The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 21

By Pigwidgeon37

Was he going to die tonight? Did the thought really trouble him, or were his emotions just following a convention, because it was publicly agreed that the idea of dying had to be disturbing? Was he afraid?

Severus had spent the whole afternoon and most of the evening in his own laboratory, futilely reordering his ingredients, making a list of what needed to be restocked, fingering vials and beacons and alembics. He had tried to listen to his favourite pieces of music, and then to some he did not especially like. He had brushed Esmeralda’s already shiny fur, to the cat’s great dismay. None of these occupations had been sufficient to stop his mind from spinning ceaselessly around itself. More serious pastimes, like reading or studying, or even brewing potions, had been rendered impossible by the constant vortex of thoughts that were too articulate to permit concentration, but too unclear to be seized by consciousness, tackled, brought to an end and filed away for further use.

This state of mind made him feel insecure. Since that fateful meeting with Voldemort at the beginning of January, he had been feeling a certain numbness, but until now he had always been able to shake it off. There had been some minor operations he had been in command of; nothing important, more or less inconsequential attacks on people who needed to be intimidated. Tonight was different, though. The raid on the Aurors’ Academy was the first major operation since they had eliminated Prewett, and this time their opponents would not be a bunch of half-drunk students. The Academy counted thirty-two apprentices, twenty-three of which were men. The faculty consisted of eight teachers plus the rector. It was now the end of February, so the apprentices had already been trained for six months in a climate of constant tension and vigilance. Forty-one against fifty-five Death Eaters. Considering that the attack was going to take place in the middle of the night, the latter’s chances were not at all bad.

Moreover, Lestrange had had the idea of feeding misinformation to the Ministry: they now believed that the Death Eaters were planning a full-force attack on the wizarding district of Edinburgh and had consequently dispatched most of their troupes—both Law Enforcement and Aurors—to the town that was, according to reports of trustworthy informants, crawling with patrols and plainclothesmen. Despite this successful diversion and the major losses the Ministry had been suffering lately, there were still enough Aurors and Law Enforcers to cause serious trouble tonight, if they arrived in time.

Surprisingly enough, the various spells and charms surrounding the building like a dome of magical energy were only there to make it undetectable for Muggles. And they had anti-Apparition wards. But nothing else. Neither Severus nor the other three had believed their ears when they got the information from Rookwood. Even the fact that the rector, Roger Lovegood, was a former Gryffindor did not account for such recklessness. Shrugging at their manifestations of bewilderment, Rookwood had explained that it was part of the current Minister’s policy—Crouch Sr. was holding that position at the moment—of retaliating with utmost brutality in case of attacks but contemporaneously assuming an attitude of unshakeable fearlessness and courage.

It made the Death Eaters’ task both easier and more dangerous. To get into the building was a piece of cake. To eliminate the students was going to take little time. The teachers were likely to be more difficult opponents, but could be easily subdued if their attackers were carefully chosen. But the Ministry’s system of Dark Magic alert had undergone considerable changes, so that a single killing curse was bound to set off the alarms. Endless discussions between Severus, Owen, St. John and Lucius had ensued.

“You see,” Owen said, bending to have a better view of the blueprints Barty Crouch—more eager than ever to prove his worthiness—had procured them, “the best way to get in is through the main entrance, because it leads straight to the part with classrooms and training facilities. If we use this—” he pointed to a door at the other end of the building “—we have to pass by the kitchen and laundry, which means that we might be seen by a House Elf. Too risky, if you ask me.”

Lestrange nodded. “It will cost us time, but considering that there aren’t any wards we have to break or disable, there is no danger of any alarms going off at the Ministry or elsewhere. So we lose time, but no precious time. Besides, the corridor leading from the main door towards the entrance of the living quarters isn’t very long. Anyway, that’s not the point. How many do go in and how many will stay outside?”

“We are fifty-five, all in all,” Owen muttered, “So if thirty enter and twenty-five stay outside…”

“No way,” Severus said. “I absolutely object. We know that there are thirty-two apprentices, so there has to be at least the same number of our people.”

“Wait, wait. You are forgetting that there are two of them sharing a dormitory and—”

“Yes, Lucius, I know that there are two per room. And if anything, that is a point in favour of my argument. How many of our troupe do you deem capable of taking on more than one opponent in a closed space?”

Lucius raised his hands in resignation.

“I think Severus has a point there,” Lestrange said.

“Of course I have a point. And there’s something else we must consider. Do you remember the attack on the… I never remember the name… that family in Newcastle, two weeks ago? When Cameron was unable to kill that woman and almost paid his chivalry or deeply rooted male instincts or whatever it was with his life? We don’t have the time to read name-tags on dormitory doors, provided there are any, and distribute our comrades accordingly. There has to be one man and one woman per dormitory, or else we’re bound to have nasty surprises.”

The other three nodded.

“There are twenty dormitories, though,” Owen said after counting the rooms on the blueprint. “It’s impossible to find out which ones are occupied.”

“That means we need forty people for the students alone!” Lucius exclaimed. “That leaves fifteen of us, minus those who are dealing with the faculty! If we have six people standing guard outside, we can just as well leave our backs uncovered. This is pure lunacy.”

The discussion went on and on, without any consequential results. It was unnerving, especially because the four men were already under a lot of stress. As always, Lucius was using liberal amounts of whisky to mend his shredded nerves and, as was sometimes the case, he had his best ideas when his brain was thoroughly impregnated with alcohol. The others were brooding in a silence that had become almost hostile; Owen was nibbling at his quill, Severus tapped a furious rhythm on the tabletop with his fingers, and St. John kept massaging the crease between his brows, when Lucius, seemingly staring out of the window and miles away with his thoughts, broke the stony quiet. 

“Why in bleeding hell do we need to leave people outside?” he asked, his voice louder than usual due to his state of inebriation.

“Because it’s done this way, Lucius, that’s why,” Owen said, now completely exasperated.

“If people had always done things they way they’re done, we’d still be sitting in treetops, accidentally burning them by bouts of wandless magic,” Lucius declared.

The mental image of Lucius sitting in a treetop was a little too much for Severus’s fluttering nerves, and he gave in to a fit of helpless laughter. “Sorry,” he said when he was again capable of articulate speech, “Go on, Lucius, tell us your idea.”

Every hair still perfectly in place, his pale cheeks suffused by the slightest of rosy hues despite his monumental drunkenness, Lucius stared at him, raising an eyebrow. “Thank you. What I wanted to say was this: We don’t need to leave guards outside. It’s better to have everybody inside, so as to finish the business as quickly as possible and then Disapparate immediately. The four of us, plus another five skilled duellers, for the staff, and all the rest for the students. Exact timing, so that first everybody is at their place, and then we strike simultaneously. Whoever has eliminated their target leaves the premises without hesitation. Thus we should have finished in less than a minute, and when the Aurors arrive, they won’t find any of us.”

Lucius’s slightly slurry speech was followed by another silence, less stony this time.

“This,” Lestrange said finally, “is the most recklessly Gryffindor-ish scheme I’ve ever heard from a Slytherin. But it’s brilliant.”

Severus and Owen nodded reluctantly.

“It’s going to be the most damned dangerous operation ever,” Severus said, “and most of all for us. To tackle the teachers in a one-to-one combat is something only a completely drunk Lucius could refer to as if it were nothing more than crushing a beetle under his heel. But yes, it’s brilliant, and it will probably avoid us a lot of losses and injuries.”

While mentally replaying this discussion, Severus fastened the clasps of his cloak and asked himself whether the others were ever afraid before an attack. For he was afraid, hard as it was to admit that to himself. He had been afraid on other occasions, but it had been a different kind of fear. Not as bone-chilling as it was now. It had been a necessary part of a well-defined whole. Like a broken step in a staircase—you knew it was there, treaded on it carefully, took the next one and finally… arrived. Since that meeting with Voldemort, though, it seemed as though there were no more steps beyond this one. The staircase finished there; it simply ended, and you stood upon that last step of fear, swaying over the abyss, unable to go back, but equally sure that there was nothing beyond that last, broken step, no safety net, no outstretched hand, just plain simple nothing.

Was he over-dramatising, he thought, holding the mask in his right hand, scrutinizing its expressionless surface. Why had that single sentence Voldemort had uttered sent him plummeting off a cliff, which he had thought to be an endless, solid expanse of rock where he could move without any danger? So that now his fear of getting caught, found out and sent to Azkaban was the last step? He had always dreaded this consequence, more than death, from the very day when the Aurors had arrived at Hogwarts to make their inquiries on Sybil’s behalf. To face this anxiety, stand up to it, and finally wrestle it down had always been a sacrifice, gladly made for a higher purpose. For the sake of a new order where there was going to be a new kind of freedom; Voldemort had repeatedly confirmed this instinctive knowledge by his own words.

Were a few words really enough to shake the unshakeable? Or had he, Severus, perhaps just been searching for a suitable excuse for his own shortcomings and tried to justify his betrayals by finding imaginary faults with his Master?

He put on his mask, relishing the feeling of having grown a second skin that would, at least temporarily, hide whatever lay beneath. His Death Eater wand—teak, thirteen inches, with a core of Peruvian Vipertooth heartstring—was safely tucked into his left sleeve. Almost noiselessly, he exited his dark bedroom, crossed the unlit landing and slipped into his, equally unlit, laboratory. He still meticulously observed Lestrange’s order to change into his Death Eater garments in complete darkness; now more than ever it was a necessary safety measure. He had abandoned his habit of avoiding Peggy’s eyes, though, for by now he knew that she had already seen him but would never betray him.

The vial containing the antidote—appropriately named Falsitaserum—was sitting on the workbench he had so obsessively cleaned in the afternoon. Each Death Eater had received a similar one, accompanied by a parchment with exact instructions as to when and how to take it. According to Lord Voldemort’s wishes, its nature and effect had not been explained, though. Severus pulled out the stopper and downed the liquid in one gulp. It made him feel momentarily dizzy, but the sensation was soon gone. He should feel safer now, calmer. But the fear only became more poignant.

~~~~*~~~~

Everything was going so smoothly. Nobody had been late, watches had been synchronised to perfection, shoes had been charmed to make no noise in the corridors. A silent line of quiet black spectres, they had entered the building, groups of two or three flaking off the main throng when they had reached the students’ quarters, doors had opened without resistance and admitted nine of them to the area where the staff lived. Seconds had been counted, and at precisely the same moment more doors had opened.

The room Severus entered was pitch dark. If the blueprints were correct—he could not really be sure, as it was always possible for the inhabitants to have magically adapted their habitations to their individual tastes—it had to be the living room. When Severus’s eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, he was able to see the faint glow of the last embers of a dying fire to his left. He let out a small sigh of relief, for that was exactly what he had been expecting. So the entrance to the bedroom should be on his right side. He briefly considered lighting his wand but then thought it too risky. He certainly was not the only one who, from time to time, fell asleep in front of his fireplace, lulled into slumber by the crackling of the flames and a glass of whisky. So he performed a detection spell. It told him that he was the only person present. Which meant that he could light the candles.

Severus allowed himself few frivolities where his Death Eater duties were concerned; in fact there was only one he took pleasure in indulging: he always conceded himself a short but careful observation of the habitat of those he was going to execute. To say the truth, it was not an entirely frivolous habit, for it told a lot about his opponents, and there had been more than one occasion when it had saved him a lot of trouble. If he entered a house and stumbled over ten pairs of shoes, carelessly strewn across the floor, he could be sure that the inhabitant was a careless, sloppy kind of person who probably would not find his wand immediately. If everything was neatly arranged and orderly, he could reasonably expect his opponent to have put his wand on the nightstand, exactly in the position that allowed him to grab it immediately.

With a single glance, Severus took in a pair of high-heeled shoes, a dark-red velvet scarf draped over a hat stand, a pile of books on the floor beside an obviously well-used couch, one tome open and face-down—he cringed at the sight—on the couch, and a half-empty bottle of red wine sitting on a low table nearby. A woman’s quarters. He proceeded towards the bedroom.

The door was warded, and Severus cursed under his breath. This was going to cost precious time. It did not take him too long to deactivate the locking spell, though, and after a few seconds it swung open.

They had not considered the possibility of faculty members having affairs, he thought wryly. The woman’s head was resting on the man’s chest, her face covered by a mop of blonde hair. Both were sleeping deeply, breathing in an almost identical rhythm. Whom to hit first, Severus mused. He opted for the woman, because her dead weight would provide a sufficient impediment for the man underneath her, so that he could not grab for his wand. Maybe he had not even brought it along. Strange that a sleeping couple, limbs entwined and still exuding a faint scent of arousal and sweat, looked so much more vulnerable than a single person. He felt a pang of envy at their all-too-obvious contentment. It was enough to overcome his momentary weakness and point his wand at the blonde head.

The brief jolt of her body, followed by an infinitesimal sagging of her now-dead form, was enough to wake her companion. In spite of being shocked, his reaction was impeccably correct: before Severus had gathered enough energy to cast a second killing curse, he had already pulled the motionless body of his dead lover on top of him, thus effectively shielding himself, and fumbled for his wand. His ragged breathing was the only sound in the room, and it seemed unnaturally loud. Cursing the man for his presence of mind, Severus concentrated, aimed, and missed. The wizard’s arm was the only available target, and it was constantly moving. The green light hit the wall behind him, ricocheted, and Severus had to duck so as not to fall victim to his own curse. By the time he came up again, the other wizard had his wand firmly clutched in his right hand.

The heated duel that ensued probably did not take longer than two minutes. When Severus had finally finished off his opponent, he hurried out of the bedroom, only to hear the tell-tale plops announcing the arrival of the Aurors. If he was very unlucky, he was the only one left on the premises and thus bound to be caught or killed.

~~~~*~~~~

Dear Clarissa,

Thank you for that wonderful Christmas present. I was not aware that Indians had such a vast knowledge of potions, and so different from our own. Even McLachlan was impressed, and that is saying something.

I’m not quite capable of digging up much enthusiasm right now, though. And I have never felt more alone. I wish you were here, so I could talk to you instead of writing. It is such a sterile way of communicating. I wish you were here. I know you would cry, and then I could call you a stupid, sentimental female, and that would make me feel better. At least you wouldn’t call me stupid because I am grieving for a cat, which is, without doubt, what the others would say, so I don’t even bother to tell them. And I am aware that this is making no sense at all, so I guess I should start at the beginning.

We attacked the Aurors’ Academy on 25 February. It was, on the whole, a glorious success. Every single apprentice was killed, and so were six out of eight teachers and the rector. We would have finished off all of them, had not the Ministry troupes arrived a little too early. There were nine of us against twenty (more or less) of them, and I have never been so exhausted in my life as I was after that battle. All of us had already performed a killing curse (in my case, even two of them), and thus would have needed time to recover in order to cast more of them. Time was what we did not have, though, and so we had to be content with simply causing as many injuries as possible. I had the pleasure of permanently destroying Alastor Moody’s left eye, but not even that is enough to give me any satisfaction right now. St. John was badly injured by Frank Longbottom, but managed to Apparate home. Fortunately, he still isn’t on the Ministry’s list of possible suspects. None of us were caught on the premises, and we all managed to get home.

I told you in my last letter that we don’t have a permanent Minister; until the end of February, Barty’s father was holding that position. We should have carried out the operation at the beginning of March, but none of us had considered that. You know how things used to go until now: There was a raid, and a few minutes later the Aurors would show up at our homes, ask a few silly questions and leave. Not so under Mr. Crouch’s reign. He could not send the Aurors this time, for part of them had been injured in the fight, and the rest was in Edinburgh, lured there by a false rumour we had launched about an attack on the wizarding area there. So he unleashed the bloodhounds of the Law Enforcement.

I don’t know what exactly are the Ministry’s criteria for people to be added to their list of suspects; all I can say is that about hundred persons were taken to the Ministry for questioning, and only a fifth of them really were Death Eaters, I among them. They kept us there for two entire days, asking and re-asking the same questions over and over again, and finally had to release us. When I arrived home… The fact that I am not the only one and that the Ministry is going to pay for the damage they have done is small consolation. The Law Enforcement had searched the house during my absence. I would have expected disorder, maybe even some destroyed items, merely because they were frustrated. But they had thoroughly annihilated almost everything I possessed. Elias had taken flight immediately, and Peggy had disappeared in her mysterious elfish way. They had already come back when I returned. Esmeralda, though, had no wings and no way of disappearing. And those brutes did not even kill her by a clean, simple curse. Can you imagine that they cut her head off to get at the collar?

By now, everything is repaired, the house is habitable again, and I am gradually re-buying the books (fortunately, they did not burn them, so most of them could be saved anyway, but it took me days to reassemble and rebind them). Everything seems restored to its former state. Only Elias is restlessly searching for his companion, sometimes flying, sometimes walking in his clumsy way that makes me laugh against my will. Somehow, he seems to have understood that she is gone forever and will never come back. He is sad, maybe even sadder than I.

Those barbarian bastards did the same to the houses of all those they had arrested for questioning. They destroyed and pillaged and frightened the inhabitants. That is what you get when you employ that kind of scum—but even if the Ministry changes their policy, it won’t bring Esmeralda back. I feel like a stranger in my own house now. It is not my home anymore, and I doubt whether it will ever become my home again. I feel such helpless rage.

Of course, the general public was in uproar when the Prophet and the WWN reported—and this time, they didn’t even have to be biased or exaggerate—the brutalities committed by the Law Enforcement. The staff at St. Mungo’s almost succumbed to the number of frightened and injured children, spouses and relatives. In the end, the Ministry had to send their Aurors after their own Law Enforcement; more than half of their number have by now been sacked and serve minor sentences at Azkaban. Most of the loot has been given back, and, as I said, the material damage is already being recompensed for by the Ministry. And Crouch will be permanently excluded from the ministerial round dance—he was lucky not to lose his position as Head of department altogether.

I know I’m not sounding very coherent right now. I just have to reorder my thoughts and my life. How the latter is to be done, I have no idea. Nor do I know what exactly I want to change. For now, I am continuing as if nothing had happened, feeling all the while that I am walking on very thin ice. Maybe it is going to break—I don’t know and neither do I care.

I am enclosing Esmeralda’s collar—did I ever tell you that when St. John gave it to me I thought it was a bracelet for you? Remembering this first misapprehension, I charmed it to fit round your wrist and changed the spell on the clasp so that only you will be able to open it. The Ministry sent it back, accompanied by a disgustingly apologetic letter. I don’t think I will have another cat anytime soon, and even if that were the case, I wouldn’t want her to wear that collar. Esmeralda was unique, and it was hers. Now it is not a collar anymore; you too are unique, and so you shall have and, hopefully, wear it.

I wish I could go back in time, before my departure that fateful night, transfigure her into a potted plant and put her in the garden. So I could go outside now, pick up the pot and turn her back into my shiny black cat. But it is impossible.

I promise that next time I will write you a more cheerful letter, if only to spare you the worry and anxiety.

For now, goodbye. I truly hope you are well.

Severus

~~~~*~~~~

“You have been summoned,” Voldemort said to his Trusted Four, “because we have important matters to discuss.”

As if that were not all too obvious, Severus thought. But it was good to be here, on this splendid April day. So far in the South, spring had already begun its triumphant dance of victory; there were still patches of snow under the trees—so high up in the mountains, this was only to be expected—but they had retired towards the trunks and were dirty and all too conscious of their imminent defeat. The air, still cool and mountain-sharp, carried an overwhelming spiciness that pricked the blood and invited to run out and roll in the fresh, young grass. It was beautiful, and still. So still. Heavenly quiet, pleasantly orchestrated by Voldemort’s mellow voice.

“For the next few months,” their Master continued, “I will be absent and unavailable, except for major emergencies.”

Four pairs of eyes looked at him questioningly. Voldemort smiled his mysterious, entrancing smile.

“I assume that the name of Grindelwald means something to you.” Not a question, a statement. They all nodded. “What you do not know is that one of my… contacts in Germany has recently notified me about the discovery of part of Grindelwald’s library. I was not the only one who thought it to be lost forever after that pitiful ignorant Dumbledore had defeated one of the greatest wizards the world has ever seen.”

At the mention of a library, Severus’s attention that had hitherto been slightly unfocused suddenly became poignantly alert. “And where did they discover the remnants, My Lord?”

“They are… were well hidden in a cave near the German-Austrian border. There are no wizarding settlements in the vicinity, and thus the treasure remained unperturbed by both wizards and Muggles for more than thirty years. About one month ago, the person in question ventured to that area in search of certain herbs she needed and became aware of an unusual number of dead animals, apparently unblemished; their bodies were scattered about what seemed to be a circle with a diameter of about half a mile. In its centre, she detected the entrance to the cave.”

“So you are going to Germany, My Lord?” Lestrange asked.

“Germany is my first destination, but not even I can tell you how long I am going to stay there, nor where exactly what I find in the books is going to lead me. I do, however, not expect to be absent for more than three or four months. During this period, the four of you will remain in charge of our movement. You will proceed as usual, take decisions together as always. It is vital, though, that no one be aware of my absence. The situation has changed very much to our favour, and I do not want it to be jeopardized.

“This means, of course, that there are not going to be any major operations. You will continue acting on a small scale, delivering small blows, so as not to give the impression of inactivity.”

The four men nodded. “There isn’t much left anyway,” Owen observed. “Of the bigger institutions, there is none, except for Hogwarts of course, that we don’t control. So we simply have to preserve the status quo, so to speak.”

“Exactly,” Voldemort agreed. “All you have to do is preserve the status quo. Of course, the recruiting and harassing of those who still oppose us is to be continued. As for Hogwarts, I believe they are sufficiently isolated by now to allow us to leave things as they are, at least for the next few months.”

“What about the refugees?” Severus asked. “You have doubtlessly heard the rumours, My Lord, about Dumbledore offering asylum to whoever asks it? Should we try and intercept those who search shelter at Hogwarts?”

“No, I think we ought to resist that temptation for the time being. It is by far preferable to let the distance separating Dumbledore from the Ministry increase further. By opening his arms to the refugees, the venerable headmaster does exactly that, and we need not even move a finger. By the time I return we shall see.”

“And the rumours about infiltrating our ranks with spies?” Lestrange asked, “What are we to do, should we discover that they are true? What are we to do with traitors?”

Voldemort gave a contemptuous sneer. “Try as he might, Dumbledore will not succeed in getting a single spy into the ranks of my faithful followers. But just in case he should succeed in doing either this, or in corrupting one of my Death Eaters, I am to be notified immediately. I am the only one who can perform the punishment, and it must by no means be delayed.”

They received more instructions, asked more questions. All the time, Severus observed Voldemort. There was an air of excitement, of almost boyish anticipation, about him. The expectation of finding treasures untold, revealing to him new sources of even greater power. Grindelwald… Severus tried to remember what he had read and learned about the wizard. Of course, every book or spoken word had been completely biased, babbling about ‘greatest danger for the wizarding world’ and ‘defeated by the great Albus Dumbledore just in time’, endlessly conjuring the certain doom and timely liberation thereof. It was difficult to see through the tangle of propaganda and decipher the well-hidden subtext. Grindelwald had been great, he had wanted to bring about changes the wizarding society had feared or refused. What exactly had been his thoughts had been carefully dissimulated under exaggerated fairy-tale words, warning people off their curiosity like children would be warned off werewolves during the full moon.

Voldemort could not have met him. He had just finished school when Grindelwald had been defeated, and considering that he had spent his holidays at a Muggle orphanage, there had certainly been no possibility of getting away, least of all to Germany. But now the hidden treasure was about to be raised. It was difficult to imagine anybody more powerful or well-versed in Dark Magic than Voldemort, but on the other hand Grindelwald had been one hundred and thirteen years when he died, and it was only reasonable to assume that in all those years he had accumulated a wealth of knowledge, part of which was unknown even to Voldemort. Had been unknown, for very soon he was going to absorb it all, and become more powerful that ever before. Than anybody ever before.

~~~~*~~~~

They were sitting in wicker chairs under a group of birches, not far from the eastern façade of Malfoy Manor. Through the open French doors, Severus could see two House Elves scuttle up and down the bookshelves of the library, busy dusting and neatly arranging the tomes. Narcissa, who had made a splendid recovery, was sitting beside him, a spring dream in pale green muslin, her hair open and drifting in the May breeze. The mediwizards had warned Lucius and her off another pregnancy for at least another year, and so she was slim again; her belly back to flat and her breasts as small as they had been. In a way, Severus thought, she resembled the birches.

The loss of her child had been hard on her. It seemed, though, as if the couple had come to an understanding regarding their sentiments for each other—maybe Lucius had finally overcome his scruples, although Severus had never directly asked him. What had been spoken between them on that evening before Christmas had never been mentioned again. It was visible, though, that Narcissa, while grieving for her child, was not completely unhappy. Right now, she tried to direct the reflection of the sunlight on her wedding band into her husband’s right eye. She succeeded, and he smiled at her, his left hand playing with a strand of her hair in carefully affected indifference.

At Severus’s left, Heather was engaged in a vivid discussion with Owen, whom she still was stubbornly determined to marry in spite of his all-too-obvious unwillingness.

Their chairs were grouped around a table that had been cleared by a House Elf of the remnants of a light but sumptuous lunch only seconds ago. Now they were waiting for the dessert, and when it was brought the conversation that had been languishing for the last ten minutes became general and animated again.

“So you still don’t like chocolate?” Heather asked and scooped up a generous spoonful of Mousse au Chocolat.

Severus shook his head. “No, and I don't think I ever will. If you ask me, you like it a little too much,” he said, with a meaningful look at her exuberant shape.

“It’s either chocolate or love,” she retorted, shrugging.

“What an incredibly commonplace and unoriginal observation!” Lucius said. “You’re a mediwizard, for heaven’s sake, and thus should know better.”

In an attempt to get the conversation off this slightly spiny territory, Severus asked, “Speaking of mediwizards, when are your finals, Heather?”

“In six weeks. I’m studying like mad.”

“Fat lot of good that will do,” Owen muttered under his breath, but loud enough for her to hear.

Severus rolled his eyes. “Listen, could you just keep it down? I’m not interested in your constant bickering. I just want to spend a pleasurable afternoon, that’s all.” Narcissa smiled, and Lucius raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “What are you going to do afterwards?” Severus asked Heather.

“That’s exactly the problem,” she said, “I don’t know. I mean, of course I could try and get a job at St. Mungo's, but that’s not really what I want.”

“What do you want, then?” Narcissa inquired.

“Apart from becoming Mrs. McNair,” Lucius added and promptly was nudged into the ribs by his devoted wife.

Severus mentally took a step back, thus distancing himself from the whole group, observing it carefully with the eye of a painter or writer. It was a scene that could have been described by Henry James, or dabbed on canvas in thousands of minuscule strokes by Monet. Five young people, the jeunesse dorée of the British wizarding world, gathered idly together amongst hues of gold and white and green, engaged in meaningless banter and with no other care in the world than to get as much pleasure as life would offer them. He tried to imagine that painting, admired by Muggles in a Muggle museum. Their works of art did not move, and all depended on the artists' ability to catch one single, meaningful moment and immobilize it for eternity. He would choose Heather’s furrowed brows, while her face was turned towards Owen, her whole posture expressing desire and frustration. He might capture Owen's cruel smile and his hand, half-raised, palm turned towards Heather in a gesture of Enough! He should definitely paint Narcissa exactly as she was now, leaning back in her chair with her head tipped slightly towards her left shoulder, eyes closed, right hand relaxed and soft on the armrest of her chair, relishing the infinitesimal contact between her and Lucius’s fingertips. Lucius, wearing an expression of ironic aloofness, regarding the couple opposite him with raised eyebrows while a smile playing around his lips betrayed that his mind was elsewhere, focused on the touch of his wife's fingers. And Severus, left cheek cupped in left hand, left elbow propped on the armrest, right hand toying with his spoon, the immaculate shine of which was tarnished by the remainders of lemon sorbet. Brooding and observing.

The idea was so entrancing that he could see the painting in its heavy gilt frame. It was beautiful, and it changed. Imperceptibly, like a drop of oil expanding into a sheet of parchment, other, darker, colours began to surface. Red and black were gradually seeping into the picture, disfiguring faces, changing features, morphing into distinct forms. Owen’s mouth became a leering gush, out of which blood was dripping down his chin, a red penis thrice its natural size erupted from his groin, impaling the limp form of a faceless woman. Heather’s face transmogrified into an angry, harpy-like mask whose stare was fixated on Owen, tendons bulged in her swollen throat, and blood-dripping claws slowly crept towards her lover’s neck. Narcissa’s robes turned black, her belly was once more tumescent, her breasts weeping blood, her hands clutching a tiny, motionless body. And Lucius was watching her with a look of helpless fury, fair face as pale as that of Death himself, his robes as red as a cardinal's or executioner’s, his hands soaked in blood like those of the others. Slowly, reluctantly, Severus's gaze turned upon himself, and he saw that his form had somehow shrunk, kept shrivelling into itself, until it was a goblin-like black figure, its face as black as its robes and hair, its feet barely reaching the ground from which a red tide was inexorably rising.

Narcissa's gentle touch on his right arm felt like a red-hot blade. “Severus, where are you?” He simply shook his head, as yet unable to speak. “Woolgathering, eh? It is a beautiful day, though, the kind that brings daydreams, so you are pardoned, and I’ll repeat my question: would you like some brandy?”

“Yes,” he croaked, cleared his throat and repeated, “Yes, please, some brandy would be perfect.”

~~~~*~~~~

Books, not many of them, but ancient-looking, pregnant with truth and knowledge and power. Rolls of parchment, their edges eaten by time, frayed and brownish. A stack of more recent-looking sheets, covered in bold handwriting, letters bent slightly to the right but unmistakeably striving upwards. A treasure of inestimable value, both in terms of money and erudition. Severus stared at it, transfixed and eager to touch, although he knew that he would probably not be allowed to do so.

“My Lord—” his voice quavered slightly with excitement “—My Lord, am I right in assuming that this is what you brought back from Germany?”

“Part of it, yes. The part that concerns you directly.”

With difficulty, Severus tore his regard from the books on the table and looked at his Master. “Me, My Lord? May I ask—”

“Of course you may ask. But first, answer my question. How are your studies proceeding?”

“According to McLachlan, very satisfyingly, My Lord. In fact, this week is my last as his apprentice. I have already dispatched a letter to the university, requesting admittance to the Master exam, possibly before the holidays start. He wrote me a recommendation that made me blush, so I don’t expect any difficulties. Except for the slowness of their administration, of course, which might not allow the exam to take place before the beginning of next term.”

Voldemort’s fingers glided over the tomes in a gesture of absentminded caress. “Very well,” he said, smiling at Severus, “Considering McLachlan’s usual avarice as far as praise is concerned, your progress must indeed have satisfied him. Will he be part of the commission?”

“No, My Lord. St. John will be, together with two other members of the UMU faculty. He told me that they are going to call in Alcalde and Van der Beulen as independent experts.”

“Alcalde? He is from Argentina, isn’t he?”

“Chile, My Lord.”

“Indeed. Well, it seems that they have chosen well. Now that you have answered my question, and very satisfactorily, I will answer yours. This—” and he indicated the books and parchment “—is material for your next project.”

Severus's head shot up. “My next… you mean you are entrusting them to me? My Lord?” he added, for his enthusiasm had almost made him forget the due form of addressing Lord Voldemort.

“How very similar we are,” said the Dark Lord, reaching over the table and briefly touching Severus’s hand. “My reaction to this treasure was the same. Although I saw only half of what is now piled up on this table when I arrived in Germany. I had to spend the better part of my almost three months of absence in futile book-hunting across Europe. Grindelwald had hidden his wisdom very well and covered his traces nearly to the extent of making them untraceable. Not to Lord Voldemort, though.”

Severus tried to peer at the age-darkened spines, so that he could make out the titles; but what had once probably been gilt had faded almost completely, and it was too dark in the room to decipher the letters and signs only by their imprints left in the soft leather. Voldemort followed his regard and smiled.

“Yes, it is hard to resist the temptation. But I request that you take your exams before you embark on this project. Both matters need and deserve your whole concentration; they cannot be tackled contemporaneously. Once you have got your diploma you will be initiated and receive my mark. And then, only then, will I hand this treasure over to you. If you succeed, you will push open a gate that no one, neither wizard nor Muggle, has ever unlocked.”

Feeling his breath hitch in his chest, Severus asked, “My Lord, would you… please, give me at least a hint. What is the secret contained in these books and papers?”

He was hit by a jolt of magical energy when Voldemort bent forward to bring his face closer to Severus's. “Power, Severus. Power and Life. Immeasurable power and never-ending life.”