The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 22

By Pigwidgeon37

At which point exactly did one become aware that one was mad? Or were mad people blissfully ignorant of their condition, and those who were still wondering whether they had already succumbed to lunacy had been allotted the far worse fate?

Van der Beulen looked… Dutch. Short, stout, blonde and rosy.

Alcalde definitely had Indian blood.

Lestrange still looked like a blonde version of young Antonin Artaud.

The others were mere decoration.

These were facts, simple, irrefutable facts, filtered by individual perception. So far, every thing was all right. Neither did he see a rector with two heads nor did he hear the examiners pour out obscenities instead of asking precise questions. And he sincerely hoped he did not act strangely. Merlin knew that he tried to behave as normally as possible. What made him doubt his sanity was that, between their questions and his answers, during those short pauses he should have used for thinking, the images and sounds in his head became so disgustingly clear and sharp that he practically talked without knowing what exactly he was saying.

“Very impressive, Mr. Snape. Now please give us a brief summary of the research you did on the lycanthropy potion.”

He tried to fixate his look on Alcalde’s face but was unavoidably assaulted by the image of McLachlan’s face, staring at the paintings that hung from the ceiling of the Encyclopaedia room, eyes wide open and unseeing. The pince-nez came into focus, overlarge and glittering, askew on the dead wizard’s nose.

“Tomorrow we’re going to have another look at the Healing Potions, another look. I think it might be useful, useful indeed.”

The half-empty whisky bottle. The vial of digitalis. His own hands, sure as always of their calculated movements, his own voice, calling back over his shoulder, “Yes, I think that would be a good idea, Sir.”

Liquid death, mingling with the beverage that smelled of turf, and moors…

Again and again, his hands, floating in and out of and through the other images, unfolding a small square of parchment. Two words commanding an inane, haphazard death “KILL MCLACHLAN”.

And all the time, he talked about the research, illustrated, explained, in detail, succinctly…

His own voice, grazing his nerves in a perpetual, frightened monologue of fear and uncertainty. “I have three more days to go as McLachlan’s apprentice. If I do it tomorrow, I’ll be a less likely suspect than if I wait till after the exam. But if I use the Killing Curse, they’re going to suspect me anyway… after all, he doesn’t have too many visitors…”

Elias, grooming his hair as if it were a raven’s feathers.

Pacing the room, endlessly, mind moving in circles… “Use the curse or not use the curse? As if those were true alternatives! Whatever I do, I’m getting myself into trouble. If I use the curse, they’ll arrest me immediately, probably keep me there, and I can forget the exam. Besides I don’t want to be questioned again. Not to mention that I don’t want to kill McLachlan. And He certainly wants me to leave the Dark Mark. Even more incriminating.”

The parchment again. As if the words might have miraculously changed or vanished! They kept staring at him, and the broken seal grazed his fingertips. It was real, all too real.  

“There is nothing written about the Dark Mark. Will he accept that excuse? I don’t think so.”

Falling into a chair, odd patterns on his eyelids when he squeezed the heels of his hands against the sockets of his eyes. “It could work, though. If I do it tomorrow, it might work. I’ll have to go to Voldemort the day after, I’ll play the innocent, and he’ll punish me. Maybe not too severely, because after all McLachlan will be dead. One week till the exam—enough time to recover from the after-effects. Why? Why does the old man have to die now? Why do I have to do it? In a year’s time, even six months…”

“Mr. Snape? Are you sure you are all right?”

“I beg your pardon? Yes, Sir. Yes, I am all right.”

Lestrange, scrutinizing Severus out of the corner of his eye, bent over to Alcalde and muttered something into his ear. The latter looked at Severus and nodded. “I understand that this must be a painful subject for you, Mr. Snape. I apologize, I had not realized the loss you suffered. The exactitude of your answer is all the more appreciated.”

Severus nodded stiffly, trying to manage a convenient expression, and waited for the next question.

“You did not leave the Mark, Severus?”

Fury galloping out of Voldemort’s eyes, red eyes, red-hot fury, hitting him with breathtaking impact.

“No, My Lord, it wasn’t mentioned explicitly, so I thought—”

The razorblade of pain, screeching over his bones. Only for a few seconds… yet.

Lucius and Owen—visibly horror-struck. Lestrange, standing apart from them, nearer to Voldemort. Looking furious, not full of compassionate apprehension. Why was Lestrange furious? Was the sneaking suspicion he had developed on St. John’s behalf maybe true? In the throes of pain, his brain spit out an image he had buried and forgotten: the fleeting glimpse of a sheet of shiny black hair he had caught through the window just when he had entered this room, three days ago when Voldemort had shown him the books. Tabitha’s hair. Maybe it had really been she. It would explain a lot.

“Why would I not have wanted you to leave the Mark?”

“I don’t know, My Lord. I have never yet received a written order from you and was sure that I only had to do what I saw there, ink on parchment.”

So tall… the Dark Lord seemed so tall seen from his prone position on the floor. Prone, staring upwards like McLachlan had.

“No, Severus. You were afraid they might catch you red-handed. Don’t try to fool me. St. John, the punishment.”

He had not even hesitated. Not even a small gesture of complicity, of helplessness, of I-don’t-want-to-but-must. His mentor, his guide, his… friend? If at least the tip of his wand had quivered ever so slightly. But it was directed at him unwaveringly, the shimmering core of unicorn hair in its bed of golden-brown walnut wood two-dimensional against the pale skin. Severus had instinctively dodged the curse. Seething with anger, Lestrange had cast it a second time. Not as powerful as Voldemort’s; in fact, a far cry from it. But what it lacked in power was easily made up by the pain of disappointment and budding hatred that raced through Severus, vying with the physical pain for being the first to perforate his heart.

“And now to the practical part, Mr. Snape. Do you prefer having a short pause, or would you rather get over with it as soon as possible?” Van der Beulen asked.

He had recovered very well from the punishment, and his hands were as steady as could be. Better to finish the exam business quickly, so he could return to his house he refused to call a home anymore, down a vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion and embrace oblivion.

“I’d rather continue, Sir.”

“Elias, poor Elias, you never dreamed that you’d become a cat substitute, did you?”

Stroking the night plumage until he had calmed down a little… sleek head, beady eyes… “I’m glad you don’t wear a pince-nez, Elias.”

He was ungodly drunk from keeping McLachlan imaginary company that maybe had already turned into a death-watch. The old man always had his nightcap around this time; old people needed rituals, just like children. Maybe he was uncorking the bottle right now, maybe he was drinking, maybe his heart was slowing down at this very second, its contractions harder and more painful.

“However, the therapeutic dose is dangerously close to the lethal dose,” Severus murmured, repeating the words written in his first Potions textbook.

Dangerously close. Closeness was danger. Always. Lestrange had been close… and oh, so dangerous. Cold and hard and dangerous, a snake with fangs of diamond that cut through glass… his heart of glass…

The bottle rolled over the floor. Raven hair was fanned across the painfully white face by fluttering raven’s wings.

He was grateful for Lestrange to be immersed in vivid conversation with his foreign colleagues while they crossed the courtyard to arrive at the Potions workroom. He was barely able to keep his composure as things where, but if he had to talk to St. John or, worse, to walk so close to him that the sleeves of their robes brushed against each other he would probably crack up here and now. After the cool stillness of the chamber where he had done—and evidently passed—the oral part of the exam, the heat of the late-June day hit him like a damp cloth. He was not the only one to feel its effect though; Van der Beulen produced a large, white handkerchief and repeatedly wiped his face. Only Mac Allan, the rector, remained as unfazed by the heat as he was by everything; at least that was what Lucius always said.

The Albanian heat was dry and aromatic. It did nothing to stop his violent fits of shivering; no warmth, however comforting, had the power to counteract this after-effect of the torturing curse. Voldemort’s hand, resting upon his forehead, soothed him a little, though, or maybe it was the ambrosial voice muttering “You will recover, child. But you had to be punished, you understand that, don’t you?”

His own voice, usually mellifluous, was an ugly croak when he whispered back “Yes, My Lord. Thank you for punishing me.”

The hand lingered a little longer, allowing him to savour the contact, to suck all the warmth he could get out of the skin covering his. “You will learn, child. Learn to obey. It is a pleasure to obey me.”

He felt the tears rise and only half wanted to fight them back. “Yes, My Lord. I want nothing more than to obey you.”

A playful yank at a stray strand of hair, causing him to cry out in agony, then murmur “Thank you.”

The Master’s lips briefly caressing his forehead. “You would die for me, wouldn’t you, Severus.” A statement, not a question.

He answered it all the same. “Gladly, My Lord.”

“Yes, child. I know. Now sleep.”

The workroom was pleasantly dark and cool, the air a little dank and stale, pregnant with the smell of polished metal and potions fumes.

“You know the procedure, Mr. Snape?” Mac Allan asked.

“Yes, Sir. You give me the sealed roll of parchment, containing my task, and then leave me to brew the requested potion. The room will be sealed and warded. Two hours later, the commission will return to test the result.”

The rector nodded appreciatively. “Exactly. Are you sure you want to continue right away? It has been an exhausting morning.”

“I’m not tired, Sir.”

He was handed a small roll of parchment, bearing the university’s seal. While he broke it he heard the muffled voices outside pronounce the locking spells.

His hands, unnaturally pale, opening the Dark Lord’s missive. KILL MCLACHLAN. His hands deftly pulling the stopper from the vial containing the poison. His hands closing McLachlan’s staring eyes that had lost their beady-ness. His hands, fumbling for his wand, finding and holding it, transfiguring the incriminating bottle and glass into two pebbles he put into his pocket. His hands—spiders of doom, tools of his own destruction.

His hands were busy preparing the ingredients while his mind wandered. The potion they had requested was idiot-proof. He did not even have to think about it; all his movements were fluent and automatic, guided by some not-quite-conscious part of his brain. He could trust that part. These last days, it had navigated his body through life well enough.

A friendly clap on his shoulder. “And after your exam we must celebrate, dear boy, we must celebrate. You’ll see, they’ll be completely dumbstruck by your knowledge and skills, oh yes, they’ll be dumbstruck.”

The vial had just dropped back into his pocket.

“One for the road?”

“This is too kind of you, Sir, but honestly I mustn't. You know how much I have to study, I couldn't—”

“That’s all right, my boy, that’s quite all right. You look a bit flustered, flustered indeed. Are you sure everything is fine?”

There were… differences. Killing complete strangers was one thing, then there was torturing, neatly subdivided into adults and children… there were, in fact, so many categories you could easily lose yourself in them. Or lose your mind while roaming them. However, to deal with strangers was easier. Especially when there was a clear motive. But where was the motive for killing this man, he thought, taking in the spiky hair and goblin-face. It seemed… petty. It was , of course, true that McLachlan had never missed an opportunity to slander and denigrate Voldemort and his followers. But in times like these, who listened to the solitary voice of an old man, loyal neither to the Ministry nor to Dumbledore because in his heart of hearts he thought they were all blundering idiots.

“I’ll… be off then, Sir. Till…tomorrow.”

For the exam itself there had been no need to dress up, especially not for the practical part. He was wearing ordinary work robes. And the vial was still in his pocket.

~~~~*~~~~

Dear Clarissa,

I am now officially a Potions Master. I suppose I should feel more elated than I actually do. Recent events seem to have put a damper on my emotions, though, and so I just feel relief at having finished, and well finished, a job. My diploma is now hanging in my study, framed and under glass.

On 10 August I will be initiated and finally receive my Dark Mark. Even this fails to cause me any enthusiasm. There is a certain curiosity, nothing more. After all, I remember only too well what you told me after the ritual. If nothing else, it will finally be a real sensation, different from the numbness that is enveloping me like a sticky, suffocating cocoon.

Tell me what has gone wrong, Clarissa. I certainly don’t know what happened to me. I have killed and tortured so many times and never been bothered by a bad conscience or any such nonsense, because it was always essentially an act of revenge or self-defence. With McLachlan it was different. Maybe because I was too much of a coward to use the Killing Curse and face the consequences, come hell or high water. Maybe because his existence did not harm anybody in particular and so it was pointless to kill him. Maybe because I cannot forget the way his pince-nez had been shifted by his fall, so that it was completely askew, thus making his death more tangible.

All I know is that I have never felt so torn. It is as if a huge abyss were running right through my soul, heart and body. I want to serve Voldemort, Merlin knows I do. But the more I become involved, the more I start being afraid. He has changed; if my premonitions are correct, he will change even more, and I will play a consequential part in this transformation. That is why he needs me, why he wanted me to study with the best. The spirit has changed, though—I know I am being incoherent, but my own emotions and perceptions are still too tangled for me to express myself with more clarity.

Heather passed her finals at the OSM three days ago, with acceptable grades. She will have to take on a job at St. Mungo’s—we need allies there—whether she likes it or not. My situation is far better, job-wise. I have been offered the position of independent researcher at Sorceress’s Secret (belonging to Cedric’s father, just in case you forgot) where I will of course not have to develop cosmetic potions or make-up charms. Both Cedric’s parents are Death Eaters, as you might have suspected, and so the job which is, by the way, obscenely well-paid will offer the ideal cover for whatever research Lord Voldemort wants me to carry out on his behalf. Although I might just as well work at home, it is probably preferable to lead a normal professional life; or if not preferable, then at least less suspicion-inducing.

I am glad you liked the bracelet/collar. Yes, probably it is better to tell people it’s fake—how would a simple waitress be able to afford the real thing?

It’s difficult to imagine you with a tan. You simply ARE the pale type. But maybe it looks nice, only I won’t have the opportunity to have a look myself. So I have to take your words at face value. But believe me, I would prefer to inhale the scent of your sun-soaked skin. It has to be quite enticing.

Yours

Severus

~~~~*~~~~

“Stars… the stars are slicing spheres of guilt…I embraced them… the universe exploded in my brain…”

Lucius and Owen exchanged worried glances.

“It’s worse than I thought,” Lucius said. “I could sense it myself during the ritual. Something was… different,” he finished lamely.

Owen nodded. “Same for me. But I couldn’t express it, either. More of a gut feeling than anything rational. Do you think we should call Heather?”

“I don’t think she can help him. We’d better stay and watch him. And prevent him from falling off the bed. But you could tell the elf to bring some food.”

It was the most amazing experience. Severus could hear every word they said, his auditory sense even seemed to be somewhat heightened. But he could not see them, for there was a black shroud tightly clamped over his eyeballs. And he was unable to speak. No, he could utter intelligible words, but they came out wrong. Completely wrong. He heard them and even found them slightly funny; he tried to catch them like Golden Snitches whizzing through his mind. They were too fast, though, and all he could do was stare helplessly after them in frustrated despair.

“The lightning… pool of fury… my bones smashed in punishment…” He drew a long, ragged breath. “The beauty of the pain, My Lord. Teeth of the werewolf, stroking my brain… I feel the storm filling my throat’s agony…”

Owen returned and fished a sickle out of his pocket, to transform it into a comfortable armchair with a nonchalant flick of his wand. “Sounds like poetry written by one of St. Mungo’s more hopeless inmates,” he commented.

“I hope he won’t become one of them,” Lucius replied grimly. “To judge by his present state…”

“The others didn’t show any similar symptoms, did they?”

“No. None of them. And I’m wracking my brain for an explanation.”

Severus, who had been quiet for the last minute or so, started to thrash wildly. Both men shot up from their chairs and hurried to the bed.

“Shit, he’s strong!” Lucius muttered through clenched teeth while attempting to hold Severus’s shoulders down.

“Who would have thought!” Owen panted. “Skinny as a stray cat…” In the end, he simply sat down on Severus’s legs, thus effectively immobilizing them.

The seizure stopped after some seconds, and Severus started his incoherent mumblings again. Lucius and Owen drew their chairs nearer to the bed, poised to lunge at him in case another fit took possession of his body.

“Soft skin… gashes of poison… the abyss!”

Now he sat bolt upright. His eyes were unnaturally wide, their almost-black irises reduced to thin lines. With a sigh, Owen waved his right hand in front of his face.

“Doesn’t see a thing,” he said matter-of-factly. “I think I rather preferred his previous state of catatonia. Shouldn’t we put a body bind on him? Just so he can’t harm himself?”

Lucius wagged his head, obviously in doubt. “I don’t think we should,” he finally said. “I mean, the energy Voldemort set free obviously short-circuited his brain, and I have no idea what further damage a spell, even a simple one, might do. Where in bloody hell is the food?”

As if on cue, Peggy materialized before them, carrying a tray. “Mr. Malfoy,” she squeaked, “I needs to look after Master Severus, please. I is able—”

“Shut up and get out!” Lucius bellowed.

The agony in his head had diminished sufficiently for Severus to recognize that it was similar to the pain caused by migraine, if a hundred times stronger. Maybe Peggy was able to help him, like she had done so many times when he was suffering from a headache.

“But Mr. Malfoy, I tries—”

“Out!” Lucius’s shout was accompanied by a kick that sent the elf crashing into the doorjamb. Whimpering, but shooting her tormentor a malevolent glance, she crept out of sight.

“The fire of the abyss… burns in blackness and seeps through wounds …from heart to soul I stretch… blood of the virgin… Et tu, Judas!”

“I hope he won’t be too explicit during the next fifteen minutes,” Owen remarked. His plate was now filled with scrambled egg, bacon and ham—it was six o’clock in the morning and Peggy had obviously assumed that, when they ordered food, they meant breakfast. “If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s goriness while I’m eating.”

Lucius snorted. “Says the man who usually cuts holes into abdomens to literally fuck people’s guts out.”

“It will not have escaped your notice,” Owen retorted pointedly, “That I don’t eat anything while I fuck their guts out. And now stop talking about intestines, or I’m going to throw up on the floor.”

For a while, they ate quietly; Severus had lapsed back into a state very near catatonia and emitted high, keening noises.

“St. John was strange…” Lucius broke the silence.

Owen gave him a surprised look. “What do you mean ‘was strange’? He has been strange for a while now.”

There was silence again, thicker now, orchestrated only by Severus’s whimpers. Suddenly, Lucius chuckled.

“Malfoy, if you are going mad as well, I swear—”

“No,” Lucius interrupted him. “I’m not going mad. In fact, I believe that I have seldom been more lucid.”

“That’s what all lunatics say,” Owen observed gruffly.

“Indeed. But believe me, I’m as sane as can be. Just thinking of how utterly… well, vertiginous this situation is. I have to say something about Lestrange, and obviously you might want to share a few thoughts as well. Only we’re too afraid, aren’t we?”

Owen shrugged. “If you say so…” But he was avoiding the other’s eyes.

Unperturbed, Lucius continued, “ Because we both fear that the other might run straight to St. John or, worse, to Voldemort himself, to denounce the traitor and ingratiate—Oy, Snape! Careful there!”

They put away their plates and hurriedly wrestled Severus down again.

“I think I’ll simply remain sitting on his legs,” Owen said when they had finally succeeded in immobilizing him. “You were saying, Malfoy?”

Lucius had crossed the room and was now standing in front of the mirror, frowning and smoothing some stray hairs back into place. “I was saying—”

“In the desert, a vulture is roaming the abyss… so red and cruel… feasting on my limbs…”

“No,” Lucius remarked dryly, “that was not what I was going to say. Thanks for the contribution all the same, Severus.” He returned to his chair. “I’ll try to get to my point by taking a different approach. I have a theory about Severus.”

“Severus in general or the state he’s in?”

“Both. But I need you to answer a question first.”

Owen yawned. “Shit, I’m tired. Go on, ask, if you absolutely have to.”

“Torn… everything torn apart… drowning in guilt… lungs filled with burning quicksand… pain’s skeleton burns into my flesh…”

“I wished he’d stop that,” Lucius snapped irritably. “It’s highly disturbing, not to mention of abysmal taste. The question then: what exactly did you feel when you were initiated?”

Owen’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to know?”

“I need to know because it might confirm my theory.”

“Fuck your theory!” Owen snapped. “But okay, seeing as how you won’t stop badgering me until I tell you, I’d rather spare my nerves. It was… I suppose you could describe it as the most intense feeling of lust I ever experienced in my whole life. And that’s saying something. Hardly bearable, as it verged on pain. But incredible. And somehow I knew that, if I followed Voldemort’s orders, a time would come for me to feel it again.”

Lucius nodded, a grim smile playing around his lips. “Very interesting. And, above all, very enlightening. Because what I felt was power. Sheer, all-encompassing, all-controlling power. And, exactly as you said, the certainty that if I tried hard enough, I’d eventually have that sensation again. When Barty was still one of the Inner Circle, he once told me what it had been like for him: For a moment, he felt the order of the universe vibrate through him. Don’t laugh, those were his words, I’m simply referring what he said.”

“I was just thinking,” Owen said, still smirking, “that for an anal retentive moron like Barty, who would like for everything to be perfectly rectang—Merlin’s bloody beard! That was what you were aiming at! Each of us felt—”

“—their innermost desire come true for a millisecond. Welcome to the world of logical thinking, Owen. So, if the conclusion we both arrived at is right, that means that Severus—”

“Desires pain.” Owen shook his head. “But why?”

“I think I know why but I can’t tell you.”

“Which, I suppose, brings us back to the point of departure: we are afraid.”

“Exactly,” Lucius agreed gravely. “We are afraid.”

~~~~*~~~~

Carl Nott’s golden front tooth sparkled in the morning sun when he greeted Severus with a big smile. “Welcome to the Sorceress’s Secret,” he said.

They shook hands. Severus still felt a little weak in the knees. Peggy’s spindly fingers had again worked their miracles on his brain—Lucius had finally given in to her desperate pleas for being allowed to help her master—but his body had not yet entirely forgotten the stress of the pain it had suffered.

“Good morning, Carl. Thank you for welcoming me personally.”

It was not easy to show such politeness to a man for whom he felt deep antipathy. The dyed hair, the golden tooth, the skin that was a little too smooth for a man of forty-six—it was all part of an all-over fake-ness that clung to the man like a layer of poisonous syrup. Not that Severus was used to, or even craved, honesty. But he felt ill at ease whenever he was unable to see through a spurious façade. As long as he could recognize the underlying truth he was willing to accept whichever mask the others chose to wear. With Nott, it was impossible to determine what was beneath the sticky surface, and this greatly unsettled him.

“Am I right in assuming that you would like to visit your realm right away?” Nott asked.

Severus gave him a forced smile. “Absolutely. It would be a pleasure. But I don’t want to impose upon you, as I am sure you have more important things to do…”

Nott raised his plump, bejewelled hands, as if to put up a barrier between himself and Severus’s polite protest. “Really, Severus! What could possibly be more important than to welcome one of our Master’s most trusted servants? Come, I will show you immediately what I have in store for you. You can, of course, change whatever you want. Should the location totally disagree with you, we will try to find something that suits you better…”

The man was clearly afraid, Severus realized with a start. It had taken him long enough to work that out, although it was as clear as daylight. Come to think of it, Nott had every reason to be frightened all the way to Azkaban and back. He was standing in front of one of Voldemort’s Big Four who could snap him in two like a twig if he so fancied, without having to dread any consequences. At the beginning of his Death Eater career, Severus would probably have got a kick out of this realization. The experience of recent times had taught him better, though. To have somebody fear you was real fun only when you yourself had nothing to fear. He had felt self-assured and clad in his power like in an impenetrable armour for a long time. Now he knew that he was as vulnerable as Nott. It was neither compassion nor empathy that made it impossible for him to enjoy the power he had over the other wizard. It was the sheer futility of exerting a power the limits of which he now knew only too well.

Fighting an oncoming attack of physical sickness at the thought of his own fear, he replied, “I am sure that what you selected for me will meet my agreement. Shall we go, then?”

Nott nodded, visibly relieved, and preceded him into the building and along a corridor, the walls of which were lined with framed advertisings for Sorceress’s Secrets products. They were walking swiftly. The pictures on the walls were moving, their motions slightly blurred as Severus’s eyes glided past them. He felt his head beginning to spin. The lingering smell of perfumes and cosmetic potions, the violent fuchsia shade of the carpet, the myriad sparkles of candlelight refracted by crystal prisms, and the absence of fresh air—everything seemed to be conspiring against him. He should have followed Lucius’s advice to postpone his first day of work until the end of August. It was a matter of personal pride, though. And also a matter of time.

Because he had a task.

On the day of his initiation, shortly before he had Apparated to the stone circle together with Voldemort, his Master had given him the books and parchments he had brought back from Germany. And told him very clearly what he expected Severus to do for him.

“Tell me what you know about blood, Severus,” Voldemort said, red eyes a-glitter.

“Blood, My Lord? I’m not sure I—”

“Wizards’ blood, to be exact.”

Now he was on safe territory. “There's nothing much to say, My Lord. When the Muggles discovered the principle of blood circulation at the beginning of the seventeenth century, wizarding and Muggle world had drifted far apart because of the merciless persecution we were exposed to. Therefore, we did not learn the secrets of the human blood until almost a hundred years later. Not that we would really have needed to know them—magic does not need to, and in most cases cannot, be explained by the Muggles’ scientific methods. However, some of our more adventurous researchers began to experiment with microscopes, more for the fun of it than in the hope to garner any fundamental new insights. They did make a most interesting discovery, though, which proved the old saying that magic runs in the blood. A wizard's blood contains, apart from red and white blood cells, another kind of particles. I’m not sure who named them Thaumatocytes, but that’s the name they were given. As I said, it was more the proof of something we had known anyway, but it also provided a most stringent explanation of the fact that spells and potions affect Muggles in a completely different way than wizards.”

Voldemort nodded. “Yes, that is what our students are taught. The Thaumatocytes are there, and that is all there is to say. Some of us pushed their curiosity a little farther, though. Needless to say that they were immediately labelled as criminals. But some of their writings have survived, and most of those were in Grindelwald’s possession.” His right hand came to rest on the pile of books. “Because there is far more to this discovery. Things are never simply there. Things are there to be used by those who know how to use them. And this, Severus, is where you come in.”

The treasure Voldemort had entrusted to him was now safely stored in one of his pockets, shrunk and carefully embedded in a small box. He had not yet had an occasion to have a closer look at any of the books, but he knew that what they contained could change the world once and for all. Though he was not sure he liked the implications—right now he could only vaguely guess them, sense their presence behind a horizon that was discomfortingly dark.

Considering that Severus would have to explore entirely new and alien ground, he had been granted as much time as he needed. The research might take six months or six years, and the outcome was more than doubtful. Grindelwald had bequeathed a lot of excerpts, notes and vague ideas to posterity; but not even Voldemort was convinced that he had necessarily been on the right path. It was impossible to determine when exactly the German wizard had embarked on this project; maybe he had abandoned it, capitulating to sheer impossibility. On the other hand, there was no evidence excluding the possibility that he had been working on it at the time of his defeat and death and thus simply interrupted.

The challenge in itself was fascinating. The consequences of an eventual success, though, might be catastrophic.