The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 20

By Pigwidgeon37

Dear Clarissa,

I suppose you have no access to wizarding newspapers, and certainly not to British ones, over there, so I thought I might tell you what is going on here. It is good news, so don’t worry.

We (meaning St. John and myself) have successfully executed that old fool Windham. The icing on the cake, though, was the more or less complete destruction of his residence—amazing what twelve powerful Reducto Spells can do. However, we didn’t leave a Dark Mark this time. Why? Because old Dumbledore had had a terrible row with Windham—we  arranged for the rumour to be sufficiently spread before we sent the Minister over the Styx, and both Daily Prophet and WWN did us the ‘courtesy’ to insinuate that the attack might also have been a preparatory step for a coup d’état. Which of course ensured that Dumbledore would never have accepted the position, even if the whole Ministry had crept to Hogwarts on their hands and knees.

But we were even luckier than we had expected: not only did Dumbledore refuse, it was also impossible to find anybody willing to become Windham’s successor. Not bad, is it? Thus the Ministry (whoever was responsible for that ridiculous decision) found a compromise. The Heads of Department will take it in turns to act as Ministers. There are six departments, so it is two months for each of them. Ludicrous, isn’t it? What with six different styles of leadership and as many different priorities, the chaos will become even greater than we imagined in our wildest dreams. Old Barty Crouch and Cornelius Fudge (he has recently been appointed Head of the Department of Private Law)! Just think of it! When one of them takes over, he will contradict and counteract everything his predecessor said or did.

Unfortunately, things are not proceeding too well at Hogwarts. Dumbledore flat-out refuses to hire another Potions teacher. That is, he asked St. John to come back, but the UMU wouldn’t let him go. Bless McAllan’s old rivalry with AD.

Speaking of potions: McLachlan told me that I will probably finish my apprenticeship two months early, which means end of May. Which means further that there is more than enough time to submit my request for the Master exam to the university before they close down for the summer. I suppose that Lord Voldemort will then want me to apply for Karkaroff’s position at Hogwarts—no need to tell you that this is diametrically opposed to my own wishes. Not because I’m afraid of being found out and transported straight to Azkaban. But the mere thought of having to teach for a living makes me cringe. Just imagine, there might be individuals like Pettigrew or Longbottom, Merlin forbid. However, I will certainly show no opposition. What with my not exactly resplendent records, there is no imminent danger of Dumbledore reconsidering his decision and hiring me.

I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do after getting my degree. But I suppose that time will show.

Your last letter made me laugh—it is difficult to imagine you serving food to Muggles. Considering that it’s nothing permanent, I suppose you will cope rather well. And it might really be a very effective way of getting to know their world without raising too much curiosity by your ignorance thereof. Cinema does sound interesting, although I can hardly imagine what it must be like. I would love to go, but not only is my schedule really crammed, there is also the lack of company that makes it seem less alluring. Or can you imagine Lucius in a Muggle cinema?

Well, my dear, that seems to be it for today. I presume that there won’t be any letters from you before Christmas, so I wish you a very Happy Christmas. It would have been our first together; that makes me a little sad. Although I don’t really understand why I miss an obnoxious brat such as you. As things are, I will probably spend the holidays over at Malfoy Manor. Hopefully they will be more peaceful than last year.

Yours

Severus

~~~~*~~~~

“Are you sure you can walk?” Severus asked Narcissa when they met at the entrance of Flourish & Blott’s, “I mean, no offence, but aren’t you afraid you might keel over?”

She laughed. “No, certainly not. That’s why pregnant women develop that strange gait, you know? To prevent themselves from constantly toppling over.” She took his arm. “I hope you really don’t mind going shopping with me, do you?”

Severus regarded her with raised eyebrows. “If I told you so. But you must stick to your part of the agreement. No baby items. Just Lucius’s present.”

“Of course. But you know how he is.”

“Do I?” Severus retorted.

“Yes you do. You know perfectly well that he’s a possessive, jealous bastard. You are the only person he’d entrust me to, now that Yelena isn’t here anymore.”

“How very flattering,” Severus said acidly. “But honestly, I had no idea that he was jealous.”

She sighed. “I guess it’s only wishful thinking anyway,” she admitted, “But probably he’s only being possessive and that’s all there is to it.”

“Falling in love?” Narcissa only blushed but did not respond. “Oh, oh. That looks bad, Mrs. Malfoy, really bad. Are you the same woman who told me, some years ago, that une qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer was an impossible scenario?”

Now she had tears in her eyes. Severus began to feel increasingly uncomfortable.

“You see,” she said, “It’s difficult not to. He’s incredibly attentive, almost always nice, he… he seems to respect me. And now that I’m bearing his child… It has changed my feelings. Deepened them. Only I’m not sure whether it’s actually an improvement.”

“Meaning it would be bad for you if they were unrequited?”

“Exactly. I don’t know how to explain it. But we’ve been married for over a year now. My husband is constantly treating me well, he doesn’t make me feel like a trophy wife, he’s—” she blushed “—he’s an incredible lover… It’s hard to perpetually tell myself that he behaves like this but doesn’t care for me. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but at some point in time I simply grew tired of convincing myself that he didn’t. It’s so much easier to believe he… likes me.”

“That,” Severus remarked pointedly, “doesn’t really seem to be the question. I’m sure that he likes you, otherwise he would never have married you. Julius wasn’t the kind of man who would have forced his son into a marriage with a girl he disliked, only because it was advantageous. So the question isn’t whether he likes you or not, but whether he returns your love.”

“Just don’t call it thus,” she whispered, looking up at him with a very watery smile, “For fear of offending the deities, you know?”

They had arrived at Anatol’s Attic, an antiques shop that, despite its name, sold anything but bric-à-brac. Anatol Erasmus Crumb was one of Great Britain’s, and possibly Europe’s, foremost experts in the field of magical artefacts. Despite the ever-stricter Ministry guidelines, he still managed to detect, buy and sell articles, which, had the Ministry any knowledge of them, would earn him more than one life sentence in Azkaban.

Lucius had inherited his passion for magical antiquities, especially of the darker kind, from his father and was an enthusiastic collector of such items—the more poisonous, noxious, cursed or deadly, the better. Knowing this, Narcissa was eager to purchase some particularly rare and outstanding object as a Christmas present for her husband. She had little knowledge in this field and freely admitted that she didn’t consider herself a match for Crumb when it came to haggling about the price. Not that money was a problem in itself; but the antiques dealer was not exactly known for his integrity. Thus she had asked Severus to accompany her, feeling that his, by now patented, intimidating glare might have a daunting effect on Anatol Erasmus Crumb.

They did not have to search for a long time; in fact, after they had been lead into the space reserved for Crumb’s trustworthy clients—even though the word trustworthy was not exactly used in its more current sense—Narcissa’s eyes had immediately been attracted by a magnificent chess board. It was quite a large piece, almost thirty inches by thirty, its squares made of platinum and onyx, encompassed by a frame of the same materials. It was beautifully crafted, the onyx providing the background for an intricate marquetry of fantastic plants and leaves. The figures were carved from moonstone and the darkest variety of opal Severus had ever seen: it was almost black, with an eerie, almost malicious red glint. It reminded him of Voldemort’s eyes. A card placed close to this epitome of magical craftsmanship explained that it was cursed to shrink its owner’s opponent—only in case he won, of course—to the size of one of the pieces the moment he pronounced the words ‘check mate’, and pull him, or her, onto the board where he or she would then be slaughtered by all the pieces in ways best not described in detail.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it, Severus?” Narcissa whispered.

“Shush! Yes, it is, but don’t show too much interest. First we’ll have a thorough look round. And when we come back, you will kindly play along with whatever deprecatory comments I choose to utter.”

She nodded, and they dutifully circled the whole room, followed by Crumb’s watchful eyes, pointing out various objects to each other, arguing about their value… Severus had to admit he was having a good time. Haggling with Crumb made it even better, mostly because he managed to gradually diminish the ludicrous price of two thousand five hundred galleons to a reasonable one thousand three hundred. The deal was concluded, Narcissa signed a payment order on her Gringott’s account, and Mr. Crumb noted time and destination for the delivery.

“Oh, I feel like celebrating,” Narcissa said when they had exited the somewhat gloomy shop. Her eyes had lost their former sadness and were bright with excitement.

“Yes,” Severus agreed, “the acquisition of such a treasure has to be duly celebrated. I heard that Fortescue has opened a bar, would you like to go there and have a look? No alcohol, though,” he admonished, poking at her belly. He received a rather violent kick in return.

“You see?” Narcissa smiled, taking his arm again, “He thinks that I may have a glass of champagne.”

“He?”

“I’m absolutely sure it’s going to be a boy.”

“Wishful thinking, isn’t it?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Although I doubt whether Lucius would be angry if it were a girl. I’m young, I can have as many children as I want. Sooner or later, it’s bound to be a boy. Is it far? My feet are killing me.”

“No,” Severus said, “A hundred yards up the road. You see that image floating there? The flute with ‘Supernaturally Sparkling’ written under it? That’s it.”

They slowly proceeded towards the location Severus had indicated and had already covered more than half the distance, when suddenly a group of Aurors strode purposefully towards a seemingly innocuous young man, who was studying the items on display in the window of Flourish & Blott’s. Sensing trouble, Severus stopped dead in his tracks and told Narcissa not to move any further. They watched the young man turn round, his expression half-annoyed, half-incredulous, as his look swept over the white-clad figures. They were forming a circle round him, so that, from where Severus and Narcissa were standing, it was impossible to see what exactly was going on. The circle shrunk gradually as the Aurors were closing in on him. Passers-by began to anxiously move away from the group; in the silence that had fallen Severus could distinctly hear angry voices. Instinctively, he put his arm around Narcissa’s shoulders and looked around in search for an open door, behind which they might find shelter. But the inhabitants and shopkeepers of Diagon Alley had obviously learned their lesson: not a single door was open anymore. Everything locked, shut and warded.

The sound of the heated altercation increased in volume, and suddenly—everybody had expected it, but it still came as a shock—the curses started flying. It was a fight of one against four, but the young man stood his ground quite impressively. This, however, was not Severus’s main concern. The Aurors were firing curses and hexes, seemingly at random, and not only did they not hit their target, they also ricocheted from walls and windows.

“Come, Narcissa!” Severus said, narrowly avoiding a burst of yellow light, “we’d better App—”

At that very moment, one of the Aurors ducked a curse his opponent had fired at him; Severus tried to pull Narcissa away, but did not succeed. The angry red flame seared towards her and hit her throat. Her eyes wide open, the beautiful face a mask of terror and rising pain, Narcissa staggered backwards, too fast for Severus to catch her, mostly because he constantly had to flinch left and right to dodge the ever-increasing hailstorm of curses. He saw her spin around herself once, already screaming and twitching, and then fall; fall slowly but too quickly for him to do anything but leap forward and fling himself on the ground so that her head hit his leg instead of the stone.

The bystanders did not seem to notice; there were few of them left, pressed against the house-walls, as if wanting to melt into them, horrified and speechless. Gently lifting Narcissa’s head off his leg, Severus scrambled to a kneeling position, drew his wand and cast Finite Incantatem on her. To no avail. Her screaming had by now turned into a soft, gurgling noise that was maybe more frightening than her desperate shrieks.

The shower of curses came to an abrupt halt, and Severus turned round. The Aurors had finally overpowered their opponent, one of them was casting a binding spell on him.

“Wait!” Severus shouted, “Wait, I have to ask him which curse—”

One of the Aurors turned round and looked him up and down. “Shut up!” he barked, “And mind your own bloody business.”

“Are you mad? This woman is pregnant and he hit her—”

“Then take her to St. Mungo’s, you moron!”

With these words, the Auror turned back to his companions. It was hard to fight the wave of incandescent rage that threatened to blind Severus. He had to, though, if only for Narcissa’s sake. Carefully, he lifted her up—Merlin, she was heavy, all limp now and seemingly unconscious—held her close and Apparated to St. Mungo’s.

When the mediwizards had taken her over, Severus slumped into one of the chairs that were scattered about the lobby. This place did not hold friendly memories for him, he thought, shuddering. It was difficult not to take that as an evil omen. What if she lost the baby? She was… wait… unless memory deceived him she was seven months pregnant, so the baby might survive. But that curse… It had not been Cruciatus, but certainly a dark curse. And it was more than possible, in fact it was highly probable, that it had damaged the child. If it had really been a boy… Lucius was going to—

Lucius. He had to inform Lucius.

“Excuse me,” he said to the receptionist, “May I use your Floo, just for a short call?”

He was directed to the public Floo terminal—they had added one in the lobby, he realized, it hadn’t been there the last time he was here—and, after a deep, steadying breath, called “Malfoy Manor!”

~~~~*~~~~

“I’ll kill them!” Lucius hissed through clenched teeth, “I swear to every deity that I’ll kill those bastards.”

The umpteenth time. He had said it for the umpteenth time. Severus’s patience was wearing thin. “Lucius, I know that this is difficult and a tragedy, I truly understand you.”

Lucius looked up at him out of whisky-glazed eyes. “You do?”

“More or less. Enough for not leaving you here alone, on your own, because I bloody well know that as soon as I Disapparate you’ll pop over to the Aurors’ Academy or the Ministry and do something you’d regret a lot.”

Lucius poured himself another inch of whisky and snorted.

“Lucius, could you kindly get yourself very drunk in as short a time as possible, so that you simply fall asleep? Or do you prefer me to brew you a sleeping potion?”

Lucius shook his head in stubborn drunkenness. “They killed my heir,” he slurred, “and they almost killed my wife. What do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t expect anything. I just want you to sleep over it and cool down a bit. We can go to Voldemort tomorrow and ask his permission to plan a raid on the Academy. Later though. Not tomorrow and not the day after. Maybe in a month, or two. When it won’t be connected to what happened to Narcissa anymore.”

“Ask his permission!” Lucius drawled. “Ask his bloody permission for personal revenge. I’ll be damned—”

“Shush, Lucius! Just think of Clarissa. Do you want to play waiter for American Muggles? Okay, so calm down.”

Malfoy’s glass slid from his hand and fell on the carpet with a soft thud. The whisky quickly seeped into the thick fabric. “She is innocent, Severus,” Lucius said, his voice muffled because he had buried his face in his hands. “She is innocent and didn’t deserve it. So much pain…”

“I know. I saw her, and it was horrible. But she’s alive. You will have children—”

“But this was a boy!” Lucius shouted, rising from his chair. He was swaying, and Severus went over to him and put a stabilizing hand on his shoulder. “This was my heir. A healthy boy, Severus… That is, until…”

Indeed, Severus thought. Until. He had seen many gruesome scenes, but this had almost been too much for him. The mediwizards had tried various potions and counter-curses at the same time; it had taken them more than ten minutes to end Narcissa’s horrible ordeal. The Mutilospasmus Curse—the mediwizards had identified it by way of the counter-curse that had finally interrupted it—had worked very effectively. Definitely belonging to the dark side of magic, it caused horrible contractions, above all of the stomach and intestine, and, unless ended in time, made blood vessels and organs literally burst. Lucius had insisted on being present, and Severus, fearing that he might act inconsiderately towards the mediwizards, had been more or less forced to stay as well. He knew that the image of that minuscule body, cruelly twisted and maimed, was not going to leave his mind anytime soon. It had been a boy, just as Narcissa had told him.

She would need a long period of recovery, but Lucius had been assured that there was no long-term damage to be expected, as they had saved her just in time.

Seeing that Lucius was more or less stable on his feet and leaning heavily against the marble frame of the fireplace, Severus decided that he might go over to the side table holding the bottles and pour himself a drink. He watched as the amber liquid splashed into the tumbler. It should have been a peaceful Christmas, and instead… Turning back to Lucius, he saw that the other man’s shoulders were shaking. It was highly improbable that anything could have provoked his laughter, so the only possible conclusion… Gods, what a mess! What a bloody mess! Lucius would never forgive him for having seen his weakness. Thus he chose to stroll over to one of the French doors, to stare out into the night and simply wait it out.

“I swear that I’ll kill you if you ever tell anybody,” Lucius voice, slightly raucous, drifted over from behind him.

“I won’t,” Severus said quietly. “What is it, Lucius? What on earth has the power to make Lucius Malfoy cry?”

He turned round to face the other wizard, but Lucius was not looking at him. He was staring into the flames, right arm supporting him against the marble surface, left hand balled into a fist. “I love her,” he whispered hoarsely, “And she would almost have died.”

“It might be a good idea to tell her, you know,” Severus replied calmly. “I think she would be pleasantly surprised.”

Lucius shook his head. “Call it superstition, call me an idiot, but I can’t. I don’t know why I told you, but I certainly won’t say a word to her. It is… it’s difficult to describe, but it is as if saying it aloud would endanger it. It’s out there, for everybody to grab and destroy. For… for him, mostly.”

Severus did not need to ask who ‘he’ was. He knew it all too well. The power of words. Maybe Lucius was right. “I suppose it isn’t my place to tell you, but what the hell… You know that she told me exactly the same today, in almost the same words? If the situation weren’t so desolate it would make me laugh.”

There was a long silence. “It’s good to know,” Lucius said at last. “In a way, it makes things easier. More bearable.”

Severus continued staring out of the window. In reality, he was staring at himself, or through himself. It was easy to imagine that he was a constellation in the night sky. Or a ghost. Would that make things easier? He somehow doubted it.

“Do you remember our last day at Hogwarts?” He was not sure why he had brought up the subject. It had jumped out of his subconscious and right onto his tongue. Not a good way to behave in Lucius’s presence, even if he was drunk and seemingly innocuous.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean our last afternoon out there, at the lake, when Sybil read the frogs’ guts for us.”

“That was a long time ago…”

Yes, Severus thought. A different lifetime. “I know. Do you remember what she told Clarissa?”

“I don’t bloody care what that insupportable old fraud told Clarissa… Something about a crime passionel, wasn’t it?”

“It seemed to be, at that time. But you do remember, don’t you, what I told you about her father, about the abuse?”

Lucius slowly turned round to face him. “Are you implying that dumb cow did… Well,” he said after a short pause of reflection, “it does seem to make sense, doesn’t it? In some twisted kind of way… Why did you mention it, anyway? If I remember correctly, she didn’t tell you anything. You seemed quite peeved about being left out.”

“Yes,” Severus agreed. “So I was. But still, it worries me. I don’t know why.”

“Afraid you’re going to kill me?” Lucius asked, in a not-quite-successful attempt at joking.

“Meaning I am your best friend? Now don’t get sentimental, Malfoy.”

The atmosphere had lightened up a little.

“Time to go to bed, Lucius. We will have a busy day tomorrow. Should I accompany you when you go to Voldemort?”

Lucius shrugged. “I don’t think so. Considering that you didn’t recognize the Aurors. And there’s not going to be any punishment this time… Thanks to you,” he added surly. “Otherwise I might be in big trouble now.”

“You’d be completely out of trouble unless you regard being dead as a kind of trouble.”

Lucius snorted. “Who knows? Go home now, Sev. You need your rest.”

~~~~*~~~~

Severus’s voice was hoarse with excitement when he called his House Elf. “Peggy, could you come up to my laboratory for a moment?”

Obediently, Peggy popped into sight. “Yes, Master Severus? I doesn’t touch anything, really—”

“I know,” he said, smiling inwardly at the elf’s terror. He was never harsh with her, with the only exception of the time she had ventured into his laboratory to clean it. He had been dangerously near a heart attack and had consequently given her a terrible tongue-lashing. She was still lucky, of course—Lucius, for instance, would have given her the beating of her life. But still, the memory of that day had remained in her mind vividly enough to forever deter her from any such attempt. Which had, of course, been his intention.

“I need you for an experiment. Do you think you might play the lab rat for me?”

Peggy’s eyes widened considerably. “A-an experiment?” she squealed, “Does it hurt, Master Severus?”

He considered her question for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. And you’re the only one I can try it on, as neither Esmeralda nor Elias would suit the purpose. It requires the use of language.”

“I only has to speak?”

“Yes, you only have to speak. Tell me, Peggy, do you know anything about Veritaserum?”

The elf nodded vigorously. “Yes, I does, Master Severus. You has to tell the truth if you drink it.”

“Exactly. Do you have any idea whether it works for House Elves?”

“We has to tell our masters the truth anyway, Master Severus, so there is no need to give it to us.”

That was something he had not taken into consideration. “Yes,” he admitted, “that is a problem. Wait! Couldn’t I undo the binding spell for a while? Then you wouldn’t be forced to tell me the truth anymore.”

Peggy frowned, visibly puzzled. “Yes, I thinks you can do that. But—” she looked up at him pleadingly “—you is going to bind me to you again, please? I doesn’t want to serve anybody else…”

“Of course I’m going to restore the spell,” Severus said, laughing, “What would I do without you? Esmeralda would scratch my eyes out if you left this house. Come on then, fetch that parchment and let’s start.”

A little later, Peggy was perched on the edge of his workbench, unbound and grinning at him broadly, her whole posture expressing expectancy.

“Okay,” Severus said, trying in vain to at least appear calm, “First let’s try with the truth serum. Or rather, I’m going to ask you a few questions first, then give you the serum and ask them again. So we can test whether it works on elves.”

The elf looked a little sceptical but nodded. Even unbound, she could not wholly resist her subservient nature.

“Did you like your last master?”

A shadow crossed Peggy’s face. “Does I have to answer?”

“No, you don’t have to. So you’re passing this one?”

The elf nodded.

“Good. Next one. Do you like me?”

The sun rose. “Yes, I likes you a lot, Master Severus. You is nice, you treats me well, you—”

“That’s quite enough, thank you,” he interrupted her. “I think I get the general idea. Last question, then. Were you curious as to why the Aurors came here to question me?”

This last query seemed to be the most difficult one. The elf rocked back and forth, visibly fighting with herself. “Please, Master Severus,” she whimpered, “please not asks this, please…”

“It’s all right. Just let it be. And now—” he took a small vial containing a crystal clear liquid “—the truth serum. You are very small, so I’d say two drops are more than enough.”

Peggy obediently opened her mouth and let him measure out two drops onto her tongue. Seconds later, her eyes became a little unfocused. “It feels strange, Master Severus. Is you sure you doesn’t poison me?”

“I most sincerely hope that I’m not poisoning you. Now tell me: did you like your last master?”

She was still struggling, but obviously unable to resist. “I hates him,” she said. “I hates him because he is unjust and cruel. If I ever meets him again, I wants to hurt him. Badly.”

“Interesting. What about me, then?”

She gave him a toothy grin. “I likes you, Master Severus. This isn’t a lie, you see?”

Lucius would have called him a sentimental idiot, had he seen Severus’s gratification about being liked by a House Elf. Probably he was also grinning like an idiot. Never mind, though. “And the Aurors?” he asked.

“I sees you sometimes, Master Severus,” she whispered. She did not look into his eyes. “You is leaving in the middle of the night. Sometimes when you comes back you looks so tired… and there is blood on your clothes. You must be doing bad things, Master Severus, very bad things, and I is afraid for you. You is a good person… I is never telling the Aurors. Never. But I doesn’t like you going away in the night.”

Cringing inwardly, Severus only nodded and proceeded to the last, and most important, step. The antidote was as colour- and tasteless as the Veritaserum. Two drops, and Peggy’s look became foggy again. He repeated the questions and got the same answers she had given him when he had first asked her. It worked. He had done it. He had found an antidote to the substance all of them feared the Aurors were going to use on them sooner or later.

~~~~*~~~~

“What a beautiful raven you have, Severus. And I hope he delivered the request for a pleasant meeting. Given the urgency of your demand for a meeting, I rather doubt that, though.”

Still on his knees, his heart hammering with anticipation, Severus shook his head. “I am glad to say you are wrong, My Lord. The news I am bringing is good indeed. A present, rather than news.”

Voldemort did not comment on this, and neither did he allow him to get up. “A present?” There was silence then, maybe not long but unbearable all the same. “A present?” he repeated, with less enthusiasm in his voice than Severus had hoped for. “I daresay I am not the kind of person people, even devoted followers as you are, make presents to. Not unless I specifically ask them to.”

Severus felt his head begin to spin. How many times had he told himself that his Master would take this gesture exactly for what it was? A lame attempt at atoning for his betrayal? Had the guilty part of his conscious mind such power over his subconscious that it could force that weak, gullible thing to find a way for the Master to punish him? A most ingenuous, subtle way? For he would never have considered simply confessing, except for that one fleeting moment last summer. He might be a coward, or just an ordinary human being. Whatever the appellation, the outcome was the same: he was afraid of being tortured or even killed. But this, this was devious. To give his Master something important, maybe vital, without having been asked to do so. It was bound to raise suspicion. And it might lead exactly where he had thought he did not want to go.

“So why do you deem it necessary to give me a present, Severus? Why do you feel you owe me something? Had you shown up here with a pouch of galleons, I would have understood. You might have imagined you owe me that money I gave you in the beginning, and you might have felt obliged to pay it back.”

Each sentence a blade that cut from his brain straight through to his guts, leaving a trail of incandescent ice in its wake.

“Or is this a payment order on your Gringott’s account?” he asked, in an almost mocking tone.

Severus heard the sharp crackling of the roll of parchment being turned round in Voldemort’s hand. “No, My Lord,” he said, not sure whether his voice was sounding as calm as he intended. “It is something infinitely more precious.”

“Ah.” Silence again. To Severus, it seemed like an inescapable vortex, sucking him in, making him ill. “But why, Severus? Why? It isn’t—” calculated silence “—guilt, is it?”

“No, My Lord. Why should I feel guilty?”

The next moment, he screamed. Voldemort’s shoe had crushed his right hand with full force. “Never play games with me.” His voice as calm as if the blow had been sufficient for his ire to evaporate.

“I…” He was hit by a wave if nausea. Probably because some bones had been broken. The shock and unexpected kind of pain had sobered his mind, though. Drawing deep breaths, he tried to overcome his urge to vomit. “I do not feel guilty, My Lord. The only reason why I thought it wiser to present this as a surprise to you is that I wasn’t sure whether I would succeed.”

“Ah.” Again, the unnerving monosyllable. “And what did you succeed at?”

“I managed to develop an antidote to Veritaserum. As it is now, its effect lasts no more than twenty-four hours. But I thought that, even though only a step on the way towards the final result, it was already worthy of being shown to you.”

The parchment rustled again, longer this time. Through the jolts of pain racing from his hand to his head and stomach, Severus tried to detect a change in Voldemort’s breathing or demeanour, some sign, some forewarning of his reaction. There was none, and he prepared himself for the worst.

“Twenty-four hours,” Voldemort breathed, “That is already a miracle. You did well, Severus. Rise.”

Not sure whether he would be able to stand without supporting himself against a chair or the wall, Severus scrambled to his feet. It cost him what force he had left not to avoid his Master’s eyes. But he had to withstand the impact of those black-red pupils. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that his life depended on it.

“McLachlan is ignorant of this,” Voldemort said, more stating a fact than asking a question.

“Of course, My Lord.”

“Did you tell anybody else? Lucius?”

“No, my Lord. You and I are the only ones who know.”

“Good. And I want it to remain thus. My Death Eaters will, of course, have to ingest it, especially before any major operations, but they will do so without knowing what it is. Too much knowledge at the wrong time might prove detrimental.”

A sharp pain that had nothing to do with his hand or his previous state of nervous exaltation ripped through Severus’s heart at these words. It was illuminating, and it was so agonizing that he would have preferred being tortured to death. It was white-hot lightning, and it left an inscription, burnt deep into his very being. He knew he would try to ignore it. He was sure that, most of the time, he was going to succeed. But it was there. And it read “Where is the difference?”