The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 26

By Pigwidgeon37

If a magical tool, artefact or trinket was not to be found at Malfoy Manor, it probably did not exist at all. Among other amazing pieces, Lucius also possessed a collection of time turners. This useful instrument was a rather recent invention, the first time turners—very unreliable and inexact—had appeared in the early fifties. They had improved rapidly, so that now, more than twenty-five years later, they could be employed without any danger of the user being splinched, projected to completely different places, and other incidents of which there had been a lot. Of course times turners were registered and subjected to very strict guidelines, but the Malfoys would not have been the Malfoys, had they not possessed nine specimens of which the Ministry was completely ignorant. The most recent model had already been acquired by Lucius himself, after his father’s death, and was only some months old. He had lent it to Severus, who had thought it better to take this auxiliary safety measure when communicating with Dumbledore.

It was seven o’clock in the morning, a dark, rainy February gloom was just appearing on the horizon, when Severus stood in front of his fireplace and, after a brief hesitation—it was the first time that he used the Floo connection—threw some Floo powder into the flames and called out the Headmaster’s name.

After a few seconds, Dumbledore’s head, adorned by a nightcap the pattern of which Severus refused to examine more closely, appeared amidst the flames. “Severus! Did anything happen?”

“No, Headmaster. No need to worry. Tell me, what did you do two hours ago?”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, but then understood. “Oh, I see. Additional security.” Severus nodded. “I was fast asleep and alone. Just come along and wake me up.”

The connection was broken, and Severus fingered the time turner nervously. It was the first time he ever used one, and he did not feel too comfortable with the thought. But he did not really have a choice: what he needed to discuss with Dumbledore would take too long for using the Floo system. Somebody else might try to call, find the connection occupied, and become curious… Much too big a risk. So he took a deep breath and performed two counter-clockwise turns, found himself enveloped by complete darkness, lit the fire and travelled to Dumbledore’s rooms. He had half expected the Headmaster to live close to his office, but a look out of the window and over the grounds told him he had been mistaken. Not that there was much to see, for the darkness was nearly impenetrable, but the shadowy outlines of treetops far away made it clear that this room had to be located on top of the highest tower of Hogwarts. He turned away from the window and walked over to the bed from where he could hear the sound of deep, even breathing.

To see Dumbledore asleep was… disconcerting. The power of those blue eyes had been overwhelming when they last met. But now they were closed, and the powerful wizard, more powerful maybe than even Voldemort, was just an old man, frail and somehow tiny in this large bed, amidst all the cushions. He had to be very scrawny—at daytime, this was hidden by the rich folds of his robes. Now, however, the duvet covering him barely bulged above his body. Skin and bones and a long white beard, that was what Dumbledore really was. Sure, the power was there, but it lay slumbering, dormant as the body that sheltered it.

For a while, Severus stood there and watched, fascinated and torn. How easy it would be… He only had to draw his wand, mutter six deadly syllables, and the old man would be no more. So easy… and yet so difficult. He admitted to himself that the thought was alluring: if he killed Dumbledore now, he would render Voldemort an invaluable service. Without the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the resistance could be counted as nil, neglected and crushed into pieces in next to no time. Voldemort would probably make him his crown prince, his most trusted… exactly. Servant. Lapdog. Cherished for his merits but suspected for the very same merits. For he could easily do to Voldemort what he had done to Dumbledore—if a person was capable of abusing unconditional trust once, why should he not do it a second time? That was how Voldemort would reason, and, to tell the truth, Severus was not so sure it would be entirely wrong. You did not step beyond certain boundaries and remain unscathed. Such things left their traces; inhibitions you had overcome once couldn’t be de-overcome. There was no way to reverse such a process. All things considered, he might turn into some kind of monster if he cast the killing curse on the sleeping wizard, violating the respect the vulnerability of a sleeping human was bound to inspire.

His voice was hoarse with emotion when he called Dumbledore’s name. As most ancient people, the Headmaster seemed to sleep only very lightly, for he was immediately wide awake. “Severus! What brings you here?”

“Several questions. Sorry for having to disturb your sleep, but you told me… will tell me… well, whatever. I’m using a time turner.”

“Your difficulties in picking the correct tense suggested as much. What can I do for you?”

“First, I need you to do me a favour. I would have to use the school library, but can’t do so myself. So I wanted to ask you to look something up for me.”

“Of course. What do you want to know?”

“I must gain as much knowledge as possible about planetary conjunctions. Not what Muggles understand by the term, of course. I’m not an astronomy asset, and neither are Lucius or Owen. What interests me most is the effect of magical  conjunctions on magical individuals, and whether the effect increases with repeated exposition.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, making the tassel dangling on the point of his nightcap execute a drunken saraband. “Very well. I suppose you don’t want me to ask Professor Sinistra—”

“No. This must remain strictly between us. Even though it is unlikely for her to become curious; but you’ll understand that I cannot take even the most infinitesimal of risks.”

“Of course. Would it be of any use asking you why you need this particular information?”

Severus shook his head. “No. At least not yet. Whether I will tell you or not depends partly on what you find out, and partly on the progress of my own work. Should the necessity arise, I will not hesitate to disclose the matter.”

The blue eyes held his gaze for a moment. “I have no doubt that you are able to assess the situation correctly, Severus. But please remember that I am willing to help you, as you are ready to help me. We are in this together. I hope you are conscious of that.”

“I am, Headmaster. As far as I can see, there is no imminent risk. How long will it take you to procure the texts?”

Dumbledore wagged his head. “A day, I think. Maybe two. If you return the day after tomorrow, at the same time, you will find them on my nightstand. I will, of course, have to duplicate them… we don’t want Mr. Phorme to get suspicious, do we?”

“Certainly not,” he replied with a wry smile, remembering Formal’s compulsive-obsessive passion for the books he clearly regarded as his.

~~~~*~~~~

Severus was an avid and passionate reader, but never before in his life had he devoured such quantities at such speed. Dumbledore had kept his promise and left an astonishing amount of parchment on his nightstand. It contained most useful information, more so as Lucius’s previous speculations were confirmed.

But this was not the only path Severus had to follow. There was the equally important question of the counteragent to werewolf blood to be solved. As they had agreed, Lucius had assumed his most snottily aristocratic manner at the end of last night’s meeting and practically ordered him to ‘do something useful for once’ by helping him comb the huge Malfoy library for certain Transfiguration texts he needed for his thesis.

“You’ve got a wife,” Severus answered heatedly, “Why don’t you try your Simon Legree manners with her? I have more important things to do than make up for your scant scholarly skills!”

“My wife,” Lucius drawled, “belongs into the bedroom and the salon. The library is not a place where I want to see her. And I am sure that our Master would not appreciate it if I couldn’t finish my studies in time, only because you are too stubborn or lazy to do some menial job.” These last words were uttered with a sideways glance at Lestrange that sought his approval.

“Indeed,” Lestrange agreed, immediately swallowing the bait, “that would be most unwelcome. Severus, I am sure you see the necessity of obliging Lucius.”

“Of course,” Severus said, as sourly as he could.

After this brief exchange, Lestrange had asked Lucius to stay while the others were dismissed. As they had expected, he had once more impressed upon Malfoy the indispensability of keeping a close watch over both Severus and Owen. Lucius, with his usual gall, had assured him that monitoring Severus was the sole purpose of having roped him into the research job. Which had, of course, the most welcome side effect of keeping his academic reputation flawless.

It had been an excellent manoeuvre, tainted only by the fact that it did not give Severus too much time. After all, to peruse a few Transfiguration texts was not likely to take more than a week. Fortunately, the collection of Dioscuride Malefoi had not been dispersed all over the library but was occupying one single bookshelf. It consisted of one hundred thirty-three volumes, although ‘volumes’ was not the exact term for describing those riches: they only partly consisted of books. What was infinitely more interesting than the volumes—the earliest among them dated back to the early Middle Ages, times when magic had already become relatively tame due to the many regulations imposed on it, for fear of discovery and persecution—were the Greek and Roman papyri, still safely stored in their purple or yellow-coloured parchment cases. Older still, but also fewer, Egyptian papyri and—to Severus’s breathless surprise—several clay tablets covered in the wedge-shaped characters of Babylonian or Sumerian cuneiform scripture. His joy was only slightly damped by his complete lack of knowledge of both hieroglyphs and cuneiform scripture. The fascination with this gem among collections by far outweighed his exasperation at having to decipher the texts.

He went through the books rather quickly—there was only very few information that might prove useful, mostly by leading him to other, more ancient, sources. The tomes clearly belonged to an area of magic that would nowadays be labelled Dark without hesitation, but back in the times when they had been written, the knowledge they contained had been arcane but not forbidden. To duplicate important passages was therefore easy. The Greek and Roman papyri, carefully protected against time and decay by numerous spells, proved a little more difficult. Magic had not always been held in high esteem in Antiquity, and thus some of the rolls were safeguarded by rather vicious charms and curses. Together with Lucius, he was able to break them all and transfer the texts on parchment by a simple Duplicatio spell. The ancient Egyptians, Severus had to admit—and Lucius grudgingly agreed—had been geniuses when it came to repellent spells. Small wonder that Gringott’s curse breakers were almost paid their weight in gold; their job was certainly not an easy one. They were lucky, though, for there were only five Egyptian texts, and they managed to counteract the curses, which lashed out at them under every form imaginable, in less than two days. Not so with the tablets. Whatever magic was enveloping them, it had no intention to yield to two twenty-year-old, twentieth-century wizards. The hieroglyphs had allowed copying but withstood translation charms. The tablets allowed neither duplication nor translation. And Severus had a strong suspicion that they might be encrypted.

Both wizards were sitting in the library, their forces drained by the continuous concentration, trying to restore themselves by means of an opulent afternoon tea. Narcissa had joined them, and both Severus and her husband took it in turns to recount this day’s adventures with the capricious Babylonian treasures.

“And the bull?” Lucius said, grabbing his fifth sandwich, “The bull was one of the most awesome monsters I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Narcissa cocked an eyebrow and smiled. “A bull? What would be so frightening about it?”

Severus brandished his spoon. “Not just any bull! The bloody beast had five legs, wings and a human head!”

“Oh,” said Narcissa, looking rather unimpressed, “Yes, that’s Assyrian. Didn’t you pay any attention during your History of Magic classes?”

“Er…” said Lucius, grinning guiltily.

“Well…” Severus said, shifting a little in his chair.

Narcissa laughed. “How adorably typically male of you! For you boys, it’s all about wand-waving and curse-throwing. The more subtle forms of knowledge don’t interest you in the least.”

“That’s not true,” Severus protested, “Potions is a very subtle art—”

“Of course,” she said, smiling at him. “I completely agree. However, some historical knowledge might not go amiss, gentlemen, because it might be able to tell you something about those texts.”

The mix of admiration and frustration on Lucius’s face made for a very funny expression, Severus thought. But what Narcissa had told them was more than just a little interesting. He decided that his strength would benefit from another sandwich, snatched it out from under Lucius’s fingers—now his expression was definitely more frustrated—and said, “Go on, Narcissa, share your wisdom.”

“Just a moment,” she said, “First I have to order more sandwiches or Lucius is going to kill you.” She rang the silver bell that sat on the mantelpiece and told the instantly-appearing Elf to bring another round of tea. “For four,” she said, with a sideways look at Lucius, who looked himself up and down, gestured at his completely flat front side and shrugged. The used plates, cups and cutlery vanished from the tea table to be replaced, only seconds later, by another sumptuous tea, this time complete with tea cake.

“With—” Lucius began.

“Yes, with chocolate chips,” Narcissa said, winking at Severus. “I know your basic needs. To return to more urgent, if not more important, matters—” Lucius snorted “—let us talk about the winged bull. It is, as I said, Assyrian, and the Assyrians were high and mighty for only a relatively short time. They were essentially a people of wizards, and the most powerful among them became king. It seems that their magical powers by far surpassed our feeble possibilities.” She took a delicate sip of tea.

“Mmmh, yes,” Severus said, “But when exactly was their era of power?”

“From the ninth to the seventh century B.C., more or less. Rather recent, relatively speaking. However, in those times, the cuneiform scripture wasn’t used exclusively for Assyrian-Babylonian dialects anymore. Almost everybody used it—the Persians, the Hittites and many others.”

“Are you implying,” Lucius asked, brow creased with concentration, “that the language these tablets are written in doesn’t necessarily have to be Babylonian?”

“Exactly. It could be everything, any idiom spoken at that time in the Near East. More so as I presume the text will be coded. The use of another language would have provided additional security.—Anything wrong with you, Severus?” she asked, looking anxiously at him.

“N-no. Not wrong. I just had the most insane idea… Could they also have used Hebrew?”

“Mmh…” Narcissa wagged her head. “Of course they could, because the principle is the same. All Semitic languages are based on consonants. So it would be possible, with slight alterations. Why are you asking?”

“Can’t tell you yet,” Severus said, feeling suddenly breathless. “I… I first need to clear my thoughts and then I’ll have to call Barty. If this is a stroke of brilliance and not of lunacy, I need him to procure me some information.”

~~~~*~~~~

“Are you sure it is here?” Lucius muttered, shivering and drawing his cloak more firmly around him. “If it isn’t, I’m going to hex you for taking me to this freezing hell. Totegan, of all places! Who on earth would want to live here?”

“If she’s half as crazy as her late brother, she’s exactly the person who would choose such a location,” Severus whispered back. “And it has to be here—she’s his only living relative, if you can call it thus at age hundred. His brother died in the war against Grindelwald and left no children. She’s his only heir, Barty told me.”

“What if she sold it?”

Severus threw up his hands in exasperation. “What if! What if! I don’t know what if! Now shut up and let’s wait until we get inside.”

Catherine McLachlan’s house was a large, square stone building, of granite as grey as the sky and sea here, in the farthest north of Scotland. About one mile outside the village of Totegan, towards the north, the building was seemingly hovering high over the water, on a cliff undermined by the waves for dozens of centuries. In other circumstances, Severus might have thought it picturesque; now his imagination was fixated on the unpleasant possibility of being hexed out of one of the rear windows.

Apparently, Lucius was thinking along the same lines, for he shivered and said, “Not the best weather for a bath, is it?”

“It could be worse,” Severus retorted, chattering his teeth.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, there could be sharks.”

For a while, they chuckled silently, then Lucius nudged Severus’s ribs. “Look! The light has gone out! Finally—I thought the old goat would never go to bed.”

“Mmh… how much are we going to give her? An hour?”

Lucius groaned but nodded. “Typical of Owen,” he said, “I bet he would have accompanied us if the old lady lived at the Riviera.”

“Or if she were a young lady. But not even Owen would go as far as fucking a hundred-year-old.”

“Go on dreaming,” Lucius replied, grinning.

“You must be joking! He didn’t—”

“Of course he did. And I think she was a bit older than that. Almost ruined my sex life.”

“I can imagine,” Severus said sympathetically.

The hour passed surprisingly quickly, probably because they were both so busy shivering. But it was too risky to use warming spells—the less magic, the better. Besides, they were not wearing their Death Eater attire, which would have provided excellent protection against both heat and cold. Just in case anything went wrong, the last thing they needed was being caught in Death Eater robes. It would be easier to lie their way out of such a scrap if they were regarded as mere burglars, although this thought had caused Lucius to grit his teeth more than once. A Malfoy might be a murderer, but never a burglar.

At long last, both drew their wands, nodded at each other and proceeded quickly towards the house. As Severus had predicted, there were no wards. Like brother, like sister. So much less trouble for them. When Lucius prepared to spell the entrance door open, Severus steadied his wand arm.

“Wait,” he whispered and tried the handle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucius’s jaw slacken. “I told you they’re a crazy bunch,” he whispered and entered. Even if there had been windows in the entrance hall, the room would not have been properly lit, for the darkness outside was completely impenetrable. Nature had favoured their expedition, providing a pitch black, clouded night without moon or stars.

Lucius lit his wand. “Did Barty say anything about familiars?” he whispered.

“No! Not even the Ministry is omniscient, is it?”

Lucius gave a small snort and performed an Animaviva spell. The tip of his wand rose, pointing towards the upper floor, and remained in that position, motionlessly. “Wonderful!” he muttered, “So there’s just the old woman. Should we split up?”

“No, I don’t think so. Let’s do a room-by-room search, but together.”

The ground floor yielded no result—unsurprisingly so, for it contained only a very large kitchen, a butler’s pantry, a parlour and dining room that held no interesting objects whatsoever, and a storeroom. Catherine McLachlan was an alchemist, after all, and still very much active. Shrugging at each other in frustration, they went upstairs. Like in old times, Severus cast Sensacutus and an Invisibility Spell over both of them, so that they were able to hear the old witch’s breathing and occasional snores from the bedchamber. They would go there last, and only if they absolutely had to. Killing was not on today’s agenda.

A study-cum-library, from which Lucius had to drag his partner in crime. Another parlour, evidently for the owner’s private use only. Bathroom. Wardrobe. Finally, the bedroom. But still, they had not found what they were searching for. After inspecting the bedchamber, the two wizards retired to the landing for consultations.

“Maybe she has shrunk and hidden it somewhere,” Severus offered.

“Maybe she sold it,” Lucius growled. “Although I suppose there’s an attic, given the inclination of the roof.”

Severus considered this. “Yes, you’re probably right. But I haven’t seen any stairs leading up there.”

Lucius harrumphed. “What about Apparating?”

“What about protective wards? If she keeps the real important, valuable stuff up there, it’s highly likely it will be protected.”

Lucius hit his left palm with his right fist. “Shit! Could we try Accio? I’m not sure whether it works through wards.”

“Good idea. But I suggest we do so from outside, so we can Disapparate immediately, just in case she should notice.”

Lucius nodded and the sneaked back down the stairs and out of the house. The roaring wind nearly deafened them, and Severus quickly removed the Sensacutus spell. For the moment, it was preferable to remain invisible, though.

“Okay,” Severus whispered, “I’ll give it a try. If it works, we Disapparate immediately, each to his house.”

Once more grateful for his excellent visual memory, Severus concentrated upon the object of his desire until it stood out clearly before his mind’s eye, closed his eyes and pronounced “Accio McLachlan’s carpet!”

Had Lucius’s Chaser instincts not taken over, they would probably have lost the tiny object that came soaring towards them through the darkness. But years of catching Quaffles that approached him from every possible direction had honed Lucius’s abilities, and so he captured it and handed it to Severus.

“I told you she’d shrunk it,” he said, his voice vibrating with satisfaction.

“I said that, but never mind. Good catch, Malfoy. And now let’s go. I’ll call you tomorrow, to tell you whether it worked.”

With a last grin at each other, they both Disapparated.

~~~~*~~~~

It had been a stroke of lunatic brilliance, or brilliant lunacy—come to think of it, it amounted more or less to the same. When Narcissa had explained about Assyrians and cuneiform scripture being used for more than one language, some pieces had clicked together in Severus's mind. That was how it had always worked, and he was glad to see it still worked the same way. In the medieval tomes he had read, and also in the Roman papyri, there had been several allusions to lost Hebrew sources, texts of powerful, arcane magic. This had not come as a surprise, because werewolves were almost as old as mankind, and lycanthropy had always been an issue. Not necessarily a problem—certain cultures had treated those creatures, who were, after all, part human and part bloodthirsty animal, with greater respect than people used nowadays. However, the fear had always been there. To Hebrews, werewolves had always been impure half-men, and shunning, or killing, them had by no means been regarded as crime or cowardice. Some of them—because in those long-forgotten times the Hebrews had still been divided into rivalling tribes, fighting each other—had even tried to get rid of them altogether; considering they were nomads and could not afford to stay in the same place for a long time, they seldom bothered with brewing complicated potions. They searched for one single, unadulterated substance that might rid them, once and for all, of the annoying creatures.

From the medieval texts, it had transpired that such a substance had indeed been detected. Only the knowledge had been dispersed in time and space, so that there was merely a faint trace of it in the collective magical memory. When Severus had seen the tablets, he had already suspected that he might have found a gold mine. But when Narcissa had hinted at the possibility of those texts being written in another language than Assyrian, he had been sure. And then there was, of course, the problem that they were probably encrypted. It had rung a bell, a very distant one, but suddenly the memory had resurfaced. His first day as McLachlan's apprentice. His amazement at the Encyclopaedia Room. The carpet… the Kabbalistic carpet. On which the letters were constantly moving, forming permutations and variations and anagrams. The carpet that had belonged to Abraham Abulafia. Wizard and rabbi, kabbalist and scientist.

It was an idea born out of a mere delirium, but maybe, just maybe, the carpet would be able to decode the texts on those tablets. True, McLachlan had told him that, in order to make the carpet work, he would need Abulafia’s wand. But on the other hand, those texts were powerfully magical in their own right. It was worth a try.

When Severus arrived home after their breaking-and-entering adventure, he immediately ran upstairs to his laboratory. The tablets—Lucius had reluctantly agreed to give them to Severus for as long as it would take to decipher them—were stored away safely in a cupboard. It was late and he was dead tired, but he simply had to try. Just once, probably the result was going to be nil anyway. He carefully unshrunk the artefact until it had regained its original size of about five feet by three, and put it on one of the work surfaces. Then he took one of the tablets out of its hiding place and, wand at the ready in his right hand, slowly put it down in the middle of the carpet with his left.

He only hoped that his neighbours were fast asleep. For, with a mighty roar that shook the house to its foundations, the five-legged, winged bull appeared again, holding up his human head in proud disdain. More shaken than his house, Severus directed the point of his wand at the creature, prepared to hurl a counter curse at it in case it stampeded towards him. But the bull did not charge. It reared and roared and beat its wings, while the dance of the letters on the carpet was quickening until it became a mere blur, in which it was impossible to recognize anything. The beast lowered its head and tried to move forward but seemed to be chained to the spot by a power greater than its own. Open-mouthed and panting like after a long run, Severus witnessed the fight, breathlessly waiting for who was going to be victorious, fearing it might be the bull, imagining its rage with trembling hands that almost dropped the wand.

Severus had no idea how long this supernatural struggle had lasted; but in the end it was the bull that sank down in foaming defeat, resting its human head on its forelegs, great wings not folded but splayed out to its right and left, like those of a dead angel. It watched the dance of the letters out of weary, bloodshot eyes. Severus clutched his throat, relieved and dizzy by lack of oxygen, for he had been holding his breath without noticing it. Then he noticed that the mad whirl of letters was slowing down, until it was nothing more than a gentle sway. He felt a strong jolt of magical energy race through him, and for a short while there was a quivering bond between him and the carpet, in the form of a wedge the thin end of which seemed to come out of—or stream into—his forehead. Very slowly, it dissolved, only to form letters that were hovering in the air; he was in such a state of dreamlike rapture that he did not even clearly recognize whether they were Hebrew or not. But he could read them and understand what they said:

When he felt that he had memorized the words, they dissolved again, the bull and the magical link sparkled away into nothingness and left Severus exhausted, almost as if he himself had fought against the mythical protector of the magical text. He fell asleep in his laboratory.

~~~~*~~~~

Dreary and bleak were the mountains of Albania in early February. All colour had left them; it seemed as if it would never return. Only subtle shades of brown, grey and black, almost colours against the pristine background of snow, as if nature, conscious of her bland exterior, and ashamed of it, had offered the eye a multitude of elusive differences to apologize to the beholder’s eye. The sky was leaden and the clouds hanging low, a few snowflakes dancing past the windows, unsure whether they were the vanguard or rear guard.

Inside the house it was warm, but Severus felt chilly all the same. He had requested this interview with Lord Voldemort, because he felt it was preferable to be, for once, the one who came to report a success instead of waiting to be called. It made him seem more confident and self-assured, or so he hoped. Together with Lucius and Owen, he had prepared his speech—finding out, much to his astonishment, that Owen had a surprising knowledge of the right words to choose when speaking to the Dark Lord, maybe surpassing even Lucius’s. It had come as a kind of revelation to him—to him, a Slytherin!—that even Voldemort could be manipulated to a certain degree. Because Voldemort was vain. When Owen had stated this, very matter-of-factly, Severus had cringed and averted his eyes. But he had to admit that it was true. A wizard who insisted that the hem of his robes be kissed by those he called his servants, who punished you when you forgot to address him as ‘My Lord’, who was unable to accept even the tiniest of objections even if they were right and reasonable—there was no other word for it. He was vain, and having to admit it hurt Severus.

Until now, he would never have dreamed of weighing his words when speaking to his Master. He had never minced his words, for either was he withdrawn and inaccessible or he felt he could speak freely. Right from the beginning, Voldemort had always encouraged him to speak his mind, and he had never before felt the necessity of doing otherwise. True, he had lied to the Dark Lord, but always in his own words. Now, however, he had to take the next step: he had to clothe his lies in resplendent, shimmering words, to make them not only palatable but desirable. For Owen and Lucius, this behaviour—which they called diplomacy, while Severus called it courtiers’ adulation—was something they had grown up with, they had imbibed it with their mother's milk, witnessed it every day. It was second nature to them. Severus, on the other hand, suddenly understood, if in hindsight, why he had felt so excluded, so not-part-of-the-group, during his first years at Hogwarts. He lacked that subtlety that came with money and grand old family names and with parents who might despise the complicated, subtle game of high-society interaction but abided by its rules all the same.

His familiar background had not provided him with this knowledge. Certainly not his mother who was an essentially vulgar person, incapable of learning even the most basic rules of what was considered polite behaviour by the British magical community; and he doubted very much whether his father, had he lived to educate his son, would have been of much help. The course his life had taken certainly made suspect the contrary.

He had felt very inadequate when Lucius and Owen, who had been expecting a short meeting of the Phoenixes, had shaken their heads in exasperation, wondering why he was still alive and not a permanent guest of St. Mungo’s. They had spent half the night giving him instructions about how to choose his words carefully. He was prepared to take their admonitions to heart, but gradually. It would do more harm than good if he suddenly transformed into the perfect courtier.

He had been punctual, as always, and Voldemort let him wait, as always. Finally he entered the room, with Tabitha in his wake. While prostrating himself—to do so in front of Tabitha made him grit his teeth—he briefly wondered whether she was now living here permanently or simply took it in turns with her husband to be present at every interview Voldemort conducted with one of his followers. He forbid his mind to dwell on what else she might be for the Master.

“You demanded to see me?” Voldemort said, while he was still prostrated.

“Yes, My Lord. There are some matters which require your advice.” In former times, he would have said ‘matters I wanted to discuss with you’. But Lucius and Owen had made it very clear that one did not ‘want’ anything when speaking to Voldemort.

“Very well, Severus, you may rise. I see with pleasure that you have learned from past errors.”

“Yes, My Lord, thanks to your patience I have.”

He rose and waited for Voldemort to indicate where he might stand or sit. His rich, black robes rustling over the wooden floor, Voldemort crossed the room and sat down, gesturing for Tabitha to do the same. Severus remained standing where he was, near the window, with his back to it.

A nonchalant wave of the Master's hand. “You may begin.”

It was a very awkward situation, and one he had not been expecting. The potion and everything that came with it had to remain a secret between him and Voldemort, he had explicitly been ordered to disclose it to nobody. Now Tabitha was here, too, sitting next to her Master with her head held high, a wicked infant queen. What was he to do? Was she allowed to know? Did she already know? Would Voldemort be furious if he implied that her presence might not be appropriate? He was completely lost for words, caught in his own insecurities.

“She may hear anything you might have to say, Severus. If that is what makes you hesitate.”

Severus let out a sigh of relief. “Indeed, My Lord. I apologize for my undue scruples.” Another dismissive gesture of Voldemort's hand. “I have, as you may know, been helping Lucius with his research at the Malfoy family library. First, I was unwilling to do so, but then thought better of it, because it offered the occasion to keep an eye on him, just as you had told me to do.”

Voldemort nodded and looked at him, eyes half-hooded but wary. “And? Did anything he did or said give you reason to doubt his loyalty?”

Never an open no. One of the first rules they had inculcated into his reluctant brain. Never an open no. “I neither saw nor heard anything suspicious, My Lord. But I took advantage of being in his library, often alone, to have a look at the collection of Dioscuride Malefoi.”

“Dioscuride Malefoi? He was a herbologist, unless memory fails me.”

“And flatter him, Severus. Try to put in a compliment whenever you can.”

“I can’t do this, Owen. It’s… oh, fuck, I don’t know what it is. Dirty. Sticky. Whatever you want.”

“Severus, you are as Slytherin as any of us. Of course you can do it. Because you have to!”

“I know I can. But not with him. It’s different, I—”

“Severus!”

“Let go of me, Lucius! You can talk to me without ripping the sleeve off my shirt.”

“All right. Do you want this madness to end or don’t you? Yes, you do. So try and make him those fucking compliments. He loves them.”

“Your memory is truly amazing, My Lord. Yes, Malefoi had a passion for Herbology and has put together a unique collection of books and papyri. I will not annoy you with details unless you want to hear them—” dismissive wave “—so I hope you might be interested in the outcome of this research.”

“If it is of any importance to the project…”

Not ‘yes, I think it is’. Always let him be the one who decides what is important or right. “I think… it might be, My Lord. It is the reason why I came to seek your advice. I think I might have found the substance that destroys the werewolf blood.”

Red interest glinted through black pupils. “You think? Let me hear, then.”

Severus gave the description of the black flower. “Only I have not detected any indication as to where it can be found nowadays.”

“Ah,” Voldemort breathed, “An interesting result. And you did well to ask me, Severus. During my travels abroad, I have come upon texts, very few and very rare, that speak of this flower. It is called Devil’s Lily, and can be found all over Europe, in places where chthonic forces are particularly powerful. The ring of stones where I initiate new followers might be such a place.”

Of course, of course! How could he not have thought of it! “I… I don't know what to say, My Lord. It was… stupid of me not to have thought of it. And does it blossom in the night of the first new moon after the summer solstice?”

“It does.” Voldemort gave him a malicious smile. “You have gained yourself precious time, haven’t you, Severus?”

Paying no heed to the advice he had got, Severus looked him straight into the eyes. “That was never my intention, My Lord.”

“Be that as it may. See to it that the potion is ready as soon as possible. You may leave now.”

While kissing the hem of the Master’s robes, Severus thought that he had not been able to bring up the question of the conjunctions. It was too risky to do so now. It would have to wait until next time. Considering how this meeting had gone, he could at least be sure that there would be a next time, for Voldemort had been pleased.