparate all over England, popping up at the homes of the usual suspects in order to interrogate them. Severus had only just had the time to cast an invisibility spell on Clarissa and tell her to stay in the garden without moving and possibly without breathing, when the house had resounded with furious pounding at the door. The following thirty minutes had been an ordeal.

Moody had been alone this time. But the situation had not been greatly improved by this fact. Severus had, of course, not told him anything about Clarissa’s reasons for killing her father—it was of less than no importance, now that her allegiance to Voldemort had been proved by means of a simple reverse spell cast on her wand. Her official wand, fortunately. If anything related to this dreadful mess could be called fortunate. Clarissa was Severus’s peer and housemate, and thus Moody’s yet unproved suspicions on his behalf had become, at least in the Auror’s opinion, more justified. Severus had stood his ground, but it had been a close shave. Usually, when a planned attack was put into action, everybody—participants and non—had watertight alibis, prepared in advance. Today Severus was sure he was not the only one who had trouble accounting for their whereabouts during the last ten minutes and witnesses thereof. In the end, Moody had had to leave his house in roaring frustration.

Immediately after the coast was clear, Severus had Apparated Clarissa over to his house in Italy. She would have to stay there until further notice. To Severus, this meant he had to betray Voldemort once more, for he had no doubt about their Master’s reaction to what Clarissa had done. Not only had she drawn the Ministry’s attention to herself by her foolish use of the Dark Mark, she had also put the whole movement into grave danger. Severus was sure Voldemort would kill her on the spot if he found her. To stand a reasonable chance of surviving his wrath, she had to disappear without a trace. Severus would have to lie again.

He had just Apparated back home and was performing a Healing Spell on his left shoulder Moody had dislocated when Lucius’s head appeared in the fireplace. Severus was immediately alarmed by the expression on his face—he had seen him look remotely like this only once, in their fourth year when the Aurors had arrived at Howarts to investigate on Sybil’s behalf, but he was looking much worse now.

“Lucius,” he said, approaching the fireplace, “tell me what happened, for heaven’s sake, you look terrible!”

“Could you—” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “Could you please Apparate over? Right now?”

“Yes, but tell me what—”

“My father is dead.”

He had never felt any affection for Julius Malfoy, but during the last months he had come to appreciate the man and some of his qualities. Whatever his feelings towards Lucius’s father, his death was a severe blow in more than one way. “What happened?”

Lucius swallowed. “Yes, maybe it’s better if I tell you now, it wouldn’t do to repeat it in the presence of my mother and Narcissa. The Blacks came here to ask questions about the death of Clarissa’s father, it seems that it was our doing. They behaved worse than ever before, my father lost his temper and drew his wand. Unfortunately—” His voice broke again. Severus stared incredulously at the man he had known for so many years as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Unfortunately he was standing near the great staircase. When Black disarmed him, he stumbled backwards… Black was furious, and his spell had struck my father with enormous force… and my father was flung against the edge of the banister with the back of his neck. He was… he died …it was already over when I reached him. We couldn’t do anything.”

Severus stood rooted to the spot, unable to stop shaking his head. “I can’t believe it,” he muttered, “I can’t believe it… It’s so absurd that he—”

“Yes,” Lucius said, the word followed by a mirthless laugh, “yes, it’s truly absurd. But if you really want to help me, come over right now. I’m not quite on top of the world myself, but imagine my mother and Narcissa… And I have to take those two…criminals to the Ministry.”

“Of course. I just have to grab my bag. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

The tears in Lucius’s eyes had deeply disconcerted him. The impact of the two women’s grief and desperation had been almost too much for Severus to bear.

His luggage and animals were taken care of by a House Elf; Lucius came to greet him with a yet unfamiliar expression of adamant determination on his paler-than-usual face and, after a few words of gratitude, flooed directly to the Ministry with the two bound and gagged Aurors in tow.

Severus entered the living room. Yelena Malfoy was lying on an ottoman, seemingly too exhausted to cry anymore. Her face was still beautiful, but she seemed to have aged by ten years. With her stunningly mismatched eyes staring at some point beyond the wall and probably beyond the universe, her hands clenching and unclenching around a handkerchief, she was the epitome of helpless desperation. Narcissa was sitting beside her on the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut, legs unceremoniously spread, slack hands draped carelessly in her lap. None of them made a sound, which somehow lent an even more sinister touch to the whole scene.

Severus had dealt with Narcissa first, asking her to try and get up, for he needed her help with putting her mother-in-law to bed. She had obeyed as if those invisible strings had suddenly been attached to Severus’s hands. It would have been easier to simply levitate Yelena, but he decided against it—somehow it seemed undignified to make her float upstairs with her head lolling back and her arms dangling limply in mid-air. So he had lifted and carried her, with Narcissa following in his wake like a half-ghost. Obeying to his whispered demand, she had fetched a nightgown and begun to undress the other woman, which gave him time to go downstairs. With the help of Dobby the House Elf—the poor creature was completely beside itself with terror—he had managed to find the necessary ingredients for a simple calming draught it took him ten minutes to brew.

When he had returned upstairs, he had found Narcissa lying next to her mother-in-law, curled up against her for comfort and obviously also warmth, for she was shivering violently. It was lucky that he had made more of the draught than he would have needed for only one patient, so he could administer it to both women. Narcissa fell asleep almost instantly. Severus summoned a chair to the bedside, sat down and hesitantly took Yelena’s hand. The smile she gave him when she slowly turned her head towards him made his heart ache. It was then that the terrible injustice and absurdity of this whole tragedy hit him full force, and he had to fight hard to keep his composure, mostly for her sake. She said nothing, only looked at him, smiling that odd, broken smile, and briefly squeezed his hand. He kept her fingers in his and gently stroked them until, a little while later, she too fell asleep. After making sure that both were warm and as comfortable as possible, Severus noiselessly left the bedchamber and went downstairs to wait for Lucius.

He had returned maybe an hour after his departure. Now that the tension was gone, he looked thoroughly devastated and answered Severus’s questions by mere monosyllables.

“I think I need a drink now,” he said after a few minutes of silence, for Severus had finally given up prodding him. “Listen Sev, why don’t we do it the other way round? Tell me what happened to Rosier and let me listen for a bit. I’m in no state to talk right now.”

So Severus had told him what had happened in the morning, and they had both agreed that Lord Voldemort had to be informed immediately. To alert Lestrange and Barty was too risky, given that Lestrange was still at Hogwarts and Barty at the Ministry. They had to go on their own.

“What about your mother and Narcissa?” Severus asked. “We can’t leave them here with only the House Elves to look after them. They might wake up, and just imagine how they’d feel if neither you nor I were here.”

So they had cast a sleeping spell over the two women and Disapparated to Albania, both fearing for their lives. None of them could be blamed for what had happened, but their Master’s wrath did not usually distinguish between guilty and not guilty. Unable, and also unwilling, to bear the whole load of responsibility and worry for Clarissa on his own shoulders, Severus had decided to tell Lucius the whole truth. He needed somebody to share this with, and Lucius was the only one he could trust enough, even though he was well aware that the truth might become a dagger in his back one day.

Neither Lucius nor Severus could be accused of lacking courage; both had, however, cringed under the assault of Voldemort’s fury. What saved their lives and sanity was that they had been the first to show up and tell the story. Although not all the Death Eaters were listed as suspects at the Ministry, many of them were, and were thus likely to have received undesired visits by Aurors as well. So far, however, none of them had worked up the courage to face their Master and tell him the bad news about Clarissa. Thus, Severus and Lucius went unpunished and only received the peremptory order to do everything in their power to find Clarissa. Julius Malfoy’s death could not be avenged for now, as any punitive action on their part would have confirmed the Ministry’s already existing suspicions on his behalf. True, the dead were dead, but Lucius would have inherited not only his father’s fortune but the whole weight of ministerial repression as well.

Upon their return, they had taken the sleeping spell off the two women and persuaded them to come downstairs for a light dinner. Narcissa had calmed down enough to make an effort at normalcy for her mother-in-law’s sake, and although their meal had by no means been a cheerful affair, Lucius’s mother had at least eaten something and exchanged a few words with the others. Severus’s suggestion that they take a sleeping draught had been gratefully accepted, and so he had gone to brew it immediately—Julius Malfoy’s own private laboratory was well-stocked and contained everything he needed. Yelena had asked her son whether she might borrow his wife to share her bed this night, so she would feel less lonely. This time it was Lucius to tuck them both in and give them their potions while Severus waited in the library, nursing a glass of brandy and letting the waves of both emotional and physical exhaustion sweep over him.

When Lucius had joined him, they had talked for a while, mostly about the immediate future, and then decided that they were too tired to continue any longer; so they had retired to their respective rooms. Severus knew that, despite the leaden weariness he felt, sleep was going to elude him tonight, but began to get ready for bed all the same. There were more than enough books to keep him company, and if he felt the need, he could always take some of the Sleeping Potion he had prepared. They had eaten dinner in informal attire, so he had to shed only his shirt and trousers. With his shirt already unbuttoned, Severus was struggling with the cuffs and went a little nearer to the chandelier sitting on the dresser, for one of the tiny buttons refused to slip out of its hole. He bent forward towards the light, and the chain, on which his medallion and the key to his Gringotts vault were suspended, dangled in mid-air. For a moment, the medallion reflected the candlelight directly into his eye.

It was then that the realization hit him. ‘You will have a passionate love affair and kill your lover in a fit of jealousy.’ Sybil’s husky voice, the evening sun, Lucius’s scathing comment… It was all back in his mind, vivid and fresh, as if the scene had taken place only yesterday. The translation of what she had seen with her mind’s eye in those frogs’ guts had maybe not been exact. But Severus was sure that Sybil’s prediction for Clarissa had not been made up. In a way, there had been passion—the passionate hate Clarissa had felt for her father, and the perverted love of Charles Rosier for his daughter. Jealousy and rage… easy to confound, especially if one was not familiar with the situation. Sybil had seen a lover, passion and a murder committed in extreme agitation—only too understandable that she had thought of a crime passionel, it was the logical interpretation.

Slowly, Severus’s hand had crept up to grab the medallion that still contained the parchment Sybil had given him after the graduation feast. The prophecy he had dismissed as crap but kept all the same. The prediction. The Sybil’s oracle. And he had started his furious pacing of the room until he felt he would go mad unless he went downstairs and out into the cold.

And now, after a brisk walk through the grounds, he braced himself to look truth in the face. On a chain around his neck, he was wearing a brief summary of his future life. He might like it or not, it was there. In his heart of hearts he knew that it was as true as the prediction for Clarissa. And that changed everything.

Upstairs in his room, he had not found the courage to take out the parchment and read it—not that he needed to, for he knew the words by heart. But he could not resist the urge to look at it, just to make sure it was still there, with every word, every letter firmly in place, telling him about his destiny. He had to do it now.

Death and rebirth… It was still as he remembered it. Not a iota had changed. Only he had no idea what it meant. Death and rebirth… The events she had predicted for Clarissa had already come to pass. Did that imply he was already dead—in whichever distorted, figurative sense she might have meant it? Death… Could it have anything to do with being a Death Eater? Was he already a Death Eater? In his heart he was, but he still lacked the Dark Mark. And if becoming a Death Eater really was what she had intended by Death, what was the rebirth going to be? Was that ridiculous piece of parchment implying he would turn away from Voldemort? Why on earth should he do that?

You already lied to him twice, his conscience told him. Yes, that was an undeniable fact. He had lied twice to his master. He had been more loyal towards Lucius and Clarissa than towards the man he owed everything to. And yes, the constant guilt made his life hell. So far the prediction was right. What about love, then? What about the mysterious soul mate, who seemed to be destined to serve as something like his own personal messiah? A woman… The Bloody Baron’s words came to his mind, suddenly and unbidden. Only love could bring a dead soul back to life.

No. He simply refused to follow this line of thought anymore. The prediction might be genuine, but it was too dark, too vague. Everything could already have happened and it might just as well be part of a near or distant future. And if the latter was true, then it was useless to spend the rest of his life waiting for his death, rebirth and redemption by some woman he probably did not even yet know. It was foolish to try and live up to a prediction. He was not going to constantly be on the lookout for tangible proofs.

Straightening his shoulders, he re-shrunk the parchment and put it back into the medallion. No more foolish thoughts. But deep down he knew that from now on, he would be waiting.

~~~~*~~~~

It would have been difficult, if not downright dangerous, for Severus to retrieve from his Gringott’s vault a sum large enough to guarantee Clarissa a carefree life for the next months. There was a lot of money, but considering that their close relationship was common knowledge among the Death Eaters it would not have been wise to withdraw an exceptionally high amount for the use of which he had no explanation or proof. Lester Avery, Heather’s father and head of the bank’s Muggle Relations Department, was very useful when it came to emptying the vaults of their victims or throwing another batch of fake pound notes on the financial market. On the other hand, he also kept a close watch on the accounts of his fellow Death Eaters, and Severus was sure that his own was being constantly monitored.

The Malfoys had, of course, a vault at Gringott’s, but they also kept considerable sums in their own dungeons. Thus Lucius suggested that he be the one to advance whatever she needed to Clarissa, for he could do so without any risk. “You’ll have to do the trickier part anyway,” he said, handing the leather pouch to Severus. He had shrunk it and put a weight-reducing spell on it, otherwise it would have been too heavy and too conspicuous. “You’ll have to take it to her like this, in cash, there’s no other way.”

“I know,” Severus said, “And I hope you’re aware that you might not get it back anytime soon. How much is it, anyway?”

“I thought that two thousand galleons might be sufficient for now. You have to impress on her, however, that she mustn’t open an account anywhere. Those goblins are not to be trusted. As for my getting it back, tell her not to worry. Where do you think she’ll go?”

“I have no idea. As we already said, it must be out of owl’s reach, for it would be too easy to trace her simply by sending her a letter. So I suppose it will have to be rather far. The farther, the better. It won’t be easy for her, but it’s still better than being dead.”

“Or one-armed.”

“Indeed. I’ll go right now, so as to be back in time for the funeral.”

~~~~*~~~~

He could still feel Clarissa’s lips on his and her arms hugging him for the last time when he Apparated in front of Malfoy Manor two hours later. The first guests were already arriving, and he still had to change into his mourning robes. He was wearing them a lot these days, more often than he would have desired. Charles Rosier’s funeral had been yesterday, and now Julius Malfoy was to be buried near his ancestors. While exchanging his robes for the formal attire, more or less automatically, he thought how relaxed and almost happy Clarissa had appeared, as if she had shaken a heavy weight off her shoulders. Which probably was exactly what she felt. Her plans to go to the United States met his sincere agreement, more so as she had decided to give it a try and live in the Muggle world at least in the beginning, just to be on the safe side.

“From what I’ve heard,” she said, “they’re all so completely cranky over there that my initial problems with their strange inventions will easily pass as eccentricity. And you can send me letters via the Muggle post.”

Stroking her hair, he observed, “That’s a really good idea, but I can’t receive any answers. Not to mention that I won’t know the address in the first place.”

In the end, they had decided that he was going to invent a credible story to tell the staff at Foyle’s, so that she could send him letters there. A last kiss, and she had been gone. Severus had to admit that he would miss her a great deal. Not as much as he had thought, though. She was not the promised soul mate, after all, the one who would—No, he mentally chided himself, he must not let this prophecy rule his life. There were important matters to deal with now, not least of all the funeral.

Downstairs, the large crowd of mourners was already assembled. There seemed to be fewer people than at the other important funeral he had attended, that of the Potters, but it was still impressive to see hundreds of people form a procession that moved towards the north-western part of the grounds where all members of the Malfoy family had been buried for more than three centuries. Like three years ago at the Potter funeral, Severus was one of the selected few seated on one of the chairs that had been put there for the guests of honour. His mood, however, could not have been more different. Sincere compassion for Yelena Malfoy, who was looking very small and pale in her torn black robes, mingled with a strong sense of insecurity about the future—it had not yet been decided who was going to be Julius Malfoy’s successor within the Death Eaters’ inner core—and with his own conflicting feelings about Clarissa’s departure was weighing heavily on him. And all the same, he was tingling with his newfound anticipation which he hoped was going to wear off with time, for it was far too irritating for his own comfort.

The dead body of Julius Malfoy was lowered into the earth at exactly the moment when the sun rolled down the hillside, bathing the house and grounds in its mellow, orange-pink light. When the last mourner had put his farewell gift on the pile that glittered golden in the light of the torches, the world was already shrouded in darkness; the area illuminated by the torches an illusionary island of warmth and comfort in a vast ocean of nightly cold.

It had been impossible for Lucius to avoid that the Minister of Magic perform the ceremony. He had, however, succeeded in averting the formal meal—dinner, in this case—that traditionally followed the funeral, by simply claiming that his mother’s delicate state of health did not allow it. In a way, this was true, because it would have been too much for her and everybody else to receive the supreme boss of those who had killed Julius Malfoy in the latter’s own ancestral home. Especially because the minister was responsible for the Blacks’ more than lenient treatment; they had been suspended from their Auror duties for a month and been obliged to pay the family an indemnity that might hurt them but was a mere nothing to the Malfoys. The official apology by the minister himself or by the head of the Auror Supervision Committee Lucius had requested—he was, of course, not interested in the money—had been flat-out denied, as had been his demand that the Blacks be stripped of their Aurors’ robes and privileges and sent to Azkaban.

Thus there were only Yelena, Narcissa, Lucius, Severus and St.John Lestrange gathered round the dinner table. Lestrange had to leave early, because there was still a lot for him to do at Hogwarts before he left the school for Urqhart University. Karkaroff had already moved in yesterday, and the two men had only three days for going over all the details, so that Lestrange could hand over his position as teacher and Head of House to a well-informed successor.

After Lestrange’s departure, they retired into the library for a nightcap, to alleviate the tension the funeral had caused to all four of them—shaking the minister’s hand had been a hard trial for Lucius’s composure, and the condolences, partly sincere but mostly a mere formality, of hundreds of people had badly shaken Yelena’s self-control.

“I have an announcement to make,” her silvery voice broke the silence that had followed the first sip of brandy. Three pairs of eyes turned to look at her in surprise.

“An announcement?” Lucius echoed. “Tell us, mother.”

“I have been pondering my decision very carefully, and there is no talking me out of it. I will return to Bulgaria tomorrow. To continue living in this house where I have spent twenty happy years with Julius—” her voice trembled but she managed to proceed, if with a visible effort “—would be impossible. You—” she looked at Lucius “—remind me of him too much. Your voice, your bearing, your every gesture… I know that I’m running away, and I don’t exclude that I might come back one day. But for now, I simply need to heal. And I feel that this will be possible only without being constantly reminded of the man I loved and have lost.”

Lucius was dumbstruck. “I… I really don’t know what to say,” he said, after recovering from the initial shock his mother’s announcement had evidently caused him. “Of course I respect your decision. And you know that I only want the best for you. If you think that returning to your family will really help you to get over your grief, so be it. But you have to promise that it won’t be forever.”

Smiling at her son, she shook her head. “No, it won’t be forever. But that is all I can say right now. It might take me six months or ten years to recover. The soul has its very own ways of mending. I will retire to my rooms now. The day has been very tiring, and I have a lot of things to do tomorrow.”

She rose gracefully and left the room; the other three remained there, staring at her retreating back. The atmosphere was heavy with sadness and loss, Severus could feel it almost physically—how it had to be for Narcissa and, above all, for Lucius he could merely guess. The library door had only just closed when Narcissa started to cry, silently, trying to hold back the sobs that made her whole body shake. Lucius got up, biting his lower lip as he always did in moments of utter confusion and helplessness.

“I think we should retire as well,” he said, extending his right hand to help Narcissa rise from her chair. “My apologies, Severus, for all this soul-baring. I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

Severus nodded. “Don’t worry. I have a lot to think about anyway. I’ll stay here for a while and then go to bed myself. It has been a stressful day for all of us.”

~~~~*~~~~

Again, sleep proved to be a fickle friend. At one o’clock in the morning, Severus was still wide awake. There was absolutely no point in pretending he would fall asleep anytime soon, and he decided to get up and return to the library, in order to search for something sufficiently dull to numb his mind into slumber. The house was completely dark, but the grounds were covered in a thin layer of snow, the reflected light of which was enough for him to find his way without igniting the candles.

The library windows faced east. In the faint shine of the waxing moon, Severus could almost make out the titles of the books without an additional source of light. But he decided to stay here for a while, to savour the quiet and the scent of leather and parchment. Esmeralda would be none too happy about having to stay in his bed all alone; there had not been much time for cuddling these last days. But this surreal, silvery hour of night was too irresistible; only the Gods knew when he would find such piece and quiet again.

He must have dozed off in his chair and was woken by the soft touch of a hand on his. Had it not been for the warmth of the skin brushing his, he would have believed that a ghost stood before him, some unfortunate Malfoy from years long gone, silvery and ethereal.

“Severus,” said the lilting voice, “what are you still doing here?”

“I’m sorry, I… I couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah,” she said. “Neither could I. So I came down to say goodbye to the house. My things are packed, and I will leave early in the morning before Lucius and Narcissa wake up. Sneaking away like a thief…”

She looked almost translucent in the eerie, diffuse light. Severus was unable to avert his eyes. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I understand that you can’t bear any more goodbyes. It will make little difference for Lucius and Narcissa, for they are sad anyway, but a big difference for you.” She nodded. “I’ll leave you to your tour, then. Good night.”

When his hand was already on the door handle he heard her voice again. “You will take care of Lucius, won’t you?”

He turned round. “I don’t think he’ll let me, but I’ll try to have an eye on him. Do you think he needs to be taken care of?”

Her footsteps did not make any sound when she approached him. “Mothers always think that of their children, I suppose. Do I sound ridiculous?”

“No. Although the thought of my taking care of Lucius doesn’t lack a certain… well, comical aspect.”

They had left the library and were now standing in the entrance hall. Here, it was almost completely dark.

“I wish I could somehow cut the image out of my brain,” she said tonelessly. “But I think I’ll always remember him lying there, his head tilted at such a strange, unnatural angle…”

“You could ask to be obliviated.”

The soft rustle of hair against silk told him that she was shaking her head. “No. It would be doing him and me an injustice. I wish I had the strength to go and kill those two Aurors…”

“Much as Lucius wants revenge, I doubt whether he would be satisfied if the price were a life sentence for you in Azkaban.”

She sighed heavily. “Indeed. But sometimes the desire is overwhelming. The fury, you know, and that feeling of impotence…”

Instincively, Severus put his arm round her shoulder. She was shivering. “I know. But don’t confound patience with impotence. The Blacks will get what’s coming to them. That’s something I can promise you. It won’t happen tomorrow, but Julius’s death will be avenged. Maybe that will make it easier for you to return.”

His arm still on her shoulders, she turned round to face him. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he whispered and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

When he looked down at her from the top of the stairs, she was still standing there, a beautiful statue made of platinum, but warm and alive.

~~~~*~~~~

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the situation began to change to Voldemort’s favour. A constant trickle of deprecatory articles in the Daily Prophet, casting a merciless light upon the Ministry’s deficiencies; the persistent hints the Wizards’ Wireless dropped every hour of every day about the other, greater power that was to be feared and respected; all this finally yielded the desired results. Aurors and Law Enforcement patrols were mocked and scowled at wherever they passed; people were less helpful when it came to giving evidence against the perpetrators of the more and more numerous raids, and more often than not they simply closed their eyes, only wanting peace to be restored, regardless of whether it was brought about by the Ministry or Lord Voldemort. Those who were convinced that the Dark Lord was the one who had the power of re-establishing law and order as soon as possible—and their number was significantly increasing—began to contribute their share, however small it was, to the destruction of the old order, hoping that the new one would recognize their merits. St. Mungo’s got medicines and potions that did not work properly because they had been tampered with; Ministry portkeys were suddenly prone to mysterious dysfunction; owls carrying important messages were intercepted—the climate had become one of danger, bordering on civil war.

The Ministry reacted in the only possible way—playing directly into Voldemort’s hands. The payment for Law Enforcers and Aurors was conspicuously raised, so as to appear more attractive to those who otherwise would never have dreamed of choosing this profession. Bartemius Crouch Sr. finally won his crusade against Roger Lovegood, the rector of the Aurors’ Academy, and the period of training for new-recruited Aurors was cut down by a whole year, so that it lasted only eleven months. That, and the new incentive of absurdly high payment, produced a new kind of Aurors, for whom the traditional ethics were but a bad joke. The spiral of violence had started its deadly rotation.

Lucius was given his father’s place within Voldemort’s ranks—much to Owen’s relief, as he had told Severus. He did not crave a position that, besides the honour of being one of the Master’s Trusted Four, would also have meant considerable responsibility with all its consequences. For Lucius, who, with his father’s death, had lost a great deal of his youthful nonchalance, it fitted perfectly. How he managed to divide his time between his studies, his ever-increasing Death Eater duties and his wife was a mystery to Severus. True, he invested a lot more time into his own studies than Lucius did—for Lucius, attending university was more of a hobby and a very useful and practical way of meeting Lestrange. They had to be more cautious than ever in arranging their meetings and planning the attacks; especially Barty had a hard time escaping his father’s constant vigilance.

Lucius and Severus had thus suggested to Voldemort that it would be wiser to let them do most of the active work, commanding the Death Eater raids. It meant a lot more effort and peril for them, but a considerably lower risk for the movement—Narcissa providing an excellent alibi for her husband and occasionally also for Severus, who by now was used to wearing his pyjamas under his Death Eater robes and had developed a new spell that contemporaneously took off, shrunk and banished the incriminating evidence into a secret compartment of one of the bookshelves. Lestrange and Karkaroff were doing an excellent job in attracting new Death Eater recruits, and Barty had finally managed to convince a few of his colleagues at the Ministry that it was wiser to associate with the power that was likely to win than to stay loyal to a swiftly declining gerontocracy, the sunset of which was already casting long shadows over the wizarding world.

~~~~*~~~~

Today, Severus had not been wearing pyjamas under his robes; however, the unclothing spell had become second nature to him, and so he found himself in shirt and trousers almost without noticing. Wearily, he crossed over to the stereo, put on a record of Haydn’s sonatas for pianoforte, poured himself a drink and slumped into one of the armchairs at the fireplace.

“I know,” he said to Esmeralda, who was circling him, sniffing and uttering plaintive meows, “I know, my sweet. You don’t like what you smell. Neither do I, I assure you. I’ll do my best to remove it before going to bed. So don’t worry.”

He downed the brandy and got up to refill his glass. Merlin knew that he needed it. Not because he had not had enough alcohol tonight; on the contrary, he had had more than his fill. But the pleasant sting of the liquor running down his oesophagus was the only way to get rid of the coppery tinge still lingering in his mouth. He had read about Beltane rites, but the difference between the clinical description given by a book and the actual event—real and smelly and bloody—was abysmal and certainly not to the latter’s favour. His stomach roiled at the mere thought, and he quickly gulped down the second dose. He had to get thoroughly pissed in order to have a chance of getting at least some hours of half-decent sleep.

Small wonder, he thought, that Julius Malfoy had refused that ritual for his son’s wedding. St. John and Tabitha had gladly accepted, though. At least they could claim to have had a memorable wedding, he thought with a wry grin, considering that the ambiguity of the term had room for more than enormous cakes and grandparents crying with nostalgic pride. Narcissa would have to be obliviated by her husband once again, though. The poor creature had almost vomited out her guts. On top of everything, she was also pregnant, and for a moment Severus shuddered at the thought that the mother’s emotions might influence her unborn child. Lucius had of course tried his best not to bring her along, but Voldemort had been adamant. Severus supposed it was some kind of not-too-subtle revenge on their Master’s part for having been deprived of her blood.

Tonight, everybody had been wearing their masks, and Severus almost succumbed to the nausea that was washing over him at the recollection of himself, mindlessly humping some female in heat propped up against the rough surface of one of the giant stones. The wine had been spiked with a powerful aphrodisiac he himself had brewed at the Dark Lord’s command; and to fuck that willing body, so brutally that it hurt, had been a welcome means of making himself forget the revolting taste of fresh, still-tepid blood. The rite had taken place on the Isle of Orkney, in the same stone circle Voldemort used for the initiation of new Death Eaters. And it was not going to become one of his favourite memories. He had left as soon as possible, but it would not have mattered if he had stayed longer—the feeling of being dirty, not only superficially but through to the marrow of his bones, could not have increased anymore. How any of his fellow Death Eaters could have enjoyed it was beyond Severus’s imagination. Even under the influence of the aphrodisiac, he had been disgusted. It was, however, an undeniable fact that many of the others had found pleasure in this kind of animalistic coupling; he doubted whether they would have needed the potion. It was one of the concoctions he had to provide in rather large quantities, to be taken before the raids. To his immense relief, he was the one in command of those operations and thus had to keep a sober mind, which automatically excluded mind-altering drugs and potions of any kind. It was the perfect justification, and he had a strong suspicion that Lucius was equally glad to be exempt from this particular aspect of being a Death Eater. Whatever could be done with a wand was different—he had no problems with torturing or killing. Rape was an entirely different matter and, much as he secretly despised those who enjoyed it, he was grateful they did the dirty work for him.

With a smirk, he imagined how Barty must have felt, poor, uptight, almost compulsively clean Barty. He had probably needed a double dose of aphrodisiac. But Barty’s position had become rather precarious, despite his successful work at the ministry. Severus was sure he would have skipped tonight’s ceremony, had it been possible. He had been wise enough not to voice this wish, though.

Severus yawned and glanced at his watch. He would have to try and get some sleep now; tomorrow was an important day. McLachlan wanted to try out a new formula they had developed for the werewolf potion, and to judge by the written version it might even be successful. The written version before he had put in some smalls errors, of course. The one he was going to take along tomorrow would result in a spectacular miss, but it was important to distract the old man so that he could not find the errors. Not that Severus particularly cared about Lupin’s lycanthropy being alleviated or not; it was Voldemort who had ordered him to sabotage the experiments. After so many failures the werewolf was likely to be disappointed and embittered—an ideal new recruit. And a very efficient weapon if utilized during the full moon.