The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 19

By Pigwidgeon37

Ultimately, it had been Karkaroff’s position as Voldemort’s only spy at Hogwarts that saved his miserable hide. Otherwise he would not have survived the encounter with the Dark Lord. Not that it was really just to blame the whole story on him, in fact, it was as unjust as punishing Julius Malfoy and the other three for not having pushed Malfoy into Greenbaum’s position. Only Karkaroff was altogether another story. Severus had instantly disliked him the first time he had seen the man, and his feelings had not changed. On the contrary, they had intensified. The antipathy was mutual, though, and after Severus and the others had flat-out refused to be included into the punishment, the knives were definitely out. Not that Karkaroff stood much of a chance, for despite the occasional dispute or friction amongst them, the four young leaders stood as one against the Bulgarian they did not hesitate to call an enemy. All the same he needed them, and he knew it. Voldemort had been so dissatisfied with him that he refused to see him unless there was a real emergency; and Karkaroff knew better than to directly approach his Master for anything short of a catastrophe. He had to report periodically, though, and it visibly humiliated him that it was always the Trusted Four to question and quiz and push him.

“Well then, Igor,” Lestrange said, leaning back in the armchair in front of Severus’s fireplace, “tell us what is going on at Hogwarts. We’re over a month into fall term now, so I suppose you have gathered some interesting news.”

The Bulgarian stared morosely into his glass of whisky. “I haff nothing much to tell,” he said, and Severus thought that he was behaving like a stubborn first-year. It was not going to do him much good, especially with Lucius, who could get very angry when he sensed insubordination.

“Then I suggest you tell us what few things there are,” Lucius said sharply.

“Vell, in reality I haff one big problem, vich is called Sirius Black. The man hates me.”

“Really?” Lucius asked in would-be astonishment, “For the life of me I can’t fathom why anybody would hate you.”

Barty chuckled, and Lestrange hid a smile behind his glass of brandy. In a way, but only very, very remotely, Severus pitied Karkaroff. After all, the man was twenty years their senior—except for Lestrange, of course, who was only ten years younger—and by no means lacking talent or brains, but all the same they were his superiors, and he had to acknowledge that, for fear of the consequences disobedience might bear.

“Ven you haff finished vith your childish comments, Lucius, maybe I might continue. I do not care about Black’s feelings towards me, but vot makes the man a very real and probably dangerous liability is that he seems to be spying on me.”

“Spying?” Barty echoed. “Why would he be spying on you? Do you think that Dumbledore gave him orders to have an eye on you?”

Karkaroff stroked his goatee. “No,” he said finally, “I don’t think so. Deffinitely not. I haff the feeling that this is Black’s own little project. I neffer vos on the Ministry’s list of suspects, as far as I can tell—I neffer received visits from Aurors, iff that is any indication. Meaning that I practically exclude the Ministry as possible puppeteers pulling his strings. No, I’m sure that this is something he does on his own.”

“Which doesn’t rule out the possibility that he might have told somebody,” Severus observed. “Maybe not Dumbledore, but one of his little friends. They are all fully qualified Aurors now, and it would be a bit awkward if you eliminated Blackie-boy, only to have a whole battalion of Aurors at your heels, screaming for your blood.”

Barty held out his tumbler for a refill. “You know,” he said to Karkaroff, “I really don’t thing that there’s anything you or we might do in this situation. You just have to be very cautious, more so than before.”

“Thank you fery much for your advice,” Karkaroff retorted sarcastically, “It is good to know that the headquarters support those who do the dirty field work for them.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed and took on the particular steely glint that betrayed barely contained anger. “I suggest that you watch your tongue, Igor. Or would you prefer me to suggest to Lord Voldemort that he make you command some of the more delicate operations? Torturing and the more gruesome aspects of killing aren’t exactly your cup of tea unless memory fails me.”

Karkaroff shot him an angry look. “Not everybody can enjoy gutting Muggles, Malfoy.”

Lucius was out of his chair and towering over the other wizard in less than a second. “I do not enjoy disembowelling Muggles,” he hissed, “You better keep that in mind. It has to be done, and I do it. Although I might reconsider my preferences when it comes to seeing your intestine spilled all over the floor.”

“I did not imply—”

“Oh yes, you did, Igor. You most certainly did. And as I said, you ought to think twice before uttering absurdities. If you feel that your responsibilities are becoming too heavy for you, just say so. Severus will have finished his apprenticeship in less than a year and no doubt be glad about taking your place.”

~~~~*~~~~

As it turned out, Karkaroff did not have to go to such lengths in order to ensure his removal from Hogwarts.

Towards the end of October, Lucius had invited a few of his former schoolmates and now-fellow-Death-Eaters for dinner at Malfoy Manor. It had been Severus’s comment on how ludicrous it was that, after so many years spent together, the only activities they now shared should be Death Eater raids, which had sparked the idea. Furthermore, it was commonly known that Slytherins always maintained and cultivated the bonds they had formed during their school years—usually not for friendship’s sake, but because those bonds proved very useful for furthering careers, making economically and socially satisfying matches, and generally for gaining power. Lucius and Severus were high up on the Ministry’s list of suspects—courtesy of Alastor Moody and probably also of the Gryffindor Goldies—whereas Heather was not. Neither was Lestrange-cum-wife. The impeccable reputation of St. John’s father had, at least until now, provided sufficient protection. Hence the idea of occasional get-togethers where the usual suspects would be mingling with the presumed innocents did not seem bad at all, especially if Barty’s warning that they were being, if not constantly then at least occasionally, surveyed proved to be more than just a product of his paranoid brain.

Thus, the Malfoy and Lestrange couples, Heather, Owen and Severus were sitting around the dining room table, enjoying an excellent meal and, given Narcissa’s presence, talking strictly non-business. Severs had often wondered why Lucius kept his wife completely out of a not exactly unimportant part of his life when it would have been a lot easier to share it with her.  Not that he knew a lot about marriage, but he simply supposed it would be preferable not to watch one’s every word when around one’s spouse. Besides all this, it was beyond him just how Lucius managed to keep the two parts of his life neatly separated—Merlin knew it was difficult enough for himself, and he only had to deal with a slightly crazy old Potions Master. From what Lucius had told him, he had had to obliviate his wife only twice, the first time after their wedding and the second after the Beltane ritual when St. John and Tabitha got married. However, he found it extremely relaxing to spend an evening just talking about old times, discussing a suitable name for the baby Narcissa was expecting—the birth was due in February—and engaging in a heated debate about England’s chances to win the next Quidditch World Cup.

The House Elves had just brought the dessert—for everybody but Narcissa, who was enthusing over a plate of capers, anchovies and pickled onions, much to the others’ amusement—when suddenly Karkaroff came rolling out of the fireplace and remained lying on the hearthrug, panting and clutching his throat.

“Narcissa, out. Now!” Lucius said sharply. His wife obeyed without batting an eyelid.

When the door had closed behind her, he strode over to the fireplace and delivered a none-too-gentle kick to Karkaroff’s ribs. “Get up, you idiot!” he hissed, “What has befallen you to come here without previous notice? What’s the matter with you?”

Karkaroff heaved himself up into a half-sitting position, supporting himself with his hands. “Black,” he rasped, “Black… found out…”

By now the others had risen as well and gathered round the still-panting wizard.

“He found out?” Lestrange said, “But how? We don’t have much time, Igor. If he really found out they will be searching for you in less than no time. And you know that Lucius is always one of the first to be questioned.”

Karkaroff slowly raised his head to look at them. “I vos talking to a seventh-year Ravenclaw, who seemed to be rather interested in joining our ranks. I don’t know how and why, but Black must haff followed us and overheard our confersation. Fortunately, he vos stupid enough not to run straight to the Headmaster, but confronted us immediately. So I stunned him and ran for it. I thought it vos better not to use the Hogwarts Floo, so I left the castle and made for Hogsmeade. There vos nobody at the Three Broomsticks, and I used their fireplace to come here. Vot shall I do now?” He let his anxious glance sweep over them. “Vot shall I do? They vill find me and take me to Azkaban…” He buried his face in his hands and started sobbing.

Lucius shook his head in obvious disgust. “I don’t give a fucking damn about what you’re going to do, as long as you don’t do it in my house,” he spat. Grabbing Karkaroff roughly at the shoulders, he pulled him up into a standing position. “Do you hear me, Igor? You have to go! No matter where, but leave my house this instant!”

“Wait, wait!” Lestrange said, prying Lucius’s hands from the other wizard’s robes and stepping between the two men. “This won’t get us anywhere. If he Apparates from here, you know as well as I do that the Aurors can detect the residual magic. They might be dumb, but even they know how to put two and two together. Igor—” he shook Karkaroff “—Igor, pull yourself together, for Merlin’s sake! Listen. You use the Floo to get from here to The Smiling Manticore down in Dover. The landlord is a sympathizer. From there, you walk straight out of the city, and when you are at a reasonable distance, you Apparate. I suppose that Durmstrang’s gates are still open for you, aren’t they?”

Still dazed, Karkaroff nodded. “Yes. Yes, they vill let me stay, at least for some time.”

“Good. Now give me your wand. No, the official one, you dumb-ass.”

It was a sign of just how afraid, shaken and subdued Karkaroff was that he handed his wand to Lestrange without a single objection. Lestrange transfigured it into a piece of parchment and threw it into the fireplace where it immediately went up in flames. Karkaroff silently looked at the multicoloured sparks it produced, then visibly pulled himself together, tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the fire and was gone.

“Good riddance!” Lucius muttered. Then, louder and to everybody, “Please return to the table. I suppose we will have company very shortly.”

They sat down and Severus said, “Don’t you think it would be better to have Narcissa with us again?”

“Of course,” Lucius agreed, rose again and went to fetch his wife. “If they arrive before we are back, she was feeling unwell and I accompanied her to her rooms. Thank the heavens for pregnancies,” he added with a smirk before he closed the door.

~~~~*~~~~

This time, they had to watch. And they knew that it meant something unpleasant. Barty had been writhing on the floor for a full two minutes, and none of the others had had the courage to interrupt his punishment. Severus was feeling nauseous. The thrill he had felt the first few times when watching the torture of others was gone by now. He still felt it when he cast Cruciatus  himself, or when he killed—the quality of the sensation had changed, though. In the beginning, it had been something very close to arousal whereas now it was more a heady feeling of power, the intoxication of being able to inflict pain or death at his own whim. To be a mere bystander, watching Barty’s ordeal, made him feel powerless, for he had absolutely no control over the situation. So little, in fact, that he did not even dare to step forward and ask their Master to end the torture. All he could do was stare helplessly at the tightly-wrought bundle on the floor that did not even scream anymore, probably because it did not have the force. All it did was twitch convulsively.

At long last, Voldemort took the curse off Barty.

“When he wakes up, tell him that from now on he is just a Death Eater like all the others,” he said, red eyes ablaze, but otherwise perfectly calm. “Owen McNair will take his place.”

He gestured for the others to take care of him. Severus and Lucius inserted a hand under his arms—it was difficult enough, for his whole body seemed to have seized up—hauled him to his feet between them and Disapparated to Malfoy Manor.

“This looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?” Lucius muttered when they had lowered him onto a magically magnified chair—it was the same they had shared during Lucius’s wedding night.

“What exactly?” Severus asked, “Barty or the situation?”

“I meant Barty, but the situation doesn’t send me into fits of rapture, either.”

They silently set to work, first waking Barty up, then giving him the potion and making him drink a glass of water every fifteen minutes.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Severus said after they had made him gulp down his second glass.

“No,” Lucius agreed, “I suppose it wasn’t. But then you know how it is. Voldemort wants results, not excuses.”

Again, they lapsed into silence, each following his own train of thoughts. Two hours later, Severus administered another dose of the potion to their nearly comatose companion.

“There’s no need for you to stay the night,” Lucius said wearily. “I can take care of him on my own. To tell you the truth, I would even prefer to be alone—well, sort of, considering that Barty doesn’t really count.”

“Are you sure you’ll manage to stay awake?”

“Yes, absolutely. Go home, Severus, and get drunk. It’s the best you can do under these circumstances.”

So Severus Apparated home. He had no intention of following Lucius’s advice to get royally drunk, but he poured himself a whisky and sat down near the fireplace. He needed to think.

To see Lucius in such a state of dejection had been both reassuring and unsettling. Reassuring because Severus himself was not the only one who appeared to be deeply shaken by what he had witnessed. True, Barty had failed, but on the other hand it had been a short-term mission almost impossible to carry out successfully in what little time there had been. True, he had botched this assignment and some others. But all this did not cancel the awareness that the same thing might happen to each of them anytime. Severus presumed that this was what had disturbed Lucius as much as himself. So he was not the only one who felt he was doing a tightrope walk. He had, however, known Lucius for many years and was sufficiently familiar with his character to know that it took a lot of pressure to truly shake him. And that was exactly why he was so troubled. His own anxiety he might have chalked up to his permanent feeling of guilt, thus playing it down to a mere personal problem. To see that Lucius was equally preoccupied was a totally different matter, though.

He took a sip from his glass and tried to calm down by stroking Esmeralda’s slick black fur. For a fleeting moment, he felt torn, so much that it hurt physically. He knew that he had to do something in order to prevent this from becoming a permanent state of mind. It was impossible to go on like this, ripped into pieces by his deep admiration for Voldemort on the one side and his fear of him on the other. Only he had no idea how to put the two halves together. When Elias claimed his due part of Severus’s affection, he obliged the bird but was so worn down that he could barely lift his hand. The raven’s presence had given him an idea, though. He would write a letter to Clarissa. It always helped to put his thoughts first in order and then on paper, so maybe it would have a healing effect now.

The two familiars seemed to sense their master’s inner turmoil, for they followed him upstairs into his laboratory-cum-study and settled down close to his elbows when he started writing.

Dear Clarissa,

I know I should not burden you with my own worries, but maybe I won’t even post this letter. Maybe it is just some sort of diary, into which I can pour all my thoughts and my anxiety. You know that sometimes I envy you? Today is definitely one of those days. I envy you for having left everything behind, for being free and independent. Probably, you are also lonely. But to tell the truth, so am I. And I am carrying this burden that threatens to weigh me down, to crush me.

But I suppose I should start at the beginning. You remember Lily Evans, don’t you? The beautiful redhead that used to hang out with the Gryffindor Goldies and seemed to be rather attached to Potter. Potter, Black and Longbottom enrolled at the Aurors’ Academy, and so did she. Another brilliant mind lost to science and research, but that is not my point.

It was common knowledge that Potter and Evans were to get married some time in October. Considering the guy’s notoriety, we more or less expected that the usual gossip (guests, location—you know the drill) would be all over the papers. By mid-October, nothing had yet transpired. That would not have been bad in itself, for I am not overly interested in detailed descriptions of society events. But Lord Voldemort thought it would be the ideal occasion for a memorable strike against the Ministry—after all, it could be reasonably expected that everybody was going to be there. But it was impossible to find out anything.

Then, Barty overheard a conversation between two Ministry officials, who were discussing the event. He brought Lord Voldemort the information that the Fidelius Charm had been used to keep time and place of the wedding secret. You know how the charm works—it would be impossible to see anything of what is going on, even while sitting at a three feet’s distance from the happy couple. It was Barty’s good luck—well, it turned out to be rather bad luck—to catch the name of the secret keeper as well: it was none other than Sirius Black.  Black of all people—I told you that he is teaching DADA at Hogwarts, didn’t I? Which means that he is impossible to reach, now that Karkaroff is not there anymore.

Lord Voldemort, however, had decided that he wanted to use this wedding to state an example, and ordered Barty to get Black. Needless to say that he did not succeed. There is not much I would say in Barty’s favour, but I have to concede that nobody, maybe not even Lord Voldemort himself, would have succeeded. Perhaps it was only a way to get rid of Barty, who knows? Voldemort has been dissatisfied with him for a long time.

So Barty had exactly three days to get hold of Black, as we know now, for the wedding took place yesterday, on Halloween. Today it was all over the papers.

I have arrived home about half an hour ago, after first witnessing Barty being tortured almost to death—I have no idea what he will tell old Crouch this time, for it is impossible to conceal the after-effects if the curse lasted for over two minutes—and then dragging him to Malfoy Manor where Lucius and I tried to do for him what we could, which was not very much.

And now I am sitting here, writing to you and feeling more afraid than I have ever in my life. I don’t know what is happening, Clarissa. I only feel that Lord Voldemort is not the same man we met so many years ago at the Manor. Not even the same he used to be when I came to him last summer. There has been a change, some of it is visible, mostly in his eyes, but his personality is… oh, I don’t even know how to describe it. He has become so elusive, so unattainable. Unpredictable, too. We are no Gryffindors, and by our very nature do not demand that everything be right and just and explainable. But even a Slytherin’s sense of justice, scant as it may be, is stirred by blatant injustice. Or maybe it is not even that. Maybe I am trying to mask my rising fear by more noble sentiments.

I doubt that even you could have fully enjoyed the sight of Barty reduced to twitching flesh—and I don’t even dare think what tonight’s treatment might have done to his brain—with your mind being nagged by the awareness that this might happen to you, too, not because you failed, not because you committed a grave mistake, but simply because He wants it to. Provided that Barty has not suffered any long-term damage, he is still lucky—although it seems ridiculous to use this word in such a context—because he will remain within our ranks, deprived of his functions but with two arms and his magical powers intact. And alive.

I think that Lucius was harbouring similar thoughts tonight. I am not quite sure about St. John. Maybe because he is older than the rest of us, or maybe also because Tabitha, this ambitious little fanatic, is constantly pushing him and imbuing him with her own devouring desire to serve Voldemort. I’ve always thought her an extraordinarily promising neophyte, but I appears that I still underestimated her. Let’s see how Owen is going to fit into our circle. He was more than grateful for not having been chosen as Julius’s replacement, and I suppose he won’t be too happy about the promotion he received now. Both because he will have to command operations and thus forego the pleasure of ingesting double doses of aphrodisiac, and because now he is in the line of fire. Owen—this is my personal opinion but I guess I am right—does not want power as much as he wants to indulge his instincts and make money, preferably both at the same time. But he is a blood relative of Voldemort, and therefore entitled to a high position within his ranks.

Exhaustion claims its due—I will go to bed now. I hope this letter finds you well, and I hope to hear from you soon. Don’t fret too much over me, I will be fine, even if these twenty inches of rant-filled parchment seem to indicate the contrary.

Yours

Severus

~~~~*~~~~

“Good evening, Severus,” Owen said when the last of the group of four materialized in the drawing room of the McNairs’ house he had indicated to them for Apparating. “Thank you all for coming at such a short notice. But it seems that we have an important visitor tonight. Brandy, anyone?”

“I’d prefer a whisky,” Lucius said, and the others agreed.

“Whisky it is, then.” Owen filled their glasses.

“So what about the visitor?” Lestrange asked when they had all settled down.

“He should arrive anytime now. It’s Rookwood from the Ministry, you know, the Unspeakable. It seems that he has something important to tell us.”

“Didn’t he say anything else?” Lucius asked, clearly displeased, “I hate that kind of secretive behaviour. He might be wasting our time with something totally unimportant.”

“I don’t think so,” Owen said. “But you know how those Unspeakables are. Years and years of secretiveness tend to leave their traces. Anyway, I don’t think he’d have contacted us unless what he has to tell us is really important. They don’t take risks for inconsequential trifles.”

“Gods, Owen,” Severus muttered, shivering, “Don’t you know any anti-draught charms? It’s bloody cold in here.”

Lestrange chuckled. “You are simply too thin, Severus. Frozen through in no time. Why don’t you—”

“Good evening.”

Rookwood had arrived by Floo, and all four of them turned round to look at him. Severus had never seen him and doubted that the others had. The man’s contact had always been Barty, as it was safer to keep personal acquaintances down to the absolutely necessary minimum. Tonight was an exception. A potentially dangerous one, for even though they certainly did not introduce themselves to the Unspeakable, there was no way for him not to immediately identify Lucius as a Malfoy—apart from the fact that he was well-known anyway—and it was more than probable that he recognized Lestrange as well.

Severus watched him as he stood, waiting for Owen to summon another chair and hand him the glass of whisky he had gratefully accepted. Rookwood appeared to be in his late sixties, to judge by the grey that was flecking his otherwise reddish-brown hair and by the lines marking his face. All in all, Severus thought him to be a completely nondescript person, but that might just as well be due to a special glamour or simply to his status as an Unspeakable. That particular lot did not exactly want to draw attention to themselves.

“I have got very important information for you,” Rookwood began. “Yesterday, I happened to overhear a conversation—” he took a sip of whisky “—well, rather a heated discussion in the Minister’s office. Not that this fact would be interesting in itself,” he said with a smirk, “but it becomes highly important given the identity of the Minister’s opponent. Would you like me to elaborate or do you prefer to see it immediately?”

The meaning of his question became clear when he took a small object out of the pocket of his cloak and tapped it with his wand to restore it to its original size. It was a pensieve.

“Well,” Severus said hesitantly, “I think we might just as well have a look right now, don’t you think so?”

The others nodded. Owen summoned a small table, on which the pensieve was placed; they moved their chairs so that they were sitting around it in a circle—except for Rookwood, who had moved nearer to the fireplace—and, on the count of three, contemporaneously touched the silvery liquid. The sensation of falling, although his rational mind knew perfectly well that he was still sitting in his chair, had always unsettled Severus. When he had overcome it, he looked around and saw that he and the other three were standing in a richly decorated office, its walls panelled in mahogany, the windows hidden by heavy curtains of mustard-coloured velvet. There was an enormous mahogany desk, behind which Geoffrey Windham, the Minister of Magic, was sitting, apparently in extreme agitation. What made the four men gasp in surprise, though, was the man currently pacing the room. He did not seem less upset than the Minister. And he was none other than Albus Dumbledore.

After a while, he finished his pacing and strode towards the desk to rest his hands upon it, leaning forward and looking Windham straight into the eyes. “You cannot continue like this, Geoffrey, and you know it. This is not the random lunacy of some cranky Dark wizard who was lucky enough to gather a handful of followers. This has method, and the plan behind it is clearly visible. Why are you stubbornly denying it? Why don’t you believe those who see it, Geoffrey? If I were the only one who tries to make you hear reason, I would understand your reluctance. But there are many of us, and we have tried so many times to persuade you that I have lost count. Why do you prefer to close your eyes?”

The Minister, a thin, grey-haired man with a drooping moustache that gave his face an even wearier expression, heaved a deep sigh. “In spite of what you probably think, Albus, I am not ignoring the advice I constantly receive. And after the incident with Karkaroff I am even inclined to believe that there’s method to this madness.” Dumbledore made an impatient movement. “Yes, Albus, I said inclined and I meant it. Or are you really trying to convince me that verbal attacks against the Ministry and Law Enforcement are a sign of a universal conspiracy? This is ridiculous, Albus, ridiculous, and you know it. Don’t give me that flaming look. I have been minister for many years, and I have seen more Ministry-bashing and Auror-slandering than you can possibly imagine. It’s the easiest way for them—the Ministry and the bureaucracy in general are always cheap scapegoats.”

Dumbledore’s hands were clenching the edge of the tabletop so convulsively that his knuckles stood out livid against his already pale skin. “The campaign against you and the Ministry is but a part of the overall plan, Geoffrey. A small but important part. Can’t you see that every attack, every killing serves to either intimidate the population or get one of their members into a key position?”

Windham leaned back in his chair. “Now don’t be absurd, Albus. Or are you seriously implying that Greenbaum’s heart attack was the work of a Dark Wizard? Or that Mac Allan is a follower of You-Know-Who?”

“Voldemort!” Dumbledore hissed, bending forward even further, “His name is Voldemort! You don’t dare speak his name, but have the gall to look me in the face, telling me that he is less dangerous than I believe? That is a lie, Geoffrey, a damned, cowardly lie!”

This was enough to make the Minister lose his temper. He jumped up from his chair, rounded the table and stood in front of Dumbledore. He had to look up to meet his eyes, for Windham was considerably shorter.

“I am no coward, Albus, and I fail to see the sinister plans you claim for You-Know-Who. There is one thing I can recognize very well, though, and that is your ambition!” He stabbed Dumbledore’s chest with his index finger. “You want to become Minister of Magic, you want to run this country, and every pretext, even if flimsy and threadbare, is welcome to you! You want me to resign and take my place! Did you think I had not understood it immediately? Do you think I don’t know what you are concocting at that school of yours? You are gathering followers, Albus Dumbledore, just like You-Know-Who, and you want to take over, don’t you? Only you came here first to see whether I might not simply do your bidding. But what if I refuse? How far are you planning to go? Will you try a coup d’état? Will you depose me by force? Kill me? Tell me, Albus, what are your plans?”

There was a long silence after this outburst. Dumbledore was standing immobile, his hands slightly trembling, shoulders slumped—every inch a defeated man.

“Very well, Geoffrey,” he said, “If that is what you think, I have nothing more to say to you. I—” he passed his right hand over his eyes “—I hate to say this, but this means the end of our collaboration. I will not seek assistance from you—Hogwarts is well able to defend itself, should the worst come to the worst. And I hereby refuse to give you advice, help or whatever you might ask of me in the future. This is truly the end. Goodbye, Jeffrey, and may Merlin protect you.”

The memory had ended, and the four men, now back in their seats in both mind and body, looked at each other in speechless surprise.

“Well, if that isn’t good news…” Lestrange said finally.

“What did you think?” Rookwood’s voice came from behind them, “That I would have risked coming here only to tell you that the Minister was constipated?”

“The question is,” Severus said pensively, “how are we going to use this?”

‘We only need to watch and wait for the right moment to give the final push,’ those had been Voldemort’s words to him. It seemed that the moment had finally arrived.

~~~~*~~~~

Even among the Unspeakables, gossip was a much-cherished pastime. So it was not overly conspicuous that Rookwood casually mentioned the fight between Dumbledore and the Minister to a few of his colleagues while they were taking an after-work whisky. Such had been the instructions he had received shortly after his visit at the McNairs’. And it was too juicy a tidbit to remain untold. Very soon, Rookwood reported back that news of the row, appropriately embellished and disfigured by passing through so many mouths, had been sufficiently spread within the Ministry to proceed to the next step.

Two days before Severus’s nineteenth birthday, he, Lestrange and a group of ten Death Eaters Apparated in the vicinity of the Minister’s residence. It was early morning, and the dark and foggy night was not yet lit by dawn. The building was not very heavily guarded, because the Minister refused to show any signs of fear. Therefore, only five Aurors were patrolling the grounds, their white robes easy targets for the attackers. Each of them was tackled by two Death Eaters, as a mere precaution, so as to avoid unwelcome complications. When the guards had been eliminated, the group spread over the grounds to protect their leaders while they entered the building.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Lestrange said, completely exasperated, “How many bleeding House Elves do they have here? My score is three by now, and yours?”

“Four,” Severus replied, “no, scratch that… Avada Kedavra! Five. Bloody nuisances! It’s like an obstacle course for beginners.”

Lestrange snorted. “Indeed. Now where’s that bedroom?”

They had arrived at the first floor, where a long corridor led away from the staircase on both sides, and were looking at the multitude of closed doors.

“Considering we don’t have the time for a guided tour, I suppose we should simply perform a locating spell,” Severus suggested.

“Indeed. Inveniatur Windham!” Lestrange’s wand pointed down the corridor at their right, and they followed it until, with a sharp twitch, it indicated a door on the left side.

It opened to a simple Alohomora—it would of course have been possible to simply open it by hand, but the spell ensured that no creaking or scraping noise woke up the sleepers.

“How people manage to sleep with the bed curtains completely drawn is a mystery to me,” Severus whispered, “I would become claustrophobic!”

“Not to mention the lack of oxygen,” Lestrange agreed. “Not that he’s going to need any in the near future…”

“Shush, St. John, don’t make me laugh!”

They had reached the giant four-poster and, with a flick of their wands, flung up the curtains so that they landed on top of the canopy. The soft flapping noise made the bed’s occupants stir in their sleep.

“Good morning!” Lestrange said in his best Rise-And-Shine manner, “Time to wake up, if only for a short time.”

Windham was immediately awake and sat bolt upright, staring at the two masked figures in horror and disbelief. “What… what do you want?” he asked.

“I’ll give you a clue,” Severus said, “It’s not the room service.”

The Minister’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed convulsively. “You have come… you have come to kill me, haven’t you?”

His wife, a remarkably ugly elderly lady, propped herself up on her elbows and eyed the visitors, her expression as incredulous as her husband’s.

“Right in one,” Lestrange said, “And I am truly sorry that we don’t have any time for explanations, as we’re working on a tight schedule here.”

The room was briefly bathed in the green light of the killing curses, and the two men swiftly made their way out of the room, downstairs and out of the building. The green shine had been the sign for the group to gather in front of the entrance door, and they were already complete when Severus and Lestrange exited the house.

“Excellent,” Lestrange said, “Now come on, ladies and gentlemen, we have to put at least a hundred yards between ourselves and the building.”

The group marched away from the house in silence, and when the distance was sufficiently large, came to a halt.

“Wands ready?” Severus asked. Twelve wands were raised to shoulder height. “Good. We target the front door. Remember, you have to Disapparate immediately after the spell, otherwise you risk being hit by a piece of stone. On the count of three, then. One—two—three—Reducto!”

The force of twelve spells hit the building with the force of a bomb, but the Death Eaters were already gone. They had the satisfaction, though, of seeing the photo of the expanse of rubble the minister’s residence had become on the first page of next day’s Daily Prophet. The headline was even more gratifying. It read: MINISTER WINDHAM AND WIFE MURDERED—TERRORIST ATTACK OR COUP D’ETAT?