The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 18

By Pigwidgeon37

"My Lord!“

"Severus. It has been a long time.“

Yes, it had been a long time, almost exactly one year. Too long. At least for Severus. He had felt neglected, and used—not abused. Not yet. But it would not have taken much longer to make him sincerely doubt his beliefs, because those beliefs were inseparably connected with what he felt for Voldemort. Confusing, disturbing emotions he did not want to examine more closely—or was he afraid of looking at them directly, with both eyes, instead of out of the corner of his eye? Love… that word came to mind far too easily, it was overused, had lost its worth and its preciousness. Besides, what could he measure it against? He had probably felt love for his mother, maybe, in the remote years of his early childhood. But he doubted that it had been anything like that irresistible feeling of being-drawn-towards, pulled by some vaguely umbilical cord that was attached to his very being. Perhaps it was love. In the end, it did not matter what it was. It was there, and the long time that had passed between his last meeting with his Master and the present one had turned it into something that hurt.

“Yes, My Lord.” Down on his knees, his lips touching the hem of those silky, black robes.

His Master’s hand on his hair… Oh, the touch, that longed-for, achingly-missed touch. Home again.

“I must apologize to you.”

What a strange inversion, he thought. Forgiveness being asked from the one prostrated on the ground. Afraid to lose that too-light weight, he did not dare to shake his head. “My Lord, please, do not—”

“Ah, but I must. I let you wait, I was distracted… Too long maybe. Did I lose you, Severus?”

Suddenly, the weight was heavy, too heavy for him to bear, because it was the weight of his conscience. It threatened to crack open his skull, so that everything would be unveiled; no more secrets, no more betrayal, just the relief of letting his mind glide into his Master’s hands, for him to take over, take off, take away. What was Lucius to him, what was Clarissa? Mere nothings, small, inanimate figures for a game understood by nobody but Voldemort and himself. “No, My Lord. You could never lose me. Never.”

Had the hand remained a fraction of an instant longer, he would have blurted out everything. Confessed and awaited his punishment. Let himself be tortured into the claws of insanity—for it would have been an act of love. But the hand fluttered away because some deity had batted an eyelid, and the intensity of the moment dissipated into nothingness. The drawn-ness remained, but it was again painful. That maybe-love was once more laced with a hint of bitterness. A rustle of robes told him that Lord Voldemort was moving; he raised his head a little and saw the hem of his robes slither over the floor.

His voice already a little more distant—not only because he was now a couple of feet away—Voldemort said, “You may rise, Severus. Come, sit with me and tell me how you have been.”

Where and how should he begin? How had he been? There had been moments of happiness, brief and hard to catch, never remaining, and few. Very few of them. “It has been a happy year, My Lord. Mostly because I have found my place… thanks to you. I have never thanked you properly for my house, or for the possibility to study with McLachlan. I wish I… I could make it up to you.” Properly. By hurling that guilt at your feet, to end it, once and for all. But you never even asked me, doubted me. You believed me—ridiculous as it sounds, I blame you for it.

Years ago, those black eyes had merely held a spark of red, a trace so faint that it was difficult to consciously be aware seeing it. It had left an impression of something uncanny, and only in hindsight did the distinct memory resurface. Now, the red was visibly there. Lord Voldemort’s eyes were still two vortexes taking in and sucking in whomever they rested upon, and their colour had not really changed; it was rather as if the black coexisted with the red, both visible at the same time. It was slightly disturbing.

“You are making it up to me, Severus, every day. You are one of my most devoted servants, if not the most devoted. I had great expectations for you from the day I first saw you, and you have not disappointed a single of them.”

Then why was he constantly being punished? No, that was being unjust. Not constantly. But there had been only one occasion when Severus had felt he had truly deserved it, and still got less than he deserved, on the day of Lucius’s wedding. Since then… Had he been into the kind of transcendental illusionism Muggles called Catholicism, he might have found some warped logic of all-encompassing, eternal justice in the acceptance of a punishment he had earned for another, as-of-yet-unpunished sin.

Somehow, he managed to captivate Voldemort’s look with his own. “Forgive me, My Lord, but that was not the impression I got.”

The red glint increased for an almost non-existent fraction of a second. “How would that be?”

“I know I must not judge your actions, My Lord, but from the amount of punishment I received I—”

The smile that now crept over his Master’s face bore no similarity to the gentleness Severus knew he was capable of. Had been capable of, maybe… “Punishment, you say? My dear child—” he leaned forward and put his right hand over Severus’s fingers that were resting on his knees. Severus felt chilled to the marrow of his bones. “—you have no idea, absolutely no idea of what punishment can be, if I choose not to be lenient. What you said was right: you must not judge my actions. But believe me. Had I not been satisfied with you, you would know the meaning, the real meaning, of the word punishment. As most of your fellow Death Eaters do.”

So there was worse. He had been an idiot, an ingenuous child to assume that he had already understood what it meant to serve Lord Voldemort. For the first time he felt afraid. “I—” his voice was hoarse and he had to clear his throat “—I understand, My Lord. Forgive me, please.”

“You are still very young, Severus. Youth has a certain right to err. But now you understand, don’t you?”

Severus nodded. The weather was bad today in Albania; the jagged mountain tops were hidden by low clouds, and a constant drizzle was making the air damp and soft. The gentle rustling noise of the droplets hitting leaves and grass blades was oddly comforting; a stark contrast to the icicles piercing Severus’s stomach. He had understood. And he was full of fear.

After a while, Voldemort continued, “And your apprenticeship? It meant very much to you. Have your dreams come true?”

His staggering feet had finally found safe territory. More so because he was almost sure that, in a not-too-distant future, he would succeed in developing the antidote to Veritaserum. A free gift to his Master, willingly given. Or so it had seemed. For now, fear had sunk its venomous teeth into that particular part of his heart. The cherished future gift had turned into a currency that might very well buy his sanity one day, when his Master decided that the time had come to put an end to his lenience. “Yes, My Lord, it is everything I could have imagined or desired, and more than that. McLachlan has so much to teach me that I doubt I will ever finish learning. Although I must say that I am quite proud of having annihilated the result of our research for the werewolf potion. He never suspected that I had altered the formula.”

“Yes,” Voldemort said, his smile now back to the old warmth, “to have outwitted McLachlan on his own territory deserves the highest praise. Although I have to say that my satisfaction was somewhat tainted by Lupin’s refusal. A werewolf in our ranks would have proved of inestimable value.”

“I know, my Lord, and I deeply regret that I failed to win him over. All I can say in my defence is that Lupin never used to be the vindictive type. He always tended to blame himself for whatever adversities he encountered. It would take a good deal of persuasion to convince him that it’s not his fault if he’s unemployed and on the verge of poverty.”

The Dark Lord nodded pensively. “We have time,” he said finally, “Maybe, when he becomes aware that people are always narrow-minded, whether in England or elsewhere, and that he will always be shunned and despised, maybe he will turn to us then. Sometimes it is enough to wait and be patient. Do you miss Clarissa a lot?”

Paradoxically, he was now grateful for his sense of guilt that kept clawing at him every single day. The constant weight was also a constant reminder of the danger he was in and thus kept him alert. Especially in the presence of Lord Voldemort. Therefore he felt the sting of fear but had been prepared for it. “Yes, My Lord. She was… the only friend I had.” Careful there. It would not be wise to include Lucius into that category. Two mysterious events, both of them severe blows to his Master’s plans, both of them involving Severus and a friend… He might just as well confess.

“Indeed? I thought you counted St. John as a friend, or am I mistaken?”

“No, you are right, My Lord. St. John is a different kind of friend, though. With Clarissa, things were… less complicated. Carefree.”

“Not to mention that she was a girl,” Voldemort remarked dryly.

And that he would even have married her. It would have been fun… Their bed not a battlefield of passion and lustful embraces but more similar to a school dormitory… a place of friendship and warmth… “That wasn’t really important. But she betrayed and fled you, My Lord, so she would hardly be a friend anymore.”

“She would not be anymore,” Voldemort hissed. “You and her brother would have had the honour of torturing her to death.”

Those lively black eyes rolling with the madness of pain… Severus had difficulties keeping his composure. It was better not to dwell on that image. “I suppose Evan would have greatly welcomed the occasion of proving his loyalty, considering how furious he was.”

“He should not be too furious,” the Dark Lord replied, “For after all, he inherited his father’s position within the Cleansweep Company, so that now he is of more use to me there than before. The Aurors will get a taste of the consequences as soon as they order a new batch of brooms.”

Glad that the conversation had drifted past the dangerous cliffs and was now moving in more peaceful waters, Severus agreed. “Sabotage on all levels is indeed an indispensable measure, My Lord. The insecurity among the population is increasing daily. With a few more well-placed coups, they should be able to recognize clearly where to place their loyalties.”

“If it were not for that old fool Dumbledore…”

“But Karkaroff is doing a most amazing job at Hogwarts, don’t you think so, My Lord?”

Black eyes gleamed red, for longer this time and very obviously with fury. “It is not enough!” Voldemort said sharply, “One man among a faculty of almost twenty people is not sufficient. We need more supporters there, at least one more.”

As always when he was angry, the air surrounding the Dark Lord seemed to be sizzling with power. Severus had never felt quite comfortable under this onslaught of sheer magical energy and today he thought he sensed it even more than usually. But the anger was not directed against him, and thus he managed to say calmly, “If that is your wish, My Lord, I see no other way than to eliminate one of the teachers. None of them could be won for our cause, neither by arguments nor by violence.”

“Exactly what St. John keeps repeating. There might be a possibility, though, for Igor to eliminate one of them. It is a dangerous path to tread, but he will have to follow it. If he succeeds, we should be able to replace the person in question by the start of fall term.”

“So soon? That is good news indeed,” Severus said, wondering whom Karkaroff might have targeted. Obviously Voldemort did not want to tell him more—for which reason was unclear to him, though. “And who would be the chosen successor?”

Voldemort shook his head. “Names,” he said, “are very powerful in their own right. To use them can influence the course of things. The entire development at Hogwarts is so very precarious that it is advisable not to propel it in any direction by pronouncing what should for now remain unpronounced. Elemental magic at its deepest,” he said, giving Severus one of those unfathomable smiles, “The time will come for you to learn it, too. Have patience. You are not yet nineteen years old and already more powerful than most of your peers. Wait until your own, innate magic has fully developed—then you will be able to cross another threshold.”

“Will you teach me?” Severus asked, suddenly feeling as if he were thirteen again, and annoyed with himself because of that regression into childishness.

“I am the only one who can,” Voldemort said. “Well, Dumbledore could do it as well, theoretically speaking. But he has dissociated himself from the most profound secrets of wizarddom, to serve those who despise such knowledge. Maybe he is going to regret his decision. The gap between him and the Ministry is already unbridgeable, because he is only too aware of the shortcomings of those who still hold the power, or rather the illusion of power. In a few months’ time, or maybe in a year, the gap will have turned into an abyss. I thought that we needed to broaden it, but I had underestimated the powers of autodestruction of this degenerate, weak society. They will do most of our work for us. We only need to watch and wait for the right moment to give the final push.”

“And then…” Severus said dreamily, now completely enthralled by Voldemort’s power and charisma.

“And then,” his Master said, taking both Severus’s hands in his, “A new era will begin. A renaissance of what has been buried for far to long. We will all have to learn then, even I; but the power we will hold in our hands will be greater than any of us can imagine.”

~~~~*~~~~

Now that the experiments with the werewolf potion had been abandoned—after Severus had successfully thwarted what would with high probability have been a successful outcome of almost a year of trial and error—he felt that he could breathe more freely. The last months, more or less since Julius Malfoy’s death, had been delirious, and Severus had barely been able to hold himself upright anymore. Most of the time he had been so tired that he had almost fallen asleep while standing on his feet.

Due to his age and the emotional stress he had been under recently, McLachlan had decided that he needed a holiday. His sister Katherine, a renowned alchimist and researcher at the Avalon Academy of Magical Sciences, had been planning a trip to Prague for years. This year, their projects had, for the first time, not been obstructed by either the unpredictable adversities of Muggle world politics, unexpected illnesses or inevitable professional incumbencies, so that their departure was scheduled for 15 July; if all went well, they were going to stay abroad for about four or five weeks. This news had come as a considerable relief to Severus, who had celebrated the beginning of this vacation by sleeping twenty hours in a row. He still had a lot on his shoulders, but nevertheless he was going to have a little time for himself, to use at his own discretion.

While eating breakfast, he tried to remember when he had been sitting at his kitchen table and enjoying a peaceful meal for the last time. Certainly not during the past three or four months. His stomach had suffered from that unloving treatment—irregular meals, little and seldom untroubled sleep, floods of coffee and a steady trickle of all kinds of strengthening and wakefulness potions had turned it into a source of constant pain and discomfort. Severus decided that he was going to use this half-holiday for the recovery of his physical health. Not to mention catching up on his own existence. In hindsight, he was even more satisfied with his decision to buy Elias—otherwise poor Esmeralda would have led a very solitary life. Right now, she was sitting on the kitchen table beside her black-feathered friend—accomplice, rather, Severus thought, considering the mayhem they sometimes caused—and shooting him doubtful looks.

“You’re angry with me, aren’t you?” Severus addressed her. He was feeling rather guilty. And he sensed a pang of sadness when she did not immediately approach him upon hearing his voice, as had been her habit. “I take that back,” he said, “You are thoroughly pissed off. Do you think you might forgive me for how I’ve been treating you lately?”

How exactly an animal, whose face was covered in fur, managed to produce facial expressions was beyond him. But he had the distinct impression that she was eyeing him with a mix of contempt and reproach.

“Won’t you at least let me stroke you?” he inquired. “It would be nice, you know, I’ve almost forgotten how good it feels to touch your fur.” He put down his knife and fork and extended his right hand. “And I know you want it too, capricious female!”

He could have sworn that she snorted; but then, after an in-depth cleansing session for her right forepaw, she slowly got up and… yes, sashayed, he almost saw her swing her hips, towards him. Five minutes later, the holidays had started for real. Esmeralda was sitting on his lap, in the most royal posture she was capable of, Elias was perching on his left shoulder, and they were sharing Severus’s breakfast. He felt elated. A bit stupid, but elated all the same. It made him realize, though, how completely isolated he had become lately. True, he had the occasional friendly chat with Lucius and Narcissa, and he was in human company more often than not; but it was restricted to McLachlan, with whom he had a purely professional relationship, and to Death Eater meetings where he was either in command, which did not exactly encourage emotional bonding, or in fear of punishment. He missed Clarissa more than he would have thought.

She had written to him twice, and he had answered as soon and in as much detail as his scarce free time would allow. From her letters, it seemed that she was adapting quite well to her new life; it was difficult to get along without doing magic, but, on the other hand, there was so much to discover that she was constantly challenged. To Severus, it was a great relief to see how well she coped with the sudden turn her life had taken. As far as he could tell, she did not regret anything—only too understandable, he thought, although he doubted whether it would not have affected her to learn about her brother’s punishment when he had not been able to find her. He had not mentioned it in his letters because he did not want her to feel guilty.

Maybe, he thought, feeding Esmeralda the last bite of bacon—this gesture seemed to earn him complete absolution—maybe he just needed a change of pace. It was a nice, though not overly warm, summer morning, and he could have a look at the riches Borgin & Burke offered to whomever was ready to brave Ministry regulations, and then maybe a little stroll through Diagon Alley… a coffee at the Capuchin’s Chaperon, people-watching… Considering that he was not likely to find a soul mate within the next days, with whom to share the vicissitudes of life—he rolled his eyes in wordless indignation at himself.

“Give me five stress-free minutes, and I’ll be back at that thrice-damned prophecy,” he muttered. Esmeralda meowed. “Exactly. Maybe it’s you after all, so what am I waiting for?”

~~~~*~~~~

Only when he arrived in Diagon Alley—by Floo, through the fireplace at Flourish & Blotts, because it bordered on suicide to actually come waltzing out of Knockturn Alley, only to be caught by one of the numerous patrols—did he notice that the climate had changed dramatically since he had last been there. There were more Aurors and Law Enforcers than civilians, sternly monitoring the passers-by for any sign of suspicious behaviour. It was not a relaxing experience. Severus could imagine only too well just how much the average British wizard desired that life be quiet and peaceful again. Well, peace was not what they were going to get, and only few of them would be able to appreciate the new regime once Voldemort had taken over. The Dark Lord was right: they would need a lot of patience.

Severus decided to completely ignore the patrols and threatening looks they darted at everybody, moved towards the Capuchin’s Chaperon and ordered a cappuccino and some tea cake. The armistice with Esmeralda was still fragile, and she had refused to come with him, riding on his shoulder. Elias, her winged shadow, had joined the boycott, and so Severus did not stand out among the crowd. Especially when he was sitting, for when standing he was taller than most of those around him. To own the truth, he was quite content to blend into the anonymous mass—in these times, nobody desired to attract attention, if only for two black animals perching on one’s shoulders.

The coffee and cake were placed on his table, and Severus had just extricated one of his new books from the Flourish & Blotts bag when somebody tapped his shoulder with a finger and said, “Snape, is that you?”

He did not recognize the voice immediately, but he instantly associated it with hostility and unpleasantness. Putting on his best frown—he was making an astonishing progress at intimidating people by merely looking at them; in fact, it was one of the secrets of his success among the Death Eaters—he turned his head, causing the young man standing behind him to recoil by a few steps. “Only you could be stupid enough to touch me, in spite of suspecting it was I, Pettigrew,” he snarled. “By the way, we’re in the middle of July, so why are you skulking around in a costume?”

Pettigrew had not changed a single bit, although Severus was sure that, if there was a human being who was in even more dire need of a makeover than himself, it was Petty Peter Pettigrew. The same flabby cheeks—at age nineteen, it was truly disgusting—sagging body, sparse colourless hair, watery blue eyes… The guy was pathetic. And the whole disgusting lot wrapped up in a Law Enforcer’s uniform—dark blue robes and cloak, bearing the same M as the professional outfit of the Ministry’s employees.

“A cos—no, that’s my uniform, I’m with the Magical Law Enforcement.”

Irony was completely lost on that nitwit. Severus had to fight hard to refrain from grinning. “Really? I thought you wanted to apply for the Aurors’ Academy together with the unwholesome threesome? Or did you decide that red wasn’t your colour after all? Not that it’s Black’s colour, for that matter.”

“Black? Where did you meet Sirius?”

Severus snorted. “I didn’t actually meet your friend the dog star.” Pettigrew flinched. “For once, I didn’t insult that moron,” Severus informed him, “Sirius is the dog star, just in case you managed to forget in only one year everything you ever learned at school. As I said, I didn’t meet him. He came to my house together with Alastor Moody, practically breaking and entering. And don’t tell me you didn’t have a clue.”

The rodent-faced piece of lard actually had the gall to sit down without asking. Severus was just formulating a particularly acid remark, when the other said, “I honestly had no idea. I… it isn’t as if I had seen much of them these days.”

“Considering you can’t do their homework for them anymore, which was about the only justification for allowing you to constantly suck up to them,” Severus said cruelly, “that seems only logical. So much for the spirit of true Gryffindor friendship.” He took another sip of his cappuccino.

“I suppose that’s true,” Pettigrew said. “So Sirius came to your house? What for?”

“The Aurors seem to be under the impression that I’m one of Voldemort’s lot. Stop flinching, Pettigrew, or I’ll hex you, stripping you down to your knickers for everybody to see.”

“I… I’m just… not… not really used to anybody saying his name,” Pettigrew stammered. Now he even blushed. It did not improve his appearance.

Severus was vastly amused. Leaning back in his chair, he asked, “Are you implying that the Law Enforcement, valiant protectors of the British wizarding community, are afraid to pronounce his name?” Names are very powerful in their own right… Maybe that bunch of incompetents at the Ministry were a trifle cleverer than he gave them credit for.

“Afraid…” Pettigrew slowly wagged his head. “Yes, maybe. He seems less real when you don’t say it.”

“So what do you say instead of it?” Pathetic! It was pathetic.

“Well, we say He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or You-Know-Who. It’s not funny!”

“You have to admit that it’s slightly funny. Reminds me of girls who are too prudish to utter the word ‘toilet’ or ‘loo’ in presence of boys. ‘I’m with you in a second, I just got to go you-know-where’! You sure as hell sound like the idiots you are.”

“We may be idiots, but at least we’re on the right side!” Pettigrew countered heatedly. “What about you, Snape? What do you do? There’s probably a reason for Moody and Sirius to show up at your house.”

Severus shot him the most arrogant look he could muster. “I, my dear Pettigrew, am entirely on my own side. But I happen to be a Slytherin, which in times like these seems to entirely justify the breach of the most elementary human rights. As to my current occupation, I’m halfway through an apprenticeship with McLachlan.”

“Potions, eh?” Pettigrew said, trying to look knowledgeable.

Severus merely cocked an eyebrow. “You amaze me, Pettigrew! You actually remember something our teachers tried to get through your thick skull and into that pea-sized brain.”

“Lily wanted to study potions too,” Pettigrew offered, “But then she decided to enrol at the AA, together with James.”

“Stupid, subdued Gryffindor female,” Severus spat. “She excelled at Potions. She would have made a brilliant scholar. What does she do? Lets herself be turned into cannon fodder for Death Eaters. I really don’t get it.”

“Yes,” Pettigrew said, his eyes suddenly bright and alive, “She is brilliant, isn’t she?”

“I believe I already expressed that opinion. What’s it to you, anyway? You have trouble grasping the concept of brilliance, so what—I see,” he interrupted himself with a malicious grin, “There’s the rub! Although I strongly doubt that your feelings were requited.”

His attempt at appearing dignified was, to say the least, ludicrous. “James is my friend! I would never—”

“No, Pettigrew. She would never. No woman in her right mind would ever. And I daresay it’s time for you to explain what you are doing here, sitting at my table and spoiling an otherwise perfect morning.”

“You are a Death Eater, aren’t you?”

The sheer impudence and stupidity of the question threw Severus off balance, if only for an instant. “Pettigrew, I’m getting the impression that you don’t have two brain cells, as I always thought, but only one. Which means that while you’re busy breathing you can’t talk or think properly, for danger of cerebral overload. You are sitting here wearing the uniform of a Law Enforcer, Gryffindor amoeba! What do you think I’d answer?”

“I wouldn’t tell!” Pettigrew whispered, leaning towards Severus.

Severus caught the table that was in danger of keeling over under Petty Peter’s weight. “Who do you think you’re fucking with, you non-entity?” he hissed. “What is this? A subtle trap excogitated by Moody and his goons to catch the big bad Slytherins?” He prodded Pettigrew’s wobbly chin with his wand—a great Law Enforcer he was, indeed, so slow on the uptake that he had not even noticed the swift gesture that had propelled the wand out of the sleeve and into Severus’s hand. “Get that fat arse of yours out of this chair and out my sight as fast and as far as you can. And tell whoever sent you that, with a Law Enforcement such as this, being a Death Eater would be less dangerous than feeding flobberworms and thus entirely devoid of fun.”

With a last, alarmed look at Severus, Pettigrew jumped up, making the chair topple over in his haste. He was gone more quickly than Severus would have imagined, given his clumsiness and the amount of fat he was carrying. What exactly had that idiot been up to, though? Severus ordered another cappuccino and lapsed into deep thought. The book lay forgotten.

It was obvious that the oh-so-close friendship with the wonderboys had somewhat deteriorated. It was even more blatantly obvious that Pettigrew had a crush, or perhaps more than that, on Lily Evans. Come to think of it, there had to be a lot of pent-up aggression within old rodent-face. Quite a potential for hate and helpless fury. Could it be that that preposterous excuse for a human being actually wanted to change sides? A Gryffindor? A member of the Magical Law Enforcement? Severus had to admit to himself that he did not know what to make of all this. Yes, it possessed a certain logic, but it was simply too absurd. Pettigrew would never work up the courage to actually defect. Hand in his notice to the Ministry, maybe. Or request to be transferred to a less dangerous position. That was plausible. But change sides?

Far-fetched as the thought seemed to be, he was going to discuss it with Lucius anyway.

<><><>°<><><>

“Five measures of Orchidaea Malefica, a pinch of Herbivorium Toledanum—yes, Peggy, what is it?” Severus asked impatiently.

“Begging your pardon, Master Severus, I knows you needs to concentrate, but there is Mister Malfoy for you on the Floo, and he seems quite upset…”

“It’s all right, Peggy,” he said, putting down the quill and getting up with a sigh. “Only when Lucius is upset, I usually have to prepare a batch of Anti-Cruciatus.”

While descending the stairs, Severus stretched his aching shoulders. He definitely spent too much time bent over books or cauldrons. Or writhing on the floor in pain. Peggy held the living room door open for him, and he mentally braced himself for bad news to come before he stepped into Lucius’s line of view.

“I’m working, Malfoy. This better be good.”

“I wish it were good,” Lucius said grimly. “Come over and bring some of that potion. I suppose we’re going to need it.”

“Oh, bloody—Sweet, sweet life. Tell me at least what it’s all about, so I can prepare myself.”

“Karkaroff,” was the laconic answer.

“Don’t tell me he’s gone to meet his maker!”

“No!” Lucius sneered, “That would be good news, wouldn’t it?”

Severus covered his eyes with his right hand. “Shit. And I got important work to. If I can’t use my hands for another two days…”

“Severus, do me a favour and stop babbling. The sooner we start, the sooner it’s going to be over.”

As always when important meetings were held at Malfoy Manor, Narcissa remained invisible. Karkaroff, on the other hand, was far too visible for Severus’s liking. Although the man would probably have preferred to be undetectable by the human eye. Barty was there, complete with stronger-than-ever nervous tic, and even Lestrange was looking everything but happy.

Silence reigned in Lucius’s—once his father’s—study until each of them was holding a glass of brandy. To judge by the amount Lucius had poured, the news was very bad indeed.

A condescending nod by Malfoy was Karkaroff’s cue to begin his report. “I suppose that all of you know about our Master’s plans to further infiltrate the Hogwarts faculty.” Severus nodded, the others shook their heads. Lestrange shot him an astonished look, and Severus merely shrugged. “The target—” he pronounced it ‘tardget’ “—I had chosen was Thelma Putnam.”

“Putnam? And what had you chosen her for?” Lucius asked, visibly puzzled.

“I vos instructed to either administer the Imperius Potion or, iff that failed, to eliminate her.”

“Don’t tell me you botched that assignment, Igor!” Lestrange exclaimed. “Even Filch would have been a more difficult opponent.”

Severus could only agree with him. Thelma Putnam, their former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, was a kind old woman, harmless in the extreme and certainly no match for Karkaroff.

“Vell, I found out that giffing her the potion was impossible,” Karkaroff replied. Had he not been so conscious of his own failure, he would probably have sounded indignant. “But that is not the point. I managed to drife her half-crazy, and two days ago, she handed in her notice to Dumbledore.”

“She was half-crazy already,” Severus remarked matter-of-factly, “You simply had to drive her over the edge. Nothing you should be too proud of, in my not-so-humble opinion. However, you did it and that’s what counts. Now where is the problem?”

“The problem, esteemed friend, is that I did not learn this happy news in time. Dumbledore told me only today, and that vos not the only thing he told me.”

“Come on Karkaroff, make that short, for Merlin’s sake!” Barty said sharply.

“He told me he already had found a replacement.” Another pause, for effect. “Sirius Black.”

The other four looked at each other in utter horror. Lestrange was the first to find his voice. “Black?” he croaked, “Igor, you just as good as signed our death sentence.”

Barty emitted a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “This time we’re in for it,” he whispered. His face had turned an ashen grey. “This time we’ll all finish at St. Mungo’s.”

Silence descended again, as each of them pictured his own, gruesome death.

“No!” Severus said suddenly, making the others jump.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite—”

“I said no, Lucius. Meaning that this will most certainly not be the end of our lives. Why did you come to us in the first place?” he addressed Karkaroff. “This mission was not our responsibility but yours and yours alone. Did you really think we’d take the blame for something we didn’t even have the faintest idea of?”

“That is a lie!” Karkaroff shrieked, “You knew—”

“Shut up, Igor!” Severus barked, rising from his chair. Three swift steps, and he was standing in front of him, trembling with anger. “I did not know anything except that there was a plan to get a second person into the Hogwarts faculty. And the others didn’t even know that. No, no, Karkaroff, this was your failure, and you are going to suffer the consequences on your own. Or does anybody here wish to pay Igor’s debts?” he asked, turning round to look at the other three wizards.

“No,” Lucius said, slowly shaking his head, “I don’t think so. St. John?” Lestrange merely snorted. “Barty?”

“You must be joking.”

“Very well,” Severus said, “This seems to be clear. You made your bed, you sleep in it. And if you want to survive it, you’d better go immediately.”

Karkaroff got up so brusquely that he almost made Severus, who was still standing close to him, lose his balance. “Cowards!” he spat. “Iff you insist, I vill go on my own. But be sure that, iff I survife this, you—” he stabbed Severus in the chest with his forefinger “—vill pay. Vile traitor!”

With a last hateful look at them, he Disapparated.