The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 23

By Pigwidgeon37

The Dark Mark kept attracting Severus’s eyes and thoughts. He pulled up his left sleeve to look at it maybe forty or fifty times a day. Only his work, and sometimes music, was able to lure his thoughts away from it.

Apart from the earth-shattering agony he had felt the night he had received it, it did not cause him any physical discomfort. Easy enough to hide by way of a simple concealment charm, it ought not to have disturbed him. When Voldemort called, it was as if somebody tugged at a leash his very being was attached to. It was not telepathy, and neither was it a physical sensation. He did not feel Voldemort’s presence when the Mark was activated. Maybe the best comparison he could come up with—very conscious of how prosaic and essentially incongruous it was—was the craving for certain food: suddenly there, popping not into his head but into his entire body, felt on a subconscious level before it surfaced towards rational thought. When Voldemort called, he suddenly knew that he had to go. Then it was enough to touch the Mark, for it would guide his Apparition to wherever the Master wanted him.

But this was not what he was constantly thinking about. What made his nights sleepless and his dreams feverish was the certainty that Voldemort knew. Lucius and Owen’s conversation at his bedside had been very enlightening. Without it—and they still did not know that he had heard every word of it—he might never have come to this conclusion. Lucius’s existence was ultimately bent on power, Owen’s on lust, and his own guilty, miserable self craved punishment. And there was no way Voldemort could not know this—the contact had been too intense; as if every second fibre of his body had been replaced with one of the Dark Lord’s for that fraction of an instant during the ritual. The perfect melting-together of two minds and bodies, felt for a fleeting eternity. Voldemort must have sensed it. He had to know.

The urge to look at the mark returned full force; he tried to fight it, but to no avail. He knew that this was becoming an obsession, and that he had to resist. But he pulled up his sleeve all the same. There it was, only a little darker than his pale skin, the outlines slightly blurry. They grew sharp only when Voldemort called, when the Mark turned coal black. And it made him hate his body with an intensity he had only felt after the summer he had spent at his uncle’s house. Of course, the fact that it resided there, on his skin, was mere coincidence—it did not really need his body; this was just a matter of form, of visibility, a constant reminder for him to never forget whom he belonged to. Had he wanted to, Voldemort could probably just as well have burned it into their brains. But they belonged to him body and mind, and that was why he had chosen to mark both.

He had returned to the enchanted sponge—a habit he had dropped a while ago. But to see his body turned into an instrument again, not his but somebody else’s, to be used in whichever way it pleased the Master… It was more than he could take. And as it was impossible to hate the Mark or the one who had created it, he hated his body with a fierceness that sometimes surprised himself.

Loath as he was to admit it, he was also fearing for his own sanity. On a rational level, he was perfectly aware that no-one, however strong, could endure what he was going through for a long time without losing their mind.

It was the middle of September now, and in the month that had passed since his initiation he had slept maybe hundred hours. Not that he was not tired. On the contrary, he was so worn-out that he could have flung himself on the floor, right here in his laboratory, and fallen asleep immediately. But as soon as he would touch the bottom of sleep’s abyss, to let himself be caught in those pleasant depths, he would shy away from the contact and pull himself out again. Knowing that they were not going to change anything, he had taken sleeping potions—they only made the ascent into consciousness more difficult and turned his days into a sticky hell, where sleep would lunge at him any minute and try to pull him down with velvety tentacles. He had become incapable of letting go entirely, of giving himself to slumber, of allowing it to get past those last muscle spasms that precede complete abandon.

His initial hope that any progress he might make in his work for Voldemort would be able to alleviate his condition had soon proved to be a fickle friend. He was trapped in a vicious circle: the less he slept, the more his work suffered, which increased his worries, so that sleep retired into even more unreachable distance. At times, he felt that all he could do was rest his head on his arms and cry. But the tears refused to well up. Even they had abandoned him.

What Voldemort had asked of him would have been nothing short of a miracle, even under normal circumstances. In theory, the thought was as simple as it was brilliant: all he needed to do was extract the Thaumatocytes from some wizard’s blood and give them to Voldemort. Nothing more than that. And nothing less. So that whatever magical abilities the donor had possessed would be passed on directly to the Dark Lord.

The first obstacle had of course been the language. The tomes Voldemort had brought back from Germany were written in different idioms, only few of them known to Severus. He had tried the translation charms he knew, and then a few he had looked up, and for part of the books they had even worked. Two volumes, however, one in Sanskrit and one in Ancient Persian, resisted every attempt. This fact in itself was reason enough to assume that they were important, probably even more so than the others. Severus had no other choice than to spend interminable hours studying the basics of both languages and then try to arrive at a translation.

Grindelwald’s own excerpts and annotations represented an even more arduous task: not only were they in German, a language of which Severus had but the most peripheral knowledge, but he had also used abbreviations and signs Severus was able to decrypt only partly.

Knowing that this theoretical part of the project would take him months to complete, he decided to start some attempts and experiments based on his own knowledge, parting from the basic idea of somehow separating the particles he wanted from the rest of the blood. The first, and certainly not smallest, problem he encountered was the availability of blood samples. As Voldemort had left no doubt about the secrecy of this project, he could not order anybody else to get them for him. The target group of their activities consisted now largely of Muggles, Muggle-born and halfblood wizards, and he was not entirely sure whether using their blood might not jeopardize the outcome of his experiments. It was preferable to perform them on the blood of pureblood wizards, also because they would be the ones who provided the raw material once he had found a way to extract the Thaumatocytes. There was an average of two raids a week, which made about eight per month, and only one or two of them were directed against purebloods. Of course he could have requested to be the one in charge of the latter category, but that would have inevitably led to questions, and questions were what he needed least. In the end, he mostly used his own blood.

But the results were disastrous all the same. No substance or potion achieved the desired effect. They would either cling obstinately to every kind of blood cells, or to none, or downright destroy them all. By the end of September, Severus was close to desperation.

~~~~*~~~~

By the middle of October, he had come to a decision: he needed help. Not with his very own problems—although he admitted that he would have needed assistance for those as well, but it would have been too dangerous—but with the potion. He was stuck. There was no way out of the dead end road he had manoeuvred himself into.

When he had started on the Imperius Potion, he had tackled the problem with the optimism of a talented newcomer, unafraid of the various complications that might arise during the process, because he was ignorant of most of them. By now, brilliant as he still undoubtedly was, his mind had been trained to work in certain ways; sometimes he was able to think around them, but sometimes they were too deeply ingrained in his brain.

Prewett was dead, McLachlan was dead. Lestrange was gradually developing into a very faithful second-in-command, shoving the other three out of the Inner Circle inch by inch. They still took part in the planning and commanded operations, and their position and powers with regard to the main group had not changed. But it seemed that Lestrange got lots of information before the others did, sometimes he knew definitely more than they did and not always did he tell them what he knew. Or so Severus thought; and from Lucius and Owen’s exchange he had heard after his initiation, he was pretty sure they were harbouring the same suspicions.

This estrangement from his once-mentor and guardian would have angered and hurt him enough, had there only been a personal aspect to it. As things were, it also worried him and now, when he would have needed to confide in him and ask for his help, it proved to be an enormous obstacle. His only choice was therefore Lucius. Owen might or might not be reliable, but whatever his loyalties, he had never excelled at Potions. Lucius, on the other hand, had never got grades much above average, due to his monumental laziness, but was quite brilliant at the subject—Severus knew that for sure after seven years of having him occasionally had as his partner during Potions class. So he wrote him a short note, asking Lucius to come and see him whenever he had time, the sooner, the better.

On the following morning, he received a Floo call by Narcissa, who was looking rather distressed.

“Sorry to disturb you, Severus,” she said, giving him a smile he could see was more polite than genuine, “But Lucius told me to call you. He would have liked to visit you this morning, but I’m afraid he’s in no condition to travel.”

Severus felt his guts contract. “What happened? Can I help?”

“He returned home from a mission in the small hours of the morning—Don't stare at me like that, Sev, he told me some time ago.”

Severus let out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad he did. They attacked St. Mungo’s, didn’t they?” She nodded. “Was he hurt?”

“Yes, he just barely escaped before the Aurors arrived. But somebody hit him with a Perustio Curse and he…”

Now tears were flowing from her eyes and landed on the hot grate with soft, small hissing noises.

“Why didn't you call me right away?” Severus asked, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. “Or Heather, for that matter?”

“Because Heather is dead,” she replied, her voice very small.

“Heather is… I can't believe…” But he had to control himself. The dead were dead, and the living were more important. “What about Lucius?” he asked, “How bad are his burns?”

“Only on the left side, but very bad, I’d say. I keep him levitated, and the injured skin uncovered. I also gave him a potion to ease the pain. But he has a fever and is delirious. That's why I couldn't call Beckinsale. Besides, he probably wouldn’t have been able to come anyway, it seems that there were lots of injuries on the other side as well.”

Severus nodded grimly. Orel Beckinsale was another of their allies at St. Mungo's… no, he mentally corrected himself, by now he was the only one. Heather was dead. He would not have trusted Beckinsale farther than he could throw him, and so it had been very wise of Narcissa not to call him. A delirious Lucius was bound to spill out secrets probably not even his wife should be privy to; but an overzealous Death Eater overhearing them might mean certain death for all of them.

“Very well-done, Narcissa. Now return to him and tell him that I’ll be there in about half an hour. I just have to mix some antipyretic potion and to search for the right salves. And look up some healing spells,” he added, giving her an encouraging smile that was at least as fake as hers.

She nodded and broke the connection.

After half an hour of feverish activity, during which he alternately anathemized whomever had thrown that curse on Lucius and blessed that fool Arthur Weasley, the acting Minister, who had put a stop to random Auror raids on the houses of suspects, he Apparated over to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa came running down the stairs and flung herself into his arms. He would have wanted to push her away, but seeing how distressed she was, he awkwardly patted her back before prying her arms from his shoulders.

“Let's go upstairs and see what we can do for him,” he said and followed her, as she obediently ascended the stairs.

~~~~*~~~~

Lucius had been relatively fortunate, he thought while examining the body floating some inches above the bed. The curse must rather have grazed him obliquely than fully hit him, because only his left arm and shoulder, and the left side of his ribcage, down to the waist, had been injured. Even though ‘fortunate’ was still a very relative term. The injured parts did look bad, raw flesh alternating with blisters, some of them still closed, some oozing liquid. They had not yet begun to fester, though, probably because Narcissa had had the common sense of leaving them uncovered.

He was half-conscious and, as Narcissa had told him, burning with fever. Making sure that he touched the undamaged part of Malfoy’s neck, Severus lifted his head a little and poured some antipyretic potion into his mouth, ready to turn the head to the right in case he was unable to swallow, so as not to make him choke and cough. But he swallowed all right, and managed to drink the whole dose.

“That you, Snape?” he slurred.

“Yes, it's me. I just gave you something for the fever. Do you need another potion against the pain?”

“No… keeps me lucid.”

“Wonderful,” Severus said sarcastically. “But you might get a little more lucidity than you bargained for, because I have to clean those wounds before putting on the salve.”

Lucius tried to focus his eyes on him. “Do your worst, Snape,” he croaked and managed a lopsided smile.

With a short nod, Severus set to work, all the while anxiously observed by Narcissa.

“Will he have lots of scars?” she asked tentatively.

“Hm? No, I don't think so,” he said, casting a brief look at her face that was tense with suppressed fear. “These burns are treated exactly like every other wound, with a simple Sutureo Spell; only they have to be cleaned very thoroughly, and the spell needs the salve to work properly.”

She nodded and swallowed. When he heard a small, scratching noise, he turned round again to look at her. The handkerchief she had been convulsively kneading was neatly torn into two halves.

“Don’t fret too much, Narcissa. He is in pain now, but only for another hour or so. By the way, if you really want to help—” she nodded eagerly, and he smiled “—go down to the kitchens and prepare a concoction of equal parts valerian, verbena, birch and nettle. Not too strong, though.” He saw her wrinkle her nose in disgust and laughed. “Yes, it will taste awfully, but he has to drink at least eight pints of the stuff.”

~~~~*~~~~

An hour later, Lucius had drunk down two pints of the herbal tea and was sleeping peacefully. The fever was gone and the wounds looked less horrible.

“Now we have to wait another two hours,” Severus said, packing bottles and vials into a small suitcase with pockets and compartments inside, “and then I can perform the healing spells.”

“Do you think you might like to have lunch with me?” she asked, “You had quite a stressful morning, and seeing as how you have to be here in two hours…”

Lunch… to Peggy’s barely hidden chagrin, he had not been eating well these last times. Not that he was really hungry now, but it might be nice to have somebody to talk to. He liked Narcissa—had liked her since that night at Monrepos, when he had dictated her the list of Do’s and Don’ts for Lucius—for she was clever, tactful and unpretentious. And he supposed that she was in need of company just as much as he.

“Yes,” he said therefore, “I think that might be a good idea. You look as if you could use some fuel for your strength and nerves, too. Have you been up all night?”

They had arrived downstairs and entered the dining room. “Yes, I haven’t slept, first because I was waiting for him, and afterwards because I had to watch him.”

She took out her wand and shrunk the huge table until it had taken on a more reasonable dimension. “It's nicer like this,” she remarked, sitting down and motioning for him to do the same.

A House Elf—Severus thought it was the one called Dobby—brought their food. For a while, they ate in silence.

“Severus,” Narcissa said, “Please don't take offence, but you are looking… terrible. When was the last time you slept properly?”

He gave a hollow laugh. “I don’t know. It seems an eternity.”

Narcissa put down her cutlery and scrutinized his face, her expression grave. “You know I’m not usually one to interfere with other people's lives,” she said finally, “But I really like you and I’m really worried about you. This is going to be your death unless you pull yourself together and do something.”

“I appreciate your concern, I truly do, Narcissa. And believe me, if I could change the situation I would do so. In fact, I had asked Lucius to come and see me because I thought he might help.”

“Oh,” she said, her face lighting up, “Maybe he will be able to help you. You have done such a lot for him…”

There was another pause, during which both ate and thought their very own thoughts, occasionally looking at each other.

“You know,” Severus said, after the elf had taken away their empty plates, “I think it might be a good idea for you to acquire some basic medical skills. Not that I don’t want to help, but there might be times…”

She nodded her assent. “Yes, I already thought of it. And now that Heather isn’t there anymore…”

He had never particularly liked her. But Heather had been his peer, one of the people he had shared a classroom with for so many years, so many experiences lived together…it seemed so absurd that she should not be there to harass Owen anymore…

“Severus, tell me what’s happening!”

He looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that things seem to be… precipitating. In a most unsettling way. Lucius was injured for the first time this night, but the last… uh, operation was a very close shave, and the one before that as well. Had he not let me in on the whole matter already, he would have needed to do so now, because he can’t keep it a secret any longer. But something has changed lately, and he won’t speak about it. Those… those missions seem to become gradually more dangerous, and I want to know why.”

She was right. Probably due to his constant state of haziness and exhaustion, he had not yet realized it; but what she had just stated was true. Their operations had lately been marked by a recklessness that was deeply disconcerting, mostly because it was not their own fault. It was Voldemort who sometimes demanded actions that made their hair stand on end.

“Oh,” she said, sounding very disappointed, “It was stupid of me to think you might—”

“No,” he interrupted her. “No, on the contrary. It was by no means stupid, you just opened my eyes. I think I will have to talk about this whole business with Lucius. This, and… other urgent matters.”

“Are you sure this isn’t just a way to silence me?” she asked.

“I assure you that it isn’t. Only before I didn’t see the forest for the trees. Thanks to your question, I can see it clearly now, but I’m not sure whether I like it.”

~~~~*~~~~

Lucius gave him a slightly sour look. “This is turning into a nasty habit, Sev. I hate being indebted to people.”

“If that wasn’t the sweetest way to say thank you ever devised by a human mind…”

“Oh, shut up, Snape, and give me another whisky,” Lucius snapped. But his voice was vibrating with amusement. “Your health, and… er, thank you.”

Severus raised his glass and nodded a silent toast. “No scars?” he asked after the first sip.

“Only one, and it’s almost invisible,” Lucius said, pointing at the lower part of his throat, which was currently covered by the collar of his shirt. “Considering that the skin is so thin and sensitive here, it’s a miracle that it’s as pale as it is. Narcissa sends her thanks and compliments,” he added with a lopsided smile. “Now tell me, what did you want to see me about?”

Severus heaved a deep sigh. Indebted to him or not, Lucius was still, and would always be, a power-hungry bastard. But he was the only chance he had. “Initially,” he began, still hesitating, “I wanted to invite Owen as well. But that can also wait. In fact, there is more than one matter I wished to discuss with you, and only one of them concerns only the two of us.”

“May I express the hope that this will become a bit clearer?” Lucius asked, eyebrows almost merging into his hairline. “For right now, I don’t understand a thing.”

“Just shut up and listen. Loath as I am to admit it, I need your help. But—” he rose from his chair and began pacing the room “—it might get both of us into more trouble than we can imagine.”

“If it makes you run back and forth like a Hippogriff in a cage, I suppose it has to be complicated,” Lucius observed. “But tell me anyway.”

Coming to an abrupt halt, Severus gave a short laugh. “That is easier said than done, Malfoy. For if I tell you, I might be the one who’s in trouble. And don’t tell me,” he continued, raising his hand to prevent Lucius from interrupting him, “don’t tell me that I’m talking bullshit. I heard you, both of you, while you were playing babysitter for me after the initiation. And, as you so elegantly phrased it, we are all afraid.”

Lucius nodded, turning his tumbler round and round between his hands. “True, Snape, true. But in this special case, where only you and I are concerned, I daresay that the closet is literally bursting with skeletons. Had one of us wanted to, he could have destroyed the other long ago.”

“Yes,” Severus admitted, “you are right. However, if I reveal this to you, it’s going to be as dangerous and, should the worst come to the worst, pernicious for you as it is for me. I just want you to know the risks.”

“Damn the risks,” Lucius drawled nonchalantly. “Another whisky, and the world is a safer place. Come on, spill the beans.”

“Very well.” Severus returned to his chair and sat down. “Another whisky, then, and another secret. Voldemort has ordered me to brew a very special potion…”

Lucius listened intently, without interrupting him a single time. When Severus had finished, he said, “You are right. This is dangerous, and in more than one respect. Suppose you—or rather we—succeed in developing that potion. Apart from the by no means negligible problem that it might need more than just a vial of blood in order to work, so that maybe the donor wouldn’t survive his generosity, it means that Voldemort will be able to absorb as much magical power as he wants.”

“Exactly. But that isn’t my foremost problem right now, forgive my egoism.” Lucius snorted. “My problem is that I am completely stuck. For almost two months, I have been doing nothing but translations from more or less obscure languages, and some completely futile experiments. He told me that I have as much time at my disposal as I need, but I doubt whether he’s going to be very patient.”

“So that’s what’s ailing you,” Lucius muttered, “I was already wondering… And of course he ordained total silence and secrecy?” he asked, gazing intently into his whisky glass.

“Of course. But I am… Lucius, I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And I know that I’m not going to attain a result on my own.”

“My dear Severus, first of all you need to get laid.”

Severus believed he was hallucinating. “Wh-what? Lucius, this is no joking matter, if I wanted to be made fun of I could have gone to Sirius Black for help!”

Lucius looked at him with what seemed genuine surprise. “I wasn’t joking,” he said, “You need to get rid of that tension before you can do anything. Of course I’ll do what I can to help you, but that doesn’t cancel the fact that you need a good, long, satisfying fuck. You see? At least you’re laughing now. But honestly, between you and me: when was the last time you had sex?”

First and last, Severus thought, but he was not going to mention that particular detail. “More than two years ago.”

“More than… Sev, how can you even survive, let alone live… I don’t get it.”

“Not everybody is a sex-crazed—”

“Come now, Severus, don’t give me the Not-Everybody-Needs-Sex lecture. It is crap. Pure, utter crap. Of course everybody needs it, some of us more and some less, but every two years is definitely insufficient. Let’s make a deal,” he said, eyes suddenly shining with something very akin to malice. “I promise I will help you with that potion business, but only on one condition: you provide tangible proof that you had a sensational shagging feast before. A pensieve will do perfectly. Deal?” And he stretched out his hand toward Severus.

Unsure whether to laugh or cry, Severus looked at it. “Malfoy, you can’t—”

“Of course I can,” he replied, grinning. “I didn’t say marry or get yourself a girlfriend, I said go and get yourself laid to ease the tension. There are women who do it for money, very skilled, very creative. You have enough money to buy yourself the best of the best, two of them if you feel like it. So, do we have a deal?”

“Y-yes,” Severus said hesitantly, “I suppose we have a deal, although I’d rather call it blackmail. But seeing as how you are my only hope…”

“Indeed, Snape. Indeed. And remember: the sooner you get your relaxation fuck, the sooner we can start. It’s that simple.”

With these words, he Disapparated, leaving Severus sitting transfixed, staring at the spot where seconds ago Malfoy had stood, proposing this preposterous… What on earth had he gotten himself into?

~~~~*~~~~

She was petite, with honey-coloured hair, a slightly upturned nose and full pink lips. The colour of her eyes remained a mystery, for she was wearing a blindfold. She had very small, but full, breasts, a narrow waist and beautifully undulating hips.

“Not bad,” Lucius said appreciatively.

Severus cringed. “Malfoy, I think this is really enough…”

“Why the blindfold?” Lucius asked, completely ignoring him.

“Because it makes me feel better, that’s why.”

Lucius raised his eyebrows and shrugged, but did not inquire any further. They stood in silence, inside Severus’s memory, watching as the girl sashayed towards Severus and started undressing him. His whole posture expressing reluctance, he let himself be lowered onto the bed, until he was lying flat on his back, fists balled, biting his lower lip. He could not do so for very long, though, because the girl straddled him in one swift, fluid movement and lowered her head to kiss him.

“Why doesn’t she talk?” Lucius asked, “Usually they do, and it’s highly disturbing.”

“I had explicitly told her not to,” Severus replied, lost in intense contemplation of the scene playing before them.

Contrary to what he had dreaded, it had been… good. Fabulous even. His initial desperation had begun to vanish when he had had the idea with the blindfold. An anonymous girl who could neither talk to nor see him might be bearable, he had thought. But ‘bearable’ was a very inadequate term when it came to describing the sensations of last night. He had hired her for the whole night. Twelve hours of sheer physical pleasure, mostly passive, sometimes active, but always exceptional.

“Good technique,” Lucius remarked dryly, observing the girl who was expertly licking and sucking Severus’s cock.

“Er… yes. I could get used to that.”

Lucius chuckled. “Who wouldn’t?”

She was riding him now, very slowly, and Severus remembered exactly how it had felt, the soft firmness of those hips he was holding in an almost desperate grasp, that silky hair spilling over his torso…

“Malfoy, really…”

“Okay, okay,” Lucius muttered, reluctantly tearing his eyes from the couple on the bed, “Let’s step out.”

With a concentrated effort, both pulled themselves out of the memory and were standing, slightly swaying, in Severus’s laboratory.

“Prudish as a virgin,” Lucius commented. “But I have to give you full credit for not having wasted your time. And, to say the truth, you look quite refreshed. Did you sleep?”

“Yes. From six a.m. till four p.m. I called you immediately after I woke up. For being a despicable schoolboy prank, I must say that the effect was quite satisfying.” He picked up the pensieve and stored it in a side cupboard. “Now that your voyeuristic cravings have been quenched, do you think we might proceed to more serious business?”

“May I inform you, just for the records, that I have been married for more than two years, without cheating on my wife a single time? In my most humble opinion, that justifies a little voyeurism.”

“Considering your average virgin consumption of previous years, I suppose it does. Could we now, please, regard this highly embarrassing subject as closed and apply our minds to the potion?”

Lucius nodded, the insolent grin still playing on his face, and they made their way towards a desk, on which the books and parchments Voldemort had given to Severus were neatly stacked. When his gaze travelled over the volumes, the smirk vanished from Lucius’s face.

“Such a lot of material!” he said, “Are you saying that you’re already through with it?”

Both men sat down, and Severus pulled out a bundle of parchment from under a pile of books. “More or less,” he replied, “These—” and he tapped the bundle with his finger “—are the notes I’ve made so far. Mostly translations, though. And only of the bits that seemed important.”

Lucius leafed though the sheets, forehead creased in concentration, and from time to time whistled through his teeth. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said finally, “But that ancient Persian stuff is mostly philosophical babble. Bits of Zoroastrianism, bits of Mithras, thrown together—et voilà a lot of bullshit.”

“Thank you for this enthusiastic comment about the result of four weeks’ work,” Severus said acidly. “But generally speaking, you’re right. I suppose he brought these only because they treat immortality. For the potion, they are worthless.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Lucius said, “Before we waste more time going through pointless stuff, is there anything you deem remotely helpful?”

“Much as I hate to say it, the Sanskrit texts are almost as useless as the Persian ones. More on the side of enhancing innate magic by certain incantations, but nothing directly pertinent to what we are searching for.”

“Merlin forbid,” Lucius exclaimed, “Don’t even mention it! Can you imagine the effect if you first enhance the magic and then extract it? I’d say we simply forget these. As far as you know, does Voldemort read Sanskrit?”

Severus raised his arms. “How should I know? He didn’t seem able to distinguish what’s important and what isn’t, if that is any indication…”

“Whatever. Just pretend it isn’t there. What about the other books?”

“Well,” Severus said, “I think you should have a look at that treaty by Paracelsus. The translation spell worked on this one, so it’s in English. He gives some gory but interesting indications about Muggles who drank wizards’ blood to protect themselves from the plague. It seems that some of them were able to perform simple spells for a short time afterwards.”

“Interesting,” Lucius observed, sounding a little absent, because he was letting his gaze wander over the books’ spines. “Listen, Sev, why don’t you just give me three or four tomes you deem consequential, together with your notes, and I take them home to see what I can make of it?”

It was, of course, the sensible thing to do. All the same, Severus had a very uneasy feeling when he handed Malfoy three volumes and the stack of notes. Words were one thing, they were fleeting and ephemeral, and if push came to shove, you could always obliviate the person in question. To give away incriminating material, tangible and real, was an altogether different matter. He had no choice, though. And so, with a sigh, he saw the papers being clutched by Lucius’s white hands and hoped with all his might that this would not be one of the last things he had seen in his life.

“I’ll notify you immediately if I find something important,” Lucius said and Disapparated.

Severus nodded to the thin air. Too late, it occurred to him that he had not even duplicated his papers, let alone the books. Not only did it increase his uneasiness, but he realized that without them he would be unable to work, at least for tonight. Well, he thought, perhaps he had deserved a break anyway. For once, he might just as well sit in his living room and listen to Schubert’s ‘Unfinished’. Perhaps he would even be able to sleep—the feeling of physical well-being, elicited by last night’s activities, was still persisting.

After the first bars of the second movement, he was fast asleep.

That was how Lucius found him the next morning.

“Wake up, Snape, you dormouse!” he said, shaking Severus’s shoulder. “I think I had an inspiration!”

Severus gazed at him bleary-eyed, trying to get his eyes into focus and move his stiff neck at the same time. “Lucius… what… why the hell are you waking me up at this—”

“Shut up and listen! Oh, and tell that elf of yours to bring some coffee, I really need it. I was up all night, reading your notes and thinking, and I might have found a way to produce that damn potion.”

Suddenly wide awake, Severus gazed at him incredulously. “Are you joking?”

“No, I’m not. The coffee, Snape!”

Still shaking his head in disbelief, Severus called Peggy and ordered breakfast. Lucius was looking exhausted. But also incredibly smug. So maybe he had told the truth… However, he firmly refused to tell anything before he had had his first cup of coffee. When it was half-empty, Severus felt as if he were sitting on a pile of incandescent charcoal garnished with assorted red-hot needles. As was to be expected, Lucius was practically wallowing in his opposite’s impatience.

“We-ell,” he drawled, putting down his finally-empty cup, “As far as I can judge it, you made the following mistake: you tried to extract the Thaumatocytes by binding them to other substances. Right?”

Severus nodded breathlessly.

“And apparently it never worked. Correct?”

“Yes,” Severus replied through clenched teeth.

“Which simply means that you have to do it the other way round: destroy the other blood particles, so that only the Thaumatocytes remain. Simple, isn’t it?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back, and smiled triumphantly at a completely smitten Severus.