The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 24

By Pigwidgeon37

Not even a year ago, there had been six Heads of Department who were to act alternately as Ministers of Magic. In the aftermath of the raid against the Aurors’ Academy, Bartemius Crouch had stumbled over his law-and-order attitude and been excluded from the round dance, and only his excellent connections had prevented his relegation to some minor position within the labyrinth-like  ministerial hierarchy. He had at least remained Head of the Magical Law Enforcement. Not so Arthur Weasley. Five years ago still a junior officer who ran errands at the whim of Julius Malfoy, his assiduity and also a good deal of luck had catapulted him to the top of the Department for International Relations and thus, for September and October 1978, right behind the Minister of Magic’s impressive mahogany desk. His fall was as abrupt as his rise had been rapid. Weasley had learned from the errors of his predecessor Crouch and, keeping in mind the public uproar that had arisen in the wake of the Law Enforcement Scandal after the raid on the Aurors Academy, he had ensured that, this time, there be no such outrageous actions. After St. Mungo’s had been assaulted, the Law Enforcement had received strict order to first interrogate the witnesses and then, based on the evidence they had given, to question eventual suspects.

The Death Eaters had wreaked havoc in the hospital, and there had been lots of injured victims, but all in all, St. Mungo’s staff and patients had defended themselves rather well, and so there were a great many survivors. Their statements coincided perfectly: six figures, hooded and masked, had Apparated to carefully selected parts of St. Mungo’s and systematically started to kill and destroy who- and whatever opposed resistance. Whenever an assailant had noticed that they might be overpowered, they immediately Disapparated. It had been impossible to even guess the aggressors’ identities, let alone give detailed descriptions. Therefore, neither Law Enforcement nor Aurors had been authorized to perform the usual raids on the homes of the usual suspects.

Those among the Ministry employees who were still strictly loyal to the side of Light were, of course, furious. They felt betrayed and abandoned by a would-be Minister into whom they had never had much confidence. Some of them had contacts at the Daily Prophet, and thus, on the next day, the paper sported the headline AMNESTY FOR DEATH EATERS? ARTHUR WEASLEY MUST GO! The horrors committed by the Law Enforcement more than half a year ago were long forgotten, and all the public saw was pictures of dead and injured mediwizards and patients, together with the fact that the Minister had not been able to ferret out the six culprits. In the evening of the same day, Arthur Weasley had to vacate the Minister’s office. His connections were not as excellent as Crouch’s, for he had many enemies who envied his swift ascent, and so he was assigned a position at the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, a branch of the Ministry that was generally alluded to as the ‘hazardous waste dump’ by insiders. Chances were that he would spend the rest of his working life there.

Advantageous as Weasley’s highly un-political rectitude had been for the Death Eaters in that particular case—after all, Lucius would have gone straight to Azkaban, had the Aurors performed their usual post-assault patrol—the red-haired ex-Head of Department had also been fiercely loyal to Dumbledore, and thus his resignation was, all in all, a success for Voldemort. The Dark Lord was satisfied, at least for the moment. Recently, though, Severus was not sure whether to fear his Master more when he was satisfied or when he was furious.

The more successful the Death Eaters were, the more assured Voldemort was of his tactics. If they could be called thus, Severus thought, brooding over a map of the magical district of Aberdeen. He had to go there tomorrow night—ironically the night of his twentieth birthday—with only one person at his side, to eliminate a family of eight. The house was by no means isolated, so that there was the additional risk of neighbours rushing to the victims’ help. There was, of course, no point in trying to object to Voldemort’s wishes, and so he had held his tongue during the last meeting. Three weeks ago, Owen had dared to question whether it was wise for a group of only three Death Eaters to attack a houseful of adult wizards, and he had vividly regretted his words. From that day onwards, neither he, nor Lucius or Severus, had objected to any of their Master’s orders anymore. To Severus’s—and he had no doubt that Lucius and Owen shared his opinion—regret, from that day on Tabitha had always been present at their strategic meetings. She did not talk much, but there was an almost tangible bond of understanding between the Lestrange couple and the Dark Lord. It was useless to try and convince any of them that the operations only succeeded because most of the Death Eaters were scared. They were afraid of being caught by the Ministry troupes unless they proceeded with utmost brutality against victims and Aurors alike, and probably they were even more afraid of Messieurs Snape, Malfoy, McNair and Lestrange, who maintained iron discipline by cruelly chastising whomever dared to jeopardize their orders.

Lately, Severus had come to almost cherish this possibility of letting off steam. He was constantly frustrated, both by the almost non-existent progress of his research and by the ludicrous risks he had to take when it would have been so easy to avoid them by simply using more manpower for the attacks. So he dealt out punishment rather liberally. Not that it made him feel much better. The constant fear of chastisement or death or lifelong imprisonment could not be alleviated by making others writhe on the floor in the throes of Cruciatus.

And you will always live in hell… Sybil, why could you not have been the fraud we thought you were, just this once?

And things had not yet become as bad as they could. After all, Voldemort had hitherto shown no signs of impatience as far as the potion was concerned. Thanks to Lucius’s stroke of brilliance, Severus now knew that he had to find an agent that would destroy all blood cells except for the Thaumatocytes. Whatever he had tried, though, had destroyed them all. How many times had he witnessed their decay through his microscope, fighting back tears of despair? Wearily, he put down the map. Studying it was more or less useless. He had chosen Evan Rosier as his companion for tomorrow night; the man was a good dueller, as cruel as a Lethifold and colder than the Antarctic. So they stood a chance. They would simply have to forget all strategy, Apparate in, destroy what they could, and try to protect themselves. Destroy and protect. Destroy and…

He stood up, suddenly mesmerized. That was it! He had been an idiot! A fumbling amateur! Stupid! So stupid! When the solution was as clear as daylight. Of course, he had to protect the Thaumatocytes—they had a great deal more resistance than their red and white colleagues, and they were magical, so that what protected them would not necessarily protect the other particles! Already on his way upstairs, he mentally established a list of possible protecting substances. The most powerful agents he had heretofore used for destruction were werewolf and vampire blood. What could possibly counteract them, at least to a degree? Some substance taken from a powerful Light Creature—phoenix tears or unicorn blood maybe? Panting, he arrived at his laboratory, rushed to the cupboards and began to search. Damn! He had forgotten to restock the unicorn blood. So he would have to do it first thing tomorrow. As for the phoenix tears… Bloody, bloody hell. They were as rare as black diamonds and a lot more expensive. Not that the cost represented a problem; but he would have to order them and might have to wait for weeks until they arrived. Well, he could start with the unicorn blood, so at least he would not lose time.

“Master Severus?”

He jumped. “Peggy! You gave me quite a fright! What is it?”

“There is Mister Malfoy and Mister McNair downstairs, they wants to see you.”

Lucius and Owen? At half past midnight? He shook his head in wonderment. “Tell them I’ll join them immediately.”

Carefully, he repositioned the ingredients he had taken from their shelves in his feverish search of the unicorn blood, locked and warded the cupboard and slowly went downstairs, hoping that nothing dramatic had happened. He could do without bad news for a while.

When he entered the living room, both young men were already comfortably seated.

“We ransacked your whisky stores,” Lucius said matter-of-factly, apparently not very remorseful.

“Great,” Severus said. “Just make yourselves at home. Hello, Owen. Have you two run out of whisky or is there another reason for this welcome but late visit?”

“Actually there is,” Lucius answered. “Listen Severus, do you still have that house somewhere in Italy? The one you inherited?”

Momentarily taken aback by the change of topic, Severus only nodded.

“Great,” Owen said and rose from his chair. “Would you mind if we transferred the meeting there? It seems…safer. You never know who might look in from the garden.”

“Er… no, of course not,” Severus said, “If you think it’s necessary…”

“Yes,” Lucius clipped, “We think it is necessary. Take the bottle, and another one for the road, and off we go.”

“Do you think you could at least tell me what you’re up to?”

“Later, Sev, later.” Lucius made an impatient, shooing gesture. “You first, we follow.”

Severus swallowed. What if it was a trap? What if Voldemort was waiting for him there? Maybe Lucius had told him everything… If he was lucky, he might save his miserable hide until he had developed the formula… He might stall for time…

Owen snorted impatiently. “What the hell are you waiting for, Snape?”

“Nothing,” he said, briefly shaking his head, and Apparated.

~~~~*~~~~

“Gosh!” Owen said, trying to keep his teeth from chattering, “And I thought it was warm in Italy!”

“This is northern Italy, you benighted moron,” Severus retorted, “The winters here are almost as cold as in Scotland, sometimes even colder.”

The library looked strange, with all the empty bookshelves gaping at them. The chair Uncle Ettore had been sitting on while he wrote his testament was still standing in the very same position as two years ago—apparently Clarissa had not used it during her brief stay. All three men cast warming charms, and with this concerted effort, the room became rather cosy. Severus summoned three glasses from the kitchen, and soon they were dispersing the last shivers of cold with ample doses of Firewhiskey.

“And now,” Severus broke the silence, “I would like to hear why we went on this little outing.”

“Owen and I have been talking,” Lucius said slowly, gazing into his glass.

“How wonderful. I’m glad you have developed such a quality relationship that you even talk. Gathering this interesting bit of information was certainly worth Apparating to Italy in the dead of night. Cheers!”

Owen gave him one of his slow grins. “Don’t be an idiot, Sev. Of course there’s something more to it.” Then he lapsed back into silence.

“There is, indeed, more to it,” Lucius picked up the thread once again. “I think, in fact we think, that the three of us have to join forces, considering that other people seem to have done so as well.”

Severus gasped. “Have mercy on me, cried I out aloud, spirit, or living man, whate’er thou be!” he said.

Lucius looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You going mad?”

“I quoting Dante. But seriously, Lucius, this is insane! Owen! You can’t mean what you said! Do you have any idea—”

“Don’t blabber, Severus,” Lucius interrupted him, “It’s not the first time we hone our insubordination skills, as you well know.”

Severus heaved a deep sigh and put his free hand over his eyes. In the other one, the whisky glass was trembling merrily.

“Severus,” Owen said, “You can’t pretend you don’t see what’s going on! Voldemort and Tabitha—it’s so bloody obvious!”

Severus’s head came up again. “Of course I see it, Owen. And believe me, I’m deeply troubled. But that doesn’t mean—”

“Well what does it mean, then?” Lucius cut him off in mid-sentence. “Are we to watch, silently, accepting every order, absurd as it might be, until he sends us to our deaths? Before long he’ll order us to blow up the Ministry single-handedly! He has changed, Severus! I know you have difficulties acknowledging it, but it is true!”

“And it’s blatantly obvious,” Owen chimed in, “that St. John is trying to outmanoeuvre us, helped by the adorable Tabitha. I have no idea what exactly is going on between the three of them—not that I’d want to know, honestly—but recent events show that Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange are not overly keen on having company at the centre of power. We have to do something, and quickly.”

“All right,” Severus said, and downed his glass, only to refill it instantly. He had a premonition that he was going to need it. “Any ideas what we can do?”

This was completely surreal, he thought. This could not really be happening. It had to be a dream, an absurdly realistic dream, in which the whisky burned his throat, and the old leather chairs emanated just the right kind of smell…

“We must feed information to the other side,” Lucius stated. “Unless—” and he refilled his own glass “—one of you feels like killing Voldemort.”

Gods! Had it come to this? How could he sit here, outwardly calm, discussing how to betray his Master? Kill him even? Where was his faith, his loyalty, his… love? At which point of the road had he lost them, irretrievably lost, so that he was naked now and empty-handed? But they were right. They had to do something, or else they were all going to be sacrificed.

His voice was croaky when he asked, “And how exactly do you mean to feed information to the other side? And which other side, just to complicate matters?”

“Good question,” Lucius said, “The Ministry or Dumbledore?”

“Dumbledore,” Owen said. “Absolutely. He may be a crazy old fool, but he’s a powerful wizard, no point in denying that. And a lot more capable of using classified information without making the whole thing blow up into our faces.”

“I agree,” Severus said. “Mostly because Dumbledore and his merry little group never attack openly. If we warn them about attacks, they wouldn’t ambush us, I suppose, but rather evacuate our targets. Knowing the Ministry, they’d probably send in the Aurors, and we’d get killed. But what are you hoping to gain from passing information to him?”

“Well,” Lucius drawled, leaning back in his chair, obviously feeling very much in his element, “There are quite a lot of possibilities. Firstly, the other side gains time and allies, so that eventually they might be strong enough to defeat Voldemort by a single, concentrated stroke. Then, there’s the alluring perspective of framing Lestrange.”

“You mean you want to pin it on him?” Severus asked, eyes wide with incredulity at this more-than-Slytherin piece of intrigue.

“Of course. Thirdly, if we tell them about the potion—” Severus made a gesture as if to silence him “—no, Sev. If we do this, we play with our cards open. So that each of us knows enough about the others to face certain destruction if he tries to destroy. Our dear Owen here has embezzled a bit of money that should have gone to our Master. In exchange, he knows everything about the Virgin Prank. And about Clarissa. Then again, I know that deep down in the bowels of Gringott’s, there is a vault containing pensieves filled with carefully edited memories of strategic meetings—”

Owen gave a strangled noise. “How the fuck—”

“Suffice it for you to know that I know,” Lucius interrupted him sharply. “Any other secrets you’d like to share, Severus? Owen?”

“Not exactly a secret,” Severus said after a while. “But I think you should know about a potion I developed a while ago.” And he told them about the Falsitaserum. “I think that we all should keep a sufficient supply, just to be on the safe side. I’ve been toying with the idea of transfiguring small doses into something like Every Flavour Beans or Lemon Drops, something innocuous in any case, that can be ingested without raising suspicion.”

They continued discussing this for a while, until Lucius, already past his fifth whisky and accordingly brilliant, threw in, “And how, pray, do we get the information to Dumbledore?”

“Er…” Owen said. Severus remained silent, wracking his brain.

“Because,” Lucius said, “I think I might have an idea.”

“Then why didn’t you say so right away?” Owen asked, already a little slurry.

“Just for effect, Owen, just for effect. Listen, Gentlemen. This is what I think might have a chance to work: Hogwarts is sadly lacking a Potions Master, true?”

“Lucius, we’re not going to applaud at the end of each sentence,” Severus said angrily, “So just spit it out. It’s late!”

“I will turn twenty-one in about four months’ time,” Lucius continued, unperturbed, “And have already been invited to take my father’s place within the school’s Board of Governors. We all know that Voldemort wants to infiltrate Hogwarts, but that there isn’t a chance of getting anybody past Dumbledore. Severus will have to meet Dumbledore and offer his services as a spy—”

“This is mad!” Severus exclaimed, “Voldemort would immediately know that something is foul and—”

“I wasn’t yet finished. First, you have to meet Dumbledore and see whether he accepts your offer. If he does, Owen starts dropping hints to Voldemort about the tedious situation at Hogwarts, how much we need to get somebody in there… you get the general idea. A little later, at my first Governors’ meeting, I will convince the others—by whichever means—that the lack of a Potions teacher is a drastic shortcoming that has to be remedied as soon as possible. I’ll tell them that they have to exert pressure on Dumbledore. And—miracle of miracles—he will yield. He will further refuse Lestrange, just in case he should apply, and hire Severus. This—wait, just let me finish, I am almost done—this will guarantee Severus’s safety in case Voldemort gets wind of his betrayal, and Severus will in return get Dumbledore to guarantee our safety in case the so-called Side of Light wins, which I strongly hope, absurd as it may seem.”

“It’s… brilliant,” Severus said after a while of speechless silence. “It’s brilliant, but you know what will happen if we’re found out. He’ll torture us, kill us, burn us to ashes and strew us all over England.”

“What’s so bad about ashes?” Owen asked drunkenly, “We might even be reborn from them.”

Lucius laughed out aloud. “Yes,” he said, “That’s how I see us! Three phoenixes, bound together by our crimes!”

Severus nodded. “The Very Secret Order of The Phoenix. The order within the order. Very appropriate.”

“To the Order of The Phoenix, then,” Owen exclaimed, rising from his chair, slightly swaying.

“The Order of The Phoenix,” the other two repeated in unison and clinked their glasses against McNair’s.

~~~~*~~~~

A little more than three months after having received Grindelwald’s books and notes, Severus was called by Lord Voldemort. After their Italian excursion four days ago, Severus—now twenty years old and still alive, much to his relief—had carefully prepared his strategy for exactly that scenario. He had never believed that the Dark Lord would simply leave him to his devices, to research the potion at his ease; but before the Order of The Phoenix had been founded he had never seen the necessity of telling anything but the truth, should Voldemort ask him about the progress of his research. Now, however, it was a vital necessity to gain as much time as possible, even at the cost of the occasional Cruciatus. Voldemort needed him, and that was the pivot point of Severus’s scheme. Even if he did not produce any satisfying results, he was probably not going to be killed, simply because he was better by now than Lestrange, who would have been the only alternative.

“How is the potion proceeding?” Voldemort asked, immediately after greeting him.

Long gone were the days when Severus had been allowed to sit in the Master’s presence; by now, everybody was to remain prostrated, and only very rarely did Voldemort allow for anybody to look into his face while talking. Not a very wise thing to do, Severus thought, inhaling the scent of wood that wafted from the wooden floorboards, it made hiding one’s emotions too easy. Then again, there was no need for Voldemort to scrutinize anybody’s expression. His word was law, and nobody would have dreamed of rebelling against it. Or so he thought.

“The… research, My Lord,” Severus answered, carefully putting the emphasis on the word ‘research’, so as to rectify the term without actually correcting Voldemort, “is very tedious indeed. Some of the volumes you gave me reacted to translation spells, but two of them did not. I have therefore—”

He heard Voldemort’s footsteps come to an abrupt halt, and then the sharp swish of textile on wood. He had turned, and very brusquely. “Why was I not immediately informed?” he asked, anger boiling in his voice.

“I… My Lord, I would never have dared to rile you with that kind of problem, I thought—”

The robes were almost touching his forehead now. “Why,” Voldemort whispered—a sound that made Severus shudder, “Why is it that whenever you think, Severus, something goes or has gone wrong? You must pursue this research at utmost speed. No delay can be tolerated.”

“My Lord, I am infinitely sorry. Really, I regret… I simply did not take into account the possibility—”

“Enough, Severus. Your apologies will lead nowhere. What did you do with those texts?”

“I… I translated them, My Lord. Myself, as best I could. They did not reveal much of importance, contrary to what I believed.”

“Are you implying,” Voldemort said, his voice deadly venom, “that you have been working for almost three months, without a single tangible result?”

“Not really, my Lord. The theoretical work helped me rule out certain possibilities that would have led to dead ends. So the length of the theoretical work might be compensated for by a considerable abbreviation of the actual experiments.”

“Which possibilities?”

Severus clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut, and launched into an account of potentially misleading hypotheses, trying to sound as submissive and boring as possible. While he was talking, he was flooded by guilt again, and ratio battled with guilt, trying to strike it down with the argument that it was inconceivable, inadmissible that one man should gain so much power, whichever his goals, however laudable his aims. It must not happen. Whether Voldemort or Dumbledore, whether God or Devil or angel or demon. It must not happen. He had to prevent it, and if it cost his life and soul. Probably he would never get over it. You never got over having betrayed whom you loved. And he loved Voldemort, it had never been as clear as right now, when he was about to dive into betrayal—not dip in a finger or a hand, like he had done before. No, he was going to soak in betrayal, to be impregnated by betrayal, to become betrayal.

Voldemort, however, seemed mildly satisfied by his explanations. “How long do you think it will take you?” he asked.

“I cannot say, My Lord. Some months, I suppose…”

“Months? I need it before the winter solstice!”

Severus felt the floor melt under his body, ready to swallow him. Even without second thoughts and schemes, this was impossible. “May I ask why, my Lord?”

“Yes, Severus, you may ask why. Because whichever magical child is born on 21 December will serve our purpose.”

“And, forgive me for asking, My Lord, and if I do not succeed within a month? What will happen then?”

The sole of Voldemort’s boot came to rest lightly on his right hand. Severus felt his stomach clench and his heartbeat accelerate. “If you do not succeed—” the pressure increased “—then my wrath—” more weight still “—will smite you as it has never yet done.”

Severus screamed.

“Indeed, child. Scream. You have to learn to scream, just as you have to learn to obey. I will teach you both. Now go, Severus, go and work. Day and night. Work for me, and fear me.”

~~~~*~~~~

November days in northern Italy could be of strange, unearthly beauty. It was early in the morning on this 27 November, about eight o’clock, and the sun was just rising over the treetops of the park. It had rained a lot during the past weeks, so that the earth was soaked and heavily pregnant with water. But the night had been clear and cold, biting hard into the rich soil, making it exhale in ecstasy some of the humidity it was storing away for the winter. Now its breath was floating amidst the trees, still low; the treetops above it were immobile, some of them still bearing leaves. The sky was a pale blue, crystalline, pure, with remnants of pink that were already being washed away by the sunlight. It tinged the mist a silvery gold, made it become more tangible and more immaterial at the same time, gave it a surreal, dreamlike quality; elves might have danced out of it at any time.

Severus was standing at the window of the empty library, staring out at the beauty of the surroundings, with a heavy feeling in his heart, because today was The Day. The day that would probably prove to be another turning point in his life. From today on, he would be a traitor. He would work against a man whom he had learned to love and fear, who had given him everything, only to take most of it away from him again. He would put the lives of other Death Eaters at risk. And save the lives of others instead, hopefully also his own. Whose life was more important or worthy of being saved? But that, he told himself, was certainly not the point. There was no sentimentality involved in this decision, not on his part, and certainly not on Lucius and Owen’s. This was not about humanity, or honour, or heroism. It was calculated, cool business. Rational and dry. No tearful exaltation about dead children and people vomiting their guts over the carpets of their clean little existences, no separating people into victims and culprits, because everybody was both. It was merely business.

Heavily leaning on the windowsill, he stared out at that golden peace that remained unperturbed by his thoughts. It did not calm him, though. If anything, it emphasized the turmoil in his soul. It’s business, Severus. Business. And you will always live in hell… He was going to bargain himself deeper into hell, if possible. It hurt already. The fire was burning, the three-headed dog was gnawing at him…

He was so absorbed in his thoughts and emotions that he did not hear the faint ‘plop’ of Apparition behind him and jumped when a hand came to rest on his shoulder, and a gentle voice he would have recognized among thousands, although he had not heard it for more than two years, said “Severus.”

Slowly, he turned round. “Headmaster. Thank you for coming.”

The old man had not changed. Or had he? He seemed more serious now, less inclined to smile, but that was only to be expected on an occasion such as this.

“I was… intrigued by your missive. How could I not have come?”

“I appreciate it all the same. Please, sit down, Headmaster. This is going to be a rather lengthy talk. Would you care for some tea and biscuits?”

Dumbledore looked around the room. “Yes, thank you. If it is, er, feasible.”

“I brought my House Elf. The house is usually uninhabited, but I might need it a lot more in the future. So I took her with me—she can make it a little more habitable while we are talking.”

Dumbledore nodded, and Severus called Peggy to give her instructions for a small breakfast.

“Your uncle left this estate to you, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes. I don't use it, though. Or haven’t used it, rather.”

The tea and cake was brought, and Severus poured a cup for each of them.

“So, Severus,” Dumbledore said, putting down his cup, “Why did you ask me to come here?”

So this was the moment. So prosaic. Destruction and betrayal were talked about over a cup of tea and a piece of cake. Piece of cake, how fitting…

“I have to propose a deal, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “A deal?”

“As I said.” He pulled up the sleeve of his robe, unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and rolled up the sleeve. “I suppose you recognize this.”

Oh perverse satisfaction of seeing the almighty Albus Dumbledore recoil. Only for a moment, though. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly controlled. “Yes. Although this is the first time I see it in this form.”

“You know what I am, then.”

“I would not go as far as that, Severus. But it clearly marks you as one of Voldemort's followers. Considering that I am still alive—unless the tea contains a slow-acting poison, that is—you do not seem to have any intention of killing me. And you said you are about to propose a deal.”

“Indeed. In very few words, my offer is this: I will give you as much information as I can get, in order to strengthen your position in this fight, in exchange for my safety and that of two other persons, in case your side should win.”

Dumbledore considered these words for a long time. “This is, of course, a very tempting offer,” he finally said. “There is no need for me to tell you that we are desperate. Maybe not as desperate as the Ministry, but in dire need of any help we can get. Unlike Lord Voldemort, though, I am not the only one who decides matters of such consequence. However, to be able to deliberate this question with the others, I need some more information.”

“Of course, Headmaster. I must insist, however, that my name be not disclosed to them, at least not for now. You may be sure of your collaborators’ loyalties, but I am not.”

“That seems only reasonable, given the precariousness of your situation. Trust me not to divulge any details that might endanger you further. Which position exactly do you hold among Voldemort’s followers?”

“I am one of the Inner Circle, which consists of four persons.”

“May I have the names of the other three?”

You’re in for a nasty blow, old man. “Certainly. Lucius Malfoy, Owen McNair, St. John Lestrange.”

Dumbledore paled visibly, and for a moment Severus thought he was going to faint. “I… see. Lestrange… oh, Merlin.” He pulled himself together and gave Severus a weak smile. “My own emotions are, of course, of no importance at this moment. You were talking about two other persons whose safety should be guaranteed.”

“Malfoy and McNair, yes. They will collaborate with me, ensuring that I get all the information—it is always possible I might miss something important.”

“And how were you planning to pass this information on to me? And what kind of information?”

“Mostly raids we plan. So you can warn the victims, evacuate them. This is the reason why I turned to you, not to the Ministry. I do not desire to endanger the lives of other Death Eaters, unless strictly necessary. Therefore I expect you to prevent deaths, rather than ambush our people. As to the way of getting information to you, it is easy enough: I will become the new Hogwarts Potions Master.”

Dumbledore nodded, stroking his beard. “Yes, that would be the simplest method. I take it that you and Messieurs Malfoy and McNair have devised a plan to make this happen without Voldemort becoming suspicious?”

“Of course. It will be sufficient for you to yield to the pressure exerted by the Board of Governors.”

“Very well. That seems to be feasible. What is likely to give me more trouble is your—entirely understandable—request regarding the use of the information you will give me. As you can imagine, the more desperate we become, the more difficult it is for me to… refrain some of my allies. It will take some effort to convince them not to simply ambush and kill all of you.”

“Black,” Severus said, with a tight smile.

“Black, yes,” Dumbledore agreed, “But he is not the only one. It requires great strength of mind and spirit to see your loved ones murdered and not take revenge once you have the possibility. But I will, of course, do my best. And I will not accept this deal unless I am sure that this condition can be fulfilled. I hope that, the next time we meet, I will have good news. How do I contact you?”

“You should avoid contacting me, if possible. Will two weeks be enough for you to talk this matter over with your collaborators?”

“Yes, definitely. Are you suggesting that we should meet again here, on 11 December, same time?”

“I think that would be best. So there is no need for an exchange of letters that might put me at risk. In case of emergency—do you have somebody whom you trust, and who is acquainted with the Muggle world?”

“Yes. Lily Potter is Muggle-born.”

“Good. Should any emergency arise, send her to leave me a note at Foyle’s. It is a Bookstore. She will know it. One last thing, Headmaster. Is there an Auror whom you trust?”

“There are some, yes. Why?”

“I need for you to bring him or her along next time. It is of vital importance that I be gravely injured soon after our next meeting. Injured but not killed. And I want to see him or her in person. Which means that, at our next meeting, I will be wearing my Death Eater outfit, complete with mask and voice-altering spell. Just so you know,” he added with a thin smile.

“I understand. Would you accept Alastor Moody?”

Sharp intake of breath. “No, not Moody. And neither the Blacks. If I had to face one of them, I could not be held responsible for my actions. And spare me the Potters, if possible.”

“Very well. I will bring Arabella Figg, then. She is older than James and Lily and of less fiery temperament than the Blacks. I think she will do perfectly.”

Severus nodded stiffly. “I will abide your decision, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore pulled out a pocket watch. “It is time for me to go,” he said. “I am using a time turner, just to be on the safe side. Goodbye, Severus—” he offered his hand “—and…well, take care.”

Severus took the hand and briefly squeezed it. “I will, Headmaster. Goodbye.”

The old man had not asked him why he had made this decision, Severus thought after Dumbledore had Disapparated. Strange. But by no means unwelcome.